Mist of Midnight (2 page)

“I am Captain Luke Whitfield,” he said, as there was no one present who could properly introduce us to one another. “And you are . . . ?”

“I am Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw,” I said, and as I did, I heard murmuring from the small assembly of servants in the great hall behind him. Captain Whitfield's countenance did not waver, although a tiny flicker of surprise crossed his face. “I have heard that some have said that I have died, but I assure you, I have not.”

Captain Whitfield stepped aside and ushered me in. “All can see that you are clearly, vibrantly, alive.”

Was he being forward? Or mocking me?
My strength drained, my nerves twitching,
I did not feel up to parrying either just then.

“Whether you are actually Miss Ravenshaw, however, that is, at best, unlikely, at least for those of us who do not believe that phantoms can be summoned. Landreth, please show the . . . lady into the drawing room.”

I closed my eyes for a second and rocked back on my feet to keep from fainting. Whitfield didn't believe me, either. Of course, why would he? They all thought I was recently dead!

Who could assist me in righting my claim? My family had been gone from Headbourne House for twenty years, and before that we'd attended a sparsely populated dissenting church. There might be no one left living who would even remember me or recall what I looked like as a child, much less recognize me as a woman.

I opened my eyes and looked again at the captain, his straight back, his guarded smile. I froze for a moment, genuinely frightened for the first time that I might not be able to prove my claim.

I shall not allow it. I simply cannot because that would leave me homeless. . . . I cannot return to India. I have no fare for passage, nor support to live there.

He glanced out of the front door. “Has someone accompanied you?”

I nodded. “My chaperone, Mrs. MacAlister, waits in the carriage.” She should have come inside with me.

A young woman carried a silver tea urn into the sitting room. I glanced after her, and at the sofa, and then remembered sitting on that very sofa as a child, feet kicking well above the ground.

“Miss?” Captain Whitfield called my attention.

“Forgive me, yes.” I returned abruptly to the present. “My chaperone is waiting for us to return to town, after you and I have had a chance to speak together briefly. We'll be staying at an inn.”

He nodded. “You've made arrangements?”

I shook my head. “We arrived late. But it has been suggested that we might stay at the Swan.”

The young maid dropped a platter and the butler, Landreth, looked at her sternly.

Captain Whitfield responded. “That won't do. I'll send Landreth to ask Mrs. MacAlister to join us and you may spend the night in the guesthouse.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your offer, but the Swan will suit us admirably.”

He nodded, and I exhaled, relieved for the first time that evening. My father had often said that I could trust an English military man and Father seemed to have been correct.

I took the teacup, its blue-and-white pattern faintly familiar. I stared at my hand, which held the cup delicately by the handle, and blinked back tears. It looked so like my mother's hand, unexpectedly. Perhaps it was the china pattern that brought it all back. She had not left the teaching of taking tea to an ayah; as with all English customs Mother was keen to pass along, she'd seen to it herself. I steadied myself and affected a calm voice. “I hope to
speak to Mr. Highmore, my father's solicitor, at his earliest convenience, and the situation will be resolved, of that I am certain.”

“I shall ask him to visit with all speed,” Captain Whitfield said. “I expect you will be tired. Cook will prepare some supper for you and my housekeeper, Mrs. Blackwood, will show you to the guesthouse.”

“But . . .” I began, bewildered. And then Mrs. MacAlister appeared in the doorway, holding her small satchel in one hand and mine in the other. Before the front doors were firmly shut I caught a glimpse of the hired carriage retreating down the long, uneven drive and looked at the captain. I swallowed hard. “I thought I'd made it clear that we would return to Winchester for the night.”

“I insist you remain here as my guests,” Whitfield replied. “Until Mr. Highmore is able to, as you said, resolve the situation. At that point, the next step will become obvious to us all.”

He spoke in a most gentlemanly way, but there was no doubt that his rounded words blunted a threat. Ideas ran through my mind. We were miles away from any other house, and even if I had the means and direction to make it to one of them, what should I say? I'm the long-lost daughter of the house along the road, thought dead, but truly not, slinking around in the countryside after dark with an elderly Scottish widow?

There was no possibility of posting a letter or a telegram, save through Captain Whitfield. But this was my house. I would not let him see the fear that coursed through me. I took myself in hand and tucked that fear deep inside, hoping it would eventually dissolve.

“That's very kind of you.” I summoned a confident tone. “I'm certain we shall find it more welcoming than the Swan.”

