Mist of Midnight

by Sandra Byrd

  I nodded. “We all do, and, in fact, I have wondered if I am having a recurrence. There is so much to do, the food is new . . . but still I feel peculiarly unwell.”

  “Are you sleeping?”

  “Not much,” I said. “I—I haven’t slept well in quite some time, and I’m afraid it makes me more irritable than usual. Perhaps unsound . . .” I lingered and she looked alarmed. “Unsound in judgment from time to time,” I finished.

  “We shall think upon that, non? But now, back to the bustles, and the dresses. This one, and the lettuce dress, I am sorry, I think I chose unwisely. They do not flatter you. With your permission, I will order two new ones to replace them and they shall be ready by July.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t see why we couldn’t exchange them for ones that better complimented me. I had so little experience with these kinds of clothing that I wasn’t sure I knew which flattered and which did not. I was concerned about the expense. But I was far from having an overbearing wardrobe yet, and if I was going to be in “competition,” I certainly did not want to appear sallow or sickly. I must trust Michelene. I knew my mother had trusted her lady’s maid, her ayah, in such matters when she’d been new to India, as I was newly returned to England. “Yes, indeed.”

  She clapped her hands. “Bien. I will order them, and what is needed to accompany them, next week.” She turned me toward the looking-glass. “Now, I shall pluck your brows and place just a little bit of this”—she indicated a pot of gloss—“on your lips. And then you shall be ready to ‘take the ridge.’ ”

  I smiled at this. It was my home. She was right.

  I could hear the piano being played. From the martial rhythm of the piece I knew Captain Whitfield was at the keys. With the exception of the one Beethoven tune with which he had graced me, all of the music I’d heard him play had been marches, all cheerful. A thought occurred—perhaps artificially cheerful? I recalled his sadness when speaking of his family. Wishing for the cover of crowd anonymity, I waited until the hum of guests had reached a swell before making my way downstairs.

  Trays holding champagne and dainties were passed among the fifty or so guests. I wondered that there were no cakes, but perhaps they would be served later in the evening. Miss Dainley approached me, and after a few remarks of genteel conversation, pointed out a few of the less important guests, in her eyes, and then she introduced me to a few that she thought were of higher status than me. I could tell the difference by the tone of her voice. After a moment, she said, “Come with me.”

  She led me toward a man of about Captain Whitfield’s age who stood at the center of a triangle of simpering women, each of them old enough to be his mother. Maybe one of them was his mother!

  Miss Dainley waited until there was a break in the conversation and then introduced me. “Baron Lewis Ashby, may I present Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw.”

  Lord Ashby’s face was smooth but for a spotty beard, his hair thinning and trimmed into a Roman style: short fringes atop a wide forehead. He took my hand and kissed it. “Miss Ravenshaw. We have all been looking forward to meeting you.”

  “In fact, we thought we already had,” came a quiet voice from one of the three harpies; I turned but was not quick enough to see who’d said it.

  I raised my chin and ignored it. “How do you do, Lord Ashby.”

  “I should very much like to hear about your recent experience in India,” he said. Then he grew red and hastily added, “Before the Mutiny, of course.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. If I were the Baroness of Blunder, here then was the Baron. His misstep put me at ease and I was thankful for it.

  There was no trace of irony or sarcasm in his voice or on his earnest face. “I look forward to speaking with you about it.” He offered his arm to me and led me to a set of seats near the edge of the music room and gestured for some champagne. We sat down and he began to talk of local properties, and horse breeding, which made me slightly uncomfortable during a first conversation with a gentleman. I responded in kind with some facts about the food in India and the weather, and answered his questions about how miraculous it was, indeed, to be able to wrap a long length of fabric into a sari.

  “I suddenly feel a little dizzy,” I said. “I think it may be the champagne. Perhaps I should walk outside for a while.”

  “The doctor is close by.” Ashby pointed out a dignified man loitering near a table with several pretty young ladies. “Shall we ask him?” He motioned for the doctor to join us.

