A Respectable Actress (19 page)
“Preposterous. Laura had her problems, but she wasn't unfaithful.”
Laura. So that was her name. “Remember the woman I told you about? The one who was
at the theater that night, waiting around for Mr. Sterling?”
“What about her?”
“When I saw the portrait in the room upstairs, I realized she might be the woman
I saw that night. I remember her eyes.” “Wait a minute. First you're suggesting she
killed herself for love like some modern-day Juliet, and now you're suggesting she's
still alive. Listen. I understand you're desperate to prove your innocence. I don't
blame you for that. But you're grasping at straws here. None of this makes the least
bit of sense.” He released a long breath. “Besides, you told me the woman you saw
at the theater was dark-skinned.”
“Yes, but if she was Mr. Sterling's . . . companion, she would have had access to
his dressing room. To his greasepaint. She could have darkened her skin easily enough.”
“For what purpose?”
“Everyone knew Mr. Sterling was seeing Miss Bryson. They
were together constantly.
Suppose Laura wanted to confirm their liaison without being recognized.” She shrugged.
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
The fire snapped in the grate. A sliver of gray daylight filtered through the curtains.
Amelia appeared in the doorway. “Philip? The laudanum is wearing off more quickly
than I thought, and we don't have any more.”
“All right. I'll clean up and be on my way. With any luck I can catch the doctor
while he's at the mill.” He rose and started for the stairs without so much as a
glance at India.
She could see every muscle tense, could feel him holding in his anger. She set down
her cup and trailed after him. “Forgive me. For going uninvited into that room. For
Mrs. Catchpole's injuries. And most of all for making you doubt your wife's affections.
I'm sure you're right and there is an innocent explanation for everything. Please
forget the whole thing.”
Amelia looked from one to the other, clearly confused. “Forget what? What's happened?”
“India knows about Laura,” Philip said. “But not how I lost her.” His tawny eyes
sought India's. “My wife perished in the chapel fire that night.”
He took the stairs two at a time, as if he couldn't remove himself from her company
fast enough.
J
ANUARY
27
“H
ERE
,
MISS
. L
ET ME HELP
.” B
INAH OPENED
I
NDIA
'
S
trunk and began folding petticoats
and
dressing
gowns.
India didn't protest. Yesterday the doctor had arrived with salves and more laudanum
for Mrs. Catchpole. India and Amelia took turns bathing the housekeeper's burns with
cold water and applying the salve to prevent the skin from contracting too quickly.
The doctor treated India's knife wound with carbolic acid to prevent sepsis and instructed
her to repeat the process each day for the next few days. He bandaged her arm and
gave her a tincture of laudanum as well. Still, her wound had burned and throbbed
all night. But it wasn't only the pain from the knife wound that stole her sleep.
She couldn't stop thinking about Laura Sinclair's fiery death and the look of utter
desolation on Philip's face as he related the story. Clearly he was still grieving
his loss. India felt ashamed that she had advanced so unflattering a theory about
his lost love. But something about the whole thing still nagged at her.
“Mama said you and Mr. Philip goin' to Savannah in the morning,” Binah said.
“Yes. We'll leave early.”
“I wish I was goin' to Savannah. Ain't nothin' to do around here 'cause old Miz Garrison
won't let Claire and them come here no more. Miz Garrison is still mad about
Little
Women
.”
India folded her stockings and placed them in the trunk. Her impromptu production
had ended badly, but it had satisfied a hunger in her, and in the girls, to do something
that mattered. People could say whatever they wished about her, but the theater was
a respectable art, and she felt lucky to have shared it with the young women.
She retrieved her slippers from beneath the bed and set them in the trunk. Philip
had asked her to have her things ready to transport to the bluff this evening for
loading aboard the
Neptune.
Captain Mooreland planned to depart for the city at daybreak.
Binah peeked into one of India's pink-and-white-striped hatboxes. “When I go to Savannah,
I mean to get me a hat like that. Won't I be a fancy-lookin' lady then?”
India smiled. She had grown fond of Binah, even more so now that she suspected Hannah
June's fate. India and Philip had not spoken further about her theory, and she had
to admit it did seem far-fetched. And yet, the longer she considered it, the more
plausible it became to her. She removed the hat, a small toque festooned with tulle
and a silver flower, from the box.
“Try it on.”
Binah gaped at her. “Me?”
“Why not?”
India set the hat on the girl's head and adjusted the angle just so. Taking her by
the shoulders, India turned her toward the mirror. “Voilà !”
Binah preened before the mirror, one hand on her cocked hip. “Don't I look mighty
fine, Miss India?”
“You do. So fine in fact that I think you ought to have this hat for your very own.”
Binah frowned. “You givin' me this hat?”
“I am.”
“For nothin'?”
“Yes. It's yours.”
“How come?”
“Well, you have been a great help to me since I've been here. Pinning up my hair.
Looking after my room and helping your mother to prepare meals, and making the fires
and such.”
“But I got you in trouble with old Miz Garrison and the other ladies at the boat
races.”
“That wasn't your fault, Binah. Staging
Little Women
was my idea. I didn't stop to
think how it would be received.”
Binah studied her reflection in the mirror. “Reckon they will ever be a black girl
on the stage?”
“I won't be surprised. When I was a girl, my father told me about a play called
The
Escape
, written by a Negro playwright named William Brown. It's only a matter of
time before a black woman becomes a famous actress.” India smiled into the mirror.
“Maybe it will be you.”
Binah grinned, showing a set of perfect teeth. She ran her fingers over the hatbox.
