Mist of Midnight

by Sandra Byrd

  He sat, dumbstruck for a moment, which I took to be an unusual state of being. “I haven’t played that for years,” he said. “I’m not quite sure why I played it now.”

  He stood as if to regain his balance and sense of command. “Do you play an instrument?”

  “I play the sitar,” I said proudly.

  His gaze rose and he looked me in the eye. “Then it is a shame, Miss Ravenshaw, that we are unlikely to find one in Hampshire so that you could practice and perform.”

  Prove myself, he likely meant. It was disheartening. I could collapse in a jelly less than a week into my homecoming, which is what I was tempted to do, or I could steel myself, which is what I did instead. “Yes, a shame.” At least he was referring to me by name.

  Landreth signaled to him, he nodded and turned back to me. “I have business to attend to in London for several days.” He grimaced. Unpleasant business, I suspected. Did it have to do with me? With the imposter? With the house?

  “Have a pleasant journey,” I said as sweetly as I could. “Would it be all right if I availed myself of the carriage in your absence? Or shall I remain under home confinement?”

  At that, he laughed with gusto. “No, Miss Ravenshaw, you are not under arrest.” He smiled and shook his head. “You surprise me. I would have thought you’d known that home detainment is limited to disobedient wives.”

  Now it was my turn to be speechless, which I could see he rather enjoyed.

  “You may use the carriage, and my horses, too, if you care to ride.”

  “I . . . I don’t ride much anymore,” I said.

  “You don’t play the piano or ride?” He seemed incredulous; two pillars of gentle English womanhood had been called into question.

  “I rode till recently,” I answered in explanation.

  He nodded. “Why would you think you were under confinement?”

  “Well, when the constable appeared the other day . . .”

  I could tell by the quizzical expression on his face that he wanted to know how I’d recognized the constable, but he did not ask, and I was glad. I should not have liked to be compelled to reveal my source, and I could hear Annie pause in her duties in the hallway behind us. A new wariness in his face made me suspect my knowledge of the constable caused him to believe that I was local, and not, after all, recently from India.

  “At Mr. Highmore’s suggestion,” he responded.

  But with your approval. “In case our interview did not proceed according to his expectations.”

  He nodded and gallantly bowed a little. “Enjoy Headbourne House in my absence.” It sounded positively proprietary.

  “Thank you for your generosity,” I said, and hoped he knew I meant it. As soon as he’d left the room, I spoke up. “Mrs. MacAlister?” I knew she’d be hovering nearby, and she was.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you kindly accompany me to Winchester this afternoon? I need to buy some clothes.” Now that I knew I could access my father’s funds, I could purchase some necessities.

  “Aye. And we need to find a chaperone for you,” she said. “I leave in four days, and it will not do to have ye here without one.”

  She spoke with conviction, but not with warmth. Although she was not exactly standoffish, my situation as it stood agitated her and I knew she was eager to leave for her home; truthfully, I was ready for her to depart. She offered much in the way of disapproval and meager helpings in the way of affection. “Will you make inquiries? Is there anyone you know who might help?”

  “I’ve already begun inquiries, when I was in town with Mr. Highmore. I put in a word at the Presbyterian church.”

  Oh dear. I’d hoped for someone with . . . warmth.

  “If I may . . .” Annie stepped forward and I heard Mrs. Blackwood stop walking in the hall just outside the room.

  “Yes?” I responded gently.

  “You’ll also be needing a lady’s maid, miss.” She seemed apologetic. “Every lady has one, of course.” She looked at me pointedly before continuing. “I have many other duties and it wouldn’t be expected for me to waken two hours earlier than usual for much longer.”

  I spontaneously reached out and touched her arm, which took her aback. I withdrew my hand. I would not have felt comfortable touching my maid in India, because of caste. Perhaps there was a similarly understood rule here, too. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For what, miss?”

