Mist of Midnight (15 page)

“Your husband's. Your husband, should he so wish, could give you an allowance. Many husbands, indulgently, do. I do so myself,
for baubles and such.” His chest ballooned. I pitied poor Mrs. Highmore, whoever she was.

However, I began to see with clarity what was at risk, to me, in a marriage. Headbourne. My finances and the security of my home. I must marry a man with absolute scruples, an unquestioned character, or I should be in jeopardy. “What else must I know about this?”

“Once you have accepted an offer of marriage, everything you have would become his property at that point, even before the ceremony. You cannot deed nor gift or even give to charity because you will be signing away what a husband might reasonably expect to be his in future.”

“And should he decide to pick up and take permanent residence in, say, the Outer Hebrides and leave Headbourne House . . . ?”

“You would follow, of course.” Mr. Highmore became impatient. “ ‘For whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge.' I expect you are familiar with that passage in Scripture, Miss Ravenshaw.”

“I am indeed.”

His demeanor softened a little. “Customarily, a young woman's father would have selected a choice of appropriate suitors for her. It may be more difficult for you, of course, on your own, but you would be well advised to find a worthy husband, and quickly. Lord Ashby—”

“Thank you, Mr. Highmore. You have been most attentive. Shall I have Landreth call for your carriage?”

He nodded. “Yes, please.”

He left, but I remained in the morning room for some time. Every woman had to consider this, at some point, though most did not have the choice I had. Their fathers, like Delia's, made the
final decision for them. Or there were not finances available to sustain them without a man, so there was no decision to be made, and, if a man was not at hand, one set sail on the fishing fleet to find one. Maybe one became a governess, always the old woman in another woman's household, even if one wasn't particularly old.

I spent the day reading, eating but little, and praying for wisdom and comfort and guidance.

What of Lt. Dunn? Surely he was a good man. A good man en route to China.

Lord Ashby? Perhaps. I was uncertain. Did he want me? My house, my fortune? That is, after all, what Cook had implied Captain Whitfield had been after with my imposter.

Captain Whitfield. My breath caught a little as I turned his name, and image, over in my mind. He was an unknown quantity, to be certain, or maybe not unknown but puzzling and complex. He was a Hussar. He had some kind of history with women, with weapons, and was not opposed to using the means at hand to get his way.

I saw, again, the look that had passed between him and Michelene as he helped her into the carriage. And he clearly wanted Headbourne. It was not at all clear how he felt about me. But when we'd danced I'd felt it in my body, my mind, and even in my soul, the gentle melting of the edges of two people into one, a comfort I'd never expected to feel. Perhaps I could unravel the mystery of the man.

I recalled my first day at home—the constable standing outside my door. The fresh grave near the chapel and Whitfield's reference to it.

I would call upon that constable once I'd gained enough local trust that he would be willing to disclose the truth to me, unlike, for example, the doctor, with whom, perhaps, I had rushed.

Later, on my way to prepare for bed I paused at Mrs. Ross's room and knocked at the door. She was, of course, in residence.

“Do come in, Miss Ravenshaw.” I had no idea how she'd known it was me. Perhaps no one else ever visited her, which made me a little sad.

I entered and shut the door behind me. “You heard what Mr. Highmore said today,” I began.

“I did indeed. It upset ye, did it?”

I nodded.

“My mother did not want to leave England for India. But she did because my father wanted to.”

“Could it be that she came to love India, and her ministry was just as important as your father's? A missionary wife's often is.”

“She could have been happy at home in England.”

“She could have been.” She nodded. “But she'd likely nae have done as much good. Perhaps your father knew what she was called to, in the long view. Perhaps they had conversations of which you were not a part.”

Perhaps. Was she somehow suggesting Lt. Dunn for me, or simply comforting me that my mother's life had not been ill used? Furthermore, she spoke as a woman wise in the ways of marriage.

“If I am not interested in a man who shows interest in me, shall I let him know? Directly?”

“'Tis only fair to be honest, lassie. Ye don't need to make a proclamation straightaway, but once ye know the man is not of interest, then it's best to let him move on.”

Yes, that was right. Then she offered a thought of her own.

“Ye know there are good men, that both do good and do good by others. By their wives.” She smiled and I couldn't help but smile back. Perhaps she was thinking of her late husband.

“How shall I know if he's good or bad?”
He
could have meant
anyone, of course, but to me,
he
immediately
meant Dunn. Ashby. Whitfield.

