by Sandra Byrd
“I’m certain you’re not,” I soothed. “What kind of effects, if I might ask?”
“Items from the mission, I believe.” I could see by the set of his mouth that he would say no more.
“How did this young woman die?”
He would not meet my gaze. “All knew the trials she’d been through—the loss of her brother, of her parents, of her home—so, although she tried very hard to cheer herself and overcome what had happened, it was a tragic ending. At Christmas, one thinks of family, so it was not completely unexpected, was it?”
“She was ill?”
He rubbed a thumb on the brim of his hat. “It was said to be self-murder, miss.”
Said to be self-murder? The hair on the back of my neck prickled.
He glanced out of the window over my shoulder to the far distance where I’d seen the family chapel. “She’s buried there. Fresh grave. Toward the back. It struck us hard, miss, we all felt so kindly toward her. I’m not sure anyone is quite beyond it even yet. So when someone appears, claiming to be her, well, you can well imagine that this would not bring about sympathy and goodwill.” He produced a pressed handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, whether from real sorrow or for effect I did not know.
“We all thought she might have come down with something from the East Indies, perhaps, a strange and foreign illness that came on and killed quickly. That, too, would have been understandable. But no. It was by her own hand. The doctor confirmed it.” He glanced toward the door.
“I’m truly sorry for this young woman’s death,” I said gently, and I was, pitying her for whatever demons had prodded and pushed her to take her own life. “But the truth remains that she was impersonating me, which is a crime. Perhaps she’d overheard someone speak of our deaths at the Missionary Society in London and sought to make gain on our loss.”
“There was news that the whole family had died. A telegram reached me from London. I reflected upon that this morning. Telegrams don’t lie.” He looked at me, holding my gaze, and I admit to withering a bit under the heat of his contempt. “Impersonation is most certainly a crime. Particularly if it’s to gain property to which one is not entitled.”
I addressed his unspoken charge. “But I am Miss Ravenshaw.” My head pulsed in time with my frustrated heart. I spied a burly man in the doorway behind Highmore, someone I had not noticed before. Mrs. MacAlister crept farther away from us, toward the back of the room.
“If I may be permitted to do so, I would like to ask you some questions, questions that only the rightful Miss Ravenshaw could answer.” Highmore glanced up again and nodded at the large man near the doorway.
I drew my chair closer. “Certainly.”
“Do you know where your father had invested his funds? The money he’d made from the Burmese war?”
“Mr. Highmore, I assure you that my father did not talk about his investments with his family, unless it regarded the investment in souls, which he was notably, and admirably, given to.” Sometimes to the exclusion of all and everyone else.
Highmore nodded and asked about our mission, then persisted with obscure details about my mother’s ministries with lace and education. How often had any of us returned to England? Some of that information would have been public knowledge, I’d thought, but certainly not all or even most.
“Will this help?” I asked.
“Perhaps. I shall make arrangements for a visit from the London Missionary Society, who, I am sure, will also want to hear you recount your . . . tale. Now that communication is fairly reliable again, I shall additionally send further inquiries to the mission at Travancore who will be able to make the final decision as to your identity. Within three to four months I expect to have an answer verifying your identity. It’s late April, so”—he counted on his fingers—“I would imagine by August.”
“August?” I stood up. “Oh dear. What shall I do until then?”
“Unless you have family or friends who might be prevailed upon to take you in, you’ll be at the charity of Captain Whitfield, or not, as he sees fit until that time,” he said. “If he turns you out, please leave a forwarding address so I may be in contact. Until then, you will wait patiently and let me complete my work.” He turned to me abruptly. “What was your mother’s maiden name?”
“Porter,” I replied without hesitation but with some shock.
Could he, could he have been implicit in this in some way? Could he be stalling, perhaps to cover up mismanagement of my father’s funds?
“Mr. Highmore?”
“Yes?” He turned back toward me, his black coattails swaying, his proud demeanor an affront.
“The senior Mr. Highmore was my father’s original solicitor. Perhaps you have a personal interest in how my father’s funds are handled. Were handled.”
I saw a flicker of fear. He was concerned that he had made a grievous error, as indeed he had. “I took over when my own father died some months ago. My integrity and reputation are well known amongst those from this area. When—if—I hand the documents over to you, there will be a full accounting from the day your father left for India. Good day.” He placed his hat upon his head and left, taking Mrs. MacAlister with him to make arrangements for her forthcoming trip to Scotland. With the exception of Annie, I was now quite alone.
I took some deep, steadying breaths. “Who was that man at the door?” I asked softly.
“The big one?” she asked, and I nodded.
“Why that’s the constable, miss.”
I wheeled around. “The constable?”
“Yes. He’s well acquainted with Mr. Highmore . . . and Captain Whitfield, naturally,” she said. “They served in the military together.”
“I see.” And I did. My breaths quickened again. “Does the constable often come here?”
“Oh, no. I think the last time was about when, well, when she died. Mr. Highmore was called for, of course, and the captain sent for the constable and the doctor.”
