Mist of Midnight (3 page)

“Oh, no. I think the last time was about when, well, when
she
died. Mr. Highmore was called for, of course, and the captain sent for the constable and the doctor.”

“I suppose the doctor is also well acquainted with Captain Whitfield.”

“Why, yes, miss, he is.” She seemed surprised I would know this.

My heart sank. It was understandable, Mr. Highmore had said, that Miss Ravenshaw had died. After all she'd been through, why, who would even question it? And if it could not be proved to have been a suicide, which they all had been convinced of, then a mysterious foreign illness would do as just cause.

For her. And perhaps for me, as well, if I were not careful? Was someone truly after my house and my inheritance? The spring damp clung to me and I shivered, then patted it off my forehead with a handkerchief.

Come now
, I took myself in hand.
Let's not give in to fancies
. Before the Rebellion, in which all I knew was turned upside down, I had a calm and firm grasp on how things worked in the world. And then I saw Indian soldiers brutally cutting down English men, women, and children midstride and English soldiers blasting Indians with a viciousness calm demeanor denied. Conceivably anything was possible now, in the shadows. I'd been taken completely unawares then. Perhaps I was no longer a sound judge of reality.

I walked to the window, though I avoided looking toward the chapel and its burial grounds and its fresh grave with my name on it. Then I turned away.

In the near distance I could see the house, my house, very clearly now in the light of day. It was larger than I had remembered it, perhaps as many as thirty rooms all told, including those on the very topmost floor where things were stored and the live-in maids slept when we'd had them. Some windows appeared to be broken, and the moldings powdered. The vast gardens, leading
to the soft green downs, were hopelessly tangled and overgrown, like the matted hair of an unloved and untended child.

I glanced at the second floor. I'd been young when we left, but I recalled that Peter and I had slept in adjoining rooms, with our governess's room connected to both. We used to sneak past her while she softly snored so we could play together late at night.

Had Peter not died, this house would be his and not mine. He would have taken care of me.
I must care for myself, and our family home, as it has been left to me to steward it. I shall have to be clever. I remain on charity till my claim can be proven. If it can be.

I felt, more than saw, someone enter the room, and I turned. “Captain Whitfield.” He stood near the door, dressed in magnificent riding clothes. I suddenly became aware that I was wearing the same secondhand black dress I'd worn the day before. Then I was irritated at myself that I cared if he saw me as fashionable or not. What did it matter?

“I trust I have not interrupted?”

“Not at all,” I replied. Annie stayed near the back of the room, for which I was glad, as my chaperone had absented herself. Most irregular. It would not do to be alone with him, especially in light of my recent comments about the Swan. He indicated I should take the sofa, and I did, which left the chair for him.

“Mr. Highmore says there may be some merit in your claim,” he started.

“Mr. Highmore will certainly confirm that I am the mistress of this house,” I said, tired and overwhelmed with the events of the past year. Then, again aware that I was at his mercy till that came about, and that he had treated me very kindly indeed, I softened my tone. “I'm sorry, Captain Whitfield. I understand that, well, that this was unexpected for you as well. May I ask . . .” Suddenly I
lost my nerve, aware again that I had no right to demand answers from anyone though they all had the right to demand explanations from me.

“How I came to be here?” He set down his gloves, black with an intricate crisscross pattern at the cuff, and his riding crop. His hands were, at once, smooth as a gentleman's and strong as those of a man not afraid of work. “Sir Charles's will provided that in the event that he died without a living heir, his property would be left to any remaining member of his family, traced patrilineally, of course. Although it was necessary to go back many generations, that honor fell to me. So that would mean, if you truly are Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw, we would be some sort of relations many times removed.”

He smiled at that, and then ran his hand through his hair, which was longish and thick black with the exception of a streak of silver to the side of the parting. It made him look wolfish and dangerous, but when I let my eyes travel downward and connect with his, they were liquid brown, warm and edged with lines from sun and smiling.

