A Respectable Actress

by Dorothy Love

  Laura set the water glass on the floor beside her chair and drew a handkerchief from her sleeve. “Everything went all wrong. I didn’t intend to kill him. I thought if he were wounded he would realize how much he needed me, and he’d forget about Miss Bryson, and everything would go back to the way it was meant to be.”

  Outside the chambers, a man began shouting and pounding on the door. The policeman went out to quell the disturbance. Judge Bartlett leaned across his desk. “Mrs. Sinclair, are you confessing to the murder of Arthur Sterling?”

  The door flew open, and a large red-faced man charged into the room.

  Startled, India yelped, “Mr. Philbrick?”

  “Order!” The judge slapped his desk and got to his feet. “What on earth is going on here?”

  Cornelius Philbrick wrenched free and stood before the judge, panting heavily. “I admit I’m not the most upstanding citizen in Savannah, but I can’t stand by and watch the woman I love go to the gallows for a crime she didn’t commit.”

  India blinked. The woman he loved? What was he talking about? She and the theater manager barely tolerated each other. Especially after he’d threatened to replace her.

  Philip got to his feet. “Maybe you ought to explain yourself, Mr. Philbrick.”

  The theater manager expelled a noisy breath. “Laura doesn’t know how I feel about her. I never got up the nerve to tell her. But it made me angry to see the way Sterling treated her. Trampling on her tender feelings as if they didn’t matter.”

  India stared at him. So it was Laura he loved, although she clearly cared for no one but Mr. Sterling. What a strange tale this was.

  Mr. Philbrick turned to Laura Sinclair, who had gone pale as milk. “I saw you standing in the wings that night holding a gun, and I guessed what you had in mind. It’s true I wanted to sensationalize the play to get people talking about it, but I never intended anyone to actually get hurt. So I took my own gun and followed you into the wings. I knew Miss Hartley’s weapon was the fake and wouldn’t fire. I had to stop you. I intended to shoot the gun from your hand. To save you from committing a crime.”

  Inexplicably, Laura laughed. “Oh, Cornelius. I’m afraid you wasted your gallantry unnecessarily.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The gun you saw in my hand was the fake one. After the prop manager placed it on the table on the stage, I took Miss Hartley’s gun from her trunk and switched them.” Laura’s eyes went hard. “I admit I’m a coward. I wanted to hurt Arthur, but I wasn’t brave enough to do it myself.”

  The judge pressed the heels of his hands to his temples and laced his fingers over his head as if to keep the facts from escaping. “Just a minute here, Mr. Philbrick. Are you asking me to believe that you actually expected to shoot a gun from her hand without harming her? And from the shadowed wings of a packed theater? It seems to me such a feat would have required an extraordinarily steady aim.”

  “I know it sounds unlikely. But in my younger days I was part of a troupe of traveling entertainers—magicians, acrobats, jugglers, and the like. My specialty was trick shooting.” Mr. Philbrick shrugged. “In the war I was a sharpshooter. General Johnson once told me I was the best shot in the whole army. But that night at the theater, I missed my target and hit Mr. Sterling instead.”

  The judge shook his head. “And you let Miss Hartley take the blame.”

  “I never thought a jury would convict someone as famous as Miss Hartley. I thought she’d get off, and no one would be the wiser.”

  “Why confess now?” the judge asked.

  Mr. Philbrick crossed the room and took Laura’s hand. “I already told you why.”

  Philip looked ashen.

  “Philip?” Laura looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “There’s something else you deserve to know.”

  He held up both hands, palms out. “I think I’ve had all the revelations I can take for one day.”

  She shook her head, and the feathers on her hat fluttered. “Judging from the extraordinary measures you took to defend Miss Hartley and keep her from sentencing, it’s something you’ll be glad to know.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “All right. Let’s have it.”

  “I’m not your wife.” She dropped her gaze. “I never was.”

  CHAPTER 24

  JUDGE BARTLETT FROWNED. “WELL, MRS. SINCLAIR, that’s quite a statement, but let’s stick to the topic that brought us here.” He swiveled in his chair to face the trembling theater manager. “Now, Mr. Philbrick, as I understand it, you are admitting to shooting Arthur Sterling.”

  “Not intentionally.” Mr. Philbrick licked his lips. “But yes. The fault is wholly mine.”

  “You realize you will be brought before an inquest jury and most likely indicted.”

  “I expect so,” Mr. Philbrick muttered.

  “Very well.” The judge pointed to Laura. “Don’t you go anywhere until the prosecutor decides what to do with you.”

