12 Days at Bleakly Manor

by Michelle Griep

  He shrugged. “Yesterday, chopping wood, the inspector’s blade flew off and caught me in the head. Had I not turned when I did, well, I have God alone to thank for that.”

  Lifting her gaze to the heavens as they climbed the stairs, she breathed out, “Amen to that.” Then she peered up at Ben. “I was concerned when you didn’t appear for dinner and said as much to Mr. Pocket, but he told me you’d said something about attending to business. I assumed that meant writing more letters. I had no idea you’d been injured. Why would he keep that to himself?”

  “I don’t know.” At the top of the stairs he paused and kneaded a muscle at the back of his neck. “And I don’t like it.”

  She caught up to him. “Oh Ben, are you all right? Truly?”

  “A bit of head banger, but I’ll live. When I returned yesterday afternoon, I lay down for only a moment, or so I thought. Next thing I knew, the sun was up.” He smiled down at her. “Forgive me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let us check on Miss Scurry.” He pivoted and strode to the old lady’s chamber. Lifting a fist, he rapped on the wood. “Miss Scurry? Are you in there?”

  No answer.

  Stepping aside, he allowed Clara to advance and knock.

  “Miss Scurry, are you well?”

  Nothing.

  Reaching past her, Ben tried the knob, and the door opened. “After you. We don’t want to frighten the lady if she’s abed.”

  Holding her breath, Clara padded in, afraid of what she might find. What if the old lady had passed during the night and was cold and grey beneath her counterpane? She forced her gaze to land on the bed.

  But the covers were untouched, with nary a wrinkle.

  “Over here.” Ben stood at a curio near the window, holding out a small, sealed envelope. “For you.”

  Her? She retrieved the missive, and sure enough, Miss Chapman was written in shaky cursive. Breaking the seal, she withdrew a small note.

  “What does it say?” Ben’s voice rumbled behind her.

  As she read, warmth spread in her chest, as much from the closeness of the man behind her as from Miss Scurry’s sweet words.

  “She got what she came for,” she murmured as she read. “And she feels no need to remain any longer. She left early this morning.”

  “But that makes no sense.”

  “Surprisingly, it does.” She folded the note and turned, face-to-face with Ben. “Miss Scurry told me yesterday that I had restored her hope in humanity, all because of my kindness. And that was what she’d lost. Her hope.”

  Ben stared deep into her eyes, never once varying his gaze. Slowly, he raised his hand and brushed his fingers along her cheek.

  Her heart took off, the beat so deafening, surely he could hear it.

  “You bring light and air where there is none.” His throat bobbed, and a small groan rumbled low. Some kind of war waged behind his stormy gaze, frightful yet alluring, as if he wrestled with—

  His mouth came down on hers.

  And a thousand suns exploded. He tasted of a summer day, all warmth and promise, and she melted against him. Fire licked along every nerve, birthing a hunger for more. Running her hands up his back, she pressed closer. They’d kissed before, proper and polite, but not like this. Never like this.

  Closing her eyes, she surrendered, giving in to a need she never knew existed. His mouth traveled along her jaw and down her neck, until her legs trembled and she could hardly stand. A tremor shook through him as well.

  Then he pulled away, chest heaving.

  And for some odd reason, her world fell apart. Loss cut sharp. Such passion, once savored, was impossible to walk away from so easily. Lifting a shaky hand to her mouth, she pressed her fingers against lips that felt full and hot.

  “Clara, I—” There was an edge to his voice. Primal and raw. He raked his fingers through his hair, breathing hard.

  Then he wheeled about and stalked from the room.

  How long she stood there, staring at the empty door, she couldn’t say. There was only one thing she was sure of. This new Ben was different from the former.

  And she wasn’t entirely sure what to think about that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sidestepping Mademoiselle Pretents, who stood with hands outstretched to the hearth, Ben wound his way across the sitting room. How she’d managed to oust Tallgrass from the spot was anybody’s guess, though Ben suspected her forked tongue could prod a lame oxen to move along. But besides her continual grousing, events of the day had stretched into an uneventful New Year’s Eve. A blessing, that, for his head still ached from the strafing by the ax.