Against my will, I smiled back at him. Perhaps he could be trusted. Perhaps.

“My household had been here less than a month, after having been notified of the Ravenshaws' deaths, when Miss Ravenshaw arrived to claim her property. I moved into the guesthouse, temporarily, whilst I looked for a property and then, well, then, with the death, finding a new home was no longer necessary.”

Death by her own hand or someone else's?
I couldn't help but wonder, as it had already been implied.

“As for the current situation, I've arranged for you to have access to resources for clothing, household purchases, and other personal matters while this is settled.”

This was unexpected. Unexpectedly welcome and thoughtful. I thought back to my small store of coins, just a few more than the Bible's widow had held, and nearly burst out crying in gratitude. I impulsively stood, walked to where he sat, and threw my arms around him for just a moment, and while he didn't withdraw, he remained unyielding. I stepped back, mortified, and resumed my seat on the sofa.

A proper young Englishwoman would not prostrate herself so before a complete stranger! Or before anyone at all. I looked to the back of the room where Annie stared, openmouthed.

“I'm so sorry for that,” I said, gathering my dignity from the corners to which it had scattered. He waved at me, gently dismissing the breach of protocol.

“I do not have anywhere else to go while this matter is concluded,” I continued. “I'll certainly repay you everything spent for my care in the meantime. It should only be a matter of a few months. I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

He nodded curtly. “I am sure
the Ravenshaws
would have preferred I be generous, and so I will be, though I will require a full account and reimbursement should the matter not be settled as you believe it will be.”

The Ravenshaws. The implication was that I was not among their number. I was about to speak up when I recalled that Highmore had said that Captain Whitfield could dismiss me whenever he tired of generosity, up to the point when my claim was proved.

“I've asked Mrs. Blackwood to begin to prepare the house for your arrival,” Whitfield continued, his tone cool and in command. “I've scheduled quite a few improvements to the property and buildings, and I'll continue to oversee them.

“I'll take my meals in the dining room, as there is only one cook; you're free to join me at will. I'll leave Landreth to oversee the
house. My valet, Thornton, and I will reside at the guest cottage for the time being—I am often gone on business—and the day maid can tend our household needs.” He seemed to have finished.

I stood. “I did not mean for you to have to immediately remove yourself from the main house.”

He grinned, and when he did, I caught my breath at the beauty of his face. “Are you suggesting I remain in the house along with you in an irregular union?”

“Certainly not!” Then I saw that he teased me and I softened.

“Let it not be said that I would deny a
rightful
heiress her home, for any amount of time,” he said, and his voice turned dark, as did his mood, because he stood up and abruptly took his gloves in hand. “I have arranged several social events for the next few months—the invitations have been sent and provisions made. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd rather not rescind them as many of the invitees are back and forth from London during the season, calendars settled, and I'd hate to inconvenience. You are welcome to attend, of course.”

“That sounds splendid, and I look forward to meeting my neighbors.”

“I'm sure they will be most curious to meet you . . . although they may be forgiven for believing that they already have.”

“About her—” I began.

“I'm sure you have questions, but perhaps they will be more suitably put after Mr. Highmore has completed his investigation, if occasion warrants.”

He didn't believe me. None of them did. And yet, for some reason, he was willing to let me live in the house whilst he removed to the cottage. Chivalry? Perhaps. But he was certainly accommodating, though he alone had the most to lose by my claim. I should try to find out why.

“If you'll excuse me, I have an engagement.” He nodded and left. He strode across the lawn, through the coach house, and to the stable yard, which were all well cared for, and was greeted by a stable boy. His gait lightened as he approached the young man and clapped him on the back.

The captain then rode out across the lawn and to the downs behind the house. Someone, on horseback, awaited him there, her long riding dress whipping about her legs, strawberry-blond hair slipping from beneath her pretty bonnet. An older woman trailed behind them, also on horseback. A chaperone, perhaps.

