Mist of Midnight (10 page)

“Absolutely not,” I said.

She shrugged, unconvinced. “Did you ask the other servants?”

“I asked Landreth, who asked me in return if I'd made a query with Mrs. Blackwood. When I told him I did, he considered the matter settled and suggested it would not do for me to press beyond her inquiries. None of the staff, he was certain, would offer her a mistruth.”

“His confidence is charming,” Michelene said as she continued to arrange my hairpins.

I had at least one true friend at Headbourne, though I hadn't seen her for a day or two. A few minutes later, I inquired, “Have you seen the cat?”

She shivered with abhorrence. “
Mais non
. Ask the cook. They seem quite the pair.”

So I decided to visit Cook, with whom I hardly ever spoke. I had noticed, once, when I was strolling through the gardens, that she had set a dish of milk out back, near the tradesmen's entrance. I, too, had suspected she had a soft spot for Kitty. I went to the morning room and rang for her. A few minutes later she came up, and I asked her to shut the door behind her.

“How can I be of service, miss?” She rubbed her hands together against her apron, hastily replaced, I suspected from the uneven tie, after hearing my call.

“I wanted to thank you for the extra work involved in pro
viding meals for Mrs. Ross, Mademoiselle d'Arbonneau, and myself.”

She fanned her red face a bit. “It's my job, and I'll do it well.” There was no softening in her in response to my expression of gratitude.

“Having no family here, I've grown rather fond of the little housecat,” I said. “Have you seen her?”

“Ah, Marie,” she said.

“Marie?”

“I doona know what that Miss Ravenshaw called her, it were some Indian name. But when she . . . passed on . . . I decided to call the cat Marie. After the Blessed Holy Mother, but the French name for it, to irritate, er, the lady's maid. It seemed better than some heathen name,” she said. “I wanted to take care of her pet. She were sweet, that Miss Ravenshaw. We all liked her.”

I held my irritation back at the last comment. “Marie is a lovely name. Have you seen her?”

She shook her head. “No. She used to sleep in front of
her
bedroom door. And sometimes”—she lowered her voice—“I've seen her walk out toward the graves, where
she
sleeps now.”

“The cat goes out to the graveyard?”

She nodded. “Will that be all, miss?”

I smiled. “Yes, for now.”

She took a few steps, and then, before opening the door, she turned back and said, “It were a real shame he buried her at midnight, alone but for the two hired men, paid very well indeed, I heard. In the dark wet and all that. The ground was frozen, of course, but he didn't let that stop him. He was in a hurry.”

“Midnight?” I stood up. “Why then?”

“It was his way of insisting everyone believe it was self-murder,” she said. “Suicides must be buried without service, and at night.”

“His insisting?” I asked. “Do you mean Captain Whitfield?”

She wouldn't name him. “All I say is that I'm a local girl, and my loyalty is not to him, but to my own self and those that I choose to give it to. I'll never believe she took her own life. Never.”

I had become aware of hints that there was a possibility Whitfield had been involved with her death. But he was so charming, and in some way I grew more drawn to him each day.

Charm is deceitful
, Scripture says.

I recalled the woman in Mr. Highmore's office saying that it
was said
that she'd died of self-murder. Not that, in the opinion of all, she'd implied. Whitfield was deeply attached to the house. He'd made that clear to me at the gardens and at the stables.

Perhaps he had locked me in the stall to scare me. To further destabilize me. The only person I had mentioned my instability to, in passing, had been Michelene. Had she told the captain? Were they somehow working together? I shook my head. If I should share these weak conjectures with anyone else, they would believe them to be mad imaginings, perhaps with warrant.

It had taken courage for Cook to speak up at all, so it must have been important to her. I thought I'd press on a little for more details. “In your opinion, was Captain Whitfield . . . close to the woman here earlier who'd claimed to be me?” I asked her. It was clear she refused to refer to the imposter by any other name.

She shrugged. “I'm sure I don't know, miss, I am not abovestairs often. But she talked of him, yes she did, when she came to fetch milk for the cat. And then after a few months, she did not.” She pulled her cap down and lowered her voice. “He's keen on this house, isn't he? Perhaps he wanted bed and board and she turned him down. It's not for me to say, now, is it?”

