3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 10

  But before giving up and standing, she saw the bedskirt ripple. Could be a draught from the open door or could be the wayward mouse. But which? She swallowed, unsure if she really wanted to find out the truth.

  Slowly, she crawled toward the ruffle, then yanked it up, hoping to scare the fellow before it scared her. Nothing but a heap of stained fabric lay there. She sat back on her knees. No mouse. But wait a minute.

  She bent again and pulled out the garment, then held it up.

  Her heart broke when she realized what she held. A prison uniform. Torn. Bloodied. Reeking of sweat and despair. And no doubt belonging to Ben. Heaviness clung to her as if she’d put the garment on her own skin. She could only imagine the indignities he’d suffered. The desire to hold it to her breast and weep warred with the impulse to shove it away.

  “Victory!” Miss Scurry’s voice rang down the hall.

  Clara thrust the horrid garment back beneath the ruffle and fled from the chamber.

  The old lady grinned at the other end of the corridor. “Love has returned!”

  How on earth had the old lady found the thing? Had she truly lost the mouse in the first place, or had this been some ruse to riffle through rooms she ought not be in? Clara puzzled as she closed the distance between them. Whatever the reason, the sooner they returned downstairs, the better.

  “I am happy to hear it.” Clara patted the old lady’s arm, at the same time guiding her toward the stairs.

  “The reckoning is complete, for me at any rate. Oh!” Miss Scurry stopped at the top stair and turned to her, lower lip quivering. “Don’t fret, dear. Yours will come as well.”

  Clara hooked her arm through the old lady’s, hopefully urging her onward. She’d not rest until they were at least down on their own bedchambers’ floor. “I don’t mean to pry, Miss Scurry, but I fear I am not very good at riddles. What is it exactly that you’d hoped to gain by coming here to Bleakly Manor? What was it you were promised?”

  “That the lost would be found, dear.” Thankfully, the lady grabbed the handrail and worked her way down beside Clara.

  “Surely you don’t mean your mouse?”

  “Oh no, dear.” The old lady chuckled. “Though I own I am relieved to have found Love. You see, most people mock me for my special insights, such as Mr. Tallgrass or Mademoiselle Pretents. Others simply ignore me, like Mr. Pocket. But Mr. Minnow was such a gentle soul to me, and then there’s you.”

  They cleared the landing to the second floor, and Miss Scurry turned to her. “Since the moment you arrived, Miss Chapman, you have been the dearest of creatures to me. Why, I’d forgotten how delightful it is to be seen and heard.”

  Clara licked her lips, still not following the scampering logic of the old woman. “I thank you, but I still don’t understand.”

  “What I lost was my hope in humanity, dear.” The old lady patted her arm. “But because of you, I have found it again.”

  The Seventh Day

  DECEMBER 30, 1850

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Setting down her plate of cold toast, Clara glanced at the sitting-room door, willing Ben to cross the threshold. A highly irregular chamber in which to eat breakfast, but it was the only room that held any warmth. Despite the blaze in the hearth, she shivered and tugged her shawl tighter at the neck. This manor, these people, were getting to her in a way that crawled under her skin and shimmied across her shoulders. Why had Ben not appeared last night for dinner or for breakfast this morning? Surely by now he’d sent out a letter to every magistrate, barrister, and perhaps every law clerk in the whole of England. It wouldn’t do for her to visit his chamber, but she determined then and there that next time the maid Betty entered the room, she’d send her to ask after him.

  “Looking at that door will not make your lover arrive any faster.” Mademoiselle Pretents’s dark eyes needled her from across the room.

  A hot trail burned up her neck. Must the woman be so hateful? “Mr. Lane is not my lover.”

  The woman’s lips pulled into a feline smile. “Ahh, but you want him to be, no?”

  Near the hearth, Mr. Tallgrass ripped out a crude laugh.

  Mr. Pocket rose from his seat and faced the woman, skewering her with a dark look. “Mademoiselle, your coarse innuendos are inappropriate. Besides, how do you know Miss Chapman is not looking for Miss Scurry? That lady has yet to join us this morning as well.”

