A Respectable Actress (27 page)

India finished fastening the buttons on her sleeves. “I am, actually.”

The child bobbed her head, sending her curls dancing around her face. “I thought
so. You look positively famished! Mama made sandwiches, and we have cake and milk.
No tea, though, because Mrs. Whipple, she looks after us, forgot to get any last
week.”

“Milk sounds fine.”

Frannie grabbed India's hand. “I'll show you to the parlor.”

India let the enchanting child lead her into the gracious
room below, where her mother
presided over a tray set before the fire.

“Mama, here's Miss India, and I was right. She's starving!”

“Well, we can remedy that.” Mrs. Mackay's violet eyes glowed with love for her small
daughter. “Would you excuse us now, Frannie? I'll be up later to read with you and
hear your lessons.”

“But I'll miss all the fun.”

“Francesca Mackay—”

“Uh-oh.” Frannie sighed and said to India, “When Mama calls me Francesca, I have
to go.”

She scampered across the room and up the curving staircase.

India watched her go, a longing for the kind of life and family Mrs. Mackay enjoyed
building inside her. But it was not to be. Not now.

Mrs. Mackay filled a plate and passed it to India. “Philip told me he had you removed
from the hospital while he looked for a witness.”

India ate a bite of the sandwich and dabbed at her lips with a heavy damask napkin.
“Yes, the experience was something straight from a dime novel.” She briefly described
Mr. Lockwood's rescue and her three days on Isle of Hope. “Then Philip showed up
there early this morning and said he'd found the person he'd been seeking.”

Mrs. Mackay gave a brief nod. “He told me he'd found Laura. After all this time.
I've known Philip for years, and I must say I've never seen him so undone.” Her violet
eyes sought India's. “He loved her so. This discovery has cost him dearly.”

“I'm sorry to have been the cause of it.”

“Laura always was mercurial, hard to figure out. She was
quite beautiful, but she
seemed not to trust herself.” Mrs. Mackay stared into the dancing firelight. “Perhaps
it comes from her upbringing. Her father was a baker, and they lived modestly here
in town. But Laura planned to rise above her station in life. She met Philip during
a Christmas celebration one year and set her cap for him. I think he was intrigued
because she was so different from the others in our circle. She was happy enough
when they lived in the city, but she was miserable at Indigo Point, and she made
sure Philip knew it.”

Recalling the notes she'd found, India nodded. Laura Sinclair had not been cut out
to be a planter's wife. Especially when the war had decimated everything and all
the planters struggled to hold onto their falling-down houses and worn-out fields.
Clearly Laura's marriage to Philip had deteriorated.

But what about now? Did he still love her? How would he cope with such utter betrayal?
Loss could bring a person down as surely as a fever, leaving permanent scars upon
the heart.

A sudden pounding on the door startled them. Before Mrs. Whipple could reach the
door, it opened, and two uniformed policemen barged in. The older one, a man with
graying hair and a slight paunch, strode into the parlor. “Miss Hartley. I'm afraid
you'll have to come with us.”

Celia frowned. “Whatever for, Officer? Miss Hartley will appear in court whenever
it's required. And I must say I do not appreciate your invading my home like this.”

A loud chorus of angry voices filtered in from the street. India peered out the window.
A crowd had gathered outside the front gate, brandishing signs that read Justice
Is Blind, and No Favoritism in Savannah's Courts.

The younger officer jerked his thumb. “That's why, Miz Mackay. Word is out that Miss
Hartley here is back in town. Judge Bartlett has been delayed and can't meet until
tomorrow. He told us to fetch the prisoner. He can't afford to give the appearance
of favoring one defendant over another.”

“India?” Philip strode into the hallway. He had changed his clothes, and now he looked
every inch the lawyer—competent, controlled, detached.

He took her hand. “I'm sorry about this, but it can't be helped. And it's best not
to defy the judge's wishes.” He turned to the officers. “I'll see that she reports
to the jail.”

