by Sandra Byrd
“You’ve said that you would like to revisit India some day. Why would you want to return to the kind of people who took your parents’ lives?”
I looked at her sternly. “That’s not who I would be returning to see,” I said. “I’d be returning to the kind of people who saved mine.”
I’d said I was going to take the land, metaphorically, but in actuality, I had not wandered very far out onto my own land at all. I recalled that Captain Whitfield had said there was a stream nearby, and a few days later I determined to find it and enjoy it whilst the weather was warm.
I made my way through the gardens, which were taking shape, save for a distinct lack of statues, and into the woods that edged the grounds. I soon found out that they not only lined it, they were thick and extended deeply. Although it was midday, I walked in relative darkness; although it was warm, I had a chill. Dead trees lay across the ground, forest carcasses, and I took care to step lightly over them so I did not trip. Unusual, gargantuan ferns flourished in the shadows, otherworldly, eerie. Rank vapors escaped from piles of rotting leaves. I heard some rustling, spotted a bit of black in the background, and stopped. After waiting a good minute, in silence, I moved forward again. When I turned, the black shadow was gone.
Was someone following me?
I soon reached the edge of a burbling river, fresh as a baby’s laugh. I unbuttoned my boots and pulled them off, then the stockings beneath, and held my skirts in my hands as I waded out. So cool! So refreshing. I smiled. No crocodiles!
I stood there for quite some time, face tipped toward the sun. When I turned back toward the riverbank, there, to my surprise, was Captain Whitfield, sitting on a chair. There was another chair beside him, empty, and next to that, a wicker fishing creel and a net. Disquiet blended with delight as I made my way from the middle of the stream.
“Captain Whitfield! I thought I’d heard someone in the woods behind me, as I approached from the gardens, but I did not hear you arrive just now.”
“You should not be out here alone,” he said. “It’s not safe.”
I smiled. “There is no one, excepting yourself, for a mile or more.”
“My point is proved.” He smiled back. “It was not me that you heard earlier. You most probably heard a deer or a hare.”
“How can you be certain?”
“I did not come by way of the gardens,” he continued smoothly, “which are badly in need of new statues. Would you like to accompany me, in a few weeks’ time, to select some? Or perhaps I am being overbold and you’d prefer to select them on your own.”
“I would very much appreciate accompanying you to select the statues and will lean on your good opinion of the choices; you’ve not put a foot wrong with the house yet.”
“I’d be delighted to assist,” he said. “I’d like to purchase them, as a gift. May I say that you look beautiful, and perhaps carefree in some way?” He held out a fishing rod. “Perhaps it is because you no longer wear mourning?”
I smiled. He’d noticed what I was wearing! I was glad I had dressed with care. “Perhaps,” I said, taking the rod in hand.
“I confess to making plans to fish only after I’d heard you’d gone walking. I wanted to be sure of your well-being.” His voice softened. “And I desired your companionship. Do you know how to fish?”
I nodded, aware that my feet were indecently bare as I picked my way through the stony ground toward where he sat. “Indeed I do,” I said, sitting near him on the chair near the bank. “My father’s friend and fellow missionary, Mr. Mead, taught my brother and me how to fish.” Dear, dear Mr. Mead.
I must have winced because Captain Whitfield asked, “What is it?”
I took the pole in hand. “Mr. Mead was a close friend to us. He eventually married an Indian woman, a Christian convert from the slave castes.”
Whitfield nodded. “Ah. Yes. Ill considered. They threw him out?”
Perhaps it was the sun or the fact that my feet were now dry, but I felt immediately warm. “Yes, it’s true he was no longer welcomed by the Missionary Society. He’s kept ministering, though.” I looked at Whitfield defiantly, as though he were the cause of Mr. Mead’s situation, had personally dismissed him, and was not simply a callous commenter.
“And it was not ill considered, Captain Whitfield. Not by far,” I continued. “A good man marries for love, forsaking all else if necessary. That is, perhaps, the best, and only, reason to marry. The Indians weren’t too pleased, either. Anglo-Indian offspring are reviled, it seems, by both societies.”
He looked thoughtful. “Yes, this is true.”
“Do you know an Anglo-Indian?” I inquired.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps.”
“Someone you’d met whilst serving in the army?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No.” But he would say nothing further. We spent some quiet moments fishing, and I eased into the day again. I looked beyond him, into the woods, and thought I saw a flash of black dress edged with white lace. Yes, yes, it was certainly she. How had she made her way here and why didn’t she just come forward? Perhaps I should not have left without a companion, but I’d had no idea Captain Whitfield would follow me.
“Mrs. Ross?” I said aloud.
Whitfield turned. “She’s here?”
“I thought maybe you’d brought her,” I said. “As I should not be without a companion in your company.”
He shook his head and looked bewilderingly at me. “I don’t see her.”
And now, I did not either. He looked at me as if I were unwell. Maybe I was.
“You’ve just come from London?” I asked, changing the topic.
“Yes, for the moment.”
“You must return?” I set down my fishing rod to better enjoy the rest the scenery offered.