“I am relieved to hear that,” he replied with a teasing smile and a focused gaze; to my dismay, I blushed at his attention. He
took my gloved hand in his own and held it for the briefest of moments, warming me through as he did. I noticed the pause before the release. “I shall look forward to learning more about you soon.” This time his words were softly spoken and I knew enough about human nature to maintain that he meant them sincerely. I let down my guard a little, too.

Later, as Mrs. Blackwood settled us into the guesthouse, I took time to thank her and then, before she left, to ask, “Why was Captain Whitfield relieved when I replied that we'd be better accommodated here than at the Swan?”

She busied herself with the candleholders, ensuring that the smallest drip of congealed wax was removed by her nail before responding. “The Swan is a brothel, miss. Good evening.” She blew out all lamps but one and closed the door behind her.

A brothel! The audacity of that woman at Highmore's office.

I blew out the last lamp and settled into bed, knees drawn up to my chest; they knocked with chill and fear. What should I do if the situation was not able to be resolved? I had nowhere to go. How would I live? I had no profession. There was no charity available to returned missionaries; family was expected to care for them so that all new funds could be put toward fresh fieldworkers. But I had no family; my mother's mother and sister, of Honiton, had died some years previously. And my father's line had ended in a thin branch . . . or so I'd thought.

Did Captain Whitfield have a claim to Headbourne House through Father? How had he ended up here?

I sighed. Captain Whitfield, resident jailer; his insistence we remain put me ill at ease. And yet, there was something soft and genuine in his last smile. He had seen to it that our meal was not cold, as might have been expected, but warm and of the highest quality. I did not know what to make of him.

The moonlight filtered through the window. I was afraid to sleep lest I be visited by my loved ones in haunting dreams, so I got up to peer out of it. I found I could not see but two feet ahead of me for the mist, which obscured all. Was it possible for someone to come close enough to look in the window without my seeing them? I pulled the curtains shut and then chided myself for entertaining such a foolish notion.
I must be tired. Of course I was tired.

I returned to bed and listened to the creaking of the house. After some time, I thought I heard footsteps. They grew louder and closer, seeming to approach my door. Then they stopped. I waited, barely breathing, for them to resume. Had I truly heard them at all or were they, too, foolish notions? Was my mind giving over to imaginings?

After some minutes of quiet, I quietly slipped from the bed and pushed the elephantine walnut dressing table in front of the door.

CHAPTER TWO

E
arly next morning, there came a knock at the door.

“Yes?” Light slipped through the crack between the tightly closed drapes; otherwise, the room remained dim.

“ 'Tis Annie, the day maid,” a young voice called back. “Mrs. Blackwood has sent me to see to your needs and Cook has prepared a light breakfast. May I come in please, miss?”

I struggled up in bed, still swaying to the tempo of the sea. “Of course, Annie, please do.” I tugged the sheets around me as I had but one thin nightdress in the goods that had been provided for us.

“Ah . . . the door is blocked, miss.”

“One moment,” I said. I had so wanted to make a good impression and I'd already started things off badly. I slipped out of bed and as quietly as I could pushed the dressing table to its rightful place before returning to bed and calling out, “It's clear now.”

Annie entered and set a tray down on the dressing table, looked at it, then at me, then back at it again.

“I thought I heard footsteps last night,” I admitted, feeling a little foolish.

She inclined her head. “None but the two of you slept here, miss.”

“Perhaps it was a fancy from fatigue,” I cheerfully suggested.

She walked to the windows and dramatically pulled the drapes open, freeing the brilliant morning sunlight.

“I'm not trained as a lady's maid, but there being no lady here requiring one, I'm the only one at hand to help you dress. If you'll have me, miss.”

I smiled. “I've got on quite well without a lady's maid since the Uprising, thank you, but I'm grateful for your assistance.”

“Miss Ravenshaw, she were a lady,” she said. In other words, this was another clear indication that I was not only not a lady, but was not Miss Ravenshaw.

“Thank you for the compliment,” I responded and she scrunched up her face, not having meant it to be a compliment, I supposed. Annie shook out my black dress and ran a damp rag over it.

“Did the woman posing as me have a lady's maid?” I asked, making my way to the dressing table and sitting down. I wanted to establish right away that she'd been posing, and I was who I said I was.

“Oh yes, miss!” She nodded enthusiastically. “She had her Indian maid, of course, and then a French maid from the dressmaker's in Winchester, who helped her find the finest gowns and slippers and boots. Mostly in black and gray, of course. She did not have the whitest of skin, though.” She glanced up at my face then, still slightly brown from being exposed to the Indian sun.