I turned and looked at Annie, who was still looking at me with a combination of shock and wonder.

“I don't normally embrace complete strangers,” I offered weakly by way of explanation. “I was just so thankful.”

She picked up her duster and began to work again. “You don't have to explain to me, miss, this or anything else. I'm the day maid. You're the mistress . . . for now. Anyway, all the ladies fall for him, even though they promise themselves that they won't.”

I was about to object when a line from
Hamlet
came floating back to me.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
I decided to remain quiet so she would not get the wrong impression.

CHAPTER THREE

W
ithin a day of our discussion, Captain Whitfield had removed his personal belongings from the house and I had moved in. On his way out I saw him linger in the music room, the centerpiece of which was a large and beautiful pianoforte of engraved rosewood. I faintly remembered that my father had played well, which was somewhat unusual for a gentleman. The portraits on the walls had been dusted, and the carpets beaten, though the curtains near the window showed their age, having faded from ruby to near pink. When I pulled one back, the deep folds exhaled dust and were found to be ruby still. While Mrs. MacAlister busied herself nearby and Annie polished the wood in the next room, I broke the silence. “Do you play?” I nodded toward the pianoforte.

He nodded. “Yes. I had this tuned recently, and it plays splendidly.”

“I'd like to hear it,” I said. “I've missed music.”

He sat down on the bench.

“I hadn't meant that
you
needed to play,” I said, immediately aware that it might be best if I stopped talking altogether.

He stood. “I hadn't meant to assume . . .”

“No, no,” I said, and drew nearer. “I simply didn't want to impose. Please, if you like, play something.”

He sat and played, from memory, a short, emotionally resonant piece that brought forth a portion of the melancholy I'd so carefully marshaled behind a wall in my mind, bringing a small release of pain. “That was beautiful,” I whispered. “Who was the composer?”

He turned on the bench and looked toward me. “Why, Beethoven, Miss Ravenshaw. Surely you know that . . . having learnt to play the piano.”

I knew from the occasional English visitors we'd had in India that all well-brought-up girls in England knew how to play the piano. My shoulders slumped. This had not started off well.

“I was very young when we left England, Captain Whitfield,” I answered. “Although my parents raised us to be as English as possible, there were some customs and traditions that were contrary to our environment, or out of our reach. Pianos, for example, are difficult and expensive to acquire in southern India.” I softened my voice. “All the more reason for me to appreciate this song. You must play it often, for you played it perfectly.”

He sat, dumbstruck for a moment, which I took to be an unusual state of being. “I haven't played that for years,” he said. “I'm not quite sure why I played it now.”

He stood as if to regain his balance and sense of command. “Do you play an instrument?”

“I play the sitar,” I said proudly.

His gaze rose and he looked me in the eye. “Then it is a shame, Miss Ravenshaw, that we are unlikely to find one in Hampshire so that you could practice and perform.”

Prove myself, he likely meant. It was disheartening. I could collapse in a jelly less than a week into my homecoming, which is
what I was tempted to do, or I could steel myself, which is what I did instead. “Yes, a shame.” At least he was referring to me by name.

Landreth signaled to him, he nodded and turned back to me. “I have business to attend to in London for several days.” He grimaced.
Unpleasant
business, I suspected. Did it have to do with me? With the imposter? With the house?

“Have a pleasant journey,” I said as sweetly as I could. “Would it be all right if I availed myself of the carriage in your absence? Or shall I remain under home confinement?”

At that, he laughed with gusto. “No, Miss Ravenshaw, you are not under arrest.” He smiled and shook his head. “You surprise me. I would have thought you'd known that home detainment is limited to disobedient wives.”

Now it was my turn to be speechless, which I could see he rather enjoyed.

“You may use the carriage, and my horses, too, if you care to ride.”

“I . . . I don't ride much anymore,” I said.

