by Sandra Byrd
The house loomed in the distance, to the right of the drive, of course, which arced in front of it and then slipped off into a spur leading to the stables. I recalled the carriage house tucked behind and to the side. If it were daylight, I should be able to see the soft downs that thickly ribboned the property like a wrapped gift. As the carriage slowed, I saw the guesthouse farther in the distance.
I believe my grandmother Porter once stayed there.
Well beyond the guesthouse was the chapel and the family graveyard.
Where she was now interred. “Dear young Miss Ravenshaw, buried there at the chapel, at peace, one hopes, though given the cause of death . . .”
We pulled to a halt and the carriage rocked for a few seconds on old springs.
“Will I be waiting for you then, for a return trip?” the driver asked.
I nodded. “Yes, if you please.”
He held his hand out once more and I plunked down another precious coin.
“I’ll wait in the carriage,” Mrs. MacAlister said. “Do be quick.” She was perhaps contemplating abandoning me here and returning to the safety of town and inn. Her anxiety and mistrust traveled through the miasma and settled on my shoulders.
“Please don’t leave until instructed.”
The coachman nodded and this time, he helped me down. I began to walk slowly, wincing slightly, as my foot had not completely healed from the injury sustained as we’d fled the Mutiny. I passed through two stone lions on my way up the pathway, crumbling and partly obscured by moss. I suddenly recalled Peter and me roaring at them, and then laughing as they looked back, silently. Now, perhaps because of the angle of the moon, I saw only their toothy, menacing smiles. We’re still here, but you are not welcome.
Rebecca! Take hold of yourself. Stone animals do not talk.
Scaffolding surrounded some parts of the house, but there were long portions completely ignored and shrouded in shadows. Lamps, like eyes finally opening, began to be lit in the front rooms. Whoever was inside certainly must have heard our arrival on this still, damp night. I walked up the many steps, but before I reached the door and could knock, it opened.
There stood an imposing middle-aged gentleman with a short tuft of gray hair.
“Captain Whitfield?” I asked.
“Indeed no,” came the unsmiling response. He stepped aside and there, in the hallway, stood a tall man, perhaps five years older than I, with a close-cropped dark beard, his clothing well tailored, his boots highly polished. I looked up and caught his eye and as I did, he caught mine. He was young. Attractive and well cared for, I admitted, a steady contrast to the state of the property itself. Perhaps it was my fatigue or my shock at finding him to be so unlike my expectations, but I did not look away, nor did he.
“I am Captain Luke Whitfield,” he said, as there was no one present who could properly introduce us to one another. “And you are . . . ?”
“I am Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw,” I said, and as I did, I heard murmuring from the small assembly of servants in the great hall behind him. Captain Whitfield’s countenance did not waver, although a tiny flicker of surprise crossed his face. “I have heard that some have said that I have died, but I assure you, I have not.”
Captain Whitfield stepped aside and ushered me in. “All can see that you are clearly, vibrantly, alive.”
Was he being forward? Or mocking me? My strength drained, my nerves twitching, I did not feel up to parrying either just then.
“Whether you are actually Miss Ravenshaw, however, that is, at best, unlikely, at least for those of us who do not believe that phantoms can be summoned. Landreth, please show the . . . lady into the drawing room.”
I closed my eyes for a second and rocked back on my feet to keep from fainting. Whitfield didn’t believe me, either. Of course, why would he? They all thought I was recently dead!
Who could assist me in righting my claim? My family had been gone from Headbourne House for twenty years, and before that we’d attended a sparsely populated dissenting church. There might be no one left living who would even remember me or recall what I looked like as a child, much less recognize me as a woman.
I opened my eyes and looked again at the captain, his straight back, his guarded smile. I froze for a moment, genuinely frightened for the first time that I might not be able to prove my claim.
I shall not allow it. I simply cannot because that would leave me homeless. . . . I cannot return to India. I have no fare for passage, nor support to live there.
He glanced out of the front door. “Has someone accompanied you?”
I nodded. “My chaperone, Mrs. MacAlister, waits in the carriage.” She should have come inside with me.
A young woman carried a silver tea urn into the sitting room. I glanced after her, and at the sofa, and then remembered sitting on that very sofa as a child, feet kicking well above the ground.
“Miss?” Captain Whitfield called my attention.
“Forgive me, yes.” I returned abruptly to the present. “My chaperone is waiting for us to return to town, after you and I have had a chance to speak together briefly. We’ll be staying at an inn.”
He nodded. “You’ve made arrangements?”
I shook my head. “We arrived late. But it has been suggested that we might stay at the Swan.”
The young maid dropped a platter and the butler, Landreth, looked at her sternly.
Captain Whitfield responded. “That won’t do. I’ll send Landreth to ask Mrs. MacAlister to join us and you may spend the night in the guesthouse.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your offer, but the Swan will suit us admirably.”
He nodded, and I exhaled, relieved for the first time that evening. My father had often said that I could trust an English military man and Father seemed to have been correct.
