Mr. Pocket stood and addressed the table. “In honour of our absent host, I propose we accept the challenge and resign ourselves to the frozen pond out back.”
“Pah!” Mademoiselle Pretents spat out. “Go ahead and run off, Inspector. You are worthless at finding my jewels, anyway. But I do not skate. Nor do I see Monsieur Tallgrass having to submit himself to the cold.”
Mr. Pocket pursed his lips, sticking them out nearly as far as his nose. “Speaking of which, has anyone seen him this morning?”
Mumbles circled the table.
“Right. Well, I’ll go check on the fellow, then meet up with you, eh?” He exited before anyone could refuse.
Everyone grabbed their skates, except for Mr. Minnow, who not only finished off his porridge but was currently scraping out the dregs of hers as well. After retrieving their coats, they gathered in the foyer. Then the group roamed a few hallways with Ben in the lead, until discovering a door at the back.
They all paused, waiting for Mr. Pocket to join them. They waited so long, warmth trickled between Clara’s shoulder blades. “Perhaps we could begin without Mr. Pocket?”
Ben nodded. “He seems a capable-enough fellow to find his way to the pond.”
Clara turned to Miss Scurry. “Are you sure you’ll be able to manage this?”
“Such a dear!” the woman twittered. She set down her box of mice and tucked it aside in a corner, then peered up at Clara, a sparkle in her eye belying the wrinkles on her face. “But you see, I am quite capable.”
The woman darted outside.
“I suspect there is more than meets the eye in that one,” said Ben.
Clara exchanged a glance with him, then exited as he held the door for her. Outside, a draught of wind nipped her cheeks, but oh how lovely to be away from the manor’s dark-paneled walls. A path had been shoveled, bare grass peeking up and crunching beneath her shoes as she walked. Thicker blankets of snow snuggled amongst tree roots and crested in piles against the north side of rocks. The sun shone with glorious brilliance, and when the next gust blew, glittering fairy dust sprinkled over their hats and coats. The group stopped at the pond’s edge, a great swath of which had been cleared of snow.
Ben guided Clara to a downed log, likely set there for just such a purpose. “Shall I help you?” he asked.
“Do you really think you need to?” She gave him a knowing smile.
He returned it—then added a wink and crouched in front of her. The touch of his hand guiding her foot into the skate sent a charge up her leg. A shameful response, but completely delicious. His head bowed over his work, a small blessing, that. For if he glanced up now, she’d be undone.
He buckled on her skates in silence, but she had no doubt as to what memories played in his mind. Two winters ago at just such a skating party, he’d first pledged his love. Despite the cold, she loosened her scarf. Keeping warm was not going to be an issue, for heat burned a trail from tummy to heart.
Standing, Ben offered his hand. “Off you go.”
Refusing to meet his gaze, she righted herself and sailed onto the ice. Miss Scurry already whirled and twirled near the edge, while Mr. Minnow yet struggled to shove his long feet into his skates. Mademoiselle Pretents didn’t even try to accommodate. Skates forgotten on the ground at her feet, she stood with her back to them, arms folded, a dark grey smear on the lovely day. Why had she even bothered to join them?
Turning from the sight, Clara dug in her blades. Brisk air tingled on her face, driving her onward, faster and—a big hand reached for hers and spun her around.
Ben laughed, his voice low. “Think you can outskate me, madam?” His eyes sharpened with a glimmer of victory.
Her breath caught in her throat. This close, his words puffed out on little clouds of vapor, warming the skin of her forehead. La! Every part of her was warm, for if he tugged with just a bit more pressure, he’d pull her into his arms. She tried to force a scowl, a nearly impossible feat when all she really wanted to do was surrender to the grin that begged release. “I should’ve known you’d accost me on the ice, sir.”
“Yes.” He leaned closer, his brow nearly touching hers. “You should have.”
He grabbed her other hand and they set off, gliding in rhythm, moving together, blades cutting a fresh pattern into the ice. Closing her eyes, she pretended they were younger, before sorrow had stolen their innocence. She could live here, in this moment, content with the strength of his gait and the way his fingers gripped hers, so firm yet gentle.
