A Respectable Actress (25 page)

“We don't have much time,” the priest said, his breath soft in her ear. “Can you
walk?”

She nodded. “But I don't under—”

He grabbed the habit from her hands and pulled it over her head, threading her arms
through the sleeves, tying the cord at her waist. He felt around in the darkness
for her shoes and helped her put them on, then bundled her dress and hid it under
his cassock.

Holding her back with one arm, he eased open the door, stepped into the darkened
hallway, then motioned her to follow. “To your left and out the door. Be quick, but
don't run. We don't want to attract attention or to wake the officer.”

India noticed the policeman slumped over in his chair just outside her room. Obviously
he'd been posted there to ensure that she didn't run.

“Chloroform,” the priest whispered. “Go!”

Too confused to protest, India did as she was told, terror scraping at her insides.
With the priest in the lead, they rounded the corner and nearly collided with a doctor
just emerging from the indigents' ward.

“Father, I'm glad you're still here.” The doctor shifted his medical bag to his other
hand.

The priest grasped India's elbow, urging her on.

“A word with you, Father?” The doctor loomed in the dimly
lit corridor. His bulky
form blocked their path and cast dark shadows on the walls.

“Yes, what is it?”

“It's Mrs. Ryan.” The doctor nodded toward the ward he had just exited. “I doubt
she'll last till morning, and there are nine fatherless children at home. Someone
will have to take charge of them. If you could—”

“I'll see to it. Now if you'll excuse me, I must get Sister Luke here back to the—”

Rapid footsteps sounded behind them, and the police officer turned the corner. India
froze, her heart jerking hard against her ribs.

“Good night, Doctor.” The priest hurried India toward the door. As soon as they reached
the outside, he grabbed her hand, and they ran between the buildings, crossing deserted
yards, the policeman in pursuit. India slowed and pressed her hand to her side. At
last the priest dragged her into an alley behind a boardinghouse, where a horse
and rig waited. He boosted her inside, and they set off toward the river.

The night was cold. Gaslights formed a chain of stars along the quiet street. When
the pain subsided and India caught her breath, she found her voice. “I don't understand
what's happening, Father.”

“Father. That's a good one.”

Something in his voice seemed familiar. Her stomach dropped. “Mr. Lockwood?”

“In the flesh.”

Huddled inside the jostling rig, her wounded head throbbing, India tried to make
sense of the situation, but her thoughts
were scattered like winter stars in wild
disarray. Mr. Lockwood had no reason to harm her, but still . . . what did she really
know about him? He was fond of drink. He needed money for his trip to Texas. Perhaps
he intended to hold her for ransom.
Be careful who you trust
.

“Mr. Lockwood, what's the meaning of all this?”

“Sinclair is on the trail of another witness.”

“But the trial is over. The jury has spoken.” All of Philip's skilled arguments had
not been enough to overcome the fact that she was an outsider and a woman engaged
in a less-than-respectable profession. Mr. McLendon's assertions and Victoria Bryson's
wrenching sobs had found their mark. “It's too late.” Her voice cracked.

“Maybe not. The way it was explained to me, the judge wouldn't pronounce sentence
because you were taken to the hospital with that head wound. Way I heard it, there
was blood everywhere.”

They passed a ragtag group of sailors hurrying toward the wharf, cloaks flying in
the winter wind.

“I don't see what difference another witness could make now. And running away will
make things worse.”

“What's worse than a date with the gallows? Judge Bartlett has never had a decision
reversed. He didn't want to sentence you in absentia and give Sinclair another reason
to appeal. If Sinclair can find this other witness before the formal sentencing,
he can ask the judge to reopen the case. And if the judge can't find you, he can't
sentence you. Here we are. Now pipe down, and do as I tell you.”

He halted the rig and helped her down. “We'll walk from here.”

Keeping to the shadows, they hurried along the waterfront, down a flight of narrow
steps, past a row of brigs and schooners anchored in the river, and made their way
to a small skiff tied to the wooden pilings. Mr. Lockwood helped her enter the boat
and pointed to a large blanket tucked into the bow. “Cover yourself until we clear
the wharf.”

The boat creaked as he untied the lines and cast off. On the wharf, the sailors laughed
and whistled, their shouts and catcalls breaking the silence.

From beneath the blanket, India said, “Where are we going?” “Isle of Hope. The Sinclairs
have an old fishing camp there. It ain't much to look at, but it's secluded, and
with any luck the police won't think to look for you there.”

She felt the boat sway and settle on the river.

“Better not talk just now,” Mr. Lockwood said, his voice low. “You never know when
those sailors might get curious and take it upon themselves to investigate.”

India lay motionless beneath the blanket. She had no choice now but to trust Mr.
Lockwood. But who did Philip think would emerge as her savior? And anyway, who—

“Ahoy!” A shout carried across the river.

Through the fabric of the blanket, India saw a faint flicker of light. Another boat
bumped theirs. A voice said, “Evenin', Father. You're out awfully late.”

“That I am, Captain.”

“Where you headed this time o' the night?”

India's legs had gone numb, but she dared not move. She breathed though her mouth,
her ears straining to hear the conversation.

“Screven's Landing. Delivering some supplies to a couple o' hunters.” Mr. Lockwood
laughed. “They come up from the islands yesterday and got in a hurry and left all
their belongings behind.”

“And they prevailed on a priest to deliver them? In the middle of the night?”

“They wanted to get an early start in the mornin'. One of 'em is kin to me so I could
hardly refuse his request. Besides, I extracted a promise of a donation to the poor
box for my trouble. We must be forever vigilant for any source of help for those
less fortunate.”

