A Respectable Actress (40 page)

At the opening-night party, Cornelius Philbrick had quarreled with Mr. Sterling.
Had Arthur Sterling threatened to expose Mr. Philbrick's deception? If so, the theater
manager would have wanted to stop him. And what better way to do so than to hatch
a plan to kill the man in the middle of a performance?

India shuddered at the cold-blooded nature of it all. But with Miss Bryson's confession,
the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. Now India saw how everything had come
together in a real-life scenario as intricate as any playwright could devise.

Laura Sinclair, already a murderess, discovered that Arthur Sterling had transferred
his affections to Victoria Bryson. When Cornelius Philbrick changed the play, Laura
seized her chance for revenge and switched the weapons, hoping that India would shoot
Laura's faithless lover. At the same time, Mr. Philbrick, fearing that Mr. Sterling
might at any moment expose his crime, decided to shoot the actor himself. In her
last moments,
Laura contended that there was nothing between them. But he must have
had some reason for showing up when he did, professing his devotion to her.

A knock sounded at her office door, and Riley Quinn stuck his head inside. “Ready
for dress rehearsal, Miss Hartley. And everything looks spectacular, even if I do
say so myself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Quinn. I'll be right up.”

India collected her script and pencils, her notes and her keys, and climbed the stairs
to the stage. She had worked hard for weeks to get to this point, but the sense of
happy anticipation she usually felt when a play was about to open was buried beneath
a shroud of worry. If only Philip would come home.

The cast broke into applause as she made her way to her seat in the third row, center.
She acknowledged them with a smile, then clapped her hands to signal silence. “All
right, everybody. Act one, scene one. Please begin.”

A
PRIL
20

India returned from an early dinner with Fabienne to find Philip waiting on her doorstep.
Wordlessly, he folded her into an embrace. She leaned against him, breathing in the
scents of soap and fresh starch. In his arms was a safety far greater than any walls
could afford.

“Thank goodness you're home.” She drew back to look up at him. “You got my letter
about Miss Bryson?”

“I did. What a royal mess.”

She fished her key from her reticule and opened her door.
“I'm sorry I wasn't here
when you arrived. Fabienne just returned from a month of travel and wanted to assure
me she intends to help out at the opening on Saturday night.”

They went inside. She motioned him to a chair. “I'd offer you some tea, but sadly,
this apartment has no kitchen.”

“I don't need anything.” He eased into the overstuffed chair. “This feels good after
a day on the steamer.”

She perched on the edge of the chair opposite and leaned forward until their knees
were almost touching. “Miss Bryson has broken the law, but she's young and without
anyone to guide her. I didn't know what else to do but write to you.”

“I'd have been disappointed if you didn't. I hope you know you can always count on
me.” He leaned forward in his chair, hands on his knees, and smiled into her eyes.

“I do know that.” Her voice was barely a whisper. From their first meeting, Philip
had the power to take her breath away. She forced herself to think of the problem
at hand. “I hope this doesn't turn into another scandal. I am sorry Miss Bryson has
placed herself into such a troublesome position, but I couldn't ignore it.”

“Of course not.”

“Mr. Shakleford and Mr. Kennedy have put their trust in me. Fabienne, Mr. Quinn and
his new assistant, and Miss Sawyer, to say nothing of the players themselves, are
depending upon me to make the theater a success.” She paused. “Maybe I'm wrong to
suspect Mr. Philbrick of plotting to murder Arthur Sterling. Maybe I ought to have
kept my suspicions to myself, but why would he have brought his gun to the theater
that night, if he didn't have plans to use it? And why would he have confessed to
the judge when no one suspected him? Unless he feared he
might go to jail longer
for embezzlement than for an accidental shooting. He must have felt something for
Laura, despite her assertions to the contrary. It—”

“India. Wait a minute. Whether he did or not, it isn't your burden to bear. Tomorrow
I'll speak to the prosecutor and lay out the facts. The embezzled money, the blackmail,
the arguments between Sterling and Philbrick. Then it will be up to Mr. McLendon
to investigate, to decide what charges are warranted, and to prove those charges
in court. Let it go. The way I've let go of Laura and the things she did.”

India realized that she was crying. Relief, regret, and hope warred inside her. What
a joy it would be to wake up without the prospect of another disaster crowding her
thoughts.

“What's this?” His voice was gentle. “No need for tears.” Philip took out his handkerchief
and dabbed her cheeks. “Deceit may prosper a person in the beginning, but sooner
or later the truth comes out, and then there is nothing but misery and shame. Perhaps
Philbrick is guilty of more than we realize. But it has nothing to do with us.”

Darkness had fallen. India rose to light the lamp and regarded him through tear-spiked
lashes, her heart full of hope, afraid to ask what he meant. Afraid not to, lest
the moment slip away.

But he took both her hands in his, a solemn expression in his eyes. “Perhaps this
isn't the best time to declare my intentions, but—”

“Intentions?” Joy flooded her heart as she searched his face. “By all means, Mr.
Sinclair, if you have intentions, do tell.”

He laughed softly and tucked away his sodden handkerchief. “All the time I was at
Indigo Point, I couldn't stop thinking
about you. Missing your presence in that old
wreck of a house. Hearing your laugh at the dinner table. I realized that I didn't
want to face the prospect of a future without you.”

