12 Days at Bleakly Manor

by Michelle Griep

  “But how could you? Did you know where Ben was all this time? That he was a convicted felon?”

  “You and I both know he could never be capable of such a crime.”

  Clara shook her head, trying to make sense of the strange conversation. “Why did you not tell me of this sooner?”

  “There were many logistics and legalities to arrange. And the timing had to be right—a friend of Charles owns Bleakly Manor and was about to sail for the continent on business. He offered Charles the use of his house. Some of his staff went with him. Others visited their own families during his absence. So Charles had to hire temporary replacements on limited funds. That left little in the budget for food, coal, or other necessities. He wasn’t even certain until the last minute that his experiment would come together. I didn’t want to get your hopes up only to see them dashed.” Aunt’s eyes leaked, dampening her cheek. “You’ve suffered enough.”

  Clara’s jaw dropped. Understanding dawned as bright and clear as the late-morning sun leaching the last colour from Aunt’s skin as it shone on her thin form. “I see. You hoped I’d receive the five hundred pounds as a means of support.”

  “No, child. I hoped that by reuniting with your Ben you’d receive love. Though you are brilliant at hiding your heart, I’ve long known you underestimate your own value. But that view of yourself is a lie. Each of God’s creatures is inherently precious. And so you are.” Aunt’s head lifted, a flicker of passion in her gaze. “You have made this last year of my life a delight, easing my loneliness more than you’ll ever know. And as my friend Charles says, ‘No one is useless in this world who lightens the burden of it to anyone else.’”

  Deep down, in a place within her heart locked with chains, something clicked. A door opened. An awful monster rushed out at her, one that had resided in her soul since the day her father had come home drunk and blamed her for her mother’s death in childbirth, saying he’d trade her in an instant if he could only have her mother back from the grave.

  Clara covered her face and wept away the memory, the hurt, the lies. Wept it all away. And suddenly, the whys of life didn’t matter anymore, for the love of her aunt, of Ben, of her Creator, flooded in and chased that fiend away.

  “Child?”

  Sucking in a shaky breath, she bent and embraced her aunt, then pulled back. “Thank you. I am grateful for your words and your friend’s words.”

  Dabbing away a last tear, she wondered if Aunt’s friend had been surprised by all the things that went awry in the manor and the near-death mishaps. A question that would have to remain unasked, for if Aunt knew what had truly gone on, it would burden her unduly. Instead, Clara curved her mouth into a small smile. “I should like to meet this wise Charles of yours someday.”

  “Indeed.” Aunt’s head sunk deep into her pillow, and she closed her eyes. “Mr. Dickens is a wise man.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Ben paced circles in the drawing room, the spare light of a single candle his only source of illumination—save for the leftover glow of coals in the hearth and the thin line of grey on the outside horizon. Midnight had come and gone. His chance to stop George Chapman was gone as well.

  Stopping in front of the window, he shoved his hand into his pocket and yanked out the second-chance coin, flipping it over and over in his hand. Regret choked him, leaving behind an acrid taste. He should’ve taken the risk yesterday. He should’ve raced down to that dock and never looked back. Three times he’d braved the cold and walked the vast length of the drive to the edge of Bleakly Manor property, debating the chance of a bullet for the sake of justice.

  And three times he’d turned back.

  What kind of coward did that?

  Opening his hand, he stared fiercely at Clara’s gift. How long would it take to wear it smooth like the stone he’d once kept at Millbank? Would he be sent back there, after all? Should he not take this last opportunity to run free? To escape?

  He rolled the coin from knuckle to knuckle, the friction of the metal against his skin reminding him he was human, not some beast to be hunted. Not in Clara’s eyes, at any rate. Not anymore. Wasn’t her trust and love worth more than revenge? That’s what he’d told himself yesterday. And yes, even now he knew it in his heart—but the blasted nagging doubts in his head would not be stilled.

  Lifting his face to the sky, he studied the brilliant rays of sun painting streaks of pink against the grey, then closed his eyes.

