Praise for Once Upon a Dickens Christmas
With her signature action-packed, page-turning tension, as well as sweet second-chance romance, Michelle Griep has written a tale that pays homage to Charles Dickens and will delight fans of Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South. A Christmas gift readers will love!
—Julie Klassen, bestselling author of the series Tales from Ivy Hill
A truly heartwarming Christmas story that reminds me of the great Dickens classics. A story of second chances that will have you holding your breath, laughing, worrying, and crying right along with the characters. This is one of those books you curl up with by a warm fire and don’t stop reading until you turn the last page. Highly recommended.
—MaryLu Tyndall, author of the award-winning series Legacy of the King’s Pirates
Fans of Victorian Era romance will swoon over 12 Days at Bleakly Manor: Book 1 in Once Upon a Dickens Christmas by Michelle Griep. Her characters are mesmerizing, her writing flawless—a winning combination!
—Elizabeth Ludwig, author of A Tempting Taste of Mystery
A Tale of Two Hearts invites your heart to go on a wild roller-coaster ride. Trapped in a lie, can they find their way out before irreparable damage is done? Add to the plot sweet Uncle Barlow, adorable Miss Whymsy, and a pair of deplorable cousins, and you’ve got a story your heart won’t forget.
—Ane Mulligan, award-winning author of the Chapel Springs series
A Dickensian delight! Victorian London and the characters within come alive within these pages. I thoroughly enjoyed riding the characters coattails through bustling streets between the Golden Egg Inn, Purcell’s Tea Room, and more as they wove a tangled web of their own design—and then desperately tried to unravel it before falling through the strands. A refreshing tale perfectly paired with a cup of Christmas tea.
—Jocelyn Green, award-winning author of A Refuge Assured
Delightful Christmas fare perfect for fans of English historicals, brimful with Dickensian details and the beautiful Christian truth of second chances.
—Carolyn Miller, author of Regency Brides: Legacy of Grace and Regency Brides: A Promise of Hope series
When a seemingly harmless deception escalates to alarming proportions, the characters in A Tale of Two Hearts are forced to question their values and decide if sacrificing their integrity justifies the altruistic outcome. This delightful story combines a host of interesting characters, fresh writing, and a heartwarming ending that will leave the reader smiling.
—Susan Anne Mason, award-winning author of Irish Meadows and A Most Noble Heir
In A Tale of Two Hearts, Michelle Griep tells a skillfully woven tale both elegant and heartwarming. Charles Dickens would be delighted with the way she tucked into this story’s pockets truths and observations he penned long ago. Highly recommended reading, no matter the season.
—Cynthia Ruchti, author of An Endless Christmas, Restoring Christmas, and more than twenty other novels and nonfiction
I have found another favorite author and it’s Michelle Griep. With an incredible ability to spin a beautiful tale, Griep sucked me into the story from the very first paragraph. From the historical detail to the English setting to the unforgettable and enjoyable characters, I didn’t want to put this book down. William and Mina will stick with me for a long time. This will be a story to read again and again. And now I’m off to find every Michelle Griep book I can get my hands on.
—Kimberley Woodhouse, bestselling author
Just when you think you’re about to embark on a cheeky, fun Christmas lark, you realize what a multifaceted, complex story Griep has crafted. With characterizations Dickens would envy, and bright, fresh writing that pulls you in, A Tale of Two Hearts will have you cheering on Mina and William and appreciating the skill with which they have been wrought.
—Erica Vetsch, author of A Perfect Christmas in The Victorian Christmas Brides Collection
A heartwarming tale of second chances coming from the least expected places. I loved the many nods to Dickens and the inventive twists on a few other classics. In A Tale of Two Hearts, romance isn’t only for the young, and fresh starts aren’t only for the faultless. An uplifting and charming holiday story!
—Jennifer Delamere, author of The Captain’s Daughter
12 Days at Bleakly Manor © 2017 by Michelle Griep
A Tale of Two Hearts © 2018 by Michelle Griep
The Old Lace Shop © 2019 by Michelle Griep
Print ISBN 978-1-68322-260-6
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-64352-373-6
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-64352-374-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Image: Ildiko Neer / Trevillion Images
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com
Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.
Printed in Canada.
Dear Reader,
What do you think of when you hear the name Charles Dickens? Most people are instantly whisked back to merry ol’ England. A light snow is falling on the narrow lanes of old London town. Gas lamps glow. Children dart about with red cheeks and redder noses. And standing in the doorway, watching all the hubbub with a scowl and a humbug, stands Scrooge, lamenting the coming of Christmas.
