Mist of Midnight

by Sandra Byrd

  I smelt it before I saw it and it brought back powerful memories, the tang of salt preserving the rotting green scent of seaweed. Daniel slowed the carriage and then stopped it completely, asking for directions. There were many ships anchored in the harbor, swaying and bobbing, sails furled. My stomach lurched a little, remembering.

  Daniel looked back at me. “I’ve called out to a few people asking about the ships for India, but no one will respond. They’re all occupied.”

  “Drive closer,” I instructed him. At one part of the dock, I could see that there were more Indians nearby. I leaned forward toward the front of the carriage. “Lascars?”

  Daniel nodded and called back. “Yes, miss. They’re most likely sailing to India to work the ships, but many of them live here, now.”

  He spoke with a confidence, perhaps borne of experience, that I had not expected. I remembered anew Cook’s comment about Daniel taking the Indian maid away.

  “Daniel, please help me alight.”

  He came near the carriage door. “I don’t think it a sound idea, miss,” he said. “We’re at the docks.”

  I smiled at him. “Yes, I recognize that. Please help me alight.”

  He held out his hand. I looked back at Mrs. Ross, and she nodded her approval but called out, in an unusually strained voice, “Doona stray far from the carriage, lassie.”

  “I won’t.” I stepped out and, with a woman in their midst, the men slowed down.

  “Esteemed seamen,” I called out loudly in Tamil, certain that some among them would speak it. “I am in need of assistance.”

  Two Indian men came closer to me, and Daniel moved closer yet, looking at me with a mixture of horror and awe.

  “Lady, you speak our language as if you were a woman of India,” one of the men said, looking at my fair skin and English finery.

  “I am,” I said quietly.

  They nodded politely. “How can we be of help to you, respected lady?”

  “I am looking for a friend, kind sirs. An Englishwoman sailing to India, and I have a crate that it is very important that she receive. Her name is Miss Delia Dainley. Would any of you be able to check the manifests and see if she is on one of those ships?” I pointed to those lingering in the harbor. I opened my purse and withdrew a coin.

  “I can find out for you, miss,” one man said as he took my coin.

  I turned to Daniel, whose mouth was agape. “You speak heathen!” he finally choked out.

  I laughed. “Oh, Daniel. It’s Tamil.”

  He closed his mouth.

  We passed a few quiet moments and I watched the workers load crates onto the ships. A growing part of me wanted to board one myself. But there was nothing for me there, really, anymore. Was there?

  Shortly, one of the lascars came back and spoke, again in Tamil, to me. “Yes, Miss Dainley is indeed aboard one of the ships. If you’ll give your package to me I’ll see it reaches her.”

  “Thank you. I’d prefer you row me out instead.”

  “I cannot, miss. You’d have to climb a rope ladder.”

  I saw that this was quite impossible. “Thank you, kind sir.” I held up the wooden crate to him, glad that I had tucked a note of explanation into it for Delia, in case I should not be able to present it to her myself. “This is very dear to me. Please treat it carefully. I shall await your return to know that it found its way safely to Miss Dainley.” He seemed honest, but one could not know. “Please ask her to send a note of acceptance.” I put two pieces of silver in his hand.

  “I will care for it as tenderly as I care for my son,” he said.

  “Kadavul unnai aaseervadhippaaraaha,” I said to him.

  “May God bless you as well,” he replied as he gingerly eased the crate from my arms.

  I watched him walk away with my treasure and prayed for safe travels and that it would accomplish all I hoped it would. Daniel helped me back into the carriage.

  “It’ll get there safely,” Mrs. Ross reassured me.

  “Thank you for your encouragement,” I said. “You’re always so encouraging.”

  “It’s my responsibility, lassie.”

  That was thoughtful. I was certain that most chaperones did not believe their job included being encouraging. None I’d come into contact with, in any case.

  Within the hour the lascar returned with a note. The handwriting was indeed Delia’s.

  Thank you, Rebecca. This gift is far too generous, but knowing what it cost you, personally, I should not think of returning it. I shall be married as a proper Englishwoman; rest assured it will be treated with honor. I am truly sorry for the manner in which I handled our last exchange, and beg your forgiveness. I have done you a turn in friendship, too, though you may never know of it. I am, now, especially gladdened that I did.

  Your friend,

  Delia

  I wondered, on the ride home, what that friendship favor had been. Perhaps it had to do with Captain Whitfield. Perhaps she had, somehow, frightened him away from me, knowing that he would prove false.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Some while later we arrived home. Michelene was in my room.

  “I noticed the wardrobes were in a disarray,” she said. “I went to put away some new dresses . . .”

  “New dresses?” I stood up. “I haven’t ordered any.”

  “Calmez-vous,” she said. “I meant the, er, saree, for the Ledburys’. In a moment, we shall try it on, non?”

  “Oh, very well.” I hadn’t shared my financial situation with anyone else yet, hoping to pray and think my way to a solution first.

  “Your wedding dress. It needs some work? It’s missing.”

  I quickly shook my head. “No. I . . . I gave it to Miss Dainley.”

