“Turn me about, Jilly!” He snaked out his hand and cuffed the girl on the head. “Poxy rag-a-ma-tag.”
Setting down the small bell, the butler struck such a pose that Clara couldn’t help but wonder if he’d served in the military. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but your gracious host—”
“And who would that be?” Mr. Minnow leaned forward in his seat.
The butler rocked on his heels. “I am instructed to inform you all that while your invitations stand as is, there is a recent addendum. Only one of you will receive a reward for staying the duration of the twelve nights.”
“Who, dear? Which one?” Miss Scurry’s voice squeaked. Or was that one of her mice?
“The one who remains.”
Mr. Pocket angled his head at Clara. “Rather cryptic, eh miss?”
“Indeed,” she whispered.
The butler cleared his throat. “Christmas dinner shall be served promptly at 7:00 p.m.” His dark eyes shot to Mr. Tallgrass for a moment. “Charades will follow in the drawing room, with a basket of prepared scenarios that will be atop the pianoforte.”
“Rather explicit instructions for so early in the day. I take it you will not be in attendance?” asked Mr. Pocket.
“Another astute observation, Inspector. You are correct. I shall be leaving the premises after breakfast.”
Miss Scurry murmured an “oh, dear,” but the butler went right on with his last words. “As you all may have noticed, the outside of Bleakly Manor has been properly decorated for the Twelfth Night festivities. The inside, however, requires Christmas decor. I’ve been given a list of assignments you are expected to accomplish before dinner tonight.”
He pulled out a small slip of paper from an inside pocket. “Mr. Minnow, you are paired with Mademoiselle Pretents, as soon as she makes an appearance.”
Mr. Minnow’s lower lip quivered, and he spoke so only Clara might hear. “I’d so hoped to be with you, my pet.”
The butler narrowed his eyes at him. “The two of you will hang the mistletoe and drape the ivy.” His gaze returned to the instructions. “Mr. Pocket will aid Miss Scurry—”
“Oh!” Miss Scurry fluttered her free hand to her chest. “But I’d hoped to be with Mr. Minnow. Such a kind man.”
Once again, the butler continued as if nothing had been said. “You are to decorate the Christmas tree, which is placed on a table in the drawing room. Mr. Tallgrass and his assistant, Miss Jilly, shall—”
“Oh, flap! Yer not sticking me with grunt work what ought be done by some kiddly-wugget of a slackin’ servant.” Mr. Tallgrass’s cheeks puffed out, his skin mottling to a deep red. “‘Tain’t right! ‘Tain’t fair! ‘Tain’t—”
“Mr. Tallgrass!” The butler’s voice thundered. “Pay attention, if you please.”
“No, I don’t very well please,” he shot back. “This is a load o’horse droppings!”
The butler’s brow creased, and he bent at eye level with the man. “Then you may leave now, if you wish.”
Mr. Tallgrass’s stubbly whiskers stuck out like white porcupine quills, so tightly did his face squinch up.
The butler straightened as he explained their task, but Clara’s thoughts snarled. That only left—
“Mr. Lane, you shall escort Miss Chapman on an outing to retrieve the Yule log for the holiday. You’ll find all you should need in the carriage house.”
The butler droned on, but his words faded to gibberish. She was to spend the whole of the morning outside with Ben? The man who may—or in his words may not have—caused her and her family so much grief. This was too much to be borne!
Pressing two fingers to her temple, she rubbed little circles to ward off the birth of a headache. She should leave. Now. Just pack up and go home to Aunt.
Spending Christmas, or any other day, with Ben—alone—was the last thing she wanted to do.
CHAPTER TEN
Frigid air slapped Clara on the cheek, and she tucked her chin to her chest, warding off further assault. On the far side of the wagon seat, Ben snapped the reins, urging the horses onward. Once they reached the shelter of the woods, the wind wouldn’t attack with such a wicked sting. But here, on the expanse of rolling hills between manor and forest, the cold was relentless.
