12 Days at Bleakly Manor

by Michelle Griep

  A second later, he shot to his feet, knife drawn, scanning the hall.

  Heart pounding, she grabbed the doorframe for support.

  “You all right?” He peered past her shoulders, into her chamber.

  “Fine, except for the year of life you just frightened from me.” She drew in a long breath, slowing her pulse. “What are you doing here?”

  He tucked away his knife—thankfully—then ran a hand through his hair. “I told you last night there’d be no more mishaps. I meant it.”

  Heat spread up from her tummy to her heart. He’d slept in front of her door all night, watching and protecting her?

  Down the hall, a bobbing lamp drew near, the halo of light contrasting the maid’s pale face with her ebony dress. Betty bobbed a curtsy despite her filled hands. “Glad to see you’re both awake. There’s a messenger downstairs for Miss Chapman. He said to give this to you directly.”

  Betty held out an envelope with Clara’s name scratched on the front.

  Clara’s heart stopped. This could not be good. With shaking hands, she broke the seal. Each sentence, each word, stole strength from her legs, until she swayed.

  Ben reached for her, his grip on her arm a steadying beam. “What is it?”

  Betty retreated, taking the light with her. Light? La, as if any shone into this manor of despair.

  “Clara?” Ben’s voice sounded far away, somewhere overhead and fuzzy. “What’s happened?”

  She cleared her throat. How to make her voice work at a time such as this? “Aunt Mitchell is not doing well.” The words came out jagged around the edges, but at least they came out. “The doctor says if I wish a good-bye, now is the time.”

  She stared, unseeing, into Ben’s eyes.

  He held her shoulders, firming her up on each side. “Then you must go.”

  Go? Were Aunt to die, then there was nothing for her anymore. Nowhere to go. No means to support herself. But if she stayed another day and a half at Bleakly, then she stood a good chance of being self-sufficient long enough to find another position.

  Could Aunt hold on for that long?

  Ben bent, peering closer. “What are you thinking?”

  “If I leave now, I shall ruin my chances of five hundred pounds. I know that sounds callous and cold, but—” A sob welled in her throat. It sounded that way because it was. “Oh, Ben, what shall I do?”

  “A last good-bye isn’t worth any amount of money. It is priceless.” Cupping her cheeks with his hands, he lifted her face. “I never got to say good-bye to you or my life before being cast away into Millbank.”

  The emotion in his gaze nearly choked her. “You’re right, of course. Yes, I shall go. But I—”

  She what? How to put into words the fear, the terror, of leaving him again? What kind of cruel joke was it to bring them together, then rip them apart for a second time? The dam burst, and hot tears scalded her cheeks.

  Ben brushed them away with his thumbs. “What’s this?”

  “I–I shall miss you.” Loss tasted as salty as the tears on her lips.

  “As long as I draw breath, Clara, I vow I will go to you immediately after quitting this place. I swear it. Nothing, nothing will keep me from you.” A muscle jumped on his jaw. Slowly he sank to one knee, pulling her hand to his lips. He kissed her so softly, she trembled. The hazel of his eyes burned up into hers. “Will you trust in me again? Will you allow me to show you how much I love you?”

  Old memories of the pitiful stares, the whispered remarks as she stood alone on display in front of an altar, cut a fresh mark on her soul. How awful, how excruciating, to be burned twice over with the same fire. But was this time not completely different? Oh God, please let it be so.

  She reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the second-chance coin. Hesitating for only a breath, she held it out. “Perhaps this coin was never meant for me, but for you.”

  His fingers entwined with hers, and his throat bobbed as he took it.

  “I will trust you, Benjamin Lane. But please …” Each word cost in ways that she’d pay for eternity if he failed her in this. “Do not break my heart again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Feeble afternoon sunlight faded into early evening shadows, darkening the library. At a table near the door, Ben retrieved a candle lantern and lit it, his breath puffing a little cloud in the frigid chamber. No stranger to the cold, he tugged the lapels of his dress coat closer and strode from the room. Once Clara had departed, he’d spent the bulk of the day re-exploring the empty manor from cellar to rafters, hoping to find the reclusive master. All he’d discovered was Betty debating with two kitchen staff about the freshness of the fish for dinner, a stable hand who’d come in for a mug of ale, and countless locked doors that hid secrets. Blast! But he was sick of secrets.