  “Oof!” she gasped. “That belonged to your maman, non? Why ever would you give it to Miss Dainley? She was a friend, yes, but . . .”

  “Amongst the English in India,” I said, “a traditional English wedding is highly prized. Wearing an English wedding dress is among the most important statements of all. Some women buy used wedding dresses in India. But I knew Miss Dainley would not have the . . . wherewithal to do that. I did not want her to be ostracized. She helped me, and I wanted to help her.”

  “But a gift so dear . . . you could have bought her the ready-made dress, non?”

  Non. But I did not share with Michelene my conviction about loving your enemy.

  “Dresses trimmed with Honiton lace are most prized, since that was what Queen Victoria chose for her own dress,” I said instead. “The dress will give Miss Dainley a great push forward into the society she must live in.”

  And I hoped for her sake that Delia did find affection and acceptance, not only with the other wives, but with the man she would marry after having met him perhaps three or four times first.

  “You will not need the dress?” Michelene inquired quietly.

  I shook my head. “No, I believe I shall not.”

  She clapped her hands. “Well, if you do, you can buy another one with Honiton lace, n’est-ce pas?”

  I nodded. But not one that had lace made by my grandmother’s hands. This was no time for regrets, though, and I didn’t have any. It would do Delia far more good than me.

  She chattered with me for a few more minutes, and I was glad when she took her leave. Her presence troubled me more as each day went on. She was pleasant to talk with, but perhaps too directorial. She’d taken the carriage without asking, purloined my gowns. Something nudged me, troubled me, at the edge of my mind. I reached but could not quite grasp it.

  She had not mentioned Luke’s absence. It was odd.

  “I warn you, I do not know what to do with these henna things.” Michelene had shaken the henna I’d had sent from London into a small wooden bowl, so it wouldn’t stain the china.

  “I do know,” I said.
“Not as much as an Indian woman, especially those of the castes which practice the art of henna, but more than anyone else likely to be at the ball tonight.”

  We mixed in lemon juice and a little of the cinnamon oil I’d been using in my lip pomade. I’d asked Cook for molasses, and although she grumbled, she acquiesced once I told her what I was using it for. “Wish I’d had me a bit more fun when I was young,” she said, and handed over a copper tin filled with the molasses, which would help the dye adhere to my skin while it dried. Mrs. Blackwood had readily offered up some needles when I’d asked her for some.

  “It smells like the stable!” Michelene pinched her nose and I laughed in spite of myself.

  “It smells like the clay soil of India to me,” I said. Once the paste was the proper texture and we’d let it rest till the dye released, I used my left hand to draw a pattern of dips and swirls and trails that crossed and crossed back over again upon my right hand. I wrapped the henna around my wrist like a bracelet and then let it snake slightly up my arm.

  “C’est très joli,” Michelene breathed out a sigh of admiration.

  “Now, you just copy, as best you can, the same design on my left hand. I have done lacework and you’ve done sewing, so it’s not as though we do not know how to bring forth a design with a needle. It’s just for a different purpose in this case.”

  She used the needle to gently apply the henna to my left hand, and after I’d let it dry, we peeled it off, saw where there were gaps in the design, and added a bit more. An hour or so later, I was done.

  “You will certainly be, er, different from anyone else at Lady Ledbury’s tonight,” she said. “I wish I could be there to see. Oh! Wouldn’t Miss Dainley be shocked.”

  I giggled at that. Yes, Delia would certainly have forbidden me from doing this if she’d known. I had a little pang, knowing that she’d sailed.

  My sari was edged in peacock blue with a pattern in gold running all along it. As the fabric rose up my body it became deep indigo, and then sea-green. The pallu edge, which wrapped around my neck and then down my arm, was also trimmed in a gold patterned fabric. Had I been a real Indian woman, and married, I would have boasted of all my gold jewelry by wearing it all at once. The household gathered to look at me, openmouthed. No one spoke, and Mrs. Blackwood soon hustled them back to work.

  Daniel pulled the carriage up. “I’m sure Lady Ledbury will be surprised by your outfit!” he said.

  I grinned. I was a daughter of Hampshire, born and bred here. This was my family home, and the Ravenshaws had lived here longer than even the esteemed Lady Ledbury. I had little to lose at this point. As Mr. Highmore had pointed out, I was nearly a charity case. A little more pity or scorn would not matter, because I was a daughter of India as well.

  Michelene came up behind me. “Do you remember what I said to you about the Hussars? That when they arrive, everyone runs, the women to them and the men away? Tonight, it shall be the opposite. When you arrive in your lovely costume, the women will run away from you but every man shall wish that you were his. You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you for that,” I said. There was only one man I wished to run to me, to wish I were his.

  Once in the carriage I watched the route carefully, not having been to Graffam Park before. It really was quite a short journey through the back way, but the roadways were smooth; I was surprised. Within twenty minutes we had arrived.

  Daniel pulled the carriage up along the long drive, which had been lined with lanterns; still more lanterns lit the steps to the main house, which was made entirely of red brick. The windows were white-framed, tiny little squares warped by time, often seen in grand houses in England, and which I had come to love as confirming a sense of place and home. The lights glittered and shimmered through the windows; some of the panes were wavy with age, which only added to their charm.

