A Respectable Actress (36 page)

“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.”

They reached the rig. Philip boosted India inside and picked up the reins.

She tucked in her skirts and folded her hands in her lap. “How did Mr. Fall wind
up in Savannah tracking down missing persons?”

“Mr. Pinkerton had a strict code that forbade his operatives from taking on scandalous
cases. Lucius took one anyway, to help a friend he believed was in grave danger.
When Pinkerton found out, Lucius was dismissed.”

“That hardly seems fair. Of course rules must be respected, but things are not always
black and white, are they?”

Philip smiled. “In the lawyering game things are rarely black and white. But Lucius
has done all right for himself. I hired him for a complicated case I was working
on back then. He came to town then and never left. He stays busy assisting several
lawyers in town. And the odd private client. Last year he helped one of Mrs. Garrison's
cousins track down a lost inheritance. He could have retired on his fee from that
case, but he loves the thrill of the chase.”

They drove out of the cemetery and headed for Madison Square.

India turned toward Philip. “Well, I admire Mr. Fall for doing what he thought was
right.” She paused. “He's so unusual-looking I wonder how he is able to blend into
the background when he's working. I know I would remember those eyes. So
intense.
He gives the impression he can see right through to your soul.”

“He comes from a wild mixture of a family. His grandmother was Swedish, which may
account for his eyes. His mother was Seminole and his father was African—quite a
successful Boston merchant back in our boyhood days. We've never discussed his appearance,
but I imagine he might use it to his advantage. Sometimes it's useful for a suspect
to know he's being sought. That makes him skittish and prone to mistakes.”

They neared Madison Square, busy in the spring afternoon. Couples strolled beneath
the sun-washed sky, carriages and rigs plied the crowded street. Gentlemen tipped
their hats before hurrying to their own pursuits. Under the watchful eyes of their
mothers and nurses, children played in the leafy square.

India reveled in the simple pleasure of a Sunday drive without being accosted by
reporters and curiosity seekers. Mr. Philbrick's startling confession and impending
sentence seemed to have satisfied the public's need for justice. And other events
taking place in Savannah had captured everyone's attention. A series of fires on
Commerce Row had everyone speculating about the identity of an arsonist. The ladies
in charge of fund-raising for the circulating library had recently announced that
the author of a new book about Kate Warne, America's first female detective, had
agreed to give a lecture in May. India Hartley and her troubles were swiftly becoming
yesterday's news.

Philip drew up at the Mackays' house on Madison Square. He turned to her and took
both her hands in his. “Thank you for coming with me. It made the whole thing easier
to bear.”

“I'm glad to do whatever I can for you, Philip. I am forever in your debt.”

“I don't want you to feel indebted to me. I want you to feel—”

“Philip! There you are.”

Amelia Sinclair, her cheeks as pink as her new dress, hurried over and peered into
the rig. Philip and India got out, and Philip embraced his sister. “This is a surprise.
What are you doing in town? If you'd let me know you were coming, I'd have arranged
to meet you at the landing.”

Amelia laughed. “I didn't know I was coming until last evening's mail arrived.”

She fished a tattered letter from her pocket and held it out to him. “It's from Mr.
Lockwood. He made it to Texas and found work at a ranch called the Rocking C. It's
owned by a Mr. Jake Caldwell and his son, Wyatt. Only it seems Wyatt is running his
lumber mill in Tennessee right now, and looking after his aunt Lillian. Mr. Caldwell
told Mr. Lockwood that one day his son will come home to the ranch, but right now,
he is terribly shorthanded and he hired Cuyler—I mean, Mr. Lockwood—to help with
the cattle and such.”

Amelia paused for breath. “Mr. Lockwood intends to save up his money so that when
Wyatt Caldwell comes home, he will have enough put away to start a ranch of his own.
And the best news of all is that Mr. Lockwood wants to marry me.”

“I see.” Philip scanned the letter.

“I know you think he isn't nearly good enough for me, but it isn't as if the world
is full of eligible gentlemen anymore. And Mr. Lockwood is kind, and steady, and
obviously not afraid of hard work.”

India saw the hesitation in Philip's eyes. Cuyler Lockwood had proved his mettle
in helping her to escape to the Isle of Hope. And clearly, Amelia was smitten with
him. But it was not her place to interfere in the Sinclairs' personal affairs. She
touched Philip's sleeve. “Perhaps I should go inside and leave you to your discussion.”