A Respectable Actress (7 page)

“What about you, India?” he asked. “What did you do for fun when you were a child?”

“I don't remember many times when I felt like a child. I was usually rehearsing for
a play or traveling with Father to a performance. Once we went to an outdoor circus,
and a magician tried to teach me a trick. But I never could master it. In Boston
I went to tea parties at my aunt's.”

“Tea parties?” He grinned and arched his brows. “Sounds deadly.”

“Oh no. My aunt was an eccentric and prone to inviting all sorts of people to the
house. I never knew who might turn up from one week to the next. She was just as
apt to invite a band of gypsies as the mayor. She played the mandolin and kept canaries
and several cats and had a library filled with books.”

“Anybody who collects books can't be all bad.”

India smiled. “Life became much more ordinary after her death. I don't remember much
more than that, but I do miss her sometimes, even now.”

A few minutes' walk brought them into the yard again. On the porch, an ancient black
woman wearing a faded blue dress wielded a broom.

Philip and India mounted the steps to the front door.

“Morning, Almarene,” he said. “How's your rheumatism today?”

“Not too bad, Mr. Philip. Not too bad.” Almarene finished sweeping the porch and
leaned on her broom handle. “'Course these cooler mornings been makin' it act up
some, but I don't reckon we can do nothing 'bout the weathah.”

“I suppose not.” Philip inclined his head toward India. “This is our houseguest,
Miss Hartley.”

“Uh-huh.” Almarene eyed India. “I made up your room. Made you a fire.” The woman
sent India a pointed look. “Took some doin' but I cleaned up that mess off the bottom
of that fancy purple skirt.”

India's stomach clenched. She was grateful to the woman for removing the bloodstains
and saving her costume from the rag bin. But people talked. No doubt every person
on St. Simons would know about those stains before the sun set on this day.

“Thank you,” India said. “But I don't expect you to—”

“Long as you sleep under this roof, you fam'bly, and that means you bear lookin'
after. That's how Miss Amelia runs things at Indigo Point.” Almarene cocked her head.
“Now, Mr. Philip, I 'spect you got important work to do.”

“Yes, ma'am, I surely do.”

“Then why're you standin' here jawin'? I got work to do my own self.”

His eyes lit with amusement, but he bowed gravely. “You are absolutely right. Come,
Miss Hartley.”

They went inside. Philip helped India with her hat and coat and showed her into a
study off the main hallway. Here, the desk, chairs, and tables were newer and finer.
India surmised that he had furnished this room recently. A fire danced in the grate,
casting a warm glow over the polished wood and the silver tea service that waited
on a mahogany side table.

He directed her to a chair by a window that overlooked another of the gardens, then
took his seat behind his desk. India noticed his hands as he rummaged in the desk
drawer for a pad
and pencil. His were the long slender fingers that might belong
to a musician or a sculptor. She touched her face where his thumb had brushed her
skin, and heat suffused her cheeks.

He poured tea and offered her a cup before picking up his pad and pencil.

“Now,” he said. “I think you ought to tell me about that gun.”

C
HAPTER
6

I
NDIGO
P
OINT
, C
HRISTMAS
D
AY

P
HILIP INVITED THE LUMBER MILL OWNER
—M
R
. Dodge—and a few of the other islanders to a small reception on Christmas afternoon. India had tried to avoid making an appearance, but Philip insisted it was better to show up and act as if she had nothing to hide. She dreaded it, but his careful questioning as they worked on her case had convinced her of his sound judgment. If he thought it best to mingle with the locals, then she would gather up her resolve and do it.

She chose the deep-green velvet dress she'd bought in New York last winter and draped
it across her bed while she attended to her hair.

Binah knocked and came into the room, her arms laden with wood. “Mr. Philip said
to bring you some firewood.” She dumped it onto the hearth and brushed off her hands.
“There it be.”

“Thank you. I am a bit chilly.”

Binah sidled closer to the dressing table. “What's that?”

