by Sandra Byrd
I’d attend the ball. I supposed I needed to maintain my social relations with everyone in the area and this was as good a way as any to do it. I realized, too, that Luke would be required to be there and it might be the last time I’d see him. I wanted to see him, to say good-bye.
I read some ladies’ magazines for a while, and then a section of Scripture, before turning out my light. I turned this way and then that, tangling myself in the linens. I could not sleep. Finally, near midnight, I slid out of bed and returned to the bureau, which held the laudanum, and also was near the window that faced the guesthouse.
It was misty again but the moon was still nearly full and it lit the area. I looked out the window, hoping, to my chagrin, for a glimpse of Luke in the windows of the guesthouse, but I did not see him, though I could see the lights were on in the valet’s quarters, and there looked to be a guest carriage nearby.
I looked beyond, to the graveyard. There, in the midst of the dark stones, shadowed by the dim lamp she held before her, was a woman.
A woman!
My own lamp was off, so I moved to the edge of the window where I could continue to watch while hiding behind the thick velvet curtains in case she looked up at me as well.
Oh, the mists! I decried the fact that they were back and I couldn’t see the woman more clearly. Her dress was dark, and expensively cut. She kept her face turned from the house and the window but turned, regularly, toward the guesthouse, keeping her back mostly toward me and the main house. She tarried a few minutes more, then turned the lamp off and began to walk toward the guesthouse before I lost track of her in the dark mist. A few minutes later, back still turned, she lit the lamp again, very softly, and made her way toward the chapel. Was it some kind of signal? To whom?
I was about to put on my cloak and go out and look—or at least call for Landreth to investigate—when I saw someone new, a man. He left the guesthouse and began to walk quickly. I pressed close to the cold pane and its chill seeped into my skin, firming the flesh, and then into my jaw. Was it Thornton, Captain Whitfield’s valet? It was hard to tell.
Then I could see.
It was Luke.
He came from behind her, wrapped his arm around her intimately and protectively, and they went together into the church. All went dark.
I returned to sit on my bed, squeezing my head in horror, pain shooting from my center through every extremity. A sob stuck in my throat, shock weakened my limbs. Tears came and I did not stop them, though I held the counterpane to my mouth to quiet my sobs. In my mind’s eye I saw, again, his arms around her, but I felt them around me, as I wished them to be, in an embrace of love and desire; knowing I’d never again truly feel them around me made the pain intense beyond the point of easy bearing. I got up again, pressed my face against the glass—the coolness of it calmed my hot skin and soothed me a bit—but I saw nothing further. I pulled the curtains shut and returned to bed.
Perhaps I’d imagined it. As I’d imagined the stall shutting behind me when I’d first arrived home? How about seeing Mrs. Ross in the woods whilst Luke and I had been fishing? She’d never claimed to have been lurking. That memory brought an ache, the two of us together, at the beginning of all things good.
I knew, though I wished I could dismiss it as fantasy, that I had well and truly seen Luke and the woman together just minutes earlier, and she was in his embrace. I’d asked to see the truth with my own eyes, and I quite literally had.
Who was she? Perhaps Delia had found out the truth about him and another woman, and had confronted him with it. Maybe she’d threatened to tell me and that’s why he’d withdrawn. Perhaps she had arrived in one of the guest carriages still present and they’d met in the chapel to avoid the eyes and ears of the servants and other guests. I could pull on my boots and walk to the chapel and see who it was. But, the truth was . . . I did not want to see him in flagrante delicto. I did not want to provide my mind with fresh nightmare images. I promised myself, though, that he would answer for it, for the way he led me, and left me, in the end. Had he done that with my imposter, too? Had she “caught” him? I’d insist on an answer in cold daylight when I was quite prepared.
I cried, off and on, planning, in calmer moments, for a quiet life of good deeds and charity, usefulness, till wan light wriggled through the small spaces between and around my curtains. Then I fell asleep.
I couldn’t have been asleep long when I heard a sharp knock at my door.
“Michelene?” I called out.
“No, Miss Ravenshaw, she’s got the day off as you’ll recall.”
“Oh, Mrs. Blackwood.”
“Captain Whitfield is here to see you, miss,” she said. I heard the hope in her voice. “Shall I tell him you’ll be down soon?”
I hurriedly got out of bed and looked at my clock. It was nearly noon! I glanced in the mirror. My hair was tangled and my face puffy and swollen from crying. I would not be able to master my hair in a short period of time, not alone, and it would take several hours and cold compresses to smooth my skin. I would not let him see me so discomposed. That would not give me equal footing at all.
“Please let him know I am slightly unwell, and shall call upon him soon,” I said with finality.
“But, miss . . .”
“Thank you, Mrs. Blackwood,” I insisted. If she could see me, she’d agree, I was certain.
Later that afternoon, when I’d gotten myself assembled and put on one of my better dresses, I headed downstairs. I gently waved away an offer of tea and pulled my gloves midway from elbow to shoulder. I allowed Landreth to assist me in putting on a warm cloak and I slipped my hand into a white fur muff. I realized, with a pang of pain, that I’d last worn it when we’d gone shooting.
