by Dorothy Love
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?”
Mr. Philbrick took a revolver from his pocket. “Here’s your prop.”
India studied the weapon, pressing a hand to her midsection to quell her nerves.
“It’s quite harmless,” Mr. Philbrick said, “as it has no firing pin. You needn’t worry about anything apart from making the shot look real.” He let out a short laugh. “After Sterling’s attempts to steal the limelight last night, I should think you’d enjoy the chance to even the score. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
“But—”
“I’ll see that the gun is delivered to the stage for you. And please do try to wipe the frown off that lovely face of yours.”
He pocketed the prop and clumped along the hallway, his steps fading as he reached the spiral stair. India collapsed onto a chair, torn between anger and despair. The loss of her father’s theater company had left her with few resources and an uncertain future. As maddening as this last-minute change was, she couldn’t afford to give up even a single night’s pay.
The door opened and India’s dresser, Fabienne Ormond, rushed in, her cheeks pink with the cold. “Cherie, sorry I’m late,” she said, her French accent thickening in her haste. “One of those rich ladies on Madison Square sent for me at the last minute, wanting me to do her hair. She is quite an admirer of yours, is Mrs. Sutton Mackay. Oh, what a fancy house. Silk carpets and black marble fireplaces everywhere. And her husband! Never have I met a more handsome man. They are coming to the theater tonight, so perhaps you will catch a glimpse of them. You will recognize Mrs. Mackay, because she will have the most beautiful hairstyle and the most dashing escort of all.”
Despite her dark mood, India smiled at the young Frenchwoman’s enthusiasm and confidence. Fabienne shrugged out of her dark green woolen cloak and began assembling the tools of her trade—hairbrushes, combs, pins, and pomades. “Mrs. Mackay told me—what’s the matter, mamselle? You do not look one bit happy.”
“Mr. Philbrick has taken it upon himself to rewrite Mr. Morgan’s play. To make it more sensational and thus more pleasing to some critic.”
Fabienne’s dark eyes went wide. “Mr. Sterling will not be pleased. He likes to claim all of the attention for himself. But what can you do? Mr. Philbrick is the boss of the theater, non? Come, let me do your hair. You will be even more brilliant tonight than last, and all of Savannah will fall at your feet. Even the—”
“Miss Hartley.” Arthur Sterling appeared in the open doorway. “I have just spoken to Mr. Philbrick about tonight’s changes.” His voice was a rich baritone, exquisitely trained.
She nodded, noting that he didn’t seem any more pleased with the changes than she did. But then, he always seemed to be brooding about something. With his dark curls, black eyes, and high cheekbones, he reminded India of the poet Lord Byron.
“You
don’t approve,” Mr. Sterling said.
“No, but as Mr. Philbrick has pointed out, I have no say in the matter. Nor does Mr. Morgan.” India motioned to Fabienne to begin dressing her hair. “If you will excuse me, sir?”
“I saw that stagehand just now.” Mr. Sterling leaned against the door frame and crossed one ankle over the other. Behind him, the other actors were arriving, hurrying for their dressing rooms, carrying costumes, wig stands, and makeup cases. “Mr. Quinn. Your not-so-secret admirer.”
India studied Mr. Sterling in the mirror. It was a cliché to say so, but according to the local papers, the men of Savannah wanted to emulate him and the ladies wanted to marry him. Though India readily admitted that his extraordinary good looks and restless energy commanded attention on the stage, she couldn’t fathom why any woman would find such an insufferable narcissist the least bit attractive.
“Mr. Quinn has repositioned the stage mirrors,” he went on. “The better to keep you in the limelight. He thinks I upstaged you too much last night.”
India opened her silver-topped makeup jar and leaned into her mirror to apply the greasepaint to her face.
“I wonder whatever gave Mr. Quinn that idea?” Mr. Sterling’s rich tones turned brittle with barely contained anger. “I’d hate to think you complained to Mr. Philbrick about me.”
India twisted around in her chair to face him. “Anyone who saw last night’s performance knows it’s true. You kept me in semidarkness for the last half of the first act. Not only was your behavior lacking in generosity and professionalism, it was also dangerous. I could have tripped on a prop or fallen onto a burning torch. You are so widely admired in this city I confess I expected better from you than that.”
He laughed. “Then the change in tonight’s performance ought to please you. Since you hold such a low opinion of me.”
Just then, Victoria Bryson, the understudy, arrived. “Good evening, Miss Hartley.”
“Miss Bryson.” India motioned to Fabienne to continue dressing her hair.
“Are you feeling well this evening, Miss Hartley?” The understudy assumed an expression of concern, but she couldn’t keep a note of hopefulness from her voice. “The opening-night party went on for so long, I thought the loud talk and the late hour might have done you in. After all, a woman of your age needs her sleep.”
India couldn’t suppress a good-natured laugh. “I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but I’m feeling just fine.”
The young woman slipped her arm through Mr. Sterling’s and smiled up at him. “I’ve just seen Mr. Philbrick. He’s terribly excited about this evening. I cannot tell you how much I admire your ability to change what you do at the snap of a finger. It’s brilliant, really.”
Mr. Sterling preened at the compliment and patted her gloved hand. “All in a night’s work, my dear.”
