3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 4

  “All I know is that you walked out of my life in the worst possible way.” A fine sheen of tears shimmered in her gaze, begging for release.

  But nothing else. No twitch. No tic. For the first time in nine months, his heart started beating. Perhaps—just maybe—she truly hadn’t known he’d been imprisoned. The thought lodged in his mind like a stone, all he’d believed of her swirling around it like water in a river.

  By all that was holy, was he falling under her spell yet again? He hardened his resolve and his tone. “On the way to church the morning of our wedding, I was accosted and charged with the embezzlement of Blythe Shipping and your family fortune. I have been at Millbank ever since. Had you the slightest bit of faith in me, you’d have done a little digging and unearthed that nugget of truth.”

  “This is hardly the garb of an inmate.” She swept out her hand. “That suit alone must’ve cost fifty pounds. Why should I believe you?”

  So many emotions waged war; he tugged at his collar, unable to breathe. Whoever had indicted him had not only stolen his freedom, but the good opinion of the only woman he’d ever cared about. Blowing out a sigh, he edged his chair nearer to her. “Look closer, Clara. Look beyond what you think you know to what really is.”

  Her gaze travelled over his face, pausing on leftover bruises, widening at recent scars, and finally landing on the bump on his nose caused by one too many breaks. For a moment, the tears in her eyes threatened to spill, and then a hard glaze turned them to glass. “For all I know, you’ve been brawling over some gambling debt. Tell me, have you lost everything you’ve taken so soon?”

  “I did not do it!” He growled like the beast she’d claimed him to be.

  At the opposite end of the table, the inspector stood. “Everything all right down there, Miss Chapman?”

  “Don’t concern yourself on my behalf, Mr. Pocket.” She glared at Ben and lowered her voice. “No one else has.”

  He gaped. He’d taken a punch in the lungs before, but never something as breath stealing as this. He shoved back his chair and stood, done with dinner before the main course and definitely done with Clara Chapman.

  “Oh, flap! Oy me rumpus! Who’s the wiggity scupper what called me here? Watch yer driving, Jilly.” A wheeled chair barreled through the dining-room doors, pushed by a slip of a girl. She shoved the chair to the head of the table, jiggling a large toad of a man seated atop, until both came to a stop. Everyone’s wineglasses quivered from the impact.

  The fellow grumbled as if he were the one being inconvenienced. “Now that I’m here, whyn’t we just pay me debt straight off and drink away the rest o’ the days? Which one of you guppers holds the money bags, eh?”

  Murmurs circled the table.

  The butler once again entered from a far door. “Ahh, Mr. Tallgrass. A bit tardy, but we are pleased you have joined us.”

  “Oh, flap! Oy me rumpus! Jilly, lend a hand.”

  The girl, face drawn into a perpetual sulk, left her post at the back of his chair and grabbed ahold of the front of his shirt, yanking him upward. Then just like that, she let go, so that he flopped backward, now straightened, with a huge sigh.

  His head swiveled to Clara. “Well, here’s a fine tablemate. I likes the look o’ you, I do.”

  Ignoring them all, Ben stalked away from the macabre gathering and took the stairs two at a time. Australia would’ve been better than this.

  The Second Day

  DECEMBER 25, 1850

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Clara startled awake, heart pounding. Bedsheets tangled around her legs, and she clutched the counterpane to her neck. Grey light slipped in through the drawn draperies where they didn’t quite meet. Not fully morning, but it would do. She’d tossed and turned enough to call it a night, waking from every dream, each one a variation of Ben’s face. Of the hurt in his eyes. The wildness. The pain creasing his brow. If she listened hard enough, she might yet hear the haunting echo of the anguish in his voice.

  “I did not do it!”

  She knotted the sheet in her hands. What if he spoke true? His pale skin had lacked his usual healthy luster. A fresh scrape had marred the temple near his left eye, a new crescent scar cut across his jaw, and his once straight nose was now aquiline. Not to mention the stark bones defining his cheeks, testifying to a lack of nutrition. All lent credence to his claim of being locked in Millbank. It wasn’t a huge leap of faith to change her belief that indeed he’d not run off to Europe with embezzled funds—but that merely meant he’d been caught beforehand. Didn’t it?