I took the teacup, its blue-and-white pattern faintly familiar. I stared at my hand, which held the cup delicately by the handle, and blinked back tears. It looked so like my mother’s hand, unexpectedly. Perhaps it was the china pattern that brought it all back. She had not left the teaching of taking tea to an ayah; as with all English customs Mother was keen to pass along, she’d seen to it herself. I steadied myself and affected a calm voice. “I hope to speak to Mr. Highmore, my father’s solicitor, at his earliest convenience, and the situation will be resolved, of that I am certain.”
“I shall ask him to visit with all speed,” Captain Whitfield said. “I expect you will be tired. Cook will prepare some supper for you and my housekeeper, Mrs. Blackwood, will show you to the guesthouse.”
“But . . .” I began, bewildered. And then Mrs. MacAlister appeared in the doorway, holding her small satchel in one hand and mine in the other. Before the front doors were firmly shut I caught a glimpse of the hired carriage retreating down the long, uneven drive and looked at the captain. I swallowed hard. “I thought I’d made it clear that we would return to Winchester for the night.”
“I insist you remain here as my guests,” Whitfield replied. “Until Mr. Highmore is able to, as you said, resolve the situation. At that point, the next step will become obvious to us all.”
He spoke in a most gentlemanly way, but there was no doubt that his rounded words blunted a threat. Ideas ran through my mind. We were miles away from any other house, and even if I had the means and direction to make it to one of them, what should I say? I’m the long-lost daughter of the house along the road, thought dead, but truly not, slinking around in the countryside after dark with an elderly Scottish widow?
There was no possibility of posting a letter or a telegram, save through Captain Whitfield. But this was my house. I would not let him see the fear that coursed through me. I took myself in hand and tucked that fear deep inside, hoping it would eventually dissolve.
“That’s very kind of you.” I summoned a confident tone. “I’m certain we shall find it more we
lcoming than the Swan.”
“I am relieved to hear that,” he replied with a teasing smile and a focused gaze; to my dismay, I blushed at his attention. He took my gloved hand in his own and held it for the briefest of moments, warming me through as he did. I noticed the pause before the release. “I shall look forward to learning more about you soon.” This time his words were softly spoken and I knew enough about human nature to maintain that he meant them sincerely. I let down my guard a little, too.
Later, as Mrs. Blackwood settled us into the guesthouse, I took time to thank her and then, before she left, to ask, “Why was Captain Whitfield relieved when I replied that we’d be better accommodated here than at the Swan?”
She busied herself with the candleholders, ensuring that the smallest drip of congealed wax was removed by her nail before responding. “The Swan is a brothel, miss. Good evening.” She blew out all lamps but one and closed the door behind her.
A brothel! The audacity of that woman at Highmore’s office.
I blew out the last lamp and settled into bed, knees drawn up to my chest; they knocked with chill and fear. What should I do if the situation was not able to be resolved? I had nowhere to go. How would I live? I had no profession. There was no charity available to returned missionaries; family was expected to care for them so that all new funds could be put toward fresh fieldworkers. But I had no family; my mother’s mother and sister, of Honiton, had died some years previously. And my father’s line had ended in a thin branch . . . or so I’d thought.
Did Captain Whitfield have a claim to Headbourne House through Father? How had he ended up here?
I sighed. Captain Whitfield, resident jailer; his insistence we remain put me ill at ease. And yet, there was something soft and genuine in his last smile. He had seen to it that our meal was not cold, as might have been expected, but warm and of the highest quality. I did not know what to make of him.
The moonlight filtered through the window. I was afraid to sleep lest I be visited by my loved ones in haunting dreams, so I got up to peer out of it. I found I could not see but two feet ahead of me for the mist, which obscured all. Was it possible for someone to come close enough to look in the window without my seeing them? I pulled the curtains shut and then chided myself for entertaining such a foolish notion. I must be tired. Of course I was tired.
I returned to bed and listened to the creaking of the house. After some time, I thought I heard footsteps. They grew louder and closer, seeming to approach my door. Then they stopped. I waited, barely breathing, for them to resume. Had I truly heard them at all or were they, too, foolish notions? Was my mind giving over to imaginings?
After some minutes of quiet, I quietly slipped from the bed and pushed the elephantine walnut dressing table in front of the door.
CHAPTER TWO
Early next morning, there came a knock at the door.
“Yes?” Light slipped through the crack between the tightly closed drapes; otherwise, the room remained dim.
“ ’Tis Annie, the day maid,” a young voice called back. “Mrs. Blackwood has sent me to see to your needs and Cook has prepared a light breakfast. May I come in please, miss?”
I struggled up in bed, still swaying to the tempo of the sea. “Of course, Annie, please do.” I tugged the sheets around me as I had but one thin nightdress in the goods that had been provided for us.
“Ah . . . the door is blocked, miss.”
“One moment,” I said. I had so wanted to make a good impression and I’d already started things off badly. I slipped out of bed and as quietly as I could pushed the dressing table to its rightful place before returning to bed and calling out, “It’s clear now.”
Annie entered and set a tray down on the dressing table, looked at it, then at me, then back at it again.
“I thought I heard footsteps last night,” I admitted, feeling a little foolish.
She inclined her head. “None but the two of you slept here, miss.”
