A Respectable Actress (29 page)

“Yes. Mr. Philbrick confessed.”

Mrs. Mackay—India still had a hard time thinking of her as Celia—frowned. “The theater
manager? Why on earth would he shoot Mr. Sterling?”

“It's complicated.”

“So it seems. Oh, I am mightily relieved that our prayers
were answered. Please do
come in. Frannie and I have finished breakfast, but I can use some tea. What about
you?”

“It sounds heavenly.”

Mrs. Mackay led the way to the now-familiar parlor and rang a little silver bell.
Soon, a middle-aged woman in a crisp white apron appeared.

“Mrs. Whipple,” Mrs. Mackay said. “We'd love some tea, and some shortbread if there
is any left.”

The woman shook her head. “I'm afraid Miss Frannie cleaned me out, Mrs. Mackay, after
her riding lesson yesterday. But there's some scones left, and some of that strawberry
jam you favor.”

“That will be fine.” Mrs. Mackay inclined her head, and Mrs. Whipple withdrew.

Mrs. Mackay motioned India to a seat before the fire. “I will admit I am extremely
curious to know how Philip managed to solve the case, but if you'd rather not speak
of it—”

India pulled off her gloves and laid them on the settee. “I barely understand it
myself.”

She related the events of the past days—Mr. Lockwood's taking her from the hospital
to avoid sentencing while Philip searched for his star witness, Philip's appearance
on Isle of Hope to bring her back, Mr. Philbrick's confession.

Mrs. Whipple came in with the tea things, and India paused while Mrs. Mackay poured,
then passed her the plate of scones. The housekeeper stood hesitantly at the door,
her hands clasped at her waist.

Mrs. Mackay looked up, brows raised. “Yes, Mrs. Whipple?”

“You remember I asked could I have the next three days off, on account of my sister's
coming into town.”

“I do remember, and you're free to go. I'm not altogether hopeless in the kitchen,
and if we get too bored with my offerings, we can always have dinner at the hotel.”

Mrs. Whipple beamed. “Thank you kindly, Mrs. Mackay.”

When they were alone again Mrs. Mackay stirred her tea, a frown on her face. “The
jury had already decided you were guilty. What made Mr. Philbrick come forward when
he could have gotten away with it?”

“His great affection for the star witness.” India struggled to speak the words that
were like a knife to the heart. “Mr. Sinclair's . . . wife.”

“I was stunned when he told me he had found her,” Mrs. Mackay said. “A part of me
still feels it's impossible. I was there when that poor woman was laid to rest in
Laurel Grove. Philip brought her back here. He was nearly crazed with grief because
he'd insisted on taking her to Indigo Point despite her distaste for it. He said
he at least wanted her to rest in Savannah, a place she loved. I had understood she
was very badly burned, so there was no viewing of the remains, but—”

India's heart lurched. There had been a burial, but clearly, the body wasn't Laura's.
India's cup rattled in her saucer. She felt sick. “Hannah June.”

“What?”

“There's no other explanation.” India couldn't keep the urgency from her voice. “The
body he buried had to belong to one of Mr. Sinclair's former slaves. A girl named
Hannah June. Her sister Binah still helps look after things at Indigo Point.”

“But why? How did—”

“Mama?” Frannie Mackay stuck her head into the room.
“My head hurts. And Miss Finlay
said I should go straight back to bed and not do any more sums today.”

“Oh? Come here, darling.” Mrs. Mackay opened her arms and embraced her daughter.

“My head feels hot.”

“Where is Miss Finlay now?”

“Up in the school room correcting my orthography test. But she's leaving soon. Because
I feel sick.”

Mrs. Mackay placed the back of her hand against Frannie's forehead. “You do feel
warm. Go on upstairs, and I'll be right up with something to make you feel better.”

Frannie obeyed, and a few moments later the tutor came downstairs, her hands full
of books, her blue woolen cloak draped over her arm.

Mrs. Mackay went into the hallway and spoke briefly with the young woman before returning
to the parlor.

India finished her tea. “Is everything all right?”