  For making you uncomfortable, and for not knowing what was expected of me, I wanted to say, but didn’t because it might call my identity into question. “For your hours of extra work on my behalf, which I greatly appreciate. Where shall I find a suitable lady’s maid?”

  “You could inquire at the milliner’s,” she said. “Or the dress shop. They often have lists of those nearby and recommended. Only . . . be wary.” Mrs. Blackwood now walked to the edge of the room and glanced at Annie, who now looked fearful of overstepping again.

  “Wary of what, Annie? Of whom?”

  She looked uncomfortable and softened her voice. “It took me some time before I found this situation, miss. I rather like it here as it’s nearby my family and I shouldn’t like to have to move away to find another situation. But you do need a lady’s maid. The French ones are best.”

  I understood. She worked for Whitfield. Perhaps it was Whitfield I needed to be wary of. But what had that to do with the lady’s maid? I knew I could ask no more. “Thank you, Annie. I shall make an inquiry.”

  Her face flooded with relief as she realized I would press no further, and I thought, Her situation is in some ways as delicate and insecure as my own.

  Some hours later I walked into the dressmaker’s shop, and was unable to form a proper sentence at first. The room was populated with bolts of the most beautiful fabrics: silks and cottons and linens, lounging on their sides on the cutting tables like women on Turkish divans, leaning toward one another like friends gossiping, or standing set apart, like prima donnas. The walls were hung with trays of buttons and ribbons and trimmings of every sort. Because my mother had been an accomplished lace maker, we had always had lace to trim our simple gowns, but we had nothing like the array of goods currently beckoning. Mrs. MacAlister spoke up, as I had not yet overcome my childish awe. “We’re interested in some dresses for the lady.” She nodded toward me. “Mourning, at first, but also some for afterward.”

  “Certainly.” An older woman bustled forward. “You are her mother?”

  Mrs. MacAlister shook her head.

  “Her lady’s maid?” The woman clearly expected a young woman to be accompanied by one of those necessary women.

  At that, I could not help but grin. Mrs. MacAlister an ayah?

  “I am Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw of Headbourne House.” I held out a hand, which was gloved in well-worn leather of a style some years past, I was sure. “I am recently returned from India, and am in need of a wardrobe.”

  “Miss . . . Ravenshaw.” She recoiled. Had the entire town heard of the brief stay of the woman who had come before me? Winchester was rather large, but a suicide was, one guessed, uncommon and noteworthy. “One of our dressmakers, Michelene, worked at Headbourne House. She can help.”

  Ah, yes. I relaxed. Annie had spoken of a French lady’s maid.

  “Michelene.” The proprietress spoke lightly but the shop was not large, and soon a lovely young woman of an age with me glided into the room.

  “Miss Ravenshaw, Michelene d’Arbonneau. Michelene, this is . . . Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw of Headbourne House.”

  Mademoiselle d’Arbonneau didn’t lose her smooth smile, I’ll grant her that, but a tic flittered across her left eye. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mademoiselle Ravenshaw.” Her hair was arranged in silky brown coils that tumbled below her shoulders; her dress was more finely wrought than any I had ever seen, sea-green silk that gently swelled as she walked.
I felt dowdy, plain, foreign, and hopelessly out-of-date.

  “I understand you worked at Headbourne House,” I started. “Annie has spoken of you and the unfortunate woman here earlier claiming to be me.”

  She nodded solemnly. “Such a lovely girl. But a tortured soul. Pauvre petite. I am shocked to learn, now, that she was not who she said she was,” she said, her eyes glimmering. “Who could imagine such a crime terrible?”

  Self-murder a crime? Or did she mean the theft of my identity?

  She held my gaze for a moment, appraisingly, and I held it right back. What did she know about the poser? Had she confided in her? Women became close to their lady’s maids in agreement with or even against their will. Michelene quickly grew bright, perhaps falsely bright. “Where is the Capitaine Whitfield?” She leaned forward into the question. I thought it odd to bring him up so quickly, and noted it as so.