Thank You, God, she prayed, silent of voice yet loud of spirit. This was a holy time, this sacred oneness—and her heart broke afresh, for indeed they should have been one by now. Even so, she soaked in this reality, memorizing his strength and grace and—
Without warning, a loud cry defiled the moment.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wait here!” Ben shoved off, leaving Clara safely behind—hopefully. Too much weight on the ice where Minnow had broken through could send them both into a frigid bath. On the far side of the pond, each time Minnow surfaced, he howled another cry for help.
Digging in his blades, Ben tucked his head and sped toward the fellow. Ten or so paces from the man, he scraped to a stop. With one hand, he unwound the long scarf from his neck, then dropped to a crawl, displacing his weight. Testing the ice with each advance, he edged forward, trying desperately to detect any cracking sounds above the racket of Mr. Minnow’s splashing and thrashing.
“Grab the side of the ice where you first went in,” Ben shouted.
Minnow flailed, too panicked to do anything but froth up muddy pond water.
Judging the distance, Ben halted and knotted one end of the scarf. He secured the other end to his hand and threw it. “Grab on!”
Two tries later, the man snagged the fabric. Ben crawled backward, tugging the wriggling fellow out of the hole like a fish. Minnow shrieked all the way, but Ben didn’t stop until they were halfway to shore. Deeming it safe enough to stand, he rose and let go of the scarf, then raced to Minnow, who still lay flat on the ice. When he reached him, Ben sucked in a breath.
The man’s left leg jutted sideways between kneecap and ankle, a place where no leg ought to bend. No wonder he’d bawled.
“Clara!” Ben called, and she sailed to his side. “Help me get Mr. Minnow up.”
He grabbed one shoulder, the side with the broken leg, and Clara took the other. Together they hauled the man to solid ground, his drenched, muddy clothing soaking into each of their sides.
“Set him down,” Ben instructed.
Removing their skates to Minnow’s cries and repeated interjections of “Oh, my!” from Miss Scurry was harrowing enough, but Mademoiselle Pretents’s running commentary as they did so pushed Ben over the edge.
He stood and towered over the grey demon. “Mademoiselle, call this man stupidé or an imbécile one more time, and I shall retrieve my scarf to stop up your mouth.”
Her lips pinched shut, rippling like a clamshell, and she stalked to the manor. Her billowing skirts created a wider path to tow Minnow. Miss Scurry fluttered behind them all.
The path to the big house ran at a slight incline. Ben leaned forward to compensate, hopefully taking the bulk of the burden from Clara. Once inside, he paused, glancing past the moaning Minnow to Clara. “You holding up?”
She nodded. “Better than he, poor man.”
“Let’s press on, then.”
A few grunts and many cries later, they managed to drape the fellow on the largest settee in the sitting room.
Chest heaving from the exertion, Clara leaned against the sofa’s back and lifted her eyes to him. “Now what? Call for a physician or send him to one?”
Miss Scurry twittered in the doorway, once again clutching her box to her chest. “Yes, indeed! What do we do, Mr. Lane? Oh, the reckoning. I feared it for him, I did.”
“No!” Minnow howled. “I cannot leave. I’ll lose my prize. Please, Mr. Lane.”
Ben kneaded a muscle at the
back of his neck, unsure if he ought feel pleased or cursed that they all looked to him for answers. Scrubbing his jaw, he crossed to the hearth, stalling for time and debating what to do. He snagged the scuttle and hefted what coal remained onto the grate. One thing he knew for sure—it wouldn’t do for any of them to take a chill.
The next yelp from Minnow made up his mind, and he wheeled about. “Prize or not, it’s cruel to allow Mr. Minnow to suffer. I shall go for a carriage at once, and we’ll send a servant along with him to the nearest physician.”
Minnow started weeping.
Clara knelt at his side, taking one of his hands in hers. “Mr. Minnow, please. Do try to bear up.”
“Oh, the pain,” he wailed. “And the loss!”
“I understand, sir, but …” She paused, as did Minnow, who sucked in a shaky breath and held it as if his very life hinged on her next words.
“Your wish was for a companion, was it not?” Clara asked.
Ben stepped closer, intrigued by the tilt of her head. She was up to something, for she used such a pose whenever trying to persuade him.