  So why would her brother, George, allow her to believe otherwise?

  She shoved the counterpane aside and sat up. Why indeed. She lifted her face to the ceiling, breathing out the prayer that was now as much a part of her as flesh and bone.

  Why, God? Why?

  Snatching her wrap from the end of the mattress, she shivered into it. The fire in the hearth had long since died out. Good thing she’d kept her stockings on. Hopefully Aunt would not venture from her bed on this chill of a Christmas morn.

  Clara dressed in the semilight, unwilling to lose any warmth to the windows until fully clothed, then she pulled the draperies wide and gasped. La! Such a view. A walled garden coated with a light dusting of snow lay just beneath her wing of the building. Beyond that, rolling hills and, farther on, a wood with towering trees. How lovely this would be when spring blew green upon it.

  But for now, wind rattled the panes. Cold air snaked in through a gap in the caulk, and she retreated a step, feeling the chill beneath the grandeur. Both the manor and the grounds were beautiful, yet she could not shake the morbid feeling the place was somewhat of a sham.

  Turning away from the scene, she settled in front of a small dressing table and set about pinning up her hair. Winter or not, Ben or not, she would celebrate this Christmas morn, leastwise in spirit, in memory of the Babe sent to atone for all.

  She shoved in the last pin just as a small envelope was thrust beneath her chamber door. What on earth? Rising from the chair, she crossed the rug to retrieve it. The thick envelope weighed heavy in her palm, definitely denser than the invitation of yesterday. Would each day bring a new set of instructions, then?

  Breaking the seal, she opened the flap, then shook out a single gold coin. Nothing else. No note. No directions. She held the coin up, catching the light from the window. Jagged edges detracted from what used to be a perfect circle. On one side, letters too worn to be read ringed around a raised X. No, wait. Maybe it was a cross. Hard to tell. She flipped it over. An ornate twining of embellishment encircled two words:

  Secundus Casus

  “Secundus casus,” she whispered, but even voicing the words aloud didn’t make any sense of them. Absently, she rubbed her thumb over the engraving, a sinking feeling settling low in her stomach. If her assumption was right, the message was in Latin—a language Ben had studied as a boy. Did she care enough about this mystery to ask him for his help in translation?

  She tapped a finger to her lips. Did it matter what the thing said? Perhaps the coin was a simple gift, given to everyone by the master of the house, a master they’d meet at breakfast. Surely that must be it. Tucking the coin into her pocket, she smoothed her skirts, then opened the door, prepared to meet the host who had called them here. Indeed, this would be a day of answers and—

  A scream violated the sanctity of Christmas morning. She froze, hand still on the knob, and debated if she ought turn back and lock herself in.

  Farther down the hall, another door opened, and Miss Scurry, toting her box, darted out. Her frantic steps swirled the hem of her skirt around her ankles. “Oh! Dear me!” She jerked her face toward Clara, the quizzing glass pinned to her bodice swinging with the movement. “Dear you! Are you quite all right, Miss Chapman?”

  “It wasn’t me.” She sped to the old lady’s side, offering an arm in case she swooned.

  Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and three men bolted toward them, Ben in the lead, followed by Mr.
Pocket, and finally Mr. Minnow.

  Breathless, cravat yet untied, Ben stopped in front of them. “What’s happened?”

  Biting her lip, Clara shook her head, unsure how to answer.

  He slid his gaze to Miss Scurry. “Are you ill, madam?”

  “Such a dear. Such a gentleman.” Miss Scurry beamed up at him. “I am well, sir.”

  But the next scream indicated someone else was not.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ben wheeled about and sprinted down the hall, the inspector at his side. Retracing their route past the staircase, they bolted into a different corridor. Halfway down, a door stood ajar. Heated words raged within, a woman’s voice calling down brimstone upon some unfortunate soul.

  Slowing, Ben glanced at the inspector, who had his gun drawn. Unarmed, Ben wouldn’t be much help to the man. Their gazes met for an instant, and Pocket gave a single nod of understanding, then took the lead.