  “At Headbourne,” I replied. “In the guesthouse. However”—I turned back to the older woman—“I do have need of several dresses, some slippers, boots, gloves, and such like. I’ll need them quickly.” A look passed between them. “My accounts are being sent to Mr. Highmore, for the time being.”

  The proprietress smiled. “Of course we can assist you. You must be properly attired for a woman of your station. All will expect it.”

  Over the course of two hours, Michelene suggested several fine dresses in rich fabrics and with fine detailing, all of which could be very quickly made. Though black and gray would be required for the few months remaining in my official mourning period, we also found some so that I would be appropriately and beautifully attired when my year of mourning was completed, in about two months.

  “Ah, you look beautiful in the claret, non?” She had me turn toward the looking-glass and I gasped. I would never have chosen this dress, and yet it was perfect. We shared coloring, so I guessed she’d know exactly what would suit. The rich tones of the dress made my skin look even whiter, as did the gold gloves. Encased in such a gown I no longer felt dowdy. I was lovely, I was strong, I was English.

  “Indeed!”

  Michelene brought out some linens and discreetly suggested some undergarments, corsets, silk stockings, and other confections. I had never felt so feminine; their softness slipped against my skin and I relished the delicate touch of it all. I chose some with wide hoops and crinolines, as was the fashion, but I insisted on some with less complicated, but still fashionable, forms, so I might walk more easily, as I had in India.

  And one day, ride?

  I pushed the thought aside.

  Though I was still thin from the months interned at the Residency, I felt womanly again. My mother had loved pretty clothes and had long denied herself their pleasure, not wanting to take mission funds to adorn herself. Except for the lace, of course. No one had lace as beautiful as my mother.

  I would wear these as much for her as for myself, but I must also exercise some restraint. I reserved half of the dresses Michelene had set aside for me—after all, I had nothing at all to wear and even my charity boots were a size too large—and kindly asked her to return the others.

  As we made arrangements for the final deliveries, Michelene drew near. “You have need of a lady’s maid?”

  I nodded. “I believe that I do. Is there a list, perhaps, that I might review and make some discreet inquiries?”

  Mrs. MacAlister’s silent concern intensified from across the room as Michelene drew even closer and lowered her voice.

  “I very much enjoyed working at the Headbourne House. What a pleasure it would be to care for a young woman such as yourself, une belle jolie, denied the pleasures of civilization for so long, and now, ready to be alive again, with Michelene to help revive her, n’est-ce pas? As to the list . . . well, that takes time, perhaps. Time for the lady to have inquiries made after her, time for her history to be verified, for interviews, for the checks of the references. Do you have someone who could act as lady’s maid while these inquiries are made?”

  I thought of poor, tired Annie, who would likely refuse even if asked. After all, it had been she who’d sent me here. Had Annie sent me here specifically, knowing Michelene? I dismissed the thought. Why should she do that?

  A flicker of concern lit again. “No,” I answered.

  Mrs. MacAlister moved closer, within listening distance.

  “Voilà! I would not need to make such focused inquiries, which may or may not end well, having recently been in service at Headbourne. Nor would you.”

  It was probable, she implied, that my dubious identity in light of the recent tragedy at Headbourne would put off other suitable lady’s maids, at least for the immediate future.

  I nodded toward her employer. “Wouldn’t she mind?”

  She shook her head. “As you English say, it’s every man for himself, non?”

  She seemed full of life and I desperately needed someone to help me be well turned out for the social events Captain Whitfield had planned over the coming months and, really, for life in En­gland on the whole. Perhaps, I hoped, she could shed some light on the mystery that now shrouded my home more ghoulishly than its regular mists. This alone was reason to employ her, in fact, for the immediate future anyway. “Please, come when you can.”

  “I require my own room, the day maid to care for it, and an equitable salary. Plus, the traditional perquisites of a lady’s maid.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, reluctant to show my ignorance by asking just what those perquisites might include. I hoped I should not regret this choice but, truly, what option did I have?

