Mist of Midnight (4 page)

Though I was still thin from the months interned at the Residency, I felt womanly again. My mother had loved pretty clothes
and had long denied herself their pleasure, not wanting to take mission funds to adorn herself. Except for the lace, of course. No one had lace as beautiful as my mother.

I would wear these as much for her as for myself, but I must also exercise some restraint. I reserved half of the dresses Michelene had set aside for me—after all, I had nothing at all to wear and even my charity boots were a size too large—and kindly asked her to return the others.

As we made arrangements for the final deliveries, Michelene drew near. “You have need of a lady's maid?”

I nodded. “I believe that I do. Is there a list, perhaps, that I might review and make some discreet inquiries?”

Mrs. MacAlister's silent concern intensified from across the room as Michelene drew even closer and lowered her voice.

“I very much enjoyed working at the Headbourne House. What a pleasure it would be to care for a young woman such as yourself,
une belle jolie,
denied the pleasures of civilization for so long, and now, ready to be alive again, with Michelene to help revive her,
n'est-ce pas
? As to the list . . . well, that takes time, perhaps. Time for the lady to have inquiries made after her, time for her history to be verified, for interviews, for the checks of the references. Do you have someone who could act as lady's maid while these inquiries are made?”

I thought of poor, tired Annie, who would likely refuse even if asked. After all, it had been she who'd sent me here. Had Annie sent me here specifically, knowing Michelene? I dismissed the thought. Why should she do that?

A flicker of concern lit again. “No,” I answered.

Mrs. MacAlister moved closer, within listening distance.

“
Voilà!
I would not need to make such focused inquiries,
which may or may not end well, having recently been in service at Headbourne. Nor would you.”

It was probable, she implied, that my dubious identity in light of the recent tragedy at Headbourne would put off other suitable lady's maids, at least for the immediate future.

I nodded toward her employer. “Wouldn't she mind?”

She shook her head. “As you English say, it's every man for himself
, non
?”

She seemed full of life and I desperately needed someone to help me be well turned out for the social events Captain Whitfield had planned over the coming months and, really, for life in En­gland on the whole. Perhaps, I hoped, she could shed some light on the mystery that now shrouded my home more ghoulishly than its regular mists. This alone was reason to employ her, in fact, for the immediate future anyway. “Please, come when you can.”

“I require my own room, the day maid to care for it, and an equitable salary. Plus, the traditional perquisites of a lady's maid.”

“Yes,” I agreed, reluctant to show my ignorance by asking just what those perquisites might include. I hoped I should not regret this choice but, truly, what option did I have?

We left the shop, and Daniel, the carriage driver, came round to pick us up. On the way home, Mrs. MacAlister spoke up.

“And the devil take the hindmost.”

I turned toward her, confused. Perhaps she, like me, did not sleep well and was now babbling. “I'm sorry, I don't understand.”

“The rest of the phrase that Frenchwoman used. ‘Each man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.' I fear for ye, lassie. I leave soon and then ye shall be alone in a new place and at the hindmost, as you do not yet understand their ways.”

I nodded and sank into the carriage, pulling my shawl tightly
about me as we made our way home. I'd felt, in the past year, the devil breathing just behind me, hoping to take me, and I'd certainly felt as if I were the hindmost. I still did.

That night I turned down the lamp in my room, which overlooked the gnarled gardens, the groomed downs, and the guesthouse, which had gone dark. I locked my door, sat on the edge of my bed, and ran my hand along the smooth counterpane covering it.

Had this been mine as a child? I could not remember, though I squeezed my eyes shut and begged for a happy memory to step forward. Had my mother touched it? I ran my hand along it several more times, in case it had been so, as if to soak up some of her touch through my skin, and grieved quietly. I wanted her to embrace me. I wanted Father to take me with him on a visit. I wanted my brother, the cavalry,
anyone
to ride to my rescue.

My stomach clenched from the unusual heavy English food, and I ran to the commode and remained for some time before returning to bed. I yearned for curry and rice, and lush, soft fruits not decaying and disguised by brandy. I did not want to be here. At least, I did not want to be here by myself. I wanted reassurance that my mind was whole and would remain whole.

