A Respectable Actress (18 page)

At last, the pie and coffee finished, Philip retired to his study. Amelia and India
went upstairs together.

At the door to her room, India paused. “For your sake, I am sorry to hear about Mr.
Lockwood's leaving. But that doesn't mean he won't return someday.”

“Oh, I don't think he will,” Amelia said. “And I can't blame him. There's no future
on this island for any of us.”

“Philip seems to think there's reason for optimism.”

“Perhaps in the distant future, but not in my lifetime.” Amelia shrugged. “I'm stuck
here. I have the worst luck in the world when it comes to love. I always fall for
the wrong man.”

India thought again of the anonymous love notes. Had Amelia written them?

Amelia sighed. “Please excuse me. I'm suddenly very tired.”

“Of course.” India went into her room and lit the lamp. She poured water into the
washbasin and gently scrubbed away the
dirt and ash from the necklace. It lay in
the palm of her hand, glittering in the lamplight, a tantalizing piece of the strange
puzzle that was Indigo Point.

India waited an hour after she heard Mrs. Catchpole's step on the stair before opening
her door and peering into the dim hallway. No light showed beneath the housekeeper's
door, nor beneath Amelia's. Tiptoeing to the opposite end of the gallery, India
peered over the stair railing. The door to the study was slightly ajar. Philip was
still at his desk, his head bent to his work.

In her stocking feet, India crept to the shrine room and turned the knob. The door
was locked. She returned to her room for her largest hat pin, then went to work on
the lock, a trick she had learned while living at the boarding house in New Orleans.

“What are you doing?”

India whirled around, her heart hammering. “Amelia! You scared the daylights out
of me.”

“Apparently so.” Amelia, in her white linen night dress, her hair unbound, feet bare,
stood in the hallway, ethereal as a ghost.

“I . . . I was looking for my hat pin.” India spoke calmly and felt her heartbeat
slowing. She was an actress. After all, her ability to control every inflection,
every gesture, was her stock in trade. She held up her hat pin. “It was a gift from
my father, and I was worried I'd lost it when I went out this afternoon. But here
it is, and I'm so sorry I disturbed your sleep.” India moved toward her room. “Now
that it's found, I can sleep. Good night.”

She closed the door and leaned against it, waiting for her legs to stop shaking.
Another hour passed. Philip came up to bed. India heard him moving about his room,
the opening and closing of wardrobe doors, the thud of his boots hitting the wooden
plank floor, and finally the creak of the bed frame as he settled for the night.

After her close call with Amelia, India was on edge, every muscle tensed, her ears
attuned to the slightest sound. She waited in the darkness until the wee hours of
the morning. Satisfied that all were asleep at last, she took up her hat pin and
returned to the locked door. It took only moments before she felt the lock move with
a soft click. She turned the knob, and the door swung open.

The room was just as it was the first time she was here. Candles guttered in their
red glass globes. The ball gown waited on the neatly made bed, the white kid shoes
on the floor. The reliquary necklace rested atop the Bible.

Outside, the January wind rose, rattling the tree branches that scraped against the
window. A deep silence descended. India felt as if she had entered some unholy place.
Taking up the tallest of the candles, she stepped closer to the portrait hanging
above the fireplace. The woman had been painted wearing the opulent gown now lying
on the bed. Her delicate white hands were folded gracefully on her lap, her full
lips curved upward in a slight smile. Her only jewelry, a silver reliquary on a black
ribbon, rested in the hollow of her throat. Her hair was arranged into a perfect
cascade of pale gold curls. Blue eyes gazed uncertainly into the middle distance,
as if the woman feared giving too much away.

She was undeniably lovely, but something about her expression filled India with
deep unease. It was possible, of course, that time had darkened the portrait and
the artist hadn't intended his subject to look so forbidding.

India moved even closer to the portrait, trying to remember where she had seen those
eyes.

C
HAPTER
14

T
HE DOOR BEHIND HER BURST OPEN
. I
NDIA WHIRLED
around, the candlestick still in her
hand.

“Harlot! Get out! Get out!” The housekeeper advanced on India, a kitchen knife in
one hand. The blade gleamed in the candlelight. “You have no right to sully this
room.”

India's heart kicked against her ribs, but she spoke calmly and took a step back.
“Mrs. Catchpole. Please put that knife down. I mean no harm.”

The older woman released a harsh laugh. “All you've done since you got here is harm.
It ends now.”

“What harm have I done?” India glanced over the housekeeper's shoulder, praying
that Amelia or Philip had heard the noise and would come to investigate.

“Oh, you know well enough. Tryin' to make Mr. Sinclair fall in love with you.” Mrs.
Catchpole's pale eyes went to the portrait on the wall. “Tryin' to take her place.”

“I'm not trying to take anyone's place. Mr. Sinclair is my lawyer. It was completely
his idea to bring me here. I'm grateful to him but I—”

“Liar! Shut up. Just shut up!” The housekeeper lunged,
brandishing the knife like
a sword. Instinctively, India raised one hand to defend herself and felt the blade
slice through the underside of her forearm. She cried out as blood gushed from the
wound and dripped off her elbow and onto her skirt.

The woman raised the knife again. India ducked and the candlestick fell from her
hand. Caught off balance, Mrs. Catchpole tumbled onto the little forest of candles
burning on the table before the fireplace. Her nightclothes went up in a whoosh of
flame. She screamed.

“Fire!” India ran down the hallway and grabbed the water pitcher from her own room.

Philip and Amelia rushed into the hallway with buckets of sand.

“What's happened?” Philip asked.

India ran back to the room where the housekeeper had managed to roll onto the floor,
smothering the flames. But her nightgown had burned away, leaving a mass of crimson
blisters on her back. She was half conscious and moaning.

Philip lifted Mrs. Catchpole and carried her to her room at the far end of the gallery,
then headed to the kitchen for medical supplies. Amelia ran back to her room for
more water and linens. Together she and India gently peeled away the burned fabric
and applied cold compresses to the older woman's burned flesh.

India wasn't squeamish, but she felt suddenly boneless and lightheaded. She swayed
on her feet.

“Dear Lord!” Amelia helped India to a chair. “You're bleeding. What on earth happened
in there?”

Philip returned with salve and bandages. Amelia took them
from his hands and said,
“I'll finish with Mrs. Catchpole. Look after India.”

India had begun to tremble and couldn't seem to stop. She was only dimly aware of
being led to her room and of Philip's gentle fingers as he knelt before her and cleaned
the wound. He went to Mrs. Catchpole's room and soon returned with salve, bandages,
and a glass of amber liquid.

“Here. Drink this.” He held a glass of brandy to her lips, and she swallowed a sip.
The alcohol burned all the way down, but it soon quelled the worst of her trembling.

He brushed her tangle of curls off her face. “Feeling better?”

“A little.”

Amelia came in, drying her hands on a towel. “I've given Mrs. Catchpole a dose of
laudanum. There's nothing more to be done. She should sleep until morning.”

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.”