3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England

by Michelle Griep

  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.

  The Ninth Day

  JANUARY 1, 1851

  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 four 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 of 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!”

  Ben shook his head and led Clara to the seats on the farthest side, placing himself between her and Mr. Pocket.

  Lawson, or maybe it was Dawson, strutted out first. Dressed in all black, the only coloured things about him were his shock of red hair, painted white face, and white gloves. The other twin followed, and they bent low, making way for Charles, who entered bearing a sign that read NEWS OF THE REALM ~ A SILENT REVIEW OF 1850.

  Clara smiled up at Ben. He smiled back with an arch to his brow, and her heart warmed. So, he’d remembered. Pantomimes were her favorite sort of entertainment.

  Without a word, the actors parodied an important event for each month from the past year, from the creation of the first public library last January, all the way up to December and the death of some banker.

  A banker? Clara cocked her head. Not that a man’s death wasn’t important, but who was the fellow?

  Mr. Tallgrass startled. “What’s that? Who’s the money-snatchin’ banker what died? Act that out, ye blimey stooges.”

  Lawso
n and Dawson dramatized the man’s name, but by the time they made it to the last syllable of the last name, Mr. Tallgrass pitched forward in his chair, practically spilling onto the floor.

  “Flap! Bayham Bagstock is dead you say? Oh, that’s rich. That’s more ‘n rich.” Mr. Tallgrass laughed so hard, his breath wheezed and moisture ran from his nose and eyes. He tilted dangerously to one side. “Oy me rumpus! Jilly, lend a hand.”

  Clara exchanged a glance with Ben, who shrugged, as much at a loss as her.

  “Mr. Tallgrass, are you quite all right?” she asked. “Did you know this Mr. Bagstock?”

  “More ‘n right, I’d say. Turn me around, girl.” Jilly shoved him so that his chair faced them instead of the players, who now stood watching the show put on by the guests.

  Mr. Tallgrass grinned. A rare occurrence—in fact, it was the only time Clara could remember ever seeing his teeth exposed in a truly pleasurable fashion. “Mr. Bayham Bagstock is the bugger what’s been squashing me beneath his greedy thumb. Now that he’s kicked off, there’s no more Bagstocks to hound me, not a one. That’s what’s what and what’s right. I’m free!” His shoulders shook with another peal of laugher. “Jilly! Get me rumpus out of here. We’re done with this madhouse.”

  Scowling, the girl leaned her weight into the chair, wheeling him across the carpet and out the door.

  “Good riddance.” Mademoiselle Pretents shifted in her seat and looked down her nose at them. “That imbécile was getting on my nerves.”

  Clara pressed her lips tight, trapping a retort behind her teeth.

  Mr. Pocket sniffed, his enormous nose bobbing with the force of it. “It seems our number is dwindling, by design or by accident.”

  Accident? Next to her, Ben snorted, and she would too were she not a lady. There was nothing accidental about anything related to Bleakly Manor.

  The Tenth Day

  JANUARY 2, 1851

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The tallest Penfold wrapped his multicoloured scarf around his neck with a flourish, and Ben widened his stance on the foyer tiles, resisting the urge to help the brothers out the door more quickly.

  Next to him, Clara squeezed his arm and whispered, “Patience is a virtue.”

  He quirked a half smile down at her. “Whatever gave you the impression I was virtuous?”

  Despite their thick wraps, the three Penfolds backflipped, then lowered to one knee, aligned in a row in front of the door. “Adieu, good gentles,” they said in unison.

  “Pah!” Mademoiselle Pretents whirled toward the sitting room. “Goodbye, silly men.”

  Lawson and Dawson rose to their toes and pirouetted. Charles somersaulted to a stop in front of Clara.

  Oh, no. Not again. Ben sidestepped between the man and Clara. “Godspeed on your journey, Mr. Penfold.”

  A rogue grin spread across Charles’s face, and he rose to join his brothers. “A blessed new year to one and all.”

  The three dipped a bow, then slipped out into the waiting arms of a January morning. By the time the door closed, a blast of air embraced Ben and Clara as well.

  She huddled a step closer to him. “They were merry fellows, were they not?”

  His mouth twisted. “Perhaps a little too merry.”

  “I am sorry to see them leave. At least they were a diversion.” She sighed, as if the weight of so many days inside the bleak walls could no longer be contained. “My mending basket is nearly empty, and I confess I shall scream if I must spend another day listening to the mademoiselle badger the inspector for a lead on her missing jewels.”

  Ben rubbed out a kink at the back of his neck. Just thinking of the harping woman tightened his muscles. “Nor do I wish to write any more letters. By now I’ve canvassed every lawgiver in all of England.” He blew out a sigh and smiled at Clara. “What say we go for a stroll? I’ve a new appreciation for fresh air.”

  She hugged herself. “It’s rather cold outside.”

  He glanced at the front door, wishing for a good leg stretcher, but indeed, hoarfrost crept around the edges of the frame. He turned to Clara and offered his arm. “All right. We shall have an adventure indoors.”

