by Sandra Byrd
I looked up to find Captain Whitfield looking not at me, nor Miss Dainley, but at his mother. He stood alone. Some of the other men had made friendly overtures, but they were apparently superficial, as the men purposefully drifted away in groups that did not include him, and their talk and laughter became more boisterous once they’d left his presence. Once or twice I caught them pointedly looking at me and then at him.
Were they questioning my identity? Did shunning Whitfield tie into that somehow?
Perhaps if he had a home of his own, one with his family pedigree, my home, Lady Ledbury could comfort her conscience, if she had one, for abandoning him for a title and thirty pieces of silver; he had not yet regained his place in society. Maybe he thought the house would do that for him. I glanced up to the corner of the room and caught the eye of Dr. Floyd. He quickly turned away from me.
Miss Dainley soon rejoined me at my side.
“I wonder if I might ask a question,” I began.
She nodded. “Certainly.”
“Can you tell me what the significance is of pennies, in connection with Honiton?”
“Ah, yes, I’d heard your mother was originally from Honiton. From days way back, five hundred years or more, I believe, the landed gentry of Honiton would throw hot pennies at the poor in an annual celebration of sorts. The poor would then have some spending money, more than they’d seen in quite some time, one supposes. But the pennies caused burns as they struck or were picked up. Terrible, isn’t it?”
I was horrified. “My mother had never spoken of that tradition. Is it still practiced?”
“Oh, yes,” Miss Dainley said. “But the pennies are no longer hot.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” she said before someone took her arm, and they departed amidst happy chatter.
So Lady Ledbury wanted me to be seen as mad, poor, and of low caste.
My thoughts were interrupted when someone tapped my shoulder. I turned to see a woman a few years younger than me, but still very prepossessed and expensively dressed. “We haven’t met. How do you do? I’m Lady Frome.” She held out a gloved hand, which was garlanded in pearls, and pearls very like those buttoned the front of her gown, which, although cleverly designed, could not hide the soft swell of a baby. “I saw you speaking with my mother-in-law.” She raised a hand toward Lady Ledbury.
“Lady Frome, how do you do? So you are married to Captain Whitfield’s brother?” Michelene had told me Lady Frome was an heiress in her own right.
She nodded. “The eldest of his half brothers. The others are not yet old enough to worry about mustaches or beards, much less wives.”
She held out her dance card. “Did you receive one? If so, I’m certain it must be filled by now.”
I shook my head as the quartet grew louder, signaling the beginning of the dancing. “I have not yet fully recovered from injuries suffered in India and cannot participate.”
She fanned herself. “You understand they will say you do not know how to dance, either because you are not who you say you are or because you are ill brought up.”
I appreciated her refreshing frankness. “I care not for gossip. An Indian proverb says that one who opens her mouth as wide as a crocodile’s to speak ill of others is likely to be as unkind as a crocodile as well.”
She smiled. “I like you, Miss Ravenshaw. I hope we get to know one another.” She nodded at the man who had earlier been speaking to Lord Ledbury and the captain. I could see his face now; it was a slightly marred copy of Captain Whitfield’s, so I presumed him to be Lord Frome.
Miss Dainley soon made her way back to me, dance card in hand, and she either didn’t notice that I didn’t have one or didn’t comment. I glanced at hers and noticed Captain Whitfield’s name as well as Lt. Dunn’s. Captain Whitfield’s name was written twice. The music grew louder and I sensed the dancing was about to begin so I nodded to Mrs. Ross and quietly slipped away to await an indication that there was a break in the dancing and supper was about to begin, whilst I enjoyed a quiet respite of an hour or so in my room.
Once there, I saw both Paradise Lost and the scriptures resting on the table near my bed. I opened up the Bible, drawn to Joshua, because my father had marked and underlined so many places in it.
Moses, my servant, is dead; now therefore arise, go over this Jordan, thou, and all this people, unto the land which I do give to them, even to the children of Israel.
Every place that the sole of your foot shall tread upon, that have I given unto you, as I said unto Moses. . . .
Be strong and of a good courage: for unto this people shalt thou divide for an inheritance the land, which I swore unto their fathers to give them.
Only be thou strong and very courageous.
I was struck by sudden understanding. No one was going to give me my house, my home, my money. If I wanted it, my legacy and mine alone, my security, which no man could touch unless I married, and which meant all to me, I would have to take it. Room by room, account by account, gardens by shed by stable.
After a short while I closed the book and set it aside, newly determined.
Be strong and very courageous. Take the land.
“I was nae aware that the Lord enlisted malingerers or loafers, nor the proud at heart, as soldiers. To be on the field is to engage . . .”
I made my way out into the hallway. It was earlier than I had anticipated. Another song struck up so I tarried awhile instead of returning just then.
I would choose the first room to take back. Just down that long, cordoned-off hallway stood the entrance to my parents’ bedroom, confirmed by my conversation with Mrs. Blackwood. I looked around; no one but Mrs. Ross, making her way from her room, was near. This was my house. If I chose to go into an empty bedroom, then I would.
