3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Read online

  “Oh, but his parting foreshadows the final one, I fear. Something is about to happen. Ch-ch-ch.” She wrapped her hands tighter around her box, the lace of her collar quivering, the black ribbon of her quizzing glass quaking as well.

  What kind of grim prediction was that? Did the woman have gypsy blood running in her veins to foretell such an awful fortune? Clara opened her mouth to respond, but the old lady once again bowed her head over her precious mice, ending the conversation by murmuring endearments to her furry companions.

  Clara returned to the hearth, where Ben poked at the few remaining coals. He slipped her a glance, which despite the lack of flames, shot warmth through her heart.

  She spoke in a low tone, unwilling for vulturelike ears to hear and peck her words to death. “I fear Miss Scurry is overwhelmed with what’s been happening. If only—”

  A deep thudding on the front door interrupted, and she jumped, skittish as the filly she’d once owned. She glanced toward the door, as did everyone else.

  “Be at peace, Clara.” Ben rose and squeezed her shoulder. “A servant will see to it.”

  More bangs followed.

  And again.

  “You sure about that, Lane?” Mr. Pocket set down his book and rose from the settee, then strode to the door.

  The way they were slowly dwindling in number, was it safe for the man to go off on his own? She peered up at Ben. “Perhaps you ought to go with him.”

  “The inspector is a capable man.” He released his hold of her. “But if you wish it.”

  With the exit of the only two able-bodied men, tension pulled the silence of the room into an almost unbearable tautness. Whom would Mr. Pocket and Ben usher in once the front door was opened?

  Quietly, a low chant crept in from the foyer, slowly gaining in strength. Beautiful voices grew louder, raised in song.

  “Fie!” A curse ripped past Mr. Tallgrass’s lips. “What rubbish.”

  A lovely rendition of “Coventry Carol” held Clara in place like a sweet embrace, drawing her and the others toward it—save for Mr. Tallgrass. Jilly left him behind, following as far as the sitting-room door.

  Clara crossed to Ben, huddling close for whatever warmth he might share. The open door allowed in not only the chorus of five carolers, but a wicked icy draught as well. Cold air coiled beneath her skirt hem and skimmed up her legs. Fighting a shiver—for surely Ben would force her to return to the sitting room if he suspected she were chilled—she focused instead on the chorus.

  Harmony heightened and dipped in perfect rhythm as the five singers crooned, all bright eyed and merry despite the minor key of their tune. The women, two of them, wore matching cloaks of deep green, and the men contrasted in caramel-coloured overcoats. Smart bonnets and top hats tipped back as they lifted their faces for a crescendo.

  Clara’s spirit couldn’t help but be lifted along with the swell. Giving in to the magic of the moment, she thanked God for small gifts such as this. Mademoiselle Pretents and Mr. Tallgrass were entirely wrong. Silly naysayers. With music so melodious, ill luck didn’t stand a chance this day.

  But then a tremble crept down her spine as she remembered exactly what day it was and why the carolers had chosen this song above all others. December 28. Childermas. The day commemorating the massacre of innocents in the attempt to kill the infant Jesus.

  The lovely spell shattered into shards of despair.

  “You all right?” Ben whispered into her ear.

  “I …” How to answer? That all she could imagine now were broken little bodies of wee babes and tots? Bloodied and ruined. Her stomach turned. Pull yourself together, Clara.

  She peered up at Ben, hoping her skewed thoughts didn’t show on her face. “I believe I shall go get my shawl.”

  He gazed at her, his stare dissecting truth from bone, yet he said nothing, just gave her a nod.

  Whirling, the haunting music pushed her onward—until the horrid gaze of the lion she must pass under slowed her steps. Throbbing started in her temples, and her blood drained to her feet. Surely the thing didn’t see her, didn’t mark her as prey to be devoured. So why did she suddenly feel like one of those innocent babes in the carol?

  The Sixth Day

  DECEMBER 29, 1850

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The wagon bumped over the same route to the woods Ben had taken four days earlier with Clara. This time, however, he wouldn’t offer his coat to his companion, even though the inspector’s big nose was reddened by the wind. With a “Walk on!” and a snap of the reins, Ben urged the horses forward. The best he would do for Mr. Pocket was get them to the break of the trees more quickly.