“This?” India picked up a small silver box. “It's rice powder. It keeps my nose from
getting shiny.”

“Huh.”

India picked up her hairbrush and attempted to arrange her famous curls, but the
pins kept slipping out.

“You ain't doin' it right,” Binah said.

India turned in her chair. “Is that so? Do you know how to dress hair?”

The girl shrugged. “A little, I guess. Used to do Hannah June's hair 'fore she run
off. Been some time back since she up and went. Didn't say a word to nobody.”

“Oh? Who was she?”

“My sister. I used to do other folks' hair at Indigo Point, too, but that was a long
time ago.”

“I see. Would you be willing to give mine a try?”

Another shrug.

“I'll pay you, Binah. I must go downstairs in a little while to meet a group of strangers,
and I want to look my best.”

“All right.” The girl took up the hairbrush and pins. “I heard Mrs. Catchpole tell
Mama you a theater lady.”

“That's right.”

“She says Mr. Philip ought not to of brought you here. She says theater folks ain't
respectable.”

India had long since learned not to let such opinions rankle. “I don't expect to
be here for very long.”

The girl began pinning India's hair. When she was finished, it was not the perfect
coif Fabienne could have achieved, but it was superior to India's own efforts.

Binah leaned forward, and India caught a glimpse of a necklace half hidden inside
the girl's worn blouse. It was made of fine gold wires twisted together to form a
loose collar that winked in
the gray light coming through the window. It was so distinctive
India couldn't resist remarking on it.

Binah tucked the necklace back into her blouse. Her expression softened. “My sister
had one too. They was gifts from a gentleman who fancied her.”

“I see. Well, it's quite striking. Perhaps you ought to put it away and save it for
special occasions.”

“Special occasions?” Binah laughed. “I ain't going nowhere. Hannah June, she used
to say if you got something that makes you happy, you best enjoy it while you can.”

“She has a point.” India took out her powder brush and leaned into the mirror.

“Mrs. Catchpole says theater women goin' to the devil 'cause they paint up they faces.”

“I don't know about that. I hope it isn't true.” India dipped her finger into her
jar of lip pomade and smoothed some on.

Binah watched, apparently fascinated. “How come they paint up they faces?”

“So we can change the way we look. We can make our skin darker or lighter, make our
cheekbones look sharper and our eyes more deeply set.” India smiled into the mirror.
“You wouldn't recognize me at all if you saw me in my greasepaint.”

Binah frowned. “What's greasepaint?”

India took her makeup case from the wardrobe. She opened it and showed the girl the
row of small jars within. “Greasepaint is made from lard and pigments.”

“Lard and pigs?”

“Pigments. Different colors made from things like crushed rose petals and charcoal.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like to try some on?”

Binah backed away. “No, ma'am! I ain't goin' to the devil when I die.”

Stung, India snapped the case shut. “I wouldn't believe everything Mrs. Catchpole
tells you.”

“I got to go.”

India took a coin from her reticule and pressed it into Binah's palm. The girl pocketed
it and left the room. India slipped into her green velvet dress and went downstairs.

Amelia came forward to greet her, her eyes warm with welcome. “What a pretty dress.
And so appropriate for Christmas. Though it doesn't feel much like Christmas, does
it?”

India shook her head. “It's my first one since my father died. He loved Christmas
and always made a fuss about it.”

“Oh, so did my papa. He always went with Philip and me to decorate the church at
Fredericka for Christmas services.” Amelia's eyes clouded. “But of course that's
a ruin now, too, thanks to the Yankees.”

She looped her arm through India's. “Philip and Mr. Dodge have gone out with the
gentlemen, but you must come and meet the ladies.”

India followed Amelia into the parlor, where a Christmas tree decorated with bits
of ribbon and strings of popcorn had been set up in front of the window. On the dining
table were platters of sandwiches and assorted sweets. A dozen or so women stood
in groups of twos and threes chatting quietly. When they saw India, all conversation
stopped.

