A Respectable Actress Read online

  ACCLAIM FOR DOROTHY LOVE

  “Dorothy Love writes with such rhythm and grace. Her attention to historical detail creates the perfect setting for characters we swiftly grow to love and cheer for. The Bracelet is a jewel of a story.”

  —TAMERA ALEXANDER, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF TO WHISPER HER NAME AND A LASTING IMPRESSION

  “The Bracelet by Dorothy Love was a fascinating and exciting antebellum novel that kept me flipping pages way into the night. I loved the insight into events that triggered the war, and Love’s writing is beautiful and evocative. Highly recommended!”

  —COLLEEN COBLE, AUTHOR OF SEAGRASS PIER AND THE HOPE BEACH SERIES

  “The Bracelet is the perfect blend of mystery, history, and the quest for love and truth. A great read for not only lovers of period fiction, but for anyone who hungers for a well-told story.”

  —SUSAN MEISSNER, AUTHOR OF A FALL OF MARIGOLDS

  “With a country on the brink of war and her own future uncertain, Celia Browning’s faith will be tested and her very life put in jeopardy by the mystery of the bracelet. In a novel inspired by actual events, Dorothy Love artfully recreates the lavish world of power and prestige in 1850s Savannah with unforgettable characters and the attention to historical detail her readers have come to expect. Vivid and entrancing . . . I was swept away!”

  —KRISTY CAMBRON, AUTHOR OF THE BUTTERFLY AND THE VIOLIN AND A SPARROW IN TEREZIN

  “Subtle and suspenseful with exquisite descriptions of antebellum Savannah, Georgia, and a tender love story to boot, Dorothy Love’s The Bracelet takes the reader on a chilling journey into the mysteries surrounding one of Savannah’s most prominent families during the days before the Civil War. Love’s careful research and poignant prose provide a story that will delight fans of historical fiction.”

  —ELIZABETH MUSSER, NOVELIST, THE SWAN HOUSE, THE SWEETEST THING, THE SECRETS OF THE CROSS TRILOGY

  “Vivid and romantic . . . recommended for fans of Gone With the Wind.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL ON CAROLINA GOLD

  “Beautifully portrays an independent Southern woman . . . Pitch perfect . . . A memorable book.”

  —HISTORICAL NOVELS REVIEW ON CAROLINA GOLD

  “A beautifully written Southern historical that should appeal equally to Christian and secular readers alike.”

  —READING THE PAST ON CAROLINA GOLD

  “Every Perfect Gift is certainly a gift to readers.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Romance and a strong sense of place recommend Love’s delightful Southern-flavored historical.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL ON EVERY PERFECT GIFT

  “Romance, mystery, and intrigue . . . Love gives readers even more than they expect . . .”

  —ROMANTIC TIMES REVIEWS ON EVERY PERFECT GIFT

  “Love’s amazing historical has all the elements readers expect . . . romance, mystery, and characters who want more out of their lives.”

  —ROMANTIC TIMES REVIEWS ON BEAUTY FOR ASHES

  “With well-drawn characters and just enough suspense to keep the pages turning, this winning debut will be a hit . . .”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW FOR BEYOND ALL MEASURE

  OTHER BOOKS BY DOROTHY LOVE

  The Bracelet

  A Proper Marriage (e-novella only)

  Carolina Gold

  THE HICKORY RIDGE NOVELS

  Beyond All Measure

  Beauty for Ashes

  Every Perfect Gift

  Copyright © 2015 by Dorothy Love

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8762-5 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Love, Dorothy, 1949-

  A respectable actress / Dorothy Love.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8759-5 (softcover)

  1. Actresses--Fiction. 2. Widowers--Fiction. 3. Murder--Investigation--Fiction. 4. Man-woman relationships--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3562.O8387R47 2015

  813'.54--dc23

  2015015160

  15 16 17 18 19 20 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  for Natasha Kern

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances and one man in his time plays many parts . . .

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  CHAPTER 1

  SAVANNAH, DECEMBER 20, 1870

  GUNFIRE EXPLODED TO THE RIGHT OF THE STAGE, A burst of sound that temporarily deafened her. When the ringing in her ears subsided she was aware of screams, of shouts for policemen and for a doctor, of the ensuing chaos as officers arrived and began ushering patrons out of the packed theater. Two burly officers leapt onto the stage, seized her by both arms, and manhandled her into a police wagon parked in the alley, the officers with their weapons at the ready, the horses stamping impatiently in the cold.