  We left the shop, and Daniel, the carriage driver, came round to pick us up. On the way home, Mrs. MacAlister spoke up.

  “And the devil take the hindmost.”

  I turned toward her, confused. Perhaps she, like me, did not sleep well and was now babbling. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “The rest of the phrase that Frenchwoman used. ‘Each man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.’ I fear for ye, lassie. I leave soon and then ye shall be alone in a new place and at the hindmost, as you do not yet understand their ways.”

  I nodded and sank into the carriage, pulling my shawl tightly about me as we made our way home. I’d felt, in the past year, the devil breathing just behind me, hoping to take me, and I’d certainly felt as if I were the hindmost. I still did.

  That night I turned down the lamp in my room, which overlooked the gnarled gardens, the groomed downs, and the guesthouse, which had gone dark. I locked my door, sat on the edge of my bed, and ran my hand along the smooth counterpane covering it.

  Had this been mine as a child? I could not remember, though I squeezed my eyes shut and begged for a happy memory to step forward. Had my mother touched it? I ran my hand along it several more times, in case it had been so, as if to soak up some of her touch through my skin, and grieved quietly. I wanted her to embrace me. I wanted Father to take me with him on a visit. I wanted my brother, the cavalry, anyone to ride to my rescue.

  My stomach clenched from the unusual heavy English food, and I ran to the commode and remained for some time before returning to bed. I yearned for curry and rice, and lush, soft fruits not decaying and disguised by brandy. I did not want to be here. At least, I did not want to be here by myself. I wanted reassurance that my mind was whole and would remain whole.

  I’ll try not to whine, Lord, or I promise to do so in private, just between the two of us, because You know how grateful I am to be alive.

  I climbed into bed and listened hopefully in the dark for that still small voice of reassurance, which, disappointingly, did not come.

  Lord Jesus, we are here together. But I still feel bereft, unutterably alone.

  My lamp sputtered, dimmed, and went out, and I drifted into sleep.

  “Mummy, come quickly, Peter is not well.”

  Mother followed me as I ran out of the house
and into the garden where Peter had collapsed, unable to make it to the outdoor privy. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull and Mother held his hand, then pinched the skin, which was worryingly wrinkled. Father and Mr. Mead were able to carry Peter into the house, where he continued to let out his life by the quart. I’d never seen Father cry before, and when he did, I knew that Peter had passed into the arms of our Lord.

  I bolted upright in bed, panting with anxiety, my gown wet with perspiration. I rolled over to ascertain where I was, yes, here at Headbourne. My breathing slowed, and I lay back in bed again, welcoming rest, but not sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Within a day, Landreth called for Mrs. MacAlister and me to come to the drawing room.

  Mrs. Ross had arrived.

  Her hair, the color of tarnished silver, was drawn back beneath a severe black bonnet; she wore a black dress with a firmly starched lace collar. The lacework was exquisite, and when she noticed me staring at it with frank admiration, she smiled. When she smiled, but only then, her dour Scottish countenance lifted and she warmed and filled with light. I had a faint wavering in heart and stomach, a signal in my senses, a fleet feeling we had already met somehow, somewhere.

  Could we have?

  She spoke up. “I’ll be Mrs. Ross. The kirk sent me.” She handed some papers to Mrs. MacAlister. “You’re looking for a guardian for the young lady?”

  “Yes, a chaperone.” Mrs. MacAlister opened the papers and read through them. “Widowed, and recommended by the kirk and elders. Yes, yes, here is the name of someone I know. Godly man. And this one, too.” She folded the papers and tucked them deep into a skirt pocket as if to silently assent.You’ll do.

  The housecat came round my legs, brushed up against me, and meowed once before looking Mrs. Ross over. I smiled. The cat was rarely seen, but she’d taken to me and I to her. I welcomed her comforting, curious presence as she sensed, perhaps, that no one else had accepted me.