Ben released her and held up a hand. “No need. Thank you, but this shan’t take long. You are dismissed.”
The woman’s mouth opened, a magnificent howl about to issue, when Aunt Mitchell’s voice floated across the room.
“Go to bed, Cruff. I would speak with Clara and her gentleman.”
The housekeeper’s lips snapped shut. Silence escorted her out of the room until she reached the corridor, where a low grumbling began—and no doubt would accompany her all the way to the howlery.
With a gentle yet firm hand on the small of Clara’s back, Ben ushered her to Aunt’s bedside. “Sorry for the hour, Mrs. Mitchell. I came as soon as I could. Between a lame horse, a broken axle, and a downed tree at Hounslow, the journey took longer than expected. I am happy you are still amongst us.”
Aunt nodded, an almost imperceptible movement, so delicate her constitution. “Your expected arrival is what’s been keeping me alive.”
Clara exchanged a glance with Ben. Did he know what she was talking about?
The arch of his brow said not. He pulled her down to kneel alongside him at Aunt’s bedside.
Ben reached for the old lady’s hand and cradled it in his, the contrast between vitality and weakness stark in the shadowy light. “I am sorry to bear unwelcome news, but I’ve discovered the truth behind what really happened with the Chapman fortune and Blythe Shipping. Your nephew George stole all the funds, leaving me with the blame and you, Mrs. Mitchell, to care for Clara—for which I owe you my gratitude.”
“No!” Clara sat back on her heels, the world tipping beneath her. “George would never … I mean … but he’s gone to America. He’s working even now to secure a place for me.”
“No, my love.” Amber eyes sought hers, and the compassion shining there nearly undid her. “In truth, your brother’s been cutting a swath of decadent living across Europe. Only days ago did he sail for America.”
“He did not.” Aunt’s frail voice pulled both their gazes back to her.
Ben leaned closer to the old woman, the lines on his face softening. “I am sorry to contradict you, madam, but—”
Aunt’s fingers quivered upward, landing on his cheek. “If you are here, that means George did not sail for America but has been apprehended and will stand trial. You will be fully acquitted.”
The words blew around Clara like a fine snow caught in an eddy of wind. In truth, she felt just as swirly. Was everything she’d believed for nearly the past year nothing but lies?
She huddled closer to Ben, hoping to draw strength from the sheer closeness of his broad shoulders. “Aunt, what are you saying?”
Air rattled in the old lady’s lungs as she drew in a breath. “I long had my suspicions about your brother, but no evidence until recently.”
Aunt’s fingers dropped to the sheets. “George is not your full brother, my dear. He’s but a half. His mother refused to marry your father, wild in all her ways. Despicable woman. I feared George would turn out like her, but one cannot accuse based on bad character alone. I needed proof.”
Aunt’s eyes closed, and her chest fluttered.
So did Clara’s pulse. All she’d known, all she’d assumed, vanished, replaced with keen comprehension. She’d understood her father’s coldness toward her because her mother had died in the birthing, but her father’s detachment toward George had always been a puzzlement. Until now. No wonder she’d always felt the odd goose with her raven hair and olive skin, standing next to her brother, so fair in colour and handsome looks.
A chill crept across her shoulders, and she shivered.
Ben pulled her closer to his side and patted Aunt’s hand. “We shall leave you to rest.”
“Not yet.” Aunt’s eyelids flickered open. “You must know. My friend, Charles, rubs shoulders with powerful men. One, a barrister with a sharp sense of justice.” She paused, her tongue working to moisten her lips.
Clara pulled away and retrieved a cloth she kept dipped in water, then patted it against her aunt’s mouth.
A faint smile lifted one side of the old lady’s lips. “That barrister laboured to trade Ben’s transportation for house arrest at Bleakly, then worked the holiday season to gather all the evidence by Twelfth Night.”
Her words stalled, and Ben leaned closer, bending his ear toward her mouth. “Are you saying I have been acquitted this whole time?”