I'll try not to whine, Lord, or I promise to do so in private, just between the two of us, because You know how grateful I am to be alive.

I climbed into bed and listened hopefully in the dark for that still small voice of reassurance, which, disappointingly, did not come.

Lord Jesus, we are here together. But I still feel bereft, unutterably alone.

My lamp sputtered, dimmed, and went out, and I drifted into sleep.

“M
ummy, come quickly, Peter is not well.”

Mother followed me as I ran out of the house and into the garden where Peter had collapsed, unable to make it to the outdoor privy. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull and Mother held his hand, then pinched the skin, which was worryingly wrinkled. Father and Mr. Mead were able to carry Peter into the house, where he continued to let out his life by the quart. I'd never seen Father cry before, and when he did, I knew that Peter had passed into the arms of our Lord.

I
bolted upright in bed, panting with anxiety, my gown wet with perspiration. I rolled over to ascertain where I was, yes, here at Headbourne. My breathing slowed, and I lay back in bed again, welcoming rest, but not sleep.

CHAPTER FOUR

W
ithin a day, Landreth called for Mrs. MacAlister and me to come to the drawing room.

Mrs. Ross had arrived.

Her hair, the color of tarnished silver, was drawn back beneath a severe black bonnet; she wore a black dress with a firmly starched lace collar. The lacework was exquisite, and when she noticed me staring at it with frank admiration, she smiled. When she smiled, but only then, her dour Scottish countenance lifted and she warmed and filled with light. I had a faint wavering in heart and stomach, a signal in my senses, a fleet feeling we had already met somehow, somewhere.

Could we have?

She spoke up. “I'll be Mrs. Ross. The kirk sent me.” She handed some papers to Mrs. MacAlister. “You're looking for a guardian for the young lady?”

“Yes, a chaperone.” Mrs. MacAlister opened the papers and read through them. “Widowed, and recommended by the kirk and elders. Yes, yes, here is the name of someone I know. Godly man. And this one, too.” She folded the papers and
tucked them deep into a skirt pocket as if to silently assent.
You'll do
.

The housecat came round my legs, brushed up against me, and meowed once before looking Mrs. Ross over. I smiled. The cat was rarely seen, but she'd taken to me and I to her. I welcomed her comforting, curious presence as she sensed, perhaps, that no one else had accepted me.

“Miss Ravenshaw is the daughter of missionaries whose lives were taken in the Mutiny,” Mrs. MacAlister offered in explanation.

Mrs. Ross nodded knowingly. “I'm sorry for your loss, lass.”

“I will be returning to my family in Scotland in a few days' time, and she'll need a chaperone, of course,” Mrs. MacAlister continued. “No well-brought-up young lady can be without a chaperone.”

Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Ross came to stay. Mrs. Blackwood showed her to her room and I accompanied them.

“It's very near Miss
Ravenshaw
's room,” she said as we walked the second floor of the long right wing. No member of staff overlooked an opportunity to press home that they believed me to be a false claimant soiling the name of a young woman they'd accepted and liked.

I glanced down the right wing, gloomy and unlived in, all doors closed and, perhaps, locked. The two halls were of even length, but the one to the right looked longer and projected farther, or seemed to, because the darkness made it bleak, a tunnel to the unknown. My heart skipped a beat. Perhaps dark deeds had occurred that had invited the gloom to visit, and then to tarry. I sensed that was true.

I spoke up. “What is down at the end of the right wing?” I reached into my memory. “Wasn't there a larger suite of rooms? Perhaps they would be better suited for my needs, especially as Mademoiselle d'Arbonneau will soon arrive.”

“Oh no, miss, you cannot have those rooms.” Mrs. Blackwood clutched her key ring in her hand to still the jingling. “Captain Whitfield has left strict orders that no one shall enter the rooms on that wing while they are under repair.”

“How long have they been under repair?”

“Since . . . late December.” She seemed reluctant to answer.

