Mist of Midnight

by Sandra Byrd

  “Truly?” Mrs. Miller asked.

  “Truly,” I said.

  “Miss Rebecca,” he said. “We’ve brought something for you, too!” He handed me a gently worn fabric bag and I opened it to find a pair of clean, but fragile, gloves.

  “Yellow, my favorite color for gloves!” I immediately took off the pair I wore and pulled the new ones on, to his delight.

  We made small talk as Matthew walked in mincing steps all around the drawing room. When thirty minutes or so had gone by, twice the average time for a call, I stood up. “I do hope you don’t mind, but I’ve some correspondence to attend to.”

  Mrs. Miller seemed relieved. “Not at all. This was a wonderful visit, and I can’t thank you enough for your gift to Matthew.”

  “It’s been my pleasure,” I said, and we walked down the steps and toward the coach house. Matthew walked very carefully, stopping occasionally to dust his boots.

  “You’re going to have a hard time finishing your chores if you must clean your boots each minute,” I teased.

  “I don’t mind, miss,” he said. He turned and walked back toward me. “Can I visit any church now?”

  I nodded. “You can,” I said. I knelt down to him and spoke softly. “Jesus loves you, Matthew. With boots and without boots. It matters not to Him.” I gave him a gentle hug and stood again. Daniel saw them both into the carriage and before he mounted to the driver’s seat I pulled him aside so I could speak without the others hearing.

  “Do you ever take on apprentices?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not here, miss. And, well, with things unsettled about where Captain Whitfield will move to . . .”

  Ah. So he’d heard, too.

  “Would you be willing to make inquiries with others, at good houses?”

  He nodded toward the carriage. “For the young lad?”

  “I don’t think he has much chance otherwise.”

  “I’ll ask,” he said. He turned back to me. “Someone gambled on me when I was a lad.”

  “And here you are.” I smiled.

  “Here I am,” he agreed.

  I watched as the carriage drove off and, as I passed the guesthouse, saw a curtain drop. I turned toward my home and made my way up the outside steps. Mrs. Ross waited for me in the sitting room.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t think to invite you down.” I repented of not keeping her in mind more often, and not just when I needed her.

  “I’m fine, lassie, no need to concern yourself.” She smiled and I smiled back. “Have ye heard of Mr. John Pounds, then?”

  I sat down. Rare was the occasion when she initiated a conversation.

  “I confess I have not,” I said. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Mr. Pounds has passed away. However, he is, in a manner, a friend to all who look after those who have a more difficult way to make.”

  “How so?”

  “Your gift of the shoes put me in mind of him. When Mr. Pounds was but a lad, he was apprenticed to be, I believe, a shipwright, living nearby in Portsmouth.”

  “Go on,” I said, and waved to Annie to bring tea and shortbread.

  “The poor boy fell and became a cripple, and so was no longer fit to be on ship. Instead of pitying himself, he trained himself to be a cobbler, and before he was verra old, owned his own shop. That fall, and the difficulties it brought, gave the man a kindly heart toward those in difficult circumstance.”

  She stopped for a moment and bit into her shortbread. “He sometimes bribed the lads and lasses with a hot baked potato, but then they were able to learn their sums and to read and make a life for themselves. With persistence in learning, they earned shoes from him as a reward in due course.”

  “What a fine story,” I said. “It’s too bad he is no longer with us to help those children.”

  “Ah, lassie, but his schools are. There be many ragged schools, which is what they’ve come to be known as, all about England. There’s one in Winchester, in fact, though I think ’tis not well staffed with teachers.”

  I stood up, struck by a thought which was both new, here in England, and familiar. “I could help with that, couldn’t I? In truth, one needn’t travel to India to find children in need of food or clothing or an education . . . or hope. Isn’t that right?” It had been some time, perhaps before we’d left the mission to travel north, since I had felt that touch of purposefulness.

  I felt warmth. As my mother had a calling to the underserved in India, I had a calling to them here, in England. She would be so pleased!

