Mist of Midnight

by Sandra Byrd

  “Perhaps it happened exactly as has been said, that she took her own life. But to what purpose? Had she been truly suicidal, there would have been no need for an elaborate deception first. She apparently had no family to come looking after her.”

  I recalled anew what the woman at Mr. Highmore’s office had said to me upon my arrival. Perhaps that would provide a clue. “Where should I find archived newspapers, of the entire year of the Mutiny?”

  She tilted her head. “The library at Winchester, I should think, dear.”

  “The constabulary is also in Winchester, is that not right?”

  She nodded. “A fairly new building of a decade or so.”

  I bent to kiss her powdery cheek, chalky with age like her front steps, and took my leave. All the way home I wondered how I could sort things out to make sense of it all, prayed to find out the imposter’s identity, and hoped I would not yield to the tar pit of melancholia as my mother often had. The fear of it stalked my mind.

  A few days later Daniel drove us to the library at Winchester. Michelene came along, wishing to stop at the milliner’s and pick up a hat that was being repaired.

  “Daniel, do you know where the constabulary is, in Winchester?” I asked.

  Michelene bent forward. “The constabulary?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I should like to stop by for a moment.”

  She pursed her lips. “That is not done.”

  I looked to Mrs. Ross, who nodded her approval, and not to Michelene. “Please proceed,” I informed Daniel. Half an hour later, we arrived at the tall, rather new building. We three ladies got out of the carriage, and made our way inside. I stopped at the desk.

  “Hello, I would like to speak with the chief constable, if he is here,” I said.

  “Certainly, I’ll fetch him,” the young officer said. “Who shall I say is calling?”

  I handed a card over. “Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw. I’d like to speak with him, if I may, about the death of the woman who had pretended to be me.”

  The man disappeared up the stairs. Michelene kept her head down, under her bonnet. Some minutes later, the young man reappeared. “I’m sorry, he’s not here after all,” he said. “I’ll leave your card.”

  He would not meet my eye. We who serve together in the military stick together even once home, Whitfield had told me. Most of Whitfield’s true friends seemed to be former military men, like Dunn, who had run to do Whitfield’s will in testing me. Unsettled, I bade this young man good day.

  As we got in the carriage, I noticed Michelene tipped her head back and up, looking at the outside of the building. From one window I saw the face of a man looking down at me, and then at her, intently, before disappearing from view. It was the constable who’d been at Headbourne upon my arrival. I was certain of it. So why would he not see me?

  “Do you know the chief constable?” I asked Michelene as we got into the carriage.

  “What a thought,” she replied. “The milliner’s next?” I looked at her pointedly, but her countenance remained serene.

  I nodded and Daniel left her there before taking us to the library. Happily, I arrived during the public viewing times and the librarian was most solicitous in helping me find what I was looking for.

  I paged through paper after paper, smudging my gloves, but I cared not. There, in the Hampshire Telegraph, was a fully developed article of several pages that thoroughly detailed the Mutiny. I found another article in a later version that listed information about my family, including our names and deaths, as well as our connection to Headbourne House. Relief flooded through me as I leaned back and closed my eyes with gratitude for the closure that this knowledge brought. I might never know exactly who the young woman was who had claimed to be me, but I knew, with certainty, how she had acquired the information, both public, in the papers, and, private, in my attic.

  Once in the carriage on the way back home, Mrs. Ross asked me, “Did ye find what you were looking for?”

  I told her of my find, and she nodded, but did not smile or agree with my conclusions.

  “Do you not agree with my supposition?” I asked.

  She smiled, finally. “Ye’ll find the truth, lassie, you will at that.”

  I sighed and turned toward the window. She was a kindly old lady, yes, but I was growing a little tired of her Scots muddle. I was satisfied with this answer; it all made perfect sense.

  I had nearly nodded off into a nap when a thought intruded. But how, and why, did she die? And where had she found an Indian maid?

  Picnic day arrived, and Landreth began setting up as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. Delia had arrived early and was working with Mrs. Blackwood on the final touches. I briefly went to the kitchen to thank Cook.

