by Dorothy Love
Philip lifted the curtain and peered out. “It’ll be light soon. I’ll ride over to the bluff and get the doctor.”
“I’ll put some coffee on.” Amelia returned to her room for a dressing gown and went downstairs.
“Let’s go down to the parlor,” Philip said.
India followed him down the stairs. Was it her imagination or was he holding his anger in check? Not that she could blame him. The fire could easily have gotten out of hand. And she had picked the lock to gain entry to the room. Of course she had been aware of the housekeeper’s disapproval from the very first, but she never imagined the woman would behave so violently.
Philip lit the parlor lamp, motioned her to a chair, and turned to coax the dying coals in the grate back to life. The flames caught a fresh log that popped and hissed as it heated.
Taking the chair opposite hers, he leaned forward, palms on his knees. “What happened?”
Briefly India described picking the lock to gain entry to the room, Mrs. Catchpole’s finding her there, and the altercation that had led to their injuries.
“Dear God,” he muttered. “She might have killed you.”
In the glow of the firelight his eyes were tawny as a lion’s. And as fierce.
“It was wrong of me to break into the room. But I had a good reason for doing so.”
“Apart from satisfying your curiosity.”
“I won’t deny I have wondered about it. Why no one wants to speak of the woman in the portrait.”
“My bringing you here didn’t give you the right to pry into my affairs.”
“I know it. I have no excuse. Except”—she reached into her pocket and took out the fragment of the necklace—“have you ever seen this before?”
He studied it. “I don’t think so.”
“Binah has one just like it. I noticed it because it was so unusual. She told me an admirer of Hannah June had given them both a necklace. And that Hannah June wore hers all the time. As does Binah.”
“And the point is?”
“Binah told me Hannah June disappeared four years ago. She wants to hire a lawyer to find out where her sister went.”
“Many former slaves went off with the Yankees. I assume Hannah June was one of them. As she was perfectly free to do. I’m afraid there’s no telling where the girl went.”
“But Philip, she disappeared around the time the chapel burned. I suspect Binah thinks her sister ran away because she feared being blamed for the fire.” She paused. “I found that bit of necklace in the chapel today.”
“I told you not to go near there. It’s falling in.”
“I know, but don’t you see? I don’t think Hannah ran away. I think she perished in the blaze.”
“Or she could have lost the necklace before she disappeared.”
“I suppose that’s true. But there’s more.”
“Go on.”
“The last time we rode to King’s Retreat, I found a letter book hidden in an old boat near the back of the property. It seems to be a series of love notes passed back and forth between two people. At first I thought it might belong to Amelia. That she was exchanging messages with an admirer. But the last entry mentions a temple burning.” She paused. “It’s a line from a sonnet by Elizabeth Browning.”
He stared into the flames. “May I see the book?”
“It’s upstairs. I won’t be a minute.”
India went upstairs to retrieve it. On her way back to the parlor, she crossed the gallery to peek into the housekeeper’s room. Apparently the laudanum was working. Mrs. Catchpole lay facedown on the bed, the sound of her breath loud in the stillness.
India returned to the parlor and handed Philip the letter book. She sat down and waited while he read it.
Amelia came in with a tray and poured the coffee, her blue eyes troubled. “How is your arm?”
Blood had seeped through the bandage, and the wound burned like fire. But India was more concerned with figuring out the connection between the love notes, the fire, and her growing conviction about the woman in the portrait. “I’ll be all right.”
“I’m so sorry, India. I never dreamed Mrs. Catchpole could do something like this.” Amelia massaged her temples. “I should get dressed and check on her.”
When she had gone, Philip leaned forward in his chair, the book in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
“You’ve been busy. And I wasn’t sure it meant anything until I found the necklace.”
“It still might mean nothing.”
India sipped the strong black coffee. “You probably noticed only one set of notes are initialed.”
He nodded. “AS.”
“As I said, I first thought they stood for your sister’s name. But now I believe they might belong to Arthur Sterling.”
“Go on.”
She took another fortifying sip. “Mrs. Wheeler told me you lost your wife to a tragedy.”
He blanched and looked away, but not before India saw the grief and hurt in his eyes. He picked up his cup. “I see.”
“It isn’t very pleasant to think about, but suppose your wife developed romantic feelings for him.”
“For Arthur Sterling? Impossible.”
“Is it? According to Amelia, everyone on this whole island was taken with him. Suppose they began a correspondence. You can tell from the notes that the gentleman had declared his love, and the lady at first resisted. She writes that she can’t see him again, as any respectable married woman would. But the attraction proves so strong, and the situation so impossible, that she considers taking her own life.”