“My browned skin along with my brown hair and eyes helped me escape with my life, disguised in a sari.”

“I see,” she said, her eyes veiled. “If that's so then your skin will go fair again soon, miss, won't it?” She brushed and plaited my
thick brown hair and I determined to glean information from her whilst she was still forthcoming.

“Are there many Indian maids hereabouts?” I asked. Perhaps, if so, I could learn some information that might help me figure out just who this imposter had been.

“Oh no, miss,” she said. “I'd never seen an Indian person before the maid arrived. I'm quite sure no one in my family has. Lots of us are in service, you see. But no one I know or have ever heard of has had an Indian servant before.”

This was disappointing. I would have to approach it from another angle, later. “You mentioned there was no lady in residence. So there is no Mrs. Whitfield, then?”

Annie giggled. “Not yet, miss, though nowadays, there's plenty that wish they were Mrs. Whitfield. Him with this big house, now that she's dead, and all that money. A military man, well, you know how it is. Some ladies don't even care about the rumors!”

“Rumors?” I kept my voice quiet and my face free from expression.

She stopped and shook her head, perhaps realizing that she had said too much. “There, all done. Captain Whitfield has sent for Mr. Highmore and he should be here soon.” She backed out of the room, and I was soon left to sit in the parlor, with its freshly beaten carpets and lemon-waxed wood, to wait for the solicitor.

I had not been waiting long when he arrived. Mrs. MacAlister showed him in, though her sour look toward me told me she did not approve of acting as housekeeper as well as chaperone. I offered a quiet apology. What could be done?

“Mr. Highmore. Thank you for driving out to see me.”

He removed his hat and then bowed stiffly. “My pleasure, Miss . . .”

I sighed. “My name is Ravenshaw. Rebecca Ravenshaw. The only one I am aware of having ever existed. If you please . . .” I indicated for him to be seated. “I am confused why everyone seems to believe that I am dead when, indeed, I am not.”

He set his hat next to him. “
Miss Ravenshaw
returned from India last summer, late last summer, after her parents were killed in the Mutiny,” he said. “They'd left her with friends in Madras on their way north, and as soon as word got back to her of their untimely deaths, she fled, rightly so, to England, with her Indian maid, well before anyone could leave the fracas in northern India.”

My face flushed. She had not only stolen my identity but my history as well, had implied that my parents would abandon me, and then sought to profit from the deaths so many had bravely faced.

I shook my head both to clear it and to show my disagreement. “I assure you, Mr. Highmore, I am Rebecca Ravenshaw and my parents did not, and would not, leave me in Madras regardless of what this upstart claimed.”

Mr. Highmore stood, clearly taken aback by my language. “I beg your pardon, miss!”

I immediately recalled a proverb my father had oft repeated to me; apparently it had not yet rooted.
Seest thou a man that is hasty in his words? There is more hope of a fool than of him.

“Please accept my apologies, Mr. Highmore,” I said. “It has been a long journey and I am distressed to return home and find this upsetting situation.” I would not show him how very disturbed I felt inside. I held myself together like a proper lady, tilting my head down in a submissive manner. It would not take much for these people to toss me into the street for good, with little to my name, if they had reason to suspect I was not the decorous missionary daughter I claimed to be.

Speak only after consideration, Rebecca. Act gently
, Mother had oft said.
A gentle Englishwoman will speak her mind quietly, if at all.

I'm sorry, Mother.
My head snapped up. I should not be answering my mother, even in my head. It was . . . irregular.

Mr. Highmore cleared his throat, phlegm thickly catching over and over again before finally clearing. Then he sat down again, seemingly appeased. “We spoke with Miss Ravenshaw at length before her death, and she knew all about Sir Charles and his wife, Constance. Some with the London Missionary Society came and visited with her and she was at ease with all of their questions and they with her answers. She even had a few effects from Sir Charles's wife. I am convinced that she was, indeed, who she said she was. I am not easily fooled.”

“I'm certain you're not,” I soothed. “What kind of effects, if I might ask?”

“Items from the mission, I believe.” I could see by the set of his mouth that he would say no more.

“How did this young woman die?”

He would not meet my gaze. “All knew the trials she'd been through—the loss of her brother, of her parents, of her home—so, although she tried very hard to cheer herself and overcome what had happened, it was a tragic ending. At Christmas, one thinks of family, so it was not completely unexpected, was it?”