  I looked around at the spread awaiting service. “The food is simply unsurpassed,” I said. “I count myself blessed to have you in the kitchen, and don’t know what I shall do when the time comes for you to move on.”

  She smiled at me for perhaps the first time. “Me sister says you talked with her in town.”

  I nodded. “I’m very sorry for the loss of your daughter,” I said. “I understand what it is to lose those you love.”

  She stared at me for a moment and then her eyes welled with tears, though she did not let them spill. “You do know, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I said softly. “It can be lonely without family about to bring the comfort of home.” I recalled how Cook’s sister said she’d looked upon my imposter as a daughter. Surely that meant they’d been close. “Do you know where that young woman pretending to be me found a maid, her Indian maid?” I asked. “Since you are from hereabouts as well, I thought you might know.”

  “So you’d like someone from yer other home, too, eh, for comfort? I’m sure I don’t know, but you might ask Daniel.”

  “Daniel?”

  She nodded. “I can’t be certain what happened to that other young lady’s Indian maid, but if my eyes didn’t fail me, I thought at the end Daniel drove her off in a carriage.”

  I should ask him as soon as it was feasible.

  Cook came closer. “Be careful, miss, that’s what I say. Just be careful. There’s been enough loss around here.”

  “I shall,” I promised, though I did not know if she spoke in general or had a specific thought in mind.

  I shook the gloom from my thoughts and made my way back upstairs.

  “You look verra beautiful,” Mrs. Ross reassured me as I stood, useless, in the hallway.

  I turned toward her. “I just wish I knew what to do.”

  “Here arrives Lady Frome,” she said. “Her husband will no doubt go to the guesthouse and speak with Captain Whitfield. Perhaps ye should welcome everyone as they arrive, make them comfortable, conversing. Mary”—she nodded to Delia—“to her Martha.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s right,” I said. “Thank you, dear Mrs. Ross.”

  Lady Frome’s grand carriage did indeed pull up in front of the lions, which were now tidied and recently restored so they looked fierce again and not frail, as they had when I’d first returned to Headbourne. And, as Mrs. Ross had predicted, Lord Frome strode off to see or provoke Luke, the elder brother.

  “Here, let’s not even go inside.” I took Lady Frome by the arm. “I’ve had a nice cushion set up on a sturdy frame for you right in the center of the gardens. You should be able to participate without disturbing yourself. ”

  “Thank you, Miss Ravenshaw,” she said. “I’ve so been looking forward to this. I’ve still some months to go before my confinement but I can barely do anything but dine and nap, one after the other in regular rhythm!”

  We walked arm in arm across the smooth lawn, and I settled her on her cushion and drew a table near. “I’ll have Annie bring some chilled ginger beer to you. I’ll be back once I’ve greeted everyone else.”

  Across th
e way I could see Captain Whitfield and Lord Frome dueling—thankfully, with swords and not pistols. I couldn’t imagine that Lord Frome had ever used a sword for anything other than picking his teeth.

  “Goodness me,” I said. “I do hope they won’t hurt each other.”

  “They don’t duel to harm, my dear,” Lady Frome said. “It’s a matter of satisfaction. Of proving, one way or the other, that each is willing to live, or die, for his honor.”

  “They seem intent,” I said.

  “Those two always are. Honor is always an issue between them. Captain Whitfield is always more proficient with weaponry, but I’m afraid that my husband has the upper hand in several other manners.”

  I appreciated her forthright manner, borne, I suspected, by confidence in her position. “A father?”

  “Yes. A father. A title. A home.” She looked at the men, exercised now, sweat-drenched, grimacing and calling aloud. “Neither,” she noted, “is afraid to draw a little blood.”

  I could not wrest my eyes from Whitfield; perhaps, having grown up with a father who had been in the military, I could be attracted only to a man who had a strong bearing and stance. Whitfield certainly did. He caught my eye and grinned, but as he did he lost his focus and Frome pinned him.