  Quickening his pace, he stalked from corridor to corridor, finally stopping in the empty front foyer. He widened his stance and faced the lion head.

  “Why not end the charade now? I am the last one remaining. Show yourself and be done with it.”

  Lifeless eyes stared down at him. Not that he expected an answer—nor the sudden rap of the knocker on the front door.

  Wheeling about, he cast aside convention and opened the door himself.

  A ruddy-cheeked fellow with frosted eyebrows and a red-tipped nose stood at attention. “Is there a Mr. Lane in residence?”

  “I am he.”

  “Excellent. This delivery is for you, sir.” He held out a canvas messenger bag.

  Ben rolled his eyes. This was too convenient. Too coincidental. He glanced over his shoulder, back up at the lion head, feeling more than ever like a pawn.

  Yet what else was there to do at this point but finish the game?

  Stifling a growl, he took the bag with a forced “Thank you,” then rummaged around in his pocket for something to give the man. Nothing but Clara’s second-chance coin met his touch. Ahh, but poverty was a cruel master, not only for him, but for the poor delivery man who’d have to trek back to God-knew-where with nothing but chapped skin to show for it.

  Ben met the man’s gaze. “I am sorry, but I’m afraid I have no tip.”

  “No need.” The fellow swiped the moisture from the end of his nose with the edge of his sleeve. “I’ve been paid handsomely. Good night.” He turned and jogged down the stairs, mounted a fine-looking bay, and trotted off into the twilight.

  Closing the door on the cold, Ben tucked the bag under one arm and strode into the drawing room—the one chamber with a fire. He poured a glass of wine, then settled in the chair nearest the hearth as the mantel clock struck five. Untying the leather thong secured around two buttons, he opened the flap. Inside was a large packet, thick and weighty, and three smaller envelopes at the bottom. No, hold on. He fished his finger into one corner and pulled out a scrap of paper. Hasty penmanship scrawled across it, reading: You don’t have to be right. You just have to be.

  His brows pinched. What was that supposed to mean?

  Setting it aside, he withdrew the envelopes and went first for the one that was unsealed. Dumping the contents onto his lap, he rifled through what appeared to be receipts. Many wrinkled. Some torn. All with large sums and different dates spanning the past nine months. A new top hat. A case of Chateau Margaux. Fees spent for villas and servants and travel arrangements to and from a spate of European countries. Ben shoved the papers back into the envelope. What had this to do with anything?

  He paused to swallow a sip of his drink, then drew out the biggest packet and set the bag down on the floor. Perhaps by reading the rest he’d understand the cryptic scrap. Laying the folder on his lap, he flipped it open. Pages of parchment, lots of them, neatly penned. He picked up the first page, then gaped at the title written in black ink at the top: Blythe vs Lane.

  A shock jolted through him as he read further. These were court documents. The papers he’d begged to see before, during, and after his trial. The key to discovering who’d brought embezzlement c
harges against him in the first place.

  He rifled through the pile, scanning like a madman, revisiting the indictment, the verdict, discovering the names of the members of the jury, and finally the page naming the plaintiff. His hands shook. His whole body did. At last he’d know whom to seek out, whom to pay back all the horrors he’d had to live through the past nine months: George Chapman.

  The paper slipped from his fingers. The name made no sense. Clara’s brother, his friend and colleague, was his accuser?

  He shoved the documents back into the bag and pulled out the other two envelopes. One felt heavier, so he opened that one first. A letter, folded into thirds, was addressed to High Court Justice Richard Combee.

  Though his throat was parched, he ignored his glass of wine and shook out the missive, then skimmed the page. The first half was blotted in parts, the ink washed out where some sort of liquid had spilled onto the paper. It mostly looked like salutations anyway. But the words in the middle were clear enough:

  … appreciate your handling with utmost confidentiality

  the matter of Benjamin Lane. As per our previous

  conversation, the sum of one thousand pounds shall

  be yours in exchange for his transportation.