“She was ill?”

He rubbed a thumb on the brim of his hat. “It was said to be self-murder, miss.”

Said to be
self-murder? The hair on the back of my neck prickled.

He glanced out of the window over my shoulder to the far distance where I'd seen the family chapel. “She's buried there.
Fresh grave. Toward the back. It struck us hard, miss, we all felt so kindly toward her. I'm not sure anyone is quite beyond it even yet. So when someone appears, claiming to be her, well, you can well imagine that this would not bring about sympathy and goodwill.” He produced a pressed handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, whether from real sorrow or for effect I did not know.

“We all thought she might have come down with something from the East Indies, perhaps, a strange and foreign illness that came on and killed quickly. That, too, would have been understandable. But no. It was by her own hand. The doctor confirmed it.” He glanced toward the door.

“I'm truly sorry for this young woman's death,” I said gently, and I was, pitying her for whatever demons had prodded and pushed her to take her own life. “But the truth remains that she was impersonating me, which is a crime. Perhaps she'd overheard someone speak of our deaths at the Missionary Society in London and sought to make gain on our loss.”

“There was news that the whole family had died. A telegram reached me from London. I reflected upon that this morning. Telegrams don't lie.” He looked at me, holding my gaze, and I admit to withering a bit under the heat of his contempt. “Impersonation is most certainly a crime. Particularly if it's to gain property to which one is not entitled.”

I addressed his unspoken charge. “But I
am
Miss Ravenshaw.” My head pulsed in time with my frustrated heart. I spied a burly man in the doorway behind Highmore, someone I had not noticed before. Mrs. MacAlister crept farther away from us, toward the back of the room.

“If I may be permitted to do so, I would like to ask you some questions, questions that only the rightful Miss Ravenshaw could
answer.” Highmore glanced up again and nodded at the large man near the doorway.

I drew my chair closer. “Certainly.”

“Do you know where your father had invested his funds? The money he'd made from the Burmese war?”

“Mr. Highmore, I assure you that my father did not talk about his investments with his family, unless it regarded the investment in souls, which he was notably, and admirably, given to.”
Sometimes to the exclusion of all and everyone else.

Highmore nodded and asked about our mission, then persisted with obscure details about my mother's ministries with lace and education. How often had any of us returned to England? Some of that information would have been public knowledge, I'd thought, but certainly not all or even most.

“Will this help?” I asked.

“Perhaps. I shall make arrangements for a visit from the London Missionary Society, who, I am sure, will also want to hear you recount your . . . tale. Now that communication is fairly reliable again, I shall additionally send further inquiries to the mission at Travancore who will be able to make the final decision as to your identity. Within three to four months I expect to have an answer verifying your identity. It's late April, so”—he counted on his fingers—“I would imagine by August.”

“August?” I stood up. “Oh dear. What shall I do until then?”

“Unless you have family or friends who might be prevailed upon to take you in, you'll be at the charity of Captain Whitfield, or not, as he sees fit until that time,” he said. “If he turns you out, please leave a forwarding address so I may be in contact. Until then, you will wait patiently and let me complete my work.” He turned to me abruptly. “What was your mother's maiden name?”

“Porter,” I replied without hesitation but with some shock.

Could he, could
he
have been implicit in this in some way? Could he be stalling, perhaps to cover up mismanagement of my father's funds?

“Mr. Highmore?”

“Yes?” He turned back toward me, his black coattails swaying, his proud demeanor an affront.

“The senior Mr. Highmore was my father's original solicitor. Perhaps you have a personal interest in how my father's funds are handled. Were handled.”

I saw a flicker of fear. He
was
concerned that he had made a grievous error, as indeed he had. “I took over when my own father died some months ago. My integrity and reputation are well known amongst those from this area. When—if—I hand the documents over to you, there will be a full accounting from the day your father left for India. Good day.” He placed his hat upon his head and left, taking Mrs. MacAlister with him to make arrangements for her forthcoming trip to Scotland. With the exception of Annie, I was now quite alone.

I took some deep, steadying breaths. “Who was that man at the door?” I asked softly.

“The big one?” she asked, and I nodded.

“Why that's the constable, miss.”

I wheeled around. “The constable?”

“Yes. He's well acquainted with Mr. Highmore . . . and Captain Whitfield, naturally,” she said. “They served in the military together.”

“I see.” And I did. My breaths quickened again. “Does the constable often come here?”