  “No, please,” I said. “I’m sure I’m fine. Just fatigue and . . .”

  Too late. The doctor made his way over. “Hello, Ashby. And this lovely woman must be a guest of yours?”

  Ashby shook his head. “No, indeed. This is the mistress of the house. May I present Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw? Miss Ravenshaw, Dr. Roger Floyd.”

  The doctor took a reflexive step back. “How curious.” Beads of sweat lined his forehead like seed pearls. “A relative of the young woman who died here earlier this year?”

  “Indeed no,” I said. “I am the only Rebecca Ravenshaw. How do you do?” I held out my hand. “Perhaps you alone can shed some light on this confusing subject.”

  “Which is . . . ?” He drew his arms across his chest.

  “The woman who was here, months ago, impersonating me. I’m most eager to learn who she was.”

  The doctor glanced across the room. I followed his gaze until it met with Captain Whitfield’s. They locked eyes for a moment and then Dr. Floyd took out a handkerchief. After blotting his forehead he said, “I’m afraid there is not much to share. The young woman arrived with an Indian maid. Some months later, she took her own life. I examined her, determined the cause of death, and signed the certificate. Captain Whitfield and the maids seemed to have the situation well in hand before I even arrived.”

  “The cause of death . . .” I started. But Dr. Floyd spoke up.

  “That’s all there is to share, Miss . . . Ravenshaw,” he said. “Professional confidentiality. I’m sure you understand.” He bowed curtly, closing off any further conversation, and made his way back to the young ladies whence he came.

  Ashby looked at Whitfield, whose head was down, and then back to me. “More champagne, Miss Ravenshaw?”

  “No, thank you, Baron, I cannot selfishly monopolize your conversation all evening; I shall take some cool air on the veranda.”

  “I shall look forward to speaking with you again soon, then,” he replied.

  I nodded with real affection, and after some moments on the veranda I heard a voice behind me.

  “There’s no telling what an impoverished baron looking for a wife will do to make headway with a pretty young heiress, is there, Miss Ravenshaw?”

  I instantly tuned in to his voice. Had he come to see what the doctor had told me?

  “Is that a confession, Captain Whitfield?”

  He put his head back and laughed. “I do not, nor shall I ever, meet any of the aforesaid qualifications.” He took a sip from his glass. “I’m sorry you won’t be able to share in playing piano tonight,” he said.

  I noticed that, behind him, Miss Dainley glanced our way, moving forward, and trying, it seemed, to get his attention. “I’ve enjoyed your piano playing, though,” I said. “Will we hear Beethoven as the night goes on? I do hope so.”

  He shook his head. “No. I am not certain what came over me when I played that for you. It was an extraordinary departure from my usual repertoire.”

  “I’m honored,” I said. “And glad that such beauty was not denied voice.”

  He took a sip of his wine, then another. “Do you always speak so frankly, Miss Ravenshaw? So flatteringly?”

  “Not always, Captain Whitfield. It seems I, too, have made an extraordinary departure from the typical,” I said softly.

  “Touché,” he said, his eyes alight with fresh interest before he took a bow.
Miss Dainley was nearly upon us now. “I must return to my guests.”

  I inclined my head and he moved on. I watched as he walked away. The doctor had definitely made eye contact with him, and a silent message had been sent and received. Did the doctor question Whitfield in the death of my imposter? Or was he passing Whitfield a message of some other kind? How had Whitfield, and the two maids, by whom he meant the Indian maid and Michelene, taken things in hand?

  Shortly thereafter, the musical evening began. Within a few songs, Miss Dainley was cheerfully turning the pages for Captain Whitfield’s rousing tunes, although I noted that a few other guests had shied away from him, ending conversations with him quickly, turning away from him and toward others if they appeared together in the party’s small groupings, despite his seemingly friendly overtures and his position as host.

  I made my way upstairs. I had an early start the next morning. Mr. Highmore, the solicitor, was coming to call to bring me news from the London Missionary Society and to ask me to recount my experience.

