A Respectable Actress (11 page)

“You'll find a medicine chest in the storeroom out back. Get it while I put some
water on for tea.”

India went out the back door and down the steps to the storage room. Inside were
barrels of flour and sugar, two sacks of coffee, a hogshead of rice. On a shelf
were boxes of candles, assorted vats, and blackened pots. India found a wooden chest
and opened it. Inside were paper packets labeled valerian, chamomile, ginger, milk
thistle, feverfew, huckleberries.

She returned to the house just as Philip arrived in the rig,
his bay mare trotting
behind. Amelia slumped in the seat, her head on her brother's shoulder.

He reined in, exited the rig, and turned to lift Amelia.

“Her room is ready.” India peered into Amelia's pale face. “How is she?”

“Burning up. Miss Butler was already treating her with cold compresses when I got
there, but we must try to get her fever down.”

He lifted his sister and carried her up the front steps, then up the staircase to
her room. Mrs. Catchpole followed, huffing and puffing beneath the weight of the
laden tray in her hands.

Philip laid Amelia on her bed and removed her shoes.

“I've made some huckleberry and molasses tea for when she comes to.” Mrs. Catchpole
set down the tray and drew a chair close to the bed. She motioned for the basin and
towels. “I'll sit with her a while, Mr. Sinclair. You look plumb done in.”

“Thank you. I could use something to drink.”

“I left you a pot of tea in the dining room.” Mrs. Catchpole caught India's eye.
“I'm sure Miss Hartley will be happy to pour and to keep you company.”

The housekeeper's words were meant to sting, but India refused to take offense. Nothing
was as important as Amelia's recovery.

India followed Philip down to the dining room and poured their tea.

“Will Amelia be all right?” She took a chair that afforded a view of the yard and
the beach in the distance. The lowering sun cast rectangles of gossamer light on
the brown grasses. A solitary osprey winged over the glittering sea.

Philip rubbed at his eyes. “I hope so. She's a strong woman. But fevers are unpredictable.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Catchpole's huckleberry tea will do the trick.”

“We must pray so.” He sipped his tea. “My father refused all manner of herbal remedies
until the day he died. He was of the opinion that more people die of their medicines
than of their diseases.”

“I don't know much about medicines, I'm afraid,” India said. “My father often brewed
a tea of valerian and whiskey to help him sleep. But I can't be sure the spirits
wouldn't have worked just as well on their own.”

He managed a tired smile. “Whiskey is often the medicine of choice around here. And
too many use it to excess.”

“Of course, Binah tells me that putting the poker in the fire wards off death.” India
refilled her cup. Despite her concern for Amelia's condition, she felt a certain
peace come over her as she sat with Philip in the pleasant room, watching the winter
twilight descend.

“Yes, Binah and her mother hold onto the old beliefs.”

“I could like Binah if she gave me half a chance,” India said. “She isn't stupid
by any measure. She simply lacks an education.”

“She's not alone on that score. I tried to establish a school here last year, but
the whites refused to sit alongside the Negroes. Fights broke out every other day,
and finally the teacher gave up and left.” He stared out the window. “The day my
father died and Indigo Point came to me, I manumitted every slave on the place. Some
of them went with the Yankees, but most of them wanted to remain here. St. Simons
is the only home they know. But right now there isn't much of a future here for any
of us.”

“Well, I wish I could do something for Binah and the rest too. But I have a feeling
she wouldn't take any help from me.”

“So many of these people are held back by superstitions that date back to the time
this island was first settled.”

“Binah was quite offended when I suggested that her pokers wouldn't work.” India
toyed with her cup, overcome with curiosity about the room upstairs. “When I got
back here this afternoon from our visit to King's Retreat, I couldn't find anyone.”
Her eyes sought his. “May I ask you about something?”

He nodded.

“There is a room upstairs that—”

He rose abruptly from his chair, his expression unreadable. “Excuse me. I've just
remembered I haven't yet taken care of the horses.”