The younger one looked uncertain. “We were told to fetch her, but if you say so,
Mr. Sinclair.”

Celia briefly embraced India, who followed Philip outside. With the officers riding
right behind them, Philip handed India into his rig. “Can you bear another night
in the county jail?”

“I suppose I have to.”

“Fabienne will bring you a change of clothes. And Dr. Webb will be by to check on
your head wound.” His voice softened. “You gave me quite a scare when you fell. I
was afraid you were seriously hurt. After all you've been through, I don't think
I could stand to see anything else happen to you.”

“The shock of a guilty verdict was too much to take. I was counting on Colonel Culpepper's
testimony to win my case. Obviously they didn't believe him.”

“Judge Bartlett believes in going strictly by the book. Which may work in our favor
tomorrow.” He flicked the reins. “Let's go.”

India sat beside him, her hands clasped in her lap. She had allowed herself to hope
that Philip Sinclair might one day
become the love of her heart. The one she'd waited
a lifetime to find. They'd known each other for such a short time, but already she
loved his fine mind, his patience, and his quiet confidence. His humor and his faith
in the law. But he was not hers. He could never be hers.

She thought of the day at Indigo Point when he'd saved her from the cottonmouth,
the day they'd found a single rose blooming in Mrs. King's abandoned garden, the
day he'd returned from Savannah bearing a plum pudding because she had expressed
a fondness for it. She recalled the shock and concern in his eyes when Mrs. Catchpole
had attacked her with the knife. She had hoped it meant something intimate and personal,
but theirs was only a professional friendship, with Mrs. Mackay paying the bill.

India shifted on the hard seat as the rig jostled along the street. His concern for
her was nothing more than that of a lawyer for his client. And now that he had found
his wife alive after believing her dead . . . well, India could only imagine what
he must be feeling. Confusion, most certainly, but surely profound relief too.

Another few moments brought them to the jail, and India saw with dismay that another
crowd of reporters and townspeople had assembled to witness her return. Philip halted
the rig.

“Are you ready?”

She felt vulnerable, as if her skin had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a
mass of exposed nerves, but she stood and forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply—a
trick she'd learned years ago to calm her stage fright. “I'm ready.”

The crowd surged toward her as they exited the rig.

“Miss Hartley!” A reporter with a protruding belly and gin blossoms on his cheeks
thrust his notebook into her face. “How did you escape from the hospital? Where have
you been hiding?”

“India! Over here!” Another reporter pushed through the crowd. “How does it feel
to be found guilty of murder?”

Philip shoved him aside. “Let us pass, please.”

“Mr. Sinclair,” the reporter persisted. “I assume you'll file an appeal. What are
her chances of avoiding the gallows?”

“Much better than your chances of avoiding a collision with my fists if you don't
get out of the way.” Philip tightened his grip on her hand. They pushed through the
crush of onlookers and he led her into the jail.

“I hate leaving you here,” he said, “but it's only for one night. I'll be in my office
all night, so send word there if you need me.”

“I will.”

“An officer will be there in the morning to escort you to the courthouse.”

“All right.”

He let out a gusty sigh. “I know this has been a nightmare. But it's almost over.”

She wanted to believe him, but she was afraid now to hope. “How can you be so sure?”

An officer appeared, nodded to Philip, and snapped the manacles around her wrists.
“Come along, miss.”

With a backward glance at Philip, she followed the officer down the dank and smelly
corridor. Back to the same cell where she'd been held during the trial.

The officer swung open the door and motioned her inside. He removed the shackles
and indicated a tray sitting beside the
cot. “Mr. Sinclair said he was bringing you
in, so I had some food sent over. It's probably cold as a witch's . . . well, let's
just say it's cold, but still edible, I expect.”

She rubbed her wrists and pressed a hand to the bandage on her head. The last thing
she wanted was more jailhouse food. But he had taken special pains to procure it.
“Thank you, Officer.”

