Upon the Midnight Clear

by Tasha Alexander

  2

  I might never have given the Christmas crackers another thought had an unexpected caller not interrupted our breakfast the next morning. Davis, disdain clear on his face, announced the intruder with no pleasure.

  “I have put him in the blue drawing room, madam,” he said, his tone all scorn. “Be assured that I made it clear he should settle in for a good long wait.”

  “It isn’t civilized to call on anyone this early in the morning, is it, Davis?” Colin shook his head. “I quite object.”

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “A Mr. Bran Jones,” Davis replied. “An individual even more Welsh than his name suggests.”

  “Good heavens, is such a thing possible?” Colin asked, a mischievous smile on his handsome face.

  “I shudder to admit that it is, sir. The accent is nearly indecipherable.”

  “Not everyone can be from the Home Counties, Davis,” Colin said.

  “An unfortunate truth, sir.” Davis gave a neat bow and exited the room. Colin made no move to follow.

  “Aren’t you desperate to know who he is? Who would suspect us to be in town?” I looked down at the half-eaten meal on my plate. “I’ve no longer the slightest interest in breakfast.”

  “Mr. Jones will last in the drawing room better than my eggs will in here. Pass me The Times, will you, my dear?”

  I snatched the newspaper from the table and held it in my lap. “Not a chance, darling husband.”

  “I notice you’ve been reading Don Quixote, Emily. I pray you’ll give due consideration to the episode of The Man Who Was Recklessly Curious.” He dabbed a napkin against his lips and rose from his chair. “I know better than to tax your patience.”

  The blue drawing room is one of the prettiest spaces in our house, its walls covered with icy blue silk shot through with hints of silver and adorned with ancient frescoes. Nonetheless, for reasons unknown, Davis had long ago decided its best purpose was to house visitors of whom he did not approve. I could not determine whether its inherent attractiveness was meant to take away the sting of our having to meet with such undesirables, or if our butler intended a deliberate contrast between room and person; Davis categorically refused to answer questions on the subject.

  When we entered the chamber, our visitor, tall and blonde, was standing looking out the large windows and did not turn to look at us. “A pretty enough view, given that you’re in town,” he said, his accent even stronger than Davis had suggested. “London’s always been too crowded for me, but I fear few share my opinion on that count.”

  Colin cleared his throat. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  “No, no, forgive me,” the stranger said, turning to face us at last. “It’s beastly of me to descend upon you like this, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Your reputation as an investigator, Mr. Hargreaves—and that of your wife, if I may be so bold as to mention her—is no secret. To whom else would I turn?”

  “Perhaps if you share the purpose of your visit I shall be able to provide an alternate suggestion,” Colin said.

  “I can already tell you’re not fond of me, Mr. Hargreaves, and I can’t blame you. I’m behaving badly. Let me introduce myself. I’m Bran Jones—although I’m sure your butler told you as much. Terrifying man. I’d hate to find myself on the wrong side of him.”

  “I fear you’ve already done so,” I said. “Please, sit, and tell us why you are here.” I gestured to the chair across from the settee upon which I had lowered myself. Colin remained on his feet.

  “My story is long, but I hope not tedious. Would it be wrong to ask for something to drink?”

  “Impolite, perhaps, but not wrong,” I said and rang for coffee.

  “Again, apologies,” he said.

  “I prefer impoliteness to boredom,” I said. “I suspect your tale will not cause the latter?”

  “I imagine not.” He accepted a cup of coffee from a maid when she arrived and held it in his hand for a moment before continuing. “I’m almost afraid to begin, knowing that I’m setting in motion something I shan’t be able to control. Something whose conclusion shall either save or destroy me.”

  “At least he’s no tendency to drama,” Colin muttered, looking down at me from behind the settee.

