12 Days at Bleakly Manor

by Michelle Griep

  She sat back against the cushion, stunned. There was nothing bleak about this manor. Who had invited her—a lowly lady’s companion—to such an estate? Who would even want to keep company with her? And more importantly, why?

  The coach stopped, and the door opened. She gave up trying to solve such a puzzle as the footman helped her to the drive.

  “I’ll see to your bags, miss.” A lad, no more than fourteen yet dressed in as fine a livery as the older man, tipped his head in deference.

  The respectful gesture stung. She hadn’t been so favored since that awful day, that nightmare day nine months previous, when she’d stood in front of an altar in a gown of white.

  “Ready, miss?”

  The footman’s voice pulled her from the horrid memory. She lifted her skirts to follow him without tripping. “Yes.”

  She was ready, truly, to meet whoever had invited her. Perhaps if she explained the frail state of her aunt, she wouldn’t be required to stay the full Twelve Days of Christmas.

  After ascending granite stairs, she and the footman passed through an arched doorway and entered a foyer the size of Aunt’s dining and sitting rooms combined. A crystal chandelier dripped golden light over everything, from a cushioned bench against one wall to a medieval trestle table gracing the other. Fresh flowers filled a cut-glass vase atop the table. Marble tile gleamed beneath her feet, the echo of her steps reaching up to a mounted lion head on the wall in front of her, just above a closed set of doors. She couldn’t help but stare up into the cold, lifeless eyes, wondering how many people before her had done the same.

  “I should be happy to take your cloak and bonnet, miss.” The footman held out his arm.

  Her fingers shook as she unbuttoned her coat and untied her hat, though she was hard-pressed to decide if the jittery feeling was from cold air or nerves. Handing over her garments, she waited for further instruction from the tall fellow.

  But without a word, he pivoted and disappeared down a darkened hallway to her left.

  She stood, unsure, and clenched her hands for fortification, sickeningly aware of a gaze burning holes through her soul. Yet the only other pair of eyes in the foyer besides hers was the lion’s.

  She sucked in a breath. Nerves. That’s what. Had to be.

  To her right, another set of doors hid secrets, merry ones by the sound of it. Yellow light and conversation leached out through a crack between threshold and mahogany. Licking her lips, she squared her shoulders, resolved to meet the master of the house, then pushed open the door.

  Across the Turkish carpet, perched upon a chair and balancing a small box on her lap, a white-haired lady held up a quizzing glass to one eye and peered at Clara. “Oh, lovely! Such a beautiful creature. Don’t you think, Mr. Minnow?”

  “Why yes!” A lean man, more bones than flesh, jumped up from a settee and dashed toward Clara so quickly she retreated a step.

  He bowed, deep enough that his joints cracked, and held the pose longer than necessary. The scent of ginger wafted about him. When he straightened, he smiled at her with lips that were far too elastic. “Mr. Minnow at your service, mum. William Minnow, esquire. Well, not quite yet, but soon, I am certain. And you are?”

  Clara blinked. Was this the master of Bleakly Manor? A lanky eel in a suit?

  Instant remorse squeezed her chest. Who was she, a woman fallen from the graces of society, to judge the appearance of a man of substance? She dipped her head. “I am Clara Chapman.”

  “Clara Chapman! Oh, but I like the sound of that.” The elder on the chair waved a handkerchief at her. “Step nearer, dearest, and let’s look at you up close, shall we?”

  Familiar with the idiosyncrasies of the elderly, she complied, but froze several paces in front of the woman. A pink nose with whiskers poked out of the box on the lady’s lap, where a hole had been cut jaggedly into the side. Red eyes emerged, followed by a furry body and a naked tail, flesh-coloured and long. A second mouse emerged after it. The two scampered to the edge of the old lady’s knee and rose up on hind legs, testing the air with quivering noses.

  Clara stiffened. Hopefully the creatures would turn right around and disappear back into the box.

  The lady merely scrutinized her as if nothing more than a teacup and saucer rested on her lap. “Such a marvelous creature, Miss Chapman.”

  Was she speaking of her or the mice? “Th–Thank you,” she stuttered. “I am sorry, but I didn’t catch your name, ma’am?”

