3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Read online

  An outcast.

  Anger rose in him like a mad dog, biting and completely impotent, for he had no idea who’d put him in this rat hole. The only thing he did know, he wished he didn’t. Not now. Not ever. Growling roared in his ears. Was that him? Oh, God. Not again.

  Betrayal from an enemy he could understand, but from the woman he loved? What man could fathom that? For nine months he’d turned that question over and over, examining every angle, each nuance, and still he could not reckon Clara’s duplicity.

  Why, God? Why?

  A finger at a time, Ben opened his hand and stared fiercely at a small chunk of stone, barely discernable in the darkness. Worn smooth now by nearly a year of caressing. He flipped it over, just like his unanswered questions, the sleekness of the rock against his palm reminding him he was human, not beast. Outside his cell, a shriek crawled beneath the crack in his door, reaching for him, taunting him to believe otherwise. To join the howl and become one with the pack of hopeless men.

  He flipped the rock again. The movement tethered him to sanity.

  Cocking his head, he listened with his whole body. Something more than screams crept in. The scrape of boot leather. Growing louder. Metal on metal, key battling key. The low murmur of a coarse jest shared between two guards.

  Sweat popped out on Ben’s forehead. He pressed his back into the wall, an impossible wish to disappear digging into his gut. The footsteps stopped. Only a slab of scarred wood separated him from his tormentors. Some Christmas this would be.

  The key jiggled in the lock, and his stomach twisted. It was safer to remain here. In the dark. At least in this womb of crumbling brick and blackness he still heard the cries of other prisoners, as regular as a mother’s heartbeat. He yet felt the dampness of rot on his skin, tasted the rancid gruel served once a day. Still breathed. Still lived.

  He flipped the rock again.

  The door swung open. A lantern’s glow silhouetted two ghouls.

  One stepped forward, a club in his grasp. “Out with ye, Lane. Warden’s got a little Christmas gift with yer name on it.”

  Ben wrapped his fingers tight around the stone. Should he make a run for it? Spring an attack and wrestle for the club? Go limp? He’d sigh, if he had any breath to spare, but even that seemed a precious commodity nowadays.

  No, better to face this head-on and not relinquish the last morsel of his dignity. He shuffled forward, the chains on his feet rasping. Shackles bit a fresh wound into his ankles with each step.

  Leaving behind the only haven he’d known the past nine months, he stumbled into the corridor, guards at his back, prodding, poking. He lurched along, passing other doors, other convicts, inhaling the stench and guilt of Millbank Prison. How many wretches as innocent as he perished behind those doors?

  One foot. Then the other. Drag, step. Drag, step. Until the stairway. The weight of his chains pulled him back as he ascended. By the time he reached the top, blood trickled hot over his feet.

  “Move it!”

  The guard’s club hit between his shoulder blades, knocking him forward and jarring loose his precious stone. It clacked onto the floor, as loud to him as the hammer pounding in Christ’s nails, then bounced down the stairs, taking his soul along with it.

  No!

  He wheeled about, diving for his only remainder of hope.

  But a boot caught him in the gut. A club cracked against his skull. Half-lugged, half-dead, he landed in the warden’s office like an alley cat thrown against a curb. The warden’s sigh barely registered.

  “Don’t know why I expected anything different. Thank you, gentlemen. You may wait outside. Up you go, Lane.” Warden Hacksby extended a hand.

  Ignoring the offer, Ben sucked in a breath and forced his body up, staggering until the room stopped spinning.

  “If nothing else, you are consistent.” Hacksby chuckled and seated himself behind a desk as angular as the man himself. “Do you know what day it is?”

  Ben worked out the soreness in his jaw before words could escape. “Sorry. I’ll have to check my calendar and get back to you. Or … wait a minute. Ahh, yes. Am I to sail for Australia today?” He narrowed his eyes. “But we both know I’ll never reach the shore.”

  “Ever the cynic, eh? Really, Lane. After all the hospitality I’ve shown you.” Hacksby tut-tutted, the curl of his lip exposing yellowed teeth. “But no. There’s been a change of plans. You’ve received another offer, should you choose to take it.”

