Mist of Midnight

by Sandra Byrd

  She shook her head. “Nae.”

  “Siblings?”

  She shook her head again then looked down at her Bible, open, I could now see, to Hebrews, chapter 13, and she read it aloud. “ ‘For he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.’ ” She, too, had cause to be lonely but was seeking solace with God.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ross. Of course, you are right. Half past eight?”

  She nodded her agreement and I closed the door behind me. As I made my way into the hall, the little cat came alongside me, walking beside me, keeping right up against my skirt. I stopped, and looked down at it, and it looked up at me and meowed quietly. “Thank you, little cat,” I said. “I know that I am not alone, but sometimes it feels that way. But for you.” Where had she come from? Perhaps she was alone in this world and too small to be bothered with.

  She stayed with me, in my room, till Michelene came to help me dress for dinner. As soon as she saw my lady’s maid, the cat’s hackles rose and she glanced at me before fleeing.

  Somehow, it felt like a warning.

  I stepped into the dining room at half past eight, and Captain Whitfield was already present, standing, as a gentleman would, until I arrived.

  “I was delighted when I heard you would finally be joining me this evening,” Whitfield said. His face was freshly tanned from, I surmised, his rides in the growing spring sunlight; he moved with more ease than the cat. Mrs. Ross, in her black cotton and lace collar, came into the dining room. Captain Whitfield struggled to control a frown and that made me struggle to control a smile. He had perhaps forgotten that she would accompany me.

  “My chaperone,” I reminded him.

  “Ah, indeed, it would not do for the neighborhood tongues to start wagging so early on,” he said.

  “So early on? I shan’t like to set them wagging later, either,” I jested, and he grinned back. I got the feeling he did not mind wagging tongues. Or perhaps not on the surface, anyway.

  He was dressed for dinner, impossibly impeccable. He wore black, as was right for a gentleman of his station who was not in uniform, with the exception of his shirt, which was cream linen. Michelene had told me that only wealthy gentlemen wore linen regularly as it was expensive and difficult to keep clean and pressed.

  He came around and first helped Mrs. Ross to her seat, as she was older, and then he helped me into mine. He tried to be nonchalant, but I could see he studied me; I was dressed very differently now than before he had taken his leave. My dress, though black, rustled and shimmered in the candlelight, the fabric cleverly gathered at the small of my back to show my figure to its best advantage.

  Landreth supervised the courses, and we talked.

  “Are you quite settled?” he asked.

  “Almost so.” I looked at the first course being brought in. “Now that I have begun to accommodate myself to English cuisine, I’ve found the food exquisite.”

  “Have the staff made you feel welcome?” he asked.

  “Indeed. Landreth has made a particular effort. He’s greatly helped me with calling.” I took a sip of soup and casually added, “In fact, you will of course have noticed that Miss Delia Dainley came to call today. Is she a friend of yours?”

  He nodded. “Her mother has long been a friend to my mother.”

  Soup was over and the bowls cleared. “Miss Dainley mentioned that there would be a large costume ball at your parents’ house at the end of the summer. As they are, of sorts, distant relatives to me, I would be delighted to learn more about them.”

  He didn’t look up, and the staff present looked surreptitiously at one another, then back at the captain. Had I said something wrong? I hoped not. Landreth approached to refill our wineglasses. The captain used his napkin, then replaced it on his lap before answering. “They are distant to me, as well. There is not much to say. My father died when I was but a young lad, my mother married Lord Ledbury quite soon thereafter, and my brother Anthony, Viscount Frome, was born within the year. I was raised at Sandhurst, alone, while he was raised at Graffam Park, in the bosom of family.”

  The salmon was brought in.

  “Please do tell me about your family,” he said, turning it deftly from himself.

  “As you know, my parents were killed in the Mutiny. I had a brother, too, Peter, who died about ten years ago, of cholera. When we were children, we preferred not to sit in this dining room, as I recall.” I smiled. “Our governess would bring our meals to our room and we’d tell stories.”

