12 Days at Bleakly Manor

by Michelle Griep

  “Set him down,” Ben instructed.

  Removing their skates to Minnow’s cries and repeated interjections of “Oh my!” from Miss Scurry was harrowing enough, but Mademoiselle Pretents’s running commentary as they did so pushed Ben over the edge.

  He stood and towered over the grey demon. “Mademoiselle, call this man stupidé or an imbécile one more time, and I shall retrieve my scarf to stop up your mouth.”

  Her lips pinched shut, rippling like a clamshell, and she stalked to the manor. Her billowing skirts created a wider path to tow Minnow. Miss Scurry fluttered behind them all.

  The path to the big house ran at a slight incline. Ben leaned forward to compensate, hopefully taking the bulk of the burden from Clara. Once inside, he paused, glancing past the moaning Minnow to Clara. “You holding up?”

  She nodded. “Better than he, poor man.”

  “Let’s press on, then.”

  A few grunts and many cries later, they managed to drape the fellow on the largest settee in the sitting room.

  Chest heaving from the exertion, Clara leaned against the sofa’s back and lifted her eyes to him. “Now what? Call for a physician or send him to one?”

  Miss Scurry twittered in the doorway, once again clutching her box to her chest. “Yes, indeed! What do we do, Mr. Lane? Oh, the reckoning. I feared it for him, I did.”

  “No!” Minnow howled. “I cannot leave. I’ll lose my prize. Please, Mr. Lane.”

  Ben kneaded a muscle at the back of his neck, unsure if he ought feel pleased or cursed that they all looked to him for answers. Scrubbing his jaw, he crossed to the hearth, stalling for time and debating what to do. He snagged the scuttle and hefted what coal remained onto the grate. One thing he knew for sure—it wouldn’t do for any of them to take a chill.

  The next yelp from Minnow made up his mind, and he wheeled about. “Prize or not, it’s cruel to allow Mr. Minnow to suffer. I shall go for a carriage at once, and we’ll send a servant along with him to the nearest physician.”

  Minnow started weeping.

  Clara knelt at his side, taking one of his hands in hers. “Mr. Minnow, please. Do try to bear up.”

  “Oh, the pain,” he wailed. “And the loss!”

  “I understand, sir, but …” She paused, as did Minnow, who sucked in a shaky breath and held it as if his very life hinged on her next words.

  “Your wish was for a companion, was it not?” Clara asked.

  Ben stepped closer, intrigued by the tilt of her head. She was up to something, for she used such a pose whenever trying to persuade him.

  Minnow nodded.

  “I think, sir, that you have received it already.” Clara glanced at the doorway. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Scurry?”

  The older woman pattered in, cheeks flushed from their outside excursion. “How’s that, dear?”

  “Are you not now one of Mr. Minnow’s friends?”

  “Why, yes! I suppose that I am. How lovely.” The woman drew near, quickly at first, then with more tentative steps. Finally, she stopped and lifted the lid on her box. Eight white mice rose on hind legs, scratching the sides to get out.

  “Ch-ch-ch,” she clucked and poked one to knock it back, then she beamed down at Minnow. “My friends are yours as well. Would you like to meet them? Ahh, but I thought you would.” Her finger rested like a benediction upon each mouse as she spoke. “Here is Love and Joy, Rest, Want, and Peril.” Hesitating, she shook her head, and her face darkened as she nudged the final three in the rump. “And here is Distress, Disease, and Turnip.”

  Ben studied the woman. Had she lost her senses?

  But then as suddenly, her eyes cleared and the dimples at the corners of her mouth reappeared. “I am delighted to share my companions with you, Mr. Minnow, being that you are now one of my dearest friends. My, but we shall have a time of it, will we not? Until the day of reckoning, of course.” She pressed the lid back on top of her box and clutched it to her chest. “But now my dears are weary, and so we shall retire.” Without another word, she whirled and scurried off.

  “And there you have it, sir. Your time at Bleakly Manor has been profitable, indeed.” Clara pulled her hand from Minnow’s. “Shall we send you to get mended up, then?”

  Minnow’s lower lip quivered. “I … I had hoped that companion would’ve been you, my pet.”