All that with the mention of one name. How can it be?
Charles Dickens was a master storyteller. He had a way of drawing in the reader, presenting life unvarnished, yet always leaving an ember of hope burning bright at the end of a tale. And that, my friends, is what Christmas is all about. Hope. The hope of reconciliation between Creator and created, the complete and eternal forgiveness of our foulest thoughts, our ugliest words, our blackest sins. And all that with the mention of one name, as well.
Jesus.
It has been my joy to pen these tales in the spirit of the great storyteller Charles Dickens, and by the spirit of the kindest soul this world will ever know … Jesus.
Blessings to you, dear reader.
~ Michelle
TABLE OF CONTENTS
12 Days at Bleakly Manor
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
A Tale of Two Hearts
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
The Old Lace Shop
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
On a stormy night 2,000 years ago,
a babe was born,
and in a land far from that rugged stable
a coin was forged ~
both the bearers of a second chance.
The God-man returned to heaven,
but the coin yet roams the earth,
passing from hand to hand,
hope to hope …
12 Days at
Bleakly Manor
The First Day
DECEMBER 24, 1850
CHAPTER ONE
London, 1850
Christmas or not, there was nothing merry about the twisted alleys of Holywell. Clara Chapman forced one foot in front of the other, sidestepping pools of … well, a lady ought not think on such things, not on the morn of Christmas Eve—or any other morn, for that matter.
Damp air seeped through her woolen cape, and she tugged her collar tighter. Fog wrapped around her shoulders, cold as an embrace from the grim reaper. Though morning had broken several hours ago, daylight tarried, seeming reluctant to make an appearance in this part of London—and likely wishing to avoid it altogether. Ancient buildings with rheumy windows leaned toward one another for support, blocking a good portion of the sky.
She quickened her pace. If she didn’t deliver Effie’s gift soon, the poor woman would be off to her twelve-hour shift at the hatbox factory.
Rounding a corner, Clara rapped on the very next door, then fought the urge to wipe her glove. The filthy boards, hung together more by memory than nails, rattled like bones. Her lips pursed into a wry twist. A clean snow might hide the sin of soot and grime in this neighborhood, but no. Even should a fresh coating of white bless all, the stain of so much humanity would not be erased. Not here. For the thousandth time, she breathed out the only prayer she had left.
Why, God? Why?
The door swung open. Effie Gedge’s smile beamed so bright and familiar, Clara’s throat tightened. How she missed this woman, her friend, her confidant—her former maid.
“Miss Chapman? What a surprise!” Effie glanced over her shoulder, her smile faltering as she looked back at Clara. “I’d ask you in but …”
Clara shoved away the awkward moment by handing over a basket. “I’ve brought you something for your Christmas dinner tomorrow. It isn’t much, but …” It was Clara’s turn to falter. “Anyway, I cannot stay, for Aunt’s developed a cough.”
Effie’s smile returned, more brilliant than ever. “That’s kind of you, miss. Thank you. Truly.”
The woman’s gratitude, so pure and genuine, rubbed Clara’s conscience raw. Would that she might learn to be as thankful for small things. And small it was. Her gaze slipped to the cloth-covered loaf of bread, an orange, and used tea leaves wrapped in a scrap of paper. Pressing her lips together, she faced Effie. “I wish it were more. I wish I could do more. If only we could go back to our old lives.”
“Begging your pardon, miss.” Effie rested her hand on Clara’s arm, her fingers calloused from work no lady’s maid should ever have to perform. “But you are not to blame. I shall always hold to that. There is no ill will between us.”
Clara hid a grimace. Of course she knew in her head she wasn’t to blame, but her heart? That fickle organ had since reverted to her old way of thinking, pulsing out “you are unloved, you are unwanted” with every subsequent beat.
“Miss?”
Clara forced a smile of her own and patted the woman’s hand. “You are the kind one, Effie. You’ve lost everything because of my family, and yet you smile.”
“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. I suppose you know that as well as I, hmm?” Her fingers squeezed before she released her hold. “I wish you merry, Miss Chapman, this Christmas and always.”
“Thank you, Effie. And a very merry Christmas be yours, as well.” She spun, eyes burning, and pushed her way back down the narrow alley before Effie saw her tears. This wasn’t fair. None of it.
