Mist of Midnight

by Sandra Byrd

  In bed that night, I could not sleep, or would not sleep, or feared to sleep, or perhaps all three. I put the lamp on the bedside table to keep the shadows at bay, and took Milton in hand, propped up against the pillows.

  I leafed through the pages carefully, reading some, skimming others, and found a place that Father’s hand had marked.

  Satan, involved in rising mist; then sought

  Where to lie hid; sea he had searched, and land,

  From Eden over Pontus and the pool

  Maeotis, up beyond the river Ob;

  Downward as far Antarctic; and in length,

  West from Orontes to the ocean barred

  At Darien; thence to the land where flows

  Ganges and Indus: Thus the orb he roamed

  With narrow search; and with inspection deep

  Considered every creature, which of all

  Most opportune might serve his wiles; and found

  The Serpent subtlest beast of all the field.

  I closed the book and blew out the lamp. Why had Father marked this passage? I climbed out of bed and made my way to the window. Because of the mists, perhaps, which did rise from our grounds almost nightly, obscuring clear vision? I should not like to walk in the dark in that mist, though I did so, now, metaphorically. Indeed, I could well believe that Satan lay hidden there. Here. Waiting to see whom he could impress upon, or discourage enough, to serve his wiles.

  Perhaps it was the mention of the Indus River that had brought him to this chapter, knowing India lay before them. It had been Eden, in a way. Paradise, till it had been lost.

  Till it had been stolen, by the serpent, the subtlest beast of all the field.

  I returned to my bed but was unable to sleep. I thought of the laudanum. It will help me to rest. Ring for Michelene. At the last, I refused to, but when those I’d loved and then lost came, in midnight dreams, and I awoke drenched in sweat and sorrow, I wished I had asked Michelene to leave the small bottle for me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  That Wednesday Lt. Dunn sent a note asking if I would be available to walk in the gardens. I penned a quick reply and he arrived at half past two.

  “I’m delighted the weather has accommodated our stroll,” he said. He was an attractive man with a military bearing and he looked fine in his uniform. He’d either arrived with his own valet or had taken advantage of Captain Whitfield’s valet, Thornton, because the uniform was impeccably brushed and pressed. We strolled round the green whilst Mrs. Ross sat on a bench, watching carefully, as she always did.

  “Do tell me about your service in the West Indies.”

  He regaled me with stories, some funny and some poignant, and discussed how life in the West Indies was now very different than it had been in his father’s youth, as slavery was long ended. “That’s how Whitfield and I began our friendship,” he said. “Over that issue. And I’d like to hear more of your mission work in India, before this”—he swept a hand toward the house—“all became yours.”

  I nodded. “I would have preferred it be Peter’s,” I said quietly.

  He squeezed my hand lightly in sympathy. “I’m sorry for the loss of your family.”

  “I, too.” Then, aware that it was impolite to remain melancholic, I continued. “It’s all mine, as you say, once the mission in India replies to Mr. Highmore verifying my identity. There was another woman here earlier, claiming to be me, and of course all believed her, why shouldn’t they? She passed away just before Christmas.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “I was to have visited Whitfield then, but with the death, well, that was not a time for entertaining.”

  “Knowing the sacrifices that others make to serve, I feel like I don’t deserve all this,” I said. “Because I know you have been in the mission field, too, serving those who have so very little . . .”

  “You mean the house?” he asked.

  I nodded. “With so many in India having given up all . . .”

  “It may be God’s intended blessing, Miss Ravenshaw. All of us knew the risks when we took to missions.” A mischievous look crept across his face. “The book of Numbers says, ‘If a man dies and leaves no son, give his inheritance to his daughter.’ That would be you.”

  “ ‘If he has no daughter, give his inheritance to his brothers. If he has no brothers, give his inheritance to his father’s brothers. If his father had no brothers, give his inheritance to the nearest relative in his clan, that he may possess it.’ That would be Captain Whitfield, of course.”