“No. Had you tried to escape or gone after George, you would have been shot for evasion.” Aunt’s head shook like the last leaf in autumn. “Yet I vouched for your character, my son.”
Ben reared back to his heels, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a breath. “But why?”
A flare of brightness lit Aunt Mitchell’s eyes, for a moment driving colour into her whitewashed cheeks. “I never had children of my own, but I couldn’t have loved them any more dearly than Clara and you. Promise me … promise …”
Rattles travelled from Aunt’s chest to her throat, and both Clara and Ben leaned in close.
With a last rally, Aunt reached for Ben’s hand and moved it to Clara’s. “Take care of my Clara.”
Ben’s strong fingers encased both of theirs. “I vow it.” He squeezed, gently. “This night and for always.”
Aunt closed her eyes, her hand going limp in theirs. It wouldn’t be long before she left the land of the living.
Grief welled in Clara’s throat, and she pulled her hand free to press a knuckle against her mouth, trapping the noise.
Ben tucked the old lady’s fingers beneath the bedsheet, then pulled Clara up along with him. “Come,” he whispered, then led her, hand in hand, to the corridor and closed the door behind them.
Emotions assailed her, one after the other. Sorrow. Confusion. But above all a sense of duty to the man walking beside her. She stopped and turned to Ben. “You have been restored, and for that I am truly grateful, but please, despite what was said, do not feel obligated to keep such a promise to Aunt.”
She tried to pull away from his grasp, but he merely captured her other hand and rubbed his thumbs along the inside curve of her palms. “Surely you know you are more than an obligation to me.”
“But I am penniless! George saw to that by spending the money.” Her voice caught, and she hung her head. “No one will welcome me back into their circles. I have fallen from grace.”
“Yet it is grace alone that saves the worst of us.” He released his hold and worked to shove up one of his sleeves. Blackened numbers, charred into his skin, stared up at her.
A single tear broke loose, landing on the hideous brand. She brushed it away, her finger travelling over the seared flesh. How could he love so much after having suffered because of her brother? Her throat nearly closed at the thought of such depth, such rock-solid devotion—to her.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin, then pressed it into her hand. “And it was your grace that gave me a second chance.”
Pulling her to him, he slid his strong hands upward to cup the back of her head. For a second, he hesitated, caressing her with a gaze that made her his own. Then his mouth came down, meeting hers, claiming her in deed. By the time he pulled away, breathing was out of the question.
“I am a free man now, Clara, and in time, the Court of Chancery will fully restore my family estate. All this gain, though, is empty without you. And so I must know”—his voice lowered, crackling with love and desire—“will you have a former convict as a husband?”
Tears would not be stopped, the taste of them salty on her lips. Oh, how she’d missed this man, this love, this part of her that had been torn and was now mended stronger than before. She smiled up at him, realizing that, indeed, she may never stop smiling for the rest of her years. “I would have none other than you, my love.”
Two Weeks Later
JANUARY 24, 1851
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A cold mist settled over London, dampening everyone’s clothing to the same shade of dreary. It was the kind of late January day that crawled under t
he best of woolen capes and took up residence in the bones. In Cheapside, old men huddled at their hearths. On Aldred Street, mothers sheltered younglings beneath great black umbrellas.
But in Holywell, Clara stepped lively down the narrow lanes, ignoring the chill.
Stopping in front of Effie Gedge’s door, she raised her hand and rapped, then smiled at the smudge left behind on her glove. It would be the last time this ragtag collection of boards marred her bleached kidskin.
The door swung open, and Effie’s sweet face appeared—cheekbones prominent, skin sallow, yet her ever-present smile fixed in place. “Miss Chapman! What a grand surprise.” The girl’s brows drew together, and she dared a step closer despite the rain that would catch on her hair. “But what are you doing here? Is all well?”
“No … and yes. So much has happened in the past month, I hardly know where to begin.” She’d never spoken truer words. Biting the inside of her cheek, she searched for some nicely packaged phrases, as she had during the entire ride over here, but still none came to mind. How to speak of passions and sorrows so great?