  As we walked up the steps, and then inside, under the forbidding portrait of an early Ledbury, there were whispers and nods, and a few smiles. I was dressed exotically, yes, but it was a costume ball and there were many others in unusual attire. I made my way through the crowd of men in historic uniform and the ladies in patrician clothing of years gone by. One person, in particular, made me smile. Lady Frome, full with her baby, stood in the center of the room in a shepherdess’s costume.

  I went to her first. “Oh, my dear, you look absolutely charming,” she said. “And I mean that in the best sort of way. Wherever did you find an Indian dress?”

  “I commissioned the sari made,” I said. “I’d thought of having my nose pierced, too, but perhaps that would have been one step too far.”

  “Next year!” she teased, and put one hand to her back.

  “I cannot believe that you have descended from shepherds,” I said, pointing at her exquisite and expensive country attire.

  “No,” she agreed. “But I wanted to be different. And my family owns land upon which the sheep meander.”

  Lots and lots of land, I thought, with lots and lots of sheep. I knew, too, that her grandfather had made a fortune from wool. But she was genteel enough not to refer to it, and bold enough not to have to wear a costume that tied her, feebly, to some Hanoverian or his courtiers, like many others present.

  The room was edged in gilt—the door frames, the floorboards, the windows, tastefully done, of course. In the far corner a quartet softly hummed. Someone came by and handed a dance card to me. So there were to be dance cards, then. I saw, just outside the great hall, a table spilling over with boxes and bags.

  Lady Frome saw my eyes drawn to it. “The gifts?”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’d nearly forgotten.” I started to walk toward the table, which was guarded by two footmen.

  “Let me come with you,” she said. “I’d like to look the offerings over before deciding whom to invite to our Christmas ball.”

  She had a pleasant, happy look on her face and I knew she teased. “It would be my pleasure, Lady Frome.”

  “Please,” she insisted. “Call me Jennie.”

  “Jennie,” I said, aware that this was a new step in our friendship. “Then you must call me Rebecca,” I said. I set my gift down on the table.

  She looked at it, took it in her hand. “Honiton lace, of course. But what is inside?”

  “Pennies,” I said with a grin. “But not hot.”

  She grinned back.

  Pride wrestled with desire. Desire won out. “Your brother-in-law, Captain Whitfield, is he here?” I asked.

  “Somewhere, I believe,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. I wondered how she had kept her sense of humor alive whilst being married to Lord Pudding. “Though he’s preparing to take immediate leave to the East Indies for a year or two, to attend to his business accounts, and perhaps make some strategic investments now that India is firmly under the control of Her Majesty.”

  “Seems wise,” I said softly. She had not mentioned Delia or another woman.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” she answered. I saw her husband moving toward her. To my surprise, when he arrived he took my card in hand and scrawled his name on one of the lines before taking her arm and moving away.

  Baron Ashby came over and said a cool hello. He signed up for one dance on my card. “I’m sorry to hear of your recent misfortune.”

  I inclined my head. “Which misfortune is that?”

  “Your father’s investments, unraveled.” How had he heard that? Certainly not from Mr. Highmore? Perhaps Highmore’s milk-faced secretary had lost a sense of discretion and disseminated the unwelcome news.

  “It’s not all yet settled, Lord Ashby,” I said. “But thank you for your concern.” He made small conversation and then offered a feeble excuse to withdraw. No fortune, no suitor, apparently.

  “Guid riddance,” Mrs. Ross said, and she didn’t seem to care who heard her. Several other young men came to put their names on my dance card, and man
y were very attentive—even without my fortune—as Michelene had predicted.

  I looked up and, in a suspended moment, saw Luke make his way toward me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  He stood near me seconds later and I looked him over; he was dressed in a vintage uniform. “You served for many more years than I’d thought,” I teased him. I wondered if he’d worn it to taunt his mother, or Lord Ledbury.

  He smiled, and I saw that it was in spite of himself. “It’s my father’s uniform.”

  “I’d thought so. You look striking in it.”

  “And you look incomparably beautiful. I pity the other ladies present.” He nearly moved toward me, leaning to take me in his arms, I could both see and sense it, but he stopped himself. “I thought that, having been denied a dance when we were at Headbourne, I would claim one now,” he said. “Before I leave for India.”

  He was unfailingly polite and devastatingly handsome in the high white collar that brushed against his jaw, but he made no overt move to be more personal to me than anyone else had. I sighed with disappointment and resignation, inwardly, and put on my own cool mask of feigned indifference, though I wept inside.

  He marked down his name, once. “I couldn’t leave without a dance, though it would be easier, perhaps, for both of us if I did.”

  Across the room, Lord Ledbury held up a finger and motioned for Luke.

  “I’ll see you shortly,” he said softly, and kissed the back of my bare, hennaed hand.

  The dancing began and, I admit it, I counted them down till my dance with Luke. He found me; we formally bowed as the music began and then he took me in his arms. I fit perfectly.

  He looked at my hennaed hands, so unlike the carefully gloved ones of the other women present, and an amused, appreciative smile crossed his lips before he caught it.