  Mrs. Ross nodded. “I thought ye might be interested to hear of it. ‘There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth . . .’ ”

  “ ‘. . . and there is that withholdeth more than is meet, but tendeth to poverty.’ ”

  She clapped. “I knew you’d recall that scripture.”

  “It reminds me of a Tamil proverb,” I said. “They who give have all things; those who withhold have nothing.” I allowed my tears free fall, not really understanding why they came just then, but feeling that, like the house, something that had once been mine, truly mine, was being reclaimed.

  “Will you help me find out with whom I should speak?” I asked. “To help with the ragged schools somehow, perhaps with small donations, perhaps with teaching?”

  “I shall make inquiries.” She lumbered to her feet. “I’ll be taking forty winks if you need me,” Mrs. Ross said as she rounded the corner and went up the stairs.

  I read, and wrote, and napped, and waited all day for Mrs. Blackwood to arrive with my key, but she did not.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The next morning broke clearly with a sharp shot. From my window, beyond the autumn mists, I could see Captain Whitfield shooting. Michelene, who was planning for a day off after helping me dress, was already at my door and caught me looking out the window.

  “Enjoying the view?” she teased.

  I smiled. I’d been caught out. “Yes,” I admitted.

  “Let us hurry, then,” she said. “You have not had the occasion to wear the beautiful tartan dress, n’est-ce pas? A casual day for a girl to shoot, I would think. And if she happens to run into someone unexpectedly, well, then, she’s hit the bull’s-eye.” She pulled the beautiful red/blue/green-checked dress from the wardrobe. It went well with my coloring, and would allow me to wear the pretty white muffs I’d been waiting to show off.

  “It’s not as though he won’t suspect why I’m out there,” I said.

  “Everything does not need to be said to be conveyed,” she huffed. “Women can be subtle.” She fussed with me for another minute. “The captain is leaving. For Derbyshire, or the East Indies.”

  I did not allow my face to show my pain. “Yes. It seems certain now.”

  She made a particularly beautiful high arrangement of my hair before fastening a hat. “Perhaps Michelene can assist you, non?”

  If all it took was beautiful hair, Delia would have been Mrs. Whitfield by now. But I appreciated her sentiment.

  I went downstairs for a quick cup of tea and Mrs. Blackwood was there, waiting for me. She held out her hand and in it was a key. I took it.

  “I’m sorry it took a day longer. I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that you wanted it in your possession. So I did mention that a complete set would need to be made instead.”

  Mrs. Ross and I then made our way to the room where the guns were stored. I selected a shotgun, handed it to a servant to carry for me, and headed out past the stable yard, Mrs. Ross trailing well behind. She sat at the very edge of the lawn.

  Luke turned after a few moments and saw me. His smile was wide and he came to greet me.

  “May I shoot with you?”

  “I’d like nothing better,” he said. I watched him first, and then he looked at the rifle I had chosen. “Would you like me to show you how to
best use that?”

  “Please do.”

  He came round behind me, his left arm stretching across my back and left shoulder, his right arm helping me to steady till I saw where to best place the sites to hit the posts he’d set up along the edge of the greenway. He drew me much closer to him than need be but I relished the feel of leaning back into him, and him pressing forward to me. I should have thought of this shooting practice much sooner!

  “Have it?” he asked.

  “Not quite,” I said, unwilling to let him step away from me. He moved the weapon again till I held it, and myself, firmly. I wished that the gun were not there, and Mrs. Ross were not there, which would mean that we were, actually, married.

  I drew in a sharp breath. I’ve admitted it. I want to marry him.

  “Is all well?” he asked, alarm in his voice.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, and he stepped away. As he did, I steadied the rifle and shot, splitting the target cleanly down the center.

  He came near. “Splendid shot! And with so little guidance.” Then he took a step back and eyed me with skepticism. “You didn’t really need my help, did you?”

