12 Days at Bleakly Manor

by Michelle Griep

  Gathering her sacks, large enough for a few coins or some pinches of snuff, she led Ben to a side table and set down her offering. Then she pointed at a twist of waxed paper. “Mr. Pocket dropped off a half-dozen comfits.” She moved her finger onward to a string of cracked leather. “Mr. Tallgrass had Jilly deliver this old watch fob, though I doubt very much it will hold anything without breaking.” Lastly, she swept her hand above a nearly empty glass vial. “And why on earth Mademoiselle Pretents thinks anyone would want a few specks of smelling salts is beyond me, but at least she gave something, so I didn’t think it fair to chide her.”

  “Then hopefully my addition will be welcome.” Ben’s hands appeared from behind his back and he set down a pile of folded papers.

  Fascinated at what he’d created, she retrieved one and held it to eye level. A miniature crane, creamy white, complete with long neck, wings, and an inked-in dot for an eye stared back at her. She looked from the crane to the man. “I didn’t know you were a master at paper folding.”

  His gaze locked onto hers, one brow curving ever so slightly. “A man must have some secrets to keep a lady intrigued.”

  Warmth settled low in her tummy. La! She was more than intrigued with this man—and as confused about the sudden emotion he aroused in her as she was about the meaning of the coin in her pocket.

  “Pardon me, miss, sir.”

  They both turned as the small maid entered and dipped a curtsy. “You asked, miss, and so I’ve counted. There are five tradesmen remaining downstairs. Two tired of waiting and have since left.”

  “Very good.” Clara smiled at her. “We shall deliver the boxes shortly. Thank you, er… ?”

  The short woman tucked her chin. “It’s Betty, miss.”

  “Thank you, Betty.”

  Once again she curtsied, then darted out of the room—as the sound of laughter and conversation ambled in. Miss Scurry and Mr. Minnow crossed the threshold, the lady lifting her gaze to Mr. Minnow, a brilliant smile stealing years from her face. Mr. Minnow’s elastic lips moved at a steady speed, engrossing the older lady with some sort of story. Regardless of the age difference, the two seemed to draw as much happiness in their companionship as a married couple might. Both carried an assortment of boxes.

  Ben nudged Clara. “Looks like Minnow’s found himself a lady friend. Feeling jealous?”

  She ignored him, for any response would only fuel his teasing.

  When Mr. Minnow paused for a breath, Clara cleared her throat, and the two new arrivals looked her way.

  Immediately Mr. Minnow dashed over, bypassing her and Ben to set the boxes he’d been carrying on the table. Then with clipped steps, he stood at smart attention in front of Clara.

  “I’ve brought you something.” He clicked his heels twice, then pulled out a collection of small paper bags from his pocket. Balancing them in the crook of his arm, he held a single bag out to her. “This one is expressly for you.”

  “Why Mr. Minnow, very thoughtful of you.”

  Next to her, Ben did a poor job of concealing a disgusted sigh.

  Once again she ignored him and reached for the offered gift, then unfolded the top of the bag. The scent of ginger wafted out. Inside were amber balls, the size of her pinkie fingertip. She smiled up at the fellow. “Ginger drops are a favorite of mine.”

  “Isn’t that lovely!” Miss Scurry exclaimed.

  Mr. Minnow grinned so widely, Clara feared his face might split. With a military pivot, he strode back to the table to add his donation to the rest.

  Ben leaned close and whispered in her ear. “So that’s why he always smells of Christmas cakes.”

  She tried to shoot him a scolding frown but failed, for in truth, he was right.

  Miss Scurry turned from the table, where she’d set her boxes, as well—except for one she carried over to Clara. “I’ve brought something also, my dear. Would you like to see?”

  The fine hairs at the back of Clara’s neck lifted. Clearly the woman wanted her to take the box and open it. But if she did, would a mouse rise up and possibly escape? A shiver ran across her shoulders, feeling like a hundred little rodent feet.

  Ben reached for the box. “May l?”

  “Oh, yes! What an honor. What a delight.” The old lady beamed at him.

  Stepping aside from Clara, Ben removed the lid, then turned to her and tilted it so that she might see. Inside, nestled on a folded white kerchief, lay a penny.