I slipped under the cord and turned the handle to the bedroom door. I half expected it to be locked, but it wasn’t. I half expected it to be emptied of the furniture, but again, I was wrong. There was a kind of holy silence. The clock had stopped. The desks, still and at the ready, sat side by side against one wall. I’d heard that the Queen and Prince Albert had desks that faced one another; I liked to imagine my parents working side by side on their letters, even as they prepared to depart for India.
There was a pair of wardrobes and a high tallboy; did any of their personal effects remain within?
I stood in front of the dressing mirror and then I sat down on the chair in front of it. I closed my eyes and I could remember standing nearby watching my mother sit in this very chair while her lady’s maid—what had been her name? Florence. Yes, Florence—she’d brushed my mother’s hair, and when I’d looked up at her, she’d brushed mine. I opened my eyes and jostled the small drawers in front of me. They were empty except for a few hairs, an oil stain, and, right in the front, a sapphire-tipped hairpin stuck in the front of a drawer. I wiggled it out.
Mother’s!
Carefully, I slid it into my upswept hair. I was flooded with gratitude to have found something personal that had belonged to her.
Then I stood again and turned. The bed. I recalled that Captain Whitfield had taken this room as his own and a flush crept over me as I realized that he had slept in this bed, very recently, in fact. As I had slept in his, in the guesthouse.
Did he always sleep alone? I let my thoughts tarry on that for a while.
As I shook the thought from my head, and as if summoned by my conscience to answer the charge, Captain Whitfield suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“Hiding, Miss Ravenshaw?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I slowly turned to face him; his presence did not unsettle me so much as the thoughts I’d had about him mere breaths ago.
“Is there someone I need to hide from, Captain Whitfield?”
He smiled. “I noticed you did not dance. I knew that your father was a dissenter but I di
d not realize that you do not dance.”
I was puzzled. “My family is Methodist, yes, but mainly because my father thought they best tended after the needy in missions. In everything, my father followed Scripture’s lead. Scripture does not forbid dancing; in fact, King David danced.”
He looked truly mystified. “Then why did you leave?”
“My foot is not yet healed,” I said. “It would have been awkward and I did not want to draw attention to myself, nor discomfort your guests. But I assure you, Captain Whitfield, I love to dance.”
He stood silent for a moment, his stance relaxed. “It seems I owe you an apology.” His voice reflected true contrition; it had relaxed from defensive stridence to honeyed affection. “No, two.”
“Two?”
“I regret my crude comparison at the dinner table, with Lieutenant Dunn, between peahens and women. I should have apologized immediately; if I was the man I believe myself to be, I would have, and I have regretted it since.”
“Do you believe honorable ladies and peahens are alike, Captain Whitfield?”
“I’ve not met many of either.” He sidestepped the question with a grin, unwilling to capitulate. I let him have it; his apology had been truly contrite.
“And now I have misjudged your motives for not dancing,” he continued.
“You owe me nothing,” I said. “After all, I misspoke about the portrait.”
His eyes warmed. “Would you . . . could you wait here for a moment?”
I nodded. “Certainly.” I would wait for him for much longer than a moment, but I could not let him know that!
He left, and as he did, I saw a sliver of Mrs. Ross’s dress hem just outside the open doorway; she did not enter.
Captain Whitfield soon returned and the softest of violin music struck up in the minstrels’ gallery not far from my parents’ rooms. I looked at Captain Whitfield. “Johann Strauss?”
“I’ve asked the quartet to play a waltz whilst the others begin to dine.” He extended his hand. “Would you?”
“What a delightful surprise!” I took his hand and he lifted me, lightly. I relished the feeling of him leading me. “With pleasure. Won’t your guests miss you?”
“Perhaps,” he said. We faced one another, and he placed both of his hands behind his back and bowed, I curtseyed in return, and then he reached his left hand out to take my right, and cupped me with his right arm, drawing me close. I reached up and rested my hand on his shoulder. It felt natural, and I longed to keep it there. We fit together neatly, perfectly, perhaps. He stepped, and we began to dance. He wore gloves, I wore gloves, and yet I could feel a frisson of skin-to-skin energy through our hands. I wanted to remove my gloves, and his, and I suspected he would not have protested. His arm, around me, emanated strength. It has been so long since I had anyone to lean against. And never anyone like him.
After a few steps and a swirl, my ankle weakened and my foot faltered, but his eyes did not waver from mine as he held me even more firmly. As he held me more tightly I sensed his desire to draw me closer to him than was strictly necessary for the dance, and I fought my own inexplicable desire to yield and let him. In the end, I did, and I did not regret it. A scent could be drawn from his skin: spice, and musk, and warmth. I closed my eyes and inhaled it like a tantalizing vapor.
I wished for the tune to persist till morning; alas, it could not. As the music drew to a close he put his arm round me and lifted me before setting me down, gently, on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. He held both my hands in his and I cherished it. He did not bow as was required; for a long moment we held one another’s gaze. Captain Whitfield stepped back and bowed. I stood and curtseyed in return.
“Forgiven?” he asked, his voice low and husky, his eyes still holding mine in an intimate manner.
