Mist of Midnight (20 page)

I should ask him as soon as it was feasible.

Cook came closer. “Be careful, miss, that's what I say. Just be careful. There's been enough loss around here.”

“I shall,” I promised, though I did not know if she spoke in general or had a specific thought in mind.

I shook the gloom from my thoughts and made my way back upstairs.

“You look verra beautiful,” Mrs. Ross reassured me as I stood, useless, in the hallway.

I turned toward her. “I just wish I knew what to do.”

“Here arrives Lady Frome,” she said. “Her husband will no doubt go to the guesthouse and speak with Captain Whitfield. Perhaps ye should welcome everyone as they arrive, make them comfortable, conversing. Mary”—she nodded to Delia—“to her Martha.”

“Yes, yes, that's right,” I said. “Thank you, dear Mrs. Ross.”

Lady Frome's grand carriage did indeed pull up in front of the lions, which were now tidied and recently restored so they looked fierce again and not frail, as they had when I'd first returned to Headbourne. And, as Mrs. Ross had predicted, Lord Frome strode off to see or provoke Luke, the elder brother.

“Here, let's not even go inside.” I took Lady Frome by the arm. “I've had a nice cushion set up on a sturdy frame for you right in the center of the gardens. You should be able to participate without disturbing yourself. ”

“Thank you, Miss Ravenshaw,” she said. “I've so been looking forward to this. I've still some months to go before my confinement but I can barely do anything but dine and nap, one after the other in regular rhythm!”

We walked arm in arm across the smooth lawn, and I settled her on her cushion and drew a table near. “I'll have Annie bring some chilled ginger beer to you. I'll be back once I've greeted everyone else.”

Across the way I could see Captain Whitfield and Lord Frome dueling—thankfully, with swords and not pistols. I couldn't imagine that Lord Frome had ever used a sword for anything other than picking his teeth.

“Goodness me,” I said. “I do hope they won't hurt each other.”

“They don't duel to harm, my dear,” Lady Frome said. “It's a matter of satisfaction. Of proving, one way or the other, that each is willing to live, or die, for his honor.”

“They seem intent,” I said.

“Those two always are. Honor is always an issue between them. Captain Whitfield is always more proficient with weaponry, but I'm afraid that my husband has the upper hand in several other manners.”

I appreciated her forthright manner, borne, I suspected, by confidence in her position. “A father?”

“Yes. A father. A title. A home.” She looked at the men, exercised now, sweat-drenched, grimacing and calling aloud. “Neither,” she noted, “is afraid to draw a little blood.”

I could not wrest my eyes from Whitfield; perhaps, having grown up with a father who had been in the military, I could be attracted only to a man who had a strong bearing and stance. Whitfield certainly did. He caught my eye and grinned, but as he did he lost his focus and Frome pinned him.

I'd caused him a loss. I was struck by the irony of this—I'd caused his loss of Headbourne, too. He waved toward me as if to say it was worth it, and I waved back, pleased by the gesture.

Several other carriages pulled up: the Ashbys, Delia's sister, a neighboring man, two ladies I'd met at church and many others I had not yet met. Lt. Dunn arrived—resplendent in his uniform, his blond hair neatly combed—and sought me out.

“I'm so glad to have been able to join you,” he said enthusiastically. I recalled what Mrs. Ross had told me—if I knew there was to be no future, I should let him slip away to someone else. “I'm so glad you could come as well, Lieutenant Dunn,” I said. He was about to speak, but Delia caught my eye and I excused myself.

“Did you plan for entertainment of any sort before we dine?” she asked. “We'll need to pass an hour or two before the food is served, and Captain Whitfield has arranged for music after dinner.”

I'd thought Captain Whitfield was not to have been involved with the music! That was the impression she left with me when I'd suggested it.

“One moment,” I said, thinking quickly.

I returned to the hallway where Landreth found me wringing my hands.

“Can I help, Miss Ravenshaw?”

“The pre-meal activity,” I whispered. “I'd quite forgotten I was supposed to have thought of something. And now everyone's arrived. I'm not certain what the proper activity would be. What should I suggest?”

“Perhaps croquet would amuse,” he said. “I've taken the liberty of ensuring that the bats, pegs, and balls are polished and the hoops straightened. You have only to command me to bring them out and we shall get the games under way.”

“Thank you, Landreth. Whatever shall I do without you when you leave?”

“I'm sure I don't know,” he said. But he pinked and looked pleased.

