Mist of Midnight (14 page)

“I'd be delighted,” I said. “Is there a particular purpose?”

“Most definitely.” He said nothing more.

The others waited for him and Miss Dainley did not remove her gaze from us the entire time we spoke. I sat and passed the time with Lady Frome for an hour or so, and even when the others returned from shooting I did not leave her company. “You're wilting,” I said gently.

Lady Frome fanned her face. “I'm afraid so.”

I called Daniel over. “Would you be so good as to take Lady Frome back to the house?”

He nodded. “Would that be acceptable to Captain Whitfield?”

“I'm certain he would not want his brother's wife to suffer discomfort any longer than necessary,” I said.

“And you, miss, will you come back now as well?”

I rather liked the idea of being out in the open by myself, enjoying the rustle of the leaves in the occasional breeze, sounding much like crinolines swishing beneath the stiffest gown. “I'll wait for you to return.”

They left and after a short time the others wrapped up their practice, Miss Dainley side by side with Captain Whitfield.

“Ah, Miss Ravenshaw, you look positively abandoned,” she said, and I did not know if she was teasing me or drawing attention to my isolation.

“Not at all,” I said. “I but wait for Daniel to return in the carriage for me.”

The others hung about awkwardly, on horseback, and it became clear that they could neither ride back to Headbourne
House without me nor leave me on my own. Captain Whitfield pulled his horse up alongside me.

Please don't offer your horse to me. I do not want to be humiliated in front of this crowd.

He came close, so he could speak to me and hear my answer without the others overhearing, no matter how Miss Dainley might crane her neck.

“I'd be happy to have you ride with me. We can go slow, and it's not far. That is, if you're willing to ride behind me.”

“I've never ridden behind,” I said.

“Never?”

I shook my head.

“Why not?”

I smiled. “No need to.” I allowed myself a slightly forward jest. “Or perhaps there's never been a man I've wanted to follow. In any case, my dress would not fit.”

“In front of me, then, on the pommel.”

I nodded my agreement, and he dismounted and then held out a hand to help me; I was glad I had insisted on having some fine dresses with narrower, smaller hoops, simpler dresses, as I'd worn in India, in spite of Michelene's tut-tutting. Once up, he leaned into me, our faces close enough to feel one another's breath. “I've never met a woman who can shoot like that.”

It was the first admiring thing he'd said to me, in unabashed honesty. I was a little mystified by his almost instantaneous change in manner, though. There was no mocking, no teasing, no edge to his words. All because of one shot? He rode with one arm around me, the other held the reins. I leaned back into him as we rode back, finding myself wishing he'd extend his clasp into more of an embrace than a steadying hold. I could feel that he held him
self like a soldier, steady and taut, but did not draw away from me. I relaxed and rested into him.

What would Mrs. Ross say?

But we rode in company with the others, and I was sorry to let go when we arrived at Headbourne. I'd never felt that way before, though I had, of course, kept chaperoned company with young missionaries and British plantation owners in India. Unlike Whitfield, they had, to a man, seemed placid.

I viewed my house on approach—crumbling, stately, tangled, distressed, splendid. It was, I believe, the first time I'd looked at it and thought,
Home
. Headbourne was a needy, long-neglected child requiring love and commitment, and I was now prepared to offer those without reserve. I looked at the statues and thought how I might add to them, glanced over the moldings and promised I would make reparations, apologizing for decades of inattention. I no longer had those I loved with me here on Earth, but here, on this particular piece of land, I could honor them and remain safely home.

Captain Whitfield rode into the stable and a groomsman helped me down. I shivered a bit as Notos turned her huge head, disdainfully flared her wide nostrils, and looked hard at me from beneath long lashes. Whitfield steadied her, then dismounted and took my hand in his own.

“I look forward to your garden surprise,” I said before releasing his hand.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A
short while later I made my way to the gardens. The evening light angled across the lawn so it was now half dark, half light, and as I looked at Whitfield in the distance I knew that was an apt description of the man, too.

Mrs. Ross settled herself on a stone bench, needlework basket nearby, as Captain Whitfield took my gloved hand and placed it on his arm as we walked. His hair was free, again; he did not wear a hat even when the other men did. His beard was well trimmed, which allowed an easy look at his lips. He caught me looking and looked at mine in return before speaking. A ripple of heat passed between us and I tipped my head down for a moment to recover. He feigned no such disinterest.

“I must admit to surprise and delight at your shot today,” he began. “You are a most unusual woman. The military could use you as a sharpshooter!” He laughed and I smiled at him. “Is that how you dispatched snakes in India?”

I tucked my arm deeper into his. “We had several methods. Snakes often slithered around the house, or hung from the ceiling over one's bed.”

“And shooting them was the easiest way to protect yourself?” He looked incredulous.

