Mist of Midnight (13 page)

“Perhaps she could speak English all along, but did not want us to know.”

This was a thought I had recently considered. Perhaps the
maid had been an Anglo-Indian, a woman born of an English father and an Indian mother.

Perhaps the imposter had been, as well! That, certainly, would drive a person to desperate measures. One foot in each world, unwelcome and considered the lowest caste in both, brought to En­gland as a child, desperate to make her way up as an adult. They'd said she was darker skinned. Like me. Though I was certainly not Anglo-­Indian. I instantly felt ashamed at how quickly I had defended myself against that “charge,” even to myself in my own thoughts.

I shook my head to clear the tangle.

Michelene nodded her head as I did. “It is strange. Perhaps someone wanted the maid taken away, very quickly, before she shared her secrets. That is what I think. After all, the day maid told me that the captain was quietly searching the young lady's room after she was buried. When there was no one left to protest. And then—he locked it up.”

Did she mean the maid was dead, too? I was about to ask but she closed her lips tightly in that way she did when she was going to say no more. She worked for me now, of course, and I depended upon her to be discreet. In fact, her future as a lady's maid for anyone depended upon her discretion. If she was understood to tell tales on her former mistress, who was to say she would not tell tales on me?

Michelene returned to her room, but before I went to bed there was a knock on the door. “It's Mrs. Blackwood, Miss Ravenshaw,” she said.

“Come in.”

“Here are the accounts,” she said. “We thought you may want to look them over, to see that all is right, before we ask Mr. Highmore to pay them.”

“Yes, yes of course,” I said. “Thank you kindly.”

She handed a bottle over to me. “Dr. Warburg's Tincture,” she said. “Captain Whitfield sent it over for you. He instructed me to tell you that you should begin taking it straightaway.”

“Thank you,” I said. “The instructions are on the bottle?”

She nodded.

I began to look through the paperwork. Goodness, there were more expenses than I had expected. The dressmaker's bill was high. I sat down on the chair next to the window to regain my balance.
I must consult with Mr. Highmore, soon, about what progress he has made in establishing the balance of my father's funds and investments. I'm certain Father would have provided well for me, but do not want to overspend.

And what was this? I ran my finger against the paper. Peignoirs? That would make sense, robes to pull around oneself whilst dressing. But not the next item. “A
négligée
? That must certainly be a mistake, isn't it?”

Mrs. Blackwood was still standing there. “You don't hope to marry, miss?” she spoke up.

This was a slightly forward conversation! I thought for a moment. “I hadn't thought to marry.” But, perhaps . . . I might like to marry. I took but a moment to envision myself with a man, wearing clothing that women wear only for themselves, for their husbands.

“No? Was there once a man in India, one that your father had intended you to marry, but you did not? He might have married a friend of yours? Perhaps the right man for you is here in England.”

I blinked. “How do you know about John Mark?”

She froze. “We . . . don't. It just seemed . . . possible, of course.” She was not telling the truth and was uncomfortable lying. I was certain of both.

“Thank you, Mrs. Blackwood,” I said. “I will have the
négligée
returned, and I appreciate your close attention to detail on the accounts.”

She nodded politely, reserve regained, and left the room.

How had she learned about John Mark?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

M
iss Dainley called on Thursday and we had a pleasant chat about the cathedral in Winchester and what kinds of clothing one would pack if one found oneself aboard a ship sailing for India. I knew her kind father had a meager budget and she would be expected to pay for her furniture and provisions aboard, so I offered a small list and said I would give it more thought. She clearly did not want to depart, and my heart stretched toward her as it put me in mind of my own dilemma, which was, as of yet, unresolved. She would, at least, have a brother to greet her when she arrived.

Lady Frome, Captain Whitfield's sister-in-law, called for just a moment, bringing a small gold box in which lay a perfectly beautiful lace handkerchief.

“Thank you,” I said. “I shall treasure it!”

“You said your mother did lacework, and this is Honiton lace.”

“Of course, I recognized it instantly by the pattern and bobbin work,” I said. “You are so very thoughtful.”

“I can act as your chaperone at the shooting party next week,” she said.

Yes. I wasn't, of course, looking forward to it as I would not be able to ride out with the others.

“I suspect Mrs. Ross will be content to be relieved for that day and as I am”—she smoothed her dress over the sea swell that was her burgeoning belly—“
enceinte
, I shall not be riding either.”

“I'm very grateful,” I said. Lady Frome had provided an out! “But how did you know that I shall not be riding?”

“Luke told me.”

Luke.
That was, of course, the name I had come to use for him in my own mind.

We talked comfortably for a while, and after she left, Lady Ashby, Baron Ashby's mother, came to call. Landreth showed her into the drawing room. For a moment, I considered slipping through the secret door and into the breakfast room, having Landreth plead “not at home” for me. But I remained.