  Whitfield grinned. “Better company.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Once in India, we’d make up stories about the monkeys that lived near us. We’d name them and imagine their home lives, if they took tea, played croquet and the like when we couldn’t see them.” I blinked back some tears. “During the Uprising, when we all waited in the Residency for the government to free us, I told those stories to the children, to pass the time.”

  “A kindness,” he said quietly.

  “The least I could do.”

  He returned to his salmon, and I to mine. From time to time he seemed to be staring at the fork in my right hand, and I wondered if I was holding it incorrectly or if I’d chosen to use the wrong one. I looked toward Mrs. Ross. She was using the same fork, and in the same manner.

  We spoke of lighter matters as the fowl was served and removed, and finally, the cherries and the sherries.

  By that time, I’d eaten so much, I could barely breathe. I stood, and Mrs. Ross did likewise. Captain Whitfield came round to pull each of our chairs away as Landreth came nearby to escort us out of the dining room.

  “Thank you for your companionship,” he said. “I’m sorry I won’t be at home often to enjoy it.”

  “Thank you, too, Captain Whitfield, for your hospitality.” He nodded and met my gaze, and held it with an intimacy that was perhaps not yet warranted. It was not wholly unwelcome.

  “Taking meals in the dining room is much more pleasant, this go-around,” I said. I was rewarded with a warm, genuine laugh and a deep bow.

  Michelene met me in my room within a few minutes and had to tug to help me out of my dress.

  “I thought I told you to eat only a few bites,” she said. “I will bring small meals into your room after you have retired for the evening.”

  “I’m afraid so much rich food may make me unwell.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Cook had said she’d continue to serve you many foods that you may not have eaten for some time.”

  “That is kind,” I replied.

  “I told her that was likely to make you unwell, but she did not heed me. Perhaps that was her goal.”

  I inclined my head. “Why wouldn’t she heed you? Does Cook have some reason to want to make me feel ill?”

  Michelene shrugged her shoulders. She helped me into my nightdress and then left my room, with only one lamp still lit.

  I dearly wished for sweet dreams, but alas, I began to recall, just before slumber arrived, a particular young woman, a sweet mother of only eighteen years, who had died at the Residency, leaving her baby an orphan. I’d held that baby as I told the older children monkey stories.

  I’d felt orphaned, too.

  I went to my window and, as I looked out, I could see directly into the guesthouse; though it was some distance away, it was well lit from the inside. I blew out the flame of my lamp and let the dark encase me as I looked across the grounds. In the drawing room window was the silhouette of Captain Whitfield. I did not want him to think that I was hoping for a glimpse of him.

  Even though I am, I acknowledged. I quickly turned away. Why did he unsettle me? I knew the answer. Although I hadn’t wanted to, I’d succumbed, just as Annie had said women did.

  I found him attractive. Compellingly so, somehow.

  I closed my eyes, quietly praying for my friends in India: the Meads, and Penelope, and V
iolet and her father in Ceylon—so very happy that they in the south had avoided the Mutiny, which had taken place only in the north. I prayed for beloveds at the mission, for dear Musa, and last, for myself and for the wisdom and strength I’d require but felt I currently had in meager supply.

  Before I went back to bed, I opened my eyes and could see, even through the rising night mists, that Whitfield had turned to face the window and was looking not at the house in general but directly back at me. I held his gaze for the second time that night, and then finally looked away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The household buzzed, preparing for the following night’s musical soirée, which I knew to be a gathering of friends for conversation, piano music, and singing. Perhaps I would make a start on finding friends, even though I could not play my home’s piano. Whilst I waited, I wrote letters to India. Mr. Highmore had said that a packet would be sent shortly to further verify my identity, and if I would like to include any personal letters, he would be glad to see that they accompanied the official correspondence. I thought it was kind of him. Also, I knew he intended to use this opportunity to allow me to prove myself. I comforted myself that while I did not yet have friends here, I had them somewhere in the world.