  “No, you did not.” The lady beamed at her. “I am Miss Scurry, and now we shall all be the jolliest of companions, shall we not?”

  “We shall, and more.” Mr. Minnow’s heels brushed against the carpet, then he reached for her hand and placed it on his arm. “Come, sit and warm yourself, my pet.”

  Pet? She barely had time to turn the word over before he escorted her to a settee near the hearth and pushed her into it.

  “I’m wondering, Miss Chapman”—Mr. Minnow smiled down at her—“not that Miss Scurry and I aren’t exceedingly grateful, for we are, but why exactly have you invited us here to share the Twelve Days with you?”

  “Me?” She shook her head, yet the movement did nothing to make sense of his question. “But you are mistaken, for I received an invitation myself.”

  “Bosh! This is a pickled herring.” Flipping out the tails of his suit coat, he joined her on the settee, much too close for propriety. “I thought you, being a lady of such grace and beauty, surely belonged to this house.”

  “I’m afraid not.” She edged away from him.

  “Sh-sh-sh.” Miss Scurry, evidently just discovering the two escapees had scampered to the top of the box, shooed both mice into the hole on the side and plugged it up with her handkerchief. “Rest, my dears.” Then she gazed over at Mr. Minnow. “Don’t fret so, my fine fellow. The day of reckoning will come soon enough, and all will be made clear.”

  Mr. Minnow clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done for it but to wait for the host to appear.” His head swiveled, and he narrowed his eyes at Clara. “You’re sure that’s not you?”

  “I am, Mr. Minnow. Very sure.”

  She bit her lip. Clearly neither of these two eccentrics was the host. So, who was?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The prison cart juddered over a hump in the road, rattling Ben’s bones. He’d curled into a ball in one corner, tucking his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms about them. Even so, after hours on end and with the chill of night bearing down, there was no stopping the chattering of his teeth. He snorted. Between teeth and bones he was quite the percussionist.

  A low “whoa now” slowed the wheels, and finally the cart stopped. Ben jerked upright, crouched and ready, the sudden hammering of his heart forgetting the cold. The long ride here had given him plenty of time to consider his situation, and he’d come to one conclusion—these were his last hours on earth.

  So be it. He’d go out fighting against such a wicked injustice and find some measure of worth in the fray.

  The scrape of a key shoved into the metal lock, then a click, a creak, and the door swung open. “Yer ride ends here, Lane. Out ye go.”

  The dark shape of the guard disappeared and light poured in. Ben’s eyes watered. Light? Was it day, then? How far had he traveled?

  He edged forward, cautious, scanning, as more and more of the world expanded into his view. Black darkened the sky, so it was still night, but torches ablaze changed the immediate area to morning.

  “Move along! I’ve still got a drive back to London.” The guard spat out a foul curse. “Ye’d think I’d signed up to be a bleedin’ jarvey. They don’t pay me enough, I tell ye. Not near enough.”

  Ben dropped out of the door and immediately wheeled about, fists up, stance wide, prepared for battle.

  The guard merely shoved the door shut and relocked it, ignoring him—and there was no one else around.

  Truly? No one? Ben stared hard into the darkness beyond the light. The
expansive grounds were rimmed with trees along the perimeter, black against black. Nothing moved except the wind through barren branches. Apparently he’d been taken some distance into the countryside. He turned to face the manor. Impressive, really. Tall. Well masoned. Crenellated at the top. Perhaps used as a stronghold centuries ago.

  “Hyah!”

  He spun. The cart lumbered down the curved drive, the guard urging the horses onward—without him. He was left standing alone. Unfettered. A brilliant mansion at his back and acres of freedom in front. He could run, here, now. Tear off and flee like the wind. Should he? He scrubbed a hand through his hair, recalling Hacksby’s threat.

  “You’re to be shot on sight for any escape attempt.”

  The prison cart disappeared into the night. But slowly, emerging out of that same darkness, another shape loomed larger. A carriage, and a fine one at that. Should he wait and meet head-on whomever it carried?