  He took my hand from his arm and clapped. “Bravo, Miss Ravenshaw. I knew you’d know that passage.”

  I smiled. “What are your plans, Lieutenant Dunn? Will you return to the West Indies? Remain in the military service? Or stay here in England?”

  “My commission is nearly up, and then I plan to minister in China,” he said. His eyes gleamed with excitement, what my mother used to say was Calling Fever. It will temper with time to keep you warm or it will burn hot and then out within a few years, she’d said. “The fields are white, Miss Ravenshaw. And having been a part of the harvest of souls yourself, you do understand!”

  “I do,” I said. “I know very little of the Far East, but I should love to know more.”

  He turned and looked at me, somber and, perhaps, a little more fondly than he’d looked at me before. “I’m certain you’d be a fountain of knowledge on the particulars of China in no time at all.”

  I dipped my head down for a moment. Had he meant . . . ? Perhaps. I gently turned the conversation. “It took me twenty years to figure out the particulars of India, and now I’ve yet to completely sort through England, not having had the advantage Peter had of returning home for school. I shouldn’t want you to test my knowledge, though, in any case, as with the berries.”

  He smiled, but seemed lightly subdued.

  “Do you mind if I ask . . . how did you know that Peter was unable to eat strawberries?”

  “The answer ties back into the very schooling you’ve mentioned. He was the only one there who had to forgo pudding when strawberry trifle was served.” He smiled. “Boys at Eltham live for pudding.”

  Dearest Peter. He’d obeyed Mother as he’d said he would. My chest hurt and I pushed away the thought of him till I could consider it more tenderly, in private.

  “I’m sorry for participating in that deception,” Dunn finished, sheepishly. It was a feeble apology, but kindly meant, so I smiled.

  “I understand. Did you cross paths with Peter in any other way?”

  He nodded. “In activities, mostly. He was a superb croquet player. Do you play?”

  “A little. Peter was best at croquet, I was a better shot.”

  “May I ask, Miss Ravenshaw, if your parents sent your brother back to England for schooling, why did they not send you? It would have been very ordinary.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But my mother built her ministry upon educating girls, and she wanted to show, I think, that she was capable. If she was willing to be the only teacher of her own daughter, then certainly the Indian mothers would understand that she was competent.”

  And she’d needed me to keep her whole and steady. I understood that implicitly; it had remained an unspoken truth.

  “Did you resent that?” he asked. It was openly honest, but I was not offended.

  “Not at all,” I said. “I came to love teaching. Though I fear I disappointed her as a lace maker.”

  He put my hand pleasantly back in the crook of his arm. “I am sure you were never a disappointment.”

  Shortly, we met Mrs. Ross at the bench where we’d left her, and Lt. Dunn walked us up the steps, where Landreth opened the door to let us in.

  “I shall look forward to seeing you on Friday evening,” Lt. Dunn said. Then he stopped. “I believe the Methodist church is having a Bible meeting tonight, as it is Wednesda
y. Would you care for me to escort you?”

  It might be better to attend for the first time on a Wednesday, which was usually less formal, at least in India. Also, I would not have to go alone. “I would enjoy that very much,” I said.

  The church was small; my mother had told me that the Methodists themselves had only been meeting in Winchester for about ten years before my parents left for India. The Church of England was, of course, the church of England, and dissenters such as Methodists, Catholics, and those of the Jewish faith worshipped on the fringes.

  “After you.” Lt. Dunn held the door open.

  A kindly older woman in a woolen shawl who had arrived just before us turned to speak to me. “Hello. Are you new?”

  I smiled. “In a way. My parents had attended here some years ago before they went to India as missionaries.”

  She nodded warily. Could she, too, have heard?

  “I’m sorry.” I held out my gloved hand. “I’m Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw.”

  “How do you do? I am Mrs. Margaret Knowlton,” she said. She looked at me curiously, as one would appraise a pet whose domestication could not be trusted or, in that particularly English way and which may have better applied to me, a foreigner. “I did hear that you had returned to Headbourne House. I’d meant to call.”