  “I deserve that,” Mr. Jones said, “and must delay no longer. Fourteen years ago, I accepted an invitation from a mate from university to join him for celebrations of the New Year in Edinburgh, where he lived. The Scots, as you may know, make more of a fuss over Hogmanay, as they call it, than they do Christmas.”

  “I’m afraid I am not familiar with the event,” I said.

  “It goes back to the seventeenth century, when the Scottish Parliament banned Christmas,” Colin said. “The Protestant Reformation could not stop the people from having a winter celebration, however, and they turned to their ancient pagan roots, focusing on the New Year rather than our Savior’s birth.”

  “Quite,” Mr. Jones said. “You’re a well-informed man, Mr. Hargreaves. Hogmanay takes place over a period of three days, as the old year turns to the new. One of its most important traditions—aside from the usual bonfires and that sort of thing—is what the Scots call first footing. To ensure good luck in the new year, you need the right sort of person to be the first to enter your house after the stroke of midnight on the first of January.”

  “And how do they define the right sort of person?” I asked.

  “He should be male and dark. Blondes and redheads bring to mind the Vikings, and our northern neighbors would prefer they not invade again. The visitor will bring coal, a piece of shortbread, salt, a black bun, and, naturally, the gift of some whisky. Generally a wee dram”—he exaggerated his attempt at a Scottish brogue—“but Jamie, my mate, thought a bottle more appropriate. And Jamie, in possession of a fine head of hair as black as a raven’s wing, is most welcome in any home during Hogmanay. On that fateful night, after singing Auld Lang Syne, as the Scots seem to require, we knocked on the door of a modest-looking abode and found ourselves ushered inside—Jamie first, as my hair required that I be a most deliberate second—where we were welcomed by a well-to-do doctor, his wife, and their daughter.”

  “I imagine the daughter is where the trouble comes,” Colin said.

  “You’re a keen observer of the human condition, Mr. Hargreaves. No lady could possess a tenth of the beauty exhibited by Miss Catriona MacMaster, but it was her engaging spirit and her boundless passion that drew me to her.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “In only the most respectful fashion, I assure you, Lady Emily,” he said. “I loved her from that first night, and over the course of the following days, she came to return my affection. Her parents, however, were less taken with me, and rightly so. I am the youngest of three brothers, in possession of neither the money to buy a commission in the army nor the temperament for the church. I had settled upon me enough to scrape by as a bachelor, but no means to support a wife, and Dr. MacMaster made it clear I was not welcome to court his daughter.”

  “Yet this did not discourage you,” Colin said through clenched teeth.

  “Of course not. It spurred me on. Over the next weeks, I tried my hand at any number of occupations, desperate to find one that would suit, but the good doctor paid my efforts no heed. He saw through my enthusiasm, suspecting I was not the sort of man who would take to daily drudgery. All these years later, it no longer pains me to admit he was right. He refused me entrance to his home and made it abundantly clear that he would never agree to give me the lovely Catriona’s hand.”

  “What was the young lady’s opinion on the subject?” I asked.

  “The more her parents fought to keep us apart, the brighter her flame for me burned. She was but nineteen years old, and I only four-and-twenty, both of us young, stubborn, and not inclined to do as others thought we should. This is not to say we did not love each other, fully and deeply.”

  “And in so short a period of time.” Colin made
no attempt to disguise his skepticism.

  “I deserve your censure, good sir,” Mr. Jones said, his tone inexplicably jovial. “We were fortunate, Catriona and I, to have tumbled into a love so worthy and true in only a matter of days. Now, with the benefit of many more years, I can better appreciate her parents’ hesitation.”

  “It sounds as if they did more than hesitate,” I said.

  “Indeed, Lady Emily, they did. As soon as it became clear to us both that they would not change their position, my love and I made plans to elope.”

  “Pity you were already in Scotland,” Colin said. “It does rather take the romance out of rushing to Gretna Green and pledging your troth over an anvil.”

