A Respectable Actress (15 page)

“A Negro woman then? Or a mulatto?”

“I can't be sure. I remember only her piercing eyes. She seemed nervous, and very
intent upon Mr. Sterling, but if she was an admirer of his, I would expect nothing
else.”

“And you didn't see her after that?”

“No. Fabienne finished helping me dress, and I went upstairs to the wings and waited
for my cue.”

He sighed. “Well, it's a slim lead, but worth pursuing. When we get to Savannah,
I'll see what I can find out. In the meantime, I'm going back to King's Retreat
this afternoon to take
some measurements of the old gardens for Mr. Dodge. I'd love
some company.”

“I'd love that too.”

He put away his files, his papers and pen. “I'll be back at noon. That should give
us plenty of time before the light goes.”

“All right.” She rose and together they went to the door of the study.

He collected his hat, cloak, and gloves, and a few minutes later India heard the
pounding of his horse's hooves on the dirt road. She wandered out to the dining room,
hoping to find Amelia still at breakfast, but the room was deserted, the table bare.
The smell of baking bread filled the air, and she followed the scent to the kitchen
house.

Mrs. Catchpole was just taking a loaf from the oven. She banged the pan onto the
wooden table and frowned at India. “Something you wanted?”

“The bread smelled so good, it made me hungry. Is there any chance I can have some?”

Wordlessly, the housekeeper took down a plate, sliced the steaming loaf, and fetched
butter from the pantry. “I suppose you want some jam too.”

Not if you are going to begrudge me every bite.
India shook her head. “This will
be just fine.”

She buttered a piece and took a bite. “This is very good, Mrs. Catchpole. Mr. Sinclair
tells me you are the best cook on the island. I have to say I agree.”

“Mr. Sinclair is a peach of man. He gives me more credit than I deserve.” The older
woman wiped the knife clean and returned it to the drawer. “I owe him a great deal.
I never forget it.”

India looked up, surprised that the woman had managed to string together four sentences,
and none of them accusatory. Surely a record since India's arrival. She took another
bite of the warm bread and looked around the kitchen. Everything was spotless. Everything
was in its proper place. Pots and pans hung from hooks above a deep sink. To the
side was a shiny red-handled water pump. Wood waited in a basket beside the stove.
Jars of spices covered the top of a pie safe in the corner. A wooden mixing bowl
and a rolling pin still covered in flour sat on the counter.

“Mrs. Catchpole? Would you mind if I borrowed your kitchen for a while?”

“What? Whatever for?”

“At the boat races on Tuesday, Mr. Sinclair mentioned that he is fond of chess pie.
I haven't had the chance to master many dishes, but I do know how to make a chess
pie, and I'd like to bake one for him. As a kind of thank-you gift.”

“I'm sure he knows you're grateful, the way you stick to him like a cocklebur every
chance you get.”

India frowned. Was this woman jealous? Of Philip? She was old enough to be his mother.
Maybe that was how she saw herself. As his protector. “I wasn't aware that I was
clinging to him. But I'd still love to make that pie.”

“He may have mentioned chess pie, but vinegar pie is his favorite. He likes the meringue
on top.”

India frowned. “I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to begin.”

“The filling is easy enough. Sugar, egg yolks, butter, and a dash of vinegar, of
course. It's the meringue that's tricky.”

India rolled up her sleeves. “I'm willing to try. Would you
teach me? My father always
said one should never pass up an opportunity to learn something new.”

The housekeeper shrugged. “I suppose I could show you how. You'll need some eggs
from the springhouse.”

“I know where it is. Amelia showed me.”

“Flour and lard are in the bin. Don't let the fire get too hot. It'll burn the crust.”

India went out the back door to the springhouse, gathered the eggs and butter, and
returned to the kitchen. She measured out flour and lard for the pie crust and rolled
it out. Following Mrs. Catchpole's directions, she broke the eggs into a mixing bowl,
separating the yolks from the whites before adding sugar, butter, and vinegar.

