12 Days at Bleakly Manor

by Michelle Griep

“Yes, though I insist you take back your coat as soon as we stop.”

  “Trust me. I’ve suffered worse than cold.” A half smile lifted his lips.

  He pulled the wagon to a stop at the edge of the woods, then hopped down and circled to offer her a hand. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she removed his coat and held it out.

  He shook his head. “Stubborn as ever, I see.”

  “I insist. Besides, I am much warmer now that we are more sheltered.”

  While he shoved his arms back into his coat and buttoned up, she studied the unending maze of tree trunks. Better that than dwell on all the what-might-have-beens that Ben’s presence unearthed.

  “So, now what?” she asked.

  Ben stared into the woods, the sullen sky as clouded as his expression. “Try to spy a large piece of downed wood. Then I’ll loosen a horse and retrieve it. We may end up doing this again, for I doubt we’ll be able to load a log large enough to last the entire Yuletide.”

  He stalked ahead, his long legs eating up the ground. She did double time behind him in a vain attempt to keep up—until he glanced over his shoulder and saw her predicament.

  A sheepish smile quirked his mouth, and he stopped. “Forgive me. I’ve not had the pleasure to hike free in so long that I’ve gotten carried away. This pace is far too fast for you.”

  He waited while she caught up, and she offered him a wry smile in return. “I’d like to see you try tromping through the frozen woods in petticoats.”

  He grunted. “No doubt.”

  Side by side, they advanced, scouring the ground for a fallen tree weathered enough to burn well. Other than the whoosh of wind rattling the branches up high, they walked in companionable silence. Too companionable. How could a thief walk so carefree next to the one he supposedly robbed? The incongruity of it all shivered across her shoulders.

  Her step faltered, and Ben grabbed her elbow, righting her. Would that the grief and sorrow of the past nine months could be as easily righted.

  “Oh, very well!” She spoke as much to herself as to him, frustrated with the whole situation. She stopped and peered up at him. “I am ready to hear what happened to you and how you came to Bleakly Manor.”

  “Are you?” His amber gaze held her for a moment. So many emotions shone in those depths. It would take years to sort them all by name. Time froze, the space between them brittle and sharp as the cold air.

  Then he wheeled about and strode ahead, pausing only long enough to hold back a low-lying branch for her to pass beneath. Stubborn man!

  She grabbed his sleeve before he could pass her again. “Please, Ben.”

  He blew out a puff of frozen mist, a slight shake to his head. “It is nothing different than what I told you last night. I was on my way to the church, speeding, actually, for such was my eagerness to make you mine, when a gaol cart pulled in front of me, blocking my path. So focused was I on the impediment, I did not notice the men behind me.” His voice lowered, yet gained in strength. “I was bagged without seeing who attacked. I awoke two days later in Millbank, where I’ve been rotting ever since, until I received an invitation to Bleakly Manor, promising me freedom. Freedom.” A bitter chuckle rent the cold air. “I no longer believe in such.”

  He stomped ahead, apparently finished with the conversation.

  But she wasn’t. Gathering her skirts, she darted after him. “Are you saying you were held without representation? Without bail?”

  He snorted. “Often without food or water.”

  The fine hairs at the back of her neck prickled. If what he said was true …

  She hugged herself tightly, as an image of him deprived of nourishment, robbed of dignity, quaked through her, more unsettling than the cold.

  She hastened her steps to catch up to him. “I find it hard to believe the justice system could fail on such a grand level. Did you have no trial whatsoever?”

  “Oh, I had a trial. At least in word. But my accuser never appeared, sending a proxy instead. The documents remained sealed and unread. As was the evidence. I have no idea who indicted me of the embezzlement of Blythe Shipping or your family fortune.” His hands curled into fists at his side. “I was sentenced to transportation before year’s end.”

  Her jaw dropped. Banishment without due process? Unheard of. Wasn’t it? “How can that be? Surely that is not how our courts function.”

  His feet hit the ground harder than necessary, grinding sticks and frozen brush beneath his step. “Enough money can make anything happen. Anything.”

