Mist of Midnight

by Sandra Byrd

  The most effective lies are always truth based. But my eyes were open, now.

  “Captain Whitfield and I are to be married,” I said.

  “Félicitations! I can help with the most beautiful wedding dress.”

  The utter gall! I held up my hands. “I’m afraid your service with me has come to a swift conclusion. Unfortunately, I will not be able to offer a recommendation, as most women do not prefer that their lady’s maid press her case with their husband, or ­husband-to-be, nor provide regular laudanum to the lady of the house in an effort to make her more pliable, or, perhaps, bring on sleep so they may dally with men or take the carriage at will. You said you wanted to help!” I tempered my voice.

  “I was helping. You wanted him to stay, non? I was giving the extra incentive to that.” I remembered the look that passed between her and Lady Ashby. Had she perhaps tried this trick with others?

  I would not shoot this snake in the grass, but I would wrangle it with a snake hook and fling it far from my home.

  Her eyes darted left and right, not able, apparently, to remain steadily in my gaze.

  “With your dressmaking abilities, I’m certain you’ll be able to secure work in another town. London, perhaps,” I said. “Certainly not around here. Mrs. Blackwood is, even now, packing your belongings. Any dresses, even cast-offs, you procured while in my employ will remain with me. Except the blue crystal-encrusted dress. You may take that with you as a reminder, as I shall never wear it again. Daniel will take you to the train station, or anywhere nearby that you like.” I held out an envelope. “Your final settlement.”

  I softened my voice. “You have talent, and skill, and the ability to make a fine living honestly, Michelene, if you choose to. You could marry.”

  “A tradesman, perhaps? Or the chief constable, who pursued me? Non. I am above that.”

  Ah. The constable. Now I understood.

  She sneered at me and stood up. “Bon courage in your marriage, mademoiselle. You shall perhaps need it.” Trying to plant doubt to the last, but I had none of it.

  I stood and saw her to the hall. Mrs. Blackwood arrived soon thereafter with two small trunks and I saw Michelene down the walk. As Daniel drove away with her, I turned to Landreth.

  “Who removed the lions from the pillars at the foot of the steps?”

  He repressed a smile, barely. “Captain Whitfield ordered it done, miss, early this morning. Sent for the stonemason from Graffam. Said to tell you Whitfield walked through them and they ran away.”

  I grinned.

  “He asked, miss, that you not return to the chapel till he brings you himself.”

  I nodded my agreement and thanked him. For the first time in memory, Landreth smiled, too, a genuine, wide smile, bowed slightly, and then held his hand out for me to make my way, first, into my home, where he handed a package to me. “This was delivered by hire carriage this morning.”

  I took it in hand. It had no return address, and was addressed simply to Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw, Headbourne House.

  “Thank you,” I murmured, and went upstairs to open it.

  I slit open the side of the package with the ivory letter opener in the top drawer of my bureau. A card fell out first, and then I was able to see what was inside: a delicate bag that held yards and yards of white Honiton lace. I gently took the lace out and held a stretch of it between my hands.

  Mother.

  It was clearly worked by my mother in a pattern she had designed herself and had used, often, in the past. I held it to my cheeks, then to my lips, then set it down before my tears stained its snowy perfection. I opened the folded card. It was written in Tamil.

  Dear Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw,

  I am enclosing this gift to you. I had not wanted to sell it; I’d thought I would bring it back to the mission in India because I knew how valuable it was. But then I thought I must sell it, or there would be no way for me to return home. Because you provided the gift to me I was able to purchase my return trip ticket without doing so.

  We had been to the mission to visit when news came of your family’s death. Violet was grieved, but also, I believe, saw her opportunity. When we left India, Memsahib Violet took some papers which I believe she thought would prove she was you, and this lace, which I kept so the French maid could not take it. I know now that this is your mother’s handmade lace and Violet had kept it in case she needed further proof of her identity. As you may have guessed, I was the maid to Violet and not the maid’s friend, but given that the other memsahib had lied to me, I did not know if I could trust you and therefore did not tell you the truth right away. I am sorry for this.