  Cold ached in his bare feet and up his legs, yet the pain of the unknown throbbing in his temples hurt worse. He’d have a better chance of putting up a fight if he could actually move his frozen body. Pivoting, he climbed the stairs to the main entrance and rapped the brass knocker.

  The door opened immediately, as if the butler had stood behind it waiting for him.

  “Welcome, Mr. Lane.” The man’s upper lip curled to nearly touch his nose.

  Ben smirked. He ought be ashamed of his stench, but his time at Millbank had dulled that emotion, especially when it came to issues of hygiene. Even so, he took out his manners and dusted them off. “Thank you. I see you were expecting me.”

  “Yes, sir. We have a room prepared for you after such a journey. If you would follow me.” Turning on his heel, the butler strode the length of the grand foyer toward a door with a stuffed lion head mounted above it.

  Ben studied the man as he went. He could pose a threat, for his shoulders were broad as a ceiling beam and those stout legs might pack a wallop of a kick. But the silver streaks in his hair labeled the fellow past his prime. Even so, better to keep his distance.

  He followed, leaving plenty of space between them, then paused and stared up at the lion head. Light from the chandelier reflected back brightly from those eyes, transparent, lifelike and—

  “Mr. Lane?”

  He jumped at the butler’s voice. What was wrong with him? There were bigger mysteries afoot than a dead lion. “Of course. Sorry.”

  He caught up to the man, who’d opened double doors, revealing an even bigger lobby. A wide, carpeted staircase, lit by intermittent wall sconces, led up to a first-floor gallery, where more lamps burned. Interesting that pains had been taken to decorate the outside of the manor, yet not one sprig of holly or mistletoe hung inside.

  Behind them, the front door knocker banged. Two stairs ahead of him, the butler stopped and pulled out a gold chain from his waistcoat, then flipped open the lid of a watch tethered to the end of it. His eyebrows pulled into a solid line, and a low rumble in his throat gruffed out. “Pardon me, Mr. Lane. If you’d wait here, please.”

  Here? On the stairs? A duck at rest to be shot from behind? He waited for the butler to pass, then tracked him on silent feet and slipped into the shadow cast by a massive floor clock.

  A man in a sealskin riding cloak entered, frost on his breath and hat pulled low. He stomped his boots on the tiles, irreverent of the peace.

  The butler dipped his head. “Mr. Pocket, I presume?”

  “I am.” The new arrival pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his shorn hair, the top of his head quite the contradiction to his bushy muttonchops. A rumpled dress coat peeked through the gap of his unbuttoned coat, and his trousers looked as if they’d never seen a hot iron. Clearly the man was not married, nor was he the master of the manor.

  “You were not due to arrive for another half hour, sir.” A scowl tugged down the corners of the butler’s mouth.

  Mr. Pocket twisted his lips, his great muttonchops going along for the ride. “Yet the invitation did not specify an arrival time, unless … ahh! I see. The deliveries were spaced out to ensure a regulated arrival schedule. Am I correct?”

  “Very clever, Inspector.”

  “Part of the job.”

  So the fellow was a lawman. Ben flattened his back against the wall, sinking deeper into the shadow of the clock. Questions ticked in his mind with each swing of the pendulum. Was Pocket sent to make sure he didn’t run or to finish him off? Or possibly set him up for something more sinister than embezzlement and fraud? But why the big charade? Why not just kill him in jail or ship him off as planned?

  “If you wouldn’t mind stepping in here until dinner, sir.” The butler opened a door in a side wall, but his back hindered Ben’s view into the room. “You may meet some of the other guests while you wait.”

  “All right. Don’t mind if I do.” Mr. Pocket swept past the man and vanished.

  Ben dashed back to the stairs, folded his arms, and leaned against the railing as if he’d never moved.

  The butler hesitated on the bottom stair only long enough to say, “My apologies for the delay, Mr. Lane. Please, let us continue.”

  Ben trailed the man as he traveled up two flights, then noted every door they passed and any corridors intersecting the one they traveled. There were two, one lit, one dark. They stopped at the farthest chamber of what he guessed to be the east wing.