  As always, your servant,

  George Chapman

  The paper crumpled in his hand as if his fingers squeezed about George’s neck. It couldn’t be helped. Such rage, when birthed, could not be shoved back inside any more than a babe could revisit a mother’s womb. Of course he should have known—he just didn’t want to. But it made perfect sense.

  From the time they’d been lads, he and George had competed for everything, from trying to acquire the headmaster’s praise before the other to rowing contests on the River Cam. Landing a partnership at the same shipping company, it was only natural they vied for the ultimate prize—the great Blythe warehouse industry. Had George somehow discovered he would not be the winner? The sweet aftertaste of wine soured at the back of his throat. Were that conjecture true, that meant he would have been the one to take over the prosperous business. Would George truly have been so heinous as to steal the money, cast the blame on him, and leave his own sister practically destitute?

  Drawing in a deep breath to clear his head, he tucked the letter into the envelope and tossed back the rest of his drink. Steady, steady.

  He opened the last envelope and pulled out a single half sheet. A block cut of a steamship adorned the left corner. At the right, written in red ink, the word copy. Across the top, the title of Liverpool, London & Glasgow Packet Company spread out in swirled letters. The line below that listed the destination—New York—and the departure date: January 5. Tomorrow, then. At ten in the morning. Berth No. 12. Balance due $0. Wapping Wharves. And the bearer’s name—George Chapman.

  Ben shot to his feet, the paper fluttering to the floor along with the messenger bag and the rest of the documents. Running both hands through his hair, he circled the room, heart racing. This was it. All he’d dreamed about for the past nine hellish months while rotting away in Millbank. Revenge in full. If he left now, he’d easily make it in time to London, to the docks, to the ship. He could drag George to a real court instead of the court of bogus justice Ben had endured—provided he could restrain himself from choking the life out of the scoundrel beforehand.

  He stopped in front of the hearth and grabbed the mantel with both hands. If he stepped off Bleakly Manor property, he’d be shot for escape. Yet how else could he stop George? Once the rogue landed in America, there’d be no finding him. There’d be no justice. There’d be nothing but a grand life for George while he and Clara worked to scratch out a living.

  Clara.

  He hung his head and stared at the coals. He’d nearly forgotten his vow to her. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the second-chance coin, then spun and glowered at the papers strewn on the floor.

  If he walked out the door of Bleakly Manor, he’d face death—once again breaking his oath to Clara. The coin burned in his palm, and the need for righteousness in his gut.

  There was freedom if he stayed. Revenge if he didn’t.

  Which one should he chance?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Morning light cast oblong rectangles on the rug in Aunt’s chamber. Clara watched them shorten, her head bobbing now and then, jerking her back to wakefulness. The wicked tick-tock of the clock tempted her to close her eyes. Just for a moment. To forget the pinch of her corset and ache of her bones. Ahh, but she was weary from travel, from worrying, life, and the eleven long days she’d spent at Bleakly Manor. Shifting on the chair she’d occupied since she’d arrived last night, she rested her cheek against the wingback and surrendered with a sigh.

  “You sound as if you bear the world on your shoulders.” A paper-thin voice rustled on the air.

  Bolting upright, she dashed to Aunt Mitchell’s bedside and dropped to her knees. Set in a face the colour of milk paint, watery eyes stared at her, open and alive. “Oh, Aunt, how are you?”

  Aunt’s lips curved into a frail smile. “A sight better than you, by the looks of it.”

  Pulling her loosened hair back over her shoulder, Clara leaned closer and studied the rise and fall of Aunt’s chest. The counterpane barely moved. She bit back a cry. “I’ve been so worried.”

  “La, child.” A raspy gurgle in Aunt’s throat accompanied her words. “Worrying doesn’t stop the bad from happening. It keeps you from enjoying the good.”

  “What would I do without your wisdom?” The world turned watery, and Clara blinked to keep her tears locked up. “What will I do without you?”