So were the warring emotions battling inside her. Anger. Confusion. Doubt and indignation. It was a wicked jest to have been paired up with Ben, and when the master of Bleakly Manor finally showed his face, she’d have a word or two—no, three or more—to share with the man.
“Move closer.” Ben glanced at her sideways, face unreadable. “I vow I won’t pick your pockets.”
“I’m f–fine.” Brilliant. Her chattering teeth branded her a fraud. Not that it should matter, for one fraud ought abide with another, should he not?
“Whoa.” Ben eased the horses to a halt.
She wrapped her arms tighter and lifted her face. They were hardly near the woods or the house. “What are you doing?”
Shrugging out of his coat, he reached for her with one arm and pulled her toward him. He tucked the wool around her shoulders, then settled her at his side. Leftover heat from his body penetrated her cloak, warming her in ways that went beyond such a generous deed. He grasped the reins and started the horses moving again, the weight of his coat hugging her like an intimate embrace—one that irked and soothed at the same time.
The wagon rambled on, his big arm jostling next to her, his thigh bumping against hers. Hard to tell what made him shudder. The uneven ground? Guilt? Or the thinness of his dress coat against the bitter air?
“Please, take back your coat.” She started to peel it off. “You’ll catch your death.”
His hand caught hers, gently forcing it to her lap. “Isn’t that what you want?”
She frowned up at him. “No, I do not wish you ill.”
She wished him to be gone.
A tense silence followed, and her heart ached for the way things had been, when she’d believed in his integrity and was for once in her life sure of love. This Ben, this stranger with the clenched jaw and stiff shoulders, was a shocking replacement.
“I am sorry. My manners are not as pretty as they once were.” Pulling his attention from the horses, he gazed down at her. “Are you feeling warmer?”
“Yes, though I insist you take back your coat as soon as we stop.”
“Trust me. I’ve suffered worse than cold.” A half smile lifted his lips.
He pulled the wagon to a stop at the edge of the woods, then hopped down and circled to offer her a hand. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she removed his coat and held it out.
He shook his head. “Stubborn as ever, I see.”
“I insist. Besides, I am much warmer now that we are more sheltered.”
While he shoved his arms back into his coat and buttoned up, she studied the unending maze of tree trunks. Better that than dwell on all the what-might-have-beens that Ben’s presence unearthed.
“So, now what?” she asked.
Ben stared into the woods, the sullen sky as clouded as his expression. “Try to spy a large piece of downed wood. Then I’ll loosen a horse and retrieve it. We may end up doing this again, for I doubt we’ll be able to load a log large enough to last the entire Yuletide.”
He stalked ahead, his long legs eating up the ground. She did double time behind him in a vain attempt to keep up—until he glanced over his shoulder and saw her predicament.
A sheepish smile quirked his mouth, and he stopped. “Forgive me. I’ve not had the pleasure to hike free in so long that I’ve gotten carried away. This pace is far too fast for you.”
He waited while she caught up, and she offered him a wry smile in return. “I’d like to see you try tromping through the frozen woods in petticoats.”
He grunted. “No doubt.”
Side by side, they advanced, scouring the ground for a fallen tree weathered enough to burn well. Other than the whoosh of wind rattling the branches up high, they walked in companionable
silence. Too companionable. How could a thief walk so carefree next to the one he supposedly robbed? The incongruity of it all shivered across her shoulders.
Her step faltered, and Ben grabbed her elbow, righting her. Would that the grief and sorrow of the past nine months could be as easily righted.
“Oh, very well!” She spoke as much to herself as to him, frustrated with the whole situation. She stopped and peered up at him. “I am ready to hear what happened to you and how you came to Bleakly Manor.”
“Are you?” His amber gaze held her for a moment. So many emotions shone in those depths. It would take years to sort them all by name. Time froze, the space between them brittle and sharp as the cold air.
Then he wheeled about and strode ahead, pausing only long enough to hold back a low-lying branch for her to pass beneath. Stubborn man!
She grabbed his sleeve before he could pass her again. “Please, Ben.”
