A Respectable Actress (37 page)
“Oh, no, India,” Amelia said. “Please stay and help me convince my brother I know
what's best for myself.”
Philip handed his sister the letter. “Lockwood is not the worst choice you could
have made. And if your mind is made upâ”
“It is,” Amelia said. “I've already written to him to accept. I only wanted your
blessing before sending it.”
Philip heaved a resigned sigh. “In that case, I suppose we've a wedding to plan.
When did you have in mind?”
“I'm going to Texas and marrying him there.”
Philip frowned. “That's hardly proper, Amelia.”
“Oh, who cares what's proper? Those days are long gone. And besides, Cuyler needs
to save his money for our future. He can't afford to pay for a train ticket to come
here, plus two tickets for us to return.”
“I'll pay for the tickets,” Philip said. “Consider them a wedding present.”
“I do appreciate the offer, but honestly, who would I invite? There is only you and
a few friends on St. Simons. And India, of course. The church at Fredericka is a
wreck. We'd have to marry at Indigo Point, and considering everything that's happened
there, it would cast a pall over what is supposed to be a happy day.”
India could see the hurt in Philip's eyes. Clearly he wanted to be a part of Amelia's
wedding, but she seemed just as determined
to do things her way. “Perhaps you and
Mr. Lockwood could plan to come home for Christmas. We could arrange a reception
at the hotel. Maybe an evening affair, with greenery and candlelight. It could be
quite lovely.”
Amelia beamed. “That's a perfect solution. What do you think, Philip?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “that I have no say in any of this. If you ladies will
excuse me, I must see to the horse.”
He climbed into the rig and drove away.
M
ARCH
22
T
HE OFFICES OF
S
HAKLEFORD AND
K
ENNEDY OCCUPIED
a handsome pink stucco building nestled between a jewelry store and a men's haberdashery. Tall windows with dark green shutters overlooked a small courtyard enclosed behind a wrought-iron fence. A discreet brass plaque affixed to the right side of the door bore the names of the two gentlemen who had summoned India to a meeting at ten o'clock sharp.
Celia's carriage driver delivered India to the front door and settled down to wait
for her.
She climbed the steps and rang the bell. Presently a small, round woman with gentle
features, her dark hair threaded with gray, opened the door and ushered India into
a spacious, high-ceilinged room. Brown leather chairs, glass-fronted bookcases, and
wooden tables piled with ledgers, magazines, maps, and yellowed telegrams filled
the space.
“Forgive the mess,” the woman said. “I try to keep things tidy, but Mr. Kennedy has
his own way of organizing things, and he gets upset if I put his papers and such
where he can't find them. May I bring you some tea?”
“If it isn't too much trouble.” All morning India had battled a bad case of nerves.
So much depended upon this interview with Mr. Shakleford. A nice cup of tea might
help calm her trembling hands and slow her racing heart.
“No trouble. I won't be but a few minutes. Mr. Shakleford is running late, as usual.
Just make yourself at home.”
She left, and India perched on the leather chair nearest the window. Outside on the
street a gray cat was inspecting Celia's carriage, and a group of small boys played
with a ball. Rigs and carriages traversed the busy street. Two women carrying enormous
dress boxes climbed into a rig and drove away.
A distant train whistle broke the silence. India thought of Amelia, who had left
yesterday for Texas, accompanied by Binah, who had decided to see something of the
wider world after all. Almarene had gone to stay with Mrs. Garrison's sister. India
pictured Indigo Point completely deserted now, so burdened by the war's destruction,
the elements, and its own sad history.
She hadn't seen Philip since last Sunday, when Amelia had arrived to announce her
intention to wed Mr. Lockwood. India hoped he wasn't blaming her for encouraging
Amelia in her plans. As if she, India, held sway over anyone. But she couldn't shake
the feeling that she had displeased or hurt him somehow. The thought worried her.
Because something profound happened when she was with Philip, a sense that she was
where she belonged.
Perhaps he was only busy. Yesterday's
Morning Herald
had carried another story about
Mr. Philbrick's impending sentencing. Though she was grateful he had admitted his
role in
Mr. Sterling's death, something about his story didn't ring true. His assertion
that he had done it all for the love of Laura had stunned everyone, including Laura
herself. Of course there were cases of secret admirers. India had encountered a few
of her own over the yearsâmen enamored with the exotic glamour of the theater. But
Mr. Philbrick didn't seem the kind of man to be swayed by sentiment. Money seemed
to be the thing uppermost in his mind. Or it had been the night he ordered the change
in the script.
The door opened, and the woman returned with a tea tray. She set it down on the small
side table next to India's chair. “Here you are, miss. It won't be long now. Mr.
Shakleford has just arrived.”
India poured a cup and had just taken her first sip when Mr. Kennedy blustered in,
followed by a stocky, barrel-chested, wide-shouldered man. His brown hair was thin,
receding a bit. His features were robust, his manner expansive.
“Miss Hartley.” Mr. Kennedy bowed over her hand. “Lovely to see you. May I present
Mr. Shakleford.”
Mr. Shakleford offered a brisk nod. “Miss Hartley. Mrs. Warren has brought you tea,
I see.” He rubbed his hands together. “Shall we get down to business?”
The two men took their seats.
“I've described your plans to my partner,” Mr. Kennedy began. “But he has a few questions.”
“All right.” India released a shaky breath. Her profession was to inhabit another's
skin, to assume a different demeanor and different emotions. To mask her own feelings.
But this meeting was more crucial than any stage performance. She had no other
prospects
for her future. When her meager savings ran out, she would be at the mercy of her
creditors.