  She gaped. “Do you think we should? I mean, what if the master of the manor finally arrives, only to find us nosing about his home?”

  The shrill voice of Mademoiselle Pretents pestering Mr. Pocket couldn’t have been timed better. Ben nodded toward the sitting room.

  Clara grabbed his arm. “Adventure, here we come.”

  Before passing beneath the lion head, Ben veered left, taking them down a corridor he’d seen only the servants use. Before long, shadows closed in, and he retraced their steps back to the foyer.

  Clara arched a brow at him. “That was a quick adventure.”

  Opening a drawer in the trestle table, he retrieved a vigil candle in a glass, lit the wick, and set off again.

  Clara matched her steps to his, and that simple action caused an ache deep in his chest. Despite all the wretched treachery of the past year, and yes, even her betrayal at losing faith in him, his heart still yearned to make her his own.

  But what did he have to offer her other than the status of a convict? He clenched his jaw to keep from grinding his teeth, determination to find who did this to him—to her—pumping a fresh rage through his veins with each step.

  “Have you heard from any of the solicitors or barristers yet?” Clara’s sweet voice pulled him back from such abysmal thoughts.

  “No. I’m beginning to think my attempts to contact the outside world are being thwarted. That the desk set up in my chamber is nothing but a ruse and the stable boy isn’t delivering any of the letters.”

  “To what end?”

  He paused in front of a narrow door and shook his head. “Perhaps I’m being too cynical.”

  Trying the knob, he shoved the door open, expecting it would lead to a servants’ stair. Daylight flooded into the corridor, blinding him for a moment. Blinking, he strode into the room.

  “I don’t blame you.” Clara trailed him. “This is a curious situation.”

  Inside the chamber, Ben’s shoes sank into plush carpeting. A hearth fire burned warm and inviting. A bed, rumpled bedclothes atop it, was to his left, and a small library lined the opposite wall. Writing pens, nibs, parchments, and bottles of ink inhabited every possible horizontal surface. He inhaled, dissecting the air. The smoky scent of Bright Leaf tobacco mixed with the spicy aroma of fine wine, possibly an aged Bordeaux, if he wasn’t mistaken. Did the master himself reside in this small chamber?

  Clara grasped his sleeve. “We don’t belong here. Please, let’s leave.”

  He patted her hand and led them out, taking care to close the door exactly as it had been. In the murk of the corridor, he winked at her, hoping to soothe her fears. “I promised you adventure, did I not?”

  She swatted his arm.

  Turning, he led them down the rest of the hall, Clara’s fingers digging into his arm all the while. If he didn’t put her mind at ease, his exploring would be put to an end before he could discover exactly who dwelt in this wing.

  “Any news of your aunt?” he asked.

  “No, but I suppose no news is good news. Perhaps she is on the mend.”

  He smiled down at her. “One would hope.”

  The corridor ended at another door. This time he rapped on it first, just in case it wasn’t a stair—and if it wasn’t, if a gentleman answered, what ought he say?

  Clara grasped his arm with two hands, jostling the candle so that the light guttered. “I think I should prefer Mademoiselle Pretents’s badgering to this. Let’s go back.”

  He tried the knob. Locked.

  “Ben!”

  Ignoring Clara’s protests, he pressed his ear against the wood and listened. Only Clara’s quickened breaths filled the small space. He’d have to investigate the possibility another time.

  Turning his back to the mystery, he offered her a half smile and led her the other way. “So, I take it you
’ve not heard from your brother, either?”

  “No, not since he sailed.”

  Strange, that. Why would a brother, so close to his family, not send word of a safe arrival after travelling the expanse of an ocean? He held the candle higher and glanced at Clara. “Then how do you know that’s truly where he went?”

  Her brow dipped. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that your faith in him is unrivaled.” He forced the words out smoothly, struggling to keep the bitterness raging inside from rushing out. Would that she’d have had that much confidence in him.

  “I should think as his partner those many years at Blythe, working together for the good of the company, you’d have faith in him as well. Mr. Blythe certainly did, or he’d not have considered George for partnership. But you know this. So why question my brother’s whereabouts? George lost his livelihood the very same day you lost yours.”

  “No, he didn’t.” He stopped and turned to her. This close to where the corridor opened up to the front foyer, light poured in so that he could read her face. “You said yourself that a week passed before he was summoned by the solicitor.”

  “Oh, Ben.” She rested her palm on his cheek, the touch so intimate, so familiar, it almost drove him to his knees. “I know you want to find out who did this to you, to us, but my brother cannot be to blame. Lay such logic to rest, if for no other reason than for me.”

  He averted his gaze, looking at anything but the violet pleading in her eyes. Of course he didn’t want to blame his friend, his colleague, but the timing of everything was off. And if—hold on. What the devil?

  Candlelight caught on a gap in the paneling just beyond Clara. Sidestepping her, he ran his fingers along the edge.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  A nudge, followed by a shoulder shove, opened a small door, just wide enough for him to edge through sideways.

  Clara grabbed his coat hem. “Do you think that’s safe?”