“Forgiven,” I whispered, and then finally looked away with a dip of my head lest my eyes reveal more than I wished them to.
Perhaps it was too late, and they already had.
I had been right about many things that night. I’d chosen the right dress, along with Michelene’s assistance. I had been correct to melt away before the public dancing; my tender ankle told me that. The bedroom door had been left unlocked, after all, and the furniture rested as it was. I needed to be bold, to take back my home, and my life.
In one thing, though, my judgment had been badly mistaken. Captain Whitfield—trustworthy or disingenuous, innocent or murderer, tester or entrapper, gentleman or Hussar, I should have to find out which—still unsettled me very much indeed.
I left Michelene in my room mending and sponging my dresses a few mornings later, before we were to leave for the shops in Winchester. I went down to the morning room and rang the bell that would call Cook. She soon appeared, looking none too pleased.
“Yes, Miss Ravenshaw?”
“Good morning, Cook. I wanted to tell you what a splendid repast you and your staff provided for the dinner and dance last week. Every day is a treat with your food, but for that number in attendance, well, you excelled yourself.”
She gave up a smile, though it seemed to be an unwilling one. “Thank you, miss,” she said. “Mrs. Blackwood brought in some help from town, of course, for the maids, and some extra help for myself.” She stood looking at me, waiting, I supposed, for me to proceed with the reason for calling for her.
“I imagine you have dozens of duties to attend to, so I won’t keep you long. I wonder if there might be included, from time to time, some sweet dishes on the menu. Perhaps some trifles, a pudding, or some small cakes would be appropriate? I appreciated them so much when Miss Dainley called.”
“Captain Whitfield, he was gone that day,” she began.
“Yes, I do recall that,” I said. “But even though he has now returned, I’d very much like to see them on the tea trays on Thursdays, and occasionally throughout the week, if possible.”
Her face tightened. “If you say so, miss.”
Perhaps her reluctance was due to the increased workload that might come with baking.
“Do you need additional help in the kitchen?”
“I should say not,” she retorted. “And if I did, well, I’d be sure to ask Captain Whitfield, now, wouldn’t I?”
A simple reminder of who was really in charge, whose household it was.
I continued. “I wonder if it might be possible to ask the vendors to procure some Indian seasonings and spices. I’d like to have curry now and again. Some dried mangoes or other fruits would be lovely, if you will.”
Her face crumpled like a pug’s. “I’ll inquire. But I don’t want anyone leaving the table complaining of foreign spices.”
I kept a straight face. “Surely there has never been a complaint after one of your meals,” I said. “And if I ever heard of one, I would put it right directly, myself.”
She seemed satisfied and returned to her duties.
Michelene joined me, carrying my bonnet and gloves. She was dressed in a stunning blue lawn dress, her neckline gently scalloped with lace and a delicate crucifix resting on her collarbone. Suddenly, I felt rather twinned with the also-black-gowned Mrs. Ross, who trailed her.
“Shall we leave?” I stood.
“Yes,” Michelene replied. “I asked Captain Whitfield if he would ask Daniel to drive us into Winchester for the day.”
“I had planned to do so.” The way she said Whitfield’s name was familiar and friendly, although she did not use his Christian name. Why should that irritate me?
Why indeed.
“I thought to be a help to you, petite.”
Landreth let us out of the door and Daniel brought the carriage round. Captain Whitfield walked over from the carriage house to meet us.
“Good morning.” He had on his riding outfit. I knew he’d been practicing shooting because I’d heard shots on the grounds and had inquired after it. My father had
taught both Peter and me to shoot when we were young.
He helped me into the carriage first and I held his gaze as he held my hand. “Thank you, Captain Whitfield. Not only for your assistance but also for letting us avail ourselves of one of your carriages, and Daniel, for the day.”
“My pleasure,” he said. He next took Mrs. Ross by the hand.
“Thank ye, guid sir,” she said as she heaved her considerable self into the carriage, which rocked and jostled in an effort to regain its balance after she’d sat down.
Michelene held out her hand, a dainty offering, and although she was the last person to enter the carriage, the verse and the last shall be first floated across my mind. She seemed, somehow, to claim preeminence. A look passed between them, some sense of familiarity. Perhaps simply because Michelene had served the woman who had claimed to be me. But the look seemed to hold more. Michelene lowered her eyes coyly. I’d not seen her do that before.
Captain Whitfield’s expression did not change, except, perhaps, upon closer inspection, a blush of pink rose from under his shirt collar clear to his beard-line. He did not look her in the eye.
“Merci,” she whispered as he released her hand.
“Je vous en prie.”
I hadn’t realized he spoke French.
A short while later, we arrived in Winchester; Daniel took the carriage to wherever carriage men go to wait out the day and we began to walk up High Street and several streets off it. Michelene and I went into the perfumery, and she explained that I was looking for a rather more exotic fragrance, one with sandalwood and spices but not too dear as I was watching expenses.
“I shall see if I can find something appropriate,” the shop assistant replied. Her tone reflected that she considered essence of rose or violet more suitable, but I missed the balmy scents I grew up with. She came back with something reminiscent of sandalwood and cinnamon, alluring and different.
