A Respectable Actress (17 page)

J
ANUARY
24

India rode with Philip to the bluff to meet the steamer and collect the mail. Last
night's torrential rains had turned the road into muddy puddles that splashed onto
the rig with every turn of the wheels. The sky remained overcast, the sea a muted
gray broken only by the dark silhouette of a northbound steamer and a lone fishing
boat lying at anchor closer to shore.

Only four days remained until their return to Savannah. With the start of the trial
set for January 30, every moment spent out of doors was precious to her, no matter
the weather. India took a deep draught of cold air. St. Simons was a place of great
beauty, but it demanded much of those who had chosen to remain. Living here among
the ruins of war required tenacity, ingenuity, and a stubborn optimism when there
was no reason to suppose things would improve. She stole a glance at Philip and was
rewarded with a smile.

“Warm enough?” He reached across to reposition the blanket that had fallen from
her lap.

“Not really, but we must be almost there. I can hear the saws at the mill buzzing.”

He gestured with one gloved hand. “Just around the next bend.”

Moments later they came within sight of the mill. Wagons
were lined up outside a
long shed. A fire burned in a barrel around which three or four men stood, warming
their hands and smoking cheroots. Another group of men, faces and hands covered
in fine sawdust, were stacking lumber on the new wharf in anticipation of the steamer's
arrival.

Two men in woolen capes and hats emerged from a small building and headed for the
wharf as the steamer rounded a bend and emerged from the gray mist. One of the men
lifted a hand in greeting as they passed, and Philip called out, “Morning, boys.
Cold enough for you?”

The older of the two paused and peered into the rig. “I've seen worse. Oh, pardon
me, I didn't know you had a passenger with you. Morning, ma'am.”

“Good morning.”

“Miss Hartley,” Philip said, “this is Mr. Hamilton.”

The man tipped his hat. “I saw you at the boat races last week. I was sorry your
playacting with the girls got interrupted. It was entertaining, what there was of
it.”

India nodded, wishing he would take his leave.

“Well,” Philip said, “We're just here to collect the mail. I'll walk down to the
wharf with you.”

He got out of the rig before turning back to her. “I won't be a minute.”

India drew the blanket about her shoulders and watched the constant swarm of men
and wagons and machines, listening to the whine of the saws and the occasional swear
word as the men came and went.

Another rig drew up beside hers and a woman stepped out. She was tall and . . . substantial,
India decided, with a proud
bearing and a sharp gaze that seemed to miss nothing.
India struggled to remember whether she had met this woman at the Christmas reception
at Indigo Point or at the boat races, but if she had, she couldn't recall.

The woman bent to take a parcel from her rig and smiled at India as she straightened.

“Well, I swan to gracious!” she said. “Isn't that Mr. Sinclair's rig?”

“It is.”

The woman bobbed her head. “Ruth Wheeler. My husband worked for Mr. Sinclair back
in the day. I don't believe we've met.”

“India Hartley.”

If the woman recognized the name she didn't show it. “How do? Where is that precious
man, anyway? I haven't seen him in a coon's age.”

“He's just over there. Waiting for the mail.”

“That's why I'm here. I promised to return some books to my sister in Charleston.”
Mrs. Wheeler indicated her parcel. “She left 'em here at Christmas and has been after
me ever since to send 'em back. I never have known a person who sets such store by
books.”

“I'm sure she'll be happy to have them back.”

The woman continued to stare, her expression open and curious. “I always wondered
when Mr. Sinclair would take himself another wife. 'Course I understand how tragic
it was, losing her the way he did, but my gracious, that was years ago, and it's
time he should be happy again.”

Mrs. Wheeler went on talking, but India's mind had not moved past the woman's erroneous
assumptions and the stunning
revelation that Philip had been married. Why had he
never mentioned it?

“I'm afraid you are mistaken, Mrs. Wheeler. I'm only his . . .” India's voice trailed
away at the sight of Philip striding across the yard, his expression grim.

“Goodness, I must go,” Mrs. Wheeler said. “I don't want to miss getting this parcel
aboard the boat. I hope we meet again soon.”

She waved to Philip as they passed each other, then hurried toward the wharf.

Philip got into the rig and tossed a stack of mail at her feet. He slapped the reins
and spoke more sharply to the horse than she thought necessary.

As they drove toward home, India chewed her lip, deep in thought. In her most unguarded
moments she had allowed herself to dream of a future with him. Of a life they would
build together. She had thought she knew his temperament and his passions. She had
trusted him with her life's story. But now he seemed like someone else. Someone she
didn't know at all. During the long sessions at Indigo Point when he had prepared
for her trial, she had told him every detail about her life. And he had kept his
secret. And now he was angry about something.

She shivered and wrapped herself more tightly into the blanket. “Is there something
wrong?”

He indicated the stack of mail. “That thick packet on top is from the court in Savannah.
Judge Bartlett will hear your case.”

“What happened to Judge Russell?”

“He's taken ill.”

“What's wrong with the other judge? Bartlett?”

“Bartlett is a tyrant in the courtroom.” Philip glanced at her. “Our job just became
much more difficult, India.”

She struggled not to lose her breakfast. This news on top of Mrs. Wheeler's startling
revelation was almost more than she could bear. They rode the rest of the way in
silence. When Philip drove into the yard, she got out without waiting for his assistance
and hurried to her room.

Morning became afternoon. Dimly she heard Binah and Almarene going about their chores,
and the muted chime of the dinner bell, but she was too sick at heart to eat a bite.
As the afternoon waned she grew restless and went out again, walking along the footpath
that paralleled the beach, and then, drawn by some nameless impulse, she cut across
the stubbled grasses to the burned-out chapel.

