12 Days at Bleakly Manor

by Michelle Griep

  Tears would not be stopped, the taste of them salty on her lips. Oh, how she’d missed this man, this love, this part of her that had been torn and was now mended stronger than before. She smiled up at him, realizing that, indeed, she may never stop smiling for the rest of her years. “I would have none other than you, my love.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A cold mist settled over London, dampening everyone’s clothing to the same shade of dreary. It was the kind of late January day that crawled under the best of woolen capes and took up residence in the bones. In Cheapside, old men huddled at their hearths. On Aldred Street, mothers sheltered younglings beneath great black umbrellas.

  But in Holywell, Clara stepped lively down the narrow lanes, ignoring the chill.

  Stopping in front of Effie Gedge’s door, she raised her hand and rapped, then smiled at the smudge left behind on her glove. It would be the last time this ragtag collection of boards marred her bleached kidskin.

  The door swung open, and Effie’s sweet face appeared—cheekbones prominent, skin sallow, yet her ever-present smile fixed in place. “Miss Chapman! What a grand surprise.” The girl’s brows drew together, and she dared a step closer despite the rain that would catch on her hair. “But what are you doing here? Is all well?”

  “No … and yes. So much has happened in the past month, I hardly know where to begin.” She’d never spoke truer words. Biting the inside of her cheek, she searched for some nicely packaged phrases, as she had during the entire ride over here, but still none came to mind. How to speak of passions and sorrows so great?

  “My aunt Mitchell has died,” she blurted.

  “Oh! I am so sorry.” Effie reached out and grabbed her arm, as if to impart strength—quite the absurdity from a woman worn to threads by circumstance. “She were a rare one, weren’t she?”

  “That she was.” Clara fought back a fresh wave of tears, though should any slip, they could easily be blamed upon the mist.

  “It’s not much, miss, but I’m sure I can get you into the factory. It won’t be easy, mind you. Hatbox work is hard on the hands, but it’s a fair sight easier than being a silk piecer or a salt boiler, and far better than starving.” Effie shoved the door wider, lips curving into a welcome. “You can share my room, though we’ll have to snug up in the bed, for I’ve only space enough for that and a chair.”

  Though the January day did its worst to inflict a shiver, Clara pressed a hand to her chest, warmed through the heart at Effie’s kindness. “Oh, Effie, you are the rare one. I did come here to ask you something, but not that.” Loosening the drawstring on her reticule, she pulled out the second-chance coin and pressed it into Effie’s reddened hands.

  Effie looked from the gold piece to Clara. “What’s this for?”

  “It’s a second-chance coin.”

  “A what?”

  Clara smiled. How many times had she wondered the very same thing? “I am here to ask you for a second chance. Would you consider coming back as my maid? There is much to be done, and I could use your help.”

  “I don’t understand.” A tremor shook Effie’s head, though hard to tell if the movement was from the cold or confusion. “I thought once your aunt was deceased, the house and all her means passed on to her stepson. Don’t tell me you and him… ?”

  “No, nothing of the sort. That is not the household I am asking you to serve.”

  “Then whose?”

  Her grin widened, for whenever she thought of Ben, a smile must be allowed. “Mr. Benjamin Lane’s household, my soon-to-be husband. We have a wedding to prepare for. Are you up to it? It won’t be easy, but it’s a fair sight easier than hatbox making—and you won’t have to share your bed.” She winked. “What do you say?”

  Effie beamed. “I say let our new lives begin!”

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  Victorian Christmas Traditions

  The Twelve Day Celebration

  Since medieval times, the Twelve Day celebration has been a recognized holiday. It traditionally begins on Christmas Day, December 25, and ends at midnight, January 5, immediately before Epiphany.

  Boxing Day

  This holiday is celebrated the day after Christmas Day. Tradesmen and servants receive gifts from their masters, employers, or customers. These gifts are boxed up, hence the name Boxing Day.

  The Yule Log

  A Yule log was dragged in on Christmas Day and kept burning for twelve days (until Epiphany). The leftover charcoal was kept until the following Christmas to kindle the next year’s log. It was considered bad luck if the log went out during the Twelve Days.