  Clara’s eyes widened. “I hardly know what to say. This is more than generous, Miss Scurry.”

  “Tush! We can’t send those fine tradesmen off with naught but trifles.”

  Mr. Minnow gained the lady’s side and gathered her hand. “You are a true lady, madam.” He bent and kissed her fingers.

  Miss Scurry fluttered her free hand to her chest. “Oh! Such a gentleman.”

  Rolling his eyes at the two, Ben turned away from the dramatics and strode over to the table. “Let’s get packing. Those men have waited long enough.”

  They joined him, and before all the boxes were opened, Clara said, “We need only five for the tradesmen, but I thought it might be nice to make Betty one for all her hard work.”

  Between the four of them, it didn’t take long to pack up the treasures. Clara even retrieved some red thread from her sewing basket and tied a bow on each one. “There.”

  “Beautiful!” Though only one word, Miss Scurry’s voice warbled it like a song.

  Ben stacked the boxes in his arms, and the pile sat precariously up to his neck.

  Clara removed the top two. “You’ll never make it down the stairs without dropping one. I’ll go with you.”

  Miss Scurry clapped her hands. “Lovely! Now, Mr. Minnow, about that story you were telling me …”

  “Ahh, yes! A real thriller, is it not?” He fairly skipped over to the settee and patted the cushion beside him. “Should you like to hear the end?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Clara exchanged a glance with Ben as they exited the room.

  Out in the foyer, well out of earshot, Ben smiled down at her. “Quite a little friendship those two have struck up.”

  “I think it’s good for both of them.”

  “And what do you think is good for us?”

  “I …” Her mouth dried. How to answer that?

  He winked. “No answer required.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. Thankfully, he averted his all-knowing gaze and turned down a rather poorly lit corridor. She followed at his side, uncertain what else to say. So she said nothing—and neither did he, until they came to a plain stairway near the back of the house.

  Ben paused on the first stair. “This seems the most logical route.”

  She followed. The lower they descended, the stronger the aroma of cabbage soup. Clara’s stomach clenched—as did her heart—but not from the scent. Cabbage soup had been a favorite of her father’s. A dish he cherished even more than he did her. During his last days, she’d tried to make it just to please him, refining the amount of salt, the addition of ham bits, the sprinkling of a fine grating of pepper. Nothing satisfied him, least of all her. Just one more example of her failing to gain his love before he died. Her step faltered, and the boxes jiggled.

  Ben reached the landing and turned to her. “Are you all right?”

  Shoving down the sour memory, she forced a smile. “Yes, just a slip.”

  She cleared the last three stairs without incident while he waited. Then they navigated the barren maze of the downstairs world side by side. Finally, they found the kitchen.

  Inside, five men rose from the slab of a table at center. Each wore work-stained clothing and frowns. A few of them exchanged glances. Without a word, all lined up with their hands out.

  Ben went to the far end while Clara handed one of her boxes to the first man.

  “Thank you for your service,” she said.

  He nodded his head and gruffed out, “Thank ye.”

  Stepping to the next man, she held out
his gift. “Thank you for your service.”

  But he didn’t take it. He just stared, his eyes sharp and black as basalt. He studied her with a curl to his upper lip, like a mongrel facing an unknown adversary. He smelled of dogs as well. “Wouldn’t stay ’ere if I were you. A house without its master is like a body without its soul.”

  He snatched the box from her.

  She recoiled a step, wobbling for a moment. Must everything about this place cause her to teeter? She sucked in a breath. Nine more days. Just nine.

  But what would tomorrow bring?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Clara rushed through her morning routine, shivering all the while. Not that she could blame the housemaid for having an unlit hearth when she awoke. Hopefully more servants would arrive today from the nearby village now that the staff’s one-day-a-year holiday was over.

  She rose and smoothed her skirts, then crossed to the door. On second thought, she returned to the dressing table and picked up the gold coin, secreting it in her pocket. Ben was right. Someone wanted her to have it—no sense finding the coin stolen when she returned. Mademoiselle Pretents had yet to find her missing jewels, despite her snooping about the great house and Mr. Pocket’s detective skills.

