“Oh, lovely! Such a beautiful idea.” The lines on Miss Scurry’s face disappeared. “I may have just the thing.” She shoved back her cap with her free hand as she disappeared out the door.
Ben watched her go. Hopefully she wasn’t rushing off to wrap up her mice. Still, Clara’s idea was worth a shot.
Mademoiselle Pretents flounced over to Clara, jabbing the air with a pointed finger. “My jewels have already been stolen, and now you want to take more? No! I will not have it.”
The inspector set his box onto the side table nearest him, then rose. “Mademoiselle, unless you’d like me to rummage through your things, I suggest you find something to donate.”
“Are you threatening me, monsieur?”
He halted in front of her and folded his arms. “Without doubt.”
“Gah! I have no more to say to you.” Her face pinched, nearly squeezing her dark eyes closed. “Any of you!” She stormed out of the room like a winter squall.
The inspector chuckled. “That’s the best thing she’s ever said.” Then he tipped his head at Clara. “A generous proposal on your part, miss. The world could use more like you.”
Pink bloomed on Clara’s cheeks, quite the contrast to Mademoiselle Pretents’s angry red. Ben tried not to stare, but the temptation was beyond a mere mortal such as himself. Ahh, he’d missed that innocent flush.
“I couldn’t agree more, Inspector,” he murmured, the words sounding huskier than he had intended—which only deepened her pink to the blush of a June rose.
“Well, I think it’s a bunch o’ flap.” Mr. Tallgrass shifted on his wheeled chair, listing to the side. “Oy me rumpus. Jilly!”
“I’ll leave him to you this time.” The inspector grumbled under his breath as he passed by Ben and fled the room.
Carping and cussing spewed out Tallgrass’s mouth the entire time Jilly propped him upward. “First my bones are rattled, then I’m fed fare what ‘tain’t fit for a street sweeper, and next someone tries to burn me in my own chamber. Now this? No! I ain’t gonna give no one nothing. Tradesmen be hanged, I say.”
Mr. Minnow puffed out his chest and blocked Clara’s view of the man. If nothing else, he was a protective fellow. Then again, so was a rodent over a piece of Stilton.
“I’m certain I may find some trivialities that will suffice, Miss Chapman. Shall I see you to your room to retrieve some of yours?” His arm shot out.
Clara tucked her hands behind her back and stepped closer to Ben. “Thank you, but no, Mr. Minnow. I am sure I can manage on my own.”
Minnow deflated, cast a withering look at Ben, then slunk away like a tot who’d been told no for the first time.
Clara watched him go and took another step toward Ben. Not that he minded, but such daring while Tallgrass eyed them?
“I was hoping to have a word with you,” she said.
He looked past her, over at Tallgrass, who’d blessedly gone back to berating Jilly and her chestnut-roasting skills at the hearth. Still, one never knew when the man would lash out at them again. He guided Clara to the door with a nudge to the small of her back. “Out in the hall.”
In the foyer, the lion head stared down at them. Ben smirked. Was this really any better?
Clara removed something from her pocket and held out her hand. A gold coin stared up at him.
He looked from the coin to her. “You’re offering gold to a thief?”
She shoved her hand closer. “Go on. I should like your opinion of it.”
Narrowing his eyes, he plucked the coin from her palm. Lightweight. Roughened edges. Perhaps over the centuries people had shaved bits off during times of dire need. One side was worn more than the other, a cross, or maybe an X, was at the center—impossible to read the letters ringing it. He flipped it over.
“Secundus casus.” He tasted the words like a foreign fruit. At first he’d thought it an old Roman coin, but none ever read thus. “Interesting. Where did you get this?”
“Someone slipped it under my door yesterday. Can you tell me what it says?”
“Second chance,” he drawled, but by the time the translation finished rolling off his tongue, he knew—and sucked in a sharp breath. “This was my charade last night, Clara.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.” Behind him, the eyes of the lion burned into his back, and he stiffened. “The mysteries are starting to pile up in a great heap, are they not?”