  Philip glanced at Mr. McLendon. “I promised her I’d put in a good word with you in exchange for her clearing Miss Hartley. After all, the only thing she’s really guilty of is intent. And since Mr. Philbrick has confessed—”

  “Mr. McLendon.” Judge Bartlett motioned to the prosecutor, who had listened to the entire exchange without uttering a word. “You will withdraw all charges against Miss Hartley and expunge the record.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “The sooner the better.” Philip gathered his papers and rose from his chair. “Thank you, Judge.”

  India slumped in her chair. Her ordeal was over, or nearly so. But her heart ached for Philip. And what on earth had Laura meant, that she was not really his wife?

  “Miss Hartley.” The judge scribbled on some papers as he spoke. “On behalf of all of us, I apologize for putting you through this. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to set foot in our city again.”

  He motioned for an officer to take charge of Mr. Philbrick. Laura Sinclair grabbed her cloak and reticule and fairly ran from the room, the faint scent of gardenias lingering in her wake. The others followed, leaving India and Philip alone.

  India rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief and blotted her eyes. She felt elated and dispirited at once. Now that she was free, she and Philip would go their separate ways. In time, she would recede into his memory as just another case. He would forget her. And she must try to forget him. Though at this moment, that seemed impossible.

  Now Philip smiled down at her. “Thank God this nightmare is over.”

  “Yes.”

  “What will you do now?”

  She had never let herself think too much about the future, but now that she had one, where would she go? What would she do with the rest of her life? Fate had handed her a second chance. It was up to her to make the most of it. To find some higher purpose to her days. “I’m not sure. For now, I’m simply grateful that I don’t ever again have to set foot inside the Chatham County Jail. And it’s all down to you. I can never repay you for all you’ve done.”

  “It was your suspicions about Laura that broke the case.” He picked up his leather satchel and offere
d her his arm. “We caught a lucky break. Seeing you go free and the appropriate perpetrator apprehended is more than enough.”

  They left the judge’s chambers and started down the hallway to the front entrance. Through the window, India saw that a crowd was already gathering on the front lawn. She recognized a couple of the reporters who had covered her trial, and she let out a disgusted sigh. Half the world made their living off the miseries of the other half, and there was nothing to be done about it.

  “Mrs. Mackay’s carriage is waiting,” Philip said. “She and I agreed you’d be better off at her house than at the hotel.” He gestured toward the street. “It seems the public’s interest in your story hasn’t yet waned. Just stick to me, and let me do the talking. Once they have a statement, they’ll go away.”

  She clung more tightly to Philip’s arm, not wanting to think about tomorrow, when he would no longer be her protector.

  He pushed open the courthouse door, and the crowd surged toward them, shouting a barrage of questions.

  “Miss Hartley, how does it feel to be free?”

  “Are you going back on the stage?”

  “Miss Hartley, is it true you were in love with Mr. Sterling?”

  Philip tightened his grip on her arm. “Miss Hartley and I are both delighted with the outcome of today’s proceedings. It has been a harrowing experience. Now she needs time to rest. We ask that you respect her privacy.”

  “Mr. Sinclair, is it true the woman who testified this morning is your wife?”

  “We have nothing more to say. Now please let us pass.”

  Philip pushed through the onlookers and helped India into the waiting carriage. She tucked her skirts around her to make room for him, but he shook his head. “I have some things to do. Give my best to the Mackays.”

  He signaled the driver, and the carriage began to move. India watched him until he was lost in the crowd. She looked out the carriage window as they drove toward Madison Square. Palmettos rattled in the wind. A thin shaft of sunlight pierced the gray morning clouds and glinted off the windows of shops lining the street. Now that she had come so close to losing her freedom, every small detail of this ordinary morning took on new significance. Perhaps one day, this feeling would fade, but for now, she relished every sight and sound. Every breath felt like a gift.

  The carriage drew to a stop. The driver helped her alight. Looking up, she saw movement at the window. The door opened before she had mounted the steps.

  Celia Mackay, dressed in a simple forest-green day dress, clasped both of India’s hands. “You’re here, so I suppose that must mean Philip has won your freedom.”

  “Yes. Mr. Philbrick confessed.”

  Mrs. Mackay—India still had a hard time thinking of her as Celia—frowned. “The theater manager? Why on earth would he shoot Mr. Sterling?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “So it seems. Oh, I am mightily relieved that our prayers were answered. Please do come in. Frannie and I have finished breakfast, but I can use some tea. What about you?”

  “It sounds heavenly.”

  Mrs. Mackay led the way to the now-familiar parlor and rang a little silver bell. Soon, a middle-aged woman in a crisp white apron appeared.

  “Mrs. Whipple,” Mrs. Mackay said. “We’d love some tea, and some shortbread if there is any left.”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m afraid Miss Frannie cleaned me out, Mrs. Mackay, after her riding lesson yesterday. But there’s some scones left, and some of that strawberry jam you favor.”

  “That will be fine.” Mrs. Mackay inclined her head, and Mrs. Whipple withdrew.

