Etiquette With The Devil

by Rebecca Paula

  Clara trudged along the uneven muddy road until she crested the top of a large hill. Pausing to allow the burning of the healing wound along her side to recede, she spotted a great house in the distance. The wind whistled through the trees, the rain driving down against an unyielding cushion of deep summer green. And still, with the promise of life around her, there was something about the sight of that house that disconcerted her—its bleakness maybe, the way it stood squarely in the middle of late summer ripeness, but was itself dull and dying.

  Clara flexed her stiff fingers and took hold of the trunk once more. She slipped and stumbled in her descent down the hill, her boots sliding deep in the dark mud. Once on level ground, she regained her balance and continued until she reached the large iron gates of the stately home.

  Soaked from the driving rain, Clara stood in awe of the most palatial and decrepit mansion she had ever seen. It was hard to believe anyone could live there. A person could catch his death in that crumbling mass of a house. The long windows on each level of the three stories were void of light or movement. She supposed now would be the moment the ominous caws of a raven would ring through the air, but only the patter of rain broke the unsettling silence.

  The drive was overtaken with weeds and debris. Even the surrounding gardens were tangled beds of vines and thistle. Only a few stray flowers peeked out from beneath the wild mess, reaching toward the sky as if desperate for light.

  Clara hefted the trunk past the stone lions that stood as mossy sentries on either side of the granite stairs, and up to the elaborate carved door looming before her. She did her best to still her chattering teeth as she dropped the rusty knocker against the weathered wood, and waited. And waited. She tried the knocker a second time, rain dripping down the curve of her spine, sending a shiver throughout her body. What she would give to be dry and warm.

  Unable to bear the cold rain any longer, good manners or no, Clara opened the door. She could chastise herself later for her poor behavior, once she could feel her feet once more.

  “Hello?” The only response was a faint echo of her question. She abandoned the muddy trunk by the door, taking a tentative step into the cavernous foyer.

  It felt as if she had tumbled backward into a long forgotten memory. Grand marble columns stretched from floor to ceiling, drawing her attention toward the second story balcony. Strips of murals spiraled off the walls, looking like a mess of discarded ribbons in a rag bag. The air was heavy with dust and age, full of a stagnancy that lent well to a forgotten relic, not a house, certainly not one with young children.

  “Hello?” Clara called out again. A branch tangled with the muddy hem of her dress and she tripped, her hands stretched out before her in a frantic wave. Below her, the yellowed ivory floor tiles were covered in leaves and more debris. She kicked another branch out of the way as she regained her balance, spotting a porcelain doll laying upside down by the stairs, its arms reaching for the door, its brown hair matted and tangled with faded blue satin.

  A flutter rolled through her stomach. Ahead of her, a faint flicker of light from down the darkened hallway ahead urged her to continue. Clara peered back over her shoulder to the door, to that blasted trunk, as the rain pelted against the brittle window panes.

  “Don’t stop now. You’re getting warmer,” a man’s voice echoed from down the corridor.

  Clara stepped back toward the door. Startled, she considered for a moment whether she should continue running for another day or rush toward the unknown. No, she had come too far to run now. She spun around and marched into the darkness, surprised to discover that the source of light came from a large sitting room.

  A man lounged on a tattered sofa by a carved marble fireplace, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. Light glinted off the large ring on his finger that listlessly circled the rim of a nearly emptied glass resting on his chest. He made no fuss over her arrival, nor any effort to address her directly. It was rather rude, that.

  Clara forced words to her cold lips. “Who are you?”

  “The footman.”

  The man settled his green eyes on her with a slow sweep from the ceiling, gripping his glass tighter. He did not inquire about her identity or how she came to be standing in the doorway, drenched from rain. He asked nothing. It was as if he were a ghost.

  A screech ripped through the air as a light gust of wind swirled around Clara, disturbing the room’s fetid odor. A bird, larger and more vibrant than any she had ever seen, swooped overhead and settled onto the back of an armchair against a wall of windows. The bird appeared entirely out of place, sandwiched in a room of forgotten items with an overgrown courtyard barely visible through the grimy windowpanes.