She handed a single peony to Landreth, who clipped it and placed it in a silver bud vase before handing it to me.

“This is from Lewis,” she said. “My son, Baron Ashby. He ensured that the gardener protected the finest blossom until I could bring it to you today.”

That melted me, just a little. “What a kind son you have raised,” I said. “I have yet to meet anyone here as genteel as he.”

“He will be gratified to hear that . . . as am I, Miss Ravenshaw.” She smiled and accepted tea. She raised an eyebrow at the tiny dish of petits fours, but helped herself to one nonetheless.

We made polite conversation for a short while; she invited me to the local Anglican Church. When I told her I'd been to the Methodist church, like my parents, she stopped for just a moment. “You are welcome to join us should you wish to return to the fold.”

“Thank you, so very kind,” I said, hiding my smile. Then she took her leave. In spite of her stated reluctance, I had hoped for my mother's friend, Mrs. Knowlton, to call. Alas, she did not. As it was nearing the end of my at-home hours, I asked Landreth to join me in the drawing room.

“Please, have a seat.” I indicated the sofa.

“I'd rather not, Miss Ravenshaw,” he said. “It's not, it's not done.” He pinked.

I sighed. “This is precisely why I've asked you to join me. I occasionally find myself quite out of place, like a person walking in somewhat familiar environs, but without a map. My mother took great care to raise me properly, but as we were in India, and not England, not every occasion arose in which suitable training might be offered. I hope this will not make you uncomfortable, but may I ask a few direct questions of you, Landreth?” I let my voice turn lightly pleading. “So I do not trip on a rabbit hole and stumble in full view?”

His shoulders relaxed. “Of course, miss. I am here to help.”

“Was Lady Ashby calling on me simply to be polite?”

He nodded. “And, of course”—he coughed into a closed fist—“because you are an heiress of some means with a house that has been in your family for a considerable time.”

I sipped my tea and he continued. “Her son, Baron Ashby, is from an old family which has fallen upon complications.”

I see. Since he'd been so forthcoming, I decided to press on, but I knew I couldn't ask for too much without making him feel as if he were compromising his position.

“And Captain Whitfield? Is he, too, from an old family which has fallen upon difficult times?”

Landreth sighed. “His family is also that of your own, is it not?” He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The captain has some
quarters in London, of course, and he's been abroad and only recently began looking for his permanent country home. But, miss,” he added, “it is one thing to
buy
a house, and another entirely, to move into and inherit
your
family home. Do you understand?”

Yes. After all, this was my family home. This was England and these things mattered.

His tightly drawn face told me that he had concluded all he was prepared to say.

“Thank you, Landreth,” I said quietly, “for enlightening me on these small matters. I can ride an elephant and I can shoot a kite midflight but I have yet to master the intricate pattern of the En­glish social web.”

He relaxed into a smile. “My pleasure, miss.”

In my room Michelene waited to help me dress, and as I entered there was not only the peony waiting for me, but a thin ivory box, beautifully wrapped. I'd open it before bed, privately, after Michelene had retired for the night. I should have been able to completely trust my lady's maid, but I didn't. Not yet.

T
he men, and some of the women, rode out to the area where we would practice shooting; Captain Whitfield had generously provided pistols to everyone, a newer model to try out. It seemed a bit odd to me, and at the house, before we rode out, I heard some muttering about Whitfield trying to buy his way in . . . or out. Lady Frome and I rode in a carriage, of course, she because of her delicate condition and I because of my foot. Well, that's what I'd told everyone.

She was a most agreeable companion. We chatted about India and my mother and I was delighted to find that Lady Frome was
an experienced lace maker, something I did not expect to find in someone of her station.

“And you?” she asked.

I smiled. “I'm afraid I was rather a disappointment to my mother in that way. I was able to help her teach reading, writing, and penmanship as well as religious studies. But she found other girls more apt at the lace making than I.”

“English girls?” Lady Frome asked. “Indian girls?”

“Both,” I admitted. “English girls who were from the mission, or daughters of those working for the East India Company nearby. And many, many Indian girls. Some, although slave castes, had had practice with intricate henna designs and so readily picked up the skill.”

“Your mother was from Honiton, you've said.”

“Yes. I should like to visit sometime, after . . . after I'm completely settled. The Queen commissioned Honiton lace for the christening gown of the Princess Royal,” I said with pride. “Which gave it great value. My mother remarked on it. It's been used with every royal baby since.”

“And there have been plenty of royal babies since,” she teased, and I smiled with her, which was easy to do.

“Perhaps we can steal the gown for your little one when the time comes,” I teased.

“A stay in the Tower offers no appeal!” she answered.