Minnow nodded.
“I think, sir, that you have received it already.” Clara glanced at the doorway. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Scurry?”
The older woman pattered in, cheeks flushed from their outside excursion. “How’s that, dear?”
“Are you not now one of Mr. Minnow’s friends?”
“Why, yes! I suppose that I am. How lovely.” The woman drew near, quickly at first, then with more tentative steps. Finally, she stopped and lifted the lid on her box. Eight white mice rose on hind legs, scratching the sides to get out.
“Ch-ch-ch,” she clucked and poked one to knock it back, then she beamed down at Minnow. “My friends are yours as well. Would you like to meet them? Ahh, but I thought you would.” Her finger rested like a benediction upon each mouse as she spoke. “Here is Love and Joy, Rest, Want, and Peril.” Hesitating, she shook her head, and her face darkened as she nudged the final three in the rump. “And here is Distress, Disease, and Turnip.”
Ben studied the woman. Had she lost her senses?
But then as suddenly, her eyes cleared and the dimples at the corners of her mouth reappeared. “I am delighted to share my companions with you, Mr. Minnow, being that you are now one of my dearest friends. My, but we shall have a time of it, will we not? Until the day of reckoning, of course.” She pressed the lid back on top of her box and clutched it to her chest. “But now my dears are weary, and so we shall retire.” Without another word, she whirled and scurried off.
“And there you have it, sir. Your time at Bleakly Manor has been profitable, indeed.” Clara pulled her hand from Minnow’s. “Shall we send you to get mended up, then?”
Minnow’s lower lip quivered. “I … I had hoped that companion would’ve been you, my pet.”
Even in pain the man didn’t give up. Serious rival or not, Ben stepped closer to Clara. “A friend is a friend no matter the age or size.”
“Indeed,” Minnow conceded, until a shudder ran the length of his body and he groaned, his face draining of colour.
Ben snapped into action, calling out as he strode to the door. “Clara, would you retrieve a blanket to cover Mr. Minnow while I arrange things?”
“Of course.” Her sweet voice faded as he entered the hall.
Mr. Pocket careened around a corner, nearly bumping into Ben. The inspector, dressed for the outdoors, jumped back a step. “What’s this? I was just coming to join you outside and here you are, looking as if you’ve rolled in snow and dipped half your body in mucky water. What’s afoot now, Mr. Lane?”
Ben hesitated, the same eerie feeling of being watched shivering across his shoulders. No, more likely he was simply chilled to the marrow. He shook off the strange sensation. “Mr. Minnow took an unfortunate spill into the pond, breaking his leg in the process. We need a carriage brought ‘round for transport to the nearest doctor.”
“I shall see to it.” The inspector pivoted and dashed down the corridor before Ben could say anything.
Running his fingers through his hair, Ben set off toward the stairway leading down to the servants’ quarters. All the while, he mulled over the odd behaviour of the inspector. Ben hadn’t been asking or commanding the man to retrieve a carriage. Why such instant accommodation?
A gruff-looking maid, the antithesis of Betty, exited the stairwell before he could descend. She neither met his gaze nor acknowledged his presence.
He blocked her from hurrying past him. “Excuse me, but we need an attendant to travel with one of the guests to the nearest physician. Could you see about finding one?”
She whirled and marched back down the stairs.
He watched her go, unsure if the woman was mute or just rude. A stranger household could not be found in all of England. Hopefully she’d carry out his instructions. Time would tell, no doubt.
And time he ought to retrieve his scarf. Retracing his steps to the back door, he pulled it open and stalked down to the pond. Once on the ice, he half slid and half walked to where his scarf lay in a heap. He picked it up, then wheeled about and dissected the path that Minnow had skated.
Off to one side, part of the man’s skate lay forgotten. Could the silly fellow not even buckle on his skates properly? Bending, he scooped it up and squinted at the broken bit. File marks scratched the metal at the edges where the blade had snapped. He peered closer. Someone weakened that metal, in hopes that after not too many glides, the skate would break and Minnow would take a vicious tumble, especially if he were going fast.
Moving on, he scrutinized the pond near where Minnow had cracked through the ice. The area had been shoveled, just like the rest.