  “It won’t bite,” the man said. “It’s only a parrot.” He spoke about the creature as if the happenstance of a parrot flying freely about in England was quite ordinary. His demeanor, servant or no, irked her.

  “Aren’t footmen normally in the habit of answering the door for their employer?”

  “When I feel obliged.” His elocution was admirable, even if the word obliged dragged out on an uneven drunken lilt.

  “I was standing outside for some time, sir.”

  He returned to studying the ceiling, seemingly fascinated by the crumbling plasterwork of vines, flowers, and cherubs.

  Clara stepped further into the room, noting the moth-eaten Oriental rug she stood upon. “And the weather was not agreeable.”

  He propped himself up and gave her a surveying glance. Finally. “You do look positively soaked.”

  “Quite,” she ground out, overcome by a mounting tide of frustration.

  The man certainly did not dress like a footman. His curly black hair was a chaotic mess above a long, ruddy face and emerald eyes that sparked with overindulgence. And yet despite his raggedness, his morning coat was trimmed in black velvet, his yellow bow tie was perfectly straight, and his silk waist coat was without a stain or wrinkle.

  “Now that you’ve found me, how can I be of assistance?”

  Clara brushed back the wet hair escaped from its bun that clung to the sides of her face. “Yes, well you see, I am here—”

  A sound erupted somewhere within the depths of the home, something she had never heard the likes of before. “Good heavens, what was that!?” Her hands clutched at her chest, anything to keep her racing heart trapped within her ribcage.

  “The tiger.” The man flashed a sad sort of smile. “Lucy’s recently from India. I suspect she’s not fond of the English rain.”

  “T-tiger?” Clara was cold, but she did not think she had lost her head because of it. “You have a tiger in residence?”

  “Among other monsters.”

  Clara stood there, her mouth agape as the man nodded as if to prove his point and made a shrill whistle. Then, as if on command, the house rumbled with a sound that conjured images of collapse.

  A small girl with a cherub-like face and strawberry blond hair twirled into the room, stopping short when she noticed Clara.

  “Hello.” The little girl dipped into a clumsy curtsey. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “As I am yours.” The words escaped Clara, sounding more like a question than a statement.

  “My name is Minnie Ravensdale. Who are—”

  A boy with chestnut hair tumbled backward into the room, interrupting the girl with a roar as he wielded a wooden sword toward another man, rather wild-looking in appearance. Both yelled and fenced about, neglectful of the soaked stranger standing in the middle of their sitting room.

  Minnie tugged at Clara’s hand, commanding her attention, but Clara was struck with a curious wave of interest toward the man fencing. She had never seen a man so large before, and so beyond British social conventions. Nothing about him spoke of a man born into good breeding.

  “My mother was a ballerina in the Russian ballet,” the girl exclaimed. “She was famous the world over.”

  With an awkward spin from Clara’s fingertips, the girl tripped and
landed firmly on her bottom with a piqued cry. The clacking of the wooden swords came to an abrupt end, then the wild-looking man faced Clara, shaking his head at the girl’s declaration.

  “And let me guess,” Clara said, speaking to the small boy, “your father was a pirate king.”

  “No,” he replied pensively, “a botanist.” He charged his fencing partner once more, ruthlessly stabbing him in the gut with the dull-pointed stick. The man crumbled to the floor with a groan.

  The effort to receive a straight answer had led her nowhere. And apparently, attempts at being charming did not work either. “I see,” she said flatly.

  Recovered, Minnie bounced back to her feet to twirl about the room. She skipped, attempting to leap, but her small legs only carried her a few inches off of the ground. With an outstretched arm, she bowed toward the man fencing and said, “And uncle is—”

  “Uncle?” Clara repeated, surprised.

  “As you can see,” the man groaned, pushing up to his knees, “I was busy fighting for my life. I’m Ravensdale.”

  “I am Miss Clara Dawson and—”

  “You must be cold!” Minnie yelled, grabbing Clara’s chilled hands. “Come warm up with me by the fire.”

