Mist of Midnight (19 page)

“The conversation in the shop made me wonder, have you ever been married?” I asked Michelene after the others had removed themselves to the house. I knew some ladies' maids, if widowed young, returned to their former profession.

“
Non,
not married,” she said. “But in love . . .
oui
. With a man in France, a
comte
, a member of the
noblesse
.” She looked sad. “He was not a man who would defy convention to keep me. Like some Englishmen would. For example, your Mr. Mead and his Indian wife.”

My eyes widened. “How do you know about Mr. Mead?”

“You told me,
petite.
Do you not recall?” She looked at me as one might look at a fevered or confused child.

I shook my head, and then stretched into my memory to bring to mind when I might have mentioned such a thing. The only person I had, with certainty, mentioned Mr. Mead to was Captain Whitfield. Had he discussed this with Michelene? Or had I truly brought this up with her and completely forgotten the incident?

CHAPTER TWENTY

W
ednesday was my day for calling; Daniel had the carriage ready.

“Have you made any inquiries about the shoes for that young lad?” I asked him.

“Yes, Miss Ravenshaw. The cobbler is currently making them, and I'll let you know as soon as they are ready.”

“Thank you, Daniel. You are so dependable about running errands, and I appreciate your help in this matter, very much indeed.”

“How will . . . how will you let the boy and his mother know?”

“Would it be impolite, or an imposition, to send you round with an invitation?”

He shrugged. “I will do it.” His voice quieted. “It is a kind thing to do, miss. I was once an orphan, you know.”

“I did not know,” I said. “I'm so pleased you're in a happy situation then, here.”

He nodded. “Captain Whitfield saw to it that I was offered a job. His father had known mine in the military.” Daniel said no more but clucked and the horses took off.

I made a few quick social calls, to Lady Ashby, to a new friend at church, and one longer one to Lady Frome, which I most enjoyed, before stopping to drop my card off for Mrs. Knowlton, the friend of my mother.

I sent Daniel to the door with the card, expecting that she would not be at home, but he came out with a grin. “She'll see you!”

I nearly tumbled from the carriage in my rush to see her, making my way up to her tidy brick cottage, finally standing on the humble doorstep. Her man opened the door and showed me into her bright parlor. She sat in a corner, a blanket draped over her feet. She looked frail; her eyes were opaque with pain, cloudy white like the thick of an egg white covering what must have once been bright blue.

“I'm delighted to see you.” She indicated I should settle in a chair near her own.

“I shan't stay long and overtire you. But I'm so very appreciative you've seen me.”

After a few moments of light conversation she said, “I knew within moments of your arrival at church that you were Constance Ravenshaw's daughter as surely as I knew that the earlier young woman, God rest her soul, was not.”

“How?” I asked.

“You've the look of her,” she said. “The way you carry yourself, the tone of your voice. Your confidence and poise. There are not many of us left from the early years in the church. We were small in number and many of the founders were aged. It is not surprising that there were few who remember you . . . you were a wee child when you left. But Constance was a particular friend to me and we were of an age. She wrote to me for many years, both before and after the . . . darker years.”

I nodded. “Those years are not secret.”

Mrs. Knowlton set down her cup. “I'm afraid, my dear, that I've done you a disservice. After the first young woman arrived, Lady Ledbury called on me.”

“You're friends?” Lady Ledbury had not thought so.

She cackled and looked around her modest environment. “Oh, no. But she is a liberal contributor to our coal charity. She made it clear that she would prefer her son, whom she believes to be the rightful heir of Headbourne, to take possession. She intimated that should I be in touch with the first woman, or with you, later, the coal money would come to an end. I was concerned for those who might go without on a cold night.”

She took my hand in her own bony one. “Can you forgive me?”

“Oh yes, yes, dear Mrs. Knowlton,” I said. “Do not give this another thought. I'm sorry to have delivered such trouble your way.”