  “Quite. Rather than a dashing escape, I pretended to quit Edinburgh. Two days later, Catriona left the house in the afternoon, on the pretense of calling on a friend, and met me at a church whose vicar I had persuaded to marry us. As my betrothed lived in Scotland, we did not need to wait out the twenty-one days residency required by law. We returned to her parents that evening, presenting ourselves as the married couple we were. Instead of accepting us, they demanded that we leave the house, without so much as letting Catriona collect any of her belongings.”

  “How terrible,” I said.

  “She was a strong one, my girl.”

  I noticed his use of the past tense. “What happened then?”

  “I went a long way toward proving her parents correct,” he said. “Employment didn’t suit me, but my poor girl made the best of living in what should have been bachelor quarters. She deserved better. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t give it to her, not until she found herself with child, a little more than a year after our marriage. Knowing that she was carrying my heir—a useless honor for the poor babe, I’m well aware—I felt a categorical change within myself. For the first time in my life, I craved responsibility, but I was unable to find a suitable position anywhere in England.”

  “Had you tried Scotland?” I asked.

  “We didn’t return there after her parents’ rejection.” Mr. Jones voice grew quiet. “I will always regret having kept her from them for that year. Despite their flaws, they did love her. At any rate, I did, eventually, manage to convince the management of the Great Indian Peninsular Railway Company to take me on, but the job they offered was in India, and my girl couldn’t travel, not in her condition. So we agreed that she would return, alone, to her parents’ house for her confinement, and meet me on the sub-continent once the babe was old enough to survive the journey.”

  “Did her parents take her in?” Colin asked.

  “They did, and I cannot blame them for spending the ensuing months doing their best to persuade her to abandon me—her letters, always candid, told me of their efforts. But my Catriona was always loyal, and I never doubted that she would come as soon as she was able. On Christmas Eve however, I received a telegram from Dr. MacMaster, informing me that neither my wife nor my daughter had survived the delivery. My heart broke that day, never to heal.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I wish there was something we could offer to soothe—”

  “I’m not looking for sympathy, Lady Emily, although I do thank you for it,” Mr. Jones said and then turned to my husband. “I’ve read stories about you in The Illustrated London News and am aware of your—and your wife’s—talent for investigation. You are the only people I believe capable of finding my daughter. For she didn’t die with her mother, of that I’m certain.”

  Colin’s face softened. “What makes you believe that?”

  “Six months ago my old mate Jamie came to me in India. I still live there, still work for the railway. He hates the heat and swore he would never visit, but there he was, standing on my doorstep, unannounced. Come all that way because he’d heard a story that the baby survived, survived to be hidden away in London by her grandparents, who vowed they would never forgive her father for taking their own child from them.”

  “An unlikely rumor,” Colin said, lowering himself next to me on the settee.

  “You’d have to know Jamie to fully comprehend his decision to travel all that way. He’s a Scot and doesn’t spend a penny unless there’s no avoiding it. He could have written me a letter, but instead he came to me. That alone carries an enormous weight.”

  “Yet that doesn’t mean what he heard is true, regardless of how convinced he is,” Colin said. “Why do you believe the rumor?”

  “Because, Mr. Hargreaves, I’ve seen enough with my own eyes to conclude it’s the truth. And that’s a story longer and more complicated than the one you’ve heard so far.”

  3

  Colin, not one to tolerate long, rambling stories, particularly when he had reason to believe the hearing of them would lead to necessary—and time-sensitive—action, told Mr. Jones to come to the point, and to do so with more efficiency than he had so far demonstrated. In short order, we understood that the MacMasters left Edinburgh for Australia a mere week after the tragedy. Examination of ships’ passenger lists confirmed this, and Mr. Jones had gone all the way to bottom of the world in search of his in-laws, only to find two of their former servants now married and living under their employers’ names in a modest but cozy house in Melbourne. They admitted the MacMasters had paid for their emigration and asked them to adopt their names, but swore they had no knowledge about either where the doctor and his wife had gone or the fate of the baby—although the faux Mrs. MacMaster admitted that she’d heard the child crying the night of its birth.