  His words swirled over her head, as ominous as the darkening clouds pregnant with a winter storm. How was she to understand that? “Are you saying someone bribed the judge to convict you for a crime of which you were innocent?”

  He wheeled about before she finished the question. In two strides, he gripped her arms and pulled her close, his voice deadly quiet. “Look me in the eyes, Clara, and tell me you believe I am guilty.”

  Desperation roughened his tone, harsh and dreadful, compelling her to obey. Never had he used such severity with her.

  Swallowing the tightness in her throat, she slowly met his gaze, fearful yet strangely eager to discover the truth. Would she find healing or damnation?

  She stared deeply, beyond the golden flecks in his hazel eyes. The purity she saw there flattened the house of cards she’d carefully constructed over the past months. Oh how much easier it would be to cling to the belief that he was a vile cullion. But God help her, she could not.

  “No—” Her voice broke, and she sucked in a shaky breath. “I do not believe you are guilty.”

  A groan rumbled in his chest, and he closed his eyes. “Thank God.”

  “But …” Who had done this? Stolen his freedom? Robbed them of happiness? The world turned watery, and hot tears burned down her face. “I don’t understand.”

  He pulled her into his arms, wrapping her tight against him, and she wept into his shirt. Oh, how she’d missed this. His heart beat hard against her cheek, and she clutched his back, burrowing closer. How good, how right it felt to be in his arms again, share his warmth, lose herself in his comfort. For one glorious moment, she dared surrender to the feeling of being wanted and cherished.

  Too soon he broke the embrace. He stepped back and tilted her chin up with the crook of his knuckle. “I should like to hear why you suspected me of such a heinous crime.”

  A familiar ache throbbed in the thin space between heart and soul—the empty hollow where she stored all her hurt, carved out long ago by her father and his rejection. To speak it aloud would only breathe life into that pain. Love, once poured out, could never go back into the same bottle.

  But how could she refuse the earnest expectation on Ben’s face? He looked like a lost little boy, abandoned and forlorn. She didn’t think it possible, but one more piece of her heart broke off, leaving a jagged edge in her chest.

  He reached for her hand. “Perhaps it will be easier if we carry on with our search, hmm?”

  Side by side, they pressed on, and he was right. Without facing him the words came easier. “I stood alone that day. Waiting for you to come. The eyes of God and those gathered alternated between me and the front door. At first I suspected the worst had become of you. Some accident or illness, perhaps. I searched every hospital. Inquired with physicians and surgeons. I even sent a servant to visit the morgue. It wasn’t until a week later that I learned the truth. Or thought I did.”

  She paused to step over a snow-dusted rock. “George was summoned to the solicitor’s and told the bulk of our family investments—along with Blythe Shipping’s—had been stolen. By you.”

  She studied him from the corner of her eye, expecting some kind of outburst. None came.

  “From that day forward,” she continued, “we lived just above poverty. Great Aunt Mitchell took me in as her companion, and George sailed for America, hoping to find a living large enough to pay for my fare. In the meantime, I’ve learned sewing skills beyond mere ornamentation. I intend
to earn my keep by soliciting a mending and tailoring service once he sends for me.”

  For a long time, Ben said nothing, just kept stalking through the frozen woods until he stopped in front of a tree trunk long since fallen. Squatting, he rubbed his hands together, then brushed off the top coating of snow from the wood. “This will do.”

  He rose and faced her, blowing warmth into his hands. “Think carefully, Clara. Are you certain that meeting between George and the solicitor took place a full week after I had been arrested, and that your standard of living didn’t alter until then?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hmm.” A muscle jumped on his jaw, a sure sign his mind raced.

  “What?”

  “I am wondering how I could have taken the money, yet it didn’t disappear until long after I’d been gaoled?” The question hung between them, icy and bitter as the winter wind, and she trembled at the flatness in his voice.