  Now it was midnight, and the city of Savannah slumbered beneath a veil of winter moonlight, the deep silence broken only by a rush of wind that rattled the palmettos and Pride of India trees lining the deserted streets.


  Inside the Chatham County Jail, the walls rang with the shouts of drunken sailors and their painted escorts, the clang of metal bars, and snatches of lewd songs sung off-key. Jaded-looking policemen armed with nightsticks moved along the dimly lit corridors, checking the locks and admonishing the prisoners to quiet down.

  “Step away from the door.” An officer paused outside India’s cell, one hand resting on his nightstick. As if a 110-pound woman posed any threat to his safety.

  Weak with shock and terror, India retreated. Perched on the edge of a stained, musty-smelling mattress, she rested her head in her hands. What had she done to deserve such grave misfortune? She didn’t belong here. And the last thing she needed was scandal. But this latest turn of events—as dramatic as it was tragic—would prove irresistible to the local newspapers. She imagined the typesetter over at the Savannah Morning Herald, rumpled and groggy from having been awakened so suddenly, his composing sticks clattering as he set a sensational new headline for the morning edition.

  The officer checked the lock and moved on. She pressed her fingertips to her throbbing head and swallowed the tears building in her throat, wishing desperately for someone to guide and protect her. Someone to take charge of this awful misunderstanding and set her world to rights again.

  In the cell next to hers, two women began a loud, drunken argument made all the more unbearable by the overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies, spirits, and stale coffee that hung like fog in the dank, chilly air.

  The noise abated as the night wore on, and the singing and shouting gave way to snoring as prisoners succumbed to the effects of custody and too much alcohol. India barely moved from her mattress as the hours crawled toward morning. Eventually she rose and crossed her cell to the door. By pressing her cheek to the cold iron bars and craning her neck, she caught a glimpse of gray daylight.

  Father had often reminded her that every situation seemed less daunting in the light of a new day, and now, as she watched a flock of sparrows winging past a high, dusty window glimmering with frost, she felt a surge of hope. All she had to do was explain to the magistrate or the judge or whoever was in charge of such matters exactly what had transpired during last night’s performance at the Southern Palace Theater. Surely he would see that she was not to blame.

  At the far end of the hallway, a door opened and a policeman came in on a blast of frigid air. India patted her curly hair into place and brushed at the dried blood still clinging to the ruffled skirt of her costume. The arresting officer had hustled her from the stage to this dank and sorry place without allowing her even five minutes to wipe away her stage makeup or to change into her own clothes. She felt grimy from head to toe. She could imagine the streaks on her face from where the greasepaint had run. Not exactly the image she wanted to present to the authorities.

  The officer paused before her cell door and fumbled with a set of keys. Iron-gray hair peeked from beneath his cap. The brass buttons on his uniform gleamed dully in the lambent light.

  “India Hartley?” His breath smelled of coffee and sleep.

  “Yes.” She rotated her shoulders, hoping to ease the throbbing at the back of her neck.

  He swung open the door and immediately caught her wrist in a viselike grip strong as any manacle. “Come with me.”

  THE PREVIOUS EVENING

  Her carriage rocked along the street, headed for the theater. India settled into the plush velvet seat and watched the crowds of Christmas shoppers coming and going from stores decorated with wreaths of greenery. At Madame Louis’s hair salon, an elaborate poster invited ladies to come in for styles of the highest art. Flyers offering children’s toys, European fashions, and grand action pianos fluttered from shop windows illuminated by gaslight.

  At the corner of Drayton and Congress, the carriage paused for a man and a small girl crossing the street, their arms laden with packages from Thomas Bateson’s store. At the sight of them, India felt a fresh sting of loneliness. For most of her life, she and Father had lived alone, traveling from London to Philadelphia and then Boston, where he managed various theater companies before finally organizing his own. He had recognized her talent and her instinctual understanding of how the theater worked, and groomed her for a life on the stage. But he had failed to teach her anything about how to survive in a harsh and indifferent world.

