Mist of Midnight

by Sandra Byrd

  I caught my breath. I had not known that. This could cause a predicament for me. Why hadn’t father loved me enough to ensure I would be well taken care of if something happened to him—which, in fact, it had? It was in his nature to refuse money that might be used for missions. “What does this mean?” I asked. “For me, now?”

  He put his hand over mine. “Fret not. I shall investigate and ascertain round and true sums for you, though it may take some months. I do not know how much he had invested elsewhere because, as I mentioned earlier, I have recently taken over from my own father. There are the expenses that have already been undertaken on Headbourne House, and of course, some monies have already been transferred to Captain Whitfield, who remains, for now, legal heir.”

  I nodded.

  “Continue to have the bills sent to me, but perhaps review them first. All will be well, I am certain that this will end well.” He cleared his throat, an action that belied his words. “Yet it may take some time to conclude.”

  Yes, the house and funds would soon be mine, would remain mine alone, and then I would be settled, secure, and safe for once. For always. “Thank you, Mr. Highmore, I am indebted to you.”

  “Did you have some letters you would like me to post along with the other correspondence?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes.” I walked to the bureau in the drawing room, but the small pile of letters I had painstakingly written to our friends had disappeared. I looked all through the bureau but could not find them. Where could they have gone? I was certain I had not moved them. Was it possible that I’d done something with them that I did not recall? I searched my memory but recalled nothing.

  “Mrs. Blackwood?” I called out. She did not respond so I rang the bell, and she shortly arrived.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Did you happen to notice what happened to the letters I left here?”

  She shook her head. “No, Miss Ravenshaw. We shall ask around.” She left and returned within five minutes. “We inquired of the maids, and anyone else who might have been in the room, and none remembers seeing them. In fact, Annie said when she dusted the bureau she wiped down the pen but there were no letters there.”

  “No, no,” I said, searching my memory. “I believe that you were with me in the room whilst I sealed them.” I wondered if I had written them another day and was, indeed, losing my rationality or at least my memory of this, and perhaps other, events.

  “And yet,” she retorted, “they are not here.”

  “Yes, you are correct.” I sighed before turning away. Had she cause to steal them? What cause would that be? None that I could see. Perhaps someone else had entered the room after I’d left. I did not believe there was anyone who could profit, though, by my personal correspondence.

  I returned to Mr. Highmore. “I’m disappointed, but the letters have disappeared. I’m afraid I’ll have to forgo sending them for now.”

  Mr. Giles had not yet put on his hat, and indicated that he wished to have another word with me.

  “Miss Ravenshaw,” he began. “I do hope you won’t think this inappropriate, but I wondered, have you had a chance to avail yourself of the Methodist church in Winchester?”

  “I admit I haven’t,” I said. “I’ve just now begun to recover my strength, but I intend to very soon, as soon as transport can be arranged to the Methodist church.”

  “My dear, if not the Methodist church, begin to attend somewhere. Do not delay—for your own soul’s sake. Perhaps, too, you shall find someone who knew your parents?” Was he looking out for my soul or looking for another way to prove or disprove my identity?

  “Thank you, Mr. Giles.” No matter his motives, he was right.

  After Landreth had shown the men out I turned down the short hallway away from the stairs and put my hand on the knob of the door to a room I hadn’t had more than a glance into during Mrs. Blackwood’s tour. My father’s library.

  I pushed open the door slowly; the room was not as grand as many of the others in the house, but it was very personal. Perhaps this accounted for the reason I hadn’t visited it before. I knew I’d “find” my father here.

  I sat down at the desk in the corner and looked at the shelves. There were perhaps two hundred books in the room, some very old indeed and some, on the lower shelves, which appeared to be more current. The room smelt of leather and dust and I could see wear in the wood of the desk where my father’s hand would have rested. I knew that the shelf I sought would be close at hand, and turned in the chair to the one just behind the desk. Yes, they were there. The Bibles.

  There were several that they had left behind, and I pulled one at random to take with me to my room. I opened it, saw Father’s handwriting inside, notes placed here and there. I closed the book and stood up, and as I did, I caught sight of another book very close to his desk. Paradise Lost, by John Milton. I took it in a trembling hand then held it close to my chest, with the Bible, on my way to my rooms.

  Yes, Mr. Milton. I do very much feel like paradise has been lost.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A few days later I walked through the front door and down the long flight of steps, passed between the two stone lions, and began making my way across the path to the stable yard where Whitfield could often be found. Several boys worked the long, hay-strewn aisle which ran between the standing stalls. It smelt sour, of sweat—horse and man—and dry, green grass.

  “Is the captain here?” I asked one of the young men. He stared at me. “I’m Miss Ravenshaw.”

  “So you say, miss,” he answered. I steeled my face so it didn’t show the frustration simmering within me. He skipped away and called out for Daniel, but Daniel did not appear, Captain Whitfield did instead. He approached, wearing his straight riding breeches and long boots, and had on another of his fine, thin, linen shirts, which had begun to cling to him in the day’s heat.

  He caught me looking him over and I blushed.

  “Have you come to examine the horseflesh then?”