  “Oh?” I inclined my head. Lt. Dunn made way for us to take a place in one of the pews before they filled, and I nodded to signal my thanks and agreement.

  “Yes,” she said. “Constance Ravenshaw had been a particular friend to me.”

  “How wonderful!” Here, at last, was someone who’d known my mother!

  “You have the look of her,” she admitted. “Though you have darker skin.”

  I worked hard to keep from sighing aloud. “Please come to call,” I said. “I would very much enjoy that. Any day.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot,” she said. “Lady Ledbury . . .”

  “Lady Ledbury,” I started, “Captain Whitfield’s mother?”

  Just then the minister approached from behind. “Mrs. Knowlton, I’m so pleased to see you. I know you’ve been unwell and unable to join us for quite some time. Have you brought a friend?”

  She turned to make introductions. “Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw, may I present the Reverend Benjamin Bennetts. Reverend Bennetts, Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw.”

  The Reverend held out his hand, but his look was not warm nor his handshake firm. “I was not here when the Ravenshaws were commissioned to the field, but I have had the occasional report from friends and all four of them are greatly missed.”

  Four: Father, Mother, Peter, me.

  “I’m glad to hear that, Reverend. I miss my mother, father, and brother as well. I hope you and your wife will find some time to call on me soon.”

  “It’s a busy time, miss, but we shall try.”

  A busy time? I was not aware of a large number of ecclesiastical responsibilities stacking up in late June, but I was not going to plead for Christian charity, either.

  “Thank you,” I said, thinking, By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.

  I took my seat and listened as Reverend Bennetts preached the Word. The lesson was quite good—not as good as Father’s, of course, but deep and rousing nonetheless. I would return, even if I had to sit at the back alone.

  As soon as he had finished, I stood and looked for Mrs. Knowlton. Why had she mentioned Lady Ledbury? And what about Lady Ledbury had precluded a friend of my mother’s from calling upon me?

  I looked to see where Mrs. Knowlton was. She had apparently left for home.

  “Have you noticed that cakes are rarely served in this household?” Michelene asked me two days later as she prepared me for the dance that Dunn had mentioned earlier, at dinner.

  “I had noticed,” I said. “With the exception of the tea with Miss Dainley, I have not seen them.”

  Michelene pursed her lips. “That’s because Cook favors Miss Dainley. I will wager that you will not see them this evening, either. No trifles, no ices, no tipsy-cakes. Just the meats and the breads. Les fruits. It’s all very dull and perhaps now you are here, and will begin to hostess, you can request a change, n’est-ce pas?”

  I agreed with her. Perhaps it was simply the way things were run when a man was in charge. But Lt. Dunn had certainly seemed to appreciate his pudding, had said most men do.

  She finished fiddling with my gown, which was made of a light fabric that folded in deep, close ruffles from the bustline to the floor, although there was a flat panel in front adorned with becoming buttons. It was dove gray. As July and the end of the mourning period approached I was preparing to wear colors again, shortly. I was eager to have Michelene leave because I had something to practice in private.

  “I shall see you after the dance,” I said. “Enjoy your evening of rest.”

  She frowned at being waved away, but departed, and as she slipped out, Marie slipped into the room.

  “Well, hello,” I said, and stroked her once, which was all she would allow before slinking away.

  I stood in front of the cheval mirror and began to dance. I made it through three or four steps, but then my ankle started to wobble. My foot had been healing nicely, and when I could walk in slow, even steps, I barely faltered, but dancing was another matter altogether. I wasn’t fluid enough. I had no desire to become an object of attention or pity at the dance. I certainly did not want to be a distraction to others’ enjoyment.

  I tried again. Five steps. Falter. I heard the clock in the hallway. It was just before nine and the guests would soon arrive.

  I could not dance. I sat down on my bed, put my head in my hands for a few moments. Why had I tried to push open the insolent horse gate, twisting my ankle as I did?