  “Yes. In a moment.” Clara freed her hands and faced the man to properly introduce herself. Cold or not, she hadn’t forgotten her manners entirely.

  “As you were saying,” Mr. Ravensdale insisted. He scratched the back of his head, a toothy grin stretched wide across his face.

  Well, he didn’t have to act so smug. “Yes, well I am here—”

  A series of bangs echoed down the hallway. Clara sucked in a deep breath, pressing her palm against her forehead. She wanted nothing more than a warm bath and a change of clothes. She was not asking for a royal parade, simply a chance to speak and the opportunity to warm up after spending the past several hours wet and half-frozen.

  “Don’t move,” the footman cautioned from the sofa. The boy took advantage of the distraction and stabbed his uncle once more as Minnie shepherded Clara closer to the fire. A howl erupted from the hallway as the parrot flew out of the room. Burton Hall seemed more like a strange circus than a residence. What else could possibly be housed here?

  Her answer stumbled through the doorway wearing a knight’s helmet and a man’s shirt tied up with ribbons and a worn leather belt.

  “And you thought the tiger was bad,” the footman said with a throaty laugh. “Watch out for that heathen.”

  The small figure bumbled forward, blind to the chair that blocked its path. Clara rushed to the rescue, only a moment too late. The toddler stumbled into the side of a chair and released another earsplitting cry.

  Clara tugged the helmet off, revealing a fussing child. She dropped a kiss on the spreading mark on the girl’s forehead, but to no avail; her crying would not cease. She lifted the tot into her arms, brushing back the child’s crimson curls, and hummed until the room fell quiet.

  “Mr. Ravensdale, I am Clara Dawson and I am here for the—”

  “—governess position,” he finished. “Yes, I know.”

  She drew back. “How are you certain?”

  He rocked back onto his heels, clasping his hands behind him after snatching the stick away from his nephew. “No one else has dared answer the post.”

  That strange flutter returned, the one that braced her stomach earlier before she marched toward this very room.

  He pointed a wooden sword at her, lifting it in the air as if to command her like a marionette. “Welcome to the wilds of Burton Hall, Dawson.”

  Dawson? Did no one in this house possess manners?

  CHAPTER TWO

  The parrot swooped back into the room, cutting the tension with a flutter of its large wings. Everyone fell silent, but only for a brief, blissful moment. “That is kind, sir,” Clara said, “but you must have questions. I have several.”

  Mr. Ravensdale nodded, then shooed the children out. “I would discuss this in my office, but seeing as we’re living in only two rooms at the moment, this will have to do. Have a seat, Dawson.”

  Clara would have preferred to remain by the fire, but she made her way to the empty wing-back chair beside the sofa where the supposed footman was still lounging.

  “I must apologize for being late.” Rearranging her skirts was difficult with the mud beginning to dry heavy at the hem. It would take a small miracle to save the dress now. Shame. “In doing so, I must add that it was through no fault of my own. It was agreed upon that I would be picked up at the station and conveyed to Burton Hall by carriage. It seems the promise was forgotten. I could find no one willing to assist in bringing me here.”

  Mr. Ravensdale threw back his head and barked out a laugh. Odd, she found nothing funny about her day.

  “We only just arrived,” he said, brushing his hand over his mouth as if he could erase the misplaced mirth there. “Don’t hold me accountable for the conduct of others.”

  “I understand.” Although that was a lie. She hadn’t understood anything since setting foot inside Burton Hall. Her cheeks warmed as she surveyed the man, his tall silhouette framed by the filtered light from the dirty windows behind him. She met his eyes, her breath catching at the base of her throat.

  She had never seen skin so tanned and leather-like before. His brown hair was cut nothing like what was in fashion—messed instead into wild peaks, and unkempt. He had an aquiline nose, and ears that stuck out a bit much from his long, lean face. His eyes sparked with an appetite for life that made Clara rather uncomfortable. Unforgiving, was a better way to describe the look possessing his hazel eyes. Rough stubble shadowed his cheeks and it appeared that he was tired, but he would never confess it—especially to someone he just met, she concluded. He held himself proudly and spoke with a careful nonchalance that made guessing the remaining details difficult.