  I let the baton lie where he’d thrown it. He’d caught me. There was no ladylike way to respond, so I attempted to steer the conversation in another direction.

  “Good afternoon, Captain Whitfield,” I said. “I’ve come to ask Daniel, and you as his employer, for some assistance. I should like to begin attending church. Mrs. Ross, of course, attends the kirk and some of its members come to collect her. I’m guessing that you and most of the household must travel to the village church in your carriage.” Of course, there would have been no Ravenshaw carriages left unsold after my parents departed for India, nothing left of the estate but overwrought gardens, the crumbling house being devoured by brambles, and its neglected furniture within. I should have to buy a small carriage of my own when the estate was settled, for shopping, visiting, charity, and church.

  I stopped and thought for a moment, anew, about church.

  “Are services ever held here, on the grounds, at the chapel?”

  He shook his head. “No. The chapel, too, has fallen into disrepair, on the inside, anyway, so it would not be fit for services in any case. I have secured the outside a bit. Cleaned up around the graves.”

  I shivered.

  He drew near me. “You look wan. Do you suffer from malaria?”

  I nodded. “I do. There was not much quinine at the Residency whilst we waited to be brought to England. I should, perhaps, ask the doctor for some.”

  “I, too, contracted malaria, whilst serving in the Crimea. Don’t bother with the doctor. I’ve found Dr. Warburg’s Tincture to be effective and regularly visit the military hospital in Southampton to acquire it,” he said. “I’m happy to purchase a few bottles for you next time I’m there, if you’d like me to.”

  “I’m not aware of Dr. Warburg’s Tincture, but if it will help me regain my health, then, yes, please do, and thank you very much.”

  “I find I am often away
on Sundays and frequently miss attending church,” he continued. “When I returned to England, I purchased a carriage, of course.” He waved his hand toward it. “And my second carriage shall be delivered shortly. Then you will have the means to be able to attend the Methodist church if you like. I’ll see that it’s readied with all speed.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “That is very kind of you indeed. If there is any way to repay you . . .”

  Daniel walked a horse by us then, jarring me from my reverie, and Whitfield spoke up. “No repayment is necessary but, well, would you like to see my horses?”

  His voice sounded so boyish and earnest, and when I looked at him he looked as though he might be almost pleading and I found that I could not say no. Although I could barely contain my fear whilst near horses, the desire to remain in his company overcame my reluctance. “I would be delighted.”

  He took my hand in his own, then placed it in the crook of his arm, a most welcome gesture, and I allowed my hand to melt into his arm. He looked at me and smiled.

  “I have the carriage horses, of course.” He indicated six or so that were standing in the stalls closest to the coach house. Farther along we came to a number of large loose boxes, and he introduced me to some of his favorites.

  “The gray mare was the favorite of a friend of mine, who’s since posted to India with the cavalry,” he said. The gray, along with most of the other horses, had come toward the front of their boxes, anxious to see the new person—me, I supposed.

  “Is your friend a Hussar like yourself?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Our horses mean more to us than any person, and he trusted me to keep his girl safe for him in his absence. We who serve together in the military are deeply loyal to one another even once home,” he said. “It’s my pleasure to care for her.”

  He next pointed out a bay. “Mild-mannered, cannon-proof.”

  I recoiled. “You mean you’d shoot a cannon toward her?”

  He laughed. “No, my dear Miss Ravenshaw. It means that if a cannon went off next to her, she’d likely not flinch. And this one”—he pointed to a large black mare, spirited, prancing—“is Notos.”

  “For the Greek god of the summer rainstorms,” I said. “Is she stormy?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Indeed she is. I am impressed you knew the history of her name.”

  “I am not completely bereft of an education, Captain Whitfield. In fact, my mother made sure I was well educated. Just not in the gentle arts of botany.” I smiled wryly.

  “I meant no offense, Miss Ravenshaw. You surprise me anew each time we speak.”

  Oh dear. I had come across like a defensive schoolgirl. What was it about this man that made me act so out of sorts? I was honest enough with myself to recognize that the image of him striding toward me in a slightly disarrayed linen shirt may have influenced me. In fact, in my mind the picture persisted.

  I decided to make amends by offering a compliment to the thing he most loved. He brought us closer to Notos. The horse had beautiful silver threads plaited into her mane. “She is splendid and spirited. In some ways”—I pointed to the silver streaks against the black, which mirrored his hair—“she’s very like you.”

  His ears pinked. “I’m pleased that you noticed. How very poetic.”

  “Thank you, Captain Whitfield.” My slightly forward compliment had been, perhaps, even more bold than the fan tap in the garden. He recognized that, too.

  He drew near and in a low voice said, “You’re welcome to come closer if you like.” To the man or to the horse?

  Perhaps I should like to draw nearer to the one, but not to the other. “No,” I said quickly to regain control. And then, “I was in an accident in India, at the end, involving a horse that fell with me upon her,” I said. “I survived, though my foot was crushed. The horse did not survive, nor did the cavalryman next to us. I haven’t ridden since.”

  “Ah . . . this is why you no longer ride. The cause of your slight limp?” he asked.