  I blushed and hoped the pink in my cheeks from the morning chill hid it well. But I answered truthfully. “No.”

  He smiled, and I laughed, and he came alongside me and we sat on the bench near the shooting range.

  He reached out for my hand, his warm skin cupping mine. “I watched you, through the window, with that young boy yesterday,” he said. “It almost makes me wish I were a troubled young lad. I could be sadly ensconced in the Society for Wayward Boys Not Yet Convicted of Criminal Offence and you could come and rescue me.”

  A little corner of me wondered, for the smallest portion of time, if there was a criminal offense he was not yet convicted of, and I retreated just a step from my desire for marriage. “I would certainly rescue you, Luke,” I said with a soft, teasing smile.

  He smiled when I used his name. “Would you have bought some new boots for me?” He looked down at his own.

  I laughed. “Unquestionably.”

  He squeezed my hand, for a moment, and then withdrew his own. “I do believe that you would have saved me, Rebecca. You are good. Innocent. And good.” His face showed admiration and held a steady smile, but his eyes reflected pain.

  “Surely you are good, too,” I said.

  He lay his gun across his lap, protecting it from the damp ground. “My brother, the illustrious Lord Frome, has publicly stated that I am a man who has used my talent for killing to further my own goals.” Was Luke warning me?

  I gasped. “What did he mean? Is it true?”

  “The guns,” he answered. “My modification to the weapons, which kill more quickly. And which has made my fortune. So I suppose it is true.”

  I coughed. “Who gives credence to Lord Pudding, anyway?”

  “Lord . . . who?”

  “Your brother, excuse me.” I was horrified. “I don’t mean to insult your family.”

  A smile tickled the corners of his lips. But then it disappeared. “You cannot deny that I have made it easier to kill. And did so with intent.”

  “For a greater good,” I offered weakly.

  He nodded slowly, but not convincingly. “As I saw it.” He stood. “Come, let us go to the stable.”

  A little fear pinched inside me. “Stable?”

  He nodded. “I need to check on Notos, and I’d like to give her another chance to meet you.”

  I followed. Unwillingly. The early-morning fog had cleared and the coach house and stable bustled with heat and laughter and the sharp command of instructions, sometimes in strong language, which stopped as the grooms saw me approach.

  “Good morning, Miss Ravenshaw.” Daniel took his hat off and bowed and I grinned at him. It was unbecoming, I knew, but I’d begun to think of him as a younger brother.

  “Daniel is a good driver,” I said.

  “He is.”

  “Has he been the lead driver long?” I asked.

  “He’s been with me awhile, but only lead driver since I fired a man for mistreating the horses,” Luke answered smoothly. He didn’t meet my eye, but didn’t purposely look away, either.

  Luke then took my hand in his and walked to Notos while Mrs. Ross trailed far behind, busying herself by looking at the horses in other stalls to give us some time nearly alone. Luke called softly to his horse, opened her box, and led me in.

  She was huge. Her flanks could undoubtedly crush me if they rolled on me. But she gently walked toward Luke, looking askance at me with one big brown eye as she passed. Her mane was glossy and well cared for, and he whispered to her as he might to a lover.

  He beckoned me and I came close, slowly. “There now, there is nothing to fear, is there?” he said gently, and I knew not whether he spoke to me, to Notos, or to both of us.

  I tentatively reached a gloved hand up and put it on her neck, and after the lightest flicker of pulling away she allowed me to touch her.

  “I believe you’ll overcome this,” Luke said, turning to me.

  “You do?”

  “I do,” he said. “It is, perhaps, the last fear you have to conquer.”

  I nodded but thought, Perhaps it’s the second to last. Could I trust a man, specifically him, enough to risk my house and the security my inheritance brought in exchange for that chance of a life of love and family?

  I stroked Notos’s side for a moment, speaking gentle words, and she seemed to accept them. I felt the anxiety bleed out of me, replaced by something less than confidence but stronger than fear.