  Bitterness slipped from Ben’s throat in a rusty laugh. “What, the gallows? A firing squad? Or has Queen Victoria invited me for Christmas tea?”

  “Aha! So you do know what day it is. Always the sly one, are you not?” Hacksby rose from his seat and leaned across the desk, a creamy envelope with Ben’s name in golden script on the front. “For you. Your freedom, possibly—providing you play by the rules. If not, you’re to be shot on sight for any escape attempt.”

  Ben eyed the paper. What trick was this? He was supposed to be transported to a labour camp halfway across the world, not handed an engraved invitation. He stiffened. This was a trap. He knew it to the deepest marrow in his bones.

  Nevertheless, he reached out, and for the smallest of moments, the warden held one edge, he the other. Liberty hanging in the balance.

  Maybe.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Despite her cold fingers, Clara rubbed away the frost on the coach’s window, then peered out into the December night. She ought be sore by now, riding such a distance over country roads, but truly, this carriage was magnificent—and so was the mansion that popped into view as they rounded a bend. She leaned closer, then reared back as her breath fogged the glass. With a furious swipe of her glove, she stared out the cleared circle, slack jawed.

  This was Bleakly Manor?

  A grand structure, torches ablaze, lit the night like the star of Bethlehem. The building stood proud at three stories tall, with candles winking behind row upon row of mullioned windows. Clearly whoever owned Bleakly didn’t care a fig about window taxes. Clara held her breath and edged closer, careful not to muddle her view with rime. Garland swagged from the roofline the entire length of the building. How on earth had they managed that? Red bows with dangling ribbons hung from each wall sconce, and as the carriage drew nearer, a gust of wind lent them life, and they waved a greeting.

  She sat back against the cushion, stunned. There was nothing bleak about this manor. Who had invited her—a lowly lady’s companion—to such an estate? Who would even want to keep company with her? And more importantly, why?

  The coach stopped, and the door opened. She gave up trying to solve such a puzzle as the footman helped her to the drive.

  “I’ll see to your bags, miss.” A lad, no more than fourteen yet dressed in as fine a livery as the older man, tipped his head in deference.

  The respectful gesture stung. She hadn’t been so favored since that awful day, that nightmare day nine months previous, when she’d stood in front of an altar in a gown of white.

  “Ready, miss?”

  The footman’s voice pulled her from the horrid memory. She lifted her skirts to follow him without tripping. “Yes.”

  She was ready, truly, to meet whoever had invited her. Perhaps if she explained the frail state of her aunt, she wouldn’t be required to stay the full Twelve Days of Christmas.

  After ascending granite stairs, she and the footman passed through an arched doorway and entered a foyer the size of Aunt’s dining and sitting rooms combined. A crystal chandelier dripped golden light over everything, from a cushioned bench against one wall to a medieval trestle table gracing the other. Fresh flowers filled a cut-glass vase atop the table. Marble tile gleamed beneath her feet, the echo of her steps reaching up to a mounted lion head on the wall in front of her, just above a closed set of doors. She couldn’t help but stare up into the cold, lifeless eyes, wondering how many people before her had done the same.

  “I should be happy to take your cloak and bonnet, miss.” T
he footman held out his arm.

  Her fingers shook as she unbuttoned her coat and untied her hat, though she was hard-pressed to decide if the jittery feeling was from cold air or nerves. Handing over her garments, she waited for further instruction from the tall fellow.

  But without a word, he pivoted and disappeared down a darkened hallway to her left.

  She stood, unsure, and clenched her hands for fortification, sickeningly aware of a gaze burning holes through her soul. Yet the only other pair of eyes in the foyer besides hers was the lion’s.

  She sucked in a breath. Nerves. That’s what. Had to be.

  To her right, another set of doors hid secrets, merry ones by the sound of it. Yellow light and conversation leached out through a crack between threshold and mahogany. Licking her lips, she squared her shoulders, resolved to meet the master of the house, then pushed open the door.