  Hunching into his coat, the inspector pulled down his hat brim. “I’ve noticed you and Miss Chapman are well acquainted.”

  The next gust of wind hit him as sideways as the question, and he turned his face from it. Not an indictment from the man, just an innocent observation—laced with innuendo. But why? Of all the topics the inspector could’ve brought up, he’d chosen Clara?

  Ben shifted on the seat. “You could say that.”

  “I believe I just did.” Pocket sniffed, his nose growing redder by the minute. “She’s been promised quite a sum if she remains the duration. Is her situation dire without those funds?”

  Ben measured his words and his tone. No sense offering the man more than should be his. “Perhaps you should ask the lady yourself.”

  “I would, if I could ever get a word with her alone. You always seem to be nearby. Which makes me wonder …” Pocket turned to him, his head peeking out from his greatcoat like a turtle from its shell. “What do you stand to gain?”

  A direct question, but still a covert attack—one that he wasn’t quite sure how to parry. “Sorry?” he asked.

  “Were you to marry the lady, why then, whatever is hers rightfully becomes yours. Don’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind.”

  Marry? The word bounced as pell-mell through his skull as the wheels juddering on the frozen ground. It had been simple once, straightforward, but now all the ifs of marriage tangled into a big snarl. If all his correspondence was answered, if he regained his freedom as promised, and if his family estate was restored, would Clara still have him? A branded convict?

  He snapped the reins again, driving the horses much too fast toward the wood’s edge. Pocket’s head jerked up and down from the pace, and Ben set his jaw, staring straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with the inspector. The rage burning up his neck and spreading like wildfire over his face would clearly be seen. Whoever had done this to him and Clara would pay dearly.

  Shaving minutes off his last trek to the woods, he yanked the horses to a stop and set the brake. He hopped down and turned into the wind, brisk air stinging his skin. He drank it in like sweet, sweet nectar.

  Rummaging at the back of the wagon, Pocket retrieved two axes, then walked to Ben’s side and handed one over. “Here you go, Lane.”

  He grabbed the handle by the throat and hefted the blade over his shoulder, smirking at the irony. Only a week ago he’d have given anything for an ax or sledgehammer to break out of Millbank, with a few extra blows rained down upon the heads of his captors along the way. And now? Here he was, tromping into the woods with a sharp blade in his hands and a lawman at his side. Despite what anyone said, God surely did have a sense of humour.

  Scanning the area for any dead trees, he wondered aloud, “Any luck figuring out who stole the jewels or started the fire, Inspector?”

  Pocket shook his head. “Nothing solid, but I have my suspicions.”

  Ben glanced at him sideways. “Such as?”

  Pocket snuffled, a great drop of moisture having gathered on the end of his nose. “I never accuse without solid evidence.”

  “Would that all law keepers shared your convictions.”

  Pocket’s brows disappeared beneath his hat brim.

  “Come now, sir.” Ben smirked. “No need to continue the charade. I know you’re here to keep an
eye on me. I just haven’t figured out why.”

  The inspector grunted, neither confirming nor denying the accusation.

  Their trek continued in silence. Pausing at the crest of a ravine, Ben pointed down the slope at a snapped-off tree, the top half of the trunk lying downward, with the splintered ends still attached. A wind must have knocked it over last season.

  “Looks like you’ve found our next Yule log,” said the inspector.

  The footing was tricky, but they set about taking turns swinging at the part of the trunk still clinging to the base. Once that was freed, and any frozen bits broken loose where the rest of it lay in the snow, they could haul it back to the wagon.

  “The way I see it, Inspector,” Ben said between swipes, “Tallgrass isn’t physically able to steal, and Miss Scurry hasn’t the mental capacity. That leaves you.”

  Pocket’s ax stopped.

  Chest heaving, Ben paused his next swing, as well. “Or the more obvious Mademoiselle Pretents.”

  “Interesting observation.” Arching his back, Pocket removed his hat and swiped his brow. Then he straightened and faced Ben. “Yet you’ve conveniently left off naming yourself or Miss Chapman.”

