by Sandra Byrd
“I’ve heard that you might be leaving for India,” I said.
He nodded. “Yes. Breame—you’ll remember him—says that the time is ripe for investment now the Rebellion is settled. British are flocking to India in great numbers, and for those willing to gamble, there may be lucrative days ahead.”
“I suspect you’re willing to gamble,” I said.
“There’s not much to keep me here,” he replied.
“I noticed that nearly everything has been removed from the guesthouse and that Mrs. Blackwood had sent some day maids to begin cleaning it.” He let his hand slip a little lower, until it rested on the small of my back. I felt his touch resonate all the way up my spine.
“I’ve been staying with Lord and Lady Ledbury as I’ll be leaving very soon.”
“You didn’t say good-bye,” I said softly.
“I could not,” he admitted. “Though I tried.”
“About that . . .” I started, and he put his finger to my lips to hush me.
“Later.” Neither of us spoke until the end of the dance. It wasn’t for lack of something to say, it was so as not to disrupt that which was being said through touch and movement, which was We fit, I miss you, don’t leave, ask me to stay. I still had much to ask, and to say. Why had he been so cold? Why was he not, now? I would wait until supper, when we could speak together at length in a private corner. Later.
There was a break in the music, and champagne was circulated along with pleasantries. I danced with two other perfectly well-mannered men, one of whom was quite attractive. But there was no spark. As I rested during the next dance, that thought brought Scripture to mind.
“Yet man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upwards. But if I were you, I would appeal to God; I would lay my cause before him. He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted.”
I thought back to our conversation about the blossoms. “It was a miracle, Captain Whitfield,” I’d said. “The word miracle means sign.”
I need a sign, Lord. Please send one.
I glanced at the next name on my card. Viscount Anthony Frome. Lord Frome came and found me, took my hand in his gloved one, and sneered slightly at my ungloved, hennaed hands. He bowed and I curtseyed and then we began. The particular song and dance kept us apart from one another more than I had been with Luke, but we were still able to converse.
“Your wife is beautiful and charming, one of the loveliest women I’ve met since I’ve been home,” I said. “You must be very proud of her.”
“I am,” he said, and I was somewhat surprised to hear the softness in his voice when he spoke of Jennie. “My only hope and prayer is for her to come through the birth of our child with all speed and safety.”
“I shall pray to that end as well,” I said. He was a practiced, technically perfect dancer, but there was no give or emotion in his movements.
“Are you quite at home at Headbourne House?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” I said.
“My brother has recently repaired to Graffam Park, leaving Headbourne House. It was quite a shock, I’m sure, as he had all but moved into his ‘family’ house.” He smirked.
“Why, it is his family house, isn’t it?”
He laughed. “It cannot be, by definition, Miss Ravenshaw, if it’s yours.”
The music slowed and we were able to talk a bit more. His mouth was close enough to my ear that I could both hear what he intended that others did not, and also feel his damp breath rim my ear.
“Perhaps it’s better. It’s a pity Miss Dainley has sailed for India. Mother liked her. She was so very fair. And English.” He glanced again at my hands, and then, in a leering way, toward the top of my sari. “He didn’t prefer her; Mother feels he never makes the right choices. I’m afraid my brother is a bit of a mercenary,” he said. “Can’t blame him, really, not having a father to put his foot down with him when he was a boy. Fooled around with women and weapons. Neither got him far.”
We parted for a moment in the dance. “I was under the impression that his weapons manufacture did very well.”
“If one must earn a living of some sort, I suppose I would just as soon choose one that did not involve human bloodshed.” His voice was both sharp and bloated with condescension.
Of course. Lord Frome would never have had to dirty his hands.
I remained parted from him, although we were at a juncture in the dance where we should have joined again. I felt my voice rise and did not heed the memory of my mother’s earlier advice toward temperance in speech. “I assure you, Lord Frome, that if you’d been in the midst of a battle, and I have been, and a man wielding a sword with intent to cleave your skull was fast approaching, you’d be happy to have an Adams in hand to stop him. But you haven’t, and you won’t, so it’s nothing to you and your country life of quiet disdain.”
He looked shocked. And then I realized that there were shocked faces all round me, because the music had stopped and there was a small crowd who had heard me speak so brazenly about weapons and murders and take to task one of the evening’s hosts. Lady Ledbury, I could see from across the room, looked as though she’d just bitten hard on an unripe berry.
The music started up again, but I slowly made my way to the door. It was polite to remove myself then, so the others could enjoy the rest of the evening without an issue arising, sides being taken or rounds of awkward gossip squelched. I did not see Luke anywhere. He will think I left him, not wishing further conversation. Perhaps I could send a note on the morrow. If he’s still here.
I did stop to say good-bye to Jennie.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I fear I’ve made a terrible breach of etiquette. And I’ve insulted your husband. I apologize and do hope we can still be friends.”
“It was a bold thing to say.” She drew me near and kissed each cheek in turn as a response. “Fortune favors the bold, Rebecca.” Then she made her way back into the crowd.