Midway through the gardens between the house and the guesthouse, I noted a large pile of brush, mostly dead twigs and leaves, branches that had been pruned. The stack appeared to await the gardener for autumn clearing. Strangely, though, there appeared to be a ribbon atop it. I walked closer to inspect.
There, gently set on top, rested a small bouquet, still fresh, of white blossoms clinging to cool branches. Jasmine season was months past, but white autumn camellias had just come in. They alone bloomed when all else was dying.
Who but Luke would have gathered a white bouquet on the property, and for what purpose other than to give it to me?
“But of course,” Michelene had said. “Now that you are the heiress, the wooing must begin.” Had he been wooing me or Headbourne? When I was with him I felt his love and affection emanate from what seemed deep inside him. But when we were apart, the doubts rained down steadily, unstoppable. He’d been warm. And then cold. Now, perhaps, warm again?
I let the flowers lie for the moment and made my way to the guesthouse.
There were all sorts of strange persons milling about, people I did not recognize, carriages and carts that were unknown. When I got to the front door, a man unknown to me was conducting an orchestra of servants going in, boxes coming out.
“Is Captain Whitfield available?” I asked. “I’m Miss Rebecca Ravenshaw.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Captain Whitfield has left for London.”
London. I could not believe it. In the span of only a few hours since he’d come to call? “Has Thornton accompanied him?”
“Yes.” He was not very forthcoming.
“When will he return?” The wind began to blow around me; I felt cold coil at my legs atop my boots.
“He won’t be returning, miss.”
I gasped. “He’s not coming back?”
He shook his head. “No, miss. Lord and Lady Ledbury sent us to finish packing his belongings.”
“Oh.” I stepped aside so a man with a large trunk could get by me. “Thank you for your help.” I kept my voice steady. He bowed, and made his way back to directing the flow of personnel.
I walk
ed slowly back toward the house; on the way, I stopped to claim the white bouquet. I took it in hand, fingering the ribbon, knowing his hand had likely tied it. I touched the cut tips of the stems. They were damp, had been freshly cut. I held a blossom to my lips.
I had, perhaps in pride, set aside the last chance for us to talk at length; he had, perhaps in pride, set aside his last gift to me without leaving a note. He had been cool to me, and I to him. I do not know whether to pray to see him at the ball or not. So I ask only Your will be done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On a blustery day soon after, Mr. Highmore arrived.
Landreth let him in and tried to take his cloak, but the solicitor held up his hand. “I wondered if, perhaps, Miss Ravenshaw—and of course Mrs. Ross—would join me for a walk outside to enjoy the brisk autumn air?”
I looked out the front door—it was beginning to grow misty, from the sky and not the ground this time—and the wind was picking up. I imagined that a nice cup of tea near the fire in the drawing room would be far more amenable. But Mr. Highmore was nothing if not a practical man, and so, if he was suggesting this, it was for some good cause. We bundled into warm outer wear and off we went down the steps and between the stone lions. Mr. Highmore offered his arm in a fatherly manner as we made our way through the weather. We came to a bench in a fairly sheltered area and there we sat.
“I am sorry for this unusual suggestion,” he replied. “But I thought you would like some privacy whilst we discuss the issues of your accounts.” He smiled but it was tinged with seriousness. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”
“Go on,” I urged.
“The funds—well, I’m sorry to say that the money in your father’s investments are nearly depleted.”
I stood up, and then, aware that there were likely to be eyes peering from the house, sat back down again. “Oh no! Depleted. How can that be?”
He sighed. “It’s taken some time to work through the records; there were many investment accounts and they had been directed to various sources. The bulk of the money went to the support of the mission in Travancore.”
I shook my head. “We lived so simply . . .”
“Yes, you did,” he said. “But additionally there were medical expenses, and doctors to be brought, and the educating of your brother. Supplies.”
“I suppose I thought some of that was funded by the Missionary Society,” I said.
“It could have been, but it was your father’s implicit request that he fund as much of it on his own as possible, freeing funds for other mission works. I’m certain that he thought Peter would have his own profession . . . truly, Miss Ravenshaw, I suspect he had little idea how much of the funds had been spent and he, we all, thought there would be more left once it was sorted.”
“I see.”
“He certainly thought that you would marry. There are some funds set aside for a dowry, and small amounts in current accounts. The woman claiming to be you spent a good sum on millinery, dresses, and the like. But mostly, it went to the mission field,” he said softly. “You could not have known. I would have had to write to him shortly, informing him, had he not passed away.”
“The repair of the house and gardens?”
“Captain Whitfield paid for them, all necessary, I might add.”
“If my dowry fund needed to be liquidated for that, would it cover the expenses?”
His eyebrows drew together. “Perhaps. But it would deplete them, and you will need funds to operate the house, complete the repairs, upkeep, taxes, and such like.” He put his hand back on my arm. “Headbourne is a large house, Miss Ravenshaw. It consumes quite a lot of money just to keep it running. Laundry bills, entertainment and food. The coal bills alone . . .”
I smiled. Perhaps I could be listed on Lady Ashby’s coal charity. Which brought to mind the ragged schools. I had already made some commitment to assist, by teaching, mainly, but had considered helping financially as well if it were possible. Likely it was not.
