by Sandra Byrd
“It’s worth the humiliation to hear you laugh twice in a day,” he teased. He shook his head, but several petals remained. I reached up and gently plucked them from his head, placing them into my open, cupped hand, which I had earlier ungloved. He reached out and took them from my hand, then placed them in a shirt pocket before kissing the inside of my palm, where they had rested. My palm burned.
Oh, Mrs. Ross, I’ve succumbed to that which you warned against. I’m not only overboard, I’m drowning. I remembered a passage I’d just read in Joshua. So the sun stood still in the midst of heaven, and hasted not to go down about a whole day.
If only the sun would stand still to stop this day from passing.
Whitfield set my hand down. “I, like Thomas, am a doubter,” he said softly. “A skeptic, as you yourself said. I cannot afford to believe what I cannot see.”
“What happened to Saint Thomas was a miracle, Captain Whitfield. A miracle is a sign that something is happening, even though we cannot understand it all. The Greek word we translate as miracle is sign.”
He took my hand in his again, for a brief moment, but did not reply. The earnest look on his face, though, told me that he very much wished for a miracle he would not speak of.
On the ride back to Headbourne I asked him, “Is that why you do not attend church very often? You’ve left God because you cannot see?”
He shook his head. “A person cannot leave God, but God can, if He chooses, leave a person. I believe that, perhaps, He left when my father died. Certainly when my mother left me He fled me as well. I have not heard from God since, not in any way that I can discern.” He looked slightly alarmed after freeing this thought, and I could well understand why. Many have doubts; few voice them. The silent tended to quickly condemn those honest few who air misgivings dormant deep within us all. Somehow, knowing his tender points enmeshed me with him as much as knowing his strengths.
“Do not be afraid to share your doubts. He freely entertains them, and says He shall never leave nor forsake us.”
“You may henceforth refer to me as Thomas, the doubter,” Whitfield jested, but his voice shook and I did not press him further.
The next afternoon, Landreth asked me to come to the hallway. On the hall console table stood a creamy porcelain vase. In it was a large bouquet of white jasmine branches, thick with buds just beginning to unfurl and release their perfume. A small card was attached. It said simply:
A Sign.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Delia and I were to put the finishing touches to our picnic plan, which would be held in about a fortnight. I waited for her near the foyer; Captain Whitfield’s valet was moving about in the main house, too. It appeared that Thornton was preparing for another journey to London but he took a moment to rearrange the jasmine bouquet, now beginning to wilt and shed petals that drifted silently to the floor.
“White petals forever remind me of India,” I said.
“India sounds marvelous,” Thornton replied. “Except for the, er, maid that was here earlier, I’ve never met an Indian person and have only read of the place in an improving book.”
“There are no other Indian servants hereabouts?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it outside London.”
He bowed slightly, but politely, and took his leave just as Delia’s carriage pulled up. I had never watched her alight from it, having always greeted her inside. It was weathered around the edges, and the coachman looked tired and perhaps older than a man should be who is still required to drive. He helped her to step down, taking more than a moment to uncoil his back, which never did completely straighten. I backed into the main hallway to save her any discomfort she may have had at my observance of the worn state of her man, horse, and carriage.
“Delia!” I kissed her cheeks at the door, and she kissed mine in return. “I’m thrilled to have the day together.”
“I, too.” She looked me over carefully; I wore a lavender-colored dress with mother-of-pearl buttons. “No longer a raven.” She carried a small sheaf of papers, which, I assumed, included not only the names of those we had invited but details such as menus and music. We walked arm in arm out into the garden. “It is coming along nicely.” Her voice held real admiration. “You’ve done well!”
I surveyed it along with her, and yes, I agreed, the gardens, after a faint and fallow era, were well and truly reviving; a renaissance was under way.
“I must admit,” I said, “Captain Whitfield has done well. The planning is mostly his and I have only been here to see that his arrangements have been properly carried through.” But I’d done that with care and concern, and as I looked over the gardens, I thought that I now loved this landscape as much as India’s. The soft green and delicate blooms had begun to wend their way, like ivy, around my heart.
Delia sniffed. “Yes, Captain Whitfield has done well. You might take a bit more care with the roses.”
I looked up and saw said Captain Whitfield striding toward us across the long lawn. Delia saw him, too, and immediately loosened her bonnet.
“I must have been born under a lucky star.” He took one of each of our arms in his; we flanked him. “Two of my favorite ladies blossoming right here in the gardens. To what do I owe this fortunate encounter?”
“We were finishing the plans for our picnic. Would you like to help plot where the cushions should be placed?” I teased.
“I shall leave that to the experts,” he said. “A picnic in mid-August could be quite warm. Perhaps I might suggest under the trees?” He looked at the jasmine vines wrapping their way round a garden arbor. I admit, I had come to think of it as our flower.
“I’ve suggested a moonlight picnic,” I said, as we three strolled toward where Landreth had set up a small table. “It should have cooled by evening.”
“A moonlight picnic, what a wonderful idea!”
I was sure that settled it in Delia’s mind. She’d ensure that the other guests would find the idea irresistible as well.