  First, I wrote to Violet, who had been like a sister to me until she moved to Ceylon some years back with her parents to a coffee plantation. Then to Penelope, who had been a lifelong friend and remained near the mission. Before the Mutiny she had been set to marry John Mark, a missionary’s son who had hoped to become a translator.

  Father had wanted John Mark for me and had been disappointed when I indicated that I did not feel for John Mark in that way. I wondered if they’d married; if, indeed, they were perhaps expecting the birth of a child. I wondered if I ever would.

  I then wrote to Mr. Mead, my father’s closest friend, who had been unhappily removed from serving with the London Missionary Society just a year or two earlier, though he remained in India serving in new capacities. I hoped that he would write back.

  Captain Whitfield made his way into the room.

  “I’m about to take a short stroll in the gardens, as the renovations I’ve already commissioned will soon commence. As you may have some vested interest in the property, I thought you might like to accompany me?”

  “Certainly,” I said, happy that Michelene had included a black but pretty cotton day dress in my repertoire. I sealed the last envelope and left them all on my bureau as Mrs. Blackwood bustled about the room. Whitfield offered his arm and I took it.

  We passed through the stone lions and followed the cobblestoned pathway toward the back of the house, which looked out over the downs. “Take care,” he said. “The stones are loose and need to be taken up and reset. I have arranged for that to be done fairly quickly, as there are some events scheduled in the gardens over the summer.”

  I nodded. “Thank you. I would have done the same, but you have set things in motion much sooner. I’ll be very happy to repay you, once my funds are freed, for anything you’ve spent on the house and its upkeep, but I shan’t be able to repay you for your thoughtful attentiveness, to the house, and to me.”

  He looked at me, his brown eyes perhaps slightly softer for only a moment. “It’s my pleasure, Miss Ravenshaw.”

  I felt a little happiness unlocked from within me then. It was a welcome respite from heartache.

  We walked through the tangled, untended flowers, perennials that had been planted with thought and care some time ago. I touched a lovely vine that covered the arbor as we walked through it. “What is this?”

  “Wisteria. You’ve not seen it? I understood that most gently born women were amateur gardeners at heart, tossing off Latin names of this or that with one another in their drawing-room conversations.”

  “First, Captain Whitfield, it is bad form to compare one woman with another,” I teased. “Second, I was more involved in assisting my mother in teaching young ladies to read and write and provide for themselves than in learning polite botany for gentle conversation.”

  I brushed by the wisteria and it had a lovely scent. “Sweet, but in an unassuming way,” I said.

  “Who is she?” Captain Whitfield jested. “Have I met her?” I couldn’t help but tap him lightly with my fan. “Not who, what. The wisteria.”

  To my gratitude, he responded with a smile. “Ah, yes, wisteria does have its charms.” He looked me in the eye. “It’s a devil to relocate an established one, though.” That smile never left his face, but I sensed the warning nonetheless. Did he mean he had no intentions of leaving Headbourne?

  We passed a large shrub. “This bush, however, I do know the name of. Rhododendron. It grows profusely in India. In fact, it makes a delightful wine.”

  “I hope not to see you out here at night gathering blossoms and passing them on to Mrs. Blackwood for the still.”

  “Although I am awake many nights, not being able to sleep well, I shall try to keep myself from prowling the gardens,” I said. “Speaking of evening activities, I’m looking forward to your musical soirée tomorrow, and wonder is there anything I should know beforehand so I am not at a disadvantage and can help put your guests at ease?”

  “Miss Dainley has agreed to come early for this very reason,” he said. “She offered to do so, which I thought very kind.”

  “Indeed,” I replied. “Miss Dainley.” I wondered if Miss Dainley would be informed in advance on every event held at my home; if, in fact, she would be acting as actual hostess. I pulled up a large bishop’s lace. “I shan’t want these weeds, pretty as they are, to take root.”