Her hired hansom waited where she’d left it. The cab was an expense she’d rather not think on, but altogether necessary, for she lived on the other side of town. She borrowed the driver’s strong grip to ascend onto the step, then when inside, settled her skirts on the seat while he shut the door.
Only once did she glance out the window as the vehicle jostled along London’s rutted roads—and immediately repented for having done so. Two lovers walked hand in hand, the man bending close and whispering into the woman’s ear. A blush then, followed by a smile.
Clara yanked shut the window curtain, the loneliness in her heart rabid and biting.
That could have been her. That should have been her.
Why, God? Why?
She leaned her head back against the carriage. Was love to be forever denied her? First her father’s rejection, then her fiancé’s. She swallowed back a sob, wearier than twenty-five years ought to feel.
Eventually the cab jerked to a halt, and she descended to the street. She dug into her reticule and pulled out one of her last coins to pay the driver. At this rate, she wouldn’t have to hire a cab to visit Effie next Christmas. She might very well be her neighbor.
“Merry Christmas, miss.” The driver tipped his hat.
“To you, as well,” she answered, then scurried toward Aunt’s town house. A lacquered carriage, with a fine pair of matched horses at the front, stood near the curb. Curious. Perhaps the owner had taken a wrong turn, for Highgate, while shabbily respectable, was no Grosvenor Square.
Clara dashed up the few stairs and entered her home of the last nine months, taken in by the charitable heart of her Aunt Deborha Mitchell. The dear woman was increasingly infirm and housebound, but in her younger days she’d hobnobbed with people from many spheres.
Noontide chimes rang from the sitting-room clock, accompanied by a bark of a cough. Clara untied her hat and slipped from her cloak, hanging both on a hall tree, all the while wondering how best to urge Aunt back to her bed. The woman was as stubborn as … She bit her lower lip. Truth be told, tenacity ran just as strongly in her own veins.
Smoothing her skirts, she pulled her lips into a passable smile and crossed the sitting room’s threshold. “I am home, Aunt, and I really must insist you retire—oh! Forgive me.”
She stopped at the edge of the rug. A man stood near the mantel, dressed in deep blue livery. Her gaze flickered to her aunt. “I am sorry. I did not know you had company.”
“Come in, child.” Aunt waved her forward, the fabric of her sleeve dangling too loosely from the woman’s arm. “This involves you.”
The man advanced, offering a creamy envelope with gilt writing embellishing the front. “I a
m to deliver this to Miss Clara Chapman. That is you, is it not?”
She frowned. “It is.”
He handed her the missive with a bow, then straightened. “I shall await you at the door, miss.”
Her jaw dropped as he bypassed her, smelling of lavender of all things. She turned to Aunt. “I don’t understand.”
“I should think not.” Aunt nodded toward the envelope. “Open it.”
Clara’s name alone graced the front. The penmanship was fine. Perfect, actually. And completely foreign. Turning it over, she broke the seal and withdrew an embossed sheet of paper, reading aloud the words for Aunt to hear.
The Twelve Days of Christmas
As never’s been reveled
Your presence, Miss Chapman,
Is respectfully herald.
Bleakly Manor’s the place
And after twelve nights
Five hundred pounds
Will be yours by rights.
She lowered the invitation and studied her aunt. Grey hair pulled back tightly into a chignon eased some of the wrinkles at the sides of her eyes, yet a peculiar light shone in the woman’s faded gaze. Aunt Deborha always hid wisdom, but this time, Clara suspected she secreted something more.
“Who sent this?” Clara closed the distance between them and knelt in front of the old woman. “And why?”
Aunt shrugged, her thin shoulders coaxing a rumble in her chest. A good throat clearing staved off a coughing spell—for now. “One does not question an opportunity, my dear. One simply mounts it and rides.”
“You can’t be serious.” She dissected the tiny lift of Aunt’s brows and the set of her mouth, both unwavering. Incredible. Clara sucked in a breath. “You think I should go? To Bleakly Manor, wherever that is?”
“I think”—Aunt angled her chin—“you simply must.”
CHAPTER TWO
Running an absent finger over the burnt scabs on his forearm, Benjamin Lane sagged against the cell’s stone wall, welcoming the sharp sting of pain. It wouldn’t last long. The crust would fall away, leaving a series of black numbers etched into his skin. A permanent mark, forever labeling him a convict to be feared, and driving a final stake through the heart of his efforts to be something in this world. Turning aside, he spit out the sour taste in his mouth, then his lips curled into a snarl. He was something, all right.
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