He nodded and his face clouded. “Someone has seen fit, I believe, to use a part of my weapons patent. My barrister will soon see this to a quick end and inflict financial measures such that the thief will wish he’d never undertaken the use of my property.”
I recoiled, perhaps in fear, at the venom in his voice. “That sounds severe, Captain Whitfield.”
“He should not have taken what was mine.”
“Surely he thought there was some, some gray area, perhaps? Maybe he thought it was common knowledge? Or had an earlier claim somehow?”
“He may have thought so, but I do not. If he had made an offer to license or share, purchase the rights, cut me in on the deal, I could have acquiesced. But this?” He shrugged. “No. Severe consequences are in order.”
We turned back to the river and he spoke more quietly, of the train journey, of how London was nearly abandoned now as people had fled the Great Stink to relax, ride, and hunt in the country for the summer.
“Captain Whitfield . . .” I began.
“Yes?” He turned and looked at me with curiosity.
“Speaking of riding . . . has anyone mentioned that the stable door to the bay horse might be, well, loose? In need of propping from time to time?”
He frowned. “No, not at all.” He looked at me curiously. “Did you want to ride her?” he asked. “The bay?”
“No, no, of course not,” I said.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Ravenshaw?” he asked. He looked concerned. “Perhaps you’ve been outside too long?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine,” I said. I went on to make some pleasant conversation about the household and the gardens, but the atmosphere was now tense and unusual. I regretted bringing the topic up at all. Shortly, a drift of swans traveled up the river.
“Oh! I have not seen swans since I’ve been home.” I turned toward him.
“We’ve got plenty as it’s forbidden to hunt them, you know.” Whitfield kept casting into the river, but well away from the swans. “And even if it weren’t, you would not find me shooting one.” His voice was now soft,
no trace of the earlier acid remained.
“Why not?” I asked.
He set his rod down and came to sit near to me. “They mate for life. If one is killed, its mate mourns, alone, till it, too, is killed or dies. That wouldn’t settle with me. Couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
I held his gaze and it was not teasing nor flattering, but boyish and pure. I took his hand for a moment and he willingly let it mold into mine. “It’s a beautiful sentiment, Captain Whitfield, one I shan’t forget.”
“You’re not the only one with romantic sentiments, Miss Ravenshaw,” he teased. I assumed he referred back to my conversation about Mr. Mead. He grinned then, and after packing up the creel, held out his hand to assist me back to Headbourne. “I’ve very much enjoyed our time together,” he said. “Would you care to join me for an early dinner. Fish?”
I loathed fish and it’d likely be served in a rich sauce. “I’d be delighted,” I said. It had grown rather lonely, eating alone. I was beginning to doubt whether I wanted to do it for a lifetime.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
He left after dinner. I watched as Michelene left, some hours later, by the second carriage, after I’d dismissed her for the evening. Where was she going? It was nearly dusk, but it was the start of her day off. I sometimes allowed her to use the carriage, but only with prior permission.
I dressed myself and went down to the stables, where Daniel’s assistant was ordering things for the night.
“Hello?” I called from the door.
“Oh, good evening, Miss Ravenshaw,” he said. He looked surprised to see me—as well he might. I did not frequent the stables and, of course, the carriage was customarily brought to me when I needed it. He, too, now used my full and proper name.
“I was wondering—do you know where Mademoiselle d’Arbonneau has gone?”
“To a friend’s house, for her day off, I believe. A training driver took her.”
“Thank you,” I said. After a moment I turned toward him again. “Daniel, have you been with Captain Whitfield some time?”
He grinned. “Two years on, now, miss, since he returned from the army.”
“So you were here when the woman claiming to be me was in attendance.”
“I was.”
“Did her maid take carriages, too?”
“I’m sure I can’t say, miss,” he said. His cap was off and I could see his ear tips pink.
He couldn’t say, but he knew.
“Is that all, then, miss? I’ve got a bit ahead of me tonight before I can turn in.”
“Yes, that’s all,” I said. “Please prepare a carriage for me, for Sunday, if you’d be so kind. I plan to attend church in the new landau, unless Captain Whitfield has returned and has need of it.”
“Certainly, miss. I’ll do that.”
I’d find a way to get further information from him later, I promised myself.
The following Sunday Daniel had the carriage ready. I walked into the church, where, now confirmed as a missionary daughter who’d survived her parents’ martyrdom, I was warmly welcomed.
“Miss Ravenshaw,” Reverend Bennetts called out to me from the front of the church. “Welcome home.”
To my utter delight, the congregation broke out in a refined but genuine patter of applause. I blushed with gratitude and raised my hand to wave my thanksgiving.
After conversing with some others after the service, I turned to the reverend’s wife. “I do hope you’ll come to call,” I said to Mrs. Bennetts.
“If you’re sure you’d like us to,” she replied.
“You would be most welcome at any time. I would delight in your company.”
She drew me aside. “I have to apologize for the, well, the cool welcome you initially received. Until we knew that you were who you claimed to be . . .”
I took both her gloved hands in my own. “I fully understand.”
“No one likes to believe they’ve been duped,” she said. “Not even ministers and their wives, perhaps we most of all.”
