A Respectable Actress (3 page)
Mr. Philbrick took a revolver from his pocket. “Here's your prop.”
India studied the weapon, pressing a hand to her midsection to quell her nerves.
“It's quite harmless,” Mr. Philbrick said, “as it has no firing pin. You needn't
worry about anything apart from making the shot look real.” He let out a short laugh.
“After Sterling's attempts to steal the limelight last night, I should think you'd
enjoy the chance to even the score. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
“Butâ”
“I'll see that the gun is delivered to the stage for you. And please do try to wipe
the frown off that lovely face of yours.”
He pocketed the prop and clumped along the hallway, his steps fading as he reached
the spiral stair. India collapsed onto a chair, torn between anger and despair. The
loss of her father's theater company had left her with few resources and an uncertain
future. As maddening as this last-minute change was, she couldn't afford to give
up even a single night's pay.
The door opened and India's dresser, Fabienne Ormond, rushed in, her cheeks pink
with the cold. “
Cherie
, sorry I'm late,” she said, her French accent thickening in
her haste. “One of those rich ladies on Madison Square sent for me at the last minute,
wanting me to do her hair. She is quite an admirer of yours, is Mrs. Sutton Mackay.
Oh, what a fancy house. Silk carpets and black marble fireplaces everywhere. And
her husband!
Never
have I met a more handsome man. They are coming to the theater
tonight, so perhaps you will catch a glimpse of them. You will recognize Mrs. Mackay,
because she will have the most beautiful hairstyle and the most dashing escort of
all.”
Despite her dark mood, India smiled at the young Frenchwoman's enthusiasm and confidence.
Fabienne shrugged out of her dark green woolen cloak and began assembling the tools
of her tradeâhairbrushes, combs, pins, and pomades. “Mrs. Mackay told meâwhat's the
matter,
mamselle
? You do not look one bit happy.”
“Mr. Philbrick has taken it upon himself to rewrite Mr. Morgan's play. To make it
more sensational and thus more pleasing to some critic.”
Fabienne's dark eyes went wide. “Mr. Sterling will not be pleased. He likes to claim
all of the attention for himself. But what can you do? Mr. Philbrick is the boss
of the theater,
non
? Come, let me do your hair. You will be even more brilliant
tonight than last, and all of Savannah will fall at your feet. Even theâ”
“Miss Hartley.” Arthur Sterling appeared in the open doorway. “I have just spoken
to Mr. Philbrick about tonight's changes.” His voice was a rich baritone, exquisitely
trained.
She nodded, noting that he didn't seem any more pleased with the changes than she
did. But then, he always seemed to be brooding about something. With his dark curls,
black eyes, and high cheekbones, he reminded India of the poet Lord Byron.
“You don't approve,” Mr. Sterling said.
“No, but as Mr. Philbrick has pointed out, I have no say in the matter. Nor does
Mr. Morgan.” India motioned to Fabienne to begin dressing her hair. “If you will
excuse me, sir?”
“I saw that stagehand just now.” Mr. Sterling leaned against the door frame and crossed
one ankle over the other. Behind him, the other actors were arriving, hurrying for
their dressing rooms, carrying costumes, wig stands, and makeup cases. “Mr. Quinn.
Your not-so-secret admirer.”
India studied Mr. Sterling in the mirror. It was a cliché to say so, but according
to the local papers, the men of Savannah wanted to emulate him and the ladies wanted
to marry him. Though India readily admitted that his extraordinary good looks and
restless energy commanded attention on the stage, she couldn't fathom why any woman
would find such an insufferable narcissist the least bit attractive.
“Mr. Quinn has repositioned the stage mirrors,” he went on. “The better to keep you
in the limelight. He thinks I upstaged you too much last night.”
India opened her silver-topped makeup jar and leaned into her mirror to apply the
greasepaint to her face.
“I wonder whatever gave Mr. Quinn that idea?” Mr. Sterling's rich tones turned brittle
with barely contained anger. “I'd hate to think you complained to Mr. Philbrick about
me.”
India twisted around in her chair to face him. “Anyone who saw last night's performance
knows it's true. You kept me in semidarkness for the last half of the first act.
Not only was your behavior lacking in generosity and professionalism, it was also
dangerous. I could have tripped on a prop or fallen onto a burning torch. You are
so widely admired in this city I confess I expected better from you than that.”
He laughed. “Then the change in tonight's performance ought to please you. Since
you hold such a low opinion of me.”
Just then, Victoria Bryson, the understudy, arrived. “Good evening, Miss Hartley.”
“Miss Bryson.” India motioned to Fabienne to continue dressing her hair.
“Are you feeling well this evening, Miss Hartley?” The understudy assumed an expression
of concern, but she couldn't keep a note of hopefulness from her voice. “The opening-night
party went on for so long, I thought the loud talk and the late hour might have done
you in. After all, a woman of your age needs her sleep.”
India couldn't suppress a good-natured laugh. “I'm so sorry to disappoint you, but
I'm feeling just fine.”
The young woman slipped her arm through Mr. Sterling's and smiled up at him. “I've
just seen Mr. Philbrick. He's terribly excited about this evening. I cannot tell
you how much I admire your ability to change what you do at the snap of a finger.
It's brilliant, really.”
Mr. Sterling preened at the compliment and patted her gloved hand. “All in a night's
work, my dear.”
The door opened and another woman came into the hallway on a blast of cold air.
Wrapped in a purple hooded cloak that hid her hair and shadowed her face, she paced
back and forth in the hallway, casting frequent glances at Mr. Sterling and the understudy.
India felt a stab of sympathy for her. No doubt she was another of Mr. Sterling's
admirers, desperate for a word with him, and now in his presence, too overcome with
shyness to do more than glance longingly at the object of her affection.