  “Hear me, God.” His voice was as rugged as his emotions. “Though it kills me in every possible way, I surrender, here and now, any further thoughts of vengeance against George Chapman. Make things right. Make me right. I leave this matter in Your hands, where it’s always been, despite my doubts and questions.”

  He shoved the coin back into his pocket and stalked from the room. Shadows crept out from corners, but weak light began to filter in. Taking the stairs two at a time, he dashed to his room, knowing exactly what must be done next. Regardless of a bullet in his back, he would go to Clara, for he’d promised he would. Or he would die in the trying.

  He shrugged into his greatcoat, wrapped a scarf around his neck, then yanked down a hat atop his head, covering the tips of his ears. The walk to London would be long and cold.

  If he made it past Bleakly lands.

  Trotting down the stairs, he stopped in the great foyer and pivoted to the lion head. His hand snapped to his forehead in salute. “Thank you for your hospitality, such as it was.”

  Then he turned and strode to the door, ready to set foot on the next chapter of his life, be it a paragraph or a page.

  But it was a sentence, and a short one at that.

  “Mr. Lane, I presume?” A footman blocked his path—dressed in the same livery the servants had worn his first night here.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Your carriage will arrive shortly, sir.” The fellow’s arm shot out, offering an envelope in his gloved hand. “Until then, this is for you.”

  Ben pulled the paper from the footman’s fingers. The man immediately wheeled about, descended the stairs, and hopped up on the back step of a black-lacquered carriage, one clearly not meant for him.

  No matter. His feet wouldn’t move should he wish them to. The simple piece of parchment in his hand, folded and blotted with red wax at the center, weighted him in place. Perspiration dotted his brow as he ran his finger under the seal. Legal text filled the page, hard to read for the way the paper quivered in his hands, but three clear words stood out: Writ of emancipation.

  The miracle in ink shook through him, and for a moment he leaned against the doorframe, closing his eyes. Thank You, God.

  The jingle of harnesses pulled him from his thoughts. Blinking into the brilliant morning light, he saw a long-legged man entering the carriage. Just before the door shut, the fellow tipped his hat at Ben. Then the coach lurched into motion. Had that been his one and only glimpse of the master of Bleakly Manor? A nondescript, black-haired fellow in a houndstooth sack jacket and bowler hat?

  Ben tore down the stairs, intent on thanking him, but the coachman laid into the horses, urging them into a run.

  Ben stood in the drive, staring after the retreating coach, as alone as the night he’d arrived—but this time standing in the brilliance of sunshine and freedom.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Aunt Mitchell’s labored breathing made Clara’s chest hurt. But it was the chiming of the clock that really cut into her heart, carving out a hollow. Another day born in darkness. January 10. Days past the festive season.

  Slumping in her chair near the door of Aunt’s chamber, she debated leaving to go have a good cry into her pillow. Since her childhood, she’d always waxed melancholy after the flurry of Christmas. The walls stripped of decoration. The house empty of guests and laughter. It was the lonely time of year. The barren. With naught to look forward to but short grey days and frigid black nights. Yet none of that bothered her this time, not with Aunt’s life balancing on the thin line
tied from breath to breath.

  And the fact that Ben had not come for her. Again.

  Despair spread over her like a rash, hot, prickly, and entirely familiar. She knew it as well as the skin on her bones. At least this time the only eyes to witness her shame and grief were those closed nearly in death. Why had she been so foolish as to open her heart to the same man who’d crushed it once before? Was it any better to wonder if he’d been recaptured? Or killed? Would that make the pain any less?

  Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, she stopped up the tears begging for release and whispered, “Why, God? Why?”

  “If you knew all the answers, there’d be no need for trust, little one.”

  She jerked upright in the chair and swiveled her head toward Aunt—just as harsh words gathered out in the hall, growing louder the longer she listened. Dorothea Cruff, Aunt’s housekeeper, howled like a baying beagle keen on the hunt. Clara bit her lip and shot up a quick plea of repentance. Truly it was wicked of her to compare the woman to a dog, but even Aunt referred to Mrs. Cruff’s chambers as the howlery. What poor servant was the housekeeper gnawing on at such an hour? Clara turned up the wick in her oil lamp, intending on finding out, when the door opened.