“Please bring the croquet set.” I made a great show of instructing him and he smiled in return. I quickly repaired to Delia. “The croquet equipment is at hand. Landreth is having it brought outside just now.”

“What a splendid idea,” she said. “I have finished in here as well. Let's go outside.” We strolled past the coach house; all of them could not fit inside, of course. “I believe that Lord Frome has a new carriage,” she said. “It's quite as nice as Captain Whitfield's.”

We walked by her carriage without a word; it was well past its bloom, as was, surprisingly, Lord Ashby's. We met and mingled with the others on the lawn. After greeting those with whom I had not yet spoken, I felt a gaze upon me. I looked up and saw Captain Whitfield staring at me from across the lawn. He smiled in a warm and personal way. I do believe he even winked! I offered a little wave—pointedly with my left hand—and he broke out in a wide grin. He waved next to Lady Frome, who waved back with honest delight.

“I do enjoy him,” she said. “He's always made me most welcome.”

“Shall we play cards while the others are at croquet?” I asked. Her husband and his brother had disappeared, to change before dinner, I assumed. I withdrew a deck of cards I'd brought for the occasion and moved the cribbage board I'd placed on the table just between us.

“Thank you, Miss Ravenshaw,” she said. “You are so kind.”

I dealt the cards and after some time looked up to see if the rest of the guests were content and engaged, and they were.
Delia had partnered herself with Captain Whitfield, who had returned; he looked happy and relaxed in her company, which unsettled me just a bit. He stood behind her as she maneuvered the bat, and when her ball went directly through the wicket, he led the cheers. I could see, even from a distance, she blushed with pleasure. She didn't miss a turn, though, and was able to ensure that everyone else on the lawn was in high spirits. I saw Captain Whitfield speaking with another man nearby, looking jovial at first. It was clear by their facial expressions that the man soon said something cutting to Whitfield, who visibly flinched and then coolly tipped his head and walked away. Two young ladies simpered their way to his side, each taking one of his arms, though he had not seemed to have proffered them; an older man—their father?—looked on with concern. Whitfield was never alone for long.

Lady Frome and I made small talk about babies and Hampshire, and the kinds of picnics held in India. “But of course you didn't ride,” she said.

“Oh no, I was quite a good rider,” I said. “Until the end, and the accident.”

She nodded. “I see.” She played another hand. I looked up and saw Lord Ashby in a small group gathered round a peg. He smiled at me and I waved, but my eye was drawn back to Delia and Captain Whitfield, now advancing toward another couple a few strokes ahead of them. I turned back to my cribbage game, which was nearing the end.

“I do hope you win, Miss Ravenshaw,” she said. “It's just that till the end of the game, it's never entirely settled, is it?”

She turned her head toward Delia and Captain Whitfield, and then, bluntly, back to me, clearly connecting the points to ensure I understood.

W
ithin an hour, deep gloaming beckoned and Landreth had the outdoor torches and candles lit. Annie began to bring out dishes of food. Cook had prepared cold duck, some ham, and several joints of beef. She'd shredded nearly fifteen lettuces and we had small carafes of oil and vinegar on each table that might be liberally sprinkled at will. There were sliced cucumbers and stewed fruits, cheese of every sort and smell, and jam puffs. Bread, refined and coarse, was sliced at each table along with a ramekin of softened butter. There was lemonade and ginger beer to drink, and, of course, tea.

Lt. Dunn had been kind enough to reserve a place for me at one of the tables. I took a deep breath; he was a charming man, a godly man, but I did not maintain the level of affection for him that he did for me. Perhaps we should have put out place holders so I could have avoided giving him false hope. The conversation was lovely; I enjoyed everyone present and felt very welcome and warm. Within another hour or two, the tables were cleared and a silver bowl of cut melon was set in the center of each.

“No pudding?” Lt. Dunn asked.

“No pudding,” I responded.

“Whitfield?”

“He did not request it as such, but as this is still his home, too, for a few months, I thought it was kindest to accommodate his principles—which are fine ones, I believe. And the strawberries are well past their season.” I grinned.

“I'm sorry about all that,” he said. “I feel bad about laying the trap.”

“I'm not sorry,” I replied. “And I do not bring it up to cause you any further distress, just to jest. In any case, I do not know
who was pretending to be me, God rest her soul, but I'm glad you were interested in finding out the truth of it.”

“I suppose you shall never know.”