“Is there money for charity?” I asked.
“You are a charity, my dear Miss Ravenshaw,” he said. “Or you will be very shortly.” By now the wind had picked up and I feared that Mrs. Ross’s tightly tied bonnet might not hold. Mr. Highmore had been right—I would not want this discussed where ears could pry.
“Household staff?”
“As you’ll have noticed, staff salaries are small compared with the other expenses. But you must economize. There are other options.”
“Please tell me. What are these other options?”
“You could always marry, of course,” he said. Luke’s charge—Show me a woman who does not marry for title or for money. You’ll not be able to. She doesn’t exist—rang in my ears.
“No, marriage is not an option just now. Even if I wanted it to be. . . .” I trailed off sadly. He looked surprised, but only for a moment.
“You could sell Headbourne. I’m sure we could find a suitable buyer.”
I sat with my hands in my lap. “My family. My father’s legacy.” The family, and the legacy, had once been lively and blessed, like the gardens around me; had thrived and had shown such promise and beauty. And now, it seems they were dead, brown, lifeless and crisp, ready to be blown away for good. “I’d meant to steward that which had been left me, and to find and keep financial security. I’ve done neither.”
He waited a moment before speaking. “Your family’s legacy is not in this house, however lovely and ancient it is. It is you, and those they served.”
I looked at him and blinked back the tears. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Highmore, for that kind word of exhortation. Do I have time?”
He nodded. “Some months. End of the year.”
I nodded and stood, deeply chilled in spite of my wool layers. “Thank you, Mr. Highmore. I shall take your concerns with prayerful reflection.”
He repositioned his tall black hat. “I am always here to help, Miss Ravenshaw.”
We walked back to the house, and once inside he gave me a small leather envelope with some cash and a folio of information on my account.
I handed the accounts book to Mrs. Blackwood, who had been assisting me with financial matters, and kept the leather envelope with cash in my room. “Please keep this in confidence. And, soon, I would very much appreciate your going over the household expenses with me so I might properly adjust. You’ll know better than I at this point how to best economize.”
“Certainly. I’m here to assist you in any way,” she said quietly, and, I thought, with great compassion.
I blinked back tears and nodded, then she turned to go.
Luke was gone. My house was gone. I had thought to lose one or the other, but not both. I must think, now, push aside grieving for a moment. What shall I do?
I looked through my wardrobe. Perhaps Matthew’s mother would be able to sell some of these fine gowns. I laughed, not wanting to cry. I touched my mother’s wedding dress. It was so beautiful and now, I was certain, I would never wear it.
What would my mother do? After some time, I had a growing conviction. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you.
I knew what I was being pressed to do, a first step, anyway. I did not want to do it at first. But in the end, I was convinced that it was right.
I waited beside the coach house till Daniel finished up the task at hand. He saw me and came over. “Do you need me, Miss Ravenshaw?”
I nodded. “Would you have a footman deliver this box to Miss Delia Dainley, today, if possible, with all speed?” I handed over a small wooden trunk.
“I can have someone leave shortly,” he said. “It’s a slow day.” He grinned and I had the idea that, had we been social equals, he would have winked at me. I liked him.
“Thank you. Do let me know that it’s safely del
ivered.”
I went back to the house and into the music room. I sat at the piano, and lifted the lid. I ran my hands over the keys. My father had played; surely he had played tunes on this one. Had they had musical evenings together? Did my mother sing to his playing, as she sang without accompaniment in India?
Soon I could see the little heart-shaped carriage approaching the drive. It was Daniel, and he stopped in front of the house rather than drive all the way to the coach house. I met him at the top of the steps.
“She’s gone,” he said. “Miss Dainley is on a ship, waiting for the convoy to gather before leaving for India.”
The same fleet Luke was to leave on? Was she going to meet with him in India?
No, that could not be possible. He was in London, not Southampton. The idea of them being together, though, in India gave me pause. It made me wonder if I should carry through with my plan, because if I did, and if they married . . . I could not imagine that pain.
I had a moment to change my mind, a second chance. I pressed forward.
“The fleet tarries?”
He nodded. “For now.”
“Can you take me all the way to Southampton?”
“Of course.” He stopped for a minute. “Is it important?”
“Yes, it is.”
I ran up the stairs in a most unladylike manner, not knowing if the ship were to leave in fifteen minutes or ten days. They waited till there were enough of them to sail safely together, and till the tide was right, and then they set out through the Solent.
“Mrs. Ross?” I pounded on her door. “Can you come along, please? Quickly?”
“Aye, lassie. I’ll be right there.”
Daniel helped us each into the carriage.
As we clattered down the drive and through the town, I thought how very much this drive reminded me of my trip to Headbourne some months back. I’d arrived at the docks, ready to embrace unknown England. I’d been fearful and plagued with anguish over the loss of my family, and my home. And now, I rushed toward Delia, who was making my journey in reverse. It was late afternoon, and I hoped that we would reach the docks before darkness descended. It could be a sordid, somewhat squalid place by daylight and I had no desire to be at the wharf in the evening.
