A Respectable Actress

by Dorothy Love

  “Tell her I hope to call on her when she feels up to receiving visitors.”

  “I will.” He turned his blue eyes on India. “This, of course is the fair Miss Hartley.”

  India inclined her head. “Mr. Kennedy.”

  “I saw you on the stage once in Boston. It must be nigh on to five years or more. A memorable performance it was, alongside your father. I was most grieved to hear of his death last spring.”

  “Thank you.”

  A couple of people stopped to chat with Celia. She made quick introductions and sent Frannie out to play in the churchyard, then turned her most dazzling smile on Mr. Kennedy.

  “I’m glad you’ve seen Miss Hartley’s work. I don’t have to tell you what an asset she would be to the Southern Palace.”

  “As a player, absolutely.” He frowned. “But managing a theater calls for a boatload of skills besides acting. As I’m sure you know.”

  India could feel her heart kicking inside her chest. “Mr. Kennedy, my father owned a touring company that he hoped one day to leave to me. For years I assisted him in every aspect of managing it. Of course it isn’t precisely the same thing, but I’m certain I can manage the Southern Palace and make it profitable.”

  The church had emptied. Mr. Kennedy offered an arm to Celia and the other to India. “Shall we?”

  They went out into the pale March sunshine. Rigs and carriages lined up along the street as the worshippers headed home. Frannie played with a small group of children on the gray stone steps, her thick dark braid hanging loose over one shoulder.

  “Miss Hartley has much more in mind than merely making a profit,” Celia said, taking up the conversation again. “Tell him, India.”

  The wind gusted up. India clamped her hand to her hat to keep it in place and brief ly explained her wish to use the theater for education as well as for entertainment. “Besides bringing culture and knowledge to the young people, such a program encourages the next generation to become theatergoers. It ensures that the Southern Palace can stay profitable into the future.”

  “I think India’s idea is wonderful,” Celia said. “And a useful complement to the men’s library you helped us open last fall. The library is already helping to keep the working-class men of Savannah away from the grog houses and . . . other undesirable pursuits. Just think of how much more we could elevate the culture of the city if we had India’s program in place at the theater.”

  Mr. Kennedy said, “I’m all for helping the city move forward, but I’m not sure it can work.”

  “One thing I’ve learned in life is that nothing is assured,” India said. “Everything we do, from crossing a street to visiting the dentist, is a calculated risk. But the possibility of catastrophe doesn’t prevent us from going ahead, does it?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Mr. Kennedy mused.

  “All I’m asking is a chance to try it,” India went on. “If it proves unsuccessful or unworkable, then—”

  “Mr. Kennedy! There you are.” India’s understudy, the blond Miss Bryson, came tripping across the churchyard, an obviously new and expensive reticule dangling from one arm. If she regretted her testimony at the trial, she didn’t show it. She barely glanced at India. “Mr. Kennedy, I’ve heard the theater is about to reopen, and I wanted to offer my services in whatever production is—”

  “That news is a bit premature, Miss Bryson. There is much to be done before we’re underway again. When the time comes, you’re welcome to audition for any suitable role.”

  “Audition? But—”

  Celia stepped closer. “Please excuse us, Miss Bryson. We were just in the middle of an important discussion. I’m sure you understand.”

  The girl looked flustered. “Oh. Of course.”

  She turned on her heel and entered a waiting carriage.

  India pressed a hand to her forehead. Miss Bryson aspired to be a great actress, but she lacked the skill to conceal her unbridled ambition. If India did become manager of the Southern Palace, she would have to find some way to deal with the budding actress. The world of the theater was a small one. Word got around—good or bad—and the last thing any manager needed was a player with an inflated opinion of her own worth.

  Mr. Kennedy turned back to India. “I must be getting home. My wife is expecting me. I will give some thought to your proposal and discuss it with Mr. Shakleford when he returns from Charleston. I couldn’t make a decision without consulting my partner.”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  “He’s the one who put up most of the money to build the theater. I’m just the idea man. If he’s interested, he will want to speak to you himself.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  He bobbed his head. “Good day, ladies.”

  Celia called to Frannie, who joined them as they headed for Madison Square.

  “Well,” Celia said to India, “All in all, I think that went very well.”

  “What went well, Mama?” Frannie caught her mother’s hand and skipped along the street.

  “Nothing of interest to you, my sweet. Just a discussion about the theater. Grown-up stuff. Very boring.” Celia tugged on her daughter’s messy braid. “What happened to your hair?”

  “Charlie Stiles pulled out my ribbons, and then the pins fell, and I couldn’t find them. I told him he was being mean, but then Bessie Frost told me when a boy pulls your hair that means he likes you. Is that true?”

  Celia laughed. “In my experience, yes, it’s true. But you are too young for boys. Your papa would have a fit if he thought you were interested in Charlie Stiles.”