  Mrs. Cruff’s mobcapped head peeked through the gap. “Begging your pardon, Miss Chapman. But there’s a gentleman, leastwise he says he is, who will not—”

  The door shoved wider and, sidestepping Mrs. Cruff, in strode a broad-shouldered shape, draped in a black riding cloak and dark trousers. Mud bespattered him from toe to neck, little flecks of it falling to the floor as he doffed his hat.

  But before lamplight caught on the man’s burnt cream–coloured hair, Clara jumped up and plowed into him. “You came!”

  Faltering back a step, Ben chuckled and wrapped his arms around her. “So it appears.”

  Listening to his heart beat against her ear, she stayed there, nuzzling her cheek against his chest, breathing in deeply of his scent, all smoky and with a whiff of horseflesh. He’d come. He’d really come for her. All the anguish and doubt of the past several days melted as she nestled into the heat of him.

  “’Tain’t right. ’Tain’t proper.” Behind them, Mrs. Cruff scolded as proficiently as Mr. Tallgrass might have.

  Unwilling to forfeit such a hard-won embrace, Clara turned yet did not step out of Ben’s hold.

  Mrs. Cruff’s face could kill an entire battalion of dragoons with one glance, so fiercely did she scowl.

  Clara fired back her own evil eye. “Light the lamps and see to a fire in the sitting room, if you please, Mrs. Cruff.”

  “No, I don’t very well please, and furthermore—”

  Ben released her and held up a hand. “No need. Thank you, but this shan’t take long. You are dismissed.”

  The woman’s mouth opened, a magnificent howl about to issue, when Aunt Mitchell’s voice floated across the room.

  “Go to bed, Cruff. I would speak with Clara and her gentleman.”

  The housekeeper’s lips snapped shut. Silence escorted her out of the room until she reached the corridor, where a low grumbling began—and no doubt would accompany her all the way to the howlery.

  With a gentle yet firm hand on the small of Clara’s back, Ben ushered her to Aunt’s bedside. “Sorry for the hour, Mrs. Mitchell. I came as soon as I could. Between a lame horse, a broken axle, and a downed tree at Hounslow, the journey took longer than expected. I am happy you are still among us.”

  Aunt nodded, an almost imperceptible movement, so delicate her constitution. “Your expected arrival is what’s been keeping me alive.”

  Clara exchanged a glance with Ben. Did he know what she was talking about?

  The arch of his brow said not. He pulled her down to kneel alongside him at Aunt’s bedside.

  Ben reached for the old lady’s hand and cradled it in his, the contrast between vitality and weakness stark in the shadowy light. “I am sorry to bear unwelcome news, but I’ve discovered the truth behind what really happened with the Chapman fortune and Blythe shipping. Your nephew George stole all the funds, leaving me with the blame and you, Mrs. Mitchell, to care for Clara—for which I owe you my gratitude.”

  “No!” Clara sat back on her heels, the world tipping beneath her. “George would never … I mean … but he’s gone to America. He’s working even now to secure a place for me.”

  “No, my love.” Amber eyes sought hers, and the compassion shining there nearly undid her. “In truth, your brother’s been cutting a swath of decadent living across Europe. Only days ago did he sail for America.”

  “He did not.” Aunt’s frail voice pulled both their gazes back to her.

  Ben leaned closer to the old woman, the lines on his face softening. “I am sorry to contradict you, madam, but—”

  Aunt’s fingers quivered upward, landing on his cheek. “If you are here, that means George did not sail for America but has been apprehended and will stand trial. You will be fully acquitted.”

  The words blew around Clara like a fine snow caught in an eddy of wind. In truth, she felt just as swirly. Was everything she’d believed for nearly the past year nothing but lies?

  She huddled closer to Ben, hoping to draw strength from the sheer closeness of his broad shoulders. “Aunt, what are you saying?”

  Air rattled in the old lady’s lungs as she drew in a breath. “I long had my suspicions about your brother, but no evidence until recently.”