  “Pah! Stupidé man. What do you know of ladies? Nothing, I tell you.” She turned in her seat, murmuring more epithets beneath her breath and ending with a foul assessment at his failure to find her missing jewels.

  Picking at a bit of something in his teeth, Mr. Pocket retreated and sat beside Clara on the settee. “I am sorry you must endure such language.”

  She turned to him, a sheepish smile quirking her lips. “Thank you, Inspector. But I confess I have been watching for Mr. Lane.”

  Leaning back against the cushions, Mr. Pocket folded his arms. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you, miss. Perhaps he’s just having a good lie-in this cold morning.” The inspector’s eyes widened. “Well, well. Speak of the devil and he doth appear.”

  Heedless of what Mademoiselle Pretents might think or say, Clara’s gaze shot to the door—and she gasped. A scabby gouge ran from Ben’s brow to his temple. Deep purple spread out in splotches to his eye. An awful, ugly injury. One that might’ve taken his sight. Or his life.

  She flew to his side. “Are you all right?”

  “A little mishap, but don’t fret.” He smirked. “I’ve seen worse.”

  No doubt he had, and the thought stung her eyes with tears. Gently, she pushed back his hair for a better look. Sweet mercy. There was nothing little about this. “What happened?”

  Ben pulled her hand away and whispered, “All eyes are upon us.”

  Indeed. She could feel the sharp stab of Mademoiselle Pretents’s gaze in her back. Of course Ben wouldn’t give her any details. There was no way to have an unmolested conversation in here.

  She retreated a step. “I am happy you are accounted for, but I wonder about Miss Scurry. She’s usually the first one to breakfast. You didn’t happen to see her on your way down?”

  “I did not, but that determined look in your eye tells me I shall not rest until I have checked on her for you.” He wheeled about and left as quietly as he’d arrived.

  “Not without me.” Clara followed.

  So did Mademoiselle Pretents’s voice. “That’s right, chase him like the little puppy dog you are.”

  She tried to ignore the woman and then the lion in the foyer, but both managed to slip beneath her guard, prickling and uncomfortable. Hurrying on, she caught up to Ben on the stairs. “What really happened to you?”

  He shrugged. “Yesterday, chopping wood, the inspector’s blade flew off and caught me in the head. Had I not turned when I did, well, I have God alone to thank for that.”

  Lifting her gaze to the heavens as they climbed the stairs, she breathed out, “Amen to that.” Then she peered up at Ben. “I was concerned when you didn’t appear for dinner and said as much to Mr. Pocket, but he told me you’d said something about attending to business. I assumed that meant writing more letters. I had no idea you’d been injured. Why would he keep that to himself?”

  “I don’t know.” At the top of the stairs he paused and kneaded a muscle at the back of his neck. “And I don’t like it.”

  She caught up to him. “Oh, Ben, are you all right? Truly?”

  “A bit of head banger, but I’ll live. When I returned yesterday afternoon, I lay down for only a moment, or so I thought. Next thing I knew, the sun was up.” He smiled down at her. “Forgive me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let us check on Miss Scurry.” He pivoted and strode to the old lady’s chamber. Lifting a fist, he rapped on the wood. “Miss Scurry? Are you in there?”

  No answer.

  Stepping aside, he allowed Clara to advance and knock.

  “Miss Scurry, are you well
?”

  Nothing.

  Reaching past her, Ben tried the knob, and the door opened. “After you. We don’t want to frighten the lady if she’s abed.”

  Holding her breath, Clara padded in, afraid of what she might find. What if the old lady had passed during the night and was cold and grey beneath her counterpane? She forced her gaze to land on the bed.

  But the covers were untouched, with nary a wrinkle.

  “Over here.” Ben stood at a curio near the window, holding out a small, sealed envelope. “For you.”

  Her? She retrieved the missive, and sure enough, Miss Chapman was written in shaky cursive. Breaking the seal, she withdrew a small note.

  “What does it say?” Ben’s voice rumbled behind her.

  As she read, warmth spread in her chest, as much from the closeness of the man behind her as from Miss Scurry’s sweet words.