“No. We also had hooks we could wrap around them. But the easiest way was to call for Father.” I smiled at the memory and he grinned with me. “And now, Captain, you asked me here to speak of something?”

“There's no delicate way to begin,” he said. “Simply put, I believe you are who you say you are and I apologize for treating you with suspicion.”

I drew in my breath as a rush of cold excitement prickled through me. It was so sudden, so unexpected. I had not anticipated this conversation at all. I exulted even as I strove to keep my composure. Within the minute, the initial rush of excitement melted into a welcome wash of relief. I would not have to wait until August! Salvation was here, at hand. “Please, sir, do explain.”

We sat down on a bench next to a dilapidated statue of Flora, patroness of gardens, who looked over at us imploringly. Her gardens needed further tending. I would, happily, begin to think of that soon.

“I'd hoped Lieutenant Dunn would be able to help me ascertain if, indeed, you are truly Miss Ravenshaw. I knew that Eltham is a close community of missionary sons and that Dunn might know something about your brother.”

“Very few outside of my family would have known about the strawberries. But that can hardly be enough to convince a man of your . . .” I was about to say
worldliness.
And then I thought,
motivation
. I settled on “skepticism.”

He ran his hand almost unconsciously over the back of my right glove, in a soothing manner, and I did not withdraw my hand. “One day when Landreth and I were removing some boxes from the uppermost parts of the house, the attic, I came across
some papers lying in a corner where some linens were stored. There were documents pertaining to the house so I sorted through some of them. I also found a letter your mother had written to her own mother despairing of the extra effort you would be required to put forth to learn to write with your right hand when you are, in fact, left-handed. I kept the letter to myself. No one else could have known.”

“My mother was a natural teacher, and she worked with great care to help me,” I said. Then I understood. I had been saved by a reflex—the shot. Nothing I could have planned or done had proved me true so well as an unaffected reaction. “So you saw me shoot today and knew I was left-handed after all.”

“Yes. I couldn't be sure before then, although I erred toward not believing it because of the writing and eating. The truth set you free.”

I nodded. “Was the woman who'd pretended to be me left-handed?” I thought that would be unlikely, as such a small percentage of the population was.

“I don't know,” Captain Whitfield answered. “She was well into her few months here when I came across the box. I watched her thereafter, but of course she, too, ate and wrote with her right hand. And I did not see her shoot; I don't think she could shoot.”

“And yet, there was some doubt about her early on?” I could see the guests begin to gather, preparing for dinner to be served, and I spied Thornton, Captain Whitfield's valet, trying to catch his eye.

He nodded. “Once in a crowd she raised her hand, quickly, to wave to someone as they approached. She used her right hand. A spontaneous gesture would demand the dominant hand, I would think. But I don't know. It caused me to look at things more closely.”

Thornton was making his way to us now.

“I do apologize for my doubt, but it was my duty to the Ravenshaws, as the apparent heir, to make sure the property was safely delivered to the right hands. Those hands”—he took mine in his own again—“are now made clear, and I have done my duty. If acceptable to you,” he continued as he helped me to my feet, “I should like to stay on at the guesthouse through the summer in order to find an appropriate property for myself.” He wrapped my arm around his, rather than placing my hand on top as he usually had. It was more intimate, and perhaps hinted toward possession, though I could not be certain. Maybe I only wished it to be so. But why make this gesture now? I let his arm remain for a moment, then unwound it.

“I bear no ill will toward you at all; you've been most kind to me considering the circumstances. You're very welcome to stay through the summer.” My voice shook with a mix of emotions: gratitude, relief, joy, and then, strangely, longing and melancholy. “I'd be most appreciative if you could help me oversee the improvements you've arranged. I shall repay every penny as soon as Mr. Highmore has the finances in order. I expect to see him early next week.”

He nodded and then stopped walking. “Are you quite sure you're willing and able to undertake this on your own? To retain a house such as Headbourne might prove more difficult than to gain one.”

“It is my home, Captain Whitfield. It is all that I have left of my father, my family.”

He said nothing more, but what was left hanging unspoken in the silence was that it was all that he had left of his father, his lineage, as well. I remembered Whitfield's comments about being left alone year after year, holiday after holiday, whilst his brothers had a
family and a home, and my heart was aggrieved for him. We passed by the firmly rooted wisteria in silence. He glanced at it in passing.

It's a devil to relocate
, he'd said.

M
ichelene helped me dress for dinner. “Soon you will be wearing the colors,
n'est-ce pas
?” She pulled out a gray dress; the neckline was highlighted by tiny pearls which caught and held the candlelight.

“Are they real?”

“
Bien sûr
,” she said. “Only the best for Mademoiselle.” Like the best of lady's maids, Michelene noticed my altered mood.

“What has changed?”

“Captain Whitfield has admitted that I am, actually and truly, Rebecca Ravenshaw.”