  Even in pain the man didn’t give up. Serious rival or not, Ben stepped closer to Clara. “A friend is a friend no matter the age or size.”

  “Indeed,” Minnow conceded, until a shudder ran the length of his body and he groaned, his face draining of colour.

  Ben snapped into action, calling out as he strode to the door. “Clara, would you retrieve a blanket to cover Mr. Minnow while I arrange things?”

  “Of course.” Her sweet voice faded as he entered the hall.

  Mr. Pocket careened around a corner, nearly bumping into Ben. The inspector, dressed for the outdoors, jumped back a step. “What’s this? I was just coming to join you outside and here you are, looking as if you’ve rolled in snow and dipped half your body in mucky water. What’s afoot now, Mr. Lane?”

  Ben hesitated, the same eerie feeling of being watched shivering across his shoulders. No, more likely he was simply chilled to the marrow. He shook off the strange sensation. “Mr. Minnow took an unfortunate spill into the pond, breaking his leg in the process. We need a carriage brought ’round for transport to the nearest doctor.”

  “I shall see to it.” The inspector pivoted and dashed down the corridor before Ben could say anything.

  Running his fingers through his hair, Ben set off toward the stairway leading down to the servants’ quarters. All the while, he mulled over the odd behavior of the inspector. Ben hadn’t been asking or commanding the man to retrieve a carriage. Why such instant accommodation?

  A gruff-looking maid, the antithesis of Betty, exited the stairwell before he could descend. She neither met his gaze nor acknowledged his presence.

  He blocked her from hurrying past him. “Excuse me, but we need an attendant to travel with one of the guests to the nearest physician. Could you see about finding one?”

  She whirled and marched back down the stairs.

  He watched her go, unsure if the woman was mute or just rude. A stranger household could not be found in all of England. Hopefully she’d carry out his instructions. Time would tell, no doubt.

  And time he ought to retrieve his scarf. Retracing his steps to the back door, he pulled it open and stalked down to the pond. Once on the ice, he half slid and half walked to where his scarf lay in a heap. He picked it up, then wheeled about and dissected the path that Minnow had skated.

  Off to one side, part of the man’s skate lay forgotten. Could the silly fellow not even buckle on his skates properly? Bending, he scooped it up and squinted at the broken bit. File marks scratched the metal at the edges where the blade had snapped. He peered closer. Someone weakened that metal, in hopes that after not too many glides, the skate would break and Minnow would take a vicious tumble, especially if he were going fast.

  Moving on, he scrutinized the pond near where Minnow had cracked through the ice. The area had been shoveled, just like the rest

  Or had it?

  Dropping to one knee, he brushed the ice with his fingertips. Ridges marred the surface. So, this hadn’t been merely shoveled. It had been shaved, thinned, so that a jab with a broken skate would snap it like a broken bone. He rose slowly, then turned and strode back to the manor. Minnow had been targeted. But why?

  And by whom?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Oh, for the blazing sun of an August day. La! Truth be told, Clara would settle for the weak warmth of an April afternoon. Lifting her skirts in one hand and gripping her sewing basket in the other, she dashed down the staircase faster than decorum dictated, in hopes of creating some kind of heat. Since she’d arrived five nights ago, the manor had grown chillier with each passing day.

  Hopefully the turn of weather wa
s not making Aunt Mitchell’s cough any worse. With effort, she shoved that thought aside. Of course she’d receive word should her aunt’s health take a dangerous turn. Wouldn’t she?

  Upping her pace, she hurried to the sitting room. As she neared the door, Mr. Pocket’s voice heated the air inside.

  “Stuff and poppycock, I say.”

  Clara tiptoed to the doorway.

  “Pah!” Mademoiselle Pretense swooped over to the man like a falcon on the kill.

  Mr. Pocket kept his big nose in his book, refusing to look up.

  “I tell you it is a bad omen. Dimwit!” The French tempest stamped her foot. “Everyone knows if a Yule log burns out before Twelfth Night, a year of bad luck follows.”

  Clara bit her lip, unsure if she ought to enter such a fray.

  Spying her from across the room, Ben gave her a wink. A familiar gesture, yet her heart never failed to skip a beat, even if she hadn’t figured out where their relationship yet stood.

