A Respectable Actress (30 page)

“Can Maxwell come in?”

“Sure. I bet he'd love to hear one of your stories while I'm gone.”

“No he won't. He's too old. He falls asleep all the time. But I still want him.”

India coaxed the old yellow dog into the child's room. “I'll be right back.”

She grabbed her hat and cloak and hurried down the darkening street. A chill wind
blew between the buildings, flickering the flames in the gaslights just coming
on. A few rigs and carriages trundled along the streets. India found Abercorn and
in the growing darkness, tried to figure out which of the big white houses might
belong to Philip Sinclair. She was just about to knock on a door to ask when she
saw a gaslight coming on down the block, illuminating a small neat sign announcing
the Law Offices of Philip Sinclair.

She ran the rest of the way and lifted the heavy brass door knocker. She called his
name and knocked again. She heard footsteps, the slow turn of the doorknob. And
there he stood, looking so disheveled that at first she nearly didn't recognize him.
His hair was uncombed, his face unshaven. His shirttail draped over a pair of rumpled
trousers with a stain on one knee.

“India.” His voice was slow and raspy. “You shouldn't have come here.”

She frowned. “Are you inebriated?”

“What if I am? Who has a better right?”

His pain was palpable, and India knew its source. The wife returned from the grave.
Her heart hurt for him. She longed to comfort him, but Celia was in trouble.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, but Mrs. Mackay is deathly ill with a fever, and Frannie
is sick too. The housekeeper is away just now, and Frannie doesn't know the doctor's
name. I didn't know anyone else to ask.”

He seemed to sober up instantly. “Dr. Robbins looks after them. He lives just down
the block.” He pointed it out. “In the terra cotta house on the corner. I'd go for
him myself but I'm hardly in a shape to appear in public.”

“I can go.” She turned away. “Take care of yourself, Philip.”

“Wait.” He drew her into his arms and pressed his lips to her hair. “I'm sorry you've
found me in such a state.”

“It's all right. After all of the risks you took for me, it's unlikely I'd question
anything you do.” She drew back to look up into his shadowed face. “Besides, you've
had a great shock.”

“Yes, and I want to tell you about it. But not tonight. Celia needs you.”

He stood on the porch. “I'll watch from here to be sure you get there safely.”

She could feel his eyes on her as she hurried down the street. When she reached the
doctor's house, she rang the bell and turned just in time to see Philip closing the
door.

C
HAPTER
26

F
EBRUARY
16

“M
AMA
,
ANOTHER LADY HAS COME CALLING
.” K
NEELING
on the settee beneath the window, Frannie Mackay peered out at the gray winter afternoon, her nose pressed to the glass. “I think it's Mrs. Quarterman.”

“Alicia's here?” A smile lit Celia's face. She was recovered but still pale after
her weeklong illness. She had lost a bit of weight, too, but India could see that
this morning's social calls had pleased her. “You may stay to say hello, Frannie,
and then I want you to go upstairs and work on your lessons. You are frightfully
behind, and you know Miss Finlay will be cross if you are unprepared for your recitations.”

“I know. That's what Grandmama said too.”

Celia's mother-in–law, Cornelia Mackay, had arrived first thing this morning and
spent an hour chatting with them and playing a game with Frannie. The elder Mrs.
Mackay had added her own apology for the trouble India had experienced in Savannah
and expressed the hope that she and all of the theater patrons would one day have
another chance to see an India Hartley play.

No sooner had Mrs. Mackay's carriage departed than another took its place, and a
Mrs. Bennett came in, her cheeks pink from the February wind, her eyes bright with
happy news. Her husband, Dr. Wade Bennett, had just been named head of the Philadelphia
Medical College.

“Of course this means I have to live among the Yankees,” she said, taking up her
teacup. “But at least Wade and I will have our summers on Pawley's Island.” She smiled
at India. “Are you a beach fancier, Miss Hartley?”

“I am. Though I never get to spend much time there.”