  Michelene had felt unwell earlier in the evening, so I told her I could prepare myself for bed that night. I made my way up the stairs, pausing to look down the corridor of the right wing before turning left to go to my own rooms. In contrast to the music and laughter below, the dark hallway pulsed with curious silence. The carpets were nearly invisible on the floor, the walls alongside the hallway seemed to tilt in strangely. I shook my head and blinked to clear my eyes. Far, far in the recess, eyes glowed.

  Eyes glowed? I must be tired again.

  No. They were there. For a moment it reminded me of the leopards of southern India, which hid in the grounds behind our house, waiting for a cow—or a child—to come along unattended. Fear rose in my throat and I swallowed its acidity.

  The eyes blinked and I was brought back to the present. Tiny eyes. The cat! Why did she lie in front of that door all the time? Was she trying to draw me there? To tell me something? I felt so relieved. My mind was sound!

  I made a kissing noise once, twice, and then the little cat scampered down the hall, mewled, and joined me. She’d never slept in my room, nor sought me in the evening, but that night she did and I could feel myself drifting into a deep sleep nearly the moment I slipped into bed. Was she the reason?

  Perhaps—I delighted in the thought—it was instead the satisfaction of parrying in conversation with Captain Whitfield.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mrs. Ross awaited me in the breakfast room next morning, lightly crunching a toasted crumpet smeared with gooseberry jelly and sipping a cup of tea, which Mrs. Blackwood continued to refill. “Guid morning, lassie. All set then, for your meeting today?”

  “Thank you, dear Mrs. Ross, for remembering to be ready early today,” I said. “Truthfully, I’m a bit nervous to meet them, and to speak of it again. Once I open the door it all comes tumbling back and there are some things I do not have answers for.”

  “ ‘He shall direct thy paths,’ ” she quoted. “What do ye not yet have an answer for?”

  I took a slice of toast from the sideboard and a cup of tea for myself. I sat down next to her. It had been attentive of the Lord to direct her to me, a kindly and wise woman, mature in her faith, someone I could understand and whom I felt comfortable putting questions to. After a moment, I spoke up, softly.

  “Did He direct my mother and father’s path northward, then, to coincide directly with the Rebellion?” And send them to their brutal deaths, I thought, but did not say it aloud.

  “He did,” she said quietly, but directly. “Or at least allowed it, unchecked.”

  It was like a kick to the stomach. “It is a hard truth.” Pain constricted my throat. “Why now? There are so many, so many malingerers and loafers and those interested in naught but their own advancement. Why not one of them instead?”

  She set down her crumpet. “I was nae aware that the Lord enlisted malingerers or loafers, nor the proud at heart as soldiers, lassie. To be on the field is to engage and to risk.”

  “Then perhaps I shall remain off the field.” I could not afford this costly conversation just now, right before I was to meet the Missionary Society man. I set down my teacup.

  She reached over and took my hand. “Doona be afraid to ask Him the hard questions. He oft poses them Himself.”

  I nodded my agreement and took a bite of toast before a small smile eased its way out as I envisioned Mrs. Ross in all her black girth, bonnet tight, engaged on a battlefield near kilted warriors. We made small talk about the musical soirée, which she said she had greatly enjoyed, and hoped I had, too. I told her I had because I wanted to cheer her as much as myself.

  Landreth led us to the morning room, and shortly thereafter, Mr. Highmore arrived, joined, as he’d promised, by a fairly young representative from the London Missionary Society. He could certainly not have known my parents; he was little older than I. “Welcome, gentlemen.” I tried to project confidence.

  “Miss Ravenshaw, please allow me to present Mr. Giles, from the London Missionary Society.”

  I smiled toward young Mr. Giles. “How do you do, Mr. Giles? You were recently put in charge of arranging and overseeing support for the East Indies missionaries, is that right?”