That night, I took my dinner in my rooms, as usual. There were three courses, two of which were very rich, served on a
garish red platter that I knew my mother would never have allowed to be used. It must have been a recent purchase.

T
hat night, I told Michelene that I was having trouble sleeping and that I had aches again, probably a recurrence of malaria.

“Captain Whitfield said he would purchase some tincture for me,” I said.

“Ah, that is good,” she cooed. “And perhaps a little laudanum to help you sleep? Sleep makes all things right. It clears the mind for the next day, restores the body, allows one to eat.” She glanced at the red dish of uneaten food.

My mother had given me laudanum as a girl, but only small doses and when it was truly called for, as our first mission doctor was not enthusiastic about it. He had seen opium misused in China, and indeed, it was banned there still. But I was weary and in pain.

“It will also help whiten your skin,” she tempted. “Just the smallest amount.”

I agreed. I needed sleep. Deep sleep, I knew, warded off nightmares.

She brought a small dose and left; a sleepy well-being coursed through me. The scratching of the ivy against the house didn't trouble me as it normally did. I still felt chilled, though, so I got up to close my curtains. There was just a sliver of moon in the sky, not enough to light a path and, as usual, the mists rose from the warm ground into the cool night air. Normally they obscured everything but tonight, the wind also blew, and so it swirled the mist like smoke, here murky, there clear.

I looked toward the guesthouse; it was dark and the curtains were pulled shut. Beyond it, well beyond it, I could make out the silhouette of the chapel and then two eyes glowing.

I shook my head to clear it and a shiver inched its way up my spine
. Who or what could it be? The cat, Marie? Was I imagining things now, as an effect of the laudanum?
The graves were much too far off for me to see the tiny eyes of Marie in the dark.

Perhaps, after all, the crate had always been in front of the stall's door. But how could it have been? I would not have been able to get in so easily then, would I?

Perhaps someone had tried to lock me in. Perhaps I really had misplaced the letters myself and cannot remember.

I took the Bible from the top of my bureau, pulled the curtains tight, and hastily returned to my bed, unwilling to think that, perhaps, reason truly had fled.

CHAPTER TEN

A
few days later Mrs. Blackwood alerted me that a guest was coming to stay with Captain Whitfield, and would I please join them for dinner? I agreed. It must have been the person he'd mentioned in the stables. Perhaps it was someone local who knew my mother or my father. But why was Captain Whitfield eager that I should meet him?

Michelene did my hair in a lovely upsweep anchored by jet pins. I turned and looked at myself in the mirror. It was just right. I didn't look like anyone's governess, but I also did not look as though I should be rooming at the Swan.

“Very nice,” I said. “Michelene, I'd like some cologne. Could we perhaps find me some scent that is a little less English rose and a little more reminiscent of India? Something warm and spicy?”

“
Oui
,
” she said. “I will order some when I order your riding habits.”

“Riding habits? I don't ride.”

“Every English lady rides.” She snorted in a way that reminded me of the beasts themselves. “Are you an English lady or not?”

“Of course I am.”

I went downstairs, but the gentlemen had not yet arrived. Not wanting to seem overeager, I sat at the bureau in the drawing room and took pen in hand for a fresh batch of letters. I had not yet received any in return—perhaps the post was still difficult coming from India.

Within a quarter of an hour, Landreth came to announce that the men had arrived and dinner would be served.

Their eyes were upon me as I set down my pen and walked to greet them. Captain Whitfield looked at the pen for just a moment longer than I would expect before looking at me. Was he wondering to whom I wrote? Perhaps he'd had some involvement with the loss of my other letters. Or perhaps I was letting it all unsettle me and suspecting everyone and anyone of everything and anything! In spite of my qualms, my heart quickened when he held my gaze.

“Miss Ravenshaw,” he said, “how very lovely you look, as always. Lieutenant William Dunn, may I present Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw? Miss Ravenshaw, Lieutenant William Dunn.”

Lt. Dunn looked to be just a few years older than me, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age. Dunn's blond hair was rather closely cut for fashion and he had a neat beard; we had always kept current of fashions, in India, by way of secondhand ladies' magazines, which were craved and pored over. Penelope had never been keen for men with blond hair, whilst Violet had, though she did not prefer beards. I'd always preferred men with dark hair and beards.