He blew out a puff of frozen mist, a slight shake to his head. “It is nothing different than what I told you last night. I was on my way to the church, speeding, actually, for such was my eagerness to make you mine, when a gaol cart pulled in front of me, blocking my path. So focused was I on the impediment, I did not notice the men behind me.” His voice lowered, yet gained in strength. “I was bagged without seeing who attacked. I awoke two days later in Millbank, where I’ve been rotting ever since, until I received an invitation to Bleakly Manor, promising me freedom. Freedom.” A bitter chuckle rent the cold air. “I no longer believe in such.”
He stomped ahead, apparently finished with the conversation.
But she wasn’t. Gathering her skirts, she darted after him. “Are you saying you were held without representation? Without bail?”
He snorted. “Often without food or water.”
The fine hairs at the back of her neck prickled. If what he said was true …
She hugged herself tightly, as an image of him deprived of nourishment, robbed of dignity, quaked through her, more unsettling than the cold.
She hastened her steps to catch up to him. “I find it hard to believe the justice system could fail on such a grand level. Did you have no trial whatsoever?”
“Oh, I had a trial. At least in word. But my accuser never appeared, sending a proxy instead. The documents remained sealed and unread. As was the evidence. I have no idea who indicted me of the embezzlement of Blythe Shipping or your family fortune.” His hands curled into fists at his side. “I was sentenced to transportation before year’s end.”
Her jaw dropped. Banishment without due process? Unheard of. Wasn’t it? “How can that be? Surely that is not how our courts function.”
His feet hit the ground harder than necessary, grinding sticks and frozen brush beneath his step. “Enough money can make anything happen. Anything.”
His words swirled over her head, as ominous as the darkening clouds pregnant with a winter storm. How was she to understand that? “Are you saying someone bribed the judge to convict you for a crime of which you were innocent?”
He wheeled about before she finished the question. In two strides, he gripped her arms and pulled her close, his voice deadly quiet. “Look me in the eyes, Clara, and tell me you believe I am guilty.”
Desperation roughened his tone, harsh and dreadful, compelling her to obey. Never had he used such severity with her.
Swallowing the tightness in her throat, she slowly met his gaze, fearful yet strangely eager to discover the truth. Would she find healing or damnation?
She stared deeply, beyond the golden flecks in his hazel eyes. The purity she saw there flattened the house of cards she’d carefully constructed over the past months. Oh, how much easier it would be to cling to the belief that he was a vile cullion. But God help her, she could not.
“No—” Her voice broke, and she sucked in a shaky breath. “I do not believe you are guilty.”
A groan rumbled in his chest, and he closed his eyes. “Thank God.”
“But …” Who had done this? Stolen his freedom? Robbed them of happiness? The world turned watery, and hot tears burned down her face. “I don’t understand.”
He pulled her into his arms, wrapping her tight against him, and she wept into his shirt. Oh, how she’d missed this. His heart beat hard against her cheek, and she clutched his back, burrowing closer. How good, how right it felt to be in his arms again, share his warmth, lose herself in his comfort. For one glorious moment, she dared surrender to the feeling of being wanted and cherished.
Too soon he broke the embrace. He stepped back and tilted her chin up with the crook of his knuckle. “I should like to hear why you suspected me of such a heinous crime.”
A familiar ache throbbed in the thin space between heart and soul—the empty hollow where she stored all her hurt, carved out long ago by her father and his rejection. To speak it aloud would only breathe life into that pain. Love, once poured out, could never go back into the same bottle.
But how could she refuse the earnest expectation on Ben’s face? He looked like a lost little boy, abandoned and forlorn. She didn’t think it possible, but one more piece of her heart broke off, leaving a jagged edge in her chest.
He reached for her hand. “Perhaps it will be easier if we carry on with our search, hmm?”
Side by side, they pressed on, and he was right. Without facing him the words came easier. “I stood alone that day. Waiting for you to come. The eyes of God and those gathered alternated between me and the front door. At first I suspected the worst had become of you. Some accident or illness, perhaps. I searched every hospital. Inquired with physicians and surgeons. I even sent a servant to visit the morgue. It wasn’t until a week later that I learned the truth. Or thought I did.”