“My aunt Mitchell has died,” she blurted.
“Oh! I am so sorry.” Effie reached out and grabbed her arm, as if to impart strength—quite the absurdity from a woman worn to threads by circumstance. “She were a rare one, weren’t she?”
“That she was.” Clara fought back a fresh wave of tears, though should any slip, they could easily be blamed upon the mist.
“It’s not much, miss, but I’m sure I can get you into the factory. It won’t be easy, mind you. Hatbox work is hard on the hands, but it’s a fair sight easier than being a silk piecer or a salt boiler, and far better than starving.” Effie shoved the door wider, lips curving into a welcome. “You can share my room, though we’ll have to snug up in the bed, for I’ve only space enough for that and a chair.”
Though the January day did its worst to inflict a shiver, Clara pressed a hand to her chest, warmed through the heart at Effie’s kindness. “Oh, Effie, you are the rare one. I did come here to ask you something, but not that.” Loosening the drawstring on her reticule, she pulled out the second-chance coin and pressed it into Effie’s reddened hands.
Effie looked from the gold piece to Clara. “What’s this for?”
“It’s a second-chance coin.”
“A what?”
Clara smiled. How many times had she wondered the very same thing? “I am here to ask you for a second chance. Would you consider coming back as my maid? There is much to be done, and I could use your help.”
“I don’t understand.” A tremor shook Effie’s head, though hard to tell if the movement was from the cold or confusion. “I thought once your aunt was deceased, the house and all her means passed on to her stepson. Don’t tell me you and him …?”
“No, nothing of the sort. That is not the household I am asking you to serve.”
“Then whose?”
Her grin widened, for whenever she thought of Ben, a smile must be allowed. “Mr. Benjamin Lane’s household, my soon-to-be husband. We have a wedding to prepare for. Are you up to it? It won’t be easy, but it’s a fair sight easier than hatbox making—and you won’t have to share your bed.” She winked. “What do you say?”
Effie beamed. “I say let our new lives begin!”
HISTORICAL NOTES
Victorian Christmas Traditions
The Twelve Day Celebration
Since medieval times, the Twelve Day celebration has been a recognized holiday. It traditionally begins on Christmas Day, December 25, and ends at midnight, January 5, immediately before Epiphany.
Boxing Day
This holiday is celebrated the day after Christmas Day. Tradesmen and servants receive gifts from their masters, employers, or customers. These gifts are boxed up, hence the name Boxing Day.
The Yule Log
A Yule log was dragged in on Christmas Day and kept burning for twelve days (until Epiphany). The leftover charcoal was kept until the following Christmas to kindle the next year’s log. It was considered bad luck if the log went out during the Twelve Days.
Childermas
December 28 is known as Holy Innocents’ Day or Childermas. It’s a day commemorating when King Herod ordered the murder of children under two years of age in an attempt to kill the baby Jesus. The “Coventry Carol” recounts the massacre from the eyes of a mourning mother whose child was killed. The song was commonly sung by itinerant carolers.
New Year’s Coin
No matter the age, it was a must that every person in Victorian England should have money in his or her pocket on New Year’s Day, even something as small as a half farthing (worth an eighth of a penny). To be without a coin meant risking poverty in the coming year.
Travelling Entertainers
During the Christmas season, entertainers travelled from manor to manor. The most common form of their performances was pantomime, which is still a popular form of entertainment today during the holidays.
Wassail
Originally, wassail was a greeting or a toast. Revelers would hold up a mug of spiced cider and shout, “Waes hael!” which means be hale or be well. The drink was often offered to visitors in a large wooden bowl. Eventually, the greeting fell by the wayside and wassail came to mean the drink instead of the toast. Many great traditional wassail recipes can be found on the internet. Here is one of my favorites: http://www.curiouscuisiniere.com/wassail-recipe/.
DEDICATION
To the One and Only who gives mankind a second chance—Jesus Christ.