“Back to Headbourne?” Daniel asked. “So early?”
I nodded and held out my trembling hand for him to lift me into the carriage. He stared at the henna.
“The henna troubles you?” I asked. He’d not been bothered by it earlier.
“It’s just that, well, it makes me recall that the-the woman who had pretended to be you, her maid had that kind of heathen paint on her hands, too.” He quickly added, “Not that you’re a heathen, miss. But while I’m speaking of them . . .” He looked down and kicked the ground once before looking up again. “I do know what happened the night Christopher drove her maid away. I want to be honest with you now.”
“Why now?”
“I . . . I want him to stay, miss. And you, too. I know you’ve heard the rumors about him and that woman pretending to be you; we all have. How she died. If he had a hand in it. My loyalties always are with the captain and he said not to tell anyone where she’d gone, for her sake. Christopher took her to the lascars, in Southampton, the dock to India, because none of us speaks heathen now, do we, so we could hardly help. She was scared—being a foreigner, an Indian just after the Rebellion—that she’d be blamed, and just wanted to run away. But Captain Whitfield gave her money to pay for someone to assist her. He thought, being her countrymen and sailors all, they could help and they promised Christopher that they would. Don’t be angry with me, miss.”
He lowered his voice and looked back at me earnestly, as if he were entrusting a secret to me. And maybe he was. “Captain Whitfield wanted to make sure she were taken care of and not followed by toughs. So that means he couldn’t be, well, guilty of anything. Isn’t that right? No matter what the gossips say?” Even faithful Daniel had his doubts.
“Taken care of? What does that mean?” I kept my voice soft. “That he was looking out for her best interests? Or getting her out of the way as quickly as possible?”
“Oh, he’s a good man, miss,”
Daniel continued. “You can be sure of it.”
I had never thought the Mutiny would have occurred, that my parents would have been murdered. I would never have guessed that someone would steal my identity. I could not believe that Luke might be a murderer, nor that he was completely play-acting only to gain my home. His home. But perhaps I had lost sense of what men, or a man, could do and what they could not. I could be sure of almost nothing.
Daniel continued. “I think he sent her back to India.”
I shook my head. “How could that have been arranged?”
Daniel looked at me. “I don’t know, miss. But I know there’s lascars, Indian sailors, that end up in London at the Strangers’ Home. At least that’s what they say in Southampton, when I’ve been waiting there for the captain on his military business an’ all.”
I’d toyed with an idea the past few nights, but first I wanted to make sure Luke was, indeed, worthy of what I planned to offer him. This might be my final opportunity. “Do you think there are Indian women at that Strangers’ Home? Maids?”
“I can’t say, miss.”
“Can you take me to those lascars?”
“Now, miss? There won’t be anyone there this late. And we don’t speak their language . . . wait, you do.”
“Perhaps if I can find a man who helped this maid I can somehow help solve our very difficult problem and clear the captain’s name.”
He looked hopeful, and then scratched his head. “I would take you in the morning, but I don’t see what you hope to do. The maid has long gone back to India. It’s been months and months.”
“I don’t know either, Daniel. But I need to follow this as far as I can. Please be ready to leave at first light.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Early next morning I told Mrs. Blackwood that we were leaving to go to Southampton and that she should not expect us until late that evening. I assured her that Daniel would come along to protect us. Strangely enough, Mrs. Ross raised no objection at all to our going into a rather rough neighborhood; instead, she seemed to relish the adventure. It must get dull, I thought, sitting in her room or waiting upon the occasion to accompany me someplace. Perhaps, being more local, she understood that the locale was gentler than I knew.
Once at Southampton, Daniel went to find some lascars. I spoke with one in Malayalam and he told me that, yes, there had been an ayah delivered here late last year, which was most unusual and why he’d noted it. He would make quick inquiries.
A few minutes later he returned. “The woman you seek was taken to London. We don’t have many Indian women here, you understand, so it was easy to remember her.” He called over another Indian man, who spoke only Hindi, which I spoke haltingly. It was enough for me to understand that there was indeed a home in London, near the West India dock, for Indians who were stranded here, and that all were helped with food, money, and arrangement for work to earn the money to return home if they so chose. It was called the Strangers’ Home. I thanked him and returned to the carriage.
“Can you lodge the carriage and horses in town overnight?” I asked Daniel.
He nodded. “For a fee.”
I withdrew my leather wallet from my account folio, which Mrs. Blackwood had given me before we left, and went to purchase train tickets. Before closing the folio I noticed new papers had been slipped into the accounts. I would look at them on the train.
I paid for a note to be delivered to Mrs. Blackwood so she would not worry.
We made our way into the carriage. The seats were softly upholstered in supple leather that hissed in exhalation as Mrs. Ross settled her considerable self upon one. The train began to pull away from the station, and I wondered, as Daniel had asked, what I hoped to achieve.
I want to know who the maid was.
I want to know who impersonated me.
I want to clear Luke’s name from the whisperings and innuendo that he had a hand in her death. For his sake. For mine.