The door opened and another woman came into the hallway on a blast of cold air. Wrapped in a purple hooded cloak that hid her hair and shadowed her face, she paced back and forth in the hallway, casting frequent glances at Mr. Sterling and the understudy. India felt a stab of sympathy for her. No doubt she was another of Mr. Sterling’s admirers, desperate for a word with him, and now in his presence, too overcome with shyness to do more than glance longingly at the object of her affection.
India rose, stepped past Mr. Sterling and the understudy, and entered the hallway. The woman darted away, her steps slowing when she encountered a stack of hatboxes and props at the bottom of the stair.
“May I help you?” India asked gently. “If it’s Mr. Sterling you’ve come to see, I’m happy to introduce—”
“No.” The woman’s startling blue eyes held an expression akin to panic. She shook her head and bolted from the theater.
India returned to her dressing room and resumed her seat at the dressing table.
“What was that all about?” Mr. Sterling asked.
“An admirer of yours, I’m sure. She seemed quite anxious to speak to you, but lost her nerve.”
Miss Bryson laughed. “He does have that effect on people.” She gazed up at Mr. Sterling and sighed. “It seems I’m doomed to spend another evening waiting in the wings. But I know you will be wonderful even though you and Miss Hartley haven’t rehearsed tonight’s change.”
“We’ll get through it,” India said, picking up her jar of lip pomade. “So long as we both remember to respect the other’s space.”
Mr. Sterling’s black eyes held a mixture of derision and amusement. “Actually this might be quite entertaining. So long as you don’t take those new stage directions literally.”
He waggled his fingers at her and headed for his dressing room.
India let out an exasperated breath. “Don’t tempt me.”
CHAPTER 2
HALF AN HOUR LATER, DRESSED IN HER RUFFLED cream-and-violet costume, her makeup in place, India mounted the spiral stair to the wings. Behind the velvet curtain the atmosphere was one of barely controlled chaos as a small army of stagehands positioned the painted flats at the rear of the stage. The settee and the mahogany side table required for act one were placed to take advantage of the light cast by the mirrors and the gaslights flanking the stage.
Fabienne, carrying extra face powder and a brush and the costume India would wear for the second act asked, “All set?”
“I think so.” India parted the curtain at the side of the stage and peered through the narrow opening. Though this was only her second night at the Southern Palace, it had already become a favorite. The owners had spared no expense in its construction and furnishings. The seats were upholstered in red plush and were tiered so that every patron had an unobstructed view of the stage. Above the proscenium were fanciful paintings of cherubs, angels, stars, and doves rendered in the softest shades of pink, blue, and apricot. Along each long wall were raised boxes with seating for six that could be enclosed with gold-tasseled curtains for privacy. An orchestra pit and a trapdoor that slid open on silent bearings were hidden from view by baskets of greenery.
Tonight every seat was taken. The theater buzzed with whispered conversations and the rustle of silks and satins as patrons settled in for the performance.
Butterflies danced inside India’s midsection, but she welcomed them as a sign that she cared about this audience and wanted to please them. She wouldn’t let her anger at Mr. Philbrick, or her anxiety about the substitution he’d made in tonight’s performance, distract her.
Mr. Philbrick, in costume for his small role in act two, strolled past. “Five minutes, Miss Hartley.”
She blew out a few quick breaths, took her position, and waited for the curtain to rise. Opposite her, in the other wing, Mr. Sterling stood, hands on hips, his head thrown back.
A ripple of applause built to a thunderous roar as the curtain rose. India stepped into the dazzling limelight. She took her position downstage and waited for silence before delivering her opening line.
“A lie is the truth in masquerade, written in dark misfortune’s book.”
On cue, Mr. Sterling made his entrance, the bright white light illuminating his black curls and chiseled features. India waited while the audience applauded his entrance. He delivered his opening lines, and they settled into the rhythm of t
he performance. As the end of the first act approached, India moved to her position downstage. Mr. Sterling followed, as he had done the previous evening, leaving her little choice but to step once more into the shadows. Her anger flared, but she had trained herself to set aside her personal animosity for the sake of the performance.
“Act well your part,” Mr. Sterling recited. “For that is where the honor lies.”
“And what do you know of honor?”
He laughed at her, as the script required.
That was India’s cue to pick up the revolver that was to replace the vase she’d hurled at him the previous evening. She reached out a hand to a nearby table and delivered her next line. “You would mock me, sir?”
Oh mercy. Where was the blasted gun? She peered into the shadows and slid her fingers across the tabletop.
The silence lengthened. Someone in the audience coughed. In the wings there was the faint sound of shuffling feet.
Her heart hammered. Her worst fear was realized. The play, or at least this first act, was ruined. And Mr. Philbrick would accuse her of deliberately sabotaging it.
“Pray tell, has a cat stolen your tongue?” Mr. Sterling abandoned the script and was improvising his lines now, stalling for time.
No, but someone had stolen her prop. Quivering with humiliation and anger, India bent down to peer more closely at the table. And found the gun at last.
Just as she lifted it there was a deafening explosion and a quick flash of fire. An anguished scream.
Mr. Sterling crumpled onto the stage.
“This way, miss.” The brawny policeman, his voice still thick with sleep, guided India out of the jail and into a waiting police wagon. “If you promise not to run, I won’t put the cuffs on you.” He dropped his gaze. “My wife is an admirer of yours. She won’t speak to me if I embarrass you in front of the whole town.”