  Childermas

  December 28 is known as Holy Innocents’ Day or Childermas. It’s a day commemorating when King Herod ordered the murder of children under two years of age in an attempt to kill the baby Jesus. The “Coventry Carol” recounts the massacre from the eyes of a mourning mother whose child was killed. The song was commonly sung by itinerant carolers.

  New Year’s Coin

  No matter the age, it was a must that every person in Victorian England should have money in his or her pocket on New Year’s Day, even something as small as a half farthing (worth an eighth of a penny). To be without a coin meant risking poverty in the coming year.

  Traveling Entertainers

  During the Christmas season, entertainers traveled from manor to manor. The most common form of their performances was pantomime, which is still a popular form of entertainment today during the holidays.

  Wassail

  Originally, wassail was a greeting or a toast. Revelers would hold up a mug of spiced cider and shout, “Waes hael!” which means be hale or be well. The drink was often offered to visitors in a large wooden bowl. Eventually, the greeting fell by the wayside and wassail came to mean the drink instead of the toast. Many great traditional wassail recipes can be found on the Internet. Here is one of my favorites: http://www.curiouscuisiniere.com/wassail-recipe/.

  DEDICATION

  To the One and Only who gives mankind a second chance—Jesus Christ.

  And to Deborha Mitchell, the namesake of Clara’s aunt.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing is a solitary profession that cannot be done alone. Thank you to Annie Tipton and the awesome staff at Shiloh Run who continually make my writing dreams come true. A shout-out to my long-suffering critique partners: Lisa Ludwig, Ane Mulligan, MaryLu Tyndall, Julie Klassen, Shannon McNear, and Chawna Schroeder … ALL talented authors in their own right. And as always, my gratitude to Mark, who endures many a frozen pizza and Chinese take-out when it’s crunch time.

  Plus a special thank-you to you, readers, who make this writing gig all worthwhile!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michelle Griep has been writing since she first discovered blank wall space and Crayolas. She seeks to glorify God in all that she writes—except for that graffiti phase she went through as a teenager. She resides in the frozen tundra of Minnesota, where she teaches history and writing classes for a local high school co-op. An Anglophile at heart, she runs off to England every chance she gets under the guise of research. Really, though, she’s eating excessive amounts of scones and rambling through some castle. Keep up with her adventures at her award-winning blog “Writer Off the Leash” or visit michellegriep.com. She loves to hear from readers, so go ahead and rattle her cage.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1853

  Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.”

  Mina Scott lowered the copy of David Copperfield to her lap and lifted her face to the October sun. Closing her eyes, she savored the warmth and the first line to a new adventure, as was her wont whenever old lady Whymsy lent her a book. Though she no longer stared at the page, the shapes of the words lingered, blazed in stark contrast to the sun’s brilliance against her lids. What a curious thought, to be one’s own hero—for the only hero she wanted was William Barlow.

  Ahh, Wi
lliam. Just thinking his name lit a fire in her belly.

  “Mina!”

  She shot to her feet, and the book plummeted to the ground. Her stomach dropped along with it—for being caught idle, and for the dirt smudges sure to mar the cover. With her toe, she quickly slid the novel beneath her skirt hem, then turned to face her father.

  Jasper Scott, master of the Golden Egg Inn and commander of her life, fisted hands the size of kidney pies at his hips. “What are ye doin’ out in the yard, girl, when ye ought be serving?”

  “It’s hardly teatime, Father. I thought to take a break before customers arrived.” From the peak of the inn’s rooftop, a swallow not yet flown to warmer climates chided her for a lame excuse. Not that she blamed the bird, for it was a pitiful defense, indeed.

  Her father’s bushy brows pulled into a single line. “Don’t tell me you were reading again.”

  How did he know? How did he always know?

  “I …” She tucked her chin, debating the greater evil—lying or disobedience?

  Slowly, she bent and retrieved the book, then held it out. “Maybe you ought to keep this until we close tonight.”

  “I thought as much when Mrs. Whymsy stopped by. Keep your head in the world, girl, not in the clouds.” He snatched the novel from her hand. “Now off with ye. There’s already patrons clamoring for a whistle wetting.”

  She scurried past him and darted through the back door, nearly crashing into Martha, the inn’s cook.

  “Peas and porridge