“Thank you, dear, but you did not deliver the trouble.” Mrs. Knowlton looked at me, her eyes clearing for a moment. “Lady Ledbury's son did seem to focus on your imposter with a steady eye, and of course would have had cause to have been pleased to receive the house in the end.”

“At the cost of her death?” My heart raced. Did she question Whitfield, too? Did they all?

“That, my dear, I couldn't know,” she said. “I do not know him. Only his mother.” She sipped a little tea, then sat quietly for a moment before saying, “Lady Ledbury has spread word, quietly, that you suffer from some . . . imbalance. She knew your mother had melancholia.”

I sat there for a moment, silent, sipping my tea.

“Mummy!” I banged on the small door that separated my par
ents' room from the main door. “Mummy, please let me come in and help you.”

The crying quieted for a while but then it brewed again and I stopped knocking. Peter brought a small bowl of rice to me that ayah had made. “It'll be all right,” he murmured. Our ayah clucked over both of us and drew us near to her bosom before returning to her own home that night.

Late, after Father had returned to the house, there was a loud, sharp disagreement about living in India. In the morning, Mother pretended nothing had been awry, hoping we would too, one supposed. She picked up her needlework and later showed our ayah how to begin with bobbins. That was the end of the beginning, I remember, and the start of something new.

I'd never forgotten the wailing, though it was the last time she'd cried out. It echoed, still, in my ears.

“Miss Ravenshaw?” Mrs. Knowlton drew me back to the ­present.

“Oh, yes. Sorry.” I remembered the occasional question or implication inquiring as to whether I was well. But I hadn't imagined the gate having been blocked in the stable yards, or the theft of the first packet of letters, or the lights by the grave, or Mrs. Ross in the woods. Had I?

“And now,” she said, “before I nod off, please tell me of the last years in India. Your mother wrote regularly for a time. Then she stopped.”

“Might I ask why? If you know? I hope I'm not pressing.”

“Not at all, dear.” She patted my arm. “She hadn't wanted to be in India at first, as you know. I suspect news from one who seemed to have all that she wanted, a life of peace and comfort in England, was too painful to bear for a while. Once she found her feet, she wrote again, and then it was my turn to fence with envy
as she accomplished so much, and, sadly, I let my return letters dwindle.”

“Oh yes, I see.” This was perhaps why I hadn't heard from one or another of my English friends in India—it all made sense now. They envied the calm of my situation, or of being home, though they certainly could not have envied my parents' death or my loss of family.

I obliged her, sharing the happy parts, and most of the later years were profoundly happy. I promised to call again. “Mrs. Knowlton,” I began, pulling my gloves on, “you've spoken of my imposter, and I should like to find out what I may about her. Do you know anything further?”

She shook her head. “She said but little at church, very often did not attend, claiming illness, and in general, after but a month or two, kept most often to Headbourne. She wasn't here long before . . .” She cast her eyes downward and sipped her tea. “Before her life was taken.”

“Taken? Not a suicide?”

“Perhaps it happened exactly as has been said, that she took her own life. But to what purpose? Had she been truly suicidal, there would have been no need for an elaborate deception first. She apparently had no family to come looking after her.”

I recalled anew what the woman at Mr. Highmore's office had said to me upon my arrival. Perhaps that would provide a clue. “Where should I find archived newspapers, of the entire year of the Mutiny?”

She tilted her head. “The library at Winchester, I should think, dear.”

“The constabulary is also in Winchester, is that not right?”

She nodded. “A fairly new building of a decade or so.”

I bent to kiss her powdery cheek, chalky with age like her front steps, and took my leave. All the way home I wondered how
I could sort things out to make sense of it all, prayed to find out the imposter's identity, and hoped I would not yield to the tar pit of melancholia as my mother often had. The fear of it stalked my mind.

A
few days later Daniel drove us to the library at Winchester. Michelene came along, wishing to stop at the milliner's and pick up a hat that was being repaired.

“Daniel, do you know where the constabulary is, in Winchester?” I asked.

Michelene bent forward. “The constabulary?”