  Father had not been the most skillful of managers. India supported him more often than the other way around. But she never doubted his love for her. He was the touchstone that kept her grounded, and when she lost him she lost the everyday contentment she had taken for granted.

  Upon his untimely death, she discovered they were nearly broke and her interest in the Classic Theater Touring Company had been taken over by an unscrupulous manager she’d once trusted. After months of scraping by on next to nothing, she arranged a ten-week tour as a visiting actress to theaters in Savannah, Charleston, and New Orleans. What would become of her after the tour finished was something she did not let herself think about.

  “Here we are, Miss Hartley.” The young driver opened the carriage door and extended a gloved hand to assist her as she exited.

  When she paused to straighten her hat, he fumbled in his pocket for a scrap of paper and a pencil.

  “Would you mind?” He thrust the paper and pencil into her hands. “I mean, I know it’s an awful imposition, but my little sister reveres you. It sure would be the best Christmas present ever for her to have your signature.”

  “Of course.” India took the paper and pencil. “What plays of mine has she seen?”

  “Oh, we can’t afford the theater. But she reads about you in the ladies’ magazines she gets from the circulating library. She tries to style her hair like yours. I reckon just about every girl in Savannah wants India Hartley curls.” He watched as she fished a carte de visite from her reticule. “She tries to talk like she’s from London, too, when she thinks nobody is listening. But I don’t reckon the Queen’s English mixes too well with our way of speaking.”

  India scribbled her signature on the back of the photograph—made at Mr. Sarony’s New York studio—and pressed it into his hand. “Present this at the theater tonight. I’ll have two tickets waiting for you and your sister.”

  He gaped at her. “You mean it? We’re goin’ to the Southern Palace?”

  India smiled. “You are indeed. The curtain is at eight. Don’t be late.”

  “Well, I sure . . . I won’t. I mean, thank you, Miss Hartley. Thank you so much. Just wait till I tell Mary. She won’t believe it.”

  He climbed up and flicked the reins. The carriage moved along the crowded street and disappeared around the corner.

  Lifting her skirts to avoid the mud and horse droppings littering the street, India hurried to the stage door on the narrow alley and entered the deserted theater.

  On the lower level, a long hallway ran the length of the building. Here were dressing rooms, the property room, and the manager’s office. At the opposite end of the corridor, a spiral staircase led upward to the stage. At this early hour she was alone in the dimly lit space, but she didn’t mind the solitude or the chill seeping through the walls. She and her father had made a habit of arriving at the theater early. She liked having plenty of time to get into costume and quiet her mind, focusing on the
story she was about to tell.

  A loud crash from above and a man’s shouted curse sent her rushing up the staircase and into the theater wings. Riley Quinn, the young assistant to the stage manager, was sitting on the floor, an overturned ladder at his side. In his hands was a large mirror framed in black. He startled when he saw her, then scrambled to his feet.

  “Mr. Quinn, are you all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Hartley. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just puttin’ up this mirror in that far corner, so as to cast more light downstage.” He gestured to the corner where a flame torch sat next to a large block of lime. During the performance the lime would be heated to incandescence. Mirrors and gaslights installed along the sides of the stage would provide illumination far more powerful than the candles of old. “I reckon Mr. Sterling will have a harder time keepin’ you in the shadows now.”

  India nodded. Apparently her leading man’s ungenerous actions on opening night had not gone unnoticed by the stage crew.

  “It wasn’t fair, what he done,” Quinn went on. “He may be Savannah born and bred, but he sure didn’t act like a gentleman last night. Folks can see him in a play most all the time. But it ain’t often we get someone of your stature around here. And I for one am mortified by his behavior.” Quinn indicated the mirror. “This’ll fix him, though, don’t you worry.”

  India returned to the lower level of the theater and entered her dressing room. Larger than most, it had space for a comfortable chair, a dressing table and mirror, hooks for holding her costumes, and a wig stand. She removed her cloak and draped it over a chair, then picked up the script she’d left behind after opening night. Suspicion was the work of Jackson Morgan, a local playwright who had attended every rehearsal and was not shy about shouting stage directions to the actors charged with bringing his tale of mystery and betrayal to life. His behavior had not set well with the Southern Palace’s actor-manager, Cornelius Philbrick, or with the leading man, beloved local thespian Arthur Sterling.