Or had it?
Dropping to one knee, he brushed the ice with his fingertips. Ridges marred the surface. So, this hadn’t been merely shoveled. It had been shaved, thinned, so that a jab with a broken skate would snap it like a broken bone. He rose slowly, then turned and strode back to the manor. Minnow had been targeted. But why?
And by whom?
The Fifth Day
DECEMBER 28, 1850
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Oh, for the blazing sun of an August day. La! Truth be told, Clara would settle for the weak warmth of an April afternoon. Lifting her skirts in one hand and gripping her sewing basket in the other, she dashed down the staircase faster than decorum dictated, in hopes of creating some kind of heat. Since she’d arrived five nights ago, the manor had grown chillier with each passing day.
Hopefully the turn of weather was not making Aunt Mitchell’s cough any worse. With effort, she shoved that thought aside. Of course she’d receive word should her aunt’s health take a dangerous turn. Wouldn’t she?
Upping her pace, she hurried to the sitting room. As she neared the door, Mr. Pocket’s voice heated the air inside.
“Stuff and poppycock, I say.”
Clara tiptoed to the doorway.
“Pah!” Mademoiselle Pretents swooped over to the man like a falcon on the kill.
Mr. Pocket kept his big nose in his book, refusing to look up.
“I tell you it is a bad omen. Dimwit!” The French tempest stamped her foot. “Everyone knows if a Yule log burns out before Twelfth Night, a year of bad luck follows.”
Clara bit her lip, unsure if she ought to enter such a fray.
Spying her from across the room, Ben gave her a wink. A familiar gesture, yet her heart never failed to skip a beat, even if she hadn’t figured out where their relationship yet stood.
“Mademoiselle.” Ben tapped the fire poker against the hearth bricks, and Clara couldn’t help but wonder if he had the urge to use it on Mademoiselle Pretents. “There was no possible way Miss Chapman and I could have hauled back a log large enough to last the entire holiday. Today is well spent, but I assure you, I shall retrieve more wood on the morrow. So you see, it is not a matter of bad luck whatsoever, but merely poor planning on the part of our host.”
“W
hat a bunch of flap. Jilly! Turn me around.” The girl wheeled Mr. Tallgrass about from where he peered out the window. Facing them, he sneered. “The lot of us ain’t had nothing but black luck since we arrived. Were Minnow here, he’d agree. But oh … he’s nursing a broken leg now, ain’t he?” Gruff laughter shook his bones, and he canted to one side. “Oy me rumpus. Jilly!”
The girl sprang into action, and Clara took the opportunity to scoot to Ben’s side, clutching her basket handle with both hands. “Sounds like the natives are getting restless.”
“Worse. They’ve taken to blowing poison darts at one another.” He smiled down at her, then angled his head toward a leather-bound book on the mantel, a single red ribbon peeking out from the pages. “Thankfully, I discovered a library in the east wing and have taken refuge in the pages of a book, escaping any direct hits myself.”
Across the room, Miss Scurry sat alone on a chair, bent over her box and trembling so that the fabric of her skirt shook. Clearly, she had not been so fortunate as Ben.
The sight broke Clara’s heart, for it struck too close to home. Was Aunt even now suffering shakes and tremors all alone? Swallowing down the image, Clara lifted up a prayer for Aunt Deborha and strode over to Miss Scurry. “Are you well, ma’am?”
“It is wrong,” she murmured without looking up. “Entirely wrong. But then, perhaps, the world was never meant to go right.”
Had the woman even heard her? She tried again. “Miss Scurry?”
Slowly, the older lady lifted a blank face. Her eyes narrowed, little creases etching lines into her skin. How many years had this woman seen? How much tribulation?
Then just as suddenly, a smile flashed. “Such a dear, you are. Do you suppose Mr. Minnow has received his reckoning?”
“I am sure he is on the mend and feeling much better already. Furthermore, I have no doubt you will be able to visit him by the time we are finished here.”
“Oh, but his parting foreshadows the final one, I fear. Something is about to happen. Ch-ch-ch.” She wrapped her hands tighter around her box, the lace of her collar quivering, the black ribbon of her quizzing glass quaking as well.
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