  The butler opened the door but blocked him from entering. “You’ll find a bath drawn in front of the hearth, grooming toiletries on a stand opposite, and a set of dinner clothes laid out on the bed. I shall send a footman up to retrieve you in”—he reclaimed his watch once more and held it up for inspection before tucking it away—“forty-five minutes. Is that sufficient?”

  “Very generous,” he replied.

  “Very good.” The butler stepped aside, allowing him to pass, then pulled the door shut.

  Ben froze. The chamber gleamed in lamplight and gilt-striped wallpaper, so large and glorious it might overwhelm a duke. At center, a four-poster bed commanded attention, mattresses high enough to require a step stool. Against one wall stood an oversized roll-top desk and matching chair, decked out with full stationery needs. Several padded chairs and three different settees formed two distinct sitting areas. A screen offered privacy for necessary functions, and thick brocaded drapery covered what must be an enormous bank of windows.

  He changed his mind. This would overwhelm a king.

  Shaking off his stupor, he stalked to the copper basin in front of the fire. Steam rose like a mist on autumn water, smelling of sage and mint. Nine months. Nine never-ending months of filth and sweat and blood.

  He stripped off his prison garb, heedless of ripping the threadbare fabric, and kicked the soiled lump from him, uncaring that it lodged beneath the bed. Good riddance.

  Water splashed over the rim as he sank into the water, warmth washing over him like a lover’s embrace. A sob rose in his throat. This time last year, he’d bathed before dinner just like this. Dressed in fine clothes similar to those laid on the counterpane. Dined by candlelight with the woman he loved fiercely. Kissed Clara’s sweet lips until neither of them could breathe.

  What a fool.

  He snatched the bar of soap off the tray hooked to the tub’s side, then scrubbed harder than necessary. Of course this wasn’t like last Christmas Eve. It could never be.

  For he wouldn’t see Clara ever again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Enough was quite enough. Clara rose from the chair and crossed to Miss Scurry’s side. Her step faltered only once as she drew near, her distaste of rodents almost getting the better of her, but surely the scrap of handkerchief would keep the mice snug inside the woman’s box. Hopefully.

  Tears glistened in Miss Scurry’s eyes, her quizzing glass dangling forgotten on its ribbon. Clara laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing a light encouragement. Then she faced Mr. Pocket, who’d stationed himself at the hearth, questioning them all as if they stood before the great
white throne.

  “Mr. Pocket, I fear your questions are a bit much for Miss Scurry.”

  “Oh?” The man sniffed, his large nostrils flaring. “Well, perhaps just one more then. Miss Scurry, you say that if you remain the duration of the Twelve Day holiday, your invitation guaranteed the lost would be found, which seems a small thing, depending of course on that which was lost. So tell me, please, what was lost and why is it of such importance? Why weren’t you promised money, as in Miss Chapman’s case, for then you could replace what was lost? Or if the missing item is not of monetary value, then why not the hope of companionship, a friend, so to speak, which is Mr. Minnow’s lure?” Mr. Pocket swept out his hand to where Mr. Minnow primped his cravat in front of a mirror on the other side of the sitting room.

  “I … I …” Miss Scurry stuttered, her words tied on the thread of a whimper. “All will be clear on the day of reckoning.”

  Clara patted the lady’s shoulder. Were all inspectors so bullish? “Mr. Pocket, I believe it is time for you to tell us exactly what your invitation stated. It’s only fair, and I should think that to a man who upholds justice, fairness is one of your utmost concerns. Is it not?”

  A grin stretched the man’s lips, from one edge of his long sideburns to the other. “Delightful, Miss Chapman. Were you a man, you’d make a fine inspector.” Leaving his post, he strode to a chair adjacent them and sat. “I have nothing to hide, and so I shall state my case plainly. My invitation pledged me a new position. A higher rank. One with more importance.”

  “And that is?” Clara pressed.

  “Magistrate, Miss Chapman. No more slogging through alleys to collar a criminal. No interrogating doxies or cullies or cutthroats. Just a seat on a tall bench with an even taller wig, a blazing hearth fire at my back, and the felons brought to me. Ahh.” He closed his eyes, serenity erasing the lines on his brow.