“I suppose the doctor is also well acquainted with Captain Whitfield.”
“Why, yes, miss, he is.” She seemed surprised I would know this.
My heart sank. It was understandable, Mr. Highmore had said, that Miss Ravenshaw had died. After all she’d been through, why, who would even question it? And if it could not be proved to have been a suicide, which they all had been convinced of, then a mysterious foreign illness would do as just cause.
For her. And perhaps for me, as well, if I were not careful? Was someone truly after my house and my inheritance? The spring damp clung to me and I shivered, then patted it off my forehead with a handkerchief.
Come now, I took myself in hand. Let’s not give in to fancies. Before the Rebellion, in which all I knew was turned upside down, I had a calm and firm grasp on how things worked in the world. And then I saw Indian soldiers brutally cutting down English men, women, and children midstride and English soldiers blasting Indians with a viciousness calm demeanor denied. Conceivably anything was possible now, in the shadows. I’d been taken completely unawares then. Perhaps I was no longer a sound judge of reality.
I walked to the window, though I avoided looking toward the chapel and its burial grounds and its fresh grave with my name on it. Then I turned away.
In the near distance I could see the house, my house, very clearly now in the light of day. It was larger than I had remembered it, perhaps as many as thirty rooms all told, including those on the very topmost floor where things were stored and the live-in maids slept when we’d had them. Some windows appeared to be broken, and the moldings powdered. The vast gardens, leading to the soft green downs, were hopelessly tangled and overgrown, like the matted hair of an unloved and untended child.
I glanced at the second floor. I’d been young when we left, but I recalled that Peter and I had slept in adjoining rooms, with our governess’s room connected to both. We used to s
neak past her while she softly snored so we could play together late at night.
Had Peter not died, this house would be his and not mine. He would have taken care of me. I must care for myself, and our family home, as it has been left to me to steward it. I shall have to be clever. I remain on charity till my claim can be proven. If it can be.
I felt, more than saw, someone enter the room, and I turned. “Captain Whitfield.” He stood near the door, dressed in magnificent riding clothes. I suddenly became aware that I was wearing the same secondhand black dress I’d worn the day before. Then I was irritated at myself that I cared if he saw me as fashionable or not. What did it matter?
“I trust I have not interrupted?”
“Not at all,” I replied. Annie stayed near the back of the room, for which I was glad, as my chaperone had absented herself. Most irregular. It would not do to be alone with him, especially in light of my recent comments about the Swan. He indicated I should take the sofa, and I did, which left the chair for him.
“Mr. Highmore says there may be some merit in your claim,” he started.
“Mr. Highmore will certainly confirm that I am the mistress of this house,” I said, tired and overwhelmed with the events of the past year. Then, again aware that I was at his mercy till that came about, and that he had treated me very kindly indeed, I softened my tone. “I’m sorry, Captain Whitfield. I understand that, well, that this was unexpected for you as well. May I ask . . .” Suddenly I lost my nerve, aware again that I had no right to demand answers from anyone though they all had the right to demand explanations from me.
“How I came to be here?” He set down his gloves, black with an intricate crisscross pattern at the cuff, and his riding crop. His hands were, at once, smooth as a gentleman’s and strong as those of a man not afraid of work. “Sir Charles’s will provided that in the event that he died without a living heir, his property would be left to any remaining member of his family, traced patrilineally, of course. Although it was necessary to go back many generations, that honor fell to me. So that would mean, if you truly are Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw, we would be some sort of relations many times removed.”
He smiled at that, and then ran his hand through his hair, which was longish and thick black with the exception of a streak of silver to the side of the parting. It made him look wolfish and dangerous, but when I let my eyes travel downward and connect with his, they were liquid brown, warm and edged with lines from sun and smiling.
Against my will, I smiled back at him. Perhaps he could be trusted. Perhaps.
“My household had been here less than a month, after having been notified of the Ravenshaws’ deaths, when Miss Ravenshaw arrived to claim her property. I moved into the guesthouse, temporarily, whilst I looked for a property and then, well, then, with the death, finding a new home was no longer necessary.”
Death by her own hand or someone else’s? I couldn’t help but wonder, as it had already been implied.
“As for the current situation, I’ve arranged for you to have access to resources for clothing, household purchases, and other personal matters while this is settled.”
This was unexpected. Unexpectedly welcome and thoughtful. I thought back to my small store of coins, just a few more than the Bible’s widow had held, and nearly burst out crying in gratitude. I impulsively stood, walked to where he sat, and threw my arms around him for just a moment, and while he didn’t withdraw, he remained unyielding. I stepped back, mortified, and resumed my seat on the sofa.
A proper young Englishwoman would not prostrate herself so before a complete stranger! Or before anyone at all. I looked to the back of the room where Annie stared, openmouthed.
“I’m so sorry for that,” I said, gathering my dignity from the corners to which it had scattered. He waved at me, gently dismissing the breach of protocol.