  A slow smile curved his mouth. “Do you really think I’d incriminate her or myself?”

  “Touché, Mr. Lane.” Pocket inhaled so deeply, his chest puffed out. “I’ve got the rest of this part, I think. Why don’t you go down to the end and pry the wood from the frozen ground?”

  Wheeling about, Ben took his smile with him, convinced the inspector truly had no knowledge yet of the mischief maker’s identification. The man’s pride simply would not allow him to admit it.

  Leaning his weight into his heels, Ben slid-walked deeper into the ravine. Maybe it would be better to assess the trunk midway before reaching the bottom. He turned partway—and a loud crack exploded.

  He flew sideways. Snow, sticks, rocks mashed into his face as he hit the ground. Flailing, he tumbled headlong into the gorge, then slammed to a stop. He lay, breathing hard. Maybe. Hard to tell. Sound receded. Only a buzzing noise remained, irritating and high-pitched. Heat leaked down his cheek, from temple to chin. Each beat of his heart pumping out more thick warmth from his body to the cold ground.

  But at least the thing was still beating.

  “Lane?”

  His name was far off. Like he’d heard in a nightmare once. No, at Millbank, from the guard outside his door, catcalling through the metal. Was he back there again? Had he never left? He clawed the ground, and his skull seemed to bust in half.

  “You all right, Lane?” The words were closer now. Heavy breaths attached to them.

  He groaned and pressed the heel of his hand to his head. Sticky fluid suctioned the two together.

  A strong arm hauled him to his feet, and he stood on shaky legs, watching the world spin in a white haze. When he pulled his hand from his head, it came away bloody.

  “What …” He staggered. “What happened?”

  “My blade flew off, grazing you. Lucky you turned when you did, or you’d have taken the full brunt of it at the back of your skull.” Pocket held up his ax shaft, pointing to the end of it where the sharp hunk of iron should’ve been. “Someone tampered with my ax.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Pulling the last stitch through a stocking scarred by previous mending, Clara used the slack to tie a knot, then nipped the thread with her teeth. The chill in the sitting-room air nipped her right back. She tucked the stocking into her basket of sewing, trying hard to pretend she was sitting in Aunt’s home instead of a cold manor.

  Adjacent to her, Mademoiselle Pretents huddled on a chair, hands clutching a cup of tea near her face, seeking what warmth might be found. “What is taking so long, eh? I’ll tell you. Those stupid men are probably lost in the woods. La! But all this cold is not good for my complexion.”

  Near the empty hearth, Mr. Tallgrass sneered. “Listen to you carping about yer skin. Such a little dainty, are we? A precious, tiny flower? Well, I’m freezing me rumpus off!”

  Mademoiselle Pretents glared at him over the rim of her cup. “Unfortunately, your lips are still attached and working.”

  “So are yours, you shrewish bag o’—”

  “Mr. Tallgrass!” Clara cut him off before he fired any more volleys. “I am sure Mr. Lane and Mr. Pocket will return shortly with a new Yule log. Let us wait in peace.”

  “He does not know the meaning of the word.” Mademoiselle Pretents slammed down her cup, rattling the saucer beneath. “He barely grasps ze English language.”

  Clara clenched her teeth. This was going to be a very long day.

  A rustle of skirts flurried into the room. Miss Scurry entered, scampering as quickly as one of her mice. “Such devastation. Such loss.” The old lady’s voice tightened into a shrill cry. “I have lost Love!”

  “Oh, flap.” Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, Mr. Tallgrass wiped off a fleck of spittle, then flicked it onto the floor. “I should think at yer age love would be the last thing on yer mind, you crazy old titmouse.”

  “But Love is gone!” Turning to Clara, Miss Scurry held out her box. “Do say you shall help. She’s only just gone missing. She can’t have gotten far.”

  A prickle ran across the nape of Clara’s neck. The woman wanted her to look for a mouse? She’d spent her twenty-five years avoiding the things. And if she did find the rodent, she’d surely scare it away with a scream.

  “Miss Scurry.” She spoke slowly, praying for wisdom. How to dissuade the woman from searching, yet comfort her obvious grief? “I am sorry for your loss, but your mouse could be anywhere in such a great manor.”