  For the first time, she began to fathom he’d been wronged every bit as much as she—or more. “Who would do such a thing?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know.” His face hardened, the dark gleam in his eyes fearsome. “But I intend to find out.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A monster rumbled inside Ben’s gut, clawing and angry. A familiar feeling, this hunger. He shifted on the settee. Maybe the movement would stop the grumbling, for the odd Christmas dinner they’d eaten this evening certainly hadn’t. There’d been no goose or chestnut stuffing. No pâtés or oysters or puddings. Just a plain bouillon, followed by a single roasted Cornish hen and mince pie for the eight of them. No doubt if he listened hard enough, he’d hear echoing growls from the stomachs of those gathered in the drawing room.

  Rubbing his fingers together, he stared at the ink stains that would not disappear, though he’d scrubbed hard enough in the basin. After retrieving the Yule log with Clara, he’d spent the afternoon at the desk in his chamber. When he received the promised freedom by Twelfth Night—if he did—he’d still need his family wealth reinstated. Money once taken by the Crown was not easily gained back, but it could be done. Ten letters to various officials had left his fingers cramped. If even one of those missives made it into the hands of a sympathetic ear, he’d gladly endure the blackened skin. And with the hope of justice, he’d do the same on the morrow.

  In the center of the room, Mr. Minnow flapped about, then fell and curled into a ball.

  “Oh, dear! Such wonderful dramatics.” Miss Scurry grasped her box of mice close to her chest. “Are you a goose, Mr. Minnow? Taken down by an arrow?”

  The man uncurled long enough to touch his nose, then he smiled at Clara. Whether she ventured a guess or not, he always sought her out. The unwarranted attention annoyed Ben as much as his empty belly.

  “So, the second word is goose, eh?” The inspector sniffed, his nose rubbed raw from having to touch it so many times for when he’d performed his charade, such was the length of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Let Nothing You Dismay.”

  Next to him, Clara leaned near, speaking for Ben alone. “I daresay neither of us expected to be playing games with strangers this Christmas Day, though I fear Mr. Minnow thinks of himself as our bosom companion.”

  Ben hid a smirk. The man wanted to be her companion, not his.

  Clara’s gaze followed the game, his traveled the room. The great log burned in the hearth. It wouldn’t last the whole of the twelve days, which had set off a superstitious flutter from Miss Scurry, but for now the flames were merry. Ivy swagged over the doors, a little crooked, but if he’d had to work with Mademoiselle Pretents, he’d have made haste in hanging the greenery, as well. For tonight, the Christmas tree on the table glowed with candles attached by clips to the branches. A single servant, an odd little woman, stood nearby with a bucket of water should a fire break out.

  A round of applause ended his surveillance. Minnow flopped a bow, then retrieved a basket from the pianoforte and delivered it to Ben.

  He shook his head. “I am content to watch. My playacting skills leave much to be desired.”

  “Oh, but you must.” The tang of ginger traveled on the man’s words. Minnow shoved the basket into Ben’s hands. “There’s one in here for each of us.”

  Scowling, he pulled out an envelope with his name penned on the front. How had Mr. Tallgrass managed to escape this fate? Truth be told, though, Ben’s spirits had lightened when the toady fellow rolled off after dinner with a curse about the food and something about the queen.

  Clara peered up at him. Lamplight sparkled in her eyes, and—dare he hope—a renewed spark of trust in him, as small as it may be. Even so, this was not the carefree woman he’d known before, not with that buried layer of hurt dulling her gaze. A familiar rage coursed through his veins, heating him from the inside out. He would discover who’d caused this pain, for him and for her, or die in the trying.

  “You saw what a poor charade I rendered.” She smiled. “You can do no worse.”

  He snorted. She had no idea.

  “Oui. The woman speaks true.” Mademoiselle Pretents left her perch on a chair near the hearth and sat nearer the door, face flushed.

  Ben rose, and Minnow immediately took his spot, sinking next to Clara. No wonder the fellow had chosen him next.

  Resigned to death by humiliation, he crossed to the middle of the room and opened the envelope, but the words made little sense. Thus far, all the charades were related by a holiday theme. Not this. Still, it should be easy enough to perform. He tucked the envelope into his pocket and pretended to pull out a gold piece, holding up the imaginary coin then pantomiming a test of it with his teeth.

  “A farthing?” asked Mr. Minnow.

  Miss Scurry held up her quizzing glass to one eye and strained forward in her seat. “A sovereign?”