  Across the Turkish carpet, perched upon a chair and balancing a small box on her lap, a white-haired lady held up a quizzing glass to one eye and peered at Clara. “Oh, lovely! Such a beautiful creature. Don’t you think, Mr. Minnow?”

  “Why yes!” A lean man, more bones than flesh, jumped up from a settee and dashed toward Clara so quickly she retreated a step.

  He bowed, deep enough that his joints cracked, and held the pose longer than necessary. The scent of ginger wafted about him. When he straightened, he smiled at her with lips that were far too elastic. “Mr. Minnow at your service, mum. William Minnow, esquire. Well, not quite yet, but soon, I am certain. And you are?”

  Clara blinked. Was this the master of Bleakly Manor? A lanky eel in a suit?

  Instant remorse squeezed her chest. Who was she, a woman fallen from the graces of society, to judge the appearance of a man of substance? She dipped her head. “I am Clara Chapman.”

  “Clara Chapman! Oh, but I like the sound of that.” The elder on the chair waved a handkerchief at her. “Step nearer, dearest, and let’s look at you up close, shall we?”

  Familiar with the idiosyncrasies of the elderly, she complied, but froze several paces in front of the woman. A pink nose with whiskers poked out of the box on the lady’s lap, where a hole had been cut jaggedly into the side. Red eyes emerged, followed by a furry body and a naked tail, flesh-coloured and long. A second mouse emerged after it. The two scampered to the edge of the old lady’s knee and rose up on hind legs, testing the air with quivering noses.

  Clara stiffened. Hopefully the creatures would turn right around and disappear back into the box.

  The lady merely scrutinized her as if nothing more than a teacup and saucer rested on her lap. “Such a marvelous creature, Miss Chapman.”

  Was she speaking of her or the mice? “Th–thank you,” she stuttered. “I am sorry, but I didn’t catch your name, ma’am?”

  “No, you did not.” The lady beamed at her. “I am Miss Scurry, and now we shall all be the jolliest of companions, shall we not?”

  “We shall, and more.” Mr. Minnow’s heels brushed against the carpet, then he reached for her hand and placed it on his arm. “Come, sit and warm yourself, my pet.”

  Pet? She barely had time to turn the word over before he escorted her to a settee near the hearth and pushed her into it.

  “I’m wondering, Miss Chapman”—Mr. Minnow smiled down at her—“not that Miss Scurry and I aren’t exceedingly grateful, for we are, but why exactly have you invited us here to share the Twelve Days with you?”

  “Me?” She shook her head, yet the movement did nothing to make sense of his question. “But you are mistaken, for I received an invitation myself.”

  “Bosh! This is a pickled herring.” Flipping out the tails of his suit coat, he joined her on the settee, much too close for propriety. “I thought you, being a lady of such grace and beauty, surely belonged to this house.”

  “I’m afraid not.” She edged away from him.

  “Sh-sh-sh.” Miss Scurry, evidently just discovering the two escapees had scampered to the top of the box, shooed both mice into the hole on the side and plugged it up with her handkerchief. “Rest, my dears.” Then she gazed over at Mr. Minnow. “Don’t fret so, my fine fellow. The day of reckoning will come soon enough, and all will be made clear.”

  Mr. Minnow clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done for it but to wait for the host to appear.” His head swiveled, and he narrowed his eyes at Clara. “You’re sure that’s not you?”

  “I am, Mr. Minnow. Very sure.”

  She bit her lip. Clearly neither of these two eccentrics was the host. So, who was?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The prison cart juddered over a hump in the road, rattling Ben’s bones. He’d curled into a ball in one corner, tucking his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms about them. Even so, after hours on end and with the chill of night bearing down, there was no stopping the chattering of his teeth. He snorted. Between teeth and bones he was quite the percussionist.

  A low “whoa now” slowed the wheels, and finally the cart stopped. Ben jerked upright, crouched and ready, the sudden hammering of his heart forgetting the cold. The long ride here had given him plenty of time to consider his situation, and he’d come to one conclusion—these were his last hours on earth.

  So be it. He’d go out fighting against such a wicked injustice and find some measure of worth in the fray.

