A Respectable Actress (2 page)

The noise abated as the night wore on, and the singing and shouting gave way to snoring
as prisoners succumbed to the effects of custody and too much alcohol. India barely
moved from her mattress as the hours crawled toward morning. Eventually she rose
and crossed her cell to the door. By pressing her cheek to the cold iron bars and
craning her neck, she caught a glimpse of gray daylight.

Father had often reminded her that every situation seemed less daunting in the light
of a new day, and now, as she watched a flock of sparrows winging past a high, dusty
window glimmering with frost, she felt a surge of hope. All she had to do was explain
to the magistrate or the judge or whoever was in charge of such matters exactly what
had transpired during last night's performance at the Southern Palace Theater. Surely
he would see that she was not to blame.

At the far end of the hallway, a door opened and a policeman came in on a blast
of frigid air. India patted her curly hair into place and brushed at the dried blood
still clinging to the ruffled skirt of her costume. The arresting officer had hustled
her from the stage to this dank and sorry place without allowing her even five minutes
to wipe away her stage makeup or to change into her own clothes. She felt grimy from
head to toe. She could imagine the streaks on her face from where the greasepaint
had run. Not exactly the image she wanted to present to the authorities.

The officer paused before her cell door and fumbled with a set of keys. Iron-gray
hair peeked from beneath his cap. The brass buttons on his uniform gleamed dully
in the lambent light.

“India Hartley?” His breath smelled of coffee and sleep.

“Yes.” She rotated her shoulders, hoping to ease the throbbing at the back of her
neck.

He swung open the door and immediately caught her wrist in a viselike grip strong
as any manacle. “Come with me.”

T
HE
P
REVIOUS
E
VENING

Her carriage rocked along the street, headed for the theater. India settled into
the plush velvet seat and watched the crowds of Christmas shoppers coming and going
from stores decorated with wreaths of greenery. At Madame Louis's hair salon, an
elaborate poster invited ladies to come in for styles of the highest art. Flyers
offering children's toys, European fashions, and grand action pianos fluttered from
shop windows illuminated by gaslight.

At the corner of Drayton and Congress, the carriage paused for a man and a small
girl crossing the street, their arms laden with packages from Thomas Bateson's store.
At the sight of them, India felt a fresh sting of loneliness. For most of her life,
she and Father had lived alone, traveling from London to Philadelphia and then Boston,
where he managed various theater companies before finally organizing his own. He
had recognized her talent and her instinctual understanding of how the theater worked,
and groomed her for a life on the stage. But he had failed to teach her anything
about how to survive in a harsh and indifferent world.

Father had not been the most skillful of managers. India supported him more often
than the other way around. But she never doubted his love for her. He was the touchstone
that kept her grounded, and when she lost him she lost the everyday contentment
she had taken for granted.

Upon his untimely death, she discovered they were nearly broke and her interest in
the Classic Theater Touring Company had been taken over by an unscrupulous manager
she'd once trusted. After months of scraping by on next to nothing, she
arranged
a ten-week tour as a visiting actress to theaters in Savannah, Charleston, and New
Orleans. What would become of her after the tour finished was something she did not
let herself think about.

“Here we are, Miss Hartley.” The young driver opened the carriage door and extended
a gloved hand to assist her as she exited.

When she paused to straighten her hat, he fumbled in his pocket for a scrap of paper
and a pencil.

“Would you mind?” He thrust the paper and pencil into her hands. “I mean, I know
it's an awful imposition, but my little sister reveres you. It sure would be the
best Christmas present ever for her to have your signature.”

“Of course.” India took the paper and pencil. “What plays of mine has she seen?”

“Oh, we can't afford the theater. But she reads about you in the ladies' magazines
she gets from the circulating library. She tries to style her hair like yours. I
reckon just about every girl in Savannah wants India Hartley curls.” He watched as
she fished a carte de visite from her reticule. “She tries to talk like she's from
London, too, when she thinks nobody is listening. But I don't reckon the Queen's
English mixes too well with our way of speaking.”

India scribbled her signature on the back of the photograph—made at Mr. Sarony's
New York studio—and pressed it into his hand. “Present this at the theater tonight.
I'll have two tickets waiting for you and your sister.”

He gaped at her. “You mean it? We're goin' to the Southern Palace?”

India smiled. “You are indeed. The curtain is at eight. Don't be late.”

“Well, I sure . . . I won't. I mean, thank you, Miss Hartley. Thank you so much.
Just wait till I tell Mary. She won't believe it.”

He climbed up and flicked the reins. The carriage moved along the crowded street
and disappeared around the corner.

Lifting her skirts to avoid the mud and horse droppings littering the street, India
hurried to the stage door on the narrow alley and entered the deserted theater.

On the lower level, a long hallway ran the length of the building. Here were dressing
rooms, the property room, and the manager's office. At the opposite end of the corridor,
a spiral staircase led upward to the stage. At this early hour she was alone in the
dimly lit space, but she didn't mind the solitude or the chill seeping through the
walls. She and her father had made a habit of arriving at the theater early. She
liked having plenty of time to get into costume and quiet her mind, focusing on the
story she was about to tell.

A loud crash from above and a man's shouted curse sent her rushing up the staircase
and into the theater wings. Riley Quinn, the young assistant to the stage manager,
was sitting on the floor, an overturned ladder at his side. In his hands was a large
mirror framed in black. He startled when he saw her, then scrambled to his feet.