Mr. Shakleford leaned forward in his chair. “You managed a touring theater company
with your father.”
“For several years, yes. I kept the accounts, paid the bills, kept track of the schedule.
My father and I also wrote several plays, which were produced in smaller theaters
in the East.”
“Mr. Kennedy tells me you have big plans for the Southern Palace.”
India described her hope that the theater might be used for education as well as
for entertainment. “It's a beautiful theater, Mr. Shakleford. It would mean so much
to people who have never before had the chance to attend a play. And as I've expressed
to Mr. Kennedy, I hope we might improve the lives of the less fortunate. In an indirect
way at least.”
“How do you mean?”
“In the same way that the Sons of Temperance are improving the lives of many families
by offering the menfolk an alternative to drinking and brawling.”
“You mean the men's library.”
“Yes. I believe that deep down, most people want to do the right thing. Sometimes
they have never been taught what the right thing is. My plan is to offer classes
at the theater, to teach people to make better choices, just as many men now are
choosing books over the bottle.”
India paused, afraid that she had said too much. Surely she sounded like some overbearing,
wild-eyed do-gooder.
Mr. Shakleford chewed his lip. “It's an ambitious plan. And far be it from me to
stand in the way of social progress. But I
have to keep an eye on the bottom line.
And I'll be frank. I haven't quite understood why our profits last season were so
meager, when the theater was full almost every night.”
India carefully considered her next words. “I wasn't at the Southern Palace very
long before the tragedy happened. But one thing I noticed was that Mr. Philbrick
seemed to have hired a number of people to perform very small jobs.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for example, there were people who only moved scenery. Others whose only job
was to repair costumes or build props. In my father's touring company, of necessity
everyone was able to handle the many tasks required to mount a production. I don't
see why we can't train a few talented people to do more than one job. Or assign certain
responsibilities to the bit players, as my father did. It would not only better organize
rehearsals, it would also save money.”
Mr. Kennedy spoke for the first time. “Well, Hiram? Has this young lady satisfied
your questions as to her abilities?”
Mr. Shakleford stood and crossed to India's chair. He stuck out his hand. “Congratulations,
Miss Hartley. You're the new manager of the Southern Palace.”
Mr. Kennedy cleared his throat. “Now, Miss Hartley, there is the matter of your salary,
which we can discuss later. Mrs. Mackay tells me you are in need of accommodations.”
“I am. I've been her guest far too long, and now that I will be spending more time
at the theaterâ”
Mr. Shakleford raised one hand, palm out. “You can have the manager's apartment across
from the theater. I can't guarantee what kind of shape it's in. Mr. Philbrick is
a bachelor, you
know, and speaking as a bachelor myself, we are not the tidiest of
men.”
“I'll see to it that Philbrick's things are removed and the rooms are cleaned this
afternoon,” Mr. Kennedy said. “Poor devil won't need any of it now.”
Mr. Shakleford accompanied India to the door. She climbed into Celia's carriage for
the short ride to the Mackays' feeling almost giddy. Her name was cleared, her future
settled. She watched the scenery rolling past, her mind busy with new ideas and new
plans for her theater.
If only Philip wasn't angry with her. But perhaps her good news would put him in
a better frame of mind.
As the carriage rolled toward Madison Square, India mentally replayed her conversation
with the two investors. Mr. Shakleford was right. It didn't make sense that the theater
showed such a slim profit despite strong ticket sales.
India couldn't put her finger on it, but she was certain that something was terribly
wrong.
M
ARCH
24
The rooms so recently occupied by Mr. Philbrick had been cleared and thoroughly cleaned,
and now the air smelled like soap and lemon wax. India set down her valise and looked
around, scarcely believing that she was home at last. The rooms were modestâonly
a small parlor, a bedroom, and a tiny bathing roomâbut the compact space suited her
needs perfectly.
In the front parlor a silk rug in muted tones of gold and
celadon lay across a gleaming
wood floor. Two cozy chairs upholstered in deep green velvet sat before the fireplace.
On the opposite wall a pair of handsome glass-fronted bookcases waited to be filled.
India removed her hat and gloves and carried her valise into the bedroom. Here, a
high narrow bed made up with fresh white linens and a pale blue coverlet was positioned
at an angle beneath a single window that afforded a glimpse of a distant church steeple.
The only other furnishings were a wardrobe and a small side table that held a plain
white ewer and basin.
She unpacked and hung her dresses and shawl in the wardrobe, placing her spare pair
of shoes beneath.
A rig drew up outside, and a man in a gray coat knocked at her door.
“Mr. Quinn! What a surprise.”
The young stagehand snatched off his cap and ducked his head. “Miss Hartley. It is
purely a pleasure to see you again. And I sure am glad everything turned out all
right for you.”
“Thank you. So am I.”
“Mr. Kennedy asked me to bring your trunk over from the theater.” He jerked his thumb.
“Got it there in the rig. Where do you want it?”
“The parlor will be fine.”
He turned away just as a familiar horse and rig drew up at the gate. Philip climbed
out and started up the steps carrying an enormous bouquet of yellow and white freesias.
He handed her the bouquet. “I wasn't as gracious as I should have been upon hearing
Amelia's news. Brought you a peace offering.”
“Come in.” She led him into the parlor before burying her nose in the fragrant blooms.
“Such an extravagance. Where ever did you find these so early in the season?”
Riley Quinn returned, staggering beneath the weight of the trunk. He set it down
near the fireplace and dusted off his hands. “Them's some flowers you got there,
miss.”