Men like Whitfield.

I looked up and caught his eye and he winked. I quickly looked away. Dunn had wide, welcoming blue eyes and a ready smile even if I sensed a slight reserve. His eyes did not leave me.

“How do you do?” I held out my hand and he brushed his lips lightly against the back of it.

“How do you do, Miss Ravenshaw?”

Captain Whitfield led the four of us into the dining room. He seemed a bit taken aback when Lt. Dunn quickly made his way to hold out my chair, leaving Captain Whitfield to seat Mrs. Ross.

The soup was served and Lt. Dunn said, “I understand you have recently returned from India?”

“I've been back in England since the end of April,” I replied, setting down my soup spoon after a sip or two, as Michelene had instructed me. “About two months.”

“Tell me . . . what do you most miss about India?”

I closed my eyes for a moment. “Well, the people, firstly. I miss my parents and my brother, Peter.”

A look flashed between Captain Whitfield and Lt. Dunn, for the briefest of moments, but neither had completely turned his face from me, so I continued.

“I miss the Indian people, who are warm and welcoming. Truthfully, I have not yet accustomed myself to seeing so many fair faces and not as many brown.”

“Understandable,” Captain Whitfield said.

“I miss speaking the languages common to the area we lived in,” I said. “Mainly Tamil and Malayalam.”

Captain Whitfield coughed and then recovered himself, indicating with his hands that I should continue.

“But, as it is June, I will tell you what I am missing now. I miss the rains. The rains start first in Kerala, near to where we lived, and move northward in great gray clouds, like flocks of birds. Before the rains arrive, the ground is dry and compact, like ground spices pressed together. The air is parched, and then suddenly you can smell the rain upon it. When the water hits the
ground, the pent-up scent is released, perfuming the air with the smell of vibrant earth. People come out from their homes and huts, greeting one another, laughing. Minor quibbles amongst friends and neighbors are forgotten, stories are shared, smiles given. Life is celebrated again.”

Although courses continued to be served, Lt. Dunn and Captain Whitfield had set down their forks and were no longer eating, and Landreth and the footman serving were listening to me rather than refilling glasses or replacing plates.

“Do go on, Miss Ravenshaw,” Lt. Dunn urged.

“Then the peacocks begin to dance.”

“Dance?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “There are only two times when the peacocks dance: when the rains are about to arrive, and when they are seeking a mate. Their bright blue bodies shimmer on thin legs, green- and blue-eyed plumage carefully arrayed. In seeking a mate, the peacock wants to show himself to best advantage because that's what attracts.” Mrs. Ross pursed her lips slightly and shook her head just a little. I tipped my head slightly while the flush of pink disappeared.

“Peahens, then, are little different from the fairer sex of our own species,” Captain Whitfield said quietly to Lt. Dunn, while my head was down. “I entreat you. Show me a woman who does not marry only after display of title or money. You'll not be able to. She doesn't exist.”

“But then, men marry for money, and for property,” Dunn replied. “You yourself said—”

I put my head up, and Dunn stopped speaking, abruptly.

By then my face was flushing again for another reason. “You certainly didn't mean to compare women to peahens, did you, Captain Whitfield?”

“Perhaps my intentions were not well stated,” he said.

“I see,” I said with a gentle smile. “Then you can hardly blame us, can you? Perhaps you can show me a man who does not display his wealth and status to attract us.”

I caught a glimmer in his eye, but he caught his smile just before it spread across his face. I ducked to hide my own as the conversation drifted back to polite chatter.

Soon the meat course was served and we chatted about Lt. Dunn's future departure. “I'm afraid I've kept a bit of a secret from you,” he said to me.

Ah, yes. The surprise.

“I'm the son of missionaries who served in the West Indies.”

“How delightful!” He regaled me with a story or two of his life with his sisters, who used to like to dress him in their clothes, and more somber tales of the hardship of the lives of those his family had served for decades. The meal was quickly coming to an end, so I said, “I hope I shall hear some of your stories another time. Will you be staying on for Captain Whitfield's dance next week?”

He nodded. “I shall. Whitfield has extended the invitation and I've accepted.”