  Reaching for the knob, Clara swung the door open, then stopped. The hall was empty, save for a pair of ice skates blocking her exit from her chamber. She picked them up with a smirk. Too big to fit under her door, eh?

  She hurried downstairs to the dining room, hoping she wasn’t the only one to receive such a gift. Once she cleared the landing and wove her way from foyer to corridor, her hope turned into reality. Mr. Minnow strolled ahead of her, a pair of skates slung over one of his thin shoulders.

  He turned, and a huge smile split his face. “Ahh, Miss Chapman. A hearty good morning to you, and so it shall be, for I see you carry a pair of skates yourself.”

  She gripped her skates with both hands before the man could offer his arm yet again. “Indeed I do, sir. Do you suppose our elusive host is responsible?”

  “I would imagine so, my pet.”

  The intimate name rankled. She’d hoped he’d tire of using it by now. Clearly not. “Mr. Minnow,” she began, “I would prefer it if you would not call me—”

  “La!” Mademoiselle Pretents blustered up from behind. “I am given ice skates but not my jewels. What’s this? You have them, too?”

  The three of them entered the dining room before Clara could answer, but truly, did the woman really need confirmation when she could see they each toted a pair?

  Ahead, Miss Scurry turned in her chair, where she took breakfast at the head of the table. Her elfish chin twitched when she smiled. “So lovely!” Then she swiveled back to Ben and Mr. Pocket, seated on either side of her. “You were right, gentlemen. We have all been blessed with ice skates.”

  In the nearest corner, three other pairs leaned against the wall. Clara laid hers next to them, then headed for the sideboard.

  Ben and Mr. Pocket rose from their seats, waiting until she and Mademoiselle Pretents filled their bowls with a thin, gruel-like substance and came to the table. Ben held out the chair next to him, and Clara rewarded him with a smile.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He leaned toward her. “You may not be too thankful when you taste that porridge.”

  After one bite, she shoved the bowl away. Even a swine would turn up his nose at this slop.

  Ben reached for the teapot and filled her cup, adding an extra sugar drop and more milk than usual. He winked. “For your skating stamina.”

  As usual, he was right, for the tea filled her tummy and warmed her to her fingers and toes.

  Mr. Pocket stood and addressed the table. “In honor of our absent host, I propose we accept the challenge and resign ourselves to the frozen pond out back.”

  “Pah!” Mademoiselle Pretents spat out. “Go ahead and run off, Inspector. You are worthless at finding my jewels, anyway. But I do not skate. Nor do I see Monsieur Tallgrass having to submit himself to the cold.”

  Mr. Pocket pursed his lips, sticking them out nearly as far as his nose. “Speaking of which, has anyone seen him this morning?”

  Mumbles circled the table.

  “Right. Well, I’ll go check on the fellow, then meet up with you, eh?” He exited before anyone could refuse.

  Everyone grabbed their skates, except for Mr. Minnow, who not only finished off his porridge but was currently scraping out the dregs of hers as well. After retrieving their coats, they gathered in the foyer. Then the group roamed a few hallways with Ben in the lead, until discovering a door at the back.

  They all paused, waiting for Mr. Pocket to join them. They waited so long, warmth trickled between Clara’s shoulder blades. “Perhaps we could begin without Mr. Pocket?”

  Ben nodded. “He seems a capable-enough fellow to find his way to the pond.”

  Clara turned to Miss Scurry. “Are you sure you’ll be able to manage this?”

  “Such a dear!” the woman twittered. She set down her box of mice and tucked it aside in a corner, then peered up at Clara, a sparkle in her eye belying the wrinkles on her face. “But you see, I am quite capable.”

  The woman darted outside.

  “I suspect there is more than meets the eye in that one,” said Ben.

  Clara exchanged a glance with him, then exited as he held the door for her. Outside, a draft of wind nipped her cheeks, but oh how lovely to be away from the manor’s dark-paneled walls. A path had been shoveled, bare grass peeking up and crunching beneath her shoes as she walked. Thicker blankets of snow snuggled among tree roots and crested in piles against the north side of rocks. The sun shone with glorious brilliance, and when the next gust blew, glittering faery dust sprinkled over their hats and coats. The group stopped at the pond’s edge, a great swath of which had been cleared of snow.

