by Dorothy Love
Mrs. Garrison glared at him. “I’m not in the least surprised, Jonas Hornbuckle. You are just the sort of man who would frequent theaters if we had them here. Which thankfully we do not.” She fished a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to Claire, who was near tears. “Wipe off your face and wait in the wagon. I will deal with you later.”
“Please don’t punish Claire,” India said. “The play was my idea.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was.” Mrs. Garrison drew herself up and looked at India with utter contempt. “It’s bad enough that our children are mixing with the Negroes, picking up their superstitions and fanciful stories about death and people who sprout wings and fly to Africa. Just the other day I had to punish Claire for walking around with a basket on her head. Because she had seen the Negroes doing it.” She waved a hand. “But this theater nonsense is even worse. We may have lost our fortunes, but we have not lost our sense of decency, or our hopes that our children may somehow make respectable lives for themselves. The last thing we need is the corrupting influence of a . . . murderer.”
“Now wait a minute, Lizzie.” Mrs. Taylor stood up. “When your husband was arrested for fighting with Mr. Soules last year, you were incensed anytime anybody even hinted that he might be guilty of provoking the whole thing. Don’t you think you owe Miss Hartley the same benefit of the doubt?”
India wanted to weep, but she squared her shoulders. “I have offended the very community I only wanted to help, and for that I apologize. But I’m not sorry for showing these young ladies their own potential to grow and learn. For encouraging them to dream.”
India walked out of the clearing and down to the riverbank. Amelia found her there and threw both arms around India’s neck. “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry! And yet so proud of you. Myrtilda’s mother just told me she has never seen the girl so happy and excited.”
“Well, Myrtilda will probably get her legs switched until they bleed, and it’s my fault.”
“I don’t think so. But poor Claire is probably in for a good switching. Mrs. Garrison is the meanest woman on this entire island. I swan to gracious! I have never met anyone as bitter and fearful as she is. The way she acts, you’d think hers was the only family that has suffered.”
A gunshot echoed through the trees. India jumped.
“That’s the signal for the races to begin,” Amelia said.
“You go ahead.”
“Absolutely not. If you hide out down here by yourself, Mrs. Garrison wins. Mrs. Taylor and Mr. Hornbuckle came to your defense, and I am sure others felt the same way, even if they were too timid to say so.”
“I hate to face the girls. It’s humiliating.”
“I’ll be with you every second, and even Mrs. Garrison won’t risk offending us Sinclairs. Her husband still owes Philip a boatload of money for defending him against that assault charge.” Amelia narrowed her eyes. “If that woman dares to say one more word, I will remind her of it in the most public way.” She held out her hand to India. “Come on, now. We don’t want to miss the races.”
India released a heavy sigh and forced herself to think of more pleasant topics than the contretemps that threatened to spoil the entire day. But Amelia was still stewing. “Honestly, India, I don’t know why Mrs. Garrison has been so mean to you just because of your profession. She was certainly not so disapproving of Mr. Sterling.”
India stopped walking. “I don’t understand. Arthur Sterling was here? On St. Simons?”
“It was years ago. He visited us at Indigo Point a few times. Usually with a party of other people from Savannah.” They continued along the overgrown path that paralleled the river. “I thought surely Philip would have told you.”
“He never mentioned it.” India jammed her fists into her pockets. “I’m surprised he is willing to defend me in the death of his friend.”
“Oh, they weren’t friends. At least I don’t think so. Of course I could be wrong. My brother keeps his own counsel when it comes to his personal feelings.”
“Yes, I have noticed that.”
“Mr. Sterling certainly charmed everyone around here. Even Mrs. Garrison.” Amelia’s skirt snagged on a thorny bush and she stopped to pull it free. “She certainly didn’t think he was unworthy of respect. But that’s the problem with being a member of the fairer sex. We are judged so much more harshly than men. They can get away with anything.”
They reached the landing where the boat racers had assembled. One of the men read out the rules, another gunshot was fired, and the race began.
Three boats from Butler’s Island competed with three from other properties on St. Simons. Amelia gave India a running commentary about the lost plantations—Couper’s, Hamilton, King’s Retreat—and how the men once had competed for prizes for growing the best sea island cotton, the best rice. “Now the boat race is the only thing left.”
As the boats neared the buoy that had been placed downriver to mark the turning point in the race, India lost herself in the excitement of the crowd, whooping along with the rest as the boats made the turn and headed back. When one of the boats from Butler’s Island was the first to scrape bottom and pull onto the narrow strip of beach, the crowd cheered. Another blast from a gun signaled the end of the competition.
All of the boaters, their clothes damp, their hats askew, clambered onto the bank and joined the others in the clearing. Old Mr. Hornbuckle shuffled over to the winning team and pounded their backs. “Good show there, boys. A mighty good show. Just like in the old days, eh?”