  Captain Whitfield smiled; he knew what I’d meant.

  After a few more discussions on the structured section of the gardens, he guided me back toward the house.

  “Did you plan to replace some of the statues?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, I had such a thought. There are several fine statue suppliers near Winchester. I frequent one that does fine work.”

  I wondered why he frequented a statuary when he had not had a permanent home.

  He continued, “Also, another day, when I am not preparing for guests, I’ll show you the renovations I have planned for the interior of the house. The work will begin soon, and I hope that the changes will meet with your approval.”

  “I’m slightly concerned about those changes to the house,” I said. “Perhaps they will be costly, and my financial situation has not yet been resolved, though I am confident that it will be, eventually. My father will have taken care to provide for Peter and for me.”

  He nodded. “The work I’ve commissioned thus far is not for aesthetic purposes,” he said quietly. “Headbourne has gone unattended and unlived in for nearly two decades. The moldings are crumbling such that I fear large chunks of stone could fall on a passerby.”

  My eyes widened.

  “The pipes sometimes send up rusted water.”

  I nodded. “I see.”

  “The chimneys need tending to so they do not stop up and cause anything to set fire.”

  I clearly saw the situation now. “Yes, I agree, Captain Whitfield. Please . . . proceed. And thank you.”

  He smiled. “I shall purchase the statues out of my own funds. The gardens, somehow, feel very personal to me.”

  I smiled back at him in heartfelt appreciation, put my hand on his arm again, and watched his face flush. I was happy to see I could have some effect on him as well. We walked back into the house.

  “Captain Whitfield,” I said as we looked toward the central stairway from the large front hall. There was a strong likeness of a commanding man, in uniform, a silver streak racing through the side of his dark hair. “Whenever did you have time to have your portrait painted?” I pointed to the large painting that was heavily framed and centered so that it was instantly noticeable. It was a mark of ownership, I thought, to display his self-portrait, and I had
n’t sorted through what I thought of that.

  He smiled wickedly. “Why, Miss Ravenshaw, that isn’t me at all. It’s the original owner of Headbourne House, Charles Whitfield Ravenshaw. I believe he would be our common ancestor, which confirms us as cousins, does it not? I have had it brought from storage and restored.”

  My blood drained. I had made a bungle and I responded too quickly, I knew, in an effort to recover. “Very, very distant cousins, one supposes, Captain Whitfield. However, the resemblance between the two of you is remarkable.”

  “Yes, yes, it is. There is no doubt at all about my relation to him, is there?” His implication was clear as he took my gloved hand in his own. The kiss he bestowed upon the back of my glove was cool formality, quickly withdrawn. “Until tomorrow evening.”

  I kept my poise and my smile till he withdrew, at which point I made my way to my room as quickly as possible, berating myself in harshest terms for being the Baroness of Blunder.

  “What are you doing? Is the gown not clean?”

  Michelene sighed, hovering around me with a damp cloth. She first sponged my face, and then my fine linen gown, at the bodice level. “It will cling a little more this way, just so, n’est-ce pas?” she said. “And it makes your skin look ‘dewy.’ Do you want Miss Dainley to have every advantage?”

  “I am not in a competition with Miss Dainley.”

  “Then with whom are you in a competition?” she asked. Her voice took on a low note, replacing the jesting tone that usually undergirded her light banter.

  I turned to look at her, subdued. “I don’t know. The woman who claimed to be me? What am I competing for?”

  “Ah, chérie, if you don’t know that, you can never win.” She raised her eyebrows but said nothing more before bustling back over to the armoire and fussing with the gowns. “These two dresses, I am sorry to say, I have made an error with.” She pointed to one that was trimmed in a mustard-yellow ribbon. “You will look much too sallow in this when the time comes to leave the black behind. Sickly.” She turned toward me. “Do you suffer from the malaria?”