“Sure.” He stepped out, and the cell door clanged shut. “For what it's worth, miss,
I sure am sorry for the way Savannah has treated you. Of course a man's romantic
proclivities are rarely justification for murder, but it was no secret that Mr. Sterling
collected female admirers the way some people collect coins. He had plenty of enemies
in this town, but now that he's dead they're trying to make him into some kind of
saint.” He shook his head. “It ain't right.”

“I appreciate your saying so.”

“It's the truth.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “All I can say is, I hope that new
witness clears things up for you.”

She sank onto the cot. “I hope so too.”

“Well, you just rest now, and call for me if you need anything.”

He turned away, his footfalls heavy on the wooden floor. India dropped onto the lumpy
mattress and closed her eyes. After three nights of trying to sleep on the floor
of the fish camp, she was grateful for the relative comfort of the rudimentary cot.
Despite the noise of other occupants, the slamming of doors, the hollow echo of footsteps,
India slept until Fabienne's voice woke her.

“
Mamselle.
”

India sat up, blinking in the dim light.

Fabienne regarded her with sorrowful eyes. The infectious
joy that usually animated
her lovely features was gone. “I brought your things from Mrs. Mackay's.” She indicated
a policeman India hadn't seen before. “The officer has them.”

“Thank you, Fabienne.”

The young Frenchwoman stifled a sob. “Forgive me,
mamselle
. I did not wish to speak
against you, but that lawyer gave me a paper and said that I—”

“It's all right. Mr. Sinclair explained it to me. I know you meant no harm.”

Fabienne pulled an envelope from her pocket and slid it through the bars. “It's the
money you left for me when you went away. I think you must need it more than I do.”

India smiled. “I wish you'd keep it. You earned it. And besides, my bills are being
paid by a friend. One I didn't even realize I had.”

Fabienne sniffed. “You are certain?”

“Positive.”

“
Merçi
,
mamselle
. Tomorrow I will—”

“Miss.” The officer stepped forward. “This is a jail, and visiting hours are over.
I expect you ought to go now.”

“All right.” Fabienne pressed both her palms against the bars. “Good-bye,
Mamselle
.
You must not worry.
Le Bon Dieu
will protect you.”

She hurried away. The officer unlocked the cell and handed India her clothes. “Doc
Webb is on his way over. The judge is worried about that head of yours.”

Just then the doctor arrived, accompanied by Officer Avery. The policeman barely
nodded to India as he unlocked her cell and waved the doctor inside.

“Please be seated.” The doctor indicated the cot, and India sat.

He began unwrapping the bandage, tugging gently to release the linen from the dried
blood on her hair. He whistled softly. “That's quite a gash you've got there. But
it seems to be doing all right.”

He took a brown bottle of liquid from his medical bag and dabbed some onto a clean
cloth. “This is apt to sting a little.”

India sucked in a sharp breath as the antiseptic hit her wounded flesh. She clenched
her teeth as tears sprang to her eyes.

“Sorry. But we don't want sepsis to set in.”

He applied salve and covered the wound with a clean bandage. “That ought to do it.
Be sure to keep that dry.”

“I will.”

The doctor called for the guard, and soon India was left alone again.

She pictured Philip in his office across town and was struck anew at the thought
that his wife was still alive and that she might be India's last chance for freedom.

C
HAPTER
23

J
UDGE
B
ARTLETT STRODE INTO HIS CHAMBERS
,
BLACK
robes billowing. With a curt nod to those assembled he sat down behind his desk and folded his hands. “This had better be good, Mr. Sinclair, because I am very close to throwing the book at you for harboring a fugitive”—he broke off and glared at India—“and for thwarting the prerogatives of this court. You'll be lucky not to be disbarred.”

“Begging your pardon, Judge.” Philip rose and placed a hand on the back of India's
chair. “Technically Miss Hartley is not a fugitive, and technically I was not the
one who removed her to a place of safety in order to ensure that justice is done.”

Philip glanced at Mr. McLendon before returning his attention to Judge Bartlett.
“Before this day is done, you will thank me for this.”