  “A gold sovereign?” Clara wondered.

  Ben shook his head. This would be harder than he thought. How else to show a—

  “Coin!” The inspector shouted.

  Ben tapped his nose then held up three fingers.

  The inspector nodded. “The third word is coin.”

  He tapped his nose again. Now, how to playact the first two? He froze, the weight of all eyes squashing the life out of his creativity. Or maybe it wasn’t the guests’ gazes at all. He spun, certain someone watched him from behind. Nothing but the eyes of the portraits on the walls stared back.

  “A spinning top?” Mr. Minnow ventured.

  “No, a whirligig, you stupid fellow.” Mademoiselle Pretents’s voice was venom.

  Ben wheeled about, shaking his head. The sooner this was over with, the better, but should he act out the only idea Clara was sure to guess? Sucking in a breath, he crossed over to her and dropped to one knee, taking her hand in his.

  Colour flamed on her cheeks, and her fingers trembled. Clearly she understood his meaning.

  “Proposal!” Minnow aimed the word at him like a dagger to the heart.

  Without pulling his gaze from Clara, he shook his head. Slowly, he rubbed his thumb over her third finger, just below the knuckle—the skin now naked where she’d once worn his ring. Dredging up all the memories of passion and whispers they’d shared, he lowered his carefully constructed mask, and allowed a forgotten desire to soften the hard lines on his face.

  “Oh, lovely!” Miss Scurry twittered.

  Clara gasped.

  But playacting a second chance of asking for her hand turned sour at the back of his throat. Why had he ever thought to do such a thing? He shot to his feet and stalked to the hearth, done with the whole charade.

  “Love is a two-sided coin?” the inspector guessed. “Oh, I get it. Two-sided coin, eh?”

  Ben yanked out the envelope and tossed it into the flames, watched for a moment until fire caught hold of the three words, then spun and touched his nose.

  A lie, but so be it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Early morning light hung like a haze in Clara’s chamber. Yawning, she rubbed her eyes, a
nd a terrific growl rumbled in her belly. Hopefully today’s breakfast would be more palatable than last evening’s Christmas dinner.

  She threw off the counterpane and snatched her dressing gown from the foot of the bed, heart sinking into her empty stomach. If the burnt smell on the air was any indication, there wasn’t much hope of a hearty meal today, either.

  Stretching a kink out of her neck, she silently thanked God for tea, for therein she might wake fully and fill her—

  “Fire!”

  A woman’s cry came from below. Danger thudded a crazed beat in Clara’s ears. No, were those footsteps? She shot to the door and darted into the hall. A foggy blur softened the edges of everything as she raced to the stairs. Ahead, Ben, Mr. Minnow, and Mr. Pocket surged down the steps, taking several at a time, nightshirts flapping untucked from their trousers. She followed.

  At the landing, the men split. Mr. Minnow and Mr. Pocket veered right. Ben headed left. By the time she descended, Ben shouted, “Over here!”

  They converged upon the drawing room, where Miss Scurry stood outside the door, wringing her hands. Her usual box of mice was absent. Inside the room, charcoal clouds billowed near the ceiling, pushed upward by flames on the Christmas tree burning at the far corner of the room.

  Miss Scurry turned to Clara, fear leaking down her cheeks. “Oh dear! Oh my.”

  “The drapery, men! Haul to!” Ben no sooner issued his command than he faced Clara. “We’ll try to smother it, but seek water just in case. Miss Scurry, check on Mademoiselle Pretents, if you please.”

  Ben tore into the room, leaving them in the hall with smoke and dread.

  Next to her, Miss Scurry whimpered. “The reckoning. Oh! The reckoning is upon us.”

  Clara reached for the older lady’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “All will be well. I am sure the men will smother the flames. We must do as Ben says.”

  A wavery smile rippled across the old lady’s lips. “Such a dear.” Then she whirled and fled down the hall, skirts flying behind.

  Clara hurried the other way. Why had the old lady dressed so early? And why venture to the drawing room when surely her stomach was as empty as theirs? The dining room made more sense to seek out.