The thick forest enveloped her, blocking out the thin winter light. As she neared
the old ruin, the air grew heavy and still. India breathed in the scent of damp earth
and the river—and a foul, dark odor like a breath from an old grave. The wind chilled
her skin and soughed, ghostlike, in the trees.

She shivered. Hands in her pockets, she moved among the piles of rubble, looking
for—what? She didn't know. Something that would help her make sense of the mysterious
lovers, the devastating fire, Philip's hidden past, the disappearance of Binah's
sister Hannah June. The unoccupied room upstairs that seemed to be waiting for someone's
return. Perhaps it was her vivid imagination, her flair for theater, or plain old
woman's intuition, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something more than mere
sentiment for a long-lost woman accounted for the locked door.

The ground gave slightly beneath her weight. With the toe of her boot, she dug into
the damp, gray soil and unearthed a rusted door hinge, a broken iron cross, shards
of colored glass. She knelt to examine delicate bits of amethyst, emerald, and crimson—remnants,
no doubt, of the chapel's stained-glass windows.

Voices sounded through the trees. Almarene and Binah came down the path. India crouched
in the narrow space between the foundation and the chimney, holding her breath as
they passed by, close enough that she could have touched them. When their voices
faded, she got to her feet and spotted a faint gleam between two blackened bricks.
India removed her glove and chipped at the metal until it came free. She brushed
away a layer of dirt and ash and felt her breath catch. This was the remains of a
necklace woven from fine strands of gold. A perfect match to the one Binah wore every
day next to her heart.

Her mind racing, all senses on alert, India pocketed it and returned to the house
as dusk was falling.

“India. There you are.” Philip stood in the doorway to the parlor as she entered
the house. “I wondered where you'd gone. I apologize. I shouldn't have upset you
with my talk of Judge Bartlett.”

“It was unsettling.” But no more so than her discoveries of the past few days.

“We'll be fine. I've tried cases in his courtroom before.”

“Did you win?” She removed her hat and gloves and slipped the necklace into her skirt
pocket as she hung up her cloak.

He smiled. “Most of the time. I was just going over my
notes, but Mrs. Catchpole
has announced supper, and I don't dare keep her waiting. It's stew again, I'm afraid.”

“That's all right. I'm not very hungry.” She looked around. “Where is Amelia?”

“Finishing up a letter. My sister is an inveterate correspondent. I have trouble
writing a proper note of condolence, but she can write pages and pages on almost
any topic you care to name.”

He offered his arm, and they went into the dining room. Amelia ran lightly down the
stairs and plopped into her chair. “Sorry I'm late.”

“You aren't late quite yet,” Philip said as Mrs. Catchpole came in with the soup
tureen. “But almost.”

Amelia grinned. “Where is Binah this evening?”

Mrs. Catchpole heaved a sigh. “Almarene was dragging around here like she was half
dead and not doing a thing but gettin' in my way, so I sent them both home. They
ought to be grateful they have a way to earn money at all these days.”

Philip studied the housekeeper, one brow raised. “People in glass houses ought not
to throw stones.”

The older woman spun on her heel. “I'll be back with corn pone and butter.”

“Philip,” Amelia said when Mrs. Catchpole was out of earshot. “That was not a nice
thing to say.”

“Perhaps not. But sometimes her attitude rubs me the wrong way.”

“Philip rescued her from a dire situation,” Amelia told India. “Her husband was a
ferryman at Darien before the war. But he drank too much, and one night he went after
her with a kitchen
knife.” Amelia helped herself to a bowl of stew. “Philip heard
about it and offered her a position here. She—”

Philip loudly cleared his throat just as the housekeeper reappeared with the rest
of their simple meal. She banged a platter of cornbread and butter onto the table,
followed by half of the buttermilk pie she had made for last evening's meal. “Coffee's
not done yet. I'll bring it in directly.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Catchpole,” he said.

While they ate, he described the plans for the resort, Mr. Dodge's desire to expand
the mill at Gascoigne Bluff, and the latest newspaper reports of progress on construction
of the Brooklyn Bridge in New York.

He stopped midsentence as the coffee arrived, then set down his spoon and cocked
his head at his sister. “Amelia. What's the matter? You haven't heard a word I've
said.”

“Yes, I did. The lumber mill needs to expand to keep up with demand now that Mr.
Rockefeller has organized his big oil company. Because Mr. Rockefeller wants to not
only drill the oil, but control the transportation of it, which will demand the building
of many railroad cars.” Amelia's voice broke, and she looked away.

“All right,” her brother said. “You were listening after all. But something's bothering
you. Out with it.”

“It really has nothing to do with me. I'm just surprised, that's all.” Amelia toyed
with her spoon. “Mr. Lockwood rode over this afternoon from Butler's Island and announced
he's leaving come spring.”

“Leaving Fan Butler's employ? He only just started.”

“He's leaving the island. Leaving Georgia. He's going to Texas to work as a ranch
hand.”

Philip laughed. “Surely he's joking. Cuyler Lockwood, wrangling cattle?”

“He wants to join a cattle drive. Texas to Abilene, Kansas. He says it'll be a grand
adventure.”

“Perhaps it will be, at that,” Philip said. “Well, I wish him good luck.” He glanced
at India. “You have been very quiet this evening.”

During the meal India had struggled to pay attention to the conversation. All she
wanted was to escape upstairs to examine the fragment of the necklace she had uncovered,
then decide what to do about it. “I'm sorry. Too much on my mind.”