A Respectable Actress (31 page)
“Thank you, but I can't stay.” Philip stood with his back to the fireplace, his hands
clasped behind his back. “There's more news, India. Mr. Philbrick has decided to
dispense with a jury trial.”
“So I won't have to testify.” Another wave of elation moved through her. She was
free to leave town. She could be on the next boat to Boston. She could return to
London. If Mr. Kennedy refused to hire her to manage the Southern Palace, perhaps
her father's old friends would take her in, at least for a while.
Philip's eyes held hers, something new and intimate in his amber gaze. A longing
that matched her own. But she would be a liability to him in a city where reputation
and social position counted for everything. She might be desperately in love with
him, but she couldn't jeopardize his future. Not after all it had cost him to save
her own.
“You're free to leave Savannah any time you wish,” he said, “but I hope you won't
go away too soon. I have an enormous favor to ask.”
“A favor?”
Celia got to her feet. “If you two will excuse me, I must speak to Mrs. Whipple about
dinner.” She winked at India and hurried from the room.
India took her seat and looked up at him, a question in her eyes. Philip settled
into the chair across from hers. “You know about the plans for the resort Mr. Dodge
and I want to build on St. Simons.”
“Yes. It seems like an enormous undertaking.”
“It is. And sadly, there are few men around here who can
afford to invest in it now.
So we're looking to the North. Mr. Dodge has invited a half dozen potential investors
and their wives to come to the island to see for themselves what we have in mind.”
“I'm glad for you, Philip. It sounds very promising doesn't it?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “I'm trying to keep my expectations in check.”
But she could sense his excitement at the prospect of seeing his beloved island renewed
and his workers employed at something better than scratching out a living on worn-out
land.
“How can I help?”
“There really is no place on the island to entertain a dozen people except at Indigo
Point, and Amelia is quite overwhelmed with planning dinners and amusements for such
a large number of guests.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I know it's an imposition
after everything that happened to you there, but I was hoping you would come back
to the Point with me and lend my sister a hand.”
Back to the place of death and secrets? To the place where Mrs. Catchpole tried to
kill her?
“Mrs. Catchpole is in a mental hospital near Atlanta,” Philip said. “She can't harm
you again.”
India looked up at him, feeling surprised and relieved. And more than a little guilty.
“Well, I'm sorry for the poor woman, and sorry for the grief I caused her.”
“Neither Amelia nor I realized how her mind was failing, not until you came to the
Point. Maybe we didn't want to admit it. We excused her moods and the things that
went missing from time to time, blaming it on her advancing age. But I can see now
that
her grief for Laura, misplaced though it turned out to be, went much deeper
than we knew.” He paused. “Amelia found her down by the springhouse, half-dressed
and nearly catatonic. There was nothing we could do for her. She'll be looked after
now.”
His eyes sought hers. “Indigo Point is undoubtedly the last place you want to be,
but Almarene is too infirm to be of much help. There's only Binah to assist Amelia.
I was hoping you might entertain the guests with some readings in the evenings. It
would certainly give the ladies something to brag about once they return home.”
India clasped her hands tightly. He was right. The last thing she wanted to do was
to go back to Indigo Point with its water snakes and alligators, its shabbiness,
and its dark secrets. Back to the place where Philip had loved Laura.
Nor was she ready to perform again, for anyone. Besides, she needed to meet Mr. Kennedy
on Sunday.
But she owed Philip her very life. How could she refuse his request?
“Of course if you think it would helpâ”
“It will. I know it will.” He paused, his eyes darkening with concern.
“This isn't only about Amelia's needing my help is it? Something is troubling you.”
“I had a visitor late last night. A fellow who frequents the drinking establishments
on the waterfront.”
“I see. The men's library has not been a complete success, then.”
“Don't joke about it.”
“Forgive me. I'm too cynical.”
“Not all the time.” He leaned forward in his chair. “He claims that another man approached
a friend of his, looking to hire someone to do you harm.”