  “I’m trying to get older,” Frannie said. “And anyway, Papa fell in love with you when you were twelve. I’ll be twelve in four more years.”

  They reached the Mackays’ house and went inside. Mrs. Whipple served lunch. Frannie went to her room for a nap, and Celia and India settled into the parlor.

  “Don’t worry about what Mr. Kennedy’s partner will say,” Celia said. “Mr. Shakleford is not the type to question Mr. Kennedy’s decisions. If Mr. Kennedy decides in your favor, Mr. Shakleford won’t stand in the way. I only hope he returns from Charleston soon.”

  “Oh, I hope so too. And I can’t thank you enough for the introduction. And for your hospitality. But it’s high time I found somewhere else to hang my hat. I’ve depended upon your good graces far too long.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve enjoyed your company. But I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to find someplace quieter.” Celia laughed, crinkling the corners of her violet eyes. “Frannie and Maxwell and the cat can be too much at times. You might find the hotel a more tranquil place.”

  “Until I find a position of some kind, I can’t afford it. And I won’t take another penny from you. So don’t even suggest it. There must be less expensive lodgings somewhere around here. A boardinghouse, perhaps, or a ladies’ hotel.”

  Celia frowned. “Boardinghouses. Yes, but not at all suitable for someone like you.”

  “I don’t need anything fancy. I’m quite accustomed to less than luxurious accommodations. After all, I spent three nights alone in a fish camp on a practically de
serted island.”

  Celia inclined her head. “I still don’t understand how Philip managed that. Or how he found Laura. Not that it’s any of my business. I’m only glad you are free.”

  “I don’t know how he found her either. But I’m awfully glad he did. I finally feel as if my life has begun again. Or it will, as soon as I’m settled somewhere.”

  “Mr. Philbrick occupied the manager’s apartment adjacent to the theater. Perhaps Mr. Kennedy will offer you those rooms if you are hired to manage the Southern Palace.”

  “That would be a godsend. I can’t imagine he will offer very much in the way of salary, and whatever I earn will go further if I don’t have to hire a carriage every day.”

  Celia smiled. “Something tells me Philip Sinclair will be more than happy to drive you anywhere you need to go.”

  “He has been wonderful.”

  “But you aren’t certain how he feels about you.”

  “Not at all.”

  Celia’s brows rose. “Do you have feelings for him?”

  India released a pent-up sigh. “Deeper affection than is good for me, I fear.”

  “Then you must give him time, my dear. He has suffered a tremendous shock, finding Laura alive, learning of her duplicity, and then watching her take her own life.”

  “It was horrible for all of us.”

  “I’m sure it was. But especially so for Philip, who must wonder whether anything apart from the law is real or true. If you care for him, you must give him the chance to see that you are not one bit like Laura. I’ve known him most of my life. He can be slow to trust, but once he does, he doesn’t do anything by halves. He’s worth the wait.”

  Carriage wheels sounded on the street. Celia peered out the window. “Here he comes now.” She got to her feet and planted a swift kiss on India’s cheek. “I need a nap, and you two need some time alone. Give Philip my regards and remind him he is expected for dinner on Tuesday night. I’ve promised the Sons of Temperance a meeting with Philip. Some legal thing they want sorted out.”

  Celia hurried up the stairs. Mrs. Whipple answered the door, then hurried away. Philip came in. His eyes lit up when he saw India. “Sorry I missed you at church. Mr. Quarterman asked me to look into a property claim one of his former bondsmen is filing, and by the time he wound down you and Celia were deep into conversation with Mr. Kennedy. It looked serious so I figured I ought not to interrupt.”

  India led him into the parlor. “Celia and I are trying to convince him to let me manage the theater and to mount some educational programs along with plays and readings.”

  Mrs. Whipple returned with a tray, her brows raised in question. Philip politely declined the tea and leaned against the door frame. “What do you think of your chances?”

  “I don’t know. He seemed mildly interested but he has to confer with his business partner.”

  “Shakleford won’t say no, if Kennedy agrees.”

  “So Celia says.”

  Philip glanced around. “Where is she anyway? Not feeling poorly again, I hope.”

  “No, she’s quite well. She thought we needed some time to talk.”

  He smiled, and India noticed the weariness in his eyes. “Wise woman. Actually I was hoping you might come with me to the cemetery.”

  “Sure. But why?”

  “Something I need to take care of. Would you mind if we headed over there now?”

  India retrieved her wrap. Philip handed her into his waiting rig, and they set off for Laurel Grove Cemetery. They entered the gates and drove along a lane lined with stands of magnolia, dogwood, live oaks, and pine trees. He pointed out the graves of mayors and Confederate generals. Moments later he stopped the rig before an impressive tombstone with an elaborate carved base. “Celia’s father is buried there. Mr. Browning was a leading citizen of Savannah before the war. He passed just before it started.”