“You don't play the piano or ride?” He seemed incredulous; two pillars of gentle English womanhood had been called into question.

“I rode till recently,” I answered in explanation.

He nodded. “Why would you think you were under confinement?”

“Well, when the constable appeared the other day . . .”

I could tell by the quizzical expression on his face that he wanted to know how I'd recognized the constable, but he did not ask, and I was glad. I should not have liked to be compelled to reveal my source, and I could hear Annie pause in her duties in the hallway behind us. A new wariness in his face made me sus
pect my knowledge of the constable caused him to believe that I was local, and not, after all, recently from India.

“At Mr. Highmore's suggestion,” he responded.

But with your approval
. “In case our interview did not proceed according to his expectations.”

He nodded and gallantly bowed a little. “Enjoy Headbourne House in my absence.” It sounded positively proprietary.

“Thank you for your generosity,” I said, and hoped he knew I meant it. As soon as he'd left the room, I spoke up. “Mrs. MacAlister?” I knew she'd be hovering nearby, and she was.

“Yes?”

“Would you kindly accompany me to Winchester this afternoon? I need to buy some clothes.” Now that I knew I could access my father's funds, I could purchase some necessities.

“Aye. And we need to find a chaperone for you,” she said. “I leave in four days, and it will not do to have ye here without one.”

She spoke with conviction, but not with warmth. Although she was not exactly standoffish, my situation as it stood agitated her and I knew she was eager to leave for her home; truthfully, I was ready for her to depart. She offered much in the way of disapproval and meager helpings in the way of affection. “Will you make inquiries? Is there anyone you know who might help?”

“I've already begun inquiries, when I was in town with Mr. Highmore. I put in a word at the Presbyterian church.”

Oh dear. I'd hoped for someone with . . . warmth.

“If I may . . .” Annie stepped forward and I heard Mrs. Blackwood stop walking in the hall just outside the room.

“Yes?” I responded gently.

“You'll also be needing a lady's maid, miss.” She seemed apologetic. “Every
lady
has one, of course.” She looked at me pointedly before continuing. “I have many other duties and it wouldn't be
expected for me to waken two hours earlier than usual for much longer.”

I spontaneously reached out and touched her arm, which took her aback. I withdrew my hand. I would not have felt comfortable touching my maid in India, because of caste. Perhaps there was a similarly understood rule here, too. “I'm sorry,” I said.

“For what, miss?”

For making you uncomfortable, and for not knowing what was expected of me,
I wanted to say, but didn't because it might call my identity into question. “For your hours of extra work on my behalf, which I greatly appreciate. Where shall I find a suitable lady's maid?”

“You could inquire at the milliner's,” she said. “Or the dress shop. They often have lists of those nearby and recommended. Only . . . be wary.” Mrs. Blackwood now walked to the edge of the room and glanced at Annie, who now looked fearful of overstepping again.

“Wary of what, Annie? Of whom?”

She looked uncomfortable and softened her voice. “It took me some time before I found this situation, miss. I rather like it here as it's nearby my family and I shouldn't like to have to move away to find another situation. But you do need a lady's maid. The French ones are best.”

I understood. She worked for Whitfield. Perhaps it was Whitfield I needed to be wary of. But what had that to do with the lady's maid? I knew I could ask no more. “Thank you, Annie. I shall make an inquiry.”

Her face flooded with relief as she realized I would press no further, and I thought,
H
er situation is in some ways as delicate and insecure as my own.

S
ome hours later I walked into the dressmaker's shop, and was unable to form a proper sentence at first. The room was populated with bolts of the most beautiful fabrics: silks and cottons and linens, lounging on their sides on the cutting tables like women on Turkish divans, leaning toward one another like friends gossiping, or standing set apart, like prima donnas. The walls were hung with trays of buttons and ribbons and trimmings of every sort. Because my mother had been an accomplished lace maker, we had always had lace to trim our simple gowns, but we had nothing like the array of goods currently beckoning. Mrs. MacAlister spoke up, as I had not yet overcome my childish awe. “We're interested in some dresses for the lady.” She nodded toward me. “Mourning, at first, but also some for afterward.”