  The lady shook her head, her ruffled cap flopping to one side. “Not anywhere, exactly. I had my pets upstairs. Do say you’ll come along.”

  “Oui, go.” Mademoiselle Pretents shooed them off with a sweep of her hand before she collected her teacup. “And good riddance.”

  Some choice. Remain in a room of vipers or search for a rodent. Sighing, Clara tucked her sewing basket against the side of the settee and stood. Miss Scurry led her to the grand staircase, but curiously enough, the old woman didn’t stop on the first floor, where their chambers were located. She continued on, exiting on the second-floor landing—where the men resided.

  Clara stayed the woman with a touch to her sleeve. “Why were you up here?”

  “The reckoning, of course.” Miss Scurry blinked up at her, as if she’d just explained the workings of the universe in layman’s terms.

  Clara’s brow pinched. Though she tried, no sense could be made of the woman’s strange words. “I’m afraid you’ll have to give me more information than that if I am to help you.”

  Miss Scurry held up her box, and Clara prayed all the while that the kerchief crammed into the hole on the side would not slip loose.

  “My pets must romp, Miss Chapman. No good being shut in a box all the time.” She whirled and scampered to the opening of a long corridor, the mirror image of the one that held the women’s chambers one flight below. “With the men out collecting wood, I thought to let my companions run the length of this carpet and back. No one to step on them, you see.”

  It made sense, somewhat. Clara studied the hall. Two doors, one closer and one farther. Same paneled wood. Same carpet runner. But clearly no white mouse scuttled about. She turned to the old lady. “What happened?”

  “Oh, such a frolic!” Miss Scurry’s whole face lit. “Many happy paws, racing about. All came when I called, except for Love. I fear she darted beneath one of the doors.”

  Advancing, Clara stopped in front of the first door and squatted. There was a small gap, much like the one beneath hers. Perhaps a mouse had dashed inside, but clearly neither she nor Miss Scurry had any right to enter. She straightened and faced the woman. “These chambers are not ours. Let us wait until Mr. Lane and Mr. Pocket return. Surely they will help us.”

  Tears sprouted at the corners of the old woman’s eyes. The first
rolled down her parchment cheeks, then more, until wet trails dripped from her chin. Her lips quivered, and her face folded into grief. “Oh,” she wailed. “I fear it will be too late for Love by then.”

  The old lady’s sorrow hit Clara hard in the heart, and her chest tightened. What sufferings in this woman’s life had driven her to embrace a sorry-looking box filled with small rodents? True, neither of them had permission to enter a chamber not their own, but did that license her to crush this woman’s spirit? Both options seemed wrong.

  “Please, Miss Chapman.” The woman lifted watery eyes to stare into Clara’s soul.

  Clara fought to keep from flinching. She hated to give in, yet hated to refuse the old lady even more. “Very well, but I should like to go on record as being against this.”

  The woman’s tears vanished, and she darted around Clara. “I’ll take this room.” She dashed inside and slammed the door.

  Clara stared. Had this been some kind of ploy? She turned the question over, examining all sides of it as she wandered down the hall to the next door. Lifting her hand, she rapped on the wood. With any luck, either Ben or Mr. Pocket would answer, freeing her from having to violate whoever’s sanctity this room was—yet no one answered. She tried the knob, and the door gave way easily.

  Inside, she paused. On a washstand beside the bowl lay a man’s shaving mug and brush, along with a straight razor. Next to the bed on a nightstand rested a book, small and leather-bound, with a single red ribbon hanging out, the one Ben had retrieved from the manor’s library.

  Tingles crawled down her arms, and she rubbed them. This was Ben’s room. How indecent of her to have barged in here. What would he think if he found her thus?

  She whirled to leave, but remnants of Miss Scurry’s cries yet played in her head.

  Fine. Better to get this over with while he was still out gathering wood. A cursory look and she could wash her hands of the whole affair. She strode to the center of the room, then dropped to all fours, for surely a mouse would be on such a level.

  She searched from wall to wall, floorboard to floorboard. Nothing scampered except the erratic beat of her heart. A fruitless search, but an honest one nonetheless. She could shamelessly tell Miss Scurry she’d given it a good try.