by Sandra Byrd
“Miss Ravenshaw is the daughter of missionaries whose lives were taken in the Mutiny,” Mrs. MacAlister offered in explanation.
Mrs. Ross nodded knowingly. “I’m sorry for your loss, lass.”
“I will be returning to my family in Scotland in a few days’ time, and she’ll need a chaperone, of course,” Mrs. MacAlister continued. “No well-brought-up young lady can be without a chaperone.”
Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Ross came to stay. Mrs. Blackwood showed her to her room and I accompanied them.
“It’s very near Miss Ravenshaw’s room,” she said as we walked the second floor of the long right wing. No member of staff overlooked an opportunity to press home that they believed me to be a false claimant soiling the name of a young woman they’d accepted and liked.
I glanced down the right wing, gloomy and unlived in, all doors closed and, perhaps, locked. The two halls were of even length, but the one to the right looked longer and projected farther, or seemed to, because the darkness made it bleak, a tunnel to the unknown. My heart skipped a beat. Perhaps dark deeds had occurred that had invited the gloom to visit, and then to tarry. I sensed that was true.
I spoke up. “What is down at the end of the right wing?” I reached into my memory. “Wasn’t there a larger suite of rooms? Perhaps they would be better suited for my needs, especially as Mademoiselle d’Arbonneau will soon arrive.”
“Oh no, miss, you cannot have those rooms.” Mrs. Blackwood clutched her key ring in her hand to still the jingling. “Captain Whitfield has left strict orders that no one shall enter the rooms on that wing while they are under repair.”
“How long have they been under repair?”
“Since . . . late December.” She seemed reluctant to answer.
Late December. Just after her death. I shivered again. Had no one been in there since then?
“But we shall find you other suitable accommodations if you prefer them to the very nice area that has been specially prepared for you.” She bent over to pick a small piece of lint off the lemon-polished floor and sniffed as she put it into her pocket.
Mrs. Ross was settled into her bright room and by the time I came to pay a call on her to check her comfort some hours later, the entrance to the right wing had been freshly, firmly blockaded.
At the end of the wing was a room with a closed door in front of which the young housecat, which did not seem to have a name, stretched. I had never noticed her sentried in front of any other room. “What room is that?” I asked Annie as she swept by me on her way to get coal for Mrs. Ross.
“That’s where the woman claiming to be Miss Ravenshaw”—she lowered her voice—“died. ’Scuse me.”
So the woman had died here, in the house proper. Had there been blood, was that why the room was closed off? A violent struggle? Surely, if so, someone would have had a care to have it cleaned by now. The mystery was as mazy and murky as the recesses of that right-hand passage. Was it a shrine? Hiding a crime?
I felt unanchored in my own home and wanted to become more at ease.
I went belowstairs and located Mrs. Blackwood. “Hello?” I knocked on the open door of her sitting area. She popped to her feet, the great ring of keys clanging at her side.
“How may we be of help?”
“I’m sorry to intrude,” I said. “I wondered if you might reacquaint me with my house. It’s been some time, you’ll understand.”
“I understand very well why you don’t know your way about.” She wiped her hands, and I followed her to the front stairs. Before we began our ascent, she pointed to a wall of bells. “If you’ll just ring for me from now on, miss, we can come to wherever you are.”
Not “Miss Ravenshaw,” as would be due the daughter of the house, but “miss.” A woman without a name or a place. In one fell swoop Mrs. Blackwood had also politely informed me that the working area of the household was not a place I’d be expected or well received.
I nodded, and we walked upstairs. The cat followed me and I was pleased by her presence, missing the many animals that had lived near us in India.
We passed through the breakfast room, and then the drawing room.
“Captain Whitfield, he loves this room.” Mrs. Blackwood pointed to the large, open music room.
“Does he entertain often?”
She beamed. “When we came to this house the first time, we were so pleased he’d have an establishment of his own at which to entertain.”
“So you’ve been with Captain Whitfield for some time?”
“Oh, yes, many of us have, at the rented properties or London. Not Cook, of course,” she said.
“No?” I asked. “When did Cook join you?”
She acted as though she hadn’t heard me. Perhaps she hadn’t. “We were so glad when he came home. It is his own home, with a history that is his, his own family, owned and not rented. It’s something Lord Frome cannot taunt him with any longer. Perhaps others round here must be kind to him now, too.”
I opened my mouth to ask who Lord Frome was, but I knew she probably would not “hear” me again so I did not proceed. She was not engaged by or for me, and as far as she believed, this was not my house. Mrs. Blackwood closed the music room door and began to walk down the hallway.
We passed the dining room. “You’ll not be taking your meals in here, of course, we’re sure you’re very comfortable dining in your own rooms, and Cook is happy to continue to send meals there.” Her tone had a note of finality. We proceeded up to the second floor. “Of course, you’ll know all about these rooms”—she gestured left—“as your rooms are here.”
“But what about the right wing?” I asked. “What rooms are there?”