She quoted the Gospel of Matthew. “ ‘A good man out of the good treasure of the heart bringeth forth good things; and an evil man out of the evil treasure bringeth forth evil things. ' ”

I wavered. “I don't judge myself able to know the difference sometimes, especially where the heart is concerned. But I also do not want to be lonely.” Did I dare admit to her, even to myself, that my heart was becoming entangled?

I finally decided to return her quote with one of my own, from Saint Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. “ ‘I say therefore to the unmarried and widows, it is good for them if they abide even as I.' ”

“Are ye instructing me, now?”

“Not at all,” I rushed on. I was mortified, then left wondering if indeed this kindly old woman was seeking to remarry.

“Guid night, lassie,” she said, then recalling my earlier concern, called out softly. “Remember, Mr. Milton said loneliness was the first thing which God's eye named not good.”

I slipped down the quiet hallway, running my hand against the wall that was now
mine
! I could not be dislodged. I was safe. Security had been gained, and put right for good!

Michelene waited in my room for me, and, possibly sensing that I did not want to talk, did not press with questions or even relay mild gossip to amuse me. She removed my crinoline. “I've left laudanum in a small cup for you, near the bed,” she said just before she closed the door behind her. “In case you have trouble sleeping.”

Why, on this night, had she decided to prepare that for me although I had not asked her for it? She'd not done that before Captain Whitfield admitted my ownership of Headbourne. It
beckoned to me, though. I admit it. I wished for it to pull me into its velvet embrace.

The dark approached and the silence encircled me, tomblike in its absolute hush; if it were possible to hear quiet, to hear absence, then I heard it. Marie broke the moment by leaping down and scratching at the door to be let out. I let her go rather than have her pitiful mewling keep me awake. She crept down the left wing, all the way down the right, and stretched out at the foot of the locked doorway. I saw naught but her eyes as they picked up a stray beam of moonlight through a hall window near the bedroom.

Her
bedroom. Had Michelene provided laudanum for her, too? Perhaps too much laudanum? For what purpose—or working in tandem with whom?

Captain Whitfield? Very possibly. I suspected that was the reason why the others snubbed him; they suspected he had had a hand in the death. And the Indian maid? Perhaps she did speak English and Michelene had tipped her hand.

I should deduce who the maid was, how she died,
if
she died. To bring me rest. To bring her rest.

Come now, be honest. You mean to prove Whitfield either malevolent or true.

I woke early to the sun crowning the horizon. The laudanum had helped me sleep deeply, and all night. I slipped from the bed and padded to the window. Captain Whitfield, already up and on Notos, rode the downs, disappearing like a phantom into the rose-tinged mist.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
hat week, Captain Whitfield was in London, so it was with surprise that I noted Miss Dainley's card among my callers. She didn't usually call when he was not in residence.

“Miss Dainley.” I hoped my voice reflected my delight as Landreth showed her in. “I'm so pleased to see you, and I hope we'll have time for a good chat before anyone else comes to call.” I had understood that Lady Frome would be by, and I was most enthusiastic to see her again.

“Would you like tea? Cake or sandwiches?” I asked.

“Cake, please.” Annie brought the tray to her.

We made polite conversation for a few moments, and then she came to the real reason for her visit. “I wondered, Miss Ravenshaw, did you have picnics in India?”

“Oh yes,” I said, although I found the subject an odd opening salvo.

“Delightful! Would you be interested in having a picnic here, at Headbourne House? Perhaps in a month or six weeks' time?”

She must have seen a look of offense cross my face as she rushed on with the next sentence. “Our property is under . . .
renovation at the moment, so I cannot offer it for use. However, I thought you might enjoy something more entertaining. Perhaps to help ease the pain of your loss?” Her voice reflected genuine concern, and now that all believed me to be who I said I was, their compassion was palpable and welcome.

“That's very kind of you. A picnic would be delightful, less formal than a musical soirée, and the nights are positively lovely.”

“I can help,” she offered. “If you wish. I can assist you with the invitations, and discuss whom to invite. Cook and Mrs. Blackwood can help with the menu. Landreth can assist with tables and cushions and such. I'll draw up a plan and begin to execute it.”

It was time to exercise just a little authority over my own domain. “In India, we often held moonlight picnics. It was a change from the usual, and if it were mid- or late summer, and it is, we could count on the weather. We'll also have a full moon in a few days, so there will be plenty of light.”

Delia considered it. “It's unusual. It may even be inconvenient.”

“Perhaps the novelty will repair for the inconvenience,” I said.

“Perhaps.” She tugged on her bonnet. “I can certainly make inquiries.”