  “Barnes,” he said, pulling his gaze from her, “see that Grace doesn’t impale herself on a pointy object. I want to speak with Dawson alone.”

  Clara had never been looked at the way Mr. Ravensdale was looking at her now, truly, as though she was more than flesh and bone. As though by some small chance, she mattered in this world.

  “I am sure you do,” the man drawled rakishly. He stood and poured an amber-colored liquid—brandy—she assumed, into his glass, two fingers too high.

  “Dawson,” Mr. Ravensdale said with annoyed air, “allow me to introduce my friend and travel companion, Mr. Isaac Barnes. I can safely say that he did not do so himself when you arrived.”

  “Or open the door.” Clara clamped a hand over her mouth. She darted a wide-eyed glance between the two men, waiting to be dismissed. Instead they both remained quiet. “You said you were the footman, Mr. Barnes.”

  He chuckled at her attempt to rectify her rudeness. “You will discover, Miss Dawson, that with this family, you will be a great many things. Opportunity abounds.” Mr. Barnes waggled his eyebrows.

  “See that you don’t kill the earl,” Mr. Ravensdale called out as Mr. Barnes sashayed out of the room with a drunken tilt.

  “See that you do not scare off Miss Dawson. I am prepared to feed the children to Lucy for dinner if you do,” Mr. Barnes retorted from the hall. “They’re becoming tiresome.”

  Clara sank back into the chair, relieved that she was no longer in the middle of the chaotic whirlwind of personalities and strange beasts, but only in one individual’s company. Well, she was only somewhat relieved. He was still studying her, and she couldn’t keep from watching him, either.

  Mr. Ravensdale cleared his throat. “I apologize for his behavior.”

  “Oh?” She found it odd that he would apologize for the wrongs of another, but not for his own.

  “The children’s nurse,” he continued, “didn’t return the same easy affection that Mr. Barnes felt for her, it seems.”

  “The children have no nurse?”

  “Not presently. The Ahya was left in London after our arrival and the woman who was hired fled
this morning. The children don’t have proper rooms or beds. We don’t have a working kitchen. I cook by campfire and we eat by candlelight. And as you know, there are no horses or carriages. The Ravensdales are living as paupers at present. Before leaving India, the idea seemed sound enough. Now we’re just two bachelors saddled with a bunch of rowdy children and no means to care for them.”

  If it were not for the threat of Mr. Shaw, she would not hesitate to make her apologies and decline the position. However, Mr. Shaw was the reason she no longer had hopes of ever having a happy end in life. Clara needed to stay and strive under the circumstances, no matter how grim. Surely, it would prove better than what awaited if she returned to London without money or reference. She was not prepared to have to lie on her back for a living, and she would make a terrible seamstress.

  “Well, Dawson.” Mr. Ravensdale struck a match and lit the cigar hanging from his lips. His brows furrowed as he inhaled and exhaled in staccato beats, and a strand of his unkempt hair fell across his forehead. “Let’s talk business. I’m here to see that the children have a governess and that family affairs are quickly put into order. I’m to return to India directly.”

  “You will be leaving so soon?” She shut her eyes, silently scolding herself for being so rude. Again. His affairs were not her concern. She was hired to tutor the children, not to oversee the comings and goings of house’s master. She was certainly not there to question why he would abandon his family in such haste.

  “Yes.” Those eyes of his followed her again, following the rise of her shoulders as she took in a sharp breath, studied her cheeks, watched her rub her hands together for warmth. “The burden fell to me, but I’m a bachelor, and a wandering one at that. I’m not going to supervise their upbringing. My aunt will see to that. She’ll act as mistress when I leave.”

  “You hired me without asking anything of my qualifications or references.”

  “I trust you.” He flashed a brilliant smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  A seed of dislike toward the man rooted itself in her stomach. She was to be alone with an ill-mannered, brokenhearted rake and three children in a house that was not fit for occupancy. Clara doubted she merited God’s mercy as she was already damned, but she prayed for it nonetheless.