“I'm sure it's nothing serious. I'll sit with her a while. She'll be better tomorrow.”

“I should get out of the way so you can see to her.”

“Oh, you aren't in the way at all. This house is way too quiet when my husband is
away. I'm grateful for your company. But you've had an eventful morning. Perhaps
you would enjoy some time alone. Your room upstairs is just the way you left it.
I've had Mrs. Whipple freshen the linens and lay a fire, but feel free to ring if
you need anything.”

Mrs. Mackay led the way up the staircase and headed for Frannie's room.

India turned the opposite direction and entered the room
that had been prepared for
her. Something furry and warm pressed against her leg. She whirled around and let
out a scream that brought Mrs. Mackay running.

“Heavens. What's the matter?”

“There's something alive in this room. It scared me.”

Mrs. Mackay peered beneath the bed and emitted a piercing and most unladylike whistle.
“Maxwell! You know very well you are not allowed up here. Come out this instant.”

An old dog, mostly gray but once golden, judging from a few patches of hair on his
chest, crawled from beneath the bed and turned his liquid brown eyes on India as
if to apologize for her fright. He nuzzled her hand, and she bent to place a kiss
on his grizzled head. “Oh, he's wonderful.”

Mrs. Mackay laughed. “I think so. He was a present from Sutton the year we became
engaged.” She scratched beneath the old dog's chin. “Poor old boy is nearly thirteen
now. Mostly he lies beside the fire in the kitchen and tries to avoid Frannie's cat,
but I suppose his curiosity got the best of him whilst Mrs. Whipple was freshening
up your room. He does so enjoy visitors.” She smiled. “He's always keen for someone
new to shower him with attention.”

“Well, I'm glad of his company. If you don't mind his staying here, I certainly don't.”

Mrs. Mackay knelt beside her beloved companion. “You seem to have made another friend,
Maxwell. But don't make a nuisance of yourself, you hear?”

The dog thumped his tail against the floor. She rose. “If he gets to be too much
trouble just let me know, and I'll send him back to the kitchen.”

“We'll be fine. And thank you again for taking me in. I wasn't looking forward to
returning to the hotel to face those reporters.”

Mrs. Mackay's face clouded. “That lot never knows when to back away. Please excuse
me. I must see to Frannie.”

“Of course.”

The door closed. India removed her hat, her shoes, and her stockings and dropped
onto the woolen rug beside the old dog. He snuggled next to her as if he had known
her forever, his breath warm on her cheek, and she felt the tensions of the day drain
away. She draped one arm across his chest and closed her eyes. Someday, when she
was settled, she would get a dog of her own. “Won't that be grand, Maxwell?”

He licked her hand as if to agree before they both fell asleep.

C
HAPTER
25

F
EBRUARY
7

I
NDIA WOKE TO
F
RANNIE
'
S
FRETFUL CRIES AND THE
awful sound of retching. She sat up in bed and blinked, waiting for her head to clear. Sometime in the night, Maxwell had retired to a spot on the hearth, and she had climbed into bed without bothering to unpin her hair.

Now the fire was out, and a thin shaft of gray morning light fell across the counterpane.

“Mama!” Frannie's cries grew louder.

India pulled her dress over her head and hurried along the darkened hallway in her
bare feet. Passing Mrs. Mackay's room, she saw her hostess huddled over the chamber
pot, her dark hair hanging like a curtain across her face.

“I couldn't make it to the water closet.” Celia's face was white as a winding sheet.

“What can I do to help?”

Celia wiped her mouth. “If you could see to Frannie for a moment—”

“Of course.”

India pushed open the door to the child's room to find that
Frannie had soiled her
sheets. Tears shimmered in the child's violet eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right. Let me help you.”

India stripped off the child's soiled nightdress and removed the dirty linens from
the bed. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

She followed Frannie into the bathing room. Frannie spun a handle and warm water
gushed into the tub. India found soap and towels, and while Frannie bathed, she returned
to the child's room to find a clean nightgown and made the bed with clean linens.