  I hope you enjoy many long and happy days in your homeland. I hope I do, too, in mine.

  Blessings and peace be upon you,

  Sattiyayi

  Oh, yes. Deep inside, I’d known. The touching of the cheek, and flinching, upon further reflection, confirmed it in my mind. The detailed knowledge of what had gone on, even the explanation about the hennaed warning. I held the lace in my hand like the treasure it was.

  My mother’s hands made this. The release of peace, so long awaited, spilled forth in my heart and spread throughout my body in every kind of warmth. I had, for a moment, regretted giving her dress to Delia, but charity had won out. Charity, in turn, had returned something more precious to me; not my grandmother’s lace, which was dear, but my mother’s, which was priceless.

  A knock came at the door. “Miss Ravenshaw?”

  It was Mrs. Blackwood. I got up and opened the door, leaving the lace across my bed like a joyous streamer, a banner of goodwill and affection.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, and I remembered the day when she did not want me in her quarters.

  “Not at all,” I said. “Please come in.”

  “I’ve heard, while . . . though, we don’t gossip, miss, as you’ll know, but Landreth has said that there is to be a wedding.” She grinned, which was quite a sight to see on her bright face, lightening her of a dozen years and perhaps twice as many cares.

  “Can you arrange for a wedding breakfast, planned for and prepared in about six weeks?”

  “Oh, oh yes,” she said. She glanced at the bed. “Is that for your wedding dress, then?”

  Wedding dress!

  “Just what is taking place here?” Mother walked into the room and scolded in jest. We girls had wrapped ourselves in yards of lace, around our heads and draped like veils, around our bodies like shrouds.

  “Playing wedding,” I said, with a small curtsey.

  “Where are the grooms?” Mother asked, looking about her, playing along. I could see her suppress a smile.

  “They’ve not yet arrived,” I answered. “But they shall. Very soon indeed.”

  She drew me to her and kissed my head, through the lace veil. “You make a lovely bride, Rebecca.”

  “Miss Ravenshaw?” Mrs. Blackwood’s voice brought me back to the present.

  “Oh yes,” I answered, blinking back happy tears. Mother. “Mrs. Blackwood, what a stunning idea. Of course, yes, it must be.” I stopped. “But, well, Michelene is no longer in my employ and . . .”

  “Might I suggest Annie?” she said. “With a bit of training, she’d make a fine lady’s maid.”

  “Indeed she would! No more French maids. But the dress . . .”

  “Lady Frome is certain to know someone who can make a fine dress, quickly,” she said.

  “Indeed! Jennie will help, I know it.”

  “Jennie?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, yes, Lady Frome,” I answered. “Lady Frome and I use our Christian names with one another now.”

  She smiled. “All will be well, then.” She turned to leave the room, and as she did, her keys jingled. “When I was packing Michelene’s room, I found several of your dresses hangin
g in her wardrobe. I also found some of your letters in her bureau.” She handed them to me. They were held together by three hairpins, all jet and diamond. Of course the pins had belonged to me, in that she’d spoken truly. She’d taken them from Violet, who also had been in mourning and worn them, who knows when, in the chapel.

  “Now that I realize she took your letters, I see where she found some information she shared with me. She’d told me you had wanted to be married in India, but your friend had stolen your intended.”

  “Never!”

  “And she suggested we encourage you. I was glad to do it, Miss Ravenshaw, once I knew what a lovely woman you are. I thought I was doing good, but I see now, I’d been ill used for her purposes.”

  I drew near. “We all were. Please do not give it another thought. And it’s certainly worked out well, hasn’t it?”

  She grinned and nodded before leaving my room.