“Would you care to join us for a light lunch?” I asked.
“The table is set for two,” he said.
“Mrs. Blackwood will not mind adding a third,” Delia offered. I thought it rather forward to direct someone else’s household, but the suggestion was sound.
“Please do,” I said. “It will sustain you ahead of your trip to London.”
“I capitulate, as there are only two ladies I could not bear to disappoint.” Landreth brought out another chair and Mrs. Blackwood rose admirably to the addition, her adaptability really never in question.
“Does your business in London involve your time in the army?” I asked.
“In a way it does,” he said. “I’ve got a partnership in an arms manufacture. I’ve always been fascinated with weapons, and my years in the army only sharpened that. Due to my experience in war I came to see that the weapons we were using didn’t have quite the immediate . . . stopping power we needed for a quick kill.”
I squirmed a bit at that, and, out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Delia did, too. The captain quickly offered a rationale. “Slow deaths cause unnecessary pain. I pulled together with an engineer friend and another man, who was a lieutenant at the time, to design a revolver which allowed for quicker, firmer action.”
“I’m sure it’s been a great success in every way,” I said, wondering just a little if death was ever a success.
“Well, Colt has completely shut and left London, so that says something, doesn’t it?” He grinned, but it was tinted with a bit of insolence. “Happy to have British arms in British hands.” Delia had recovered from a near swoon which was not, I was certain, from the heat, which was mild, but from the thought of the pounds sterling she imagined Captain Whitfield’s hard-fought and well-defended licenses brought in.
“I shall have to depart shortly if I’m to make my train,” he
continued. “I’ll be calling at Southampton again, Miss Ravenshaw. Will you need more of the tincture?”
“That would be very kind,” I said. “I do believe it’s helped, as I am feeling much better now.”
“It works best if you take it without pause,” he said firmly.
Annie brought out sandwiches a few moments later. “Please bring the cakes soon,” I said. “Captain Whitfield will have to take his leave very shortly.”
She looked at him, and then at Delia, and then at me, before bobbing and returning to the house. She was back in an instant with a tray of shortbread biscuits and small cakes. She held it out to Delia, who, remarkably, passed. Captain Whitfield also declined a sweet. Annie held the tray to me. I had asked her to fetch them, so I knew that I must take one, and I did.
“Is there some other kind of biscuit or cake I could have had prepared that would better meet with your enjoyment?”
Delia answered, but not for herself; rather proprietarily, she spoke for the captain instead. “Captain Whitfield does not eat sweets.”
The shortbread went dry in my mouth and I took a great swell of tea in order to wash it down. “I’m sorry.”
He smiled and responded softly. “Do not chide yourself. You could not have known. I stopped eating them some years ago due to the slave trade in the West Indies, origin of much of our sugar.”
“Slavery has long been outlawed, is that not so?”
“In name,” Captain Whitfield responded. “My stepfather, Lord Ledbury, still has considerable investment interests there, so I am perhaps better informed than many on some of the practices which prevail to this day. I find they’ve ensured I’ve lost my taste for all things sugared.”
With great restraint I did not inquire as to Delia’s notable and sudden onset of disdain for sugar. I nodded to Annie and had her take the tray away.
“Please, continue to enjoy them.” Captain Whitfield looked as if he were about to call Annie back.
“No, no. While this remains your home, too, I shall ensure that they are not served.”
“Speaking of which, I understand you’ve made specific inquiries on several properties,” Delia said. “Some near, and some quite far away.”
I had not heard this news. Lady Ledbury, no doubt, had passed it along to Delia.
“Yes, I have,” he said smoothly. “But perhaps that is news for another day as I know my partners will be quite cross if I miss my train tonight. Ladies, this has been a rare pleasure.”
He stood, and indicated that Delia and I remain seated. His gaze flickered in a friendly manner toward Delia, but then settled on me. “I will look forward with unrestrained enthusiasm to your picnic.”
“I shall miss your company,” I said, surprised to find a large void begin to hollow my insides at the thought of his absence. We bade him good day, finished our preparations, and then Landreth called for Delia’s carriage to come and fetch her.
Later that evening, I climbed the stairs to Mrs. Ross’s room, then knocked. “Mrs. Ross?”
“Come in, lassie.”
I opened the door and shut it behind me. A tea tray rested on the table next to her window, and she had a small stack of shortbread on it. “Have one. Ye know they’re guid,” she said with a bright grin.
I smiled back. I had no mother, but I did have this gentle woman to speak to in confidence.
“Perhaps . . .” I began. “Perhaps Delia is better suited to life in Hampshire and I to life in India.”
“For a young lady who is the daughter of a preacher, the daughter of a teacher, and a teacher herself, that doesna sound very promising. Self-pity is the enemy of joy.”
“I wish I could find out who the imposter might have been,” I said. “And I wonder where she might have found an Indian maid. I’ve made some inquiries, and I’ve even asked Annie, Landreth, and Delia, who each said they’d never met an Indian servant round here before. Delia and I seem to have become friends so she’s got no reason to lie.”