Our carriage came to a halt and when it did, Lord Frome himself was there to assist his wife as she descended, and then he helped me, too, though I certainly felt as though I were an afterthought. I noticed his paunch, rather large for a man his age, a man who did not stay himself from the final courses.

Lord Pudding
. I grinned.

An arm was at my elbow. “Would you be willing to share whatever it is that is making you smile?”

I turned and saw Lt. Dunn and smiled more widely. “Not that particular thought, but I will say that your gift of the pearl-handled pen in the lovely ivory box made me smile. Thank you for your kind generosity. I fear it is far too dear for me to accept.”

“No, please, I insist. With no . . . expectation. I hope that while I'm away for a short while you might write to me, as I shall to you.”

“Ah,” I said. This would be socially acceptable, even with a new friend, especially as we had mission work in common; Mother and I had often written our letters together, so I was quite sure of this. I was not sure, however, what kind of communication he anticipated, but as he had said it was with no expectation, I could safely keep the pen.

“You're leaving soon?”

“After the dinner this evening,” he said. “Although I shall return in a few weeks. I spoke with Whitfield about it, and he agreed, although I think he had only intended for the one visit this summer.”

“The one to catch me out.”

“Yes.” He grinned with me. “I apologize again.”

“No need. I know Captain Whitfield is interested in proving my identity to be true or false.” For reasons of integrity or for darker, more personal motivations I was not yet sure. I left that unspoken.

He took my arm and walked me to the area where the guns were being loaded. There was a table upon which many of them rested, leather bags of ammunition beside them.

“They're all Adams.”

Lt. Dunn looked bemused. “Why, yes,” he said. “I'm surprised a lady would recognize the manufacture. You don't think Whitfield would shoot anything else, do you, as he owns the manufac
ture of them? That is, after all, why we're out here today. So he can show us his new model. Very generous of him, I might say, to offer to each a pair as a gift.”

“Yes, generous indeed,” I agreed. There was no muttering from Dunn about the largesse. Perhaps because he was not from Winchester? And I hadn't known about Whitfield and the ­Adamses. Perhaps this was the source of his fortune.

Apparently, all were to ride out around the property first, perhaps to look at changes made to the grounds, and were mounting their horses and beginning to ride out. Lady Frome and I stood near the table where the pistols, and the servants caring for them, had been left. Captain Whitfield had not yet greeted me, but as host, perhaps he'd been busy. He looked magnificent in his riding attire, and by the way he carried himself, he knew it. All of the other men had caps on, but Captain Whitfield let his longish hair whip freely behind him as they left walk for canter and I found I could not take my eyes off him. Notos looked splendid. Captain Whitfield, so vain, even his horse had silver leg gaiters . . .

Wait.

I looked several yards in front of the horse and saw something rise in the field. The horse saw it, too, and began to rear on her back legs just a little and then she screamed.

A snake.

Without pausing for thought I took one of the nearby loaded pistols in hand and shot.

In a second, the snake was dead on the ground. Notos had shied away and Captain Whitfield worked hard to get her under control.

I stood there, shaking, as the others pulled their horses to a halt and Captain Whitfield raced back to me.

“What in the . . . what do you think you're doing?” He stared at me, and then at the pistol in my left hand.

“You and your horse were in danger, sir. An adder.” I set the weapon down and tried to control the shaking at my core. “Did you not hear your own horse scream?”

Soon after, Baron Ashby rode up with half an adder in his gloved hand. “I say, you are quite the shot, Miss Ravenshaw,” he said admiringly. “And bravo for spotting that from a distance, too.” He tossed the remains behind him, into some tall grass.

“Thank you, Lord Ashby,” I replied. Someone brought a field chair for me to sit in and I sank into it.

Captain Whitfield dismounted and then pulled up a chair next to mine.

“I owe you a life. I was distracted and thought the shot came at the same time as the scream. I should know better.”

“Your horse may owe me a life,” I jested, “but you most certainly do not.”

“How did you see it?” he asked.

“I'm well equipped to see a snake in the grass, Captain Whitfield.”

He raised his eyebrows and I grinned.

He took my left gloved hand in his. “You shoot left-handed.”

“I
am
left-handed,” I said.

“You write right-handed. You eat right-handed.”

He'd noticed?

“What does it matter? Surely you don't believe the superstitious nonsense that left-handed people are somehow evil?”

He shook his head. “No, I do not.” Then he set down my hand.

“Every well-brought-up young woman is trained to use her right hand when she can. But as a left-hander, that's how I shoot. Each of us has a dominant eye, you see . . .” I began.

He smiled somewhat wryly. “Yes, of course I understand that.” He looked to his guests. “I hope you'll excuse me, but I need to
attend to the others, if you've recovered, that is.” He hesitated. “However, I have something I'd like to discuss with you. As the evenings remain light until late now, would you be willing to walk round the gardens with me before dinner?”