India poured the filling into the pie crust. Mrs. Catchpole opened the oven door
and stood aside while India slid the pan onto the rack.

“Half an hour oughta do it,” the housekeeper said. “There's coffee if you want some.”

She filled a couple of cups and handed one to India.

India sat at the table and took in the particular sights and smells of the kitchen—rectangles
of winter sunlight falling across wide cypress planks permeated with years of wood
smoke and coffee, the freshly baked bread still cooling on the wooden table. The
mellow scent of custard as the pie began to bake.

Mrs. Catchpole sipped her coffee, her pale gray eyes watchful as a cat's. “I heard
you and Miss Amelia talking an' carrying on last night. Something sure seemed to
amuse the two o' you.”

“I was telling her about the time I was in
King Lear
in London opposite Thomas Abbott.
In the middle of a very
serious scene, his wig came unglued, and every time he turned
his head, his wig would spin around and cover up his eyes. Finally he reached up
and tore it off his head and stomped it as if it were a rat. The theater manager
was outraged, but the audience loved it.”

Mrs. Catchpole reared back and let go a belly laugh so unexpected that India jumped.
“I ain't much of a theatergoer, but I woulda paid money to see that.”

For the first time since arriving at Indigo Point, India found herself relaxing in
the woman's presence. “It was funny. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing along
with the audience. And then a few weeks later, Father and I were acting in a comedy.
At the end of the first act, he was supposed to exit through a door at the rear of
the stage. He delivered his line, which was very dramatic: ‘I'm leaving, and nobody
can stop me!' Then he went to the door to make his exit. And it was locked.”

Mrs. Catchpole listened, spellbound. “Mercy. What did he do?”

India laughed at the memory. “I was struck with panic, but Father whirled around,
came back downstage, and said, ‘But before I go, there's one more thing!'”

“That was clever.” Mrs. Catchpole chuckled and poured more coffee.

“It was very clever. Since the play was a comedy, the audience assumed the locked
door was part of the act. But of course Father complained mightily to the stage manager,
who was most apologetic. After he stopped laughing.”

The housekeeper shook her head. “I reckon it must be a strange kind o' life, bein'
in the theater, travelin' around from
pillar to post. Must feel kinda like a boat
tossing around in the sea without any moorings.”

“It doesn't seem strange to me, but I can see how it might seem so to others.” India
finished her coffee. “In the old days Father and I traveled with the Morettis, an
acting troupe from Italy. They fought and teased one another and played jokes, but
there was never any doubt of their love for each other. For a while, they shared
that love with Father and me. They were the only family we knew. I miss them still.
I miss having a family around me. I miss not having friends.”

“Huh. What will happen when you get old?” Mrs. Catchpole crossed her arms. “Who will
look after you then?”

India looked away. Even before Father died she'd worried about the day when some
new young actress would supplant her in the public's affections. When her beauty
faded and the applause stopped. But she couldn't worry about that. She was too consumed
by the very real possibility that she might not have a future at all.

“I should check on the pie.” India opened the oven door, releasing the rich smells
of custard and warm crust. She grabbed a thick towel to protect her hand while she
gave the pan a gentle shake. She turned to the housekeeper. “I think it's done.”

“Let me take it out. You don't want to burn yourself.” Armed with two towels, Mrs.
Catchpole lifted the pie and set it on the window sill. “There now. We'll let it
cool just a bit before we make the meringue. By the time suppertime gets here, it
ought to be just right.” She smiled at India. “The perfect surprise for Mr. Sinclair.
Just like you wanted.”

“I hope he will enjoy it.” India headed for the door. “Could you
possibly make the
meringue? I didn't realize it was so late. I must get ready. We're riding over to
King's Retreat this afternoon.”

“Huh. Just the two o' you?”

“Yes. I believe so.” India rolled her sleeves down and buttoned her cuffs. “He invited
me this morning as we were going over my case.”