“Splendid,” I said. “And we shall plan together. Perhaps Captain Whitfield can arrange for the music?”

She didn't answer right away. “Customarily, it would be for us two to arrange everything. I can help with the music. I do play.” She looked longingly at the piano across the hall. From earlier discussions of her rather austere home life, I gathered that the piano she had wasn't quite as grand as the infrequently used one in my music room.

“Would you care to play now?”

“Oh.” She blushed. “I hadn't meant to imply . . .”

“Not at all,” I reassured her. It reminded me of the time I'd urged Captain Whitfield to play for me. I wished he would again. “Instruments are enhanced when played often and well. Please, it would be a favor to me.”

She smiled and we walked into the music room, where she played a lovely sonata.

“Chopin,” she said after she was done, as a way of politely educating me. I couldn't help but wonder if she was better suited than I to my music room, my country, and perhaps my house.

“I should like to know more about music,” I said.

“Truly?”

I nodded. I listened attentively as she spoke for a few minutes, knowing it to be an important part of my life here and now.

“Thank you,” I said. “I wish I could help you more, too.”

“You can,” she said quietly. She stood up from the piano stool and I led the way back to the drawing room.

“What shall I expect in India? Not that it's certain I'll be going. I'd prefer even Derbyshire, if need be. I'll have to cook, I assume? What shall I wear?”

I sought to reassure her. “You will not need to cook. There, just as here, you will have a cook to do that for you. In fact”—I hoped this would cheer her—“you are likely to have many more servants there than you do here. One, a punkah wallah, just to fan you!”

She smiled at that. “I did not expect to be a lady of leisure.”

“You will have plenty of white cotton dresses, and you'll have servants to wash them for you. During the hot season you will not need corsets or crinolines, and you'll be finished with church by six a.m. on Sunday before the heat smothers all thought, secular and saintly. You'll have English friends with whom to play croquet and bridge. You can even have British magazines delivered, and
there are many amusing book clubs. This was one way my friends and I understood what was happening ‘back home.' ”

I did not tell her about the social structure among the English abroad, how she would be expected to be submissive to the senior Englishwomen in her town and would not even participate in charities unless invited; I did not mention how she would stay home unless invited out, how her children might perish from unusual diseases. She probably knew that already and I did not wish to overburden her or provoke concerns about that which might not come to pass.

“Was this your life at the mission?” she asked, and I giggled.

“Oh no, a British lady of leisure's life is far removed from the life of a missionary. I helped my mother and father as they sought to share the Good News with our beloved neighbors, and to teach them to read and to write. Eventually, there were many Indian men who went to seminary and became teachers in their own right. Many others managed coffee plantations. I tried to help my mother with lace making, but . . . alas.” I threw up my hands. She smiled with me.

“So you had no servants then?”

“Oh, we did,” I said. “Everyone had to have some. Cooks and ayahs, bearers, which are like butlers.” A memory shimmered forth in my mind and I closed my eyes but could not forestall it.

“
Into the ditch, memsahib, into the ditch!”

Musa, who had been a bearer before the town had scattered, determined to help me and the young woman fleeing with me to escape, pushing each of us deeply into the side of the road, and then he threw his brown horse blanket over us and covered it with brush till we blended with the earth.

The soldiers rode up, and then Musa lied, swearing on his Koran for our lives. “There is no one else!” he insisted, and we dared not breathe but as if through a straw so as not to give ourselves away.

A spider slowly picked its way across the earth toward me. I blew, lightly, which did not dissuade it; it crept closer. Please, please, please stay away. What if it should bite me? Should I be able to keep from crying out? It was close enough, now, that I could see its bulging black eyes.

“Do you see anyone else? No! Are you seeing a mirage?” I heard Musa prod the others.

The spider, blobby and black, with a body nearly the size of a child's tea saucer, made its way toward my body, and then it inched onto my arm. I closed my eyes and swallowed my gorge. It made its way to my shoulder and then into my hair, where I could feel it entangle itself, my hair prickling from the scalp, the desire to claw it out almost overwhelming. My head shook with loathing and fear.

“Bah!” The men spoke angrily to Musa and I heard them ride off. He waited nearly an hour before allowing us out from the ditch. I choked because I could not scream or cry and desperately tore at and shook my hair, but the spider was gone.

I made the
Namaste
sign to Musa, but then remembered, as a Mohammedan he would not consider himself polluted by my touch, so I reached out to embrace him. “You saved our lives. If they had known we were here, they would certainly have killed us.”

“It is nothing, memsahib,” he said, but he was shaking and I knew what that lie had cost him.