“Reckon where is a safe place to keep my hat?”
“Perhaps you ought to take the hatbox too.”
“Perhaps I should.”
Almarene plodded up the stairs and poked her head into the room.
“Look, Mama,” Binah said. “Miss India give me a hat. But you can borry it if youâ”
“You done helping Miss India yet?” Almarene frowned. “I need you in the kitchen house.”
“I can spare her,” India said. “She's been a big help.”
Almarene bobbed her head. “They's a gentleman waitin' for you in the parlor.”
“A gentleman?” India patted her hair into place and went downstairs.
In the parlor stood Cuyler Lockwood. He had gone to some effort with his appearance.
His clothes were brushed, his black boots polished to a high shine. His pale gold
hair still bore comb marks.
“Mr. Lockwood?” India paused at the foot of the stairs. Almarene and Binah followed
her down and headed for the kitchen house. “We weren't expecting you.”
“Sinclair's tied up with some men from the mill. He sent me to fetch your trunks
to the boat landing.” He jerked his thumb. “Brought my dray.”
“I'm almost packed.”
“I don't mind waiting.”
“You're welcome to sit in the parlor. I'm afraid I can't offer you any refreshments
at the moment. Mrs. Catchpole isâ”
“I heard about the accident. Is she all right?”
“She's badly burned, but the doctor says she'll recover. Amelia is with her now,
giving her some broth.”
He leaned against the door frame. “How is she? Miss Amelia, I mean?”
“She's all right. Tired, as we all are. Concerned about Mrs. Catchpole's recovery.
I'm sorry I must leave at a time when Amelia needs help.”
“Sinclair told me your trial starts on Monday.”
“Yes.”
“I guess you heard, I'm leaving these parts myself. Soon as I can make some financial
arrangements.”
“Amelia says you're going to Texas.”
“I am. Much as it pains me to leave the place I was born and raised, the truth is,
I don't see much of a future here, Miss Hartley. But now that the transcontinental
railroad is open to traffic, the future for men like me is in the West. I aim to
learn cattle ranching and then head to Montana Territory maybe, or Wyoming. Get me
a little spread of my own. Make something of myself.”
“A noble goal, Mr. Lockwood.”
“I hope Miss Amelia will wait for me.”
“Have you asked her?”
“No, ma'am. Not yet.”
“I wouldn't wait too long. Amelia is quite attractive. You never know when some other
suitor might catch her fancy.”
“She has other suitors?” He looked genuinely stricken. “Do you think she considers
me a serious contender, Miss Hartley?”
“I can't presume to speak for her. All I'm saying is that one should never postpone
the pursuit of happiness. One never knows whether tomorrow will dawn fair or foul.”
“I reckon that's true enough.” His blue eyes held hers. “I sure am sorry that a fine
lady like yourself has to go on trial. I wish there was something I could do.”
“Thank you.” India motioned toward the parlor. “If you'd like to sit down, I'll finish
packing. I don't want to detain you.”
“I'm in no hurry.”
India returned to her room and made short work of her packing, keeping out only the
things she would need for tomorrow's journey to Savannah. She tiptoed down the hall
to the housekeeper's room and peeked in. Amelia had fallen asleep in her chair. Mrs.
Catchpole lay facedown, her burned back covered in compresses. India felt another
stab of regret. What if her suspicions were wrong after all?
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, then closed the door.
J
ANUARY
28
The
Neptune,
loaded with mail, lumber, and a few passengers, eased away from the
landing. Ensconced in her small cabin, India stared out through the winter fog pressing
against the window. A cold rain dimpled the dark river. Whitecaps were brewing on
the wind-ruffled surface.
She and Philip had left Indigo Point in the predawn darkness. Amelia accompanied
them to drive the rig home. India had intended to tell Amelia about her conversation
with Mr. Lockwood, but there hadn't been time. And she didn't want to broach the
subject in front of Philip. She wasn't certain he had
forgiven her for her suspicions
regarding his late wife. She didn't dare annoy him further by encouraging a romance
she wasn't certain he'd approve. Amid the flurry of last-minute preparations and
a hasty breakfast of biscuits and coffee, there had been little time to reflect
upon her situation. But now, as the long journey stretched in front of her, she felt
dread seeping into her bones. Would she ever again be free to soak up the first rays
of spring sunshine or wade in the river's rushing waters? Would she be able to walk
a forgotten footpath, taking in the scents of jasmine and magnolia, or would she
spend her life shut away forever in some dank cell?
The steamer emitted a shrill whistle as it rounded a sharp bend in the river. In
the next cabin, two men were arguing in loud, rapid-fire French. India thought of
the six months she and Father had spent at Mrs. Boudreaux's New Orleans boardinghouse.
On nights when her father worked late at the theater, eight-year-old India often
spent time in the kitchen with the woman the boarders called Mrs. B. A dark-eyed,
dark-haired woman of uncertain age, Mrs. B had dispensed hot chocolate and wisdom
in equal measure, the latter delivered in a thick French accent that the young India
struggled to understand.
Once, passing an above-ground cemetery late at night, India had shivered in fear.
And once, preparing for a role in one of Father's productions, India confided to
Mrs. B she felt unprepared and terrified of forgetting her lines. On both occasions,
Mrs. B had fixed India with her black eyes and told her to cast out fear. “One drop
of it will spread through your soul like black ink in your milk glass,
cherie
. No
matter what,
never
give in to fear.”
Easier said than done.
“India?” Philip knocked and opened her door. “Would you like some tea?”