Michelene dropped the brush but then quickly concealed her shock with her normal look of disinterested sophistication. “What caused this admission? Has he heard back from the Missionary Society?”

“Apparently not,” I said. “Through Lieutenant Dunn, my writing and shooting, and some information he's gleaned from my mother's letters, he just . . . knows. I must say, he's been very solicitous in the short time since realizing it.”

All of a sudden, I realized he'd said he'd kept the letters. Had he somehow, perhaps through his staff, procured my lost letters as well? And if so, to what purpose? I would like to look for others of my mother's letters, ones he had, I assumed, left untouched.

“But of course,” she said. “Now that you are the heiress, the wooing must begin.”

I turned and my heart lurched because she'd spoken aloud the thought I had forbidden to take complete form in my own mind. Did I want him to woo me? She implied that the captain would be
wooing the house, via me, and not me for my own sake. Perhaps I believed that myself.

“Why do you say that?”

“It would not do for Captain Whitfield to have a bought house with bought furniture, so
nouveaux,
when Lord and Lady Frome have the pedigreed property, would it?”

“Do you believe they would treat him poorly for that?”

“I do,
absolument
,” she said. “With the little cuts,
n'est-ce pas
? It is very much the English way. If he's forced to buy a property, it will be well away from Hampshire . . . and the whispers.”

The whispers. I hadn't heard them, but I'd seen the whispering. And the dubious looks.

“Do you believe him to be the kind of man who would be troubled by bought property?”

She nodded. “Every man craves the respect of his family. And all men need love. Do you understand men? I do.”

M
r. Highmore arrived for a visit the following Tuesday. I met with him in the morning room, which Mrs. Blackwood had prepared for visitors. A small table sat between two chairs deeply upholstered in a rose-scattered chintz fabric. It made me smile—this iconic English piece of furniture covered in a fabric drawn from India, the name itself Hindi. Now that I knew the room would be mine, forever, it seemed a little brighter.

“Thank you for coming,” I began the conversation. “Have you heard from India? From the mission? It is, after all, July.”

He shook his head. “It will have been too soon to have the papers arrive, be transported to Kerala, and then returned to me. I suspect by the end of summer. However”—he pushed his ­spectacles higher on his nose, to no avail, as the slick of sweat at the bridge
sent them slipping down again—“I have spoken with Captain Whitfield. He tells me he is quite convinced that you are, indeed, Rebecca Ravenshaw, although I have no idea who the wretched soul is that lies in your grave.”

A shudder ran through me.
My grave. It has my name on it. I should have a look at it.

No. I've seen too many graves already and while I'm not superstitious . . .

“A lost person who saw an opportunity,” I said, pulling my thoughts into a calm semblance, not wanting anyone who could have been me, for even a short while, to be as unstable and unbalanced as she must have been.

As I worry I, in fact, might have become.

“Charitable of you,” Mr. Highmore answered, but his voice was not inflected with admiration. “I'd be more inclined to label her a criminal.”

“
Imposteur,
Mademoiselle d'Arbonneau, my lady's maid, has said.”

“How easily Mademoiselle d'Arbonneau has switched her loyalties.” He sniffed. “I should like to warn you that I have not completely assessed the finances. It will take some time because of the complexity and diversity of your father's investments, and the various places he had money sent and spent.” He stopped talking while Annie poured tea and then, when she withdrew from the room with a flickering glance in my direction, Highmore glanced at Mrs. Ross before continuing.

“My chaperone is completely trustworthy,” I said, but even as I did, I wondered. How much did I know about her, really? I hadn't pressed for more information, as it would be uncharitable, considering that she was widowed. Her friends seemed to be confined to those who attended her kirk.

Mr. Highmore continued. “As you know, the house has been properly transferred to Captain Whitfield. I shall file the appropriate papers to have it transferred to you, which will just take a short period more, along with the conclusion of the audit of your accounts. But, as they will be uncontested, there will be no intervening problems.”

“Captain Whitfield has been most understanding,” I said.

He made motions as if to leave. I put a hand on his arm to stop him. Then I arose and closed all the doors around the room, leaving just the three of us within. I returned to my seat.

“One further question, Mr. Highmore.”

“Yes?”

“I have an unclear understanding of what would happen to my properties, and my monies, should I marry.”

“You mean
when
you marry,” he corrected me.

It was not at all a
when
, not at this point, even if I was the only one who knew that. “I mean if, but please, proceed.”

He looked surprised.

“Well, according to the law,” he began, “once you marry, all your property becomes your husband's under the principle of coverture. As Blackstone said, when a man and wife marry, they become one, and that one is the husband.” He chuckled at that but he chuckled alone.

“Except for the Queen,” I noted. He did not respond. “So Headbourne House would become the property of my husband, at his disposal to do with as he pleases, whether or not I agree or approve.”

“Yes.”

“And my personal property, belongings and cash, and investments?”