  I sighed. Reality being such that it was, I would not dance at all. There would be so many people in attendance that surely no one would notice if I declined, nor be ill-mannered enough to press if I said I was unwell. I would go downstairs for the socializing, then go to my room during the dancing, returning later for supper. I quickly swiped away the tears from my eyes.

  Mrs. Ross was waiting outside my door for me, and we walked together to the ballroom, which opened out onto a veranda and the newly mending gardens. There were perhaps three dozen people already there, dotted about the room and porch; a string quartet played quietly in the background, in the minstrels’ gallery, as people mingled.

  “There’s Lord and Lady Ledbury,” Mrs. Ross whispered to me. Captain Whitfield’s parents. I nodded. I wondered how she knew.

  I watched as Captain Whitfield and another man, whom I could only see from the back, drew near to Lord Ledbury. After some minutes of talking, Lord Ledbury laughed, clapped the younger man on the shoulder, and walked away with him, leaving the captain alone in their wake. He was not alone for long; a swarm of young ladies soon enveloped him.

  “Miss Ravenshaw!” Lt. Dunn made his way toward me. “I hope there is room on your card for my name?”

  “I won’t be dancing, but I’m so happy to see you. Please, don’t let me forestall you from collecting other names.” He agreed, though it seemed to be with great reluctance.

  Soon, Miss Dainley came to take me by the arm. “Miss Ravenshaw,” Miss Dainley said. “How I’ve missed you!”

  “And I’ve missed your calls!” I left unsaid that she had distinctly asked me not to call upon her at her house, and I’d honored the request.

  “Oh, Mother has been unwell and I’ve been occupied,” she said. “But I shall be present for the shooting party next week . . . you’ll ride out with us, I presume?”

  A sick little pit quickened inside me. “I presume.” Riding.

  “Do allow me to make some introductions,” she said. She was a confectionary froth in pink and it suited her well. She escorted me around and introduced me to all the ladies present, fr
om the oldest to the youngest. Lord Ashby spoke to someone in the corner of the room, then caught my eye and smiled, and I smiled back, glad to have a friendly face nearby.

  “Come now, I want to introduce you to Lady Ledbury.” She fairly tugged me toward them. “She’s delightful.” We stood nearby, like desperate beggars, while Lady Ledbury finished her conversation. Then she turned with an overbright smile to Miss Dainley.

  “Delia!”

  The use of a Christian name did not escape me. It was reserved for intimates.

  “Lady Ledbury, Caroline, allow me to present Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw.”

  Lady Ledbury turned her smile on me and held out a gloved hand, reluctantly, as one might do to someone suspected of infectious illness. “Miss Ravenshaw. How do you do? I’ve heard so much about you. I hope you don’t feel quite out of place, although one imagines you must.”

  “How do you do?” I said. “I don’t feel out of place at all. This is my home.”

  “My son, Captain Whitfield, feels much the same as you do, of course,” she cooed, but her cold eyes made it clear she did not think it was my home, or shouldn’t be, if it were. “And of course you know no one.”

  “I’m meeting more and more people each week,” I replied. “In fact, I met a friend of yours a few days ago. Mrs. Margaret Knowlton.”

  Her face reflected a complete inability to place the name.

  “Of the Methodist church in Winchester?” I prompted.

  After a moment, she appeared to remember. “Oh, yes. Friends? Indeed, no. But Lord Ledbury and I have made it a habit to support her coal charity. Generously. How kind of her to mention me.” She smiled, catlike.

  I wanted to end the conversation, not leaving that privilege to her. “Please, enjoy the hospitality and the music. I’m delighted that you and Lord Ledbury could join us this evening.”

  She’d already half turned away, emphasizing that I was not the hostess, having the final word, nor anyone that merited courteous attention from her. She wants Whitfield to have the house. Of course. As I moved away, I overheard shards of her conversation, mainly about pennies from Honiton and how I might need some thrown toward me. What did that mean?