3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Read online

  A round of applause ended his surveillance. Minnow flopped a bow, then retrieved a basket from the pianoforte and delivered it to Ben.

  He shook his head. “I am content to watch. My playacting skills leave much to be desired.”

  “Oh, but you must.” The tang of ginger travelled on the man’s words. Minnow shoved the basket into Ben’s hands. “There’s one in here for each of us.”

  Scowling, he pulled out an envelope with his name penned on the front. How had Mr. Tallgrass managed to escape this fate? Truth be told, though, Ben’s spirits had lightened when the toady fellow rolled off after dinner with a curse about the food and something about the queen.

  Clara peered up at him. Lamplight sparkled in her eyes, and—dare he hope—a renewed spark of trust in him, as small as it may be. Even so, this was not the carefree woman he’d known before, not with that buried layer of hurt dulling her gaze. A familiar rage coursed through his veins, heating him from the inside out. He would discover who’d caused this pain, for him and for her, or die in the trying.

  “You saw what a poor charade I rendered.” She smiled. “You can do no worse.”

  He snorted. She had no idea.

  “Oui. The woman speaks true.” Mademoiselle Pretents left her perch on a chair near the hearth and sat nearer the door, face flushed.

  Ben rose, and Minnow immediately took his spot, sinking next to Clara. No wonder the fellow had chosen him next.

  Resigned to death by humiliation, he crossed to the middle of the room and opened the envelope, but the words made little sense. Thus far, all the charades were related by a holiday theme. Not this. Still, it should be easy enough to perform. He tucked the envelope into his pocket and pretended to pull out a gold piece, holding up the imaginary coin then pantomiming a test of it with his teeth.

  “A farthing?” asked Mr. Minnow.

  Miss Scurry held up her quizzing glass to one eye and strained forward in her seat. “A sovereign?”

  “A gold sovereign?” Clara wondered.

  Ben shook his head. This would be harder than he thought. How else to show a—

  “Coin!” The inspector shouted.

  Ben tapped his nose then held up three fingers.

  The inspector nodded. “The third word is coin.”

  He tapped his nose again. Now, how to playact the first two? He froze, the weight of all eyes squashing the life out of his creativity. Or maybe it wasn’t the guests’ gazes at all. He spun, certain someone watched him from behind. Nothing but the eyes of the portraits on the walls stared back.

  “A spinning top?” Mr. Minnow ventured.

  “No, a whirligig, you stupid fellow.” Mademoiselle Pretents’s voice was venom.

  Ben wheeled about, shaking his head. The sooner this was over with, the better, but should he act out the only idea Clara was sure to guess? Sucking in a breath, he crossed over to her and dropped to one knee, taking her hand in his.

  Colour flamed on her cheeks, and her fingers trembled. Clearly she understood his meaning.

  “Proposal!” Minnow aimed the word at him like a dagger to the heart.

  Without pulling his gaze from Clara, he shook his head. Slowly, he rubbed his thumb over her third finger, just below the knuckle—the skin now naked where she’d once worn his ring. Dredging up all the memories of passion and whispers they’d shared, he lowered his carefully constructed mask and allowed a forgotten desire to soften the hard lines on his face.

  “Oh, lovely!” Miss Scurry twittered.

  Clara gasped.

  But playacting a second chance of asking for her hand turned sour at the back of his throat. Why had he ever thought to do such a thing? He shot to his feet and stalked to the hearth, done with the whole charade.

  “Love is a two-sided coin?” the inspector guessed. “Oh, I get it. Two-sided coin, eh?”

  Ben yanked out the envelope and tossed it into the flames, watched for a moment until fire caught hold of the three words, then spun and touched his nose.

  A lie, but so be it.

  The Third Day

  DECEMBER 26, 1850

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Early morning light hung like a haze in Clara’s chamber. Yawning, she rubbed her eyes, and a terrific growl rumbled in her belly. Hopefully today’s breakfast would be more palatable than last evening’s Christmas dinner.

  She threw off the counterpane and snatched her dressing gown from the foot of the bed, heart sinking into her empty stomach. If the burnt smell on the air was any indication, there wasn’t much hope of a hearty meal today, either.