“Then perhaps you'll visit us at Osprey Cottage. It isn't in the best repair these
days, but it's a dear old place. My husband proposed to me there.”

Minutes later, she departed for a committee meeting at the circulating library.

Now, India rose from her chair once again as Mrs. Whipple announced Alicia Thayer
Quarterman, who swooped Frannie into a bear hug and set her down again before crossing
the room to embrace Celia.

“My dear. I am heartbroken that I was not in town last week when you needed me. Some
friend I am! Are you quite recovered?”

Celia motioned to Frannie to go upstairs and smiled at Alicia. “I think so. India
brought Dr. Robbins to the rescue and proved herself as adept at nursing as she is
at acting.”

Alicia beamed at India. “I read in the paper that your verdict is to be set aside.
You must be terrifically relieved.”

“I am.” India resumed her seat.

Alicia took the seat opposite her and arranged her silk skirts
just so. Mrs. Whipple
came in to serve more tea, then withdrew, shutting the doors behind her. Alicia lifted
her cup and sipped. “If there is anything more civilized than hot tea on a cold winter's
day, I'm sure I don't know what it is.” She leaned over to peer at the tray of sweets
the housekeeper had left. “Celia, by any chance are those benne seed cookies?”

“They are. Mrs. Whipple makes them even when Sutton isn't here, because we enjoy
them so. Our old housekeeper—rest her soul—gave Mrs. Whipple the recipe. But somehow
they never taste quite the same as Mrs. Maguire's.”

Alicia popped a cookie into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “They're still quite
good, though.” She took another sip of tea. “What news have you of that handsome
husband of yours?”

“I had a letter yesterday, written upon his arrival in Jamaica. He seems pleased
with the way the manager has taken care of things in his absence, but you know Sutton,”
Celia said with a fond smile. “He likes to be in the thick of things.”

Alicia whooped. “That's an understatement.” She turned to India. “Did Celia tell
you Sutton became one of the most important blockade runners during the war?”

“No. We've had little time for conversation these past days. But during the war I
read about the blockade runners in the Northern newspapers.”

“Sutton Mackay nearly got his posterior shot off more than once, running medical
supplies in here from Nassau,” Mrs. Quarterman said. “Lots of people across Georgia
would have died if not for Sutton's bravery and skill. The state of Georgia wanted
to give him a medal. But he won't accept a word of praise for it.”

“He saw it as his duty,” Celia said to India. “On our honeymoon we went to Liverpool
to have his boat built.”

“I'm sure it was terribly romantic,” Alicia said with a wry grin. “Keeping company
with a bunch of rough men in a shipyard in the dead of winter.”

Celia laughed. “It was, actually. Sutton has always made me feel a part of everything
he does. I couldn't have married a man who expected to put me on a pedestal and leave
me there, seen and not heard.”

“Not likely, my dear. You are one of the most outspoken women I've ever met. But
enough of that.” Alicia turned to India. “Tell me, Miss Hartley, when will you resume
your stage career?”

India set down her cup and smoothed her skirt. “I'm not sure that I can. Given my
notoriety now, I would prove too great a distraction. It wouldn't be fair to the
other players.”

Celia Mackay studied her guest, her violet eyes intent upon India's face. “But my
dear, the theater is your life.”

“It was. But I suppose now I shall have to learn another trade. Or work in a shop.
It isn't what I would choose, but it's respectable work.”

Alicia Quarterman's brows rose. “I hardly think someone of your stature can be happy
in a shop.” She turned to face her friend. “Celia, we must think of something. If
not for Miss Hartley's scandalous treatment here in Savannah, she wouldn't be in
this fix. It's our duty to right the wrong that has been done.”

“You're very kind,” India said. “But I suppose in the same circumstances I would
have been blamed regardless of where it happened.”

Alicia waved one bejeweled hand. “You could write a book.
Not about the trial, of
course, though I suppose certain people would certainly want to read about it. I'm
talking about your life in the theater. Growing up on the stage in London must have
been exciting and glamorous.”