“There is nothing so righteous as saving a life. Two lives,” I told him. “Thank you is not enough but it's all I have. I shall pray for you every day of my life.”

And I had.

“Miss Ravenshaw?”

“I'm terribly sorry,” I said, blinking back to the present. “I was thinking of a bearer I'd known in India.”

Miss Dainley raised her eyebrows. “I was saying, it seems you were so at ease in the East Indies. Almost as though you were born there.”

“But I was not,” I said sharply. I had done with defending my heritage.

Miss Dainley politely offered her hand. “Yes, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to imply . . .”

I let her hold my gloved hand for a moment, taking it to be a sign of friendship. “Not at all. I've needed a friend, here, someone I could speak to.”

She looked at me, torn, I thought. She had not considered me her friend. Did I have a friend here at all?

“You've said that you would like to revisit India some day. Why would you want to return to the kind of people who took your parents' lives?”

I looked at her sternly. “That's not who I would be returning to see,” I said. “I'd be returning to the kind of people who saved mine.”

I
'd said I was going to take the land, metaphorically, but in actuality, I had not wandered very far out onto my own land at all. I recalled that Captain Whitfield had said there was a stream nearby, and a few days later I determined to find it and enjoy it whilst the weather was warm.

I made my way through the gardens, which were taking shape, save for a distinct lack of statues, and into the woods that edged the grounds. I soon found out that they not only lined it, they were thick and extended deeply. Although it was midday, I walked in relative darkness; although it was warm, I had a chill. Dead trees lay across the ground, forest carcasses, and I took care
to step lightly over them so I did not trip. Unusual, gargantuan ferns flourished in the shadows, otherworldly, eerie. Rank vapors escaped from piles of rotting leaves. I heard some rustling, spotted a bit of black in the background, and stopped. After waiting a good minute, in silence, I moved forward again. When I turned, the black shadow was gone.

Was someone following me?

I soon reached the edge of a burbling river, fresh as a baby's laugh. I unbuttoned my boots and pulled them off, then the stockings beneath, and held my skirts in my hands as I waded out. So cool! So refreshing. I smiled. No crocodiles!

I stood there for quite some time, face tipped toward the sun. When I turned back toward the riverbank, there, to my surprise, was Captain Whitfield, sitting on a chair. There was another chair beside him, empty, and next to that, a wicker fishing creel and a net. Disquiet blended with delight as I made my way from the middle of the stream.

“Captain Whitfield! I thought I'd heard someone in the woods behind me, as I approached from the gardens, but I did not hear you arrive just now.”

“You should not be out here alone,” he said. “It's not safe.”

I smiled. “There is no one, excepting yourself, for a mile or more.”

“My point is proved.” He smiled back. “It was not me that you heard earlier. You most probably heard a deer or a hare.”

“How can you be certain?”

“I did not come by way of the gardens,” he continued smoothly, “which are badly in need of new statues. Would you like to accompany me, in a few weeks' time, to select some? Or perhaps I am being overbold and you'd prefer to select them on your own.”

“I would very much appreciate accompanying you to select the statues and will lean on your good opinion of the choices; you've not put a foot wrong with the house yet.”

“I'd be delighted to assist,” he said. “I'd like to purchase them, as a gift. May I say that you look beautiful, and perhaps carefree in some way?” He held out a fishing rod. “Perhaps it is because you no longer wear mourning?”

I smiled. He'd noticed what I was wearing! I was glad I had dressed with care. “Perhaps,” I said, taking the rod in hand.

“I confess to making plans to fish only after I'd heard you'd gone walking. I wanted to be sure of your well-being.” His voice softened. “And I desired your companionship. Do you know how to fish?”

I nodded, aware that my feet were indecently bare as I picked my way through the stony ground toward where he sat. “Indeed I do,” I said, sitting near him on the chair near the bank. “My father's friend and fellow missionary, Mr. Mead, taught my brother and me how to fish.” Dear, dear Mr. Mead.

I must have winced because Captain Whitfield asked, “What is it?”

I took the pole in hand. “Mr. Mead was a close friend to us. He eventually married an Indian woman, a Christian convert from the slave castes.”

Whitfield nodded. “Ah. Yes. Ill considered. They threw him out?”

Perhaps it was the sun or the fact that my feet were now dry, but I felt immediately warm. “Yes, it's true he was no longer welcomed by the Missionary Society. He's kept ministering, though.” I looked at Whitfield defiantly, as though he were the cause of Mr. Mead's situation, had personally dismissed him, and was not simply a callous commenter.