  “Let’s ride her,” he said, and this time, it was I who flinched. He reached out to steady me. “I’ll hold the reins. We’ll just walk her out onto the grounds for a bit, and back again. I’ll control her the whole time.”

  I nodded my reluctant agreement. “Has Miss Dainley ridden Notos?” I asked casually.

  He shook his head no. “No woman has ever ridden Notos, not Miss Dainley or any other. And in any case, I thought I’d mention . . . I shan’t be riding out with Miss Dainley anymore.”

  “No?” I asked.

  He shook his head but said no more, a gentleman in every way. Daniel soon had the horse saddled and then helped me up on her. After letting Notos get used to my presence, Luke clucked twice and led her, and me, out.

  I held myself stiffly at first but then relaxed into the saddle and the animal. Notos seemed to accommodate herself to me, too, both of us trusting Luke, and when the ride was over a few minutes later I was sad.

  Luke reached up, took my hand, and then put his arm around my waist, lifting me down again.

  “I’m proud of you,” he said.

  “You are?” I looked straight up at him.

  He nodded. “I’ve known many war veterans unable to overcome their fears.”

  As I moved away from the horse but closer to the man, Luke reached out and took one of the long curls of hair at the side of my face in his hand and wrapped it familiarly around his finger, binding me to him. He touched me in only one place but I felt it in a dozen others.

  I allowed his hand to remain for just a moment before I took it in mine and carefully unwound my hair from his finger. “That is perhaps a little too intimate,” I said, wishing I did not have to.

  “I should apologize.” He kept his voice low, too, but the husky sound had returned.

  “I could not accept such an apology.” I held his hand for just a bit longer. Then I smiled. “Scripture requires repentance before forgiveness can be offered. And you are not sorry.”

  He smiled back. “No, indeed, I am not sorry that I’ve touched you. Nor are you.”

  Indeed no, I was not.

  When I arrived at my room sometime later, Michelene was there, mending a dress. “How was the shooting?” she asked.

  “Par
fait,” I said, teasing her by speaking in French, and then, more to myself, “yet so much is still unknown.”

  She shook out the curls from my hair, pulled the pins, and set them on the tiny china hairpin tray on the dressing table. “Perhaps one is happier when one doesn’t know everything,” she offered. She seemed tired, or distracted, and I was in a hurry for her to leave so I let her comment lie where she’d left it. The truth will set you free. But did I truly want to be freed? Would the truth imprison me in loneliness? Or would it keep me, and Headbourne, safe?

  “Perhaps,” I said. I turned to her with a genuine smile. “Please help me think what should be appropriate to wear to the theater night that is coming up very soon.” She nodded cheerfully, and whilst I could not completely trust her, I relied upon her and, in truth, liked her quite a bit. I should be sorry if I could not keep her in order to make further economies. There is much I could not have done without her assistance. “I will help you in many ways, chérie.”

  After she left, I went over my room. Several of the drawers looked to have been jostled, and it seemed to me that even the tiny hidden drawer in the top of one of the bureaus had been opened and shut—it wasn’t squarely closed. I looked inside, but all seemed to be as I’d left it.

  After waiting half an hour to ensure Michelene was well and truly gone, I made my way along the dark wing. Far in the distance I saw eyes. Marie waited by the door I would shortly open.

  I tiptoed down the passage, avoiding floorboards that I already knew squeaked when stepped upon. I walked past my parents’ bedroom. Would it ever be occupied again? That would be, perhaps, my own decision. I closed my eyes for just a moment, savoring the memory of our dance, Luke’s and mine, before moving on.

  Finally, at the end of the passage, I reached the imposter’s room. Who had she been? Had Luke danced with her, too?

  Had he twirled her hair around his finger?

  Had he feigned to love her, when really, he loved the house?

  I slipped the key into the lock and, as it had been recently used, the lock turned easily. Marie followed me into the room and I closed the door behind us. I lit and then turned the lamp up against the autumn gloom and looked around.