  Mr. Giles beamed. “Yes, that’s right. I wish I had been able to correspond with your fine parents, but both time and postage are dear.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.” They sat down on nearby chairs and Highmore began.

  “Mr. Giles wonders, well, as news has only filtered back indirectly, if you could affirm the situation as it unfolded in northern India,” Mr. Highmore said. I did not know if he was asking me truly to inform those my father had corresponded with, or to prove my identity, but in either case, I did not mind.

  “Please, spare yourself the uncomfortable details,” Mr. Giles said.

  “It’s very simple,” I said. “My parents and I set out from Travancore to travel northward to find a doctor for the mission. We had been without medical assistance, for the mission and for those we served, for some years, after Dr. Lawrence drowned.”

  Not only had Peter died for lack of medical attention, but dozens of Indian friends and converts, as well as the Hindu and Mohammedan villagers we sought to offer a cup of water to in the name of Christ. Father wanted care for all of them.

  I drew myself back to the conversation. “My father made some inquiries, which were favorably received. We traveled north, but as you know, the timing could not have been worse.”

  Father should have insisted we stay home at home and he go alone! But Mother, well, she had been adamant, truth be told. And I had wanted to go, too.

  “We arrived at Fatehgarh and then the troubles soon began, Indian soldiers rebelling against their English-led units, killing civilians, too. I was able to escape with another lady and the help of a native man who smuggled us out at grave risk to himself, through fighting and much difficulty, and in some cases, death.”

  Mother had said, “It cannot be so bad. But if it is, she must go, and quickly.”

  “It is so bad,” Father replied. “Rebecca is leaving. You, too.”

  “No,” she said. “You may, you must, send Rebecca away, but not me.”

  “More tea, miss?” Annie stood before me and I recalled again where I was.

  “Yes, please,” I answered before turning back to the men. “Ultimately, we ladies managed to reach the Residency and were given respite there with the others from Gwalior and other areas, whereupon we waited for assistance from England.”

  “We may have preserved our lives from gunshot or sword wound but now we shall die of disease!” a young woman named Miss Andrews cried out in madness only hours before she did, indeed, succumb to death.

  Mr. Giles’s voice brought me back to the present. “And you made safe passage?”

  I drank the hot tea unfashionab
ly fast, burning the middle of my tongue, so I could set the cup down. I did not want to draw attention to my trembling hand. “I left on one of the first ships out, and arrived here at Southampton with Mrs. MacAlister, a widow of the Rebellion.”

  “Your parents are . . .”

  Mother embraced me, Father embraced me. Neither said that they loved me, nor did I tell them, for to do that would be to admit that this was, perhaps, the end. In any case, we knew where our affections truly lay, and that we would embrace again, if not here, then in the hereafter.

  I choked a little and pinched my eyes together for a moment. “We learned that . . . after having been dispatched, they were sent with others to the bottom of a dry well.”

  At that, tears began to well up in Mr. Giles’s eyes, too, and a great warmth emanated from the steadying hand of Mrs. Ross.

  Afterward, Mr. Highmore spoke quietly to me. “Mr. Giles seems satisfied with the circumstances as you’ve relayed them, so, assuming the packet we sent along to India eventually comes back with affirmation, we can assume that you are who you claim to be.” He looked puzzled. “Though I am quite at a loss as to who the first Miss Ravenshaw actually was, if your claim indeed proves true. And quite angry that she deceived me.”

  “She seems to have deceived everyone,” I assured him. “Apparently a wicked drifter of some kind, as she has had no family to inquire after her. No morals, nor concern for my family, my home, myself, nor for any of you. It doesn’t really matter to me who she was.”

  I wanted to know who she was, I did. But, for my own sanity, I refused to become obsessed with her. Obsession seemed too ready to answer any small encouragement I might offer it upon any topic.

  “Indeed.” Highmore went on, further lowering his voice. “There is some small concern over the amount remaining of your father’s funds and investments. As you may have known, your father did not take support from the society, but funded his way with his own money and investments, wanting to save the support fully for those who had no other means.”