A familiar laugh caused India to turn. She saw that one of the winning boaters was none other than Mr. Lockwood. He seemed in fine form today. His eyes were clear, his cheeks red from the cold.
Amelia saw him, too, and hurried over to greet him.
Mr. Lockwood removed his hat and offered a courtly bow. “Miss Amelia. You’re looking well. No more trouble with that fever, I trust.”
“None at all, Mr. Lockwood, I’m happy to say. That was quite a performance out there today. You ought to be proud of your racing team.”
“They’re a good bunch of boys. I’m out of practice when it comes to rowing, but since I’m managing Miss Butler’s accounts now, I thought I should get to know the workers.” He blew on his hands to warm them. “It’s too bad Miss Butler wasn’t feeling up to coming out for the day.”
“Oh, I do hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Just a cough is all, but she thought it was safer not to spend the day out of doors.”
Amelia drew India forward. “You remember Miss Hartley, of course.”
“Yes.” Mr. Lockwood touched the brim of his hat.
“Mr. Lockwood, have you seen my brother?” Amelia looked around the milling crowd. It was nearly noon, and families were headed to their wagons and rigs for the food they’d brought.
“He’s helping John Taylor with his boat. He’ll be along directly.”
“Would you consider joining us for dinner? We’ve plenty of food.”
“Thank you. I’d be obliged. I was so busy this morning I didn’t pack a thing.”
“Oh, here comes Philip.” Amelia waved him over. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m about to starve.”
“Go find us a place by the fire, and I’ll get our basket.”
Philip headed off. Mr. Lockwood offered his arms to India and Amelia, and they returned to the clearing where Amelia had left their blanket. Someone had replenished the fire. The flames danced in the cold January air. They settled themselves and waited for Philip. India surveyed the crowd. Binah and Almarene were talking with a group of their friends gathered near the wagons. Susan and Elizabeth, their cheeks reddened and eyes downcast, were seated with their parents at the edge of the clearing. Mrs. Garrison and her daughter were nowhere in sight. Soon, India saw Philip returning, Mrs. Catchpole striding along beside him.
“Here we are,” Philip said, setting down the basket. “I hope the stew is still warm.”
He opened the basket and took out bowls and spoons, plates and knives. Linen napkins. A dish of butter. Mrs. Catchpole opened the glass jars of stew and set out platters of bread and a jar of jam, avoiding India’s eyes all the while.
Finally the housekeeper got to her feet. “If you’re all set, Mr. Sinclair, I think I’ll go on home. The Garrisons are leaving. I can ride with them.”
He frowned. “So soon? You’re welcome to stay.”
“I’m too cold. And I have things to do.”
Philip smiled. “Suit yourself, but today is supposed to be a holiday of sorts. I’m sure your chores can wait.”
“This one can’t.” Mrs. Catchpole caught India’s eye then.
India tried and failed to read the meaning in the woman’s expression. Pity? Malice? Condemnation?
“All right,” Philip said. “We’ll be home in a while.”
The four of them ate with gusto. The stew was still warm, the biscuits light and fluffy.
Philip polished off three biscuits and two bowls of stew before peering into the basket in search of dessert. Which apparently had been forgotten.
He sighed. “I was looking forward to one of Mrs. Catchpole’s pies. She makes the best chess pie in the state of Georgia.”
“I like it too,” India said. “It’s the one thing I learned to make when Father and I stayed at a boardinghouse in New Orleans. The trick is to use just the right amount of cornmeal to form a crust over the custard.”
Mr. Lockwood leaned back on his arms and sighed. “That was delicious. Nobody makes a stew as good as Mrs. Catchpole’s.”
Amelia nodded. “I’m stuffed as a Christmas goose. Anyone care to join me for a walk?”
India started to respond before realizing this was Amelia’s way of being alone with Mr. Lockwood. And though she still wasn’t completely convinced of the man’s suitability for her new friend, it was hardly her place to thwart Amelia’s plan. “I think I’ll sit here a while and enjoy the fire.”
“Me too,” Philip said. “I’m still thawing out.”
“I’d be honored to walk with you, Miss Amelia,” Mr. Lockwood said. “On the way here this morning, I spotted an osprey’s nest. Largest one I’ve seen in a while. It isn’t far, if you’d like to see it.”
He helped Amelia to her feet, and they set off.
Philip wiped his hands on his napkin and began loading the empty plates into the basket. “I heard about your play.”
“Bad news travels fast, as they say.”
“I appreciate your motives, India, but trying to turn these island girls into actresses was a mistake.”
“Yes, I see that now. I wasn’t trying to recruit them into a life of sordidness and infamy. It was only a pastime, something to break the monotony of the days.”