Late December. Just after her death. I shivered again. Had no one been in there since then?

“But we shall find you other suitable accommodations if you prefer them to the very nice area that has been specially prepared for you.” She bent over to pick a small piece of lint off the lemon-polished floor and sniffed as she put it into her pocket.

Mrs. Ross was settled into her bright room and by the time I came to pay a call on her to check her comfort some hours later, the entrance to the right wing had been freshly, firmly blockaded.

At the end of the wing was a room with a closed door in front of which the young housecat, which did not seem to have a name, stretched. I had never noticed her sentried in front of any other room. “What room is that?” I asked Annie as she swept by me on her way to get coal for Mrs. Ross.

“That's where the woman claiming to be Miss Ravenshaw”—she lowered her voice—“
died.
'Scuse me.”

So the woman had died here, in the house proper. Had there been blood, was that why the room was closed off? A violent struggle? Surely, if so, someone would have had a care to have it cleaned by now. The mystery was as mazy and murky as the recesses of that right-hand passage. Was it a shrine? Hiding a crime?

I felt unanchored in my own home and wanted to become more at ease.

I went belowstairs and located Mrs. Blackwood. “Hello?” I
knocked on the open door of her sitting area. She popped to her feet, the great ring of keys clanging at her side.

“How may we be of help?”

“I'm sorry to intrude,” I said. “I wondered if you might reacquaint me with my house. It's been some time, you'll understand.”

“I understand very well why you don't know your way about.” She wiped her hands, and I followed her to the front stairs. Before we began our ascent, she pointed to a wall of bells. “If you'll just ring for me from now on, miss, we can come to wherever you are.”

Not “Miss Ravenshaw,” as would be due the daughter of the house, but “miss.” A woman without a name or a place. In one fell swoop Mrs. Blackwood had also politely informed me that the working area of the household was not a place I'd be expected or well received.

I nodded, and we walked upstairs. The cat followed me and I was pleased by her presence, missing the many animals that had lived near us in India.

We passed through the breakfast room, and then the drawing room.

“Captain Whitfield, he loves this room.” Mrs. Blackwood pointed to the large, open music room.

“Does he entertain often?”

She beamed. “When we came to this house the first time, we were so pleased he'd have an establishment of his own at which to entertain.”

“So you've been with Captain Whitfield for some time?”

“Oh, yes, many of us have, at the rented properties or London. Not Cook, of course,” she said.

“No?” I asked. “When did Cook join you?”

She acted as though she hadn't heard me. Perhaps she hadn't.
“We were so glad when he came home. It is his
own
home, with a history that is his,
his own family
, owned and not rented. It's something Lord Frome cannot taunt him with any longer. Perhaps others round here must be kind to him now, too.”

I opened my mouth to ask who Lord Frome was, but I knew she probably would not “hear” me again so I did not proceed. She was not engaged by or for me, and as far as she believed, this was not my house. Mrs. Blackwood closed the music room door and began to walk down the hallway.

We passed the dining room. “You'll not be taking your meals in here, of course, we're sure you're very comfortable dining in your own rooms, and Cook is happy to continue to send meals there.” Her tone had a note of finality. We proceeded up to the second floor. “Of course, you'll know all about these rooms”—she gestured left—“as your rooms are here.”

“But what about the right wing?” I asked. “What rooms are there?”

“There's the room where . . . the other young lady stayed,” she said quietly. “Some other guest rooms. A linen area. And the large suite where Captain Whitfield was installed until recently, but only after the young lady had passed on, of course. He is a true gentleman. He removed to the guesthouse before then. As he has now.”

Her demeanor made it clear that she thought that was due to his honor and not my merit. I looked down the right hallway again. “Renovations must have begun after I arrived?”

She pursed her lips. “They had been planned for some time.”

She did not rush me, and I gazed down that long passage. The afternoon shadows had shifted and I could not now see the end of it. “If I remember correctly, the suite of rooms that Captain Whitfield had taken for himself once belonged to my parents.”

She looked startled that I'd know that. “That may well be, miss. Is there anything else I may assist with?”