“You might be kind enough to ask Miss Amelia to go with you. She—”

“Oh, there you are.” Amelia swept into the kitchen house carrying her cloak and hat.
She dropped them onto a chair and helped herself to bread and butter. “Ask me what?”

“Your brother and I are going out to take some measurements of the gardens at King's
Retreat for Mr. Dodge,” India said. “Mrs. Catchpole thought you might like to come
along.”

Amelia arched her brow. “And be a third wheel? I wouldn't dream of crashing your
outing. Besides, I promised to return some books I borrowed from Mrs. Wheeler.” Ignoring
the housekeeper's dour expression, Amelia smiled at India. “It's going to be a beautiful
afternoon. You two ought to get out and enjoy it.”

A short time later, India sat next to Philip as the rig rolled along toward King's
Retreat. Amelia's weather prediction had come true; a cool breeze gusted off the
water, which today reflected the clear blue sky. A flock of blackbirds rustled
in the sedges beside the road, and in the tangled undergrowth there appeared an occasional
patch of violets. On such days it was hard to remember it was still January. Back
in Philadelphia people picked their way along snowy streets to homes warmed by roaring
fires, where they sat thawing their hands and feet, waiting for the first days of
spring.

Philip seemed content with the warmth and the silence and did not speak until they
arrived at the old plantation. He halted the rig, helped her out, then turned to
get his paper and pencil. For half an hour they walked the old gardens while he made
notes regarding the size and placement of olive and orange groves, rose gardens,
and vegetable patches.

In the middle of a concentric brick rose bed, India noticed a faint patch of green
and knelt to examine it.

“What is it?” Philip wandered over to stand beside her.

“I think this rose bush is trying to come back. After all this time.”

He knelt beside her, so close their shoulders touched. So close she caught a faint
whiff of soap and bay rum that sent her senses—and her imagination—reeling. What
must it be like to belong—body and soul—to someone as fine as Philip Sinclair?

The sun pressed onto her head like a benediction. Something about being with Philip
felt right. She watched him from the corner of her eye. Was this what falling in
love was like? This strange, weightless sensation, this heightened awareness of his
every movement? Or were these feelings the result of her need for protection and
reassurance?

He took off his glove and gently probed the tender plant. “This must have been one
of the first roses Mrs. King ever planted. I remember her telling my grandmother
about some new specimens she planned for her paved garden.”

“If it does come back, perhaps Mr. Dodge will give it a place of honor in the new
gardens. A tribute to Mrs. King.”

“What a lovely thought.” He held out his hand and drew her to her feet.

India's breath caught, and a tremble went through her. Yes, she was definitely falling.
She just hoped for a soft landing.

Philip inclined his head. “I want to walk back to the rear of the property to check
on the old dependencies. Some were made of cypress, and the wood may still be useable.”

“Is it far?”

“Too far for you in those shoes, I'm afraid.”

He had noticed her shoes?

“Will you be all right here for a little while?” he asked. “I won't be gone more
than half an hour. Then we'll start for home.”

She was disappointed at being apart from him even for a moment, but of course she
couldn't say so. “I'll be fine. Maybe I'll find some more roses.”

She watched him stride through the tangled vines and brambles until he was lost
from view. For a few minutes she wandered among the overgrown garden plots, but nothing
else was alive. King's Retreat seemed a place of lost dreams, and the thought depressed
her. Father often said that misfortune subdued small minds, while great minds rose
above it. But some misfortunes were beyond overcoming.

The horse whinnied, and she retraced her steps, skirting patches of brambles until
she reached the road. Shading her eyes, she searched for Philip, but he was nowhere
in sight. She patted the horse and was rewarded with a warm snuffle that made her
laugh. “Oh, you are a dear. Too bad I don't have an apple for you.”

Minutes passed. Bees buzzed in the undergrowth. An osprey wheeled overhead. India
sighed, wishing Philip would hurry. A few minutes more and she set off along the
narrow path they had ridden on their first visit. If she remembered correctly, it
led to
the rear of the house, then past the remains of the outbuildings before angling
toward the tidal creek. She would wait for him there.