  Mrs. Mackay motioned India to a seat before the fire. “I will admit I am extremely curious to know how Philip managed to solve the case, but if you’d rather not speak of it—”

  India pulled off her gloves and laid them on the settee. “I barely understand it myself.”

  She related the events of the past days—Mr. Lockwood’s taking her from the hospital to avoid sentencing while Philip searched for his star witness, Philip’s appearance on Isle of Hope to bring her back, Mr. Philbrick’s confession.

  Mrs. Whipple came in with the tea things, and India paused while Mrs. Mackay poured, then passed her the plate of scones. The housekeeper stood hesitantly at the door, her hands clasped at her waist.

  Mrs. Mackay looked up, brows raised. “Yes, Mrs. Whipple?”

  “You remember I asked could I have the next three days off, on account of my sister’s coming into town.”

  “I do remember, and you’re free to go. I’m not altogether hopeless in the kitchen, and if we get too bored with my offerings, we can always have dinner at the hotel.”

  Mrs. Whipple beamed. “Thank you kindly, Mrs. Mackay.”

  When they were alone again Mrs. Mackay stirred her tea, a frown on her face. “The jury had already decided you were guilty. What made Mr. Philbrick come forward when he could have gotten away with it?”

  “His great affection for the star witness.” India struggled to speak the words that were like a knife to the heart. “Mr. Sinclair’s . . . wife.”

  “I was stunned when he told me he had found her,” Mrs. Mackay said. “A part of me still feels it’s impossible. I was there when that poor woman was laid to rest in Laurel Grove. Philip brought her back here. He was nearly crazed with grief because he’d insisted on taking her to Indigo Point despite her distaste for it. He said he at least wanted her to rest in Savannah, a place she loved. I had understood she was very badly burned, so there was no viewing of the remains, but—”

  India’s heart lurched. There had been a burial, but clearly, the body wasn’t Laura’s. India’s cup rattled in her saucer. She felt sick. “Hannah June.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no other explanation.” India couldn’t keep the urgency from her voice. “The body he buried had to belong to one of Mr. Sinclair’s former slaves. A girl named Hannah June. Her sister Binah still helps look after things at Indigo Point.”

  “But why? How did—”

  “Mama?” Frannie Mackay stuck her head into the room. “My head hurts. And Miss Finlay said I should go straight back to bed and not do any more sums today.”

  “Oh? Come here, darling.” Mrs. Mackay opened her arms and embraced her daughter.

  “My head feels hot.”

  “Where is Miss Finlay now?”

  “Up in the school room correcting my orthography test. But she’s leaving soon. Because I feel sick.”

  Mrs. Mackay placed the back of her hand against Frannie’s forehead. “You do feel warm. Go on upstairs, and I’ll be right up with something to make you feel better.”

  Frannie obeyed, and a few moments later the tutor came downstairs, her hands full of books, her blue woolen cloak draped over her arm.

  Mrs. Mackay went into the hallway and spoke briefly with the young woman before returning to the parlor.

  India finished her tea. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing serious. I’ll sit with her a while. She’ll be better tomorrow.”

  “I sho
uld get out of the way so you can see to her.”

  “Oh, you aren’t in the way at all. This house is way too quiet when my husband is away. I’m grateful for your company. But you’ve had an eventful morning. Perhaps you would enjoy some time alone. Your room upstairs is just the way you left it. I’ve had Mrs. Whipple freshen the linens and lay a fire, but feel free to ring if you need anything.”

  Mrs. Mackay led the way up the staircase and headed for Frannie’s room.

  India turned the opposite direction and entered the room that had been prepared for her. Something furry and warm pressed against her leg. She whirled around and let out a scream that brought Mrs. Mackay running.

  “Heavens. What’s the matter?”

  “There’s something alive in this room. It scared me.”

  Mrs. Mackay peered beneath the bed and emitted a piercing and most unladylike whistle. “Maxwell! You know very well you are not allowed up here. Come out this instant.”

  An old dog, mostly gray but once golden, judging from a few patches of hair on his chest, crawled from beneath the bed and turned his liquid brown eyes on India as if to apologize for her fright. He nuzzled her hand, and she bent to place a kiss on his grizzled head. “Oh, he’s wonderful.”

  Mrs. Mackay laughed. “I think so. He was a present from Sutton the year we became engaged.” She scratched beneath the old dog’s chin. “Poor old boy is nearly thirteen now. Mostly he lies beside the fire in the kitchen and tries to avoid Frannie’s cat, but I suppose his curiosity got the best of him whilst Mrs. Whipple was freshening up your room. He does so enjoy visitors.” She smiled. “He’s always keen for someone new to shower him with attention.”

  “Well, I’m glad of his company. If you don’t mind his staying here, I certainly don’t.”