India smiled. “There were moments of excitement when Father and I performed together
at the Prince of Wales Theater or at the Lyceum.” She paused, remembering. “Lady
Bancroft and I made our stage debuts at the Lyceum in the same season. Though of
course she was Miss Wilton back then. But a life in the theater is much less glamorous
than most people suppose. It's a frantic life really, running from rehearsals to
performances, keeping late hours, and sleeping with one eye open so as not to be
robbed of your hard-earned pay.”

“You see?” Alicia said. “Fascinating. Such a book would surely prove very popular.”

“Oh, I don't have the talent or the organizational skills to take on the writing
of a book,” India said. “My education was fairly haphazard after my aunt died. My
father taught me all about running a theater company, thinking that one day the company
he founded would be mine. But now I have no company to manage.”

Celia came upright on her chair, her eyes glowing. “Of course. Why didn't I think
of it sooner?”

She got up and began pacing back and forth in front of the black marble fireplace,
her skirts whispering on the thick carpet. “It's the perfect solution, especially
now that Mr. Philbrick will be going away.”

“Celia Mackay, will you slow down?” Alicia said. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“India should take over management of the Southern Palace. Nobody in Savannah has
her background or her experience in the theater. Why should the owners bring in someone
else when we already have the perfect person to do it?” Celia stopped pacing and
beamed at India. “Mr. Kennedy is the co-owner of the theater, and he sits right behind
me every week in his pew at St. Johns. I shall introduce you to him this coming Sunday.”

India felt a stirring of hope. She was capable of the job, if the people of Savannah
were willing to give her a chance. She thought again of her ill-fated little acting
troupe on St. Simons. Despite the resistance she had encountered there, she still
believed that exposing children to the world of plays and stories was a good idea.
Back in London, her father's friend Mrs. Cons had a dream to use the arts to improve
the lives of the poor. Suppose India arranged entertainments at the Southern Palace
to support such endeavors? That would be worth doing.

“Well, India?” Celia said. “Will you allow me to present you to Mr. Kennedy? He can
seem awfully gruff at times, but that's mostly because he's preoccupied with all
his business interests.”

“You must say yes,” Alicia Quarterman said, pulling on her kid gloves. “It's the
only way we can repair the damage that was done.” She pecked Celia's cheek. “I'm
glad you are recovered, and I wish I could stay longer. But I must go. I'm terribly
late to my appointment with the dressmaker.”

Celia laughed. “Heaven forbid you should keep Mrs. Foyle waiting.”

Alicia headed for the door. “No need to see me out, Celia. I know the way, and you
must conserve your strength. You have a
big job to do on Sunday, convincing Mr. Kennedy
to hire Miss Hartley.”

She reached the door just as the bell sounded. She called back to Celia, “I'll get
it.”

A moment later, Philip Sinclair entered the parlor.

India's heart lurched. He was impeccably dressed, his eyes clear, and his molasses-colored
hair, still damp from his morning ablutions, curled about his starched collar.

“Mercy's sake, Philip,” Celia said, crossing the room to greet him. “I wondered what
had become of you. Frannie's been asking for you all week.”

He kissed Celia's cheek. “I've been in court all week. I just came from Judge Bartlett's
chambers and wanted to tell India the good news.”

India stilled and looked up at him, her expression calm, hoping her acting skills
would be enough to prevent his knowing how glad she was to see him. “My record has
been expunged?”

“As of this morning. Mr. McLendon was as good as his word and filed the necessary
papers with the court. Judge Bartlett has vacated your sentence. Your record is clear.”

Though she had expected this news at some point, the reality of it brought the sting
of tears to her eyes. Finally, in the eyes of the law at least, the entire episode
was erased. The court of public opinion however was something altogether different.

“I can never repay you for everything you've done.”

He smiled. “Defending people is what I do. It's always gratifying when a case breaks
my way, but in this instance, particularly so.”

“Would you care for tea, Philip?” Celia asked. “It's gone cold I'm afraid, but I
can ask Mrs. Whipple to bring a fresh pot.”