  Aunt’s fingers dropped to the sheets. “George is not your full brother, my dear. He’s but a half. His mother refused to marry your father, wild in all her ways. Despicable woman. I feared George would turn out like her, but one cannot accuse based on bad character alone. I needed proof.”

  Aunt’s eyes closed, and her chest fluttered.

  So did Clara’s pulse. All she’d known, all she’d assumed, vanished, replaced with keen comprehension. She’d understood her father’s coldness toward her because her mother had died in the birthing, but her father’s detachment toward George had always been a puzzlement. Until now. No wonder she’d always felt the odd goose with her raven hair and olive skin, standing next to her brother, so fair in colour and handsome looks.

  A chill crept across her shoulders, and she shivered.

  Ben pulled her closer to his side and patted Aunt’s hand. “We shall leave you to rest.”

  “Not yet.” Aunt’s eyelids flickered open. “You must know. My friend, Charles, rubs shoulders with powerful men. One, a barrister with a sharp sense of justice.” She paused, her tongue working to moisten her lips.

  Clara pulled away and retrieved a cloth she kept dipped in water, then patted it against her aunt’s mouth.

  A faint smile lifted one side of the old lady’s lips. “That barrister labored to trade Ben’s transportation for house arrest at Bleakly, then worked the holiday season to gather all the evidence by Twelfth Night.”

  Her words stalled, and Ben leaned closer, bending his ear toward her mouth. “Are you saying I have been acquitted this whole time?”

  “No. Had you tried to escape or gone after George, you would have been shot for evasion.” Aunt’s head shook like the last leaf in autumn. “Yet I vouched for your character, my son.”

  Ben reared back to his heels, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a breath. “But why?”

  A flare of brightness lit Aunt Mitchell’s eyes, for a moment driving colour into her whitewashed cheeks. “I never had children of my own, but I couldn’t have loved them any more dearly than Clara and you. Promise me … promise …”

  Rattles traveled from Aunt’s chest to her throat, and both Clara and Ben leaned in close.

  With a last rally, Aunt reached for Ben’s hand and moved it to Clara’s. “Take care of my Clara.”

  Ben’s strong fingers encased both of theirs. “I vow it.” He squeezed, gently. “This night and for always.”

  Aunt closed her eyes, her hand going limp in theirs. It wouldn’t be long before she left the land of the living.


  Grief welled in Clara’s throat, and she pulled her hand free to press a knuckle against her mouth, trapping the noise.

  Ben tucked the old lady’s fingers beneath the bedsheet, then pulled Clara up along with him. “Come,” he whispered, then led her, hand in hand, to the corridor and closed the door behind them.

  Emotions assailed her, one after the other. Sorrow. Confusion. But above all a sense of duty to the man walking beside her. She stopped and turned to Ben. “You have been restored, and for that I am truly grateful, but please, despite what was said, do not feel obligated to keep such a promise to Aunt.”

  She tried to pull away from his grasp, but he merely captured her other hand and rubbed his thumbs along the inside curve of her palms. “Surely you know you are more than an obligation to me.”

  “But I am penniless! George saw to that by spending the money.” Her voice caught, and she hung her head. “No one will welcome me back into their circles. I have fallen from grace.”

  “Yet it is grace alone that saves the worst of us.” He released his hold and worked to shove up one of his sleeves. Blackened numbers, charred into his skin, stared up at her.

  A single tear broke loose, landing on the hideous brand. She brushed it away, her finger traveling over the seared flesh. How could he love so much after having suffered because of her brother? Her throat nearly closed at the thought of such depth, such rock-solid devotion—to her.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin, then pressed it into her hand. “And it was your grace that gave me a second chance.”

  Pulling her to him, he slid his strong hands upward to cup the back of her head. For a second, he hesitated, caressing her with a gaze that made her his own. Then his mouth came down, meeting hers, claiming her in deed. By the time he pulled away, breathing was out of the question.

  “I am a free man now, Clara, and in time, the Court of Chancery will fully restore my family estate. All this gain, though, is empty without you. And so I must know”—his voice lowered, crackling with love and desire—“will you have a former convict as a husband?”