  Stretching a kink out of her neck, she silently thanked God for tea, for therein she might wake fully and fill her—

  “Fire!”

  A woman’s cry came from below. Danger thudded a crazed beat in Clara’s ears. No, were those footsteps? She shot to the door and darted into the hall. A foggy blur softened the edges of everything as she raced to the stairs. Ahead, Ben, Mr. Minnow, and Mr. Pocket surged down the steps, taking several at a time, nightshirts flapping untucked from their trousers. She followed.

  At the landing, the men split. Mr. Minnow and Mr. Pocket veered right. Ben headed left. By the time she descended, Ben shouted, “Over here!”

  They converged upon the drawing room, where Miss Scurry stood outside the door, wringing her hands. Her usual box of mice was absent. Inside the room, charcoal clouds billowed near the ceiling, pushed upward by flames on the Christmas tree burning at the far corner of the room.

  Miss Scurry turned to Clara, fear leaking down her cheeks. “Oh, dear! Oh, my.”

  “The drapery, men! Haul to!” Ben no sooner issued his command than he faced Clara. “We’ll try to smother it, but seek water just in case. Miss Scurry, check on Mademoiselle Pretents, if you please.”

  Ben tore into the room, leaving them in the hall with smoke and dread.

  Next to her, Miss Scurry whimpered. “The reckoning. Oh! The reckoning is upon us.”

  Clara reached for the older lady’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “All will be well. I am sure the men will smother the flames. We must do as Ben says.”

  A wavery smile rippled across the old lady’s lips. “Such a dear.” Then she whirled and fled down the hall, skirts flying behind.

  Clara hurried the other way. Why had the old lady dressed so early? And why venture to the drawing room when surely her stomach was as empty as theirs? The dining room made more sense to seek out.

  But there was no time to ponder such things. There must be a doorway nearby to a stair leading down to the kitchen, perhaps disguised as mere paneling, for only servants would use it. She studied the wall as she went, disliking the way all eyes on the portraits seemed to watch her struggle.

  The farther she advanced, the more her throat burned. Odd. Was she not moving past the fire? She bent, coughing away the discomfort, then stopped, horrified.

  Smoke billowed out from a crack between floorboards and wall, from a door blending in against the dark wood. She shoved her shoulder against the paneling, and it gave. Air thick with smoke hovered near the ceiling inside of a small antechamber. Clara dropped to a crouch. Eye to eye with the legs of furniture, it appeared to be a sitting room, but no time to speculate whose. Flames crawled up the draperies on the far window, as did muffled shrieks behind a farther wall. Despite the heat, Clara’s blood turned to ice. Someone was trapped, and she’d never be able to do this alone. Was there enough time to get help?

  There’d have to be. Whirling, she ran back to the drawing room. The stench of burnt fabric and sweat violated last evening’s scent of pine and fresh holly.

  “More fire!” she hacked out as she bolted across the threshold. “It’s worse, and someone is trapped.”

  Ben and Mr. Pocket, soot blackened and chests heaving, paused in whaling their draperies against what remained of the flames. Mr. Minnow stood to the side, clutching his portion of ripped brocade to his chest, hair askew but otherwise untouched by labour of any kind.

  Mr. Pocket
exchanged a glance with Ben, then they both sprinted toward her. Ben hollered over his shoulder at Mr. Minnow, “Finish the job, man!”

  Gaining her side, Ben dipped his head. “Lead the way.”

  By the time she returned with the men in tow, smoke belched from the door like an angry dragon. Ben and the inspector charged into the room. Fear barreled into her heart—and squeezed. Was she to lose him again now that they were just starting to make amends?

  Her hands curled into fists. Not if she could help it.

  She tore back to the drawing room and raced over to Mr. Minnow, who stood exactly as they’d left him. The last rogue embers smouldered not five paces from him.

  What a wastrel! She snatched the draperies out of his hands. “Mr. Minnow! Either put the rest of those flames out now or we shall all perish.”

  He gaped, arms flapping at his sides. “But how am I to do so?”

  “Remove your nightshirt and bat them out.” She huffed, then flew back to the real danger.

