Mist of Midnight (7 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
he household buzzed, preparing for the following night's musical soirée, which I knew to be a gathering of friends for conversation, piano music, and singing. Perhaps I would make a start on finding friends, even though I could not play my home's piano. Whilst I waited, I wrote letters to India. Mr. Highmore had said that a packet would be sent shortly to further verify my identity, and if I would like to include any personal letters, he would be glad to see that they accompanied the official correspondence. I thought it was kind of him. Also, I knew he intended to use this opportunity to allow me to prove myself. I comforted myself that while I did not yet have friends here, I had them somewhere in the world.

First, I wrote to Violet, who had been like a sister to me until she moved to Ceylon some years back with her parents to a coffee plantation. Then to Penelope, who had been a lifelong friend and remained near the mission. Before the Mutiny she had been set to marry John Mark, a missionary's son who had hoped to become a translator.

Father had wanted John Mark for me and had been disappointed when I indicated that I did not feel for John Mark in
that way. I wondered if they'd married; if, indeed, they were perhaps expecting the birth of a child. I wondered if I ever would.

I then wrote to Mr. Mead, my father's closest friend, who had been unhappily removed from serving with the London Missionary Society just a year or two earlier, though he remained in India serving in new capacities. I hoped that he would write back.

Captain Whitfield made his way into the room.

“I'm about to take a short stroll in the gardens, as the renovations I've already commissioned will soon commence. As you may have some vested interest in the property, I thought you might like to accompany me?”

“Certainly,” I said, happy that Michelene had included a black but pretty cotton day dress in my repertoire. I sealed the last envelope and left them all on my bureau as Mrs. Blackwood bustled about the room. Whitfield offered his arm and I took it.

We passed through the stone lions and followed the cobblestoned pathway toward the back of the house, which looked out over the downs. “Take care,” he said. “The stones are loose and need to be taken up and reset. I have arranged for that to be done fairly quickly, as there are some events scheduled in the gardens over the summer.”

I nodded. “Thank you. I would have done the same, but you have set things in motion much sooner. I'll be very happy to repay you, once my funds are freed, for anything you've spent on the house and its upkeep, but I shan't be able to repay you for your thoughtful attentiveness, to the house, and to me.”

He looked at me, his brown eyes perhaps slightly softer for only a moment. “It's my pleasure, Miss Ravenshaw.”

I felt a little happiness unlocked from within me then. It was a welcome respite from heartache.

We walked through the tangled, untended flowers, perennials that had been planted with thought and care some time ago. I touched a lovely vine that covered the arbor as we walked through it. “What is this?”

“Wisteria. You've not seen it? I understood that most gently born women were amateur gardeners at heart, tossing off Latin names of this or that with one another in their drawing-room conversations.”

“First, Captain Whitfield, it is bad form to compare one woman with another,” I teased. “Second, I was more involved in assisting my mother in teaching young ladies to read and write and provide for themselves than in learning polite botany for gentle conversation.”

I brushed by the wisteria and it had a lovely scent. “Sweet, but in an unassuming way,” I said.

“Who is she?” Captain Whitfield jested. “Have I met her?” I couldn't help but tap him lightly with my fan. “Not who, what. The wisteria.”

To my gratitude, he responded with a smile. “Ah, yes, wisteria does have its charms.” He looked me in the eye. “It's a devil to relocate an established one, though.” That smile never left his face, but I sensed the warning nonetheless. Did he mean he had no intentions of leaving Headbourne?

We passed a large shrub. “This bush, however, I do know the name of. Rhododendron. It grows profusely in India. In fact, it makes a delightful wine.”

“I hope not to see you out here at night gathering blossoms and passing them on to Mrs. Blackwood for the still.”

“Although I am awake many nights, not being able to sleep well, I shall try to keep myself from prowling the gardens,” I said. “Speaking of evening activities, I'm looking forward to your musi
cal soirée tomorrow, and wonder is there anything I should know beforehand so I am not at a disadvantage and can help put your guests at ease?”

“Miss Dainley has agreed to come early for this very reason,” he said. “She offered to do so, which I thought very kind.”

“Indeed,” I replied. “Miss Dainley.” I wondered if Miss Dainley would be informed in advance on every event held at my home; if, in fact, she would be acting as actual hostess. I pulled up a large bishop's lace. “I shan't want these weeds, pretty as they are, to take root.”

Captain Whitfield smiled; he knew what I'd meant.

After a few more discussions on the structured section of the gardens, he guided me back toward the house.

“Did you plan to replace some of the statues?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yes, I had such a thought. There are several fine statue suppliers near Winchester. I frequent one that does fine work.”

I wondered why he frequented a statuary when he had not had a permanent home.

He continued, “Also, another day, when I am not preparing for guests, I'll show you the renovations I have planned for the interior of the house. The work will begin soon, and I hope that the changes will meet with your approval.”

“I'm slightly concerned about those changes to the house,” I said. “Perhaps they will be costly, and my financial situation has not yet been resolved, though I am confident that it will be, eventually. My father will have taken care to provide for Peter and for me.”

He nodded. “The work I've commissioned thus far is not for aesthetic purposes,” he said quietly. “Headbourne has gone unattended and unlived in for nearly two decades. The moldings are
crumbling such that I fear large chunks of stone could fall on a passerby.”

My eyes widened.

“The pipes sometimes send up rusted water.”

I nodded. “I see.”

“The chimneys need tending to so they do not stop up and cause anything to set fire.”