  “Which tells me she wasn’t stillborn, as Dr. MacMaster claimed,” Mr. Jones said, his face bright red as he spoke. “I shall not rest until I find her.”

  “I understand and admire the sentiment,” Colin said. “But I’m not altogether convinced by your evidence. The child could have died after the servant heard her cries. Infants are delicate.”

  “But if she died, why did the MacMasters flee? The house in Edinburgh was shut up and then sold, and there’s no trace of them to be found anywhere. I’ve looked, believe me. I’ve spoken to all of their neighbors, the few who still live nearby, and all their friends I remembered. I contacted the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh—Dr. MacMaster was a member—but they believe he’s gone to Melbourne.”

  “And there is no record of him practicing medicine there?” I asked.

  “No, nor is there one in London.”

  “Do you think him capable of abandoning his work?”

  “I would not have, Lady Emily.”

  “What would you have us do?” Colin asked. “Comb every village in the Empire searching for him? I appreciate your situation and do not mean to cause frustration, but after so many years, tracking him down would be all but impossible.”

  “All but,” Mr. Jones said. “Please, Mr. Hargreaves, there’s no one else who can help me. If my daughter is alive—and I know in my heart she is—I must find her. I’ve missed every bit of her life up to now, and it pains me to let more time pass without knowing her.”

  “Where is your wife buried?” I asked.

  “New Calton Burial Ground in Edinburgh. There is a family plot.”

  “Do you have anything from her that might give us insight into her parents’ thoughts? Letters? A diary?”

  “I have every letter she sent me.”

  “No diary?”

  “Not one that would be of any use,” he said. “She gave me one from her childhood because it included a drawing of the home she’d always dreamed she’d live in. I meant to build it for her and begged her to let me take the diary to India. I never got so far as finding an architect.”

  “Bring us the letters and the diary, as well as a list of every servant you remember working for the family, and any friends they had,” I said. “But you must understand how unlikely it is that we will be able to locate your daughter, if she is indeed alive. What did you plan to name her?”

  “We never discussed it. Catriona believed doing so would bring bad luck. Her parents’ Christian names are Ang
us and Maggie. I’ll go now and come back as quickly as possible with the information you’re requested. Also, I’ve a great deal of money at my disposal. Would offering a reward help?”

  “If we widely spread the news of a reward, it’s more likely to alert the MacMasters and send them running than to induce someone with real information to come forward,” Colin said. “We will be as discreet as possible, but you must understand that any search runs the risk of causing them to flee again.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have any photographs of your wife’s parents?” Colin asked.

  “I’m afraid that I don’t.” Mr. Jones’s jaw clenched. “But I will bring the rest of what you’ve asked for as quickly as possible. I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Hargreaves. Even if this all comes to naught, at least I’ll know we tried.”

  After he departed, Colin blew out a long breath. “Agreeing to do anything for this man is absurd.”

  “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares,” I said.

  “I’m happy enough to entertain him, my dear, but that’s not what he’s asking.”

  “The stranger did not lodge in the street: but I opened my doors to the traveler.”

  “Please refrain from quoting the remaining verse. None of the three fits this situation.”

  “It’s only two weeks to Christmas, Colin, practically the anniversary of his wife’s death. I agree it’s improbable that we can offer him any meaningful relief, let alone locate his daughter, but we can give him kindness and understanding.”

  “We don’t even know the man.”

  “And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you,” I said. “We must forgive him for putting this burden on us and do our best to help him, regardless of the odds of success. Or, if you’d prefer, we could flee to Anglemore Park and subject ourselves to Matilda’s never-ending festivities.” The closest neighbors to our estate in Derbyshire were the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu—Rodney and Matilda Scolfield—dear friends whose enthusiasm for the Christmas season drove my husband to distraction.