I looked at Captain Whitfield and grinned. It would be lovely to talk to another missionary. What a splendid gift to me, his arranging this! A handful of others might judge him wrongly, but I was beginning to believe I was judging him, and his goodness, correctly.

“And,” Lt. Dunn seemed slightly uncomfortable, “I have met your brother, Peter. We were at Eltham together for a short period of time, he being older than me.”

“Oh,” I said. My heart lurched. I should so like to talk with someone who knew my brother. “Did you know him well?”

“No,” he said. “But there were not so many of us that we didn't each have a passing acquaintance with one another.”

I tried to hide my disappointment. “I shall very much look forward to being regaled by your West Indies adventure, and learning what the Lord has wrought through your ministries. I've not yet met anyone here who knew my family. Even a passing acquaintance is a blessing.”

“No one?” Dunn asked. “Not even at church?”

“My carriages have just been made ready so that Miss Ravenshaw will be able to begin to attend the Methodist church,” Captain Whitfield said.

I smiled. “This is good to hear.”

Landreth cleared the meat course and presently brought in bowls of fruit, heralding the end of the meal. That day it was fresh strawberries in a pool of cream.

I put one in my mouth and let the tart and sweet explode. “I have always loved strawberries.”

“Your brother did, too, as I recall,” Lt. Dunn said in a low voice.

“Not at all,” I corrected. “You must have him confused with someone else. Peter had a hypersensitivity to strawberries. He'd come out in a rash almost immediately upon eating one. Mother never served them. Perhaps that's why they are so dear to me.”

“Mummy, please. Everyone loves strawberry trifle. Surely I've outgrown it and can eat it whilst in England.”

I watched them speak to one another, spooning pudding into my own mouth.

“No, I'm sorry,” Mother said. “But here is a pudding I've made you with molasses and spice. I'll give you the larger portion. You can eat other trifles at school, too.”

“Well, all right then.”

“Promise me you won't eat strawberries when you've returned to England. Please.”

“Very well, Mama,” he said.

“I shan't like to think of you being ill whilst I'm not there to tend to you,” she said softly, already mourning his looming journey home.

“Miss Ravenshaw?” Lt. Dunn called me back to the present.

“Yes, yes,” I said.

“I said that I must have mistaken him with another,” Lt. Dunn said, not meeting my gaze. I glanced at Captain Whitfield, busily examining his strawberries. I knew it was to avoid my eyes. I saw it, now. The first trap had been laid, but I'd neatly sidestepped it.
You've tipped your hand, Captain Whitfield. I'll be more circumspect henceforth.

In bed that night, I could not sleep, or would not sleep, or feared to sleep, or perhaps all three. I put the lamp on the bedside table to keep the shadows at bay, and took Milton in hand, propped up against the pillows.

I leafed through the pages carefully, reading some, skimming others, and found a place that Father's hand had marked.

Satan, involved in rising mist; then sought

Where to lie hid; sea he had searched, and land,

From Eden over Pontus and the pool

Maeotis, up beyond the river Ob;

Downward as far Antarctic; and in length,

West from Orontes to the ocean barred

At Darien; thence to the land where flows

Ganges and Indus: Thus the orb he roamed

With narrow search; and with inspection deep

Considered every creature, which of all

Most opportune might serve his wiles; and found

The Serpent subtlest beast of all the field.

I closed the book and blew out the lamp.
Why had Father marked this passage?
I climbed out of bed and made my way to the window. Because of the mists, perhaps, which did rise from our grounds almost nightly, obscuring clear vision? I should not like to walk in the dark in that mist, though I did so, now, metaphorically. Indeed, I could well believe that Satan lay hidden there. Here. Waiting to see whom he could impress upon, or discourage enough, to serve his wiles.

Perhaps it was the mention of the Indus River that had brought him to this chapter, knowing India lay before them. It had been Eden, in a way. Paradise, till it had been lost.

Till it had been
stolen
, by the serpent, the subtlest beast of all the field.

I returned to my bed but was unable to sleep. I thought of the laudanum.
It will help me to rest. Ring for Michelene.
At the last, I refused to, but when those I'd loved and then lost came, in midnight dreams, and I awoke drenched in sweat and sorrow, I wished I had asked Michelene to leave the small bottle for me.