“Perhaps not all of it, but some. I've deduced that she read my family letters, in the attic, to learn enough about us to pass as me. I've also read some archived newspapers, which is how she must have found out about our deaths. Mrs. Ross had told me she was certain that the truth would out.”

“Mrs. Ross?” His voice and eyebrows rose. “I shouldn't have thought she'd be an amateur sleuth.”

We both laughed at that thought. “Nor I,” I agreed.

“Perhaps she was just quoting Shakespeare,” he said. “ ‘Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long . . . at length truth will out.' ”

“Murder?” My voice must have risen, because several around us turned to look at me as I used the shrill word, including Whitfield and the man he'd flinched from earlier. Both stared at Dunn and me. I lowered my voice. “Don't you mean self-murder?”

“I was simply quoting,” Lt. Dunn said. A sheen broke out on his upper lip and it quavered some before he rectified it with a smile.

The tables were cleared and I could see three musicians making their way from the guesthouse to the lawn. They must have arrived much earlier and Captain Whitfield had accommodated them in the guesthouse.

“I shall depart for China soon,” Lt. Dunn said. “I am fortunate that I will be able to return regularly, at least at first, and I should be happy indeed if I could write to you whilst I am away.”

The time was now. I took his hand in my own and held it softly. “I should be glad to hear from you on occasion. As a friend of my brother, indeed, as a brother in Christ, I will look forward to
hearing of your time abroad. I myself have no calling to China, such as you yourself do, and it will be a pleasure to experience it through your eyes.”

He looked crestfallen. He knew exactly what I'd meant. “I see.”

“I know from my own family's experience, as perhaps do you, that missions work best when both man and wife are equally yoked in calling. As your friend, I shouldn't like you to be unequally tethered. I am certain you will find a delightful young lady who might already be dreaming of both China and a dashing military man. She shall pinch herself that such a man as you exists and can bring both dreams to life.”

He lightened a little, and then laughed as he let go of my hand and prepared to take his leave. “I shall bank on your confidence, Miss Ravenshaw, I shall bank on it.” Although he still looked mildly disappointed, his smile had returned and the lines on his face smoothed. Perchance he was a little relieved as well, as every man, I suspected, wanted to be the sole and focused object of his wife's affections.

Every woman, myself included, wanted that, too.

Dunn slipped away into a group of others, the violinists struck up, and I felt a familiar hand clasp my elbow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“T
he elusive Miss Ravenshaw.” Whitfield's voice sent a shiver through me though I couldn't yet see the man.
Just be careful,
Cook's recent warning whispered in my mind.

“I am in no way elusive.” I turned to face him. “I thought perhaps you'd been avoiding me.”

He reached his hand up toward the sky. “Could someone avoid the moonlight?”

I grinned. “I suspect you used an equally honeyed line with Miss Dainley some hours ago at croquet.” Then I chided myself for letting him know I'd noticed.

He smiled back but did not answer. “Dunn has left your company looking rather low.”

I nodded and thought back on my mother's early, difficult years in India. “He is a good man, and he deserves a wife whose dreams match his own.”

“You have a kind heart, Miss Ravenshaw.” His voice was downy with tenderness. “Would you be willing to stroll the grounds with me?” There it was, that boyish note in his voice that caught my heart as firmly as the deeper, rougher notes
did. He looked so eager for me to be pleased. I wanted to please him.

“Delighted,” I said. I took his proffered arm and we began to stroll around the vast gardens.

“This is not the typical Hampshire Noah's Ark picnic.”

I shook my head. “I'm afraid I don't know that phrase. A fancy picnic? In animal skins?”

He laughed. “No, lovely Miss Ravenshaw, it's two-by-two. You know. Matchmaking.”

I brought my hand to my mouth and then down again. “Oh, I see.”

“I prefer moonlight.”

“For matchmaking?” I pulled my dress, midnight-blue with crystals, up just a little to step over an exposed root; he held his hand out and helped me over it.

“In all cases,” he said. “There is a proverb, ‘Work by sunlight, love by moonlight.' ”

“I have not heard that before.” My voice and flesh weakened.

“Maybe it's not so much a proverb as an invitation.” He spoke quietly. “If it were an invitation, would you answer it?”

“It is good manners to respond to every invitation, Captain Whitfield, although the answer need not always be in the positive.”

He laughed aloud and squeezed my hand for a moment. “You are delightful, you really are. It gives me great comfort, happiness, and peace to know you live so nearby for now.”

Happiness and peace, the two things I believed I must sacrifice to guarantee my security—my house. Hearing him say I brought those things softened me like wax that had long remained unlit, now tipped to gentle flame.