  The inspector shoved the door open and barreled into the chamber. “Halt! Whatever’s afoot, be done with it!”

  Ben stationed himself at the threshold, prepared to collar a fleeing rogue if necessary. But the room was empty, save for the grey lady, Mademoiselle Pretents.

  The woman spun, brows pinched low enough to hood her eyes. “Oui, monsieur! Such villainy must be stopped.”

  The inspector swiveled his head, scanning the room, then loosened the hammer on his pistol and tucked it away. “What has you in such a state, mademoiselle? Are you unwell?”

  “No! I am not well.” Her fists popped onto her hips. A ruffled peahen couldn’t have puffed up nearly as much. “There is a thief at loose. My jewels have been stolen. All of them!”

  Ben advanced and studied the room. The windows were shut tight. There were no adjoining doors to this chamber. All was tidy, even the bed, as if the woman had slept atop the counterpane, for surely such a firebrand would not deign to make up the bedclothes herself.

  “Now, now, miss.” The inspector pulled out a chair from a nearby dressing table. “Why don’t you sit yourself down and tell me all about it?”

  “No! I will not sit. I will not rest. Not until my jewels are returned.” She stamped her foot, and the inspector retreated a step.

  Ben sighed. Some Christmas morning this was turning out to be. “Mr. Pocket can’t help you if you don’t tell him exactly what happened, madam.”

  Were he a superstitious man, he’d motion the sign of the cross to ward off the evil eye she shot him. Yet she lifted her skirts and settled on the chair.

  Pocket dragged over a cushioned stool and sat in front of her. “All right, then, let’s have it.”

  “Before I went to bed last night, I hid my pouch—a velvet one, black—inside my chamber pot, for who would think to look there, no? I rose early, before any maid could come take it away, and voila.” Her arm shot out, and she pointed to a porcelain urn next to the bed. “Empty!”

  Rising, both he and the inspector crossed to the pot and peered in. Only a hairline crack at the bottom stared up at them.

  Pocket turned back to the woman, his chest expanding with a deep breath. Ben hid a smile. The woman likely had no idea the interrogation that was about to rain down upon her head.

  “What was in the pouch?” the inspector asked.

  “My jewels.”

  “Yes, you’ve said that. What kind, exactly?”

  “Valuable ones.”

  “Details, mademoiselle.” The inspector cocked his head. “Details, please.”

  “A necklace, a bracelet, and a ring. All gold.”

  “The stones?”

  “Diamonds, so glittery.”

  “The chain?”

  “As I have said, gold.”

  “Single? Twisted? Any kind of pattern?”

  The woman glowered.

  The inspector leaned toward her. “Family heirloom?”

  “Of course!”

  “Whose?”

  Clearly rattled, the woman sank against the chair. Ben smirked. The inspector had fired out his questions so quickly, she’d not had time to speak anything but the truth. Yet it wasn’t so much what she said, but what she didn’t say, a trick he’d learned after suffering one too many examinations himself.

  A curious transformation took place. Instead of tears or even a whimper, the grey lady shot to her feet and clenched her hands. Red crept up her neck and bloomed on her cheeks. “Why you question me when it is my jewels that have been stolen, eh?”

  Interesting. Anger combined with a lack of minute description of her goods? And no grief whatsoever about the family connection to the jewels? Ben studied her set jaw and glittering black eyes. Perhaps the woman wasn’t the original owner of the trinkets but had stolen them herself.

  “Oh, dear. Oh, my!” The words cooed from behind.

  Ben glanced back to the door. The thin man, the elderly lady, and Clara all stood, eyes wide.

  “Out! Out! All of you.” The grey woman threw out her hands, and Ben had no doubt she’d shoo them off like a murder of crows. “Go! I will manage this on my own.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have screamed in the first place, madam,” the inspector grumbled as he passed by Ben. “Nevertheless, I will see what can be done to find your jewels.”

  Before Clara turned to tread down the hallway, Ben caught a glimpse of her face. Skin pale. Curved shadows beneath each eye. Her shoulders drooped and her step lagged. Apparently she’d not slept. A yawn overtook him as he followed the group to the top of the stairs. Neither had he, despite the comfort of a feather mattress instead of a cold stone floor. This should have been the first Christmas shared with his wife—as one flesh. Whoever stole that from him and poisoned Clara’s mind against him would pay. He clenched the handrail so tightly, his fingers ached.