“Yes,” I said, “I should like to stop by for a moment.”

She pursed her lips. “That is not done.”

I looked to Mrs. Ross, who nodded her approval, and not to Michelene. “Please proceed,” I informed Daniel. Half an hour later, we arrived at the tall, rather new building. We three ladies got out of the carriage, and made our way inside. I stopped at the desk.

“Hello, I would like to speak with the chief constable, if he is here,” I said.

“Certainly, I'll fetch him,” the young officer said. “Who shall I say is calling?”

I handed a card over. “Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw. I'd like to speak with him, if I may, about the death of the woman who had pretended to be me.”

The man disappeared up the stairs. Michelene kept her head down, under her bonnet. Some minutes later, the young man reappeared. “I'm sorry, he's not here after all,” he said. “I'll leave your card.”

He would not meet my eye.
We who serve together in the military stick together even once home,
Whitfield had told me. Most of
Whitfield's true friends seemed to be former military men, like Dunn, who had run to do Whitfield's will in testing me. Unsettled, I bade this young man good day.

As we got in the carriage, I noticed Michelene tipped her head back and up, looking at the outside of the building. From one window I saw the face of a man looking down at me, and then at her, intently, before disappearing from view. It was the constable who'd been at Headbourne upon my arrival. I was certain of it. So why would he not see me?

“Do you know the chief constable?” I asked Michelene as we got into the carriage.

“What a thought,” she replied. “The milliner's next?” I looked at her pointedly, but her countenance remained serene.

I nodded and Daniel left her there before taking us to the library. Happily, I arrived during the public viewing times and the librarian was most solicitous in helping me find what I was looking for.

I paged through paper after paper, smudging my gloves, but I cared not. There, in the
Hampshire Telegraph
, was a fully developed article of several pages that thoroughly detailed the Mutiny. I found another article in a later version that listed information about my family, including our names and deaths, as well as our connection to Headbourne House. Relief flooded through me as I leaned back and closed my eyes with gratitude for the closure that this knowledge brought. I might never know exactly who the young woman was who had claimed to be me, but I knew, with certainty, how she had acquired the information, both public, in the papers, and, private, in my attic.

Once in the carriage on the way back home, Mrs. Ross asked me, “Did ye find what you were looking for?”

I told her of my find, and she nodded, but did not smile or agree with my conclusions.

“Do you not agree with my supposition?” I asked.

She smiled, finally. “Ye'll find the truth, lassie, you will at that.”

I sighed and turned toward the window. She was a kindly old lady, yes, but I was growing a little tired of her Scots muddle. I was satisfied with this answer; it all made perfect sense.

I had nearly nodded off into a nap when a thought intruded.
But how, and why, did she die? And where had she found an Indian maid?

P
icnic day arrived, and Landreth began setting up as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. Delia had arrived early and was working with Mrs. Blackwood on the final touches. I briefly went to the kitchen to thank Cook.

I looked around at the spread awaiting service. “The food is simply unsurpassed,” I said. “I count myself blessed to have you in the kitchen, and don't know what I shall do when the time comes for you to move on.”

She smiled at me for perhaps the first time. “Me sister says you talked with her in town.”

I nodded. “I'm very sorry for the loss of your daughter,” I said. “I understand what it is to lose those you love.”

She stared at me for a moment and then her eyes welled with tears, though she did not let them spill. “You do know, don't you?”

“I do,” I said softly. “It can be lonely without family about to bring the comfort of home.” I recalled how Cook's sister said she'd looked upon my imposter as a daughter. Surely that meant they'd been close. “Do you know where that young woman pretending to be me found a maid, her Indian maid?” I asked. “Since you are from hereabouts as well, I thought you might know.”

“So you'd like someone from yer other home, too, eh, for comfort? I'm sure I don't know, but you might ask Daniel.”

“Daniel?”

She nodded. “I can't be certain what happened to that other young lady's Indian maid, but if my eyes didn't fail me, I thought at the end Daniel drove her off in a carriage.”