“Oleander and castor beans.”
“Benzene and a match.”
He set down his cup and stared into the fire once more.
“I’m sorry. I’m probably wrong about the whole thing. And I certainly don’t want to cause you any more grief. But she would not have been the first to fall under Mr. Sterling’s spell.”
“Preposterous. Laura had her problems, but she wasn’t unfaithful.”
Laura. So that was her name. “Remember the woman I told you about? The one who was at the theater that night, waiting around for Mr. Sterling?”
“What about her?”
“When I saw the portrait in the room upstairs, I realized she might be the woman I saw that night. I remember her eyes.” “Wait a minute. First you’re suggesting she killed herself for love like some modern-day Juliet, and now you’re suggesting she’s still alive. Listen. I understand you’re desperate to prove your innocence. I don’t blame you for that. But you’re grasping at straws here. None of this makes the least bit of sense.” He released a long breath. “Besides, you told me the woman you saw at the theater was dark-skinned.”
“Yes, but if she was Mr. Sterling’s . . . companion, she would have had access to his dressing room. To his greasepaint. She could have darkened her skin easily enough.”
“For what purpose?”
“Everyone knew Mr. Sterling was seeing Miss Bryson. They were together constantly. Sup
pose Laura wanted to confirm their liaison without being recognized.” She shrugged. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
The fire snapped in the grate. A sliver of gray daylight filtered through the curtains.
Amelia appeared in the doorway. “Philip? The laudanum is wearing off more quickly than I thought, and we don’t have any more.”
“All right. I’ll clean up and be on my way. With any luck I can catch the doctor while he’s at the mill.” He rose and started for the stairs without so much as a glance at India.
She could see every muscle tense, could feel him holding in his anger. She set down her cup and trailed after him. “Forgive me. For going uninvited into that room. For Mrs. Catchpole’s injuries. And most of all for making you doubt your wife’s affections. I’m sure you’re right and there is an innocent explanation for everything. Please forget the whole thing.”
Amelia looked from one to the other, clearly confused. “Forget what? What’s happened?”
“India knows about Laura,” Philip said. “But not how I lost her.” His tawny eyes sought India’s. “My wife perished in the chapel fire that night.”
He took the stairs two at a time, as if he couldn’t remove himself from her company fast enough.
CHAPTER 15
JANUARY 27
“HERE, MISS. LET ME HELP.” BINAH OPENED INDIA’S trunk and began folding petticoats and dressing gowns.
India didn’t protest. Yesterday the doctor had arrived with salves and more laudanum for Mrs. Catchpole. India and Amelia took turns bathing the housekeeper’s burns with cold water and applying the salve to prevent the skin from contracting too quickly. The doctor treated India’s knife wound with carbolic acid to prevent sepsis and instructed her to repeat the process each day for the next few days. He bandaged her arm and gave her a tincture of laudanum as well. Still, her wound had burned and throbbed all night. But it wasn’t only the pain from the knife wound that stole her sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about Laura Sinclair’s fiery death and the look of utter desolation on Philip’s face as he related the story. Clearly he was still grieving his loss. India felt ashamed that she had advanced so unflattering a theory about his lost love. But something about the whole thing still nagged at her.
“Mama said you and Mr. Philip goin’ to Savannah in the morning,” Binah said.
“Yes. We’ll leave early.”
“I wish I was goin’ to Savannah. Ain’t nothin’ to do around here ’cause old Miz Garrison won’t let Claire and them come here no more. Miz Garrison is still mad about Little Women.”
India folded her stockings and placed them in the trunk. Her impromptu production had ended badly, but it had satisfied a hunger in her, and in the girls, to do something that mattered. People could say whatever they wished about her, but the theater was a respectable art, and she felt lucky to have shared it with the young women.
She retrieved her slippers from beneath the bed and set them in the trunk. Philip had asked her to have her things ready to transport to the bluff this evening for loading aboard the Neptune. Captain Mooreland planned to depart for the city at daybreak.
Binah peeked into one of India’s pink-and-white-striped hatboxes. “When I go to Savannah, I mean to get me a hat like that. Won’t I be a fancy-lookin’ lady then?”
India smiled. She had grown fond of Binah, even more so now that she suspected Hannah June’s fate. India and Philip had not spoken further about her theory, and she had to admit it did seem far-fetched. And yet, the longer she considered it, the more plausible it became to her. She removed the hat, a small toque festooned with tulle and a silver flower, from the box.