“Seeming to be friends is not always the same as being friends,” Mrs. Ross said. “You’ll learn the truth. It always outs.” She set down her teacup. “Miss Dainley and you have made great arrangements for your picnic. Will Lieutenant Dunn return to attend?”
“I believe so. He’s a lovely man, but I . . . hadn’t given that much thought.”
“I’m certain he has.” She popped another shortbread into her mouth. “And given you much thought, too.”
I considered it a moment more. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a missionary wife. I’d know what to do, of course. But my heart isn’t in it. Not in China, in any case.”
“The heart might be turned if you loved the man. Or felt a calling,” she said.
I nodded. “I’ll pray about it. But for now, neither is true.”
She brushed crumbs off her ample lap. “ ’Tis wise. And now, lassie, it’s off to bed with ye as we both have church early tomorrow.”
I turned to leave, and then turned back for one last question. “Had you noticed, when we three went to Winchester for statues, how the people who recognized Captain Whitfield seemed to treat him with reserve?”
She nodded. “I did. But I doona believe it was always that way.”
She’d lived here much longer than I had. She’d know.
I said good night to her, and went to my room, where I took supper with an extra serving of leftover cake. After the conversation about weapons that did not stop advancing enemies, I began to feel the memories of the journey to the Residency creep around my mind, and told Michelene so when she came to dress me for sleep.
“A little poppy will help you sleep without those memories,” she reassured.
It seemed lately she offered it too readily. Yet as I thought back on it the nights I had taken laudanum had been more restful on the whole, with fewer dreams, even if they’d been more vivid. I wanted to be fully refreshed for church and so, reluctantly, I agreed. She poured a dose for me, thickly spiced with cinnamon, and left after I drank it. Almost immediately the welcome warmth coursed throughout me, spreading from my center like a bottle of spilled ink. I grew a little frightened at how much I appreciated its comforts.
I should not take it again.
I walked to the window and looked out at the guesthouse, fully dark, and wondered how far along in the process Captain Whitfield was in the purchase of his new home. I looked just beyond that and saw, again, a tiny flash of light near the graveyard. How could that be? Soon even the flash was obscured by the mists, rising, as they always did, almost like breath exhaling from an open grave.
Another flash of light. Perhaps from the chapel? I was immediately more alert in spite of the laudanum.
After slipping into a dressing gown and a long robe, I tiptoed down the hall. I wanted to see what was causing those flashes by the chapel.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I was not yet prepared to look upon a grave with my name on it, so I did not take the direct route, but I thought to take the back path and enter through the side door if it worked. I stopped in one of the rooms near the library where Captain Whitfield stored some of his weapons and took a pistol for safety, as I would have in India. After loading it, I walked along the corridor, quietly slipped out the door, and silently made my way round the stable and then toward the chapel.
The moon was but a shard in the cloud-clotted sky, but it reflected off the rough path, slick with mist, which massed around me. I picked my way down that path; the night birds had gone quiet. I stepped on a loose stone and lost my balance, twisting my ankle, which caused immediate shooting pain. Because it had recovered, though, it righted itself shortly and I was able to move forward. My eyes adjusted to the dark.
The ground smelt of powdered earth and the must of moss; enormous, surreal mushrooms peopled the path on left and right. I beheaded one with my foot and it rolled down the hill till it
rested against a decomposed tree trunk with a tiny thwack. I walked again, and was soon at the chapel, and yet, there was no discernible light on either side—grave side or dark side.
What had I seen, then, from my window? A specter? I did not believe in them.
Come have a look at the gravestones, came a slithery voice from inside my head.
No, but I shall just pry open the side door to the chapel. My breath came shallowly, quickly, and it made me light-headed. I kept the pistol in my left hand and with my right, I shook the door loose. It was not the main door, but a side one. I’d expected it to be sealed over with growth from being so long underused, but it wasn’t. It opened neatly, almost as if it had been recently tended to. I stepped inside the chapel.
Some windows were broken and the pews were eaten with rot, legs unsteady as a newly landed sailor’s. The floor was strewn with rushes and dried weeds of all sorts except for . . . in one far back corner, it looked as though someone had cleaned the area out. There was a fairly steady pew, cleaned off, and a stand that looked as if it had been used for candles. I moved back there, slowly. Then I stopped to listen. A noise. Distant, but present. My heart pounded in my ears and in my throat.
“Hello?” I called out. “Who is here?”
I inclined my head but there was no additional sound. I shivered, though it was warm, and when I paid attention I noticed my gown was drenched in sweat. From the laudanum.
I caught a glint of something in the corner on the floor, thoughtfully illuminated by a ray of moonlight. I moved slowly, and when I was very certain no one hid in the shadows nearby, I bent to pick up the item.
Once in my hand, I could clearly see what it was. A hairpin made of mourning jet and diamonds. Very costly, very expensive indeed.
Whose was it? My own mourning jewelry had not included diamonds. As I slipped it into my pocket, I heard another noise. Or had I? Had I really seen the light from my room or was that a laudanum fancy, too? Had I heard something just now?