  “She got what she came for,” she murmured as she read. “And she feels no need to remain any longer. She left early this morning.”

  “But that makes no sense.”

  “Surprisingly, it does.” She folded the note and turned, face-to-face with Ben. “Miss Scurry told me yesterday that I had restored her hope in humanity, all because of my kindness. And that was what she’d lost. Her hope.”

  Ben stared deep into her eyes, never once varying his gaze. Slowly, he raised his hand and brushed his fingers along her cheek.

  Her heart took off, the beat so deafening, surely he could hear it.

  “You bring light and air where there is none.” His throat bobbed, and a small groan rumbled low. Some kind of war waged behind his stormy gaze, frightful yet alluring, as if he wrestled with—

  His mouth came down on hers.

  And a thousand suns exploded. He tasted of a summer day, all warmth and promise, and she melted against him. Fire licked along every nerve, birthing a hunger for more. Running her hands up his back, she pressed closer. They’d kissed before, proper and polite, but not like this. Never like this.

  Closing her eyes, she surrendered, giving in to a need she never knew existed. His mouth travelled along her jaw and down her neck, until her legs trembled and she could hardly stand. A tremor shook through him as well.

  Then he pulled away, chest heaving.

  And for some odd reason, her world fell apart. Loss cut sharp. Such passion, once savored, was impossible to walk away from so easily. Lifting a shaky hand to her mouth, she pressed her fingers against lips that felt full and hot.

  “Clara, I—” There was an edge to his voice. Primal and raw. He raked his fingers through his hair, breathing hard.

  Then he wheeled about and stalked from the room.

  How long she stood there, staring at the empty door, she couldn’t say. There was only one thing she was sure of. This new Ben was different from the former.

  And she wasn’t entirely sure what to think about that.

  The Eighth Day

  DECEMBER 31, 1850

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sidestepping Mademoiselle Pretents, who stood with hands outstretched to the hearth, Ben wound his way across the sitting room. How she’d managed to oust Tallgrass from the spot was anybody’s guess, though Ben suspected her forked tongue could prod a lame oxen to move along. But besides her continual grousing, events of the day had stretched into an uneventful New Year’s Eve. A blessing, that, for his head still ached from the strafing by the ax.

  And he wasn’t sure he’d ever forget that kiss.

  Shoving the thought away, he closed in on the sideboard and dipped the ladle into the punch bowl. This late into the evening, the wassail had chilled, but even so, the spicy scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted up. Outside, wind rattled against the panes, begging for entrance.

  “It is a rather dreary New Year’s Eve.” Behind him, Clara’s sweet voice tempered the clattering windows. “Shall we play a game?”

  “What’s it to be, then?” Mr. Tallgrass snorted. “Blind Man’s Buff? Sardines? No, I’ve got it. How about a relay? A real sweat breaker of a mad dash. Give Jilly the race of her life.”

  “I–I didn’t mean … I mean, I didn’t think …” Clara faltered, her words dying a slow death.

  Glass in hand, Ben turned from the table and impaled Tallgrass to his wheeled chair with a glower. “I am certain Miss Chapman meant no insult to you, sir. There are other games besides those requiring physical ability.”

  “Charades didn’t turn out so well.” The inspector set a figurine back onto a shelf, either satisfied he’d memorized the details of it or as bored as they all were. Mademoiselle Pretents whirled from the hearth and billowed over to the game table. She yanked out a drawer, then held up a deck of cards. “Come over here. All of you. Let us play Five Card Loo. Everyone has money, no? It is New Year’s Eve, after all. Maybe I can earn back the value of my stolen jewels.”

  Gripping the glass so tightly it might shatter, Ben delivered the wassail to Clara. He was unwilling to admit no money weighted his pockets, though surely everyone suspected as much.

  Clara smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

  He studied her as she took a sip. Her raven hair shone blue-black in the glow of lamplight. Her dress, while nothing as grand as she once wore, fit against her curves in a way that bewitched. He stifled a smirk. No, it wasn’t bad luck at all that he didn’t have any money, for he was here, with her, a far better lot than rotting in a ship’s hold on the way to Australia.