  I unclasped the packet—the letters I’d meant to send, and some I was to have received. One letter was from Mr. Mead, one from Penelope, several from others at the mission. That mystery was solved. Michelene had wanted knowledge to taunt me with, perhaps, to help me fear the dreams or my sanity. That certainly was where she’d learned of Mr. and Mrs. Mead, where she had learned about Penelope and John Mark, and the fact that she had married him, not I, which she’d shared with Mrs. Blackwood.

  I turned back to happier thoughts, gathering up the lace in my arms and hugging it close.

  I had six weeks to prepare for my wedding. My wedding!

  The December day was a gift; cold, clear, beautiful, with the lightest powdering of snow, like crystal talc on a lady’s face, which made even the mundane and ordinary sparkle. Although it was against protocol, Luke came by the house early so we could have some time to talk and walk together before the late morning wedding. He had a surprise for me, he’d said, and wanted to show me privately before the ceremony and wedding breakfast. I met him in the drawing room.

  “Good morning, darling.” He kissed both of my cheeks in turn. He smiled at Mrs. Ross. “This will be your last official duty, then?”

  She smiled back. “I doona ken about that,” she said. “But I shall take my leave right after the breakfast.”

  It was the only cloud cast over the day. “I will miss you terribly,” I said.

  “I will be nearby,” she replied. Winchester wasn’t very far away.

  Luke bundled me into my warm coat and we walked down the stone steps. We walked the path past the stable yard and coach house; Luke had already begun the process of bringing his horses back to Headbourne. By the time we returned from our honeymoon in Europe his personal effects would be completely reinstalled. I’d ensured that the master bedroom had been refreshed, too. How lovely it would be to share it. Shortly, we came to the graveyard, where he stopped in front of the newest grave.

  The stone had been smoothed, and the cat’s-eyes reapplied. Violet’s name had been carved where mine had been, just above the line A friend loveth at all times.

  “Oh, thank you,” I said. “I know she has done some horrible things, but I will rest easier believing she rests, too.”

  “I know,” he said. “I had the stonemasons attend to this. You are a true friend. But this is not the gift I have for you. Turn around.”

  I did, and I was astonished that the church had been completely renovated. I knew that Luke had planned to complete the work because I’d said I wanted Reverend Bennetts to marry us there, but each stone had been cleaned, grout and mortar attended to. Inside, the pews had been replaced and the windows mended and polished; one had been replaced entirely with a stained glass of the garden of Eden.

  “So this is why you did not want me to enter the chapel till you could bring me yourself,” I said in awe.

  “Even the good Lord found that love is a risk. Paradise lost. Paradise regained.”

  I hugged him. “Luke! This is the best gift you could have given me. When did you think of it?”

  We sat down on a pew, Mrs. Ross several rows behind us.

  “The morning you’d gone to London, I came looking for you, to thank you, to love you, for speaking up for me with my brother.”

  “I recall,” I said with a little shame.

  “Do not be ashamed; it was then that I knew I could not let you go,” he said. “When you were not at home, I came to the church to pray.”

  “Truly?”

  He nodded. “And in the midst of it, I knew I had to restore the chapel, whether I won you back or not. It was, perhaps, a bit like you. Placid and cared for on the outside. A bit undone inside, at the heart. I wanted to change that . . . for it, for you.”

  He reached over and slipped my gloves off my hands, then removed his own gloves so we could hold hands, skin to skin.

  “Henna?” he seemed surprised.

  “Just a little,” I said. “Not enough to make a spectacle. In India, a bride has an intricate design created on her hands or feet before her wedding day. The design is meant to have no clear beginning and no end, like the relationship itself.” He turned my hand over in his own to verify that he could not see a termination in the design. I used my other hand to point out a tiny L and R in the design.

  He traced it, then reached over to kiss me, firmly enough that our cheekbones pressed together, and we did not part.

  Mrs. Ross cleared her throat. “The ceremony has nae taken place yet, ye know.”

  We looked at each other and laughed before standing up, closing the church door behind us, and running joyfully in the snow.

