Mist of Midnight by Sandra Byrd Page B

into bed. Was she the reason?
    Perhaps—I delighted in the thought—it was instead the satisfaction of parrying in conversation with Captain Whitfield.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    M rs. Ross awaited me in the breakfast room next morning, lightly crunching a toasted crumpet smeared with gooseberry jelly and sipping a cup of tea, which Mrs. Blackwood continued to refill. “Guid morning, lassie. All set then, for your meeting today?”
    â€œThank you, dear Mrs. Ross, for remembering to be ready early today,” I said. “Truthfully, I’m a bit nervous to meet them, and to speak of it again. Once I open the door it all comes tumbling back and there are some things I do not have answers for.”
    â€œ ‘He shall direct thy paths,’ ” she quoted. “What do ye not yet have an answer for?”
    I took a slice of toast from the sideboard and a cup of tea for myself. I sat down next to her. It had been attentive of the Lord to direct her to me, a kindly and wise woman, mature in her faith, someone I could understand and whom I felt comfortable putting questions to. After a moment, I spoke up, softly.
    â€œDid He direct my mother and father’s path northward, then, to coincide directly with the Rebellion?” And send them to their brutal deaths , I thought, but did not say it aloud.
    â€œHe did,” she said quietly, but directly. “Or at least allowed it, unchecked.”
    It was like a kick to the stomach. “It is a hard truth.” Pain constricted my throat. “Why now? There are so many, so many malingerers and loafers and those interested in naught but their own advancement. Why not one of them instead?”
    She set down her crumpet. “I was nae aware that the Lord enlisted malingerers or loafers, nor the proud at heart as soldiers, lassie. To be on the field is to engage and to risk.”
    â€œThen perhaps I shall remain off the field.” I could not afford this costly conversation just now, right before I was to meet the Missionary Society man. I set down my teacup.
    She reached over and took my hand. “Doona be afraid to ask Him the hard questions. He oft poses them Himself.”
    I nodded my agreement and took a bite of toast before a small smile eased its way out as I envisioned Mrs. Ross in all her black girth, bonnet tight, engaged on a battlefield near kilted warriors. We made small talk about the musical soirée, which she said she had greatly enjoyed, and hoped I had, too. I told her I had because I wanted to cheer her as much as myself.
    Landreth led us to the morning room, and shortly thereafter, Mr. Highmore arrived, joined, as he’d promised, by a fairly young representative from the London Missionary Society. He could certainly not have known my parents; he was little older than I. “Welcome, gentlemen.” I tried to project confidence.
    â€œMiss Ravenshaw, please allow me to present Mr. Giles, from the London Missionary Society.”
    I smiled toward young Mr. Giles. “How do you do, Mr. Giles? You were recently put in charge of arranging and overseeing support for the East Indies missionaries, is that right?”
    Mr. Giles beamed. “Yes, that’s right. I wish I had been able to correspond with your fine parents, but both time and postage are dear.”
    â€œOf course,” I said. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.” They sat down on nearby chairs and Highmore began.
    â€œMr. Giles wonders, well, as news has only filtered back indirectly, if you could affirm the situation as it unfolded in northern India,” Mr. Highmore said. I did not know if he was asking me truly to inform those my father had corresponded with, or to prove my identity, but in either case, I did not mind.
    â€œPlease, spare yourself the uncomfortable details,” Mr. Giles said.
    â€œIt’s very simple,” I said. “My parents and I set out from Travancore to travel northward to find a doctor for the