  Philip flicked the reins, and the rig lurched forward. A few yards down, he stopped before a grave surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence and marked by a simple granite stone. They got out of the rig. India leaned forward to read the inscription:

  Laura Sinclair

  Beloved Wife

  1839–1866

  A wagon appeared on the road in front of them, a tall man in a gray woolen coat and wide-brimmed hat at the reins. He drew up alongside Philip’s rig and halted the wagon. Philip got out of the rig. The man jumped down, and the two men embraced.

  He was shorter than Philip and dark-skinned, with high prominent cheekbones and straight black hair worn a bit longer than was fashionable. Ice-blue eyes appraised her as Philip made the introductions.

  “So, Miss Hartley, we meet at last,” the man said, smiling into her eyes. “Lucius Fall.”

  “Mr. Fall is an old friend of mine,” Philip said. “And the best detective between here and Boston. He gets the credit for finding Laura for me.”

  The detective shrugged, but India saw how pleased he was by the compliment. “You’d be surprised how often missing people are found hiding in plain sight. In Miss Laura’s case, knowing how she felt about Arthur Sterling, I figured if she had faked her disappearance, she wouldn’t have gone too far afield. She had me stumped for a while, but once I discovered he had a place on Isle of Hope, it wasn’t hard to track her down.”

  India shivered at the memory of her clandestine visit to the actor’s house.

  “She lived in seclusion most of the time,” Mr. Fall said. “I suppose she was afraid of being recognized if she spent too much time in public.”

  “She had access to Sterling’s stage makeup, to all kinds of costumes and wigs,” Philip said. “And of course no one would have expected to see her on the street. In a busy town like Savannah, she could move about undetected if she was careful.”

  Mr. Fall placed a hand on Philip’s shoulder. “I’m sorry as I can be for the shock to you, my friend. There were times I almost wished I wouldn’t find her. But I couldn’t let Miss Hartley here take the blame for something she didn’t do.”

  “No.” Philip squeezed India’s hand. “I admit I was taken aback, and embarrassed, too, to have been so thoroughly deceived. But it was worth it to see Miss Hartley proved innocent.”

  “It’s too bad this thing ended up the way it did,” Mr. Fall went on. “When I heard that she had shot herself, I figured she couldn’t come to terms with what she’d done to that poor slave girl. Not to mention that she was facing the prospect of a long prison sentence. It must have proved unbearable for her in the end.”

  “Yes.” Philip cleared his throat. “Did you bring the stone?”

  “Got it right here.” Mr. Fall removed a canvas cover from a tombstone carved in white marble and adorned with angels. “The stone carver balked when I asked him to finish this right away, but a greasing of the palm improved his attitude considerably.” He smiled at India. “As it so often does.”

  He took a shovel from the wagon, and he and Philip entered the enclosure. They removed Laura’s tombstone and replaced it with the new one.

  Here lies Hannah June Washington.

  1843–1866

  Safe in the arms
of the angels.

  When Hannah’s marker was set into place, Philip and Mr. Fall hoisted Laura’s stone onto the wagon and drove it to the new grave beneath a magnolia tree, where Laura rested. They wrestled the heavy marker into place and stood back to make sure it was level.

  “Looks good,” Mr. Fall said. “Soon as the grass grows up around it a bit, it will look as if it has always been there. Though of course the date of death is wrong now.” He frowned. “Maybe the stonecutter could somehow change the—”

  “Leave it.” Philip reached for India’s hand and held on. “Let her be. It doesn’t matter now.”

  Despite everything Laura had done, India couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. The woman was a sad example of what became of those who chose darkness over light. India shaded her eyes and looked around. “At least she’s at rest in a place of great beauty.”

  “Laurel Grove is as fine a place as there is.” Mr. Fall pointed south, to another field of graves some distance away. “Over there is where the black folks are buried. Slaves and freedmen alike. I reckon Hannah June may be the only black woman buried in the white folks’ side.” He looked at Philip. “But my lips are sealed, my friend.”

  “Appreciate your help, Lucius.”

  “Any time.” Mr. Fall tipped his hat to India, climbed onto the wagon, and drove away.

  “What an interesting man.” India accepted Philip’s arm as they returned to his rig.

  “That he is.” He brushed at a thread of Spanish moss that drifted onto his sleeve. “I met Lucius at school, but after we graduated we lost touch until the war began.”

  “You fought together?”

  The wind picked up. India drew her wrap about her shoulders.

  “In a manner of speaking. I spent some time with the Confederate Secret Service. Lucius served as a courier out of Richmond. He was captured once—in Maryland—but managed to escape. He never lost that taste for danger. After the war he joined Pinkerton’s detective agency to track down train robbers and embezzlers and such.”