Ben shot to his feet, the paper fluttering to the floor along with the messenger bag and the rest of the documents. Running both hands through his hair, he circled the room, heart racing. This was it. All he’d dreamed about for the past nine hellish months while rotting away in Millbank. Revenge in full. If he left now, he’d easily make it in time to London, to the docks, to the ship. He could drag George to a real court instead of the court of bogus justice Ben had endured—provided he could restrain himself from choking the life out of the scoundrel beforehand.
He stopped in front of the hearth and grabbed the mantel with both hands. If he stepped off Bleakly Manor property, he’d be shot for escape. Yet how else could he stop George? Once the rogue landed in America, there’d be no finding him. There’d be no justice. There’d be nothing but a grand life for George while he and Clara worked to scratch out a living.
Clara.
He hung his head and stared at the coals. He’d nearly forgotten his vow to her. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the second-chance coin, then spun and glowered at the papers strewn on the floor.
If he walked out the door of Bleakly Manor, he’d face death—once again breaking his oath to Clara. The coin burned in his palm, and the need for righteousness in his gut.
There was freedom if he stayed. Revenge if he didn’t.
Which one should he chance?
Twelfth Night Holiday
JANUARY 5, 1851
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Morning light cast oblong rectangles on the rug in Aunt’s chamber. Clara watched them shorten, her head bobbing now and then, jerking her back to wakefulness. The wicked tick-tock of the clock tempted her to close her eyes. Just for a moment. To forget the pinch of her corset and ache of her bones. Ahh, but she was weary from travel, from worrying, life, and the eleven long days she’d spent at Bleakly Manor. Shifting on the chair she’d occupied since she’d arrived last night, she rested her cheek against the wingback and surrendered with a sigh.
“You sound as if you bear the world on your shoulders.” A paper-thin voice rustled on the air.
Bolting upright, she dashed to Aunt Mitchell’s bedside and dropped to her knees. Set in a face the colour of milk paint, watery eyes stared at her, open and alive. “Oh, Aunt, how are you?”
Aunt’s lips curved into a frail smile. “A sight better than you, by the looks of it.”
Pulling her loosened hair back over her shoulder, Clara leaned closer and studied the rise and fall of Aunt’s chest. The counterpane barely moved. She bit back a cry. “I’ve been so worried.”
“La, child.” A raspy gurgle in Aunt’s throat accompanied her words. “Worrying doesn’t stop the bad from happening. It keeps you from enjoying the good.”
“What would I do without your wisdom?” The world turned watery, and Clara blinked to keep her tears locked up. “What will I do without you?”
The old lady’s fingers fluttered toward her, inching across the top of the coverlet. Clara reached for her hand, hopefully saving Aunt whatever strength she might have left.
Aunt’s squeeze was light as a butterfly’s wing. “Now, now, chin up. I’m not gone yet.”
“No, you are not.” She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “And for that I am thankful.”
“But I am ready to go, child. I have lived a full life. My only regret is I have nothing to leave you. Wicked entailments.” Releasing her hand, Aunt’s fingers trembled upward, landing on Clara’s cheek. “How I’d wished you to be mistress of this house.”
Clara leaned into her touch. “I am sure Mr. Barrett will make a fine master.”
“Master, yes. Fine? Hardly.” Aunt’s hand dropped to the bed, and her pale eyes flashed a spark—albeit tiny—of spunk. “Be thankful you never crossed paths with that side of my husband’s family.”
Great coughs rumbled in Aunt’s chest, draining her of an already thin colour.
Clara darted to a side table and retrieved a glass of watered wine. Most dribbled down Aunt’s chin, staining her white nightgown like drops of blood, but enough moistened her mouth that the hacking fit abated.
“Rest now. I shall be right here with you.” Clara stood.
But Aunt’s fingers beckoned her back. “Soon this body will do nothing but rest. Please, humour me. I should like to hear of your adventures at Bleakly Manor.”
Frowning, she studied the woman. Bird bones wrapped in white linen couldn’t have looked more fragile, yet a thread of strength remained in Aunt’s voice.