C
HAPTER
10

I
NDIGO
P
OINT
, J
ANUARY
5, 1871

I
NDIA KNOCKED ON
A
MELIA
'
S
DOOR AND PEEKED
inside. “Are you awake?”

“I am.” Amelia waved India into the room. “Binah told me you took turns with Mrs.
Catchpole, tending me until my fever broke.”

“I was glad to do it. I'm relieved you're feeling better.” India set down the tea
tray and opened the curtains. Sunlight streamed into the room. “Mrs. Catchpole has
sent more huckleberry tea.” Amelia wrinkled her nose. “She means well, but honestly,
I cannot bear the thought of drinking another drop. What I need is a plate of biscuits
and gravy. And some decent bacon.”

“The doctor says to—”

“Oh, I know. But he's accustomed to looking after old folks with weaker constitutions
than mine.” Amelia threw back her covers and got unsteadily to her feet. She reached
for her dressing gown, which hung on a peg near the fireplace. “See? I'm good as
cured.”

“I hope so. You wouldn't want to miss the boat races.”

Amelia laughed. “With so few amusements available around
here these days, any diversion
is welcome.” She sat at her dressing table and picked up her hairbrush. “Before
the war, we held boat races every year. Everyone brought their fiddles and banjos
and food to share, and we made a day of it.”

India perched on the edge of the unmade bed. “It sounds like fun, but I can't imagine
boat races in the dead of winter.”

“Oh, it rarely gets too cold down here. And besides, we make a big bonfire to keep
everyone warm.” Amelia finished pinning her hair. “I'm already looking forward to
the seventeenth.”

India's stomach clenched. By then her trial would be just two weeks away. How could
she enjoy any outing when her future was hanging by the thinnest of threads?

“I suggested that day to Fan so I'd have time to remodel my winter dress.” Amelia's
eyes sought India's in the mirror. “Can you keep a secret?”

India nodded. Apparently the ability to keep secrets was a requirement at Indigo
Point.

“I'm hoping Mr. Lockwood will ask me to attend the races with him.”

India struggled to hide her surprise. Cuyler Lockwood was entirely unsuitable for
someone like Amelia Sinclair. For all kinds of reasons.

Amelia swung around in her chair. “You don't approve.”

“I am surprised. But of course you hardly need my approval.”

Amelia's eyes filled. “Oh, I know he takes a nip of spirits now and then. He isn't
well educated. He isn't half the man Thomas was, but since the war, there are so
few gentlemen from which to choose, and I don't want to live alone for the rest of
my life.”

India didn't know what to say. She expected to be alone for the rest of her life,
too, even if she avoided the hangman's noose. But she wouldn't settle for someone
like Cuyler Lockwood.

“After Thomas died, I never expected to feel anything for anyone ever again. But
Mr. Lockwood—”

“I didn't realize you'd lost a husband.”

“We were betrothed. I wanted to marry before Thomas left for the war, but he wanted
to wait. He died at Gettysburg.” Amelia opened the drawer of her dressing table and
took out a small tintype. “This is the only likeness I have of him.”

India studied the image. “He was very handsome.”

“He was. And he was kind, and he made me laugh. Just as Mr. Lockwood does.” Amelia
let out a long sigh. “I'm sick to death of being sad. I don't think I can take another
minute of mourning.”

India thought of the mysterious room down the hall. It seemed that everyone in this
house was secretly mourning someone.

Almarene came in without knocking and plopped a stack of clean linen onto the bed.
“Got you some bath water heated up, Miss Amelia. Best get in the tub 'fore it gets
cold.”

“I will.”

“I'll be there directly to help you dry off. Don't want you gettin' sick again. Makin'
more work for ever'body.”

Amelia winked at India. “I'm so sorry to have caused you extra work, Almarene. I
promise never to get a fever again.”

“Huh. Words don't cook rice.”

“Where's Binah this morning?” Amelia opened her clothespress and took out a clean
petticoat.

Almarene shrugged. “Off in the woods runnin' around with them girls from Miz Garrison's
place, I reckon. And that bunch from plumb up at Darien too. I told her I'll switch
her good if she comes back too late to help me fix supper.” Arms akimbo, Almarene
frowned at India. “You thin as a reed. I 'spect you need some breakfast. Put some
meat on those bones.”