“Sounds ominous.” She tipped her face to his, searching his eyes for God knew what. “Should I be afraid?”
“No. As you told Miss Scurry, don’t fret. Be watchful, yet don’t worry. I would not willingly allow any harm to come to you.” He reached for her hand and pressed her fingers around the coin, holding on longer than etiquette allowed. The warmth of her skin burned hotter than a summer day. How he’d missed this, a simple touch, hushed words shared by them alone. The way her blue gaze looked to him for strength. Desire stoked a fire in his gut.
He pulled away before he wrapped her in his arms and never let go. “Keep that coin. For whatever reason, someone wanted you to have it.”
“But who? And why?”
“Sometimes all we have are questions.” He shook his head. Lord knows he’d had his share of them while rotting in a gaol cell. “But there’s really only one that matters.”
She blinked, an endearing little wrinkle bunching her nose. “What’s that?”
“Is God in control, or is He not?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Second chance. Second chance. With each stab of Clara’s needle through the fabric, she mulled over what the coin in her pocket could possibly mean. Though she’d had nearly an hour to herself in the sitting room to think on it, nothing came to mind.
Ben entered, breaking her concentration. He strolled across the carpet, hands behind his back. “How goes it? Am I the last one to donate to your worthy cause?”
“No, I’m still waiting for Miss Scurry and Mr. Minnow’s contributions.” After she nipped the thread with her teeth, she tucked away her needle and held up the finished project for Ben’s inspection. “As for me, I’ve sewn six pouches from fabric scraps. Not brilliant, but serviceable. And far better than what the others have dropped off.”
“And that would be …?”
Gathering her sacks, large enough for a few coins or some pinches of snuff, she led Ben to a side table and set down her offering. Then she pointed at a twist of waxed paper. “Mr. Pocket dropped off a half-dozen comfits.” She moved her finger onward to a string of cracked leather. “Mr. Tallgrass had Jilly deliver this old watch fob, though I doubt very much it will hold anything without breaking.” Lastly, she swept her hand above a nearly empty glass vial. “And why on earth Mademoiselle Pretents thinks anyone would want a few specks of smelling salts is beyond me, but at least she gave something, so I didn’t think it fair to chide her.”
“Then hopefully my addition will be welcome.” Ben’s hands appeared from behind his back and he set down a pile of folded papers.
Fascinated at what he’d created, she retrieved one and held it to eye level. A miniature crane, creamy white, complete with long neck, wings, and an inked-in dot for an eye stared back at her. She looked from the crane to the man. “I didn’t know you were a master at paper folding.”
His gaze locked on to hers, one brow curving ever so slightly. “A man must have some secrets to keep a lady intrigued.”
Warmth settled low in her tummy. La! She was more than intrigued with this man—and as confused about the sudden emotion he aroused in her as she was about the meaning of the coin in her pocket.
“Pardon me, miss, sir.”
They both turned as the small maid entered and dipped a curtsy. “You asked, miss, and so I’ve counted. There are five tradesmen remaining downstairs. Two tired of waiting and have since left.”
“Very good.” Clara smiled at her. “We shall deliver the boxes shortly. Thank you, er …?”
The short woman tucked her
chin. “It’s Betty, miss.”
“Thank you, Betty.”
Once again she curtsied, then darted out of the room—as the sound of laughter and conversation ambled in. Miss Scurry and Mr. Minnow crossed the threshold, the lady lifting her gaze to Mr. Minnow, a brilliant smile stealing years from her face. Mr. Minnow’s elastic lips moved at a steady speed, engrossing the older lady with some sort of story. Regardless of the age difference, the two seemed to draw as much happiness in their companionship as a married couple might. Both carried an assortment of boxes.
Ben nudged Clara. “Looks like Minnow’s found himself a lady friend. Feeling jealous?”
She ignored him, for any response would only fuel his teasing.
When Mr. Minnow paused for a breath, Clara cleared her throat, and the two new arrivals looked her way.