“Very well.” Taking care not to jostle the mattress overmuch, she sat on the edge of the bed and took Aunt’s hands between both of hers. Once again the ticking clock taunted her, counting down the final minutes of Aunt’s life. How to explain the strange characters she’d spent the past eleven days with?
Aunt’s gaze sought hers. “Just tell me what’s on your heart, child.”
“Ben was there.” The words blurted out before she could stop them, and she sucked in a gasp.
“Was he now?” Despite the glassy shadow of death, Aunt’s eyes twinkled. Twinkled?
Clara frowned at the odd response, suspicion growing stronger with each beat of her heart. “Why, you knew he’d be there. That’s why you encouraged me to go, is it not?”
“My body fails, but my mind does not.” Aunt pulled her hand away and tapped her head. “There’s still a little intrigue left up here.”
The movement loosed the demon in Aunt’s chest, unleashing a spate of coughing. This was too much, despite what Aunt Mitchell desired.
Clara rose. “Rest now, Aunt. I vow I shall be here when you next awaken and we will talk more.”
“No!” The old lady’s head flailed on the pillow, her voice as mewling as a newborn kitten’s. “There’s something you need to know. Bleakly Manor was no coincidence and in fact was my last hope for your future.”
Stunned, Clara blinked, her own voice quivering. “What are you saying?”
“It started last fall, September. Charles, a dear old friend of mine, called on me. He told me he was struggling to create his next hero and heroine.” Pausing, Aunt licked her lips, white foam collecting at the edges.
Clearly she would not be put off, so Clara propped up Aunt’s head and helped her drink, then sat at her side.
“Mmm. So good. Now, where was I?” For a moment, Aunt closed her eyes, and Clara wondered if she’d doze off finally.
But her lids popped open. “Charles is a writer. He had a story in mind, and the plot pleased him, but his characters were … How did he put it? All flattened and blowsy, like a handful of crushed chaff given to the wind. Such a wordy fellow.” A small chuckle gurgled in Aunt’s throat.
Prepared for another coughing fit, Clara tensed, hating the awful smell of the mustard poultice on her aunt’s chest, hating even more the thought that the next fit might be her last.
Yet the old lady rallied, drawing in a big breath. “So Charles concocted an experiment to help him create vibrant, believable characters by observation. He had several other people in mind, but none qualified as true leads. There are no two truer hearts I know than yours and Mr. Lane’s, and so I suggested the two of you.”
“But how could you? Did you know where Ben was all this time? That he was a convicted felon?”
“You and I both know he could never be capable of such a crime.”
Clara shook her head, trying to make sense of the strange conversation. “Why did you not tell me of this sooner?”
“There were many logistics and legalities to arrange. And the timing had to be right—a friend of Charles owns Bleakly Manor and was about to sail for the continent on business. He offered Charles the use of his house. Some of his staff went with him. Others visited their own families during his absence. So Charles had to hire temporary replacements on limited funds. That left little in the budget for food, coal, or other necessities. He wasn’t even certain until the last minute that his experiment would come together. I didn’t want to get yo
ur hopes up only to see them dashed.” Aunt’s eyes leaked, dampening her cheek. “You’ve suffered enough.”
Clara’s jaw dropped. Understanding dawned as bright and clear as the late-morning sun leaching the last colour from Aunt’s skin as it shone on her thin form. “I see. You hoped I’d receive the five hundred pounds as a means of support.”
“No, child. I hoped that by reuniting with your Ben you’d receive love. Though you are brilliant at hiding your heart, I’ve long known you underestimate your own value. But that view of yourself is a lie. Each of God’s creatures is inherently precious. And so you are.” Aunt’s head lifted, a flicker of passion in her gaze. “You have made this last year of my life a delight, easing my loneliness more than you’ll ever know. And as my friend Charles says, ‘No one is useless in this world who lightens the burden of it to anyone else.’”
