A Respectable Actress (16 page)

The path curved and soon was nearly obscured by tall stands of marsh grass. Here
the ground turned damp and spongy, and India realized too late that her shoes were
probably ruined.

A patch of gray in the marsh grasses caught her eye. Moving closer she saw that it
was the abandoned rowboat she had seen on their earlier trip. The oarlocks were rusted
and broken. A coil of rotted rope lay in the stern. She was about to turn away when
a gleam of metal beneath the coil of rope caught her eye. She lifted her hem and
stepped into the boat. The rotted wood gave beneath her weight, and she felt the
scrape of the jagged edge on her ankle and the trickle of blood in her stocking.
She lifted the rope. A rusty metal box was wedged into the stern next to what seemed
to be the remains of a woolen garment. She pried open the box. Inside, wrapped in
an oilcloth, was a small leather book.

“India?” Philip's voice came to her on a gust of wind.

Startled, she tucked the book into her pocket and returned to the path in time to
see him just rounding the house.

She hurried to meet him, the raw scrape on her ankle pulsing painfully with every
step.

“I looked for you in the garden,” he said.

“I'm sorry. There wasn't much else to see, so I took a walk.”

“We ought to get back. I want to organize these notes for Mr. Dodge before supper.”

She almost told him then about the book she'd just found, but he seemed intent on
his work. And it probably wasn't a very interesting book anyway. Otherwise whoever
owned the boat
wouldn't have left it behind. She looked up to see that Philip had
stilled and was watching her intently. Everything seemed magnified—the determined
song of a cardinal in the trees, the play of sunlight across his shoulders, the faint
jingle of the horse's harness. The void in her soul waiting to be filled.

She turned toward the rig. He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder and a single
word. “India.”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, a warm, slow meeting of lips that stole
her breath. When they drew apart he regarded her with an expression she couldn't
quite fathom. Was he sorry for her? Embarrassed that he had let the moment overwhelm
them both?

“Philip?”

He made a small noise in his throat. “I shouldn't have done that.”

Regret then. She bit her lip.

He smiled. “But I can't say I'm sorry. Are you?”

“No.” She slipped her hand into his, and they returned to the rig. “Though I never
can tell just what you are thinking.”

He grinned as he handed her into the rig. “I was thinking about how pretty you look
in that hat.”

“Thank you.”

“And about something my father used to say: ‘Where there is ruin, there's hope for
treasure.'” He settled himself beside her and picked up the reins.

She glanced at him. “Are you referring to me, or to Indigo Point?”

“You're far from a ruin.” He flicked the reins.

Unsure of how to respond, she changed the subject. “King's
Retreat is still beautiful.
Did you find what you were looking for?”

“A few old buildings that might yield a bit of useable material.” He turned to smile
down at her. “How about you? Any more roses?”

“I'm afraid not.” She sighed. “I hope the one we found today survives.”

“We'll keep an eye on it and hope a freeze doesn't get to it before spring.” He guided
the rig around a deep rut in the road. “In the meantime, I need a good meal. I wonder
what Mrs. Catchpole has made for dinner.”

C
HAPTER
13

P
HILIP LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR AND DABBED HIS
lips with his napkin. “That stew was
good.”

Amelia chewed and swallowed the last of her biscuit. “Nobody makes a better stew
than Mrs. Catchpole. Don't you agree, India?”

“I do. It's particularly comforting on a chilly evening.”

Throughout the meal India had watched Philip from beneath lowered lashes, hoping
he would send her a look, a gesture, some private sign that he remembered their kiss.
That they were beginning to belong to each other. But he hadn't.

She turned her eyes to the fading light glimmering through the trees, casting a golden
glow across the beach, the end of as perfect a day as she had known since arriving
here. There wasn't much that excited her these days, so fraught as they were with
worry, but as they waited for Mrs. Catchpole to bring in the vinegar pie, India felt
her anticipation rising. She could do so little to repay Philip for everything he
was doing for her. To see him enjoying food that she had made for him—well, all but
the meringue—would bring her a rare sense of pleasure and well-being.