India rose, stepped past Mr. Sterling and the understudy, and entered the hallway.
The woman darted away, her steps slowing when she encountered a stack of hatboxes
and props at the bottom of the stair.
“May I help you?” India asked gently. “If it's Mr. Sterling you've come to see, I'm
happy to introduceâ”
“No.” The woman's startling blue eyes held an expression akin to panic. She shook
her head and bolted from the theater.
India returned to her dressing room and resumed her seat at the dressing table.
“What was that all about?” Mr. Sterling asked.
“An admirer of yours, I'm sure. She seemed quite anxious to speak to you, but lost
her nerve.”
Miss Bryson laughed. “He does have that effect on people.” She gazed up at Mr. Sterling
and sighed. “It seems I'm doomed to spend another evening waiting in the wings. But
I know you will be wonderful even though you and Miss Hartley haven't rehearsed tonight's
change.”
“We'll get through it,” India said, picking up her jar of lip pomade. “So long as
we both remember to respect the other's space.”
Mr. Sterling's black eyes held a mixture of derision and amusement. “Actually this
might be quite entertaining. So long as you don't take those new stage directions
literally.”
He waggled his fingers at her and headed for his dressing room.
India let out an exasperated breath. “Don't tempt me.”
H
ALF AN HOUR LATER, DRESSED IN HER RUFFLED
cream-and-violet costume, her makeup in place, India mounted the spiral stair to the wings. Behind the velvet curtain the atmosphere was one of barely controlled chaos as a small army of stagehands positioned the painted flats at the rear of the stage. The settee and the mahogany side table required for act one were placed to take advantage of the light cast by the mirrors and the gaslights flanking the stage.
Fabienne, carrying extra face powder and a brush and the costume India would wear
for the second act asked, “All set?”
“I think so.” India parted the curtain at the side of the stage and peered through
the narrow opening. Though this was only her second night at the Southern Palace,
it had already become a favorite. The owners had spared no expense in its construction
and furnishings. The seats were upholstered in red plush and were tiered so that
every patron had an unobstructed view of the stage. Above the proscenium were fanciful
paintings of cherubs, angels, stars, and doves rendered in the softest shades of
pink, blue, and apricot. Along each long wall were raised boxes with seating for
six that could be enclosed with gold-tasseled
curtains for privacy. An orchestra
pit and a trapdoor that slid open on silent bearings were hidden from view by baskets
of greenery.
Tonight every seat was taken. The theater buzzed with whispered conversations and
the rustle of silks and satins as patrons settled in for the performance.
Butterflies danced inside India's midsection, but she welcomed them as a sign that
she cared about this audience and wanted to please them. She wouldn't let her anger
at Mr. Philbrick, or her anxiety about the substitution he'd made in tonight's performance,
distract her.
Mr. Philbrick, in costume for his small role in act two, strolled past. “Five minutes,
Miss Hartley.”
She blew out a few quick breaths, took her position, and waited for the curtain to
rise. Opposite her, in the other wing, Mr. Sterling stood, hands on hips, his head
thrown back.
A ripple of applause built to a thunderous roar as the curtain rose. India stepped
into the dazzling limelight. She took her position downstage and waited for silence
before delivering her opening line.
“A lie is the truth in masquerade, written in dark misfortune's book.”
On cue, Mr. Sterling made his entrance, the bright white light illuminating his black
curls and chiseled features. India waited while the audience applauded his entrance.
He delivered his opening lines, and they settled into the rhythm of the performance.
As the end of the first act approached, India moved to her position downstage. Mr.
Sterling followed, as he had done the previous evening, leaving her little choice
but to step once
more into the shadows. Her anger flared, but she had trained herself
to set aside her personal animosity for the sake of the performance.
“Act well your part,” Mr. Sterling recited. “For that is where the honor lies.”
“And what do you know of honor?”
He laughed at her, as the script required.
That was India's cue to pick up the revolver that was to replace the vase she'd hurled
at him the previous evening. She reached out a hand to a nearby table and delivered
her next line. “You would mock me, sir?”
Oh mercy. Where was the blasted gun? She peered into the shadows and slid her fingers
across the tabletop.
The silence lengthened. Someone in the audience coughed. In the wings there was the
faint sound of shuffling feet.
Her heart hammered. Her worst fear was realized. The play, or at least this first
act, was ruined. And Mr. Philbrick would accuse her of deliberately sabotaging it.
“Pray tell, has a cat stolen your tongue?” Mr. Sterling abandoned the script and
was improvising his lines now, stalling for time.
No, but someone had stolen her prop. Quivering with humiliation and anger, India
bent down to peer more closely at the table. And found the gun at last.
Just as she lifted it there was a deafening explosion and a quick flash of fire.
An anguished scream.
Mr. Sterling crumpled onto the stage.
“This way, miss.” The brawny policeman, his voice still thick with sleep, guided
India out of the jail and into a waiting police wagon. “If you promise not to run,
I won't put the cuffs on you.” He dropped his gaze. “My wife is an admirer of yours.
She won't speak to me if I embarrass you in front of the whole town.”
“I won't run,” India said. “I have nothing to hide. This is merely a grave misunderstanding.”
He nodded but she suspected he didn't believe a word of it. She couldn't blame him.
She supposed every person who was arrested, guilty or not, professed innocence. She
glanced up at the imposing Gothic Revival jailhouse with its shuttered windows and
enclosed yard and prayed she had seen the last of it.
The wagon rattled along the street, which was just coming alive in the morning light.
In the alleys, draymen loaded wagons for deliveries. A couple of older women in faded
dresses carried baskets of freshly laundered linens to the fine houses on the squares.
A group of neatly dressed Negro children headed off to school, their arms laden with
books and lunch pails.