The train chugged through the Hampshire countryside, autumn clear churned to autumn fog and smoke. I opened up my wallet: an invoice from the dry goods store, marked paid, and one from the poulterer; the invoice behind it was attached to a note from Mr. Highmore. I withdrew it, too, and as I read, was stunned. I read it twice, just to ensure that I had not made a mistake, but I had not. The enormous cost of repairing, remodeling, and bringing Headbourne current, as well as this year’s taxes, had been paid in full by Captain Luke Whitfield. All other monies due him as a matter of course had been duly and permanently discharged.
My breath caught and my hand trembled. I had asked to see the truth of the man with my own eyes, and I had.
Luke had paid my bills expecting nothing in return. I would have at least a year, perhaps two or three, now, to discover how I might acquire enough funds to keep Headbourne. Or, perhaps having paid for it, Headbourne deserved to be his. My heart swelled with love and urgency to complete my mission and return to him. “Luke,” I said softly.
“Ye’ll not find another one like him,” Mrs. Ross said from across the aisle.
A short while later we pulled into Waterloo Station. It was my first time in London—that I could recall, anyway. I longed to explore the city, but at the moment, I was on a mission. Daniel met us and we commissioned a hackney carriage.
“I’d like to go to the Strangers’ Home,” I said. “West India Dock Road. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, miss,” he said. “The Prince himself laid the cornerstone for it. It’s not . . . not a place for ladies, miss, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
I let out a big puff of air. “There aren’t women there, then?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am, it’s a home just for men. India men, other sailors who be far from their home. The London Missionary Society runs it.”
Pride surged; I, of course, had come from a family that had given its life to the work of that organization. “But what about the women?” Had we come all this way for naught?
“They’d be at the Ayahs’ Home,” he said. “That’s not too far away, neither. In Whitechapel. On Jewry Street.”
“Take us, please,” I said. He cracked his whip and his team took off toward the Ayahs’ Home.
We soon turned down Whitechapel, a street of mismatched buildings; tidy homes, crumbling bricks, bakeries that sent out sweet smells, breweries that sent out bitter ones. There were women loitering, dressed in garish makeup and evening wear so early in the day. My heart went out to them, for when they had no other means by which to make their way, they sold themselves. It happened in India, too.
“Shall I wait here, then?” the carriage driver asked me as he pulled in front of a tidy brown terraced house. I knew it would be costly to have him wait but there was no other place for Daniel to remain, and I was not at all certain that another carriage for hire would come out here to get us.
“Yes, please,” I said. “I shall pay your complete fee upon our return to Waterloo.”
He nodded and we walked up the steps to the narrow house. It looked to have about four floors, typical for London, I’d heard, but it was much tidier than the other houses in the area. This being Saturday, I would have expected more activity, but there was little going on outside. We walked up to the door, and I knocked sharply. A young Indian woman opened the door.
“May I help you?” she asked in thickly accented English.
“Yes, my name is Rebecca Ravenshaw,” I said. “Is there a house mother here?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry—speaking too quickly. Please, try again?”
I switched to Malayalam and hoped she spoke it. “My name is Rebecca Ravenshaw. Is there a house mother I might speak with?”
“Oh, memsahib speaks Malayalam!” I knew that most English women stationed in India never learned the local languages, preferring instead to learn only the few words required to communicate with t
heir servants. My mother, and indeed most missionaries, had been exceptions.
She suggested we sit down in the front room. It was but steps from the door, and sparsely, but comfortably, furnished.
“Here we have ayahs who traveled from India with their English families,” she said. “The families normally purchase tickets for the return trip and hand them over to the Missionary Society, which keeps them until the ayah can be engaged with a family leaving England for India,” she said. “But because of the recent . . . trouble . . . not many families have returned to India in the past year. So”—she waved her hand toward the upper floors—“about forty of us still remain, although many are sailing soon, now that English people are returning to India. There are a few of us,” she said in a hushed tone, “whose family did not buy them a return ticket. They must hope for someone to engage them who is willing to do so.”
Forty ladies and a house mother lived in this small house?
“I see,” I said. “No, I am not in need of an ayah.” Her face dropped. “But I have come to see if there is anyone here who knows an ayah who would have come here last winter, in December. The girl would not have been coming from a ship, but from a home in the country.”
The woman carefully rearranged her hands. “There were one or two women who were in a situation like that. It happens, sometimes, the family brings an Indian servant to England but one or the other doesn’t adjust.”
“I would guess not many people were arriving during those months,” I said. Because there were fewer ships leaving India during the early months of the Rebellion.
She shook her head.
“Would there be anyone here that was attached to an English lady who died unexpectedly?”
“There is no one like that here,” she said, and now it was my face that dropped.
All this way to find nothing!
“But there is a woman, her name is . . . Sattiyayi. She was friend to a maid like this.”
Oh! “May I speak with her?”
She shrugged. “We are not friends, and I do not know her well, as she keeps to herself. I can go upstairs and ask.”