Deep down, in a place within her heart locked with chains, something clicked. A door opened. An awful monster rushed out at her, one that had resided in her soul since the day her father had come home drunk and blamed her for her mother’s death in childbirth, saying he’d trade her in an instant if he could only have her mother back from the grave.
Clara covered her face and wept away the memory, the hurt, the lies. Wept it all away. And suddenly, the whys of life didn’t matter anymore, for the love of her aunt, of Ben, of her Creator, flooded in and chased that fiend away.
“Child?”
Sucking in a shaky breath, she bent and embraced her aunt, then pulled back. “Thank you. I am grateful for your words and your friend’s words.”
Dabbing away a last tear, she wondered if Aunt’s friend had been surprised by all the things that went awry in the manor and the near-death mishaps. A question that would have to remain unasked, for if Aunt knew what had truly gone on, it would burden her unduly. Instead, Clara curved her mouth into a small smile. “I should like to meet this wise Charles of yours someday.”
“Indeed.” Aunt’s head sunk deep into her pillow, and she closed her eyes. “Mr. Dickens is a wise man.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ben paced circles in the drawing room, the spare light of a single candle his only source of illumination—save for the leftover glow of coals in the hearth and the thin line of grey on the outside horizon. Midnight had come and gone. His chance to stop George Chapman was gone as well.
Stopping in front of the window, he shoved his hand into his pocket and yanked out the second-chance coin, flipping it over and over in his hand. Regret choked him, leaving behind an acrid taste. He should’ve taken the risk yesterday. He should’ve raced down to that dock and never looked back. Three times he’d braved the cold and walked the vast length of the drive to the edge of Bleakly Manor property, debating the chance of a bullet for the sake of justice.
And three times he’d turned back.
What kind of coward did that?
Opening his hand, he stared fiercely at Clara’s gift. How long would it take to wear it smooth like the stone he’d once kept at Millbank? Would he be sent back there, after all? Should he not take this last opportunity to run free? To escape?
He rolled the coin from knuckle to knuckle, the friction of the metal against his skin reminding him he was human, not some beast to be hunted. Not in Clara’s eyes, at any rate. Not anymore. Wasn’t her trust and love worth more than revenge? That’s what he’d told himself yesterday. And yes, even now he knew it in his heart—but the blasted nagging doubts in his head would not be stilled.
Lifting his face to the sky, he studied the brilliant rays of sun painting streaks of pink against the grey, then closed his eyes.
“Hear me, God.” His voice was as rugged as his emotions. “Though it kills me in every possible way, I surrender, here and now, any further thoughts of vengeance against George Chapman. Make things right. Make me right. I leave this matter in Your hands, where it’s always been, despite my doubts and questions.”
He shoved the coin back into his pocket and stalked from the room. Shadows crept out from corners, but weak light began to filter in. Taking the stairs two at a time, he dashed to his room, knowing exactly what must be done next. Regardless of a bullet in his back, he would go to Clara, for he’d promised he would. Or he would die in the trying.
He shrugged into his greatcoat, wrapped a scarf around his neck, then yanked down a hat atop his head, covering the tips of his ears. The walk to London would be long and cold.
If he made it past Bleakly lands.
Trotting down the stairs, he stopped in the great foyer and pivoted to the lion head. His hand snapped to his forehead in salute. “Thank you for your hospitality, such as it was.”
Then he turned and strode to the door, ready to set foot on the next chapter of his life, be it a paragraph or a page.
But it was a sentence, and a short one at that.
“Mr. Lane, I presume?” A footman blocked his path—dressed in the same livery the servants had worn his first night here.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Your carriage will arrive shortly, sir.” The fellow’s arm shot out, offering an envelope in his gloved hand. “Until then, this is for you.”
Ben pulled the paper from the footman’s fingers. The man immediately wheeled about, descended the stairs, and hopped up on the back step of a black-lacquered carriage, one clearly not meant for him.
No matter. His feet wouldn’t move should he wish them to. The simple piece of parchment in his hand, folded and blotted with red wax at the center, weighted him in place. Perspiration dotted his brow as he ran his finger under the seal. Legal text filled the page, hard to read for the way the paper quivered in his hands, but three clear words stood out: Writ of emancipation.