Immediately Mr. Minnow dashed over, bypassing her and Ben to set the boxes he’d been carrying on the table. Then with clipped steps, he stood at smart attention in front of Clara.
“I’ve brought you something.” He clicked his heels twice, then pulled out a collection of small paper bags from his pocket. Balancing them in the crook of his arm, he held a single bag out to her. “This one is expressly for you.”
“Why Mr. Minnow, very thoughtful of you.”
Next to her, Ben did a poor job of concealing a disgusted sigh.
Once again she ignored him and reached for the offered gift, then unfolded the top of the bag. The scent of ginger wafted out. Inside were amber balls, the size of her pinkie fingertip. She smiled up at the fellow. “Ginger drops are a favorite of mine.”
“Isn’t that lovely!” Miss Scurry exclaimed.
Mr. Minnow grinned so widely, Clara feared his face might split. With a military pivot, he strode back to the table to add his donation to the rest.
Ben leaned close and whispered in her ear. “So that’s why he always smells of Christmas cakes.”
She tried to shoot him a scolding frown but failed, for in truth, he was right.
Miss Scurry turned from the table, where she’d set her boxes, as well—except for one she carried over to Clara. “I’ve brought something also, my dear. Would you like to see?”
The fine hairs at the back of Clara’s neck lifted. Clearly the woman wanted her to take the box and open it. But if she did, would a mouse rise up and possibly escape? A shiver ran across her shoulders, feeling like a hundred little rodent feet.
Ben reached for the box. “May I?”
“Oh, yes! What an honour. What a delight.” The old lady beamed at him.
Stepping aside from Clara, Ben removed the lid, then turned to her and tilted it so that she might see. Inside, nestled on a folded white kerchief, lay a penny.
Clara’s eyes widened. “I hardly know what to say. This is more than generous, Miss Scurry.”
“Tush! We can’t send those fine tradesmen off with naught but trifles.”
Mr. Minnow gained the lady’s side and gathered her hand. “You are a true lady, madam.” He bent and kissed her fingers.
Miss Scurry fluttered her free hand to her chest. “Oh! Such a gentleman.”
Rolling his eyes at the two, Ben turned away from the dramatics and strode over to the table. “Let’s get packing. Those men have waited long enough.”
They joined him, and before all the boxes were opened, Clara said, “We need only five for the tradesmen, but I thought it might be nice to make Betty one for all her hard work.”
Between the four of them, it didn’t take long to pack up the treasures. Clara even retrieved some red thread from her sewing basket and tied a bow on each one. “There.”
“Beautiful!” Though only one word, Miss Scurry’s voice warbled it like a song.
Ben stacked the boxes in his arms, and the pile sat precariously up to his neck.
Clara removed the top two. “You’ll never make it down the stairs without dropping one. I’ll go with you.”
Miss Scurry clapped her hands. “Lovely! Now, Mr. Minnow, about that story you were telling me …”
“Ahh, yes! A real thriller, is it not?” He fairly skipped over to the settee and patted the cushion beside him. “Should you like to hear the end?”
“Indeed, sir.”
Clara exchanged a glance with Ben as they exited the room.
Out in the foyer, well out of earshot, Ben smiled down at her. “Quite a little friendship those two have struck up.”
“I think it’s good for both of them.”
“And what do you think is good for us?”
“I …” Her mouth dried. How to answer that?
He winked. “No answer required.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. Thankfully, he averted his all-knowing gaze and turned down a rather poorly lit corridor. She followed at his side, uncertain what else to say. So she said nothing—and neither did he, until they came to a plain stairway near the back of the house.
Ben paused on the first stair. “This seems the most logical route.”
She followed. The lower they descended, the stronger the aroma of cabbage soup. Clara’s stomach clenched—as did her heart—but not from the scent. Cabbage soup had been a favorite of her father’s. A dish he cherished even more than he did her. During his last days, she’d tried to make it just to please him, refining the amount of salt, the addition of ham bits, the sprinkling of a fine grating of pepper. Nothing satisfied him, least of all her. Just one more example of her failing to gain his love before he died. Her step faltered, and the boxes jiggled.
