by Sandra Byrd
“Thank you very much,” I said. She left, and I looked at the room around me—pretty and personal, with books and scriptures in many Eastern languages.
In a moment, the woman came back down the stairs. Alone. I took a deep breath.
“She says she will join you, please, in the garden at the back?” She continued to speak in Malayalam. “Alone.” She nodded toward Mrs. Ross.
I nodded. Mrs. Ross nodded and remained in the sitting room.
I followed the young woman out to the small area at the back, which was chilly, but in a protected area, and there were some well-worn chairs to sit in. A few minutes later, a beautiful young Indian woman came out.
The first thing she did was look at my hands, which I had ungloved for a moment to fix my hair.
“Henna?” She spoke Tamil, and she sat down across from me. She was beautiful, her eyebrows newly shaped and threaded, her hair gently curled in a traditional style. She had a thin gold ring through her nose and a ready smile, although she looked wary.
I nodded and responded in Tamil. “Yes. Thank you for speaking with me. I am looking for someone who may know the ayah to a woman who called herself Rebecca Ravenshaw. The one who claimed that name, that is, who died by her own hand last December.”
“I knew this maid,” she confirmed. Her face remained serene. “We were friends.”
“Oh, that is wonderful,” I said. I could not believe that, through fortune, boldness, and certainly divine intervention, I had made my way to someone, somewhere, who knew the maid connected with Headbourne. “I am the actual Miss Ravenshaw.”
At that, her eyes opened wide and although she worked hard to contain her shock, I could see that she was stunned.
She swallowed hard and then spoke. “The daughter of the missionaries?”
I smiled. She had indeed known the maid! “Yes, yes, that is me,” I said. “I arrived back in England in the spring. My parents, unfortunately, died, but by the grace of God I survived.”
She took all this in. “The house mother told us all about the Ravenshaw family when this maid arrived, as the London Missionary Society supports us as well as the missionaries in India, but we thought all were lost. I am certain that the ayah in question would have been delighted to hear of this. All of us connected with the Society will be.”
“I am hoping to find out more about who the young woman was who pretended to be me,” I said. “And also to learn, well, if the man who was to have inherited my house, if he was involved in her death in any way.”
Sattiyayi shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no, memsahib,” she said. “Of this I am quite certain. The man who was at the house, the captain, he did not try to harm that English lady. It was very much the opposite. He didn’t know it, but she was attempting to murder him.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Murder him!” I pitched forward in my chair. “How do you know?”
She backed up and crossed her arms. “My friend, she told me everything. Do you want to know this?”
“I’m very sorry for startling you,” I said. “Yes, yes, please do go on.”
“My friend is from Ceylon,” she began. “She was an ayah there. Last year, her mistress went to Kerala to visit friends, and after they arrived there, they learned some missionary friends had died in the Rebellion. There was, as you know, considerable unrest in the north, but in the south, ships were regularly sailing still. My friend’s memsahib said she wanted to go to England, to visit, and needed an ayah. There were other English women traveling who could serve as chaperones for the trip. My friend agreed. She was promised a great sum of money and a return ticket to India. My friend does not speak English.”
I nodded. Many English ladies in India did not like to employ English-speaking maids so they could keep their personal discussions private.
“Did your friend know what this woman’s name was?” I asked her.
She nodded. “She did not speak English, but when they were arranging for traveling papers and tickets, she heard her called Violet many times.”
“No,” I breathed out. No. Could it have been a coincidence? It could not have been. Could not have been my friend, my lifelong friend, my Violet. And yet it must have been. Violet had known every detail of our lives. She had nothing to lose, really, as she had no family nor a future of any value, as she could see it, in India.
My skin prickled and I squeezed back the tears. “Please continue.”
“I’m sorry, I do not mean to upset you.” Sattiyayi looked nearly as distraught as I felt.
“You have done nothing wrong,” I said. “I can listen without interrupting you again.”
She pulled her shawl more tightly against the wind. “So my friend came to England. They went to the grand house and all was well for some time. Although she didn’t speak English or have any time alone, she did begin to notice that at first people were very warm to the young miss, but then began to treat her oddly. Especially the captain began to treat her with . . .” She hunted for the word.
“Skepticism?” I offered and she nodded. “Yes, I’m sure he would have begun to notice things,” I said. I recalled the left-handedness.
“And then soon, my friend began to notice that people were calling the memsahib ‘Rebecca’ and not ‘Violet,’ if not ‘Miss Ravenshaw.’ She said the memsahib began to take the sleeping medicine more and more, that the French maid had brought her quite a bit but only because memsahib was asking for it and the French maid seemed to think it helped to calm her, which it did. Violet was much agitated during the day. One night, my friend noticed that the memsahib had two bottles of malaria preparations. You know of it?”
“Dr. Warburg’s Tincture,” I said.
“That’s it. One day she came upon her in the shed where the cutter tools for the trees and shrubs were kept and it looked as though the memsahib was putting some powder into one of the jars.”