  The scrape of a key shoved into the metal lock, then a click, a creak, and the door swung open. “Yer ride ends here, Lane. Out ye go.”

  The dark shape of the guard disappeared and light poured in. Ben’s eyes watered. Light? Was it day, then? How far had he travelled?

  He edged forward, cautious, scanning, as more and more of the world expanded into his view. Black darkened the sky, so it was still night, but torches ablaze changed the immediate area to morning.

  “Move along! I’ve still got a drive back to London.” The guard spat out a foul curse. “Ye’d think I’d signed up to be a bleedin’ jarvey. They don’t pay me enough, I tell ye. Not near enough.”

  Ben dropped out of the door and immediately wheeled about, fists up, stance wide, prepared for battle.

  The guard merely shoved the door shut and relocked it, ignoring him—and there was no one else around.

  Truly? No one? Ben stared hard into the darkness beyond the light. The expansive grounds were rimmed with trees along the perimeter, black against black. Nothing moved except the wind through barren branches. Apparently he’d been taken some distance into the countryside. He turned to face the manor. Impressive, really. Tall. Well masoned. Crenellated at the top. Perhaps used as a stronghold centuries ago.

  “Hyah!”

  He spun. The cart lumbered down the curved drive, the guard urging the horses onward—without him. He was left standing alone. Unfettered. A brilliant mansion at his back and acres of freedom in front. He could run, here, now. Tear off and flee like the wind. Should he? He scrubbed a hand through his hair, recalling Hacksby’s threat.

  “You’re to be shot on sight for any escape attempt.”

  The prison cart disappeared into the night. But slowly, emerging out of that same darkness, another shape loomed larger. A carriage, and a fine one at that. Should he wait and meet head-on whomever it carried?

  Cold ached in his bare feet and up his legs, yet the pain of the unknown throbbing in his temples hurt worse. He’d have a better chance of putting up a fight if he could actually move his frozen body. Pivoting, he climbed the stairs to the main entrance and rapped the brass knocker.

  The door opened immediately, as if the butler had stood behind it waiting for him.

  “Welcome, Mr. Lane.” The man’s upper lip curled to nearly touch his nose.

  Ben smirked. He ought be ashamed of his stench, but his time at Millbank had dulled that emotion, especially when it came to issues of hygiene. Even so, he took out his manners and dusted them off. “Thank you. I see you were expecting me.”

  “Yes, sir. We have a room prepared for you
after such a journey. If you would follow me.” Turning on his heel, the butler strode the length of the grand foyer toward a door with a stuffed lion head mounted above it.

  Ben studied the man as he went. He could pose a threat, for his shoulders were broad as a ceiling beam and those stout legs might pack a wallop of a kick. But the silver streaks in his hair labeled the fellow past his prime. Even so, better to keep his distance.

  He followed, leaving plenty of space between them, then paused and stared up at the lion head. Light from the chandelier reflected back brightly from those eyes, transparent, lifelike and—

  “Mr. Lane?”

  He jumped at the butler’s voice. What was wrong with him? There were bigger mysteries afoot than a dead lion. “Of course. Sorry.”

  He caught up to the man, who’d opened double doors, revealing an even bigger lobby. A wide, carpeted staircase, lit by intermittent wall sconces, led up to a first-floor gallery, where more lamps burned. Interesting that pains had been taken to decorate the outside of the manor, yet not one sprig of holly or mistletoe hung inside.

  Behind them, the front door knocker banged. Two stairs ahead of him, the butler stopped and pulled out a gold chain from his waistcoat, then flipped open the lid of a watch tethered to the end of it. His eyebrows pulled into a solid line, and a low rumble in his throat gruffed out. “Pardon me, Mr. Lane. If you’d wait here, please.”

  Here? On the stairs? A duck at rest to be shot from behind? He waited for the butler to pass, then tracked him on silent feet and slipped into the shadow cast by a massive floor clock.

  A man in a sealskin riding cloak entered, frost on his breath and hat pulled low. He stomped his boots on the tiles, irreverent of the peace.

  The butler dipped his head. “Mr. Pocket, I presume?”