I turned the topic. “Talk of animal skins reminds me of India. And shooting for pay.”

He settled us on some cushions on the ground. “Do explain!”

“There are, of course, all manner of exotic creatures in India, exotic to Englishmen, that is,” I started. “Of course, there are elephants, which can trample a hut as quickly and flatly as a man might step on an insect. My mother, for some reason, never feared them and they knew it. She rode them with ease and command.”

“Your mother rode elephants, no, commanded them!”

“Indeed she did,” I said. “There were also jackals. We did fear them, really we did, as they seemed evil. Their wails sound like a woman in travail, or, if you like, siblings fighting over a sweet.”

He grinned and moved closer to me. I felt his presence deep in my bones; I inhaled deeply of the manly spiced scent that had perfumed the guest room the night I'd slept in it. I had not taken laudanum for some time but that familiar and welcome warmth began to spread from my center outward again, this time a warmth without an edge to it. This comfort was, I decided, much better.

“Most feared were the large cats. One night, when Father was gone making rounds with other missionaries, we heard a noise in our small back garden. Our cow was tied there; she gave us milk but was also like a pet. I heard a dangerous purring and knew it was after our cow.” I grinned. “We'd named her Bessie. See how English we are?” I swallowed hard. “Were, I mean.”

He caught my mistake and my temporary sadness and gently urged me on. “Go on, Miss Ravenshaw. Do not leave me in suspense.”

“Mother was not a good shot, so I took my gun, which was mounted above the door, and killed the leopard before she could get the cow. Our bearer had someone skin it and we let him keep the money for delivering the skin to the dewan.”

“Now that I've seen you shoot,” he said, “I know the leopard never had a chance. You are unlike any Englishwoman I have ever met.” The affectionate look in his eyes told me that was a compliment. “Mademoiselle d'Arbonneau came close to losing her life at the other end of your pistol.”

I sat up, alert. “Did she tell you that?” I had no idea they talked personally, or perhaps even frequently.

“Servants talk,” he said soothingly, by way of a nonanswer. “Thornton mentioned it to me. You should be more cautious,” he said. “Mistakes can be made.” He withdrew his hand from mine for a moment and looked into the distance. “Even if you had killed her by accident, Miss Ravenshaw, she would still be dead and there would be consequences, both outwardly and inwardly. It would be on your head. Taking a life . . . that is not something you'd want to live with.”

His distressed tone and the sharp turn in the conversation alarmed me. Was he speaking about me and Michelene? Someone else he knew? Perhaps he spoke of himself and, as the rumors had darkly suggested, the fate of my imposter.

“Do you speak from firsthand knowledge?” I asked quietly.

At the sound of my voice he turned to face me again, his composure mostly returned. “I've been on battlefields” was his response. Sound, but unsatisfying.

I caught the man Whitfield had seemed to quarrel with earlier looking at us, Whitfield in particular, with disdain. “Who is that man?”

He looked up. “Sir Alan Halford.”

“He looked curt, earlier,” I said.

A sad look crossed his face and he just as quickly replaced it. “Perhaps. I'd offered to help with a training and charity initiative which Lady Frome had just told me needed further assistance. By
the time I made it to Halford minutes later, he coldly claimed they no longer needed help.”

“But why?” I reached a hand out to his arm.

“It's been that way since last December,” he said. December, when my imposter had died. “My father, even with his humble beginnings, would not have had to brook an insult like that. Shall I tell you something of my father?”

That boyish tenor underpinned his voice and I believed, once again, in his innocence and honor.

“Please do.” I impulsively tucked my arm further into his and he drew me near him, possessively, and I did not mind. I was glad for my many layers, which formed a barrier between us. It enforced a physical discipline from temptation.

“I was but a lad when my father died. Indeed, I have no memory of the sound of his voice. Landreth was a young footman in our household and he says my voice sounds very much like that of my father. When I learned that I had inherited Headbourne”—he wouldn't meet my gaze—“I found Landreth again, unhappily in service to someone else, and asked him if he'd like to come to Headbourne.”

I nodded agreeably. I'd come to feel very affectionate toward Landreth, who was the perfect combination of encyclopedic knowledge and grandfather. I'd miss him.

“My father died of wounds inflicted on the battlefield, and he left me naught but his uniform, his steady shot, and a diary.”

“Oh, a diary, what a pleasure,” I said.