The glove. She had taken one of Luke’s gloves and used it so she would not poison herself by touching it. Then she must have been startled and left one glove behind.
Sattiyayi continued. “The memsahib was very angry with my friend and told her to leave, immediately. She slapped my friend’s face. She was very upset.”
At that, the maid touched her right cheek and flinched in sympathy. “This tin the memsahib had been taking it from looked like the same powder my friend had seen the cook in the kitchen use to kill mice. The lady became upset when she saw that my friend had noticed her doing this, and appeared to be frightened. I now know she was scared they would find out she was not you. And perhaps that my friend would find some way to tell the captain.”
I drew my shawl around me.
“And then?” I asked.
“And then memsahib spoke with the French maid, pointed to one of the bottles, and said the captain’s name. The maid took one of the bottles. Earlier, when the memsahib had left the room, my friend saw that the bottles looked to be the same, but one of them had a little mark in the label, like that left by scraping a fingernail. That was the one that was taken.”
How could this have been Violet, my Violet?
“The French maid, she did not know that memsahib had put something into the bottle so she might have given it to the captain. My friend took that bottle and hid it away in a bureau drawer that memsahib never used, planning to retrieve it later, when memsahib left the room, and dispose of it where it could hurt no one. My friend said that the memsahib became more and more melancholy after the captain, he told her that a friend of her brother’s was coming to the house to visit. My friend told her that she should be happy, but she screamed that she didn’t have a brother. She was greatly distressed that the captain had mentioned something about a constable.”
Violet knew Dunn could find her out, she’d be caught, she would have nowhere to go; worse, she would most likely be imprisoned for impersonating a dead pers
on and stealing money and lands. I could imagine her despair; I’d seen her despair when her own mother had died, when her father had moved her to Ceylon and taken up with a native woman, ostracizing them from English society. She had no hope after that. No friends, no suitors. Could not even be taken on as a governess. Her letters in India had not indicated the depth of her pain, but perhaps I could have questioned more, reached out sooner.
“She did not have time, now, to poison him. It drove her to desperation,” Sattiyayi continued. “Shortly, my friend found her, arm hanging off the bed. The whole bottle of the sleeping poppy juice the French maid had given her had been drunk as well as one from the housekeeper. She was dead.”
Oh, Violet. Violet! I grieved for her, for me. Tears streamed down my face.
“You knew this memsahib?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “She was my friend.” I knew Violet had taken my money and tried to take my home, but she thought I was dead and could not have imagined it would do me harm. Suddenly, I was very, very glad she was buried on my land. It was a family plot. “She was like family.”
Now Sattiyayi looked truly horrified. “I’m sorry to have told this to you.”
“I am not. But I have a very important question. Why didn’t your friend dispose of the bottle, later?”
“It was shortly after the memsahib had self-murdered and the household was distressed. The captain’s driver took her to the station, with some money and a note, and he forced her to leave immediately. Later, when she arrived here, she asked someone what the note said and it was instructions to help her travel back to India with another family. But the lascars and their English friends stole the money before leaving her here and there was not enough money for passage. And no families returning for some time, due to the Uprising.”
“There was a proverb, in henna, in the room.”
She nodded. “My friend wanted to make sure that people understood that Violet’s own evil, wanting to kill a man, taking what did not belong to her, had brought this on herself. But she does not write in English.”
“I’m very sorry this happened to your friend.”
“I, too,” she said. “But there are also good English people. An Englishman, the captain, made sure she got quickly away. Very often it is the stranger, the foreigner, who is blamed for these things. People mistrusted Indians, especially after the Troubles. We know that now, since we have lived here, at the Ayahs’ Home, with many other Indian maids. The home is provided to us by caring English people. So there are good people, and bad people, everywhere, Miss Ravenshaw.”
I nodded. “That is true. Will you return to India, like your friend did?”
She nodded. “Very soon. I have been saving some money, I have some valuables to sell, and there is a family who would like me to come with them on the ship to India. The memsahib speaks Malayalam, just a little, not like you.” She smiled.
I stood, feeling a compelling need to return, immediately, to Hampshire and talk to Luke. She walked me to the door, where I joined Mrs. Ross and opened my leather wallet.
“Please, do not sell your remaining valuables,” I said. “I cannot help the maid who was hurt in my home, by my friend, but I can help you.” I handed her a sum of money, realizing, now, how foolish and naive I’d been to travel with that much money, but thinking it had been perhaps divinely appointed. I could afford it now, because of Luke’s generosity. “Will this be enough?”
She tried to push it back at me. “It is too much.”
“No. It’s what I want to do.”
“," she said.
“I hope that is true,” I said, pleased that she knew the scripture.
“Many of us have profited by your father’s work. My brother, he has a good job and their house has a roof and they have food because of your father’s work in teaching them to read and to keep accounts, and he now has a situation with the English tea planters. His life, your mother’s life, it was not in vain.”
I was warmed by her reassurance and glad to have provided her passage back to India and we offered the Namaste sign to one another.