  And he wasn’t sure he’d ever forget that kiss.

  Shoving the thought away, he closed in on the sideboard and dipped the ladle into the punch bowl. This late into the evening, the wassail had chilled, but even so, the spicy scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted up. Outside, wind rattled against the panes, begging for entrance.

  “It is a rather dreary New Year’s Eve.” Behind him, Clara’s sweet voice tempered the clattering windows. “Shall we play a game?”

  “What’s it to be, then?” Mr. Tallgrass snorted. “Blind Man’s Buff? Sardines? No, I’ve got it. How about a relay? A real sweat breaker of a mad dash. Give Jilly the race of her life.”

  “I–I didn’t mean … I mean, I didn’t think …” Clara faltered, her words dying a slow death.

  Glass in hand, Ben turned from the table and impaled Tallgrass to his wheeled chair with a glower. “I am certain Miss Chapman meant no insult to you, sir. There are other games besides those requiring physical ability.”

  “Charades didn’t turn out so well.” The inspector set a figurine back onto a shelf, either satisfied he’d memorized the details of it or as bored as they all were. Mademoiselle Pretents whirled from the hearth and billowed over to the game table. She yanked out a drawer, then held up a deck of cards. “Come over here. All of you. Let us play Five Card Loo. Everyone has money, no? It is New Year’s Eve, after all. Maybe I can earn back the value of my stolen jewels.”

  Gripping the glass so tightly it might shatter, Ben delivered the wassail to Clara. He was unwilling to admit no money weighted his pockets, though surely everyone suspected as much.

  Clara smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

  He studied her as she took a sip. Her raven hair shone blue-black in the glow of lamplight. Her dress, while nothing as grand as she once wore, fit against her curves in a way that bewitched. He stifled a smirk. No, it wasn’t bad luck at all that he didn’t have any money, for he was here, with her, a far better lot than rotting in a ship’s hold on the way to Australia.

  Mr. Tallgrass rumbled in his chair. “Listen, you French witch, if I had any capital, then I wouldn’t be here, now would I?”

  Setting down her glass of punch, Clara searched in her pocket and pulled out a small silk pouch. Coins tinkled as she poured them into her palm and fingered through them.

  Ben narrowed his eyes. What was she up to?

  She crossed over to Mr. Tallgrass and held out a half farthing.

  The man sneered, his gaze bouncing between the coin and Clara. “What’s this?”

  “A gift, sir.” Her smile shamed them all. “To ward off poverty and misfortune this coming year.”

  Tallgrass snaked out a hand and snatched it from her, testing the metal of the coin with his teeth. Satisfied, he tucked it away with a grunt. “Fine. Right fine.”

  Whirling, she padded back to Ben, and his breath hitched. Did ever a purer soul walk the earth? He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “He’s right, you know.”

  Her nose scrunched, the little creases adding to her charm.

  “That was a right fine thing you did,” he explained.

  She pulled away, then pressed a coin into his palm, shaking her head to ward off his refusal. “May you have a blessed new year, as well.”

  He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “May we both,” he whispered.
<
br />   The first chime of midnight bonged low and resonant. Lacing his fingers with hers, he thanked God with each successive strike of the hour. Not the New Year’s he’d expected, but expectations were a realm one ought not dwell in for long.

  “A very merry new year to all.” Mr. Pocket’s voice was a benediction on the echo of the last chime. “A toast is in order, I think.”

  Smiling, Clara let go of Ben’s hand and bent to retrieve her glass. He snagged one of his own, and the unlikely group all lifted their wassail.

  “To the master of the manor and the winner of the prize, whomever that may be.” The inspector’s gaze slid from one person to the next, settling on Ben, then narrowed, his eyes nearly disappearing behind his big nose.

  Mademoiselle Pretents tossed back her drink. Spinning, she threw her glass into the hearth, shattering the strange moment. “So, are we going to play some cards or not?”

  Tallgrass sucked air in through his teeth. “A half farthing ain’t gonna go far, but I never could pass up a good game o’ Loo. Shove me over there, girl.”