“Michelene d'Arbonneau will be here shortly,” I said. “She requires a room with a carpet, and will someone attend to cleaning it.”

“If you're sure that's wise, miss,” she answered.

“Is there a reason it wouldn't be?”

“We did not say that it wouldn't be.” Her lips pursed ever more tightly.

“Thank you, then.” I sighed and returned to my room, keenly aware that the staff and servants were all Captain Whitfield's, and it was to him that they owed their loyalty. Well, Mrs. Ross and Mademoiselle d'Arbonneau were to be mine, not his. And with Michelene arriving the next day, I intended to have more answers about just what had happened here. In due course.

I
n reality, though, Michelene raised more questions than provided answers. I sat in the chair in front of the dressing table, turned around so I could watch Michelene unpack the new dresses, hats, slippers, boots, and stockings she'd brought with her from the dress shop. “I will show each one to you,
non,
as I put them in the armoires?”

“Yes, please!”

First she showed me the mourning clothes; as I was in the final quarter of mourning, they were not as severe as they might have been. The fabrics still shimmered and the blacks were muted, but then highlighted with mourning jewelry, including hairpins made of jet.

I knew my official mourning would soon draw to a close. But I suspected the deep veil of sorrow would always shroud my heart.

“You can wear the jet pins even after mourning,” Michelene said. “They are good for ladies with dark hair,
non
? To beautifully hold up the hair without being seen?” Michelene next pulled out a beautiful blue-gray silk. “This is very much like the one worn by Princess Victoria,” she said, speaking of the Queen's oldest daughter.

A wave of concern crossed me. “I shouldn't like to be seen as pretentious,” I said. “And I'm aware that for the moment I am spending money that is being withdrawn from my accounts, but overseen by Captain Whitfield.”

“This is the most dear of all of them, and you shall need something to wear to Graffam Park,
ma chère
.”

“What is Graffam Park?” I had not been invited anywhere that I was aware of.

“Why, it is the home of Captain Whitfield's mother and stepfather, Lord and Lady Ledbury. They have been invited to his summer soirée, here, so etiquette will demand that they return the invitation. If you are still here.” She let the last sentence drop like a stone. But then she pulled out the shoes, and showed them to me, pair by pair, so I was taken away again.

“I'm grateful you are here to assist me,” I confessed. “There are customs and requirements of which I am seemingly unaware. My mother took care to bring me up as a proper young Englishwoman, but I'm afraid that our English community was rather small and she was also much occupied with assisting my father. There seem to be some gaps in my social education, and of course, having been away for twenty years, I don't always know where they are.”

“Do not fret,” Michelene said. “I am here to assist. I was happy to assist the . . . other young lady purchase her gowns and such for the months she lived here, and I'm happy to assist you.”

“She dressed well, Annie says. You were able to help her with that?”

“But of course. She was a lovely girl, and everyone was quite taken with her. I think even Captain Whitfield. She had dark hair, very much like yours.”

The pretender had spent my money on clothing. A thought occurred to me as I watched her with the dresses. “What happened to her many fine gowns after her untimely demise? Are they stored? Have they been sent to charity?”

Michelene did not turn from busying herself in the second wardrobe. “
Non
, not to charity. It is the custom for a lady's maid to receive, as a benefit of her services, the gowns and dresses her mistress no longer desires or needs. In this case, the
pauvre petite
had no further need for her gowns, and when I cleaned out her rooms I took them with me. As she would have wanted.”

This was breathtaking to me, who had worn every dress let out and lengthened till it was no longer socially acceptable. I stared at the back of her fine silk dress. “I see.” Was that one of the distinct perquisites she had mentioned? Had permission been overtly given? Had the imposter, too, purchased gowns of many colors and fine fabrics, anticipating her post-mourning period? I would make discreet inquiries about this practice.

“I assume jewels are not perquisites.”

“
Mais non
,” she said. “But the little one had no jewels.”

She turned. “This one”—she took out a copper-colored dress with a rather daring neckline—“this is the one you should wear, after mourning, when you dine with Captain Whitfield.”