“Not if it's inconvenient for you.”

Amelia gathered her things and headed for the door. “Give her some of your hot biscuits
and butter, Almarene. That'll fatten her up.”

The older woman's expression softened, and she bobbed her gray head. “Come on then,
miss. I got coffee on the stove. I 'spect Miz Catchpole got the eggs gathered by
now, and the grits is about done.”

“Save some for me.” Amelia disappeared down the hallway.

India followed Almarene to the dining room. Apparently Philip had already eaten his
breakfast. A plate and half-empty cup sat at the head of the table. Almarene went
to the kitchen house and soon returned with India's breakfast on a tray.

“It looks delicious. Thank you, Mrs.—?”

“Just Almarene will do.”

“All right. Almarene.” India buttered a biscuit. “It seems Mr. Sinclair has gone
out early this morning.”

“Yes'm. He left more'n a hour ago to post some letters for Miss Amelia. Said he had
some important business with the steamboat captain.”

“Oh? Did he say what kind of business?”

Almarene huffed out a noisy breath. “Now do I look like the kind of a person Mr.
Philip gonna tell his personal business to?”

India bit back a smile. “I suppose you're right. Mr. Sinclair seems to keep most
things to himself.”

“Yes'm, I reckon that's true enough.” Almarene's dark eyes bore into India's. “And
folks who know what's good for 'em don't go diggin' into things that don't concern
'em.” She wiped her hands on the front of her apron. “Anything else you need?”

“Just some time to enjoy this lovely meal.”

“Huh. Biscuits and grits ain't lovely, if you ask me. Ham and collard greens, sweet
potatoes and peach cobbler, now that's lovely.” Almarene headed for the hall. “I
got to tend to Miss Amelia. That fever took the stuffin' right out o' her. She ain't
as strong as she thinks she is.”

“Almarene? Would you tell Miss Amelia I'm going for a walk?”

“I'll tell her.”

India finished her breakfast and lingered over a second cup of coffee. Through the
window she watched the play of morning sunlight in the ancient moss-bearded trees
and a flock of sparrows settling into a hawthorn bush. Despite the run-down condition
of the house—the water-stained ceilings and the broken railings, the faded wallpaper
and mismatched furnishings, and the unsettling, melancholy secrets that lingered
in every room—Indigo Point gave her a sense of safety akin to a mother's embrace.
Or what she imagined a mother's embrace to be.

India retrieved her cloak and hat from the hall tree and set off along the footpath
toward the beach. The tide was out, exposing the mudflats, which gave off the odor
of rotting fish. Beyond the flats lay the unbroken expanse of sun-brightened
sea.
A fishing boat bobbed like a cork in the waves breaking beyond the remains of a jetty.
She skirted the beach and turned toward the slave hospital, the leaves above her
rustling like a silk petticoat. Something about Indigo Point conjured the past. She
imagined Philip's grandmother, a woman no longer young, tending to the slaves lying
sick and injured within the hospital's tabby walls. She imagined the slaves, too,
watching the ebb and flow of the sea, reaching toward freedom and compelled to remain
forever in the same hopeless place. No wonder Philip had set them free.

Reaching the skeleton of the old hospital, India heard a chorus of young voices
followed by peals of laughter. She stood in the open doorway and peered inside.

Binah and half a dozen other girls, some white, some black, were seated in a circle
on the bare floor, passing a bird's feather from one to the other. A thin girl with
freckles and an upturned nose took the feather from the Negro girl seated next to
her. Closing her eyes, she waved the feather above her head and chanted, “Blue bird,
blue bird, flyin' out to sea, who is the one to marry me?”

She released the feather, and each girl called out a name as it floated to the floor.

“Tommy!”

“Paul!”

“Custis!”

As one, the girls leaned forward to peer at the feather.

“Awww, it be Custis!” the Negro girl said.

“No!” the freckled girl yelled. “I can't stand him. Let me do it again.”