  The inspector turned to Clara. “This may be a bit beneath your standards, miss. No shame in retiring now.” Then he elbowed Ben as he passed by on his way to the table. “Come on, Lane. We can take the pair of them down.”

  Clara’s gaze followed the man. Then she peered up at Ben. “Indeed. It has been a long day. Stay, if you like, for I bid you good night.”

  She turned and exited before he could argue the point, which perhaps was a good thing. Had he seen her to her room, the beast inside him might not have stayed leashed after another kiss.

  “Will you stand like a lovesick steer, or shall I deal you in, eh?” Mademoiselle Pretents’s voice pelted him in the back like grapeshot.

  Such coarseness didn’t deserve a response, but a retort perched on his tongue nonetheless. He opened his mouth—then as quickly shut it and squatted. There, on the carpet, lay a coin where Clara had stood. Gold. Ancient. He snatched it up and chased after her. She was halfway up the stairs by the time he gained the first step. “Clara, you dropped your special coin.”

  She smiled over her shoulder. “La! Silly me. I should take better care—”

  Her foot shot out. Her arms flailed. She plummeted backward. If her head cracked the wood—

  No!

  He bolted ahead, taking the stairs two at a time. Oh, God, help me reach her.

  Arms outstretched, he lunged upward and caught her. Barely. Widening his stance, he hefted them both upright, then leaned her back against the railing for support. Other than being wide-eyed and making little strangling sounds, she appeared to be whole.

  He peered closer. “You all right?”

  She gulped, then nodded slowly. “Yes, thanks to you. But if you hadn’t been here—” All colour drained from her face.

  “Thank God I was.” Indeed. Thank You, God. He tucked back a loosened wisp of her hair, and she trembled beneath his touch—or more likely from the horror of nearly breaking her neck. He held out his arm. “Come on, let’s get you to your room.”

  Her fingers dug into his sleeve, grasping for dear life, and no wonder, for so close had she come to losing hers. Blast those long skirts and feminine frivolities such as lace hems and—what on earth?

  He transferred her grasp from his arm to the railing. “Wait here.”

  Three steps beyond where they stood, the carpet runner bled over onto the lower tread. Crouching, he dissected the step. No wonder Clara had lost her balance.

  Someone had removed the brass rod holding the carpet in place.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The next day, Clara stood at the sitting-room window, peering out at a landscape smothered by a fresh coating of snow. Clouds, gravid with possibility, threatened to unleash more of the same. A frozen world wrapped tight in ice and cold—or death, should one venture outside unprepared. The thought prickled gooseflesh along her arms, and she rubbed them absently, praying all the while that Aunt was keeping warm.

  “You hardly touched your breakfast this morning. Not that I blame you. I ate better at Millbank.”

  Ben’s deep voice warmed her from behind, and she turned from the glass, letting the sheer fall back into place. He stood so close that she breathed in his scent of pine soap, tangy as a woodland forest. His gaze, hinting at unchecked emotion, made her forget about the wintry world outside. Ahh, but she could get used to spending all her days with this man.

  He held out his hand. “I’ve brought you something.” A small golden scone rested atop his palm.

  “Where did you find that?” Regardless of his answer, she took the morsel from him, lips already moistened in anticipation.

  He cocked a brow while she devoured the treat. “Surely you don’t expect me to reveal all my secrets, hmm?”

  Outside the closed doors of the sitting room, men’s voices grew louder. A few good-natured shouts. Some laughter. Had the master of the manor finally arrived now, on New Year’s Day? She peered up at Ben.

  He swept out his hand. “After you.”

  Mademoiselle Pretents beat them to the threshold, sliding the doors open wide, with Mr. Pocket at her heels. Mr. Tallgrass merely grumbled in his wheeled chair, requesting Jilly to once more straighten him.

  “What is this?” Mademoiselle Pretents marched into the foyer. By the time Clara and Ben caught up, crimson crept in ever-widening patches on the lady’s cheeks.

  “It is not fair to add more to our number with only six days remaining. Non!” She stamped her foot, the clack of it resounding on the marble tile. “I will not have it. You hear me?”