By the time she had settled Frannie into bed again, Celia was returning from emptying
the chamber pot. She made it to the top of the stairs before her legs gave way, and
she collapsed onto the floor.

India helped her to her feet. “Shall I run a bath for you?”

“Please. I am too weak to move.”

While Celia bathed, India went downstairs and rummaged for tea and crackers. When
the tea was ready, she took a tray upstairs. Celia was able to take a few sips, but
Frannie pushed her cup away. “I don't want any.”

“Would you like me to read to you?”

“No. I want my papa,” Frannie said.

“I know just how you feel.” India drew a chair closer to the bed. “Papas are the
best at telling stories, aren't they?”

Frannie nodded. “My papa knows a million stories.”

“A million? My goodness. I don't think I've ever met anyone who knows that many.
What's your favorite?”

“The Black Pearl Pirate and the Ghost Ship of Spain.”

“That does sound exciting. Maybe you could tell it to me when you feel better.”

“I guess so.” Frannie shivered. “It's cold in here.”

“Tell me where the wood is kept, and I'll make a fire for you.”

“In the shed behind the old carriage house. But watch out for spiders and mice and
ghosts.”

India checked on Celia, who seemed to be sleeping, and hurried out to the woodshed.
Back inside, she laid fires in both the bedrooms. Soon the rooms glowed with warm
light.

While Celia and Frannie slept, India tended to her own toilette and went downstairs.
She made herself a pot of tea and ate a cold biscuit with strawberry jam. In the
chilly library she opened the curtains to the gray February light and browsed the
shelves for something to read.

But it was impossible to concentrate. She could think of nothing but Philip. She
had become accustomed to his presence and his voice. At Indigo Point she had known
when he was watching her, and she thought of him in the quiet hours before sleep
when the old plantation house lay dark and still beside the sea. But she had seen
the bruised look he'd given Laura in the judge's chambers. Whatever Laura might have
done had not been enough to completely extinguish his feelings for her.

India thumbed through a stack of ladies' magazines and read at random from a poetry
book until the afternoon had come and gone and the long shadows of another winter
evening fell across the square. When the French mantel clock chimed the hour, she
made her way back to the kitchen. Surely Celia and Frannie would wake soon, feeling
better and hungry for something more substantial than tea and crackers.

Rummaging in the bins, she found potatoes, carrots, onions, and a few turnips and
set about chopping them for soup. When
that was done, it took several tries to get
the cook stove going, but at last the pot began to bubble, sending the steamy fragrance
of simmering vegetables into the room. In the bread bin she found half a loaf. She
sliced it and fanned the slices onto a tray. She filled the teakettle and set it
on to boil.

When everything was ready, she went upstairs to check on her charges. Frannie had
soiled her bed again and was huddled in the corner clutching her porcelain doll,
her little face streaked with tears.

“Stay put,” India said softly. “I'll check on your mama, and then I'll be back to
look after you.”

She slipped into Celia's room across the hall and stopped short. Celia was lying
atop the covers, her nightgown soaked with sweat. Her cheeks were mottled and red,
her eyes were closed. Her chest rose and fell with her shallow, labored breaths.

“Celia?” India chafed Celia's hand, but her hostess didn't move.

It was time to get a doctor.

India returned to Frannie's room and rushed to change the bed and bathe the little
girl. She returned her to her bed and tucked the doll in beside the sad-eyed child.

“Where's Mama?” Frannie whispered. “I'm scared.”

“I won't lie to you, Frannie. I'm scared too. Your mama needs a doctor. Do you know
his name? Where he lives?”

Frannie shook her head, her damp hair fanned out on the fresh linen pillowcase.

“What about Mrs. Whipple? Where can I find her?”

“I don't know.” Frannie rubbed her eyes. “Uncle Philip prob'ly knows.”

“That's a good idea. Where does he live?”

“In a big white house. On Abercorn Street. It's not far.”

India remembered seeing Abercorn on her carriage rides to and from the Mackays',
an easy walk from here. “Listen, Frannie. I'm going to have to leave you here for
a moment while I find him. Can you stay right here with your doll until I get back?”