  Ben guided Clara to a downed log, likely set there for just such a purpose. “Shall I help you?” he asked.

  “Do you really think you need to?” She gave him a knowing smile.

  He returned it—then added a wink and crouched in front of her. The touch of his hand guiding her foot into the skate sent a charge up her leg. A shameful response, but completely delicious. His head bowed over his work, a small blessing, that. For if he glanced up now, she’d be undone.

  He buckled on her skates in silence, but she had no doubt as to what memories played in his mind. Two winters ago at just such a skating party, he’d first pledged his love. Despite the cold, she loosened her scarf. Keeping warm was not going to be an issue, for heat burned a trail from tummy to heart.

  Standing, Ben offered his hand. “Off you go.”

  Refusing to meet his gaze, she righted herself and sailed onto the ice. Miss Scurry already whirled and twirled near the edge, while Mr. Minnow yet struggled to shove his long feet into his skates. Mademoiselle Pretents didn’t even try to accommodate. Skates forgotten on the ground at her feet, she stood with her back to them, arms folded, a dark grey smear on the lovely day. Why had she even bothered to join them?

  Turning from the sight, Clara dug in her blades. Brisk air tingled on her face, driving her onward, faster and—a big hand reached for hers and spun her around.

  Ben laughed, his voice low. “Think you can outskate me, madam?” His eyes sharpened with a glimmer of victory.

  Her breath caught in her throat. This close, his words puffed out on little clouds of vapor, warming the skin of her forehead. La! Every part of her was warm, for if he tugged with just a bit more pressure, he’d pull her into his arms. She tried to force a scowl, a nearly impossible feat when all she really wanted to do was surrender to the grin that begged release. “I should’ve known you’d accost me on the ice, sir.”

  “Yes.” He leaned closer, his brow nearly touching hers. “You should have.”

  He grabbed her other hand and they set off, gliding in rhythm, moving together, blades cutting a fresh pattern into the ice. Closing her eyes, she pretended they w
ere younger, before sorrow had stolen their innocence. She could live here, in this moment, content with the strength of his gait and the way his fingers gripped hers, so firm yet gentle.

  Thank You, God, she prayed, silent of voice yet loud of spirit. This was a holy time, this sacred oneness—and her heart broke afresh, for indeed they should have been one by now. Even so, she soaked in this reality, memorizing his strength and grace and—

  Without warning, a loud cry defiled the moment.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Wait here!” Ben shoved off, leaving Clara safely behind—hopefully. Too much weight on the ice where Minnow had broken through could send them both into a frigid bath. On the far side of the pond, each time Minnow surfaced, he howled another cry for help.

  Digging in his blades, Ben tucked his head and sped toward the fellow. Ten or so paces from the man, he scraped to a stop. With one hand, he unwound the long scarf from his neck, then dropped to a crawl, displacing his weight. Testing the ice with each advance, he edged forward, trying desperately to detect any cracking sounds above the racket of Mr. Minnow’s splashing and thrashing.

  “Grab the side of the ice where you first went in,” Ben shouted.

  Minnow flailed, too panicked to do anything but froth up muddy pond water.

  Judging the distance, Ben halted and knotted one end of the scarf. He secured the other end to his hand and threw it. “Grab on!”

  Two tries later, the man snagged the fabric. Ben crawled backward, tugging the wriggling fellow out of the hole like a fish. Minnow shrieked all the way, but Ben didn’t stop until they were halfway to shore. Deeming it safe enough to stand, he rose and let go of the scarf, then raced to Minnow, who still lay flat on the ice. When he reached him, Ben sucked in a breath.

  The man’s left leg jutted sideways between kneecap and ankle, a place where no leg ought to bend. No wonder he’d bawled.

  “Clara!” Ben called, and she sailed to his side. “Help me get Mr. Minnow up.”

  He grabbed one shoulder, the side with the broken leg, and Clara took the other. Together they hauled the man to solid ground, his drenched, muddy clothing soaking into each of their sides.