“I do not have anywhere else to go while this matter is concluded,” I continued. “I’ll certainly repay you everything spent for my care in the meantime. It should only be a matter of a few months. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”
He nodded curtly. “I am sure the Ravenshaws would have preferred I be generous, and so I will be, though I will require a full account and reimbursement should the matter not be settled as you believe it will be.”
The Ravenshaws. The implication was that I was not among their number. I was about to speak up when I recalled that Highmore had said that Captain Whitfield could dismiss me whenever he tired of generosity, up to the point when my claim was proved.
“I’ve asked Mrs. Blackwood to begin to prepare the house for your arrival,” Whitfield continued, his tone cool and in command. “I’ve scheduled quite a few improvements to the property and buildings, and I’ll continue to oversee them.
“I’ll take my meals in the dining room, as there is only one cook; you’re free to join me at will. I’ll leave Landreth to oversee the house. My valet, Thornton, and I will reside at the guest cottage for the time being—I am often gone on business—and the day maid can tend our household needs.” He seemed to have finished.
I stood. “I did not mean for you to have to immediately remove yourself from the main house.”
He grinned, and when he did, I caught my breath at the beauty of his face. “Are you suggesting I remain in the house along with you in an irregular union?”
“Certainly not!” Then I saw that he teased me and I softened.
“Let it not be said that I would deny a rightful heiress her home, for any amount of time,” he said, and his voice turned dark, as did his mood, because he stood up and abruptly took his gloves in hand. “I have arranged several social events for the next few months—the invitations have been sent and provisions made. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d rather not rescind them as many of the invitees are back and forth from London during the season, calendars settled, and I’d hate to inconvenience. You are welcome to attend, of course.”
“That sounds splendid, and I look forward to meeting my neighbors.”
“I’m sure they will be most curious to meet you . . . although they may be forgiven for believing that they already have.”
“About her—” I began.
“I’m sure you have questions, but perhaps they will be more suitably put after Mr. Highmore has completed his investigation, if occasion warrants.”
He didn’t believe me. None of them did. And yet, for some reason, he was willing to let me live in the house whilst he removed to the cottage. Chivalry? Perhaps. But he was certainly accommodating, though he alone had the most to lose by my claim. I should try to find out why.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have an engagement.” He nodded and left. He strode across the lawn, through the coach house, and to the stable yard, which were all well cared for, and was greeted by a stable boy. His gait lightened as he approached the young man and clapped him on the back.
The captain then rode out across the lawn and to the downs behind the house. Someone, on horseback, awaited him there, her long riding dress whipping about her legs, strawberry-blond hair slipping from beneath her pretty bonnet. An older woman trailed behind them, also on horseback. A chaperone, perhaps.
I turned and looked at Annie, who was still looking at me with a combination of shock and wonder.
“I don’t normally embrace complete strangers,” I offered weakly by way of explanation. “I was just so thankful.”
She picked up her duster and began to work again. “You don’t have to explain to me, miss, this or anything else. I’m the day maid. You’re the mistress . . . for now. Anyway, all the ladies fall for him, even though they promise themselves that they won’t.”
I was about to object when a line from Hamlet came floating back to me. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. I decided to remain quiet so she would not get the wrong impression.
CHAPTER THREE
Within a day of our di
scussion, Captain Whitfield had removed his personal belongings from the house and I had moved in. On his way out I saw him linger in the music room, the centerpiece of which was a large and beautiful pianoforte of engraved rosewood. I faintly remembered that my father had played well, which was somewhat unusual for a gentleman. The portraits on the walls had been dusted, and the carpets beaten, though the curtains near the window showed their age, having faded from ruby to near pink. When I pulled one back, the deep folds exhaled dust and were found to be ruby still. While Mrs. MacAlister busied herself nearby and Annie polished the wood in the next room, I broke the silence. “Do you play?” I nodded toward the pianoforte.
He nodded. “Yes. I had this tuned recently, and it plays splendidly.”
“I’d like to hear it,” I said. “I’ve missed music.”
He sat down on the bench.
“I hadn’t meant that you needed to play,” I said, immediately aware that it might be best if I stopped talking altogether.
He stood. “I hadn’t meant to assume . . .”
“No, no,” I said, and drew nearer. “I simply didn’t want to impose. Please, if you like, play something.”
He sat and played, from memory, a short, emotionally resonant piece that brought forth a portion of the melancholy I’d so carefully marshaled behind a wall in my mind, bringing a small release of pain. “That was beautiful,” I whispered. “Who was the composer?”
He turned on the bench and looked toward me. “Why, Beethoven, Miss Ravenshaw. Surely you know that . . . having learnt to play the piano.”
I knew from the occasional English visitors we’d had in India that all well-brought-up girls in England knew how to play the piano. My shoulders slumped. This had not started off well.
“I was very young when we left England, Captain Whitfield,” I answered. “Although my parents raised us to be as English as possible, there were some customs and traditions that were contrary to our environment, or out of our reach. Pianos, for example, are difficult and expensive to acquire in southern India.” I softened my voice. “All the more reason for me to appreciate this song. You must play it often, for you played it perfectly.”