  The wedding service had been beautiful and everyone had made their way back to the house for the breakfast. Mrs. Knowlton sat in the place of the bride’s mother, directly across from Lady Ledbury, which amused me. I’d asked Mrs. Blackwood to ensure that there were swans carved of ice in the middle of the buffet.

  “Swans,” I said, and Luke smiled.

  “When you first shared why you wouldn’t hunt them, perhaps that was when I began to fall a little in love.”

  “Not when we first danced?” he teased.

  “I admit that provoked, perhaps, a more natural response.”

  He grinned and pulled me to him for just a moment before mingling with our guests. I’d kept on my white dress, and even the veil, though I’d pulled it back across my hair. I went to meet Mrs. Ross in her room just after the tables were cleared so we could say our good-byes in private.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Do you need a carriage ride?”

  “I doona need a ride; it’s best this way, lassie,” she said.

  Someone from the kirk must be shortly arriving to take her back to town.

  “You are married to a guid man.” She looked at my veil, trimmed in my mother’s lace. “Your mother and father are content, I’m sure.”

  I looked her in the eye and asked softly, “Do you think they know?”

  She nodded and took my hand in her fat warm one. “They know,” she said. She hugged me and then opened the bedroom door to walk out. I started to follow her down the stairs, but, stubborn Scotswoman, she held up her hand and indicated that she wanted to do it alone.

  I looked around her small, neat room. On the small bureau next to the window was a bottle of Dr. Warburg’s Tincture. It must have been the one that had disappeared! I went over to inspect it. Empty, clean, dry, and the only thing left in her room. She had wanted me to find it. How had she known it needed to be removed, to keep others safe from its consumption?

  I stood at the top of the stairs just as she closed the great door behind her. I walked, as quickly as one could in a billowing, binding white cloud, down the flights and into the main hallway hoping to catch and ask her.

  I opened the door and stepped out onto the landing, but she was gone. I walked farther out but there was no sight of her to be found. No footprints nor carriage tracks marred the freshly fallen d
rifts.

  Luke came up behind me and wrapped his arm around my waist. “Come inside, darling. It’s cold out here.”

  I looked up and down the way once more, seeing nothing. And then, an extra shimmer in the snow, which reached heavenward and was met by an extra shimmer in the clouds.

  Then I understood. Mrs. Ross was no ordinary chaperone, overseeing my comportment and guarding my reputation. She had been sent, protecting and ministering to my very being by divine decree, as Scripture claims—and I, unawares. It was why she felt so familiar; she’d been with me all along.

  Thank you, Lord.

  I melted into my husband’s side like a snowflake on a warm hand and we walked together into our house. Our home. ­Headbourne.

  EPILOGUE

  SUMMER 1863

  Annie helped me close the remaining trunk. It was stuffed beyond capacity, really, and a testimony to her industriousness that everything had been accommodated in the cases Luke had allocated for the trip. Annie had, at the last moment, plucked out Marie, who had been making an attempt to stow away. Daniel brought around the carriage, and Matthew helped me in.

  “You’ll help Daniel take care of everything in our absence?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Rebecca.” He still called me that, and I did not chide him, because it brought back lovely memories from the time before he was a member of our household. I stepped up into the carriage first and then Peter was handed to me. Mercy, at four, followed, then Luke, and lastly, Luke’s valet, Thornton.

  “Better than the improving book?” I teased.

  “Oh yes, ma’am, infinitely,” he said, barely able to contain his boyish excitement at the trip.

  Shortly after we’d boarded ship and were settled, we pulled away from the harbor, at sunset. I stood on deck, two-year-old Peter in one arm, and holding Mercy’s hand.

  “I shall ride a painted elephant, shan’t I, Mummy?” She jumped up and down. “Or shall I shoot a tiger?”

  “We’ll see when we arrive,” I said with a smile. I had longed to return to India, and now we were going back together.