“There’s the room where . . . the other young lady stayed,” she said quietly. “Some other guest rooms. A linen area. And the large suite where Captain Whitfield was installed until recently, but only after the young lady had passed on, of course. He is a true gentleman. He removed to the guesthouse before then. As he has now.”
Her demeanor made it clear that she thought that was due to his honor and not my merit. I looked down the right hallway again. “Renovations must have begun after I arrived?”
She pursed her lips. “They had been planned for some time.”
She did not rush me, and I gazed down that long passage. The afternoon shadows had shifted and I could not now see the end of it. “If I remember correctly, the suite of rooms that Captain Whitfield had taken for himself once belonged to my parents.”
She looked startled that I’d know that. “That may well be, miss. Is there anything else I may assist with?”
“Michelene d’Arbonneau will be here shortly,” I said. “She requires a room with a carpet, and will someone attend to cleaning it.”
“If you’re sure that’s wise, miss,” she answered.
“Is there a reason it wouldn’t be?”
“We did not say that it wouldn’t be.” Her lips pursed ever more tightly.
“Thank you, then.” I sighed and returned to my room, keenly aware that the staff and servants were all Captain Whitfield’s, and it was to him that they owed their loyalty. Well, Mrs. Ross and Mademoiselle d’Arbonneau were to be mine, not his. And with Michelene arriving the next day, I intended to have more answers about just what had happened here. In due course.
In reality, though, Michelene raised more questions than provided answers. I sat in the chair in front of the dressing table, turned around so I could watch Michelene unpack the new dresses, hats, slippers, boots, and stockings she’d brought with her from the dress shop. “I will show each one to you, non, as I put them in the armoires?”
“Yes, please!”
First she showed me the mourning clothes; as I was in the final quarter of mourning, they were not as severe as they might have been. The fabrics still shimmered and the blacks were muted, but then highlighted wi
th mourning jewelry, including hairpins made of jet.
I knew my official mourning would soon draw to a close. But I suspected the deep veil of sorrow would always shroud my heart.
“You can wear the jet pins even after mourning,” Michelene said. “They are good for ladies with dark hair, non? To beautifully hold up the hair without being seen?” Michelene next pulled out a beautiful blue-gray silk. “This is very much like the one worn by Princess Victoria,” she said, speaking of the Queen’s oldest daughter.
A wave of concern crossed me. “I shouldn’t like to be seen as pretentious,” I said. “And I’m aware that for the moment I am spending money that is being withdrawn from my accounts, but overseen by Captain Whitfield.”
“This is the most dear of all of them, and you shall need something to wear to Graffam Park, ma chère.”
“What is Graffam Park?” I had not been invited anywhere that I was aware of.
“Why, it is the home of Captain Whitfield’s mother and stepfather, Lord and Lady Ledbury. They have been invited to his summer soirée, here, so etiquette will demand that they return the invitation. If you are still here.” She let the last sentence drop like a stone. But then she pulled out the shoes, and showed them to me, pair by pair, so I was taken away again.
“I’m grateful you are here to assist me,” I confessed. “There are customs and requirements of which I am seemingly unaware. My mother took care to bring me up as a proper young Englishwoman, but I’m afraid that our English community was rather small and she was also much occupied with assisting my father. There seem to be some gaps in my social education, and of course, having been away for twenty years, I don’t always know where they are.”
“Do not fret,” Michelene said. “I am here to assist. I was happy to assist the . . . other young lady purchase her gowns and such for the months she lived here, and I’m happy to assist you.”
“She dressed well, Annie says. You were able to help her with that?”
“But of course. She was a lovely girl, and everyone was quite taken with her. I think even Captain Whitfield. She had dark hair, very much like yours.”
The pretender had spent my money on clothing. A thought occurred to me as I watched her with the dresses. “What happened to her many fine gowns after her untimely demise? Are they stored? Have they been sent to charity?”
Michelene did not turn from busying herself in the second wardrobe. “Non, not to charity. It is the custom for a lady’s maid to receive, as a benefit of her services, the gowns and dresses her mistress no longer desires or needs. In this case, the pauvre petite had no further need for her gowns, and when I cleaned out her rooms I took them with me. As she would have wanted.”
This was breathtaking to me, who had worn every dress let out and lengthened till it was no longer socially acceptable. I stared at the back of her fine silk dress. “I see.” Was that one of the distinct perquisites she had mentioned? Had permission been overtly given? Had the imposter, too, purchased gowns of many colors and fine fabrics, anticipating her post-mourning period? I would make discreet inquiries about this practice.
“I assume jewels are not perquisites.”
“Mais non,” she said. “But the little one had no jewels.”
She turned. “This one”—she took out a copper-colored dress with a rather daring neckline—“this is the one you should wear, after mourning, when you dine with Captain Whitfield.”
“I do not dine with Captain Whitfield,” I said. “I dine in my rooms. In any case, I would certainly not consider dressing to please him.” A faint blush crept up, as I’d never been good at dissembling.