“For you or for them?”
“I can’t think about the trial all of the time. I’ll go crazy if I do. Working with the girls gave me something else to think about. I feel terrible that I’ve upset Mrs. Garrison. Not that I care one whit for what she thinks, but I fear she will take out her anger on Claire, and it wasn’t the child’s fault.”
“What’s done is done. But for the next two weeks, perhaps you should—”
She stopped him with an upraised hand. “I’ll live like a cloistered nun.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry this is so difficult for you. Maybe it was a mistake bringing you here. But I couldn’t bear to think of you sitting in the Chatham County Jail for weeks and weeks.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry for embarrassing you. I am grateful you brought me here. Especially as my days of such freedom may be at a permanent end.”
“You mustn’t allow yourself to think that way. Assuming Judge Russell hears our case, we have a good chance of acquittal.”
“Oh, I pray so.”
“So do I.” He closed the basket lid. “What will you do, once you go free?”
“I haven’t let myself think about it. I would like to finish my tour. I need the money. I should have opened this week in New Orleans. But it hardly matters. I doubt the theater managers will want me to continue. So many of them have worked hard to bring respectability to their establishments. Having someone like me will only be seen as a setback.”
She was aware that he was watching her closely. Her face warmed beneath his penetrating gaze.
“You love the theater.”
“Yes. Of course there are difficulties and discouragements. But in that moment before the curtain rises, as I’m waiting for my entrance, the expectant silence in the theater is exhilarating. Every night I have a chance to walk out of the shadows into the light and change someone’s life. To bring something of culture and beauty and promise to the audience.” She paused, remembering. “The applause, the newspaper stories, the flowers at my feet are lovely, but that isn’t why I do it. I only want to make people happy. That’s all I was trying to do with these young girls. But I made a mess of it.”
The crowd had begun to thin. People were packing up the remains of their meals, gathering blankets and baskets and children. India looked up to see Amelia and Mr. Lockwood returning from their walk.
“Are you ready to go?” Philip reached for her hand. His clasp was warm, confident, reassuring.
He picked up their basket. She folded the blanket, and they headed for the rig. He packed away their things and assisted her and Amelia inside.
Amelia picked up the reins and called out “Good-bye, Mr. Lockwood!”
“Miss Amelia. Miss Hartley.” The overseer tipped his hat and headed for his own mount.
Philip swung into the saddle and turned his horse. “Let’s go home before Mrs. Catchpole sends out a search party.”
India’s stomach clenched. No doubt she faced even more condemnation from the housekeeper.
CHAPTER 12
JANUARY 19
“TELL ME MORE ABOUT YOUR LIFE IN THE THEATER.” Philip tossed another log onto the fire before resuming his chair behind his desk and taking up paper and pen.
“I don’t know what else there is to tell,” India said. “Like any profession, it has its routines and irritations. And its pleasures.”
“Let’s start with the pleasures.”
“Well, as I’ve already said, there is great satisfaction in a story well told, whether on the page or in the theater. There is nothing more enjoyable tha
n hearing the collective breath of an audience that is surprised or delighted by a performance.” She paused to sip her tea. “Seeing the expressions on their faces when I take the final curtain call somehow compensates for the difficulties.”
He laughed and scribbled on his paper. “What about friendships?”
She sighed. “There is a certain camaraderie, of course, among the players. But there are also jealousies and petty disagreements, and hurt feelings when one actor gets a better notice than another. We are human after all.”
“Exactly. That’s what I must convey to your jury. Those men are bankers and shipping merchants and the like. To them the theater is an exotic and not altogether respectable world. I must show them that you are just like them, a professional with a job to do, and with the same kinds of concerns.”
India chewed her bottom lip. “Will they believe you?”
“I don’t think it’s immodest to mention that I have had many successes in the courtroom. But we can’t take the jury for granted.” He opened a thick folder lying atop his desk and paged through it. “I’ve collected letters from your photographer friend, Mr. Sarony, your theater manager in Philadelphia, and the lady who ran the boardinghouse where you lived for a time. Those will be read into the record. In Savannah, we have your dresser Fabienne.”
Philip studied her from across his desk. “It wouldn’t hurt to find additional local witnesses. People who will vouch for your character, or people who saw you at the theater that night and can attest as to your mood and movements.” He sat back in his chair. “Is there anyone you haven’t already mentioned?”
India closed her eyes and recalled the details of that evening. Arriving at the theater in the carriage, giving her card to the young driver, speaking to the stagehand Mr. Quinn, then the return to her dressing room. The confrontation with Mr. Philbrick regarding the fateful script change. Fabienne’s arrival, followed by that of Mr. Sterling and India’s understudy. The young actress had latched onto Mr. Sterling’s arm and whispered in his ear just before they left.