  And real it was, more so from the smoke now than the flames. Inhaling the better air of the corridor, she charged into the room—just as glass shattered. Like a flock of demons, the black cloud poured out the window Ben had broken. Slowly, the room cleared, leaving behind the hacking and coughing of Ben and Mr. Pocket, her own laboured breaths, and a dull thumping accompanied by a mewling cry.

  Ben wheeled toward the sound. “There!”

  The men dashed to the far wall, where a board had been nailed across a door. What on earth? What kind of villain barricaded helpless victims, then set fire to ensure their demise?

  Grabbing a candlestick fallen to the floor, Ben wedged a corner of it behind the wood and pulled. The board crashed to the floor with a clatter. Mr. Pocket yanked on the knob, and Jilly flew out the door like a bat from an attic, screaming all the way. From the depths of the attached room, Mr. Tallgrass’s curses swelled as black as the former smoke—but that was all. No real smoke or flames infected that room.

  Ben dropped the candlestick. “Thank God.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Pocket rubbed a hand over his shorn head.

  Clara shuddered, afraid to believe. Where might the next fire spring up? She picked her way past a tipped-over chair, edging to Ben’s side. “Is it over? Truly?”

  A muscle stood out on his neck like a steel rod, until he blew away the tension with a deep sigh. “Let us hope so.” He cast her a sideways glance, and a shadow darkened his face. “You are trembling. Come, I’ll see you to your room.”

  Offering his arm, he slipped his gaze to Mr. Pocket. “I believe you can handle Mr. Tallgrass, can you not, Inspector?”

  Mr. Pocket leaned a hand against the doorframe and coughed, long and hard, then straightened as if he’d not just nearly hacked up a lung. “Righty-o. I’ve managed worse. See to the lady, Mr. Lane.”

  Wrapping her fingers around Ben’s arm, she allowed him to lead her from the charred room and up to her chamber, grateful for his strength. The morning’s peril and chaos had poked holes in her courage, draining her dry, so much so that she stumbled at the top of the stair.

  Ben covered her hand with his strong fingers, steadying her. “Are you all right?”

  The sleeve of his nightshirt moulded against hard muscle, and for the first time, she realized she wore naught but a robe over her chemise, a thin one at that. No, she was definitely not all right.

  “I am fine,” she answered.

  God, forgive me.

  Willing her feet to behave, she managed to make it to the door of her chamber without further misstep. A miracle, really, for the heat of the man at her side—the one her body remembered despite what her mind might say—sped her heartbeat until it was hard to breathe.

  She wanted to ask him to hold her. To wrap his arms around her as he had yesterday out in the woods and pretend nothing had changed between them. But when he pulled away and his sleeve rode up his arm, a black number marred his skin. She stared, wanting to turn away from the awful sight yet completely helpless to do so. The mark of a felon stared back at her. He was not the same man. How could he be? The Ben she’d known—gentle and kind, compassionate almost to a fault—might never be the same again. Loss squeezed her chest, and a small cry escaped her lips.

  Ben shoved down his sleeve and lifted her face to his. “Do I frighten you?”

  She swallowed, throat burning as much from his question as from the remnants of acrid smoke. How was she to answer that? She feared the things he’d seen and had to do to survive, the sometime feral gleam in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. But him? Did she fear this man who was to have been her husband? Did not the same heart still beat inside his chest?

  “No, you do not.” She turned and fled into her chamber, closing the door between them. Leaning her back against the cool wood, she panted, fighting to catch her breath. It wasn’t a lie, for in truth, she was even more afraid of the queer twinge deep inside her belly.

  Hunger, yes, but for more than breakfast.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ben strode to the door of the sitting room, tugging at his collar. Air. Just a draught of it. A moment on the front stoop to escape the leftover smoke permeating the manor. No one would miss him. At least no one had when he’d disappeared earlier to pen yet another batch of letters pleading for a fresh look into his case. Even should he gain his freedom by staying here the full twelve days, there was still the matter of recouping his estate funds from the Court of Chancery.

  As he passed by, he smiled at Clara, who played cards with Miss Scurry. Near the hearth, Mr. Tallgrass pestered his brooding young attendant with instructions on properly roasting a chestnut. Mademoiselle Pretents looked out the window. Minnow hovered near Clara. And the inspector sorted through a box of ashes in hopes of finding a clue as to how the fire had started or a hint of who’d been wicked enough to intentionally trap Mr. Tallgrass and Jilly.