  The inspector led the pack, followed by the thin man, Mr. Minnow, who pelted Pocket’s back with questions. Miss Scurry clutched her box with one hand and the railing with the other. Clara hovered behind her. Ben brought up the rear, mulling over the quirky behaviour of all the guests, Mademoiselle Pretents foremost. Whether the jewels were hers or not, the fact remained that a thief roamed this manor, one bold enough to enter a woman’s chamber in the middle of the night and steal. And if this one had no qualms at such flagrant behaviour, what other devious acts might the villain stoop to?

  At the bottom of the stairs, Ben sprang ahead. No matter what Clara thought of him—or he of her—he would not allow her safety to be compromised. “Clara,” he whispered, reluctant to draw the attention of the others.

  She glanced at him but did not stop.

  “Please, a word.”

  Her mouth flattened into a line, but she complied, stopping near the clock where he’d hidden in the shadow the night before.

  He drew near, abhorring how her rosewater scent made his pulse quicken. A stranger stared back at him. He hated that love and hope and a life together had been ripped out from beneath them both. But most of all, he hated whoever had been responsible for the confusion and hurt wounding Clara’s gaze. Of all the things he wanted to say, wanted to know, he simply said, “Be sure to keep your door locked whenever you’re in your chamber.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Clara slipped past Ben, escaping as much from his concern as her confusion. Oh, for the days when everything made sense and the world ran in perfect order. A groan lodged in her throat. Convict or not, Ben made it impossible for her to think straight when he was standing but a breath away. His direct gaze unnerved her with an untamed light she’d never before seen. Surely he hadn’t been the one to steal the woman’s jewels. Had he? She hurried along the hallway, swiping a loosened strand of hair from her eyes along with the question.

  Mr. Minnow pounced the moment her toe crossed the dining-room threshold. “Over here, Miss Chapman.” His fingers wrapped around her upper arm, and he tugged her to an empty chair next to his. “I shall plate you the tastiest morsels, my pet. Don’t trouble yourself to move an inch.”

  She covered a grimace with
what she hoped came off as a small smile. As much as she’d disliked the arranged seating of last night’s dinner, was this truly any better? “Perhaps we ought wait, Mr. Minnow, until the master of the house arrives.”

  But her words were too late to stop him. He already stood at the sideboard.

  Next to her, a dish landed on the table and Mr. Pocket sank onto the chair with a huff. “Curious choice of fare, I’d say.”

  An odd aroma—a mixture of jasmine and headcheese—wrinkled her nose. She peeked at the man’s meal. His fork prodded a mound of brownish gelatin, each poke bleeding out colourless liquid. Lemon slices added stripes of yellow to the lump. This was breakfast?

  “A curious morning, to be sure.” She pulled her gaze from his plate. “Do you know who’s taken Mademoiselle Pretents’s jewels, Inspector?”

  “That I do not, miss, but don’t fret. I shall figure it out, sooner or later. Guilt has a way of coming to light no matter what dark corner it tries to hide in. All the same, be sure to lock your door at night.” He shoveled in a big bite, and she turned from the sight, unwilling to watch it travel down his throat.

  She reached for the tea urn as Ben entered the room and Mr. Minnow graced her with a plate of the quivering aspic. “Thank you, sir.”

  Mr. Minnow drew himself up a full six inches at her gratitude.

  “Oh, flap! Oy me rumpus!” Mr. Tallgrass rolled in, his wheeled chair crashing into the table with such force it bounced him backward. “Jilly, lend a hand,” he rumbled.

  The dark-haired waif—how could one so thin push about such a great toad?—dashed to his side and yanked him upward, then let go. The wind punched from his lungs in a cough, but then a churlish grin rippled across his lips.

  Ben took a seat at the far end of the table, which for some reason irked Clara, but before she could think to dissect such a feeling, the butler filled the doorway and rang a bell, drawing all their eyes—except for Mr. Tallgrass.