  I’d caused him a loss. I was struck by the irony of this—I’d caused his loss of Headbourne, too. He waved toward me as if to say it was worth it, and I waved back, pleased by the gesture.

  Several other carriages pulled up: the Ashbys, Delia’s sister, a neighboring man, two ladies I’d met at church and many others I had not yet met. Lt. Dunn arrived—resplendent in his uniform, his blond hair neatly combed—and sought me out.

  “I’m so glad to have been able to join you,” he said enthusiastically. I recalled what Mrs. Ross had told me—if I knew there was to be no future, I should let him slip away to someone else. “I’m so glad you could come as well, Lieutenant Dunn,” I said. He was about to speak, but Delia caught my eye and I excused myself.

  “Did you plan for entertainment of any sort before we dine?” she asked. “We’ll need to pass an hour or two before the food is served, and Captain Whitfield has arranged for music after dinner.”

  I’d thought Captain Whitfield was not to have been involved with the music! That was the impression she left with me when I’d suggested it.

  “One moment,” I said, thinking quickly.

  I returned to the hallway where Landreth found me wringing my hands.

  “Can I help, Miss Ravenshaw?”

  “The pre-meal activity,” I whispered. “I’d quite forgotten I was supposed to have thought of something. And now everyone’s arrived. I’m not certain what the proper activity would be. What should I suggest?”

  “Perhaps croquet would amuse,” he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of ensuring that the bats, pegs, and balls are polished and the hoops straightened. You have only to command me to bring them out and we shall get the games under way.”

  “Thank you, Landreth. Whatever shall I do without you when you leave?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said. But he pinked and looked pleased.

  “Please bring the croquet set.” I made a great show of instructing him and he smiled in return. I quickly repaired to Delia. “The croquet equipment is at hand. Landreth is having it brought outside just now.”

  “What a splendid idea,” she said. “I have finished in here as well. Let’s go outside.” We strolled past the coach house; all of them could not fit inside, of course. “I believe that Lord Frome has a new carriage,” she said. “It’s quite as nice as Captain Whitfield’s.”

  We walked by her carriage without a word; it was well past its bloom, as was, surprisingly, Lord Ashby’s. We met and mingled with the others on the lawn. After greeting those with whom I had not yet spoken, I felt a gaze upon me. I looked up and saw Captain Whitfield staring at me from across the lawn. He smiled in a warm and personal way. I do believe he even winked! I offered a little wave—pointedly with my left hand—and he broke out in a wide grin. He waved next to Lady Frome, who waved back with honest delight.

  “I do enjoy him,” she said. “He’s always made me most welcome.”

  “Shall we play cards while the others are at croquet?” I asked. Her husband and his brother had disappeared, to change before dinner, I assumed. I withdrew a deck of cards I’d brought for the occasion and moved the cribbage board I’d placed on the table just between us.

  “Thank you, Miss Ravenshaw,” she said. “You are so kind.”

  I dealt the cards and after some time looked up to see if the rest of the guests were content and engaged, and they were. Delia had partnered herself with Captain Whitfield, who had returned; he looked happy and relaxed in her company, which unsettled me just a bit. He stood behind her as she maneuvered the bat, and when her ball went directly through the wicket, he led the cheers. I could see, even from a distance, she blushed with pleasure. She didn’t miss a turn, though, and was able to ensure that everyone else on the lawn was in high spirits. I saw Captain Whitfield speaking with another man nearby, looking jovial at first. It was clear by their facial expressions that the man soon said something cutting to Whitfield, who visibly flinched and then coolly tipped his head and walked away. Two young ladies simpered their way to his side, each taking one of his arms, though he had not seemed to have proffered them; an older man—their father?—looked on with concern. Whitfield was never alone for long.

  Lady Frome and I made small talk about babies and Hampshire, and the kinds of picnics held in India. “But of course you didn’t ride,” she said.

  “Oh no, I was quite a good rider,” I said. “Until the end, and the accident.”