The door to the dining room swung open and Mrs. Catchpole came in, Binah walking
behind her. Binah set down a stack of plates before lighting the lamp and turning
up the wick.

Mrs. Catchpole glanced at India before serving wedges of the pie. “Here's dessert,
Mr. Sinclair.”

“It looks good. You've outdone yourself, Mrs. Catchpole.”

“Oh, I can't take credit. It was Miss Hartley made the pie, just for you.” Mrs. Catchpole
motioned to Binah, and they left the dining room.

Philip's smile warmed India like a thousand suns. “How thoughtful of you.”

“I had help with the meringue.” India picked up her fork, anxious for Philip's first
taste of her creation.

He took a huge forkful. Chewed and swallowed. A look of disbelief came over his face.
“This is vinegar pie.”

“Yes. Is something wrong?” India's heart beat hard. She was aware of Amelia's intent
gaze. “Too much vinegar? It's my first attempt so perhaps I—”

“No. It's all right. I'm just surprised.”

“I hope you like it. I wanted to make chess, but Mrs. Catchpole said vinegar was
your favorite.”

Amelia pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “I'm sorry. I'm suddenly not feeling
very well. Will you excuse me?”

Philip rose from his chair as his sister fled the room.

India frowned, bewildered. Clearly she had made a mistake. She had let her guard
down with the housekeeper. In the warm intimacy of the kitchen she had felt safe.
Be careful who you trust.

Why had Mrs. Catchpole deliberately steered her wrong? She looked up at Philip. “I'm
sorry. I've upset you, and I don't
even know why. I thought the housekeeper said
vinegar pie was your favorite. Obviously I misunderstood.”

He rang the small silver bell beside his plate, summoning Binah, who arrived, eyes
wide, to clear the table.

“I'm going to read for a while in the parlor,” he said when Binah had gone. “Care
to join me?”

But her happy anticipation had given way to confusion and embarrassment. “Thank you,
but I'm tired. And perhaps I ought to check on Amelia.”

He caught her hand as she started for the stairs. “India. Please don't be embarrassed.
It isn't your fault. Vinegar pie was my favorite . . . a long time ago.”

“Then why did Mrs. Catchpole say—”

“She's getting older. Her memory is fading. And she's like a lot of people around
here, wishing things were the way they used to be.”

It was like him to defend the older woman. To give her the benefit of the doubt.
But India had no doubt Mrs. Catchpole knew full well what she was doing. Trying to
turn Philip against her.

Philip squeezed her hand. “I enjoyed our outing this afternoon.”

“So did I.”

“Perhaps we'll go back again before we leave for Savannah. See how our rose is getting
on.”

“I'd like that. Good night.”

India went upstairs, arriving just in time to see Amelia hurrying from the unoccupied
room near the end of the hall. What a strange household this was.

India pulled off her ruined stocking and bathed the deep scrape on her ankle, pressing
the cool compress to her bloodied skin. When the stinging eased, she readied herself
for bed. Binah knocked and entered with an armload of firewood.

“Mr. Philip says it's gone be cold tonight. Said you might want a fire.”

The girl knelt before the fireplace, added a couple of logs, touched a match to the
kindling. The room glowed with a soft light that picked up the metallic shine of
her necklace. She rose and dusted off her hands. “That'll keep you warm till mornin',
I reckon.”

“Yes, thank you, Binah.”

“Can I ask you somethin'?”

“Of course.”

“How come you don't like Miz Catchpole?”

“What makes you think that?”

“'Cause you was frownin' at her when we served supper tonight.”

“Was I? I suppose I was thinking about something else.”

Binah cocked one hip and grinned. “Like Mr. Philip?”

“Maybe a little bit. I have a lot to think about these days.”