  I nodded; he’d noticed. “You’d chided me once, remember . . . ‘No riding, no piano playing.’ ”

  He nodded. “Yes, I recall. And now I know the reason. Speaking of piano playing, did you enjoy the music at the soirée?” He turned away from Notos to escort me back past the standing stalls toward the coach house.

  “I did.”

  “You hesitate,” he said.

  I nodded. “Everyone was perfectly lovely . . .”

  “Even Lord Ashby?” he teased.

  “Especially Lord Ashby.” I kept my face straight and was rewarded with a troubled look upon his own.

  “But . . .”

  “I miss having people around me that I know. I have no mother, no father, no siblings, and my friends are far, far away. I feel alone.” I wondered that I allowed myself to be so open with him, speaking, again, frankly to him though I’d told him it had been but a departure from the norm, for me. Perhaps the answer was in what I had just stated. I was lonely.

  He responded with an admission of his own. “At Sandhurst, Miss Ravenshaw, the other cadets would return to their country estates, but Lord Ledbury felt that I was an unwelcome intrusion in his home. A distraction from his own son, Lord Frome, or perhaps a reminder that my mother had loved another first, before him. Until I became a Hussar, although often in the company of many, I most always felt alone.” We reached the end of the stables and as we did he took my hand from his arm.

  “Thank you for sharing that with me, Captain Whitfield. It blunts my pain.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Ravenshaw. So you can see how very important Headbourne is to me. It’s no other man’s home, no other man’s family home. But it is my family home.”

  “Mine, too,” I said.

  He said nothing, for a moment. Then, “I’ve arranged for you to see someone whose company you may very well enjoy,” he said.

  I stopped. “Whoever could it be?” I saw delight on his face.

  “Now, Miss Ravenshaw, you don’t want to deny a man a surprise, do you?”

  “Why, yes, actually, I do,” I teased.

  He grinned. “I’ve asked him to dine with us next week.”

  Ah, so it was a man who was coming to call. I’d wondered, as he’d mentioned that he’d often kept the company of many, how often that number had included the fairer sex. A prickle of envy arose, somehow.

  “I shall look forward to it,” I said. He bade me good day with a wide smile and took his leave.

  I should have immediately walked back to the house, but I did not. Come along, I cajoled myself. The horses are safe. I’ll just visit the gentle bay.

  I walked back through the archway, past the standing stalls toward the loose boxes. I stopped before the bay’s box and leaned in and called to her. “Here. Come, little one.” Now that Whitfield was no longer with me, she seemed uninterested and did not turn around.

  I had to overcome this fear somehow. I could not avoid horses for the rest of my life. I slid open the bolt to her gate and walked in, sliding the bolt shut again behind me. She backed up as I moved forward, but did not turn around. I took another step forward, close to the manger where she ate. She must have caught sight of me out of the corner of her eye, as she pivoted round and whinnied a shrill warning.

  I’d scared her. She scared me! I decided that was enough for the day, cannon-proof or not. My heart pounded unmercifully, unrelentingly, in my chest.

  I began to back up and, keeping my eye on the horse, reached over the gate, feeling for the bolt. Where was it? The bay stepped closer to me and tossed her head. There it was. I slid the bolt open to unlock the box but the gate would not swing open. I was stuck!

  I kicked and shoved against the gate, twisting my ankle. The bay begin to rear noisily. She was clearly unused to anyone other than the grooms being in the box with her and sensed my anxiety. My heart pounded a
nd I felt ill.

  “Hello? Hello, Daniel? Anyone?” I called out. No one answered.

  The horse was becoming more agitated and whinnied louder and came closer to me. I could barely breathe and dared not turn around and take my eyes off her. A memory of the cry of the soldier when his horse fell rang in my ears, and my ankle throbbed.

  I finally turned around, and when I did I saw that someone, somehow, had braced a small crate filled with tack and other heavy items against the gate, blocking me from opening it. I pushed with all my might, slid through a small space, thanking God that I had decided to forgo huge hoops, and clanged the gate shut behind me.

  The bay made her way back to her trough. I closed my eyes, caught my breath, and then looked down at that crate.

  It was heavy and had been pushed there with a purpose. Why would anyone lock me in with the horse? Whitfield had been the only person I had mentioned my fear to. Would he have done this? I couldn’t believe it.

  But if it was not he, who?

  After catching my breath I walked back down the stables, into the coach house, looking up and down for someone, anyone. Everyone had simply, unbelievably, vanished. I wiped my cheeks with a trembling hand, the leather gloves scattering rather than absorbing the tears, and hobbled back to the house.

  Later that week I was still mulling over the event, though I had not mentioned it to anyone for fear of what they would think of me for suggesting sabotage. I myself wasn’t certain if what I’d thought had happened had actually happened, and that concerned me. Could I have imagined it? Was the crate there all along? I sat at the bureau to rewrite the letters I had already written but lost, wondering if Mrs. Blackwood could have taken them after all. And if she had, to what purpose? Later, I asked Michelene if it was possible.

  “Perhaps she did,” she’d answered. “After all, if you prove to be Rebecca Ravenshaw, vraiment, then she will have to leave this grand house, and I am certain she enjoys serving here.”