  She nodded. “I see.” She played another hand. I looked up and saw Lord Ashby in a small group gathered round a peg. He smiled at me and I waved, but my eye was drawn back to Delia and Captain Whitfield, now advancing toward another couple a few strokes ahead of them. I turned back to my cribbage game, which was nearing the end.

  “I do hope you win, Miss Ravenshaw,” she said. “It’s just that till the end of the game, it’s never entirely settled, is it?”

  She turned her head toward Delia and Captain Whitfield, and then, bluntly, back to me, clearly connecting the points to ensure I understood.

  Within an hour, deep gloaming beckoned and Landreth had the outdoor torches and candles lit. Annie began to bring out dishes of food. Cook had prepared cold duck, some ham, and several joints of beef. She’d shredded nearly fifteen lettuces and we had small carafes of oil and vinegar on each table that might be liberally sprinkled at will. There were sliced cucumbers and stewed fruits, cheese of every sort and smell, and jam puffs. Bread, refined and coarse, was sliced at each table along with a ramekin of softened butter. There was lemonade and ginger beer to drink, and, of course, tea.

  Lt. Dunn had been kind enough to reserve a place for me at one of the tables. I took a deep breath; he was a charming man, a godly man, but I did not maintain the level of affection for him that he did for me. Perhaps we should have put out place holders so I could have avoided giving him false hope. The conversation was lovely; I enjoyed everyone present and felt very welcome and warm. Within another hour or two, the tables were cleared and a silver bowl of cut melon was set in the center of each.

  “No pudding?” Lt. Dunn asked.

  “No pudding,” I responded.

  “Whitfield?”

  “He did not request it as such, but as this is still his home, too, for a few months, I thought it was kindest to accommodate his principles—which are fine ones, I believe. And the strawberries are well past their season.” I grinned.

  “I’m sorry about all that,” he said. “I feel bad about laying the trap.”

  “I’m not sorry,” I replied. “And I do not bring it up to cause you any further distress, just to jest. In any case, I do not know who was
pretending to be me, God rest her soul, but I’m glad you were interested in finding out the truth of it.”

  “I suppose you shall never know.”

  “Perhaps not all of it, but some. I’ve deduced that she read my family letters, in the attic, to learn enough about us to pass as me. I’ve also read some archived newspapers, which is how she must have found out about our deaths. Mrs. Ross had told me she was certain that the truth would out.”

  “Mrs. Ross?” His voice and eyebrows rose. “I shouldn’t have thought she’d be an amateur sleuth.”

  We both laughed at that thought. “Nor I,” I agreed.

  “Perhaps she was just quoting Shakespeare,” he said. “ ‘Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long . . . at length truth will out.’ ”

  “Murder?” My voice must have risen, because several around us turned to look at me as I used the shrill word, including Whitfield and the man he’d flinched from earlier. Both stared at Dunn and me. I lowered my voice. “Don’t you mean self-murder?”

  “I was simply quoting,” Lt. Dunn said. A sheen broke out on his upper lip and it quavered some before he rectified it with a smile.

  The tables were cleared and I could see three musicians making their way from the guesthouse to the lawn. They must have arrived much earlier and Captain Whitfield had accommodated them in the guesthouse.

  “I shall depart for China soon,” Lt. Dunn said. “I am fortunate that I will be able to return regularly, at least at first, and I should be happy indeed if I could write to you whilst I am away.”

  The time was now. I took his hand in my own and held it softly. “I should be glad to hear from you on occasion. As a friend of my brother, indeed, as a brother in Christ, I will look forward to hearing of your time abroad. I myself have no calling to China, such as you yourself do, and it will be a pleasure to experience it through your eyes.”

  He looked crestfallen. He knew exactly what I’d meant. “I see.”

  “I know from my own family’s experience, as perhaps do you, that missions work best when both man and wife are equally yoked in calling. As your friend, I shouldn’t like you to be unequally tethered. I am certain you will find a delightful young lady who might already be dreaming of both China and a dashing military man. She shall pinch herself that such a man as you exists and can bring both dreams to life.”