“Perhaps it was a fancy from fatigue,” I cheerfully suggested.
She walked to the windows and dramatically pulled the drapes open, freeing the brilliant morning sunlight.
“I’m not trained as a lady’s maid, but there being no lady here requiring one, I’m the only one at hand to help you dress. If you’ll have me, miss.”
I smiled. “I’ve got on quite well without a lady’s maid since the Uprising, thank you, but I’m grateful for your assistance.”
“Miss Ravenshaw, she were a lady,” she said. In other words, this was another clear indication that I was not only not a lady, but was not Miss Ravenshaw.
“Thank you for the compliment,” I responded and she scrunched up her face, not having meant it to be a compliment, I supposed. Annie shook out my black dress and ran a damp rag over it.
“Did the woman posing as me have a lady’s maid?” I asked, making my way to the dressing table and sitting down. I wanted to establish right away that she’d been posing, and I was who I said I was.
“Oh yes, miss!” She nodded enthusiastically. “She had her Indian maid, of course, and then a French maid from the dressmaker’s in Winchester, who helped her find the finest gowns and slippers and boots. Mostly in black and gray, of course. She did not have the whitest of skin, though.” She glanced up at my face then, still slightly brown from being exposed to the Indian sun.
“My browned skin along with my brown hair and eyes helped me escape with my life, disguised in a sari.”
“I see,” she said, her eyes veiled. “If that’s so then your skin will go fair again soon, miss, won’t it?” She brushed and plaited my thick brown hair and I determined to glean information from her whilst she was still forthcoming.
“Are there many Indian maids hereabouts?” I asked. Perhaps, if so, I could learn some information that might help me figure out just who this imposter had been.
“Oh no, miss,” she said. “I’d never seen an Indian person before the maid arrived. I’m quite sure no one in my family has. Lots of us are in service, you see. But no one I know or have ever heard of has had an Indian servant before.”
This was disappointing. I would have to approach it from another angle, later. “You mentioned there was no lady in residence. So there is no Mrs. Whitfield, then?”
Annie giggled. “Not yet, miss, though nowadays, there’s plenty that wish they were Mrs. Whitfield. Him with this big house, now that she’s dead, and all that money. A military man, well, you know how it is. Some ladies don’t even care about the rumors!”
“Rumors?” I kept my voice quiet and my face free from expression.
She stopped and shook her head, perhaps realizing that she had said too much. “There, all done. Captain Whitfield has sent for Mr. Highmore and he should be here soon.” She backed out of the room, and I was soon left to sit in the parlor, with its freshly beaten carpets and lemon-waxed wood, to wait for the solicitor.
I had not been waiting long when he arrived. Mrs. MacAlister showed him in, though her sour look toward me told me she did not approve of acting as housekeeper as well as chaperone. I offered a quiet apology. What could be done?
“Mr. Highmore. Thank you for driving out to see me.”
He removed his hat and then bowed stiffly. “My pleasure, Miss . . .”
I sighed. “My name is Ravenshaw. Rebecca Ravenshaw. The only one I am aware of having ever existed. If you please . . .” I indicated for him to be seated. “I am confused why everyone seems to believe that I am dead when, indeed, I am not.”
He set his hat next to him. “Miss Ravenshaw returned from India last summer, late last summer, after her parents were killed in the Mutiny,” he said. “They’d left her with friends in Madras on their way north, and as soon as word got back to her of their untimely deaths, she fled, rightly so, to England, with her Indian maid, well before anyone could leave the fracas in northern India.”
/> My face flushed. She had not only stolen my identity but my history as well, had implied that my parents would abandon me, and then sought to profit from the deaths so many had bravely faced.
I shook my head both to clear it and to show my disagreement. “I assure you, Mr. Highmore, I am Rebecca Ravenshaw and my parents did not, and would not, leave me in Madras regardless of what this upstart claimed.”
Mr. Highmore stood, clearly taken aback by my language. “I beg your pardon, miss!”
I immediately recalled a proverb my father had oft repeated to me; apparently it had not yet rooted. Seest thou a man that is hasty in his words? There is more hope of a fool than of him.
“Please accept my apologies, Mr. Highmore,” I said. “It has been a long journey and I am distressed to return home and find this upsetting situation.” I would not show him how very disturbed I felt inside. I held myself together like a proper lady, tilting my head down in a submissive manner. It would not take much for these people to toss me into the street for good, with little to my name, if they had reason to suspect I was not the decorous missionary daughter I claimed to be.
Speak only after consideration, Rebecca. Act gently, Mother had oft said. A gentle Englishwoman will speak her mind quietly, if at all.
I’m sorry, Mother. My head snapped up. I should not be answering my mother, even in my head. It was . . . irregular.
Mr. Highmore cleared his throat, phlegm thickly catching over and over again before finally clearing. Then he sat down again, seemingly appeased. “We spoke with Miss Ravenshaw at length before her death, and she knew all about Sir Charles and his wife, Constance. Some with the London Missionary Society came and visited with her and she was at ease with all of their questions and they with her answers. She even had a few effects from Sir Charles’s wife. I am convinced that she was, indeed, who she said she was. I am not easily fooled.”