“I reckon that's true enough. Well, you be careful, Father. Tide's coming in. Water's
getting rough.”

“Though waters roar, the Lord will shield me.”

India heard the splash of oars as the boat moved away from theirs. Despite her terror
she had to hand it to Mr. Lockwood. He had certainly played his part convincingly.
She shifted beneath the blanket, her head throbbing. “Mr. Lockwood? How much longer?”

“A while yet. But you can come out now.”

She threw off the blanket and gulped the chilly night air. The evening wore on. The
boat bucked in the rising tide. Across the water a few faint lights gleamed and faded
as dawn broke.

At last they reached the shore. Mr. Lockwood beached the boat and dragged it into
the thick undergrowth. He took a large wooden box from the stern and in the gray
light led India up a
slight bluff and along an overgrown path. A faint light glimmered
through the trees.

“That's Carsten Hall,” he said, his voice low. “I'm not sure if anyone is at home
just now. But the caretaker is probably around.”

“It seems so lonely out here,” India said. “I wouldn't want to live in the only house
on the island.”

“It isn't the only one. There are a few others the other side of the bluff. More
are going up these days.” He shifted his burden to his other arm. “Arthur Sterling
was one of the first to build here after the war. Just down the road past Carsten
Hall. The newspapers made quite a to-do over it at the time. I've never seen it myself,
but they say it's twice the size of the Carstens' place.”

A ten-minute walk brought them to a cabin nestled in a thick stand of old oaks. It
loomed like a mirage in the pearlescent mist, its siding dark with age, its roof
caving in. The porch sagged beneath their feet as Mr. Lockwood pushed open the door.

India brushed sticky cobwebs from her face and looked around. A thick layer of dust
coated a scarred wooden table and three chairs. In the old brick fireplace, the ashes
had hardened to a dull gray mass. The plank floor was littered with dead bugs and
the desiccated skin of a snake. The stale air smelled faintly of rotten fish.

“Like I said, it isn't the Paris Plaza.” Mr. Lockwood set the box down. “I'll pump
you some water, but don't light a fire. You don't want to give that caretaker a reason
to investigate.”

He indicated the box. “There's another blanket in there. Enough food for a few days.”

He fished a bucket from the box, and a few moments later India heard the groaning
of the outdoor pump. She sank onto
a dusty chair. Her head pounded. The knife wound
on her arm burned. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. How on earth had she
wound up dressed as a nun and running from the law?

Mr. Lockwood returned and set the water bucket on the table. “This place is fairly
deserted this time of year, but I'd advise you to stay inside as much as possible.”

She nodded, too stunned for words.

“There's a privy out back. Just follow the path from the back door. Or, if you can't
find the path, just follow your nose.” He released a gusty breath. “With any luck,
Sinclair will come to collect you in a few days.”

He shook out her crumpled dress and draped it over the back of a chair. “I expect
you'll want out of that religious garb.”

“I would, yes. Where did you get it anyway? I can't imagine you found robes and a
habit hanging on a clothesline somewhere.”

“Borrowed 'em, you might say. From a friend of a friend.” He scratched at his arms.
“They're not all that comfortable are they? I must say wearin' this getup has given
me a deeper appreciation for our men of the cloth.”

Despite the circumstances, she laughed. “I have no idea why Mr. Sinclair thinks this
scheme will work, but I'm in your debt, Mr. Lockwood. I'm not sure I can ever repay
your kindness.”

“Just put in a good word for me with Miss Amelia.”

“I think you may find that she already holds you in high regard.” The gravity of
her situation came roaring back. “But I will press your case. If I ever see her again.”

“You can't give up hope, miss. Once you do that, you're done for.”

She blinked back the rush of tears behind her eyes.

“I'd better get going,” he said. “It'll be full daylight soon, and I don't want anybody
to see me leaving here.”

He reached into the box again, and she noticed his palms were reddened and blistered
from the long row across the river. “You're hurt.”

He flexed his fingers. “It's been a while since I rowed eight miles. Should have
worn gloves, I reckon.”

“I'm sorry you must row all the way back.”

“I've got a friend waiting with his fishing boat just down from Carsten Hall. I'll
leave the rowboat there.” He paused. “I brought you this. Just in case.”

He pressed a revolver into her hands then disappeared into the woods.

India watched him go, the barrel of the weapon cold against her skin.

As the first evening came down, the silence grew oppressive. India paced the small
room, hummed every tune she knew, explored every nook and cranny of the small cabin.
If only Mr. Lockwood had had the presence of mind to pack a book, a magazine, or
writing paper. Anything to take her mind off her surroundings and away from the enormous
risk Philip had taken to have her brought here.

The moon rose, luminous and full. Night creatures rustled the undergrowth. Beneath
the window, a chorus of insects hummed. Moving in the darkness, India peered through
the window and saw light flickering faintly in the caretaker's cottage.

She was too tense to eat, too uncomfortable to sleep. Too restless to simply sit
and wait for Philip to ride to her rescue like a prince in a fairy tale. Suppose
Arthur Sterling's house held the key to her freedom? Some clue as to who wanted to
harm him and why. It was a long shot. She didn't even know what to look for. But
she had to do something to help herself. To keep from going mad.

She changed out of the scratchy nun's garb, waited for full darkness, then set off
along the path, the light in the cottage as her guide. A short walk brought her to
a narrow dirt road leading upward toward the bluff. Nearing the caretaker's cottage,
she could make out the dark outline of the main house beyond. Just as she passed
the cottage, the door opened and lamplight spilled out, creating a yellow rectangle
in the yard.