  The old lady’s fingers fluttered toward her, inching across the top of the coverlet. Clara reached for her hand, hopefully saving Aunt whatever strength she might have left.

  Aunt’s squeeze was light as a butterfly’s wing. “Now, now, chin up. I’m not gone yet.”

  “No, you are not.” She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “And for that I am thankful.”

  “But I am ready to go, child. I have lived a full life. My only regret is I have nothing to leave you. Wicked entailments.” Releasing her hand, Aunt’s fingers trembled upward, landing on Clara’s cheek. “How I’d wished you to be mistress of this house.”

  Clara leaned into her touch. “I am sure Mr. Barrett will make a fine master.”

  “Master, yes. Fine? Hardly.” Aunt’s hand dropped to the bed, and her pale eyes flashed a spark—albeit tiny—of spunk. “Be thankful you never crossed paths with that side of my husband’s family.”

  Great coughs rumbled in Aunt’s chest, draining her of an already thin colour.

  Clara darted to a side table and retrieved a glass of watered wine. Most dribbled down Aunt’s chin, staining her white nightgown like drops of blood, but enough moistened her mouth that the hacking fit abated.

  “Rest now. I shall be right here with you.” Clara stood.

  But Aunt’s fingers beckoned her back. “Soon this body will do nothing but rest. Please, humour me. I should like to hear of your adventures at Bleakly Manor.”

  Frowning, she studied the woman. Bird bones wrapped in white linen couldn’t have looked more fragile, yet a thread of strength remained in Aunt’s voice.

  “Very well.” Taking care not to jostle the mattress overmuch, she sat on the edge of the bed and took Aunt’s hands between both of hers. Once again the ticking clock taunted her, counting down the final minutes of Aunt’s life. How to explain the strange characters she’d spent the past eleven days with?

  Aunt’s gaze sought hers. “Just tell me what’s on your heart, child.”

  “Ben was there.” The words blurted out before she could stop them, and she sucked in a gasp.

  “Was he now?” Despite the glassy shadow of death, Aunt’s eyes twinkled.

  Twinkled?

  Clara frowned at the odd response, suspicion growing stronger with each beat of her heart. “Why, you knew he’d be there. That’s why you enco
uraged me to go, is it not?”

  “My body fails, but my mind does not.” Aunt pulled her hand away and tapped her head. “There’s still a little intrigue left up here.”

  The movement loosed the demon in Aunt’s chest, unleashing a spate of coughing. This was too much, despite what Aunt Mitchell desired.

  Clara rose. “Rest now, Aunt. I vow I shall be here when you next awaken and we will talk more.”

  “No!” The old lady’s head flailed on the pillow, her voice as mewling as a newborn kitten’s. “There’s something you need to know. Bleakly Manor was no coincidence and in fact was my last hope for your future.”

  Stunned, Clara blinked, her own voice quivering. “What are you saying?”

  “It started last fall, September. Charles, a dear old friend of mine, called on me. He told me he was struggling to create his next hero and heroine.” Pausing, Aunt licked her lips, white foam collecting at the edges.

  Clearly she would not be put off, so Clara propped up Aunt’s head and helped her drink, then sat at her side.

  “Mmm. So good. Now, where was I?” For a moment, Aunt closed her eyes, and Clara wondered if she’d doze off finally.

  But her lids popped open. “Charles is a writer. He had a story in mind, and the plot pleased him, but his characters were … How did he put it? All flattened and blowsy, like a handful of crushed chaff given to the wind. Such a wordy fellow.” A small chuckle gurgled in Aunt’s throat.

  Prepared for another coughing fit, Clara tensed, hating the awful smell of the mustard poultice on her aunt’s chest, hating even more the thought that the next fit might be her last.

  Yet the old lady rallied, drawing in a big breath. “So Charles concocted an experiment to help him create vibrant, believable characters by observation. He had several other people in mind, but none qualified as true leads. There are no two truer hearts I know than yours and Mr. Lane’s, and so I suggested the two of you.”