And to Deborha Mitchell, the namesake of Clara’s aunt.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing is a solitary profession that cannot be done alone. Thank you to Annie Tipton and the awesome staff at Shiloh Run who continually make my writing dreams come true. A shout-out to my long-suffering critique partners: Lisa Ludwig, Ane Mulligan, MaryLu Tyndall, Julie Klassen, Shannon McNear, and Chawna Schroeder … ALL talented authors in their own right. And as always, my gratitude to Mark, who endures many a frozen pizza and Chinese takeout when it’s crunch time.
Plus a special thank-you to you, readers, who make this writing gig all worthwhile!
A Tale of Two Hearts
CHAPTER ONE
London, 1853
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
David Copperfield
In the tiny back courtyard of the Golden Egg Inn, Mina Scott lowered her copy of David Copperfield to her lap and lifted her face to the October sun. Closing her eyes, she savored the warmth and the first line to a new adventure, as was her wont whenever Miss Whymsy stopped by and lent her a book. Though she no longer stared at the page, the shapes of the words lingered, blazed in stark contrast to the brilliance against her lids. What a curious thought, to be one’s own hero—for the only hero she wanted was William Barlow.
Ahh, William. Just thinking his name lit a fire in her belly.
“Mina!”
She shot to her feet, and the book plummeted to the ground. Her stomach dropped along with it—both for being caught idle and for the dirt smudges sure to mar the cover. With her toe, she slid the novel beneath her skirt hem, then patted her pocket to make sure the note Miss Whymsy had left behind hadn’t fallen out as well. The small, folded paper crinkled beneath her touch, hidden and snug. Satisfied, she faced her father.
Jasper Scott, master of the inn and commander of her life, fisted hands the size of kidney pies at his hips. “What are ye doin’ out in the yard, girl, when ye ought to be serving?”
She dipped her chin. “It’s hardly teatime, Father. I thought to take a break before customers arrived.” From the peak of the inn’s rooftop, a swallow not yet flown to warmer climates chided the frail excuse. Not that she blamed the bird. It was a pitiful defense.
Her father fumbled his big fingers inside a small pocket on his waistcoat and pulled out a worn brass pocket watch. He flipped op
en the lid—and the whole thing fell to the ground. “Oh, bother!”
As he bent to pick it up, she stifled a smile. How large Father’s grin would be on Christmas Eve when he opened the new watch fob she’d been saving all her pennies for.
Swiping up the dropped watch, Father first frowned at the time, then at her. “It’s past tea.” He snapped the timepiece shut and tucked it away. “I wager ye were reading again. Am I right?”
How did he know? How did he always know?
Slowly, she retrieved the book and held it out. “Maybe you ought to keep this until we close tonight.”
“I thought as much when Miss Whymsy stopped by. Keep your head in the world, girl, not in the clouds. Ye’ll never get a husband that way.” He snatched the novel from her hand. “And besides that, this being the last day o’ October, ye must turn yer sights away from make-believe tales and toward Christmas. Only a little over seven weeks remain to make this the best celebration the Golden Egg has ever seen, so ye must focus, girl. Now off with ye. There are patrons already clamouring for a whistle wetting.”
“Yes, Father.” She scurried past him. Since she’d been a little girl, the annual Christmas Eve celebration at the Golden Egg meant everything to Father. ‘Twas a poor replacement for her departed mother, but a replacement, she supposed, nonetheless. She darted through the back door and nearly crashed into Martha, the inn’s cook.
“Peas and porridge!” Martha stepped aside, the water in her pot sloshing over the rim and dampening the flagstones. “Watch yer step, missy.”
“Sorry, Martha.” Giving the woman a wider berth, she grabbed her apron from a peg and a cloth for wiping tables, then scooted out to the taproom.
Once she entered the public area, she slowed her steps and drew a deep breath. No one liked to be waited upon by a ruddy-cheeked snippet of a skirt. Scanning the room, she frowned. Only two tables were filled. Surely Father could’ve managed to wait upon these few—
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