  “Mademoiselle.” Ben tapped the fire poker against the hearth bricks, and Clara couldn’t help but wonder if he had the urge to use it on Mademoiselle Pretents. “There was no possible way Miss Chapman and I could have hauled back a log large enough to last the entire holiday. Today is well spent, but I assure you, I shall retrieve more wood on the morrow. So you see, it is not a matter of bad luck whatsoever, but merely poor planning on the part of our host.”

  “What a bunch of flap. Jilly! Turn me around.” The girl wheeled Mr. Tallgrass about from where he peered out the window. Facing them, he sneered. “The lot of us ain’t had nothing but black luck since we arrived. Were Minnow here, he’d agree. But oh … he’s nursing a broken leg now, ain’t he?” Gruff laughter shook his bones, and he canted to one side. “Oy me rumpus. Jilly!”

  The girl sprang into action, and Clara took the opportunity to scoot to Ben’s side, clutching her basket handle with both hands. “Sounds like the natives are getting restless.”

  “Worse. They’ve taken to blowing poison darts at one another.” He smiled down at her, then angled his head toward a leather-bound book on the mantel, a single red ribbon peeking out from the pages. “Thankfully, I discovered a library in the east wing and have taken refuge in the pages of a book, escaping any direct hits myself.”

  Across the room, Miss Scurry sat alone on a chair, bent over her box and trembling so that the fabric of her skirt shook. Clearly, she had not been so fortunate as Ben.

  The sight broke Clara’s heart, for it struck too close to home. Was Aunt even now suffering shakes and tremors all alone? Swallowing down the image, Clara lifted up a prayer for Aunt Deborha and strode over to Miss Scurry. “Are you well, ma’am?”

  “It is wrong,” she murmured without looking up. “Entirely wrong. But then, perhaps, the world was never meant to go right.”

  Had the woman even heard her? She tried again. “Miss Scurry?”

  Slowly, the older lady lifted a blank face. Her eyes narrowed, little creases etching lines into her skin. How many years had this woman seen? How much tribulation?

  Then just as suddenly, a smile flashed. “Such a dear, you are. Do you suppose Mr. Minnow has received his reckoning?”

  “I am sure he is on the mend and feeling much better already. Furthermore, I have no doubt you will be able to visit him by the time we are finished here.”

  “Oh, but his parting foreshadows the final one, I fear. Something is about to happen. Ch-ch-ch.” She wrapped her hands tighter around her box, the lace of her collar quivering, the black ribbon of her quizzing glass quaking as well.

  What kind of grim prediction was that? Did the woman have gypsy blood running in her veins to foretell such an awful fortune? Clara opened her mouth to respond, but the old lady once again bowed her head over her precious mice, ending the conversation by murmuring endearments to her furry companions.

  Clara returned to the hearth, where Ben poked at the few remaining coals. He slipped her a glance, which despite the lack of flames, shot warmth through her heart.

  She spoke in a low tone, unwilling for vulture-like ears to hear and peck her words to death. “I fear Miss Scurry is overwhelmed with what’s been happening. If only—”

  A deep thudding on the front door interrupted, and she jumped, skittish as the filly she’d once owned. She glanced toward the door, as did everyone else.

  “Be at peace, Clara.” Ben rose and squeezed her shoulder. “A servant will see to it.”

  More bangs followed.

  And again.

  “You sure about that, Lane?” Mr. Pocket set down his book and rose from the settee, then strode to the door.

  The way they were slowly dwindling in number, was it safe for the man to go off on his own? She peered up at Ben. “Perhaps you ought to go with him.”

  “The inspector is a capable man.” He released his hold of her. “But if you wish it.”

  With the exit of the only two able-bodied men, tension pulled the silence of the room into an almost unbearable tautness. Whom would Mr. Pocket and Ben usher in once the front door was opened?

  Quietly, a low chant crept in from the foyer, slowly gaining in strength. Beautiful voices grew louder, raised in song.

  “Fie!” A curse ripped past Mr. Tallgrass’s lips. “What rubbish.”

  A lovely rendition of “Coventry Carol” held Clara in place like a sweet embrace, drawing her and the others toward it—save for Mr. Tallgrass. Jilly left him behind, following as far as the sitting-room door.