“Everyone, this is Miss India Hartley.” Amelia drew India
into the center of the
room. “She's staying with us for a while. I'll let you introduce yourselves.”

India accepted the cup of tea Amelia offered and smiled at the women. “Hello.”

A tall woman in a plain blue dress and a faded velvet hat cocked her head, her arms
folded across her chest. “I heard about you just yesterday. My husband come back
here from Savannah with the newspaper. It says you killed a man and Mr. Sinclair
is trying to get you off.”

Amelia blanched but quickly recovered and said smoothly, “The newspapers always exaggerate
everything. If indeed there was a story about Miss Hartley, I'm certain the facts
are wrong.”

“The papers don't lie.”

“That's right.” Another woman bobbed her head. “They aren't allowed to print lies.”

“You'd be surprised,” Philip said from behind India.

She turned away, her face flaming, tears welling in her eyes. Philip shouldn't have
made her come. These people hated her on sight. A white-hot fury seized her. But
beneath her anger was a sorrow so deep it stole her breath.

Philip moved to India's side. “Ladies. You were invited to Indigo Point to celebrate
the holiday, and I'm delighted to welcome you. Heaven knows there are far too few
causes for celebration in these parts of late. But if you insist upon insulting my
guest, then I must ask you to take your leave.”

A pall of surprise and suspicion fell across the room. India struggled to maintain
her composure. Nobody in this house—except for Amelia—trusted her. At times during
her meetings
with Philip she wondered whether even he completely believed her version
of events.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Sinclair.” The woman who had spoken first gave India a
grudging nod. “How do? I'm Mrs. Garrison. My husband was an overseer here back before
the war.”

All India could manage was a stiff smile. She wanted to march back upstairs and wait
until they had gone. But Philip was looking at her, encouraging her, so she stood
where she was, her back to the fragrant Christmas tree, as the other women introduced
themselves.

Yesterday at breakfast Philip had mentioned that many families had been reduced to
scratching out a living on worn-out land, forced into sharecropping with their former
slaves. Others had found work at Mr. Dodge's lumber mill. India could understand
their bitterness at finding themselves in such reduced circumstances. Even so, she
chafed at the unfairness of their judgmental expressions. They didn't realize that
her own future—even if Philip won her case—was just as uncertain and as fraught with
potential hardship as their own.

The sound of footsteps on the wooden porch announced the return of several of the
men who had seized the holiday as a chance to go hunting. They left their guns on
the porch along with the few rabbits they'd shot, then came inside.

Philip made quick introductions. Mrs. Catchpole, her round, pasty face a mask of
harried disapproval, came in with more food, and the reception went on. Four of the
women formed an impromptu quartet around the piano, and soon the sound of carols
filled the parlor.

Philip filled two plates and motioned India into the hallway. “It seems the chairs
are all taken. Do you mind sitting on the stairs?”

“Not at all.” She recognized this as his way of protecting her from further embarrassment,
and her heart expanded with gratitude. Oh, what a man was this Philip Sinclair!
She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so sheltered. So safe. She took
her seat beside him on the uncarpeted stair, watched him polish off a frosted petit
four and wondered, not for the first time, why such an attractive and accomplished
gentleman had not taken a wife.

He chose a sandwich from his plate and eyed it. “What do you suppose is in there?”

“Ham, perhaps? Or sausage and cheese?”

He sniffed and returned it to his plate. “Sausage. Too far removed from the roast
turkey we enjoyed at Christmases of old.” He sighed. “A turkey dinner with all the
trimmings is one of the things I miss the most. Do you know that Mr. Couper's chef
up at Cannon's Point could debone a turkey with such skill that it retained its shape?”

She grinned. “That must have been quite something.”

“It was the talk of the island. I miss coconut cake, too, and a good pot of low-country
rice and . . . tell me, India, what do you miss? What would you eat today, if you
could?”

India didn't have to think twice. “Plum pudding. I haven't had one since Father and
I left England. I think he looked forward to it as much as I did. Once, when we
were in—”