Ben reached the landing and turned to her. “Are you all right?”
Shoving down the sour memory, she forced a smile. “Yes, just a slip.”
She cleared the last three stairs without incident while he waited. Then they navigated the barren maze of the downstairs world side by side. Finally, they found the kitchen.
Inside, five men rose from the slab of a table at center. Each wore work-stained clothing and frowns. A few of them exchanged glances. Without a word, all lined up with their hands out.
Ben went to the far end while Clara handed one of her boxes to the first man.
“Thank you for your service,” she said.
He nodded his head and gruffed out, “Thank ye.”
Stepping to the next man, she held out his gift. “Thank you for your service.”
But he didn’t take it. He just stared, his eyes sharp and black as basalt. He studied her with a curl to his upper lip, like a mongrel facing an unknown adversary. He smelled of dogs as well. “Wouldn’t stay ‘ere if I were you. A house without its master is like a body without its soul.”
He snatched the box from her.
She recoiled a step, wobbling for a moment. Must everything about this place cause her to teeter? She sucked in a breath. Nine more days. Just nine.
But what would tomorrow bring?
The Fourth Day
DECEMBER 27, 1850
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Clara rushed through her morning routine, shivering all the while. Not that she could blame the housemaid for having an unlit hearth when she awoke. Hopefully more servants would arrive today from the nearby village now that the staff’s one-day-a-year holiday was over.
She rose and smoothed her skirts, then crossed to the door. On second thought, she returned to the dressing table and picked up the gold coin, secreting it in her pocket. Ben was right. Someone wanted her to have it—no sense finding the coin stolen when she returned. Mademoiselle Pretents had yet to find her missing jewels, despite her snooping about the great house and Mr. Pocket’s detective skills.
Reaching for the knob, Clara swung the door open, then stopped. The hall was empty, save for a pair of ice skates blocking her exit from her chamber. She picked them up with a smirk. Too big to fit under her door, eh?
She hurried downstairs to the dining room, hoping she wasn’t the only one to receive such a gift. Once she cleared the landing and wove her way from foyer to corridor, her hope turned into reality. Mr. Minnow strolle
d ahead of her, a pair of skates slung over one of his thin shoulders.
He turned, and a huge smile split his face. “Ahh, Miss Chapman. A hearty good morning to you, and so it shall be, for I see you carry a pair of skates yourself.”
She gripped her skates with both hands before the man could offer his arm yet again. “Indeed I do, sir. Do you suppose our elusive host is responsible?”
“I would imagine so, my pet.”
The intimate name rankled. She’d hoped he’d tire of using it by now. Clearly not. “Mr. Minnow,” she began, “I would prefer it if you would not call me—”
“La!” Mademoiselle Pretents blustered up from behind. “I am given ice skates but not my jewels. What’s this? You have them too?”
The three of them entered the dining room before Clara could answer, but truly, did the woman really need confirmation when she could see they each toted a pair?
Ahead, Miss Scurry turned in her chair, where she took breakfast at the head of the table. Her elfish chin twitched when she smiled. “So lovely!” Then she swiveled back to Ben and Mr. Pocket, seated on either side of her. “You were right, gentlemen. We have all been blessed with ice skates.”
In the nearest corner, three other pairs leaned against the wall. Clara laid hers next to them, then headed for the sideboard.
Ben and Mr. Pocket rose from their seats, waiting until she and Mademoiselle Pretents filled their bowls with a thin, gruel-like substance and came to the table. Ben held out the chair next to him, and Clara rewarded him with a smile.
“Thank you,” she said.
He leaned toward her. “You may not be too thankful when you taste that porridge.”
After one bite, she shoved the bowl away. Even a swine would turn up his nose at this slop.
Ben reached for the teapot and filled her cup, adding an extra sugar drop and more milk than usual. He winked. “For your skating stamina.”
As usual, he was right, for the tea filled her tummy and warmed her to her fingers and toes.
Once Upon a Dickens Christmas Page 7