  Clara crossed to Ben, huddling close for whatever warmth he might share. The open door allowed in not only the chorus of five carolers, but a wicked icy draft as well. Cold air coiled beneath her skirt hem and skimmed up her legs. Fighting a shiver—for surely Ben would force her to return to the sitting room if he suspected she were chilled—she focused instead on the chorus.

  Harmony heightened and dipped in perfect rhythm as the five singers crooned, all bright eyed and merry despite the minor key of their tune. The women, two of them, wore matching cloaks of deep green, and the men contrasted in caramel-coloured overcoats. Smart bonnets and top hats tipped back as they lifted their faces for a crescendo.

  Clara’s spirit couldn’t help but be lifted along with the swell. Giving in to the magic of the moment, she thanked God for small gifts such as this. Mademoiselle Pretents and Mr. Tallgrass were entirely wrong. Silly naysayers. With music so melodious, ill luck didn’t stand a chance this day.

  But then a tremble crept down her spine as she remembered exactly what day it was and why the carolers had chosen this song above all others. December 28. Childermas. The day commemorating the massacre of innocents in the attempt to kill the infant Jesus.

  The lovely spell shattered into shards of despair.

  “You all right?” Ben whispered into her ear.

  “I …” How to answer? That all she could imagine now were broken little bodies of wee babes and tots? Bloodied and ruined. Her stomach turned. Pull yourself together, Clara.

  She peered up at Ben, hoping her skewed thoughts didn’t show on her face. “I believe I shall go get my shawl.”

  He gazed at her, his stare dissecting truth from bone, yet he said nothing, just gave her a nod.

  Whirling, the haunting music pushed her onward—until the horrid gaze of the lion she must pass under slowed her steps. Throbbing started in her temples, and her blood drained to her feet. Surely the thing didn’t see her, didn’t mark her as prey to be devoured. So why did she suddenly feel like one of those innocent babes in the carol?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The wagon bumped over the same route to the woods Ben had taken four days earlier with Clara. This time, however, he wouldn’t offer his coat to his companion, even though the inspector’s big nose was reddened by the wind. With a “Walk on!” and a snap of the reins, Ben urged the horses forward. The best he would do for Mr. Pocket was get them to the break of the trees more quickly.

  Hunching into his coat, the inspector pulled down his hat brim. �
��I’ve noticed you and Miss Chapman are well acquainted.”

  The next gust of wind hit him as sideways as the question, and he turned his face from it. Not an indictment from the man, just an innocent observation—laced with innuendo. But why? Of all the topics the inspector could’ve brought up, he’d chosen Clara?

  Ben shifted on the seat. “You could say that.”

  “I believe I just did.” Pocket sniffed, his nose growing redder by the minute. “She’s been promised quite a sum if she remains the duration. Is her situation dire without those funds?”

  Ben measured his words and his tone. No sense offering the man more than should be his. “Perhaps you should ask the lady yourself.”

  “I would, if I could ever get a word with her alone. You always seem to be nearby. Which makes me wonder …” Pocket turned to him, his head peeking out from his greatcoat like a turtle from its shell. “What do you stand to gain?”

  A direct question, but still a covert attack—one that he wasn’t quite sure how to parry. “Sorry?” he asked.

  “Were you to marry the lady, why then, whatever is hers rightfully becomes yours. Don’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind.”

  Marry? The word bounced as pell-mell through his skull as the wheels juddering on the frozen ground. It had been simple once, straightforward, but now all the ifs of marriage tangled into a big snarl. If all his correspondence was answered, if he regained his freedom as promised, and if his family estate was restored, would Clara still have him? A branded convict?

  He snapped the reins again, driving the horses much too fast toward the wood’s edge. Pocket’s head jerked up and down from the pace, and Ben set his jaw, staring straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with the inspector. The rage burning up his neck and spreading like wildfire over his face would clearly be seen. Whoever had done this to him and Clara would pay dearly.

  Shaving minutes off his last trek to the woods, he yanked the horses to a stop and set the brake. He hopped down and turned into the wind, brisk air stinging his skin. He drank it in like sweet, sweet nectar.