I understood. It had been a common sentiment among the household, too. “If I may,” I asked Mrs. Bennetts, “do you believe that Mrs. Knowlton was duped as well?”
She shook her head. “She alone never warmed to the young woman claiming to be you. I believe she knew that woman was not Constance Ravenshaw’s daughter.”
“Why will she not see me?” I asked.
“I do not know. I shall ask her to accept your call, but I do not know if that will help. She has a cancer and is often unwell.”
“Please do.” I adjusted my bonnet with an eye to the sun. “I would very much like to speak to her as well as bring her whatever comfort I may.”
On Monday, I got dressed on my own. Michelene was in her room, ill, though I suspected she was being recalcitrant, as I’d reprimanded her for taking the carriage without permission. Once dressed, I made my way down the right wing. I had decided to enter the room. It was, after all, my home; no one questioned that anymore. The little cat followed me, keeping pace and rubbing against my leg. I gripped the handle firmly; it was locked. Why? My parents’ room had not been locked. I tried again, but it would not jar.
I made my way to the sitting room and rang for Mrs. Blackwood.
“How may we help, Miss Ravenshaw?” A smile warmed the housekeeper’s face. Her tone seemed warmer to me than it had before. I couldn’t really blame them, any of them. They’d been living in an odd and upsetting déjà vu.
“I should very much like to see the storerooms on the top floor of the house,” I said. “I’m looking for some of my mother’s letters. I believe you have the keys?”
She nodded. “Just a moment or two to finish up with the day maids, and we’ll be back to take you.”
“Take your time, and thank you.”
Mrs. Blackwood soon returned and we walked toward the stairs. She looked up at the portrait of my and Captain Whitfield’s common distant ancestor.
“He looks very much like the captain, doesn’t he?”
I agreed. “I mistook the portrait as being one of Captain Whitfield himself when I first arrived.” I blushed at the memory of my false accusation.
“ ’Tis a mistake anyone could make,” she said. “When you walk into Graffam Park, you’ll see a portrait of Lord Ledbury’s forebear above the staircase. A similar portrait, I understand, hangs in Lord Frome’s home.” She turned to lead the way upstairs and I looked up at the man. Determined. Insistent. Driven. Principled.
Like my father.
Attractive. Almost rakelike in his smile. Compelling.
Like Captain Whitfield.
She stopped on the landing to catch her breath, and as she did I glanced down to the right wing. “Do you have keys to all the rooms?” I asked.
She saw where I glanced and said, “All but one.”
“And that one is . . . ?”
“Where the woman claiming to be you died. Captain Whitfield took it.”
“I should like the key to that room as soon as possible.”
She nodded. “I did ask for the key back. Captain Whitfield reassured me that once the renovations have ensured the safety of the room, he shall return the key to me, and then I shall bring it to you.”
That seemed fair. I had, after all, asked Whitfield to continue with the renovations, especially those with safety concerns. A week or two more would not matter. Would it? We began to climb again till we reached the hot and narrow top floor. She pulled out her great ring of keys, and without looking, selected the proper one. She slipped it into the doorway and pushed it open.
“Shall I wait for you?” she asked.
“No,” I said quietly. “This is perhaps best done alone.”
Her face softened. “I lost my mother some years back, too. She was a housekeeper in a house not far from here, and, unusually, they offered lodging
for my sister and me as well. She always told us that’d be the nicest place we’d ever live and it was, until I came here. All of us in service hope to serve in a fine house and now I do. Take your time, Miss Ravenshaw, and I’ll lock up again when you say.” She turned and made her way down the stairs.
The windows were caked on the inside and out; it had been years, perhaps decades, since they had been cleaned and only the thinnest light seeped through. I kept the lamp lit to cut through the gloom. I somehow felt the steps, the presence, the hopes held high and dreams dashed of the many generations of my family to have trodden here before me.
To the left were trunks stacked one upon another; the ones on the bottom had ragged straps that had been pulled and perhaps nibbled away. I walked over to one and lifted it open; it was empty. The one next to it was stuffed with disintegrating books. The pile next to that was forbiddingly laced with webs. I did not wish to come face-to-face with the makers of such, even if it held a trove of gold, and left it alone.
On the right-hand side of the room were newer trunks and the wardrobes of which Captain Whitfield had spoken. One trunk was ajar; I lifted it and found a letter casket filled with fragile yellowed papers. My father’s handwriting was on many of them and I traced them just to feel something that he had once touched. A long dark brown hair lay in the middle of another one. His?
No, that was impossible. His hair had been black, but never this long. Mother’s hair had been fair.
It was the color of my hair. Of . . . Michelene’s hair.
Or the imposter’s hair, which had also been dark, like mine! I thought upon whose it could have been, and how it had come to be here. Perhaps it had been laid to deceive.
I turned back to the other papers, which seemed to be deeds and other business matters, but there were also chapters of Scripture written in Father’s hand. There were letters in Mother’s hand addressed to Honiton. Why had they not been sent? I took the small packet and closed the trunk. I read of their day-to-day lives, of their ideas for ministry, the names of some who would be working alongside them in India, and what Mother hoped to bring with her.