The miracle in ink shook through him, and for a moment he leaned against the doorframe, closing his eyes. Thank You, God.
The jingle of harnesses pulled him from his thoughts. Blinking into the brilliant morning light, he saw a long-legged man entering the carriage. Just before the door shut, the fellow tipped his hat at Ben. Then the coach lurched into motion. Had that been his one and only glimpse of the master of Bleakly Manor? A nondescript, black-haired fellow in a houndstooth sack jacket and bowler hat?
Ben tore down the stairs, intent on thanking him, but the coachman laid into the horses, urging them into a run.
Ben stood in the drive, staring after the retreating coach, as alone as the night he’d arrived—but this time standing in the brilliance of sunshine and freedom.
Five Days Later
JANUARY 10, 1851
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Aunt Mitchell’s laboured breathing made Clara’s chest hurt. But it was the chiming of the clock that really cut into her heart, carving out a hollow. Another day born in darkness. January 10. Days past the festive season.
Slumping in her chair near the door of Aunt’s chamber, she debated leaving to go have a good cry into her pillow. Since her childhood, she’d always waxed melancholy after the flurry of Christmas. The walls stripped of decoration. The house empty of guests and laughter. It was the lonely time of year. The barren. With naught to look forward to but short grey days and frigid black nights. Yet none of that bothered her this time, not with Aunt’s life balancing on the thin line tied from breath to breath.
And the fact that Ben had not come for her. Again.
Despair spread over her like a rash, hot, prickly, and entirely familiar. She knew it as well as the skin on her bones. At least this time the only eyes to witness her shame and grief were those closed nearly in death. Why had she been so foolish as to open her heart to the same man who’d crushed it once before? Was it any better to wonder if he’d been recaptured? Or killed? Would that make the pain any less?
Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, she stopped up the tears begging for release and whispered, “Why, God? Why?”
“If you knew all the answers, there’d be no need for trust, little one.”
She jerked upright in the chair and swiveled her
head toward Aunt—just as harsh words gathered out in the hall, growing louder the longer she listened. Dorothea Cruff, Aunt’s housekeeper, howled like a baying beagle keen on the hunt. Clara bit her lip and shot up a quick plea of repentance. Truly it was wicked of her to compare the woman to a dog, but even Aunt referred to Mrs. Cruff’s chambers as the howlery. What poor servant was the housekeeper gnawing on at such an hour? Clara turned up the wick in her oil lamp, intending on finding out, when the door opened.
Mrs. Cruff’s mobcapped head peeked through the gap. “Begging your pardon, Miss Chapman. But there’s a gentleman, leastwise he says he is, who will not—”
The door shoved wider and, sidestepping Mrs. Cruff, in strode a broad-shouldered shape, draped in a black riding cloak and dark trousers. Mud bespattered him from toe to neck, little flecks of it falling to the floor as he doffed his hat.
But before lamplight caught on the man’s burnt cream–coloured hair, Clara jumped up and plowed into him. “You came!”
Faltering back a step, Ben chuckled and wrapped his arms around her. “So it appears.”
Listening to his heart beat against her ear, she stayed there, nuzzling her cheek against his chest, breathing in deeply of his scent, all smoky and with a whiff of horseflesh. He’d come. He’d really come for her. All the anguish and doubt of the past several days melted as she nestled into the heat of him.
“‘Tain’t right. ‘Tain’t proper.” Behind them, Mrs. Cruff scolded as proficiently as Mr. Tallgrass might have.
Unwilling to forfeit such a hard-won embrace, Clara turned yet did not step out of Ben’s hold.
Mrs. Cruff’s face could kill an entire battalion of dragoons with one glance, so fiercely did she scowl.
Clara fired back her own evil eye. “Light the lamps and see to a fire in the sitting room, if you please, Mrs. Cruff.”
“No, I don’t very well please, and furthermore—”
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