“Mr. Quinn, are you all right?”

“Yes, ma'am, Miss Hartley. I didn't mean to disturb you. I was just puttin' up this
mirror in that far corner, so as to cast more light downstage.” He gestured to the
corner where a flame torch sat next to a large block of lime. During the performance
the
lime would be heated to incandescence. Mirrors and gaslights installed along
the sides of the stage would provide illumination far more powerful than the candles
of old. “I reckon Mr. Sterling will have a harder time keepin' you in the shadows
now.”

India nodded. Apparently her leading man's ungenerous actions on opening night had
not gone unnoticed by the stage crew.

“It wasn't fair, what he done,” Quinn went on. “He may be Savannah born and bred,
but he sure didn't act like a gentleman last night. Folks can see him in a play most
all the time. But it ain't often we get someone of your stature around here. And
I for one am mortified by his behavior.” Quinn indicated the mirror. “This'll fix
him, though, don't you worry.”

India returned to the lower level of the theater and entered her dressing room. Larger
than most, it had space for a comfortable chair, a dressing table and mirror, hooks
for holding her costumes, and a wig stand. She removed her cloak and draped it over
a chair, then picked up the script she'd left behind after opening night.
Suspicion
was the work of Jackson Morgan, a local playwright who had attended every rehearsal
and was not shy about shouting stage directions to the actors charged with bringing
his tale of mystery and betrayal to life. His behavior had not set well with the
Southern Palace's actor-manager, Cornelius Philbrick, or with the leading man, beloved
local thespian Arthur Sterling.

India flipped through the script, rereading the notes she'd penciled into the margins,
and felt her old excitement returning. For all of its hardships—uncomfortable travel,
fleabag hotels, shady managers, vicious critics—a life in the theater was the
only
one she could imagine for herself. Something magical happened when the curtain parted
and she stepped into the circle of light, transformed into a wholly different person,
able with her words to move an audience to laughter or tears. Father had often reminded
her that fame was as insubstantial as smoke, blown this way and that. And she knew
the day would come when audiences withdrew their affection for her and gave it to
someone newer, younger, and she would become a footnote. But she had never been
interested in being famous. All she wanted was to bring something of beauty into
the world and to understand why people sometimes behaved in ways that seemed at odds
with who they really were.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. India rose and went to the door.

“Miss Hartley.” Cornelius Philbrick removed his hat and blew on his hands to warm
them. “Getting chilly outside.”

“Is it? I hadn't really noticed.”

He stepped into her dressing room without an invitation. “I'm glad you're here. I
want to talk to you about a change in the script.”

She frowned. “I don't think Mr. Morgan will approve.”

“Any playwright worth his salt knows to expect changes. Morgan understands as well
as anyone that words that seem fine on the page sometimes fail to work when spoken
aloud.”

“Of course. But I must confess I'm not comfortable with last-minute changes. I'd
prefer to wait until we can at least rehearse them.”

Philbrick's fleshy face went red. “There's no time to rehearse. This afternoon I
learned that Richard Thayer will be here this
evening,” he said, naming the region's
most important critic. “He is most fond of plays with an unexpected twist. I have
nothing against Mr. Morgan, but you must admit for a play called
Suspicion
, it's
rather tame.”

“That depends upon how it's interpreted, don't you think?”

“Are you saying my performance last night was not up to par?”

“Not at all. I think you've done a remarkable job of making a small role seem large.
I know from having watched my father juggle the roles of actor and manager that it
isn't easy to do both jobs well. But I think you ought to have more confidence in
my abilities. And in those of Mr. Sterling.”

“I've got plenty of confidence in you. But around here the theatergoing public wants
sensation. I aim to give them what they want.” Mr. Philbrick pinned her with a stern
look. “I'm quite aware of your loyal following. A person can't pick up a magazine
without reading India Hartley this and India Hartley that. Even the Savannah Rose
Society has named a rose after you. Did you know that?”

“No, but I'm flattered.”

“None of that matters, though. I'm sure you know that in the world of the theater,
the manager's word is law.” He pulled a sheet of crumpled paper from his pocket and
smoothed it out. “Now, at the end of the first act, when you are supposed to throw
a vase at the head of Mr. Sterling, I want you to—well, here. I reckon you can read
it for yourself.”

She scanned the page and stared at him, incredulous. “You're suggesting that I pretend
to shoot him? I'm afraid it's quite impossible without—”

He silenced her with a frown and jabbed a finger at the page. “And then at the beginning
of act two, just here, Sterling's line will be changed to—”

“I'm sorry. I can't do it. Not this evening.”

“You can and you will, or I will replace you with the understudy. Miss Bryson is
chomping at the bit to make her mark. If you don't intend to cooperate, I can see
to it that she gets that chance.”

Though inside she trembled with indignation, India forced herself to appear calm.
If her father were in the lead role, Mr. Philbrick would never dare suggest such
a drastic change. Especially without a rehearsal. What if something went wrong? She
handed the paper back to him. “I don't want to seem immodest, but the patrons of
the Southern Palace have come to see me. Not an unknown understudy.”

“The audience will be sympathetic when I announce that you've taken ill.” The theater
manager dropped the paper onto her dressing table. “When you come to your senses,
the stage will be yours again.”

“Has Mr. Sterling been informed of this change?”