She paused to step over a snow-dusted rock. “George was summoned to the solicitor’s and told the bulk of our family investments—along with Blythe Shipping’s—had been stolen. By you.”
She studied him from the corner of her eye, expecting some kind of outburst. None came.
“From that day forward,” she continued, “we lived just above poverty. Great Aunt Mitchell took me in as her companion, and George sailed for America, hoping to find a living large enough to pay for my fare. In the meantime, I’ve learned sewing skills beyond mere ornamentation. I intend to earn my keep by soliciting a mending and tailoring service once he sends for me.”
For a long time, Ben said nothing, just kept stalking through the frozen woods until he stopped in front of a tree trunk long since fallen. Squatting, he rubbed his hands together, then brushed off the top coating of snow from the wood. “This will do.”
He rose and faced her, blowing warmth into his hands. “Think carefully, Clara. Are you certain that meeting between George and the solicitor took place a full week after I had been arrested, and that your standard of living didn’t alter until then?”
“That’s right.”
“Hmm.” A muscle jumped on his jaw, a sure sign his mind raced.
“What?”
“I am wondering how I could have taken the money, yet it didn’t disappear until long after I’d been gaoled?” The question hung between them, icy and bitter as the winter wind, and she trembled at the flatness in his voice.
For the first time, she began to fathom he’d been wronged every bit as much as she—or more. “Who would do such a thing?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” His face hardened, the dark gleam in his eyes fearsome. “But I intend to find out.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A monster rumbled inside Ben’s gut, clawing and angry. A familiar feeling, this hunger. He shifted on the settee. Maybe the movement would stop the grumbling, for the odd Christmas dinner they’d eaten this evening certainly hadn’t. There’d been no goose or chestnut stuffing. No pâtés or oysters or puddings. Just a plain bouillon, followed by a single roasted Cornish hen and mince pie for the eight of them. No doubt if he listened hard enough, he’d hear echoing growls from the stomachs of those gathered in the draw
ing room.
Rubbing his fingers together, he stared at the ink stains that would not disappear, though he’d scrubbed hard enough in the basin. After retrieving the Yule log with Clara, he’d spent the afternoon at the desk in his chamber. When he received the promised freedom by Twelfth Night—if he did—he’d still need his family wealth reinstated. Money once taken by the Crown was not easily gained back, but it could be done. Ten letters to various officials had left his fingers cramped. If even one of those missives made it into the hands of a sympathetic ear, he’d gladly endure the blackened skin. And with the hope of justice, he’d do the same on the morrow.
In the center of the room, Mr. Minnow flapped about, then fell and curled into a ball.
“Oh, dear! Such wonderful dramatics.” Miss Scurry grasped her box of mice close to her chest. “Are you a goose, Mr. Minnow? Taken down by an arrow?”
The man uncurled long enough to touch his nose, then he smiled at Clara. Whether she ventured a guess or not, he always sought her out. The unwarranted attention annoyed Ben as much as his empty belly.
“So, the second word is goose, eh?” The inspector sniffed, his nose rubbed raw from having to touch it so many times for when he’d performed his charade, such was the length of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Let Nothing You Dismay.”
Next to him, Clara leaned near, speaking for Ben alone. “I daresay neither of us expected to be playing games with strangers this Christmas Day, though I fear Mr. Minnow thinks of himself as our bosom companion.”
Ben hid a smirk. The man wanted to be her companion, not his.
Clara’s gaze followed the game, his travelled the room. The great log burned in the hearth. It wouldn’t last the whole of the twelve days, which had set off a superstitious flutter from Miss Scurry, but for now the flames were merry. Ivy swagged over the doors, a little crooked, but if he’d had to work with Mademoiselle Pretents, he’d have made haste in hanging the greenery, as well. For tonight, the Christmas tree on the table glowed with candles attached by clips to the branches. A single servant, an odd little woman, stood nearby with a bucket of water should a fire break out.
3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 5