“Try it on.”
Binah gaped at her. “Me?”
“Why not?”
India set the hat on the girl’s head and adjusted the angle just so. Taking her by the shoulders, India turned her toward the mirror. “Voilà!”
Binah preened before the mirror, one hand on her cocked hip. “Don’t I look mighty fine, Miss India?”
“You do. So fine in fact that I think you ought to have this hat for your very own.”
Binah frowned. “You givin’ me this hat?”
“I am.”
“For nothin’?”
“Yes. It’s yours.”
“How come?”
“Well, you have been a great help to me since I’ve been here. Pinning up my hair. Looking after my room and helping your mother to prepare meals, and making the fires and such.”
“But I got you in trouble with old Miz Garrison and the other ladies at the boat races.”
“That wasn’t your fault, Binah. Staging Little Women was my idea. I didn’t stop to think how it would be received.”
Binah studied her reflection in the mirror. “Reckon they will ever be a black girl on the stage?”
“I won’t be surprised. When I was a girl, my father told me about a play called The Escape, written by a Negro playwright named William Brown. It’s only a matter of time before a black woman becomes a famous actress.” India smiled into the mirror. “Maybe it will be you.”
Binah grinned, showing a set of perfect teeth. She ran her fingers over the hatbox. “Reckon where is a safe place to keep my hat?”
“Perhaps you ought to take the hatbox too.”
“Perhaps I should.”
Almarene plodded up the stairs and poked her head into the room.
“Look, Mama,” Binah said. “Miss India give me a hat. But you can borry it if you—”
“You done helping Miss India yet?” Almarene frowned. “I need you in the kitchen house.”
“I can spare her,” India said. “She’s been a big help.”
Almarene bobbed her head. “They’s a gentleman waitin’ for you in the parlor.”
“A gentleman?” India patted her hair into place and went downstairs.
In the parlor stood Cuyler Lockwood. He had gone to some effort with his appearance. His clothes were brushed, his black boots polished to a high shine. His pale gold hair still bore comb marks.
“Mr. Lockwood?” India paused at the foot of the stairs. Almarene and Binah followed her down and headed for the kitchen house. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“Sinclair’s tied up with some men from the mill. He sent me to fetch your trunks to the boat landing.” He jerked his thumb. “Brought my dray.”
“I’m almost packed.”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
“You’re welcome to sit in the parlor. I’m afraid I can’t offer you any refreshments at the moment. Mrs. Catchpole is—”
“I heard about the accident. Is she all right?”
“She’s badly burned, but the doctor says she’ll recover. Amelia is with her now, giving her some broth.”
He leaned against the door frame. “How is she? Miss Amelia, I mean?”
“She’s all right. Tired, as we all are. Concerned about Mrs. Catchpole’s recovery. I’m sorry I must leave at a time when Amelia needs help.”
“Sinclair told me your trial starts on Monday.�
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“Yes.”
“I guess you heard, I’m leaving these parts myself. Soon as I can make some financial arrangements.”
“Amelia says you’re going to Texas.”
“I am. Much as it pains me to leave the place I was born and raised, the truth is, I don’t see much of a future here, Miss Hartley. But now that the transcontinental railroad is open to traffic, the future for men like me is in the West. I aim to learn cattle ranching and then head to Montana Territory maybe, or Wyoming. Get me a little spread of my own. Make something of myself.”
“A noble goal, Mr. Lockwood.”
“I hope Miss Amelia will wait for me.”
“Have you asked her?”
“No, ma’am. Not yet.”
“I wouldn’t wait too long. Amelia is quite attractive. You never know when some other suitor might catch her fancy.”
“She has other suitors?” He looked genuinely stricken. “Do you think she considers me a serious contender, Miss Hartley?”
“I can’t presume to speak for her. All I’m saying is that one should never postpone the pursuit of happiness. One never knows whether tomorrow will dawn fair or foul.”
“I reckon that’s true enough.” His blue eyes held hers. “I sure am sorry that a fine lady like yourself has to go on trial. I wish there was something I could do.”
“Thank you.” India motioned toward the parlor. “If you’d like to sit down, I’ll finish packing. I don’t want to detain you.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
India returned to her room and made short work of her packing, keeping out only the things she would need for tomorrow’s journey to Savannah. She tiptoed down the hall to the housekeeper’s room and peeked in. Amelia had fallen asleep in her chair. Mrs. Catchpole lay facedown, her burned back covered in compresses. India felt another stab of regret. What if her suspicions were wrong after all?