She raised an eyebrow and put the dress back in the wardrobe. “I understand. He’s a Hussar. So very attractive, but a little dangerous, non?”
Ah, the Hussars—light cavalry regiments known for their loyalty, courage, and daring, but also for their womanizing, risk-taking, and a healthy view of their worth in the world.
“They fearlessly take what they want or feel owed,” Michelene continued.
“Perhaps that is only the French Hussars,” I said. “Not the English.” But she’d put her finger on it. He was an attractive, but also a potentially dangerous, quantity. Certainly a man very much different from those I’d experienced.
In another context, time and place, set of circumstances, that would not have been altogether unwelcome.
Michelene continued on as if she hadn’t heard me. “Hussars would scare many women, especially women who have been rather, what is the English word, protected?” She looked puzzled. “Coddled!” She clicked her fingers as she said it. “Now, I am very fatigued, and I should like to rest in my rooms for a while. I will be but a moment away if you need me, and will be back later this evening to undress your hair and help you prepare for bed.”
“Thank you.” I smiled. “But I do feel that the gray gown needs to be returned. If I am invited to Graffam, we can purchase a new gown then.”
She frowned.
I continued softly, but with an effort to assert my authority, “That will be all for now.”
She offered a patronizing, sophisticated smile and left. Instead of mistress of the house, I felt like an imperious little girl pretending to tell her governess what to do.
The next morning, after breakfast, a new silver salver rested on the large table in the main hallway, reflecting the glory of the mid-May sunshine. I looked questioningly at Landreth, who was supervising some workmen near the sitting room.
“That’s the salver for calling cards, miss,” he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of having it placed here again, as you will surely be receiving callers.”
I nodded slowly. “Thank you, Landreth.” I walked closer to him and lowered my voice. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but could you kindly inform me of the protocol for callers?”
“You don’t know, miss?” His tone was bewildered and, perhaps, a little suspicious.
I shook my head. “If I had intended to adopt a false identity, surely I would have familiarized myself with the appropriate etiquette before embarking on such a deception.”
“If you were of the right station, miss, then yes, you would have known to do so.”
I looked at him and he at me, a standoff. “But you do not find me to speak in an uneducated manner, do you?” I gently put forth.
“No,” he said. “But neither did she.” We both knew whom he meant by she.
Had she not known calling protocol either? Or had she spoken more coarsely than he’d first considered?
I could see I’d need to share with him what I’d already told Michelene. “I assure you that my mother raised me in all ways as gently English born, from the taking of tea to the playing of instruments, such that were available, to the appropriate manner in which to interact with household staff, ” I said quietly, “caring for their comfort as well as my own. However, some customs seem to have held a different protocol among the English in India than the English at home—calling among them. I should genuinely appreciate your guidance.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied with my explanation. “During the week, ladies come by to leave cards, and from time to time, once you know the environs, you shall do the same. You’ll choose a day when you’ll accept visitors and on all other days only your closet acquaintances will call.”
I did not have any close acquaintances, though I yearned for some, even one. “Shall I need calling cards as well?”
He nodded. “Michelene can assist with that.” I noted the unusually iron tone when he spoke her name as she approached from the stairway. They looked at one another with something short of disgust. There had been something amiss when she was here the last time, I was becoming certain of it. But a servant without discretion is soon a servant without a situation, so I could not expect Captain Whitfield’s staff to tell tales.
“What day would you like to be ‘at ho
me’?” he asked.
I shrugged helplessly. Was one day better than another? “Monday?”
“Thursday would be an excellent choice.”
“Thursday then.”
“And,” he continued, “there is a sliding passage in the sitting room.” We walked to the room together and he showed me. “I will announce each visitor before she comes, and if you choose to be not ‘at home’ just then, you may slip through this passage into the breakfast room and disappear without causing distress.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Landreth. You are invaluable. I shall thank Captain Whitfield when he returns for allowing you to continue to assist me.” He didn’t smile, but his cheeks pinked. It was enough, for now.
“Captain Whitfield will return on Thursday next, miss.”
“Very good.” I walked back into the hallway and saw Michelene standing very near the large new salver. She dipped her hand into it, which was rather bold, and pulled out a card.
“Someone has already been by?” I asked.
Landreth nodded and Michelene brought the card to me. “Miss Delia Dainley.” Miss Dainley’s card was subtly embossed. I looked up and noticed a look pass between Michelene and Landreth.
“What is it?” I asked.
Michelene spoke. “There exists at least one coddled young Englishwoman who is not afraid of Hussars. Miss Dainley.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The next Thursday, after a small and leisurely lunch, Michelene helped me prepare for Miss Dainley’s call. Several other women had also left cards, so I might expect one or two others to drop by as well. “It’s very kind of them to call upon me so quickly after my arrival,” I said with both nerves and enthusiasm.
Michelene continued to twist and wrap my hair around the back of my head, tying it off, and pulling some free into long curls. “Perhaps they want to see you quickly, wondering how long you’ll be here.”
I frowned at her. “What a thing to say! I plan to be here a good long while.”