  Mr. Tallgrass rumbled in his chair. “Listen, you French witch, if I had any capital, then I wouldn’t be here, now would I?”

  Setting down her glass of punch, Clara searched in her pocket and pulled out a small silk pouch. Coins tinkled as she poured them into her palm and fingered through them.

  Ben narrowed his eyes. What was she up to?

  She crossed over to Mr. Tallgrass and held out a half farthing.

  The man sneered, his gaze bouncing between the coin and Clara. “What’s this?”

  “A gift, sir.” Her smile shamed them all. “To ward off poverty and misfortune this coming year.”

  Tallgrass snaked out a hand and snatched it from her, testing the metal of the coin with his teeth. Satisfied, he tucked it away with a grunt. “Fine. Right fine.”

  Whirling, she padded back to Ben, and his breath hitched. Did ever a purer soul walk the earth? He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “He’s right, you know.”

  Her nose scrunched, the little creases adding to her charm.

  “That was a right fine thing you did,” he explained.

  She pulled away, then pressed a coin into his palm, shaking her head to ward off his refusal. “May you have a blessed new year, as well.”

  He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “May we both,” he whispered.

  The first chime of midnight bonged low and resonant. Lacing his fingers with hers, he thanked God with each successive strike of the hour. Not the New Year’s he’d expected, but expectations were a realm one ought not dwell in for long.

  “A very merry new year to all.” Mr. Pocket’s voice was a benediction on the echo of the last chime. “A toast is in order, I think.”

  Smiling, Clara let go of Ben’s hand and bent to retrieve her glass. He snagged one of his own, and the unlikely group all lifted their wassail.

  “To the master of the manor and the winner of the prize, whomever that may be.” The inspector’s gaze slid from one person to the next, settling on Ben, then narrowed, his eyes nearly disappearing behind his big nose.

  Mademoiselle Pretents tossed back her drink. Spinning, she threw her glass into the hearth, shattering the strange moment. “So, are we going to play some cards or not?”

  Tallgrass sucked air in through his teeth. “A half farthing ain’t gonna go far, but I never could pass up a good game o’ Loo. Shove me over there, girl.”

  The inspector turned to Clara. “This may be a bit beneath your standards, miss. No shame in retiring now.” Then he elbowed Ben as he passed by on his w
ay to the table. “Come on, Lane. We can take the pair of them down.”

  Clara’s gaze followed the man. Then she peered up at Ben. “Indeed. It has been a long day. Stay, if you like, for I bid you good night.”

  She turned and exited before he could argue the point, which perhaps was a good thing. Had he seen her to her room, the beast inside him might not have stayed leashed after another kiss.

  “Will you stand like a lovesick steer, or shall I deal you in, eh?” Mademoiselle Pretents’s voice pelted him in the back like grapeshot.

  Such coarseness didn’t deserve a response, but a retort perched on his tongue nonetheless. He opened his mouth—then as quickly shut it and squatted. There, on the carpet, lay a coin where Clara had stood. Gold. Ancient. He snatched it up and chased after her. She was halfway up the stairs by the time he gained the first step. “Clara, you dropped your special coin.”

  She smiled over her shoulder. “La! Silly me. I should take better care—”

  Her foot shot out. Her arms flailed. She plummeted backward. If her head cracked the wood—

  No!

  He bolted ahead, taking the stairs two at a time. Oh, God, help me reach her.

  Arms outstretched, he lunged upward and caught her. Barely. Widening his stance, he hefted them both upright, then leaned her back against the railing for support. Other than being wide-eyed and making little strangling sounds, she appeared to be whole.

  He peered closer. “You all right?”

  She gulped, then nodded slowly. “Yes, thanks to you. But if you hadn’t been here—” All colour drained from her face.

  “Thank God I was.” Indeed. Thank You, God. He tucked back a loosened wisp of her hair, and she trembled beneath his touch—or more likely from the horror of nearly breaking her neck. He held out his arm. “Come on, let’s get you to your room.”

  Her fingers dug into his sleeve, grasping for dear life, and no wonder, for so close had she come to losing hers. Blast those long skirts and feminine frivolities such as lace hems and—what on earth?