I clearly saw the situation now. “Yes, I agree, Captain Whitfield. Please . . . proceed. And thank you.”

He smiled. “I shall purchase the statues out of my own funds. The gardens, somehow, feel very personal to me.”

I smiled back at him in heartfelt appreciation, put my hand on his arm again, and watched his face flush. I was happy to see I could have some effect on him as well. We walked back into the house.

“Captain Whitfield,” I said as we looked toward the central stairway from the large front hall. There was a strong likeness of a commanding man, in uniform, a silver streak racing through the side of his dark hair. “Whenever did you have time to have your portrait painted?” I pointed to the large painting that was heavily framed and centered so that it was instantly noticeable. It was a mark of ownership, I thought, to display his self-portrait, and I hadn't sorted through what I thought of that.

He smiled wickedly. “Why, Miss Ravenshaw, that isn't me at all. It's the original owner of Headbourne House, Charles Whitfield Ravenshaw. I believe he would be our common ancestor, which confirms us as cousins, does it not? I have had it brought from storage and restored.”

My blood drained. I had made a bungle and I responded too quickly, I knew, in an effort to recover. “Very, very distant cousins, one supposes, Captain Whitfield. However, the resemblance between the two of you is remarkable.”

“Yes, yes, it is. There is no doubt at all about my relation to him, is there?” His implication was clear as he took my gloved hand in his own. The kiss he bestowed upon the back of my glove was cool formality, quickly withdrawn. “Until tomorrow evening.”

I kept my poise and my smile till he withdrew, at which point I made my way to my room as quickly as possible, berating myself in harshest terms for being the Baroness of Blunder.

“W
hat are you doing? Is the gown not clean?”

Michelene sighed, hovering around me with a damp cloth. She first sponged my face, and then my fine linen gown, at the bodice level. “It will cling a little more this way, just so,
n'est-ce pas
?” she said. “And it makes your skin look ‘dewy.' Do you want Miss Dainley to have every advantage?”

“I am not in a competition with Miss Dainley.”

“Then with whom are you in a competition?” she asked. Her voice took on a low note, replacing the jesting tone that usually undergirded her light banter.

I turned to look at her, subdued. “I don't know. The woman who claimed to be me? What am I competing for?”

“Ah,
chérie
, if you don't know that, you can never win.” She raised her eyebrows but said nothing more before bustling back over to the armoire and fussing with the gowns. “These two dresses, I am sorry to say, I have made an error with.” She pointed to one that was trimmed in a mustard-yellow ribbon. “You will look much too sallow in this when the time comes to leave the black behind. Sickly.” She turned toward me. “Do you suffer from the malaria?”

I nodded. “We all do, and, in fact, I have wondered if I am having a recurrence. There is so much to do, the food is new . . . but still I feel peculiarly unwell.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Not much,” I said. “I—I haven't slept well in quite some time, and I'm afraid it makes me more irritable than usual. Perhaps unsound . . .” I lingered and she looked alarmed. “Unsound in judgment from time to time,” I finished.

“We shall think upon that,
non
? But now, back to the bustles, and the dresses. This one, and the lettuce dress, I am sorry, I think I chose unwisely. They do not flatter you. With your permission, I will order two new ones to replace them and they shall be ready by July.”

I shrugged. I didn't see why we couldn't exchange them for ones that better complimented me. I had so little experience with these kinds of clothing that I wasn't sure I knew which flattered and which did not. I was concerned about the expense. But I was far from having an overbearing wardrobe yet, and if I was going to be in “competition,” I certainly did not want to appear sallow or sickly. I must trust Michelene. I knew my mother had trusted her lady's maid, her ayah, in such matters when she'd been new to India, as I was newly returned to England. “Yes, indeed.”

She clapped her hands. “
Bien.
I will order them, and what is needed to accompany them, next week.” She turned me toward the looking-glass. “Now, I shall pluck your brows and place just a little bit of this”—she indicated a pot of gloss—“on your lips. And then you shall be ready to ‘take the ridge.' ”

I smiled at this. It was my home. She was right.

I could hear the piano being played. From the martial rhythm of the piece I knew Captain Whitfield was at the keys. With the exception of the one Beethoven tune with which he had graced me, all of the music I'd heard him play had been marches, all cheerful. A thought occurred—perhaps artificially cheerful? I recalled his sadness when speaking of his family. Wishing for the
cover of crowd anonymity, I waited until the hum of guests had reached a swell before making my way downstairs.

Trays holding champagne and dainties were passed among the fifty or so guests. I wondered that there were no cakes, but perhaps they would be served later in the evening. Miss Dainley approached me, and after a few remarks of genteel conversation, pointed out a few of the less important guests, in her eyes, and then she introduced me to a few that she thought were of higher status than me. I could tell the difference by the tone of her voice. After a moment, she said, “Come with me.”

She led me toward a man of about Captain Whitfield's age who stood at the center of a triangle of simpering women, each of them old enough to be his mother. Maybe one of them
was
his mother!

Miss Dainley waited until there was a break in the conversation and then introduced me. “Baron Lewis Ashby, may I present Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw.”

Lord Ashby's face was smooth but for a spotty beard, his hair thinning and trimmed into a Roman style: short fringes atop a wide forehead. He took my hand and kissed it. “Miss Ravenshaw. We have all been looking forward to meeting you.”

“In fact, we thought we already had,” came a quiet voice from one of the three harpies; I turned but was not quick enough to see who'd said it.

I raised my chin and ignored it. “How do you do, Lord Ashby.”