She went still. “Now there's a price on my head? What kind of a place is this?”
“It may be nothing more than a malicious rumor, or he may have been so far into his
cups that he misunderstood the conversation entirely. But I won't take that chance.
I must return to the Point, and I can't leave you here. I need to keep you safe,
until I can figure out whether this threat is real.”
She dropped her head and massaged her temples. Maybe she would be better off not
even talking to Mr. Kennedy about managing the theater. Maybe she ought to leave
Savannah on the next train. Or the next ship, no matter where it was bound.
“India.” His reached for her hand. “There's a steamer departing for the Point at
six this evening. I know it's short notice, but we have so little time before the
investors arrive, and while it's true I need to protect you, it is also true that
Amelia is overwhelmed.”
“I can be ready.”
He got to his feet. “I'll arrange for your ticket and call for you at five. In the
meantime, stay right here with Celia. Don't leave the house until I come for you.”
His warning sent a chill through her. Though he tried to discount it, this threat
was real.
They crossed the room to the door. He removed his hat and coat from the hall tree
and put them on. “I'll see you then.”
“All right.”
He lifted her chin and smiled into her eyes. “I will keep you safe. I promise.”
He left and she returned to the parlor, only to hear the doorbell again. Another
lady calling upon Celia, no doubt. Neither Celia nor Mrs. Whipple seemed to be about,
so India opened the door.
Philip stood there holding a square white box tied with an enormous pink bow. “I
nearly forgot. This is for you.”
“But whatâ” She lifted the lid. “A plum pudding!”
“At Christmas I promised you another pudding when you were set free.” His eyes sought
hers and held. “And I always keep my promises.”
F
EBRUARY
23
I
NDIA PAUSED
,
FEATHER DUSTER IN HAND
,
AND PEERED
through the window of the upstairs room she had been cleaning all morning. Another wagon laden with boxes and two fat mattresses rolled
into the yard. When the driver set the brake and jumped down, India recognized Mrs. Wheeler, the woman she'd met at the steamer landing at Gascoigne Bluff the day she had driven there with Philip.
India called for Binah and then for Amelia, but neither responded. There was no telling
where they were this morning. Everyone was working frantically to finish preparations
before tomorrow's arrival of Mr. Dodge's investors. Since India's return to Indigo
Point, she had risen early each day to clean and dust the long-vacant rooms that
would house their guests for the weekend. She had washed windows, laundered and ironed
curtains, beaten rugs, and polished mirrors until they shone. Yesterday she and Amelia,
Binah, and Almarene had set up a kind of assembly line in the kitchen, turning out
four pies, six loaves of bread, and dozens of cookies made from the boatload of supplies
delivered by steamer at Philip's request.
The overseer at Fan Butler's place had sent three men to help tidy the yard and set
up extra chairs, beds, and cots provided by other families for the dozen expected
guests.
India's muscles ached from the unaccustomed labor, but it felt good to be doing something
to help Philip. With a final flick of her duster, she left the room and ran lightly
down the staircase to meet Mrs. Wheeler.
The older woman greeted her with a warm smile. “You're back.”
“I am. Mr. Sinclair was shorthanded in getting ready for the weekend and asked for
my help. It was the least I could do.”
Mrs. Wheeler bobbed her head. “Newspaper said the real killer confessed.”
“Yes. He says it was accidental, and I believe him. All the same, Philip says Mr.
Philbrick will spend some time behind bars. If he's lucky enough to avoid the hangman's
noose.”
“Too bad, but better him than an innocent woman. You must feel like your whole life
is starting over again.”
“I do.” India untied the bandanna she'd wrapped around her hair and shook her famous
curls free. “It's a huge relief.”
Mrs. Wheeler gestured toward her wagon. “I brought you a few things. I understand
Philip's planning a fancy dinner for Saturday night. With entertainments following.”