  “Mademoiselle”—Mr. Pocket leaned toward her—“I do not think it is up to you.”

  “Pah!” She whirled and stalked back into the sitting room, her grey skirt as puffed up as she was.

  Near the front door, Betty, the petite maid who’d fretted over the Boxing Day incident, held out her arms, collecting all manner of brightly coloured hats and scarves and coats. Three men, lithe and lean, continued to add to her pile so that soon it grew to her chin. Any more and she’d go down.

  The tallest man of the trio turned to them. “Greetings to you, fine residents of Bleakly Manor. We are the Brothers Penfold.” He lifted to his toes and flourished his arm out to his side.

  The two others, identically blue eyed and freckled of face, pranced forward with precise steps, lining up in a neat row.

  “Dawson at your service.” The first one dipped a bow.

  “Lawson at your service.” The second folded as well.

  Mr. Pocket held out his hand, stopping them, and faced the tallest of the men. “Let me guess. You’re Clawson.”

  The man laughed, his shaggy red hair sweeping his collar with the movement. “A valiant effort, but no. Charles, at your service.” He bowed so low, his head nearly hit the floor.

  Then the three of them snapped into action, tumbling and balancing and leaping into more gymnastics than were feasible in the foyer. All the while, they chanted:

  “We come to bring you cheer,

  for a very merry new year,

  with song, and dance, and rhyme,

  for a splendidly wonderful time.

  We are the Brothers Penfold!”

  The twin men clasped hands and raised them high, while the taller man, Charles, dove beneath the arc and somersaulted to a stop in front of Clara. He captured her hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing his lips against her skin.

  She gasped.

  Ben stepped closer to her side. She couldn’t see, but if she dared a peek, no doubt his hands were fisted.

  Charles winked up at her, then jumped to his toes. “My good people, your entertainment begins in an hour. Don’t be late.”

  He pivoted and joined his brothers. As one, the three of them snatched up their bags and turned to the overburdened servant. “Lead on, my fair maiden,” Charles said. “For we shall need time to prepare.”

  Mr. Pocket’s gaze followed the retreating performers. “Interesting turn o
f events, I’d say.”

  Ben said nothing. He merely ushered Clara into the sitting room with a light touch to the small of her back.

  For the next hour, each tick of the clock seemed to go slower, especially with Mademoiselle Pretents working herself into a frenzy. Despite Clara’s best efforts at calming her, the lady bristled about the addition of three more people to compete for the prize.

  After an eternity, Betty appeared in the doorway. “The Brothers Penfold request your audience in the drawing room.”

  “Flap and rubbish! I’ll freeze me rumpus off in there.” Mr. Tallgrass’s lips twisted into a sour pout. “Why can’t the blasted fellows come in here?”

  Betty clasped her hands in front of her, and Clara knew the frustration she must be feeling. They all wanted to strangle the words from Mr. Tallgrass by now.

  “Please,” Betty continued. “If you would follow me.”

  Tugging her shawl tight at the neck, Clara huddled close to Ben on their way out. As much as she hated to admit it, Mr. Tallgrass’s sentiments were correct. It would be cold away from the sitting-room hearth.

  The hallway portraits stared like living creatures. She could feel them measuring and judging each one of them. Clara shivered. What a horrid thought. But the quiver melted as Ben escorted her into the drawing room.

  No new draperies had yet been hung since the Christmas tree incident, but even without thick fabric on the windows, the chamber was as warm as a late spring day. A huge fire burned on the grate and appeared to have been lit for quite some time. Why had Betty not suggested they move their party into this room sooner?

  “Have a seat, gentlefolk, and let the merriment begin.” Charles waggled his fingers at four chairs lined up in front of a cleared area on the carpet. Then he disappeared behind a curtain hung from a frame.

  Clara stared, wide-eyed. When had they time to construct that?

  “Roll me over, Jilly,” Mr. Tallgrass commanded.

  The girl put all her weight into shoving the big toady toward the row of chairs.

  Mademoiselle Pretents jumped back as Jilly careened too close to the woman’s skirts. “Stupidé girl!”