“There was little written in it but military direction, insight into his strategic thoughts, but also hope that, once they'd been married a while, my mother's kinder nature would overcome her crueler one. I regret that I have not seen that kind nature. I take it
that he did not, either. I do not know what drew them together. Married in haste, one suspects.”

“Someday you will have a son to pass the diary and the uniform along to,” I said. “And he will surely treasure them as well.”

He looked pensive, perhaps hopeful, but did not answer directly. “A son or a daughter,” he said. “I'd be pleased with either or both. But I've come to believe, of late, that the kind of woman to mother a child is not the kind of woman to marry a man like me.”

I protested. “I have found you to be principled and kind.”
Attractive. Complicated. Desirable.

“You are overgenerous in your assessment,” he said, holding up his hand against my forthcoming objection. “And I do mean that.”

“Your father would be proud of you. For your pistol patents and other weapons work you've done. For the kind of man you are. How you've turned Headbourne House around.” Whitfield had surely hoped even for a day or a week that it, too, might be passed to his son.

He took both of my gloved hands in his own, holding them and not letting go. “I've heard Miss Dainley call you by your first name.”

“We've become close friends.”

“So have you and I,” he said with a grin.

“Hardly!” I laughed with real glee.

“We're cousins.” He held my gaze and I caught my breath.

“We're ‘cousins' so far back in the family as to be watered down to the place where the title scarcely counts. I may be cousin to the Queen that many generations ago.”

He laughed, and it, too, was filled with joy. His comments flowed with the sort of teasing only found between a woman and a man with intentions. I thrilled to that. “Cousins are allowed to
call one another by first names.” He leaned near and whispered, his lips touching my ear, “Rebecca.”

I half closed my eyes when he said it. I wanted him to say it over and again. I had heard my name spoken thousands of times over the course of my lifetime, in loud voices and quiet, conversational tones and private ones. It had never had an intimate feel until now.

“Go on,” he said, backing away. “Try it.”

“Rebecca.” I teased. “It sounds lovely!” He laughed again.

“I'll bargain with you. You use my Christian name in private, and I won't ever use yours in public. Fair enough?”

I nodded. “Fair enough.” He had no way of knowing that, since the day I first knew his name, I had turned it over and again in my mind, my heart, and on my lips. His face softened and he squeezed my hand, gently, and then quietly quoted,
“
‘Speaking, or mute, all comeliness and grace attends thee; that what seemed fair in all the world, seemed now mean, or in her summed up, in her contained and in her looks; which from that time infused sweetness into my heart, unfelt before.' ”

“
Paradise Lost
,” I whispered in awe. “You've memorized that!” I flushed with delight and near exultation.

“It's a gift,” he said, and took my hand in his own then kissed the back of it with tenderness. “From me to you.”

“It's a gift I shall cherish.” No man had ever declared such feelings toward me—nor had I ever wanted a man to. Until now.

“I have yet one more surprise for you,” he said. “From India.”

“Not someone who knew my brother? Come to test me further?” I jested.

He smiled. “Indeed not. This comes courtesy of one of my friends. It's a way of thanking you for allowing me to remain in the guesthouse while I complete the purchase of my own.”

I noted that he did not say “home.” And, having declared his
affections for me, even in a veiled manner in verse, he had not, apparently, diverged from the path he'd set upon. To leave Hampshire. It bewildered me. It might be he meant only to have a harmless gentleman's flirtation, fine country manners. Perhaps that was the modus operandi for Hussars. Maybe, as he'd intimated, he did not feel he would do well by me for some reason.

He had brought me to highest high, like a kite flying into the air, and then wound the string that brought me quickly back to earth, but I did not detect any spite or cruelty in his actions or his words. I had thought I could live life, happily, with my house, not requiring the love of a man. Hadn't I? Now I was not sure. Perhaps he was equally conflicted.

One moment with him, the sun shone and I allowed myself to imagine a life together. The next, dark talk of killing, and distance placed, and leaving.

I grew cold, and perhaps a little frightened. If I allowed myself to fall in love with him, what of my house, my property, my only security, my safety! Whitfield himself had intimated that he was untrustworthy. I had seen no evidence of that myself. If it was there, it was well hidden.

Like a snake sleeping in a mazy fold?

I refused to believe it. Perhaps I, like Captain Whitfield, was a skeptic. I needed to see evidence of his bad character with my own eyes before I'd believe it.

“The gift will be here shortly, but I wanted you to have something to anticipate,” he finished, bringing me back to the present. “I hope you'll like it.”