“Certainly.” An older woman bustled forward. “You are her mother?”

Mrs. MacAlister shook her head.

“Her lady's maid?” The woman clearly expected a young woman to be accompanied by one of those necessary women.

At that, I could not help but grin. Mrs. MacAlister an ayah?

“I am Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw of Headbourne House.” I held out a hand, which was gloved in well-worn leather of a style some years past, I was sure. “I am recently returned from India, and am in need of a wardrobe.”

“Miss . . . Ravenshaw.” She recoiled. Had the entire town heard of the brief stay of the woman who had come before me? Winchester was rather large, but a suicide was, one guessed, uncommon and noteworthy. “One of our dressmakers, Michelene, worked at Headbourne House. She can help.”

Ah, yes. I relaxed. Annie had spoken of a French lady's maid.

“Michelene.” The proprietress spoke lightly but the shop was not large, and soon a lovely young woman of an age with me glided into the room.

“Miss Ravenshaw, Michelene d'Arbonneau. Michelene, this is . . . Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw of Headbourne House.”

Mademoiselle d'Arbonneau didn't lose her smooth smile, I'll grant her that, but a tic flittered across her left eye. “I'm delighted to meet you, Mademoiselle Ravenshaw.” Her hair was arranged in silky brown coils that tumbled below her shoulders; her dress was more finely wrought than any I had ever seen, sea-green silk that gently swelled as she walked. I felt dowdy, plain, foreign, and hopelessly out-of-date.

“I understand you worked at Headbourne House,” I started. “Annie has spoken of you and the unfortunate woman here earlier claiming to be me.”

She nodded solemnly. “Such a lovely girl. But a tortured soul.
Pauvre petite
. I am shocked to learn, now, that she was not who she said she was,” she said, her eyes glimmering. “Who could imagine such a crime
terrible
?”

Self-murder a crime? Or did she mean the theft of my identity?

She held my gaze for a moment, appraisingly, and I held it right back. What did she know about the poser? Had she confided in her? Women became close to their lady's maids in agreement with or even against their will. Michelene quickly grew bright, perhaps falsely bright. “Where is the Capitaine Whitfield?” She leaned forward into the question. I thought it odd to bring him up so quickly, and noted it as so.

“At Headbourne,” I replied. “In the guesthouse. However”—I turned back to the older woman—“I do have need of several dresses, some slippers, boots, gloves, and such like. I'll need them
quickly.” A look passed between them. “My accounts are being sent to Mr. Highmore, for the time being.”

The proprietress smiled. “Of course we can assist you. You must be properly attired for a woman of your station. All will expect it.”

Over the course of two hours, Michelene suggested several fine dresses in rich fabrics and with fine detailing, all of which could be very quickly made. Though black and gray would be required for the few months remaining in my official mourning period, we also found some so that I would be appropriately and beautifully attired when my year of mourning was completed, in about two months.

“Ah, you look beautiful in the claret,
non
?” She had me turn toward the looking-glass and I gasped. I would never have chosen this dress, and yet it was perfect. We shared coloring, so I guessed she'd know exactly what would suit. The rich tones of the dress made my skin look even whiter, as did the gold gloves. Encased in such a gown I no longer felt dowdy. I was lovely, I was strong, I was
English
.

“Indeed!”

Michelene brought out some linens and discreetly suggested some undergarments, corsets, silk stockings, and other confections. I had never felt so feminine; their softness slipped against my skin and I relished the delicate touch of it all. I chose some with wide hoops and crinolines, as was the fashion, but I insisted on some with less complicated, but still fashionable, forms, so I might walk more easily, as I had in India.

And one day, ride?

I pushed the thought aside.