She thought of the day he had saved her from the water snake. She pictured him as
he'd looked kneeling in the dirt at the deserted plantation trying to nurture a single,
straggling rose. The heat and intensity of their first kiss. His boyish delight in
bringing her those plum puddings. The extraordinary risks he'd taken to win her freedom.
She swallowed. “Oh, I—”

“I realize I haven't been the kind of attentive suitor most ladies dream of. I've
been removed at times and slow to declare my feelings. But I had to be certain that
my past was truly in the past. That I had let it all go. It wouldn't have been fair
to you otherwise.”

She found that her heart was so full she couldn't speak. So she merely nodded.

“Ah. Does that mean, ‘Yes, Mr. Sinclair, you may court me' or ‘Leave me in peace,
you quailing, boil-brained fool'?”

She laughed. “Somebody has been reading Mr. Shakespeare again.”

“Brushing up before opening night.”

He drew her closer, and she leaned into his embrace. This was where she belonged.
Of course there would be obstacles ahead. For both of them. To some in Savannah,
there was no such thing as a respectable actress. Certain doors would remain closed
to her. But Celia Mackay was a powerful ally. As were Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Shakleford.
She wouldn't think of any of it right now. For now there was only a rush of wordless
joy and the sense of having come home at last. Philip was right.
From the ruin of
her old life had come this love, this priceless treasure.

Philip released her and smiled into her eyes. “Did you save me a seat?”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “What do you think?”

C
HAPTER
36

O
PENING
N
IGHT
, A
PRIL
22

T
EN MINUTES TO CURTAIN
,
AND THE THEATER VIBRATED
with the nervous energy of cast and crew. Mr. Quinn's assistant, Alexander Hatcher, had fallen ill, and India had had to press one of the minor players into service to help Mr. Quinn move the scenery and take charge of the limelight. The actor playing the part of Dromio of Ephesus was late, and the girl playing the spherical Nell was crying quietly into her handkerchief, apparently devastated by the way her costume accentuated her shape. Fabienne was standing with an arm around the unhappy player, murmuring soothing words in her own unique mix of English and French. Victoria Bryson had arrived at the theater two hours early, in costume, and had spent the time pacing the hallway, muttering her lines to herself.

Miss Sawyer, the seamstress, was acting as prompter this evening. She stood at the
ready, her spectacles perched on the end of her nose, an open script in her hands.

Riley Quinn found India in the wings. “Everything's ready, Miss Hartley. Lime's heating
up real good, the mirrors are all in
place, and the first flat is safe and secure,
center stage, just like you wanted.”

“Good.”

“Me and Alexander did a fine job painting the Duke's palace. Not that I've ever
been inside such a place, but I reckon it looks like the real thing. At least from
a distance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Quinn.”

“No, ma'am. I figure it's us ought to be thanking you.” He grinned. “I took a peek
out front just now. The place is packed.”

“Then perhaps we'll make some money tonight.”

“I sure hope so,” said a booming voice behind her.

She turned. “Mr. Shakleford. I wasn't expecting to see you until after the show.”

“I wanted to wish you good luck, Miss Hartley. And to thank you for uncovering the
embezzlement scheme. I should have kept closer watch on the books, but I was away
most of the season, and I trusted Philbrick. Misplaced, as it turns out.”

“I'm sure to make mistakes along the way, but I can promise you they will be honest
ones.”

“I have no doubt of that.” Mr. Shakleford craned his neck to take a look at the stage
where the players were assembling. “It looks to be a handsome production. Well done.”

India felt her nerves unwinding, replaced by the old anticipation she always felt
on opening night. “I hope you still feel that way after the final curtain.”

He took off his spectacles and polished them on his sleeve. “I ought to find my seat.
Don't want to miss anything.”

He left and India quickly counted heads, making sure all of
the players were in their
proper places for the opening scene: the duke, the merchant of Syracuse, the jailer,
and the attendants.

A church bell down the street tolled the hour. The crowd settled. Murmured conversations,
the rustling of silks, and the tread of boots gave way to hushed anticipation. India
briefly closed her eyes and blew out a long breath. At her signal, the curtain
rose, and the theater reverberated with the sound of applause.

“Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall . . .” the first player began.

From her place in the wings, India whispered the opening lines to herself. The actor
delivered them flawlessly, but India, too nervous to stand in one place through
the play's five acts, made her way down the spiral stair and along the dimly lit
corridor to her office. She turned up the gas lamp and sat behind her desk, feeling
grateful and more than a little stunned at how her life had changed, how it had come
full circle since that strange and awful night last December.

Yesterday she had been so busy with final rehearsals and last-minute details that
there hadn't been time to ask Philip what had happened at his meeting with the prosecutor.
Perhaps Mr. McLendon would give credence to her suspicions, or perhaps he would decide
that Mr. Philbrick's punishment for the death of Arthur Sterling—however it had happened—added
on to the embezzlement charge would be enough. She worried about what would happen
to Victoria Bryson and hoped the girl would be shown mercy, but Philip was right.
The entire situation was out of her hands.

A burst of applause and the rumble of scenery being moved
signaled the end of the
first act, and then later, the theater exploded in laughter as the cases of mistaken
identity and the outrageous dialog that formed the backbone of the story reached
a fever pitch.

India relaxed at last. She had been right to choose
The Comedy of Errors
. After the
events of the past months, everyone associated with the Southern Palace needed a
reason to laugh.

Sometime later, Riley Quinn stuck his head into her office. “Final curtain in five
minutes, miss. Everybody's askin' for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Quinn.” India rose and followed him up the stairs to the wings.