  As Ben approached the threshold, a servant darted in, dropping a curtsy in front of him.

  “Begging yer pardon, sir, but it’s Boxing Day.” The woman peeked up at him, then tucked her chin.

  “And?” he asked.

  She clutched and reclutched handfuls of her apron. Timid little thing, apparently. “There’s a line o’ tradesmen downstairs what are expecting their Christmas boxes, sir.”

  He ran a hand along his jaw. Why would she think it necessary to tell him such information? “Then I suppose you should give them their due, hmm?”

  “That’s just it, sir. There are none.” She lifted her face, eyes shimmering. “I din’t know what else to do, who else to go to.”

  So she came to him? He flattened his lips to avoid a glower, for surely such a look would push the woman into hysterics. “Has the butler not returned?”

  “No, sir.” She shook her head. “Mrs. Dram, the housekeeper, she’s gone as well. Why, there’s naught but a handful of us servants to manage, and most of those are still cleaning up from the fire.”

  Who invited guests without hiring proper staff? He grunted, for offering his true opinion would not be fit for mixed company. “Can you not simply send the tradesmen away?”

  She wrung the life out of her apron. Were it a chicken, it would long since have died. “I tried, sir. I did.” Her voice pitched to a whine. “They won’t listen to the likes o’ me. I fear I shall be overrun with the brutes.”

  The tone must’ve reached Clara’s ears, for she rose and crossed the carpet, stopping alongside him. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  Mr. Minnow trailed her. “Is there a problem, Miss Chapman?”

  Ben smothered a growl. Must the man track her like a dog on a scent? Ignoring Minnow, he spoke to Clara. “It seems some tradesmen are expecting their Christmas boxes, yet there are none to be given.”

  “Oh.” Her brow crumpled. “That is dreadful.”

  “Miss Chapman.” Miss Scurry, having been left alone at the card table, gathered her box and joined them. “Has the reckoning come?”

  Clara smile
d at her. “Don’t fret, Miss Scurry. Just an issue of not having Christmas boxes for the tradesmen.”

  “Eh? What’s that?” Mr. Tallgrass craned his neck their way. “Tradesmen expectin’ boxes? Flappin’ beggars!”

  The little maid cringed and stepped behind Ben. Laughable, really, that she’d seek refuge behind a convict. If he rolled up his sleeve, revealing his brand, would she run away as Clara had?

  Whirling from the window, Mademoiselle Pretents threw out her arms. “Shoo them away, imbécile. We are not their masters. We are the guests. They can have no claim against us.”

  Ben sighed. This was getting out of hand. “True, yet without the master in attendance, I suppose we are all the tradesmen have as his representative.”

  His proclamation lifted the inspector’s head from his study of the ashes. A grey smudge smeared the tip of his big nose. “How do you know it’s a him, Mr. Lane?”

  “Mere speculation, Inspector. Nothing more.” He slipped a glance at the little maid. “Go about your business, miss. I’ll see to the tradesmen.”

  The woman darted out the door and down the hall.

  Clara turned to him, admiration deepening the blue of her gaze. “How will you manage that?”

  Indeed. How would he? But for the glimmer in Clara’s eyes, the embers of respect, he must come up with something.

  “Fie!” Mr. Tallgrass’s voice rasped. “Grab some of the candlesticks and whatnot from around here, man, and shove it in a box. Give that to ‘em. That’s how I’d manage, and with a kick to their backsides to help ‘em out the door besides.”

  “But these things are not ours to give.” Clutching her box tighter, Miss Scurry whimpered, her mobcap flopping nearly to her eyes. “Oh! The reckoning of it all.”

  “Well.” Clara bit her lip, a sure sign something brewed in that pretty head of hers. “I think I have an idea. I propose we each retrieve whatever trifles we can spare from our travel bags. An extra handkerchief. A hair comb. Perhaps a peppermint you’ve forgotten about and have tucked away in a pocket. I, for one, have brought along my sewing basket and may find an overlooked needle and thread to spare.”