We met Daniel at the hackney carriage. The driver assured us that, if we hurried, we could take the train from London to Hampshire that very day. I told him, “All speed,” and extra if he could get us to Waterloo in time. He took me at my word.
As we blazed through London, I mentioned my giving the maid enough resources for her return trip. Mrs. Ross put her hand on mine. “That was a nice thing ye did,” she said.
“She needs to get home,” I said. “I understand that more than anyone.”
She nodded. “They’ll know ye by your love.”
I turned toward her. “Why, yes, that’s just what the young Indian maid said to me, too! In Tamil. Were you . . . did you serve in India, Mrs. Ross?”
She grinned and nodded, and then turned aside to watch London fly by. Well, much more about her began to make sense. I should speak with her of this later. For now, I looked out of the window, consumed with grieving for Violet, both resolved and distressed to know at last who lay in my grave.
I needed to get to Luke before he sailed.
Some hours later we pulled into Southampton. Daniel left us there on a bench, while he went to fetch the carriage. It took some time longer than I expected before he returned.
“One of the horses is not well,” Daniel said. “We shall have to travel slowly, and I will attend to her once we return to Headbourne House.”
“Thank you,” I said. I wanted, if at all possible, to speak with Luke that very evening. He had said he was leaving soon. Not the next night, or the night after, but soon. However, he had been vague and I didn’t want him to go without knowing the truth.
Actually, I simply didn’t want him to go.
We made our way home from the station, though it took hours. Time seemed to have stopped for me and I wished to urge the poor horses on.
“Fear not,” Mrs. Ross said, echoing the angels in the Bible, before being swayed to sleep by the carriage.
But I did fear. I feared being too late, too wrong, and perhaps having misunderstood many things all along. When we arrived, I asked Daniel to pull directly into the carriage house so he could attend to the lame horse.
It was all but empty. There was one horse still, in the back.
“Notos?” he said with surprise. “She was not here when we left. Perhaps Captain Whitfield is here?”
Oh! But that he were. My breath and pace both quickened. I went directly to the house and Landreth met us at the door.
“Is Captain Whitfield here?” I asked.
He smiled, and by his smile, I knew that my enthusiasm for Luke had shown through. Landreth shook his head. “No. But he was here earlier, inquiring after you. We told him you’d gone to London and didn’t say when you’d return.” He looked at me with a reprimand. “He left Notos, though.” By his expression I knew he found that unusual. As did I.
I went upstairs and changed into the velvet riding habit Michelene had ordered for me but that till now had gone unworn. I rued, now, the extravagance of the cut. Perhaps I should have known to economize more even then. I did not ring for Michelene; I did not want to speak with her just then. Instead, I made my way back downstairs, not stopping to talk to Mrs. Ross, either, as there were not two mounts.
“I shall ride to Graffam,” I said.
“Alone?” Mrs. Blackwood was in the hallway with Landreth now.
I nodded. “I’m a grown woman who has made her way through the murder of her parents, through a journey from the Indies, to face an imposter trying to steal my home and heritage. One ride will not undo me nor my reputation, and Lady Ledbury is sure to be at home.”
I turned and walked into the dusk, hoping that the dimming light would conceal my shaking. I made my way to the stable yard, where Daniel was attending the lame horse.
�
��Would you saddle Notos for me?” I asked. “A saddle with a pommel?”
“For . . . you, miss?” His mouth was agape.
“I do know how to ride, Daniel. And, at present, I do not see another mount which is not ill or tired. Do you?”
“No, miss, I do not. Where are you going?”
“To Graffam Park.”
He gave me some simple directions, but I felt certain that I knew the way having traveled it only two days before. And, if I went astray, Notos would certainly know the way.
“Miss Ravenshaw?” he said. He looked toward the horse boxes, then looked back to me. He went white.
“Yes?”
“I have one more confession to make. Early on, miss, when you first came. I . . . it was I who locked you in the stall with the bay.”
“You? Daniel, why?”
He looked shamed. “We didn’t like you, I’m sorry to admit. We thought you were an imposter and I wanted to scare you. Please forgive me, and don’t tell the captain. We all like you now, we really do. I just didn’t want you to be afraid, now, as you take up riding again.”
I softened. “Thank you for telling me, Daniel. And I won’t tell him. Now—get my saddle!”
I came close to Notos, patting her side before presenting myself near her head. She shied away.
“I’m afraid, too, girl, but we have to do this.” I waited another few moments till she got used to my presence, then Daniel saddled her and helped me on and I rode, slowly at first, and then more quickly, down the drive and toward Luke.
The dark closed in around me like a tunnel; it was deep October and the mists came early now and blew in my face as I rode. I prayed there were no snakes, no holes in the ground, no tangling vines, but mainly I prayed I would know what to say and how to say it. We raced through the night. I soon recognized the ornate drive that led to Lord Ledbury’s estate. I slowed Notos down, and she seemed relieved, too, at the familiar place. I rode her to the stable, where there were several grooms present. One of them helped me down.