The girl nodded. “Miz Garrison told Mama they might hang you for murderin' that man
in Savannah. But Mr. Lockwood told her she crazy. He said Georgia ain't sent a woman
to the gallows in more than a hundred years. And anyway, they usually hang black
folks, not people like you. Then he said if anybody can get you off, it's Mr. Philip.
He said Philip Sinclair is the best lawyer in the whole state of Georgia. He said
it must cost a fortune to hire somebody like him.”

“I suppose it does.”

“How much?”

“I don't know, Binah.”

“More than a hundred dollars?”

“I would guess so, yes.” India watched the fire dancing in the grate. “Why so many
questions? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Who, me? No, miss.” Binah touched the golden necklace at her throat. “Next week
is Hannah June's birthday. I always miss her extra bad ever' time that day roll around.
If I had me a lawyer maybe he could find her for me. Convince her to come on back
home. What happened wasn't her fault.”

“I thought you said she merely decided to run away.”

“No, miss. She wasn't merry at all. But she—”

“Binah!” Mrs. Catchpole loomed in the doorway. “What in the name of heaven is taking
you so long?”

The girl fled. Without a word, the housekeeper followed, her steps heavy on the wooden
stair.

India lit the lamp, retrieved the small book she'd found in the abandoned boat, and
retreated to her warm bed. Perhaps a few minutes spent engrossed in a story would
calm her thoughts. She opened the book and saw that it wasn't a novel at all, but
rather a series of notes written in two distinct hands and with two colors of ink.
One a faded red, the other black and smudged here and there.

B
LACK INK
: You cannot know how often I have thought of you since our parting.

R
ED INK
: And you cannot know what happiness your
presence has brought to this dreary place. Can you come again? Send your answer and leave it. You know the place. Be careful.

B
LACK INK
: What happiness is unleashed in my humble heart to know that you wish for
my company. Thursday next? You must tell me where to get some red ink.

R
ED INK
: Thursday cannot come soon enough. As for the red ink, I learned to make it myself from necessity. It comes from the sap of gall-oak nuts.

B
LACK INK
: You amaze me with your—
HERE
, I
NDIA PAUSED AS AN INK BLOT OBSCURED AN ENTIRE
LINE
.
T
HEN
—Wickedpurpose and malignant mischief. What could not be achieved by valor
was
achieved by privation. But let us speak no more of it.

India flipped to the next page, which was torn and splotched with ink.

B
LACK INK
: In the lemon grove?

R
ED INK
: Such wild declarations! They touch me much more profoundly than is good
for
me. Surely you know how strong is my admiration, and how wrong it is of you to
exact
such a promise in the face of my circumstances. And why I must not see you
again.

B
LACK INK
: I will not apologize for my intemperate declarations, for they come from a
place of tender
and holy affection which I cannot live without.

R
ED INK
: Oh, it is all so hopeless! I am thinking of oleander leaves. Castor beans
and
foxglove leaves. Any one of them in a large enough dose ought to do the trick.

The logs in the fireplace dropped and settled. India blinked. Were these two nameless
lovers willing to face death, like Romeo and Juliet, rather than be apart? Or was
one of them planning murder?

B
LACK INK
: Or else a bottle of benzene and a match. Simple enough. Tell me when the
deed
is done.

Another ink blot obscured the next line, leaving only two letters,
AS,
visible. India
turned to the final entry.

R
ED INK
: Fire is bright. Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light leaps in the flame
from
cedar plank or weed. And love is fire. PS: I think he knows.

Let temple burn. India reread the lines she recognized as one of Mrs. Browning's
famous sonnets. She stared at the scrawled initials, her heart pounding.
AS.
Was
Amelia Sinclair the author of the entries in black? Did she have something to do
with the fire in the chapel? And who was the “he” mentioned in the postscript?

Be careful who you trust. India got up to add a log to the fire. She had thought
Mrs. Catchpole was the one to guard
against. But perhaps Amelia's sweet smile and
unfailing charm covered dark secrets. India hid the letter book in the bottom of
her trunk until she could decide what to do about it.