“Yes. As fancy as it can be under the circumstances.” India indicated the piano in
the corner of the parlor. “As far as entertainment goes, much depends upon whether
the piano tuner Philip engaged actually shows up. We've been expecting him for three
days.”
One of the men from Butler's Island lumbered up the front
steps and snatched his
cap from his head as he approached the door. “Mornin' Miz Wheeler. Mornin', miss.”
“Good morning,” India said.
“Me and Ben finished raking them empty flower beds and washin' all the winders.
Reckon they ain't much more to be done with this place.” He looked around with an
air of satisfaction. “Indigo Point looks about as good as she's going to look, I
'spect.”
“You've worked wonders,” India said. “I know Mr. Sinclair is grateful for your efforts.
I'm sure he will see that you are paid for your work.”
“Before you go,” Mrs. Wheeler said, “could you possibly bring those boxes and the
mattresses inside?”
“Sure thing. Where you want 'em?”
Mrs. Wheeler supervised the moving of the boxes into the dining room, and India led
the man up the stairs to the small bedroom she'd just finished cleaning. He deposited
the mattresses side by side on the floor in front of the fireplace and dusted off
his hands. He took in the sparkling windows, the crisp white curtains, the arrangement
of glossy green leaves in a white vase sitting on the fireplace mantel.
“Looks right cozy in here.”
India smiled. “It's too bad some of the ladies must sleep on the floor, but it can't
be helped.”
She followed him down the stairs and waved as he and Ben left the yard. In the dining
room, Mrs. Wheeler was busy unpacking a set of delicate blue-and-gold china plates,
cups, and saucers.
India lifted a cup. “It's beautiful.”
“I think so. My mother got these on a trip to Paris back in
the forties. She traveled
to the factory in Limoges and designed the pattern herself. When the Yankees came
through here in '58, stirring up the Negroes, I buried every last piece of it under
the floor in the barn. Left it there until the war was over. It came through without
a single crack. Every time I use these pieces, I think of Mother.”
“Perhaps they are too precious to be on loan,” India said, carefully setting down
the cup. “I would hate for anything to get broken.”
“My mother always said there was no use in having beautiful things if you weren't
planning to use them.” Mrs. Wheeler's pale blue eyes shone. “I can't think of a better
use than to help Philip impress those investors. If their money will build the resort
he and Mr. Dodge are cooking up, then it's worth a broken cup or two.”
“I'll try to see that they are all returned to you in perfect condition.”
India helped the older woman finish the unpacking. Along with the china, Mrs. Wheeler
had brought a pair of silver candlesticks and a large white vase.
“I remember Mrs. Catchpole saying once that there never were enough containers for
flowers,” Mrs. Wheeler said. “I brought these along even though not much is blooming
in the dead of winter.”
“Yesterday I saw some pretty mosses down by the old carriage house,” India said.
“And some of the trees are still green.” She smiled. “It won't be as nice as having
flowers, but everything looks better in candlelight.”
Mrs. Wheeler laughed. “Including this old wrinkled face of
mine.” She paused. “I
was right sorry to hear about the way Mrs. Catchpole attacked you. The poor woman
hasn't been herself since the night Mrs. Sinclair perished.”
India froze. For a moment she was tempted to tell Mrs. Wheeler that Laura Sinclair
was very much alive, and a possible murderer too. But even the most discreet of women
could sometimes let secrets slip, and this was not the time to unleash more scandal
on the island. “My wounds have healed. But I admit, I was terrified.”
“Well of course! Anyone would be.” Mrs. Wheeler clicked her tongue. “Such a shame.
Well, my dear, I ought to be going. I'm sure you all have much more to do before
tomorrow.”
India followed her into the yard. “Thank you for everything.”
“No trouble.” Mrs. Wheeler climbed onto her wagon and released the brake. “I hope
the piano tuner turns up.”
Half an hour later he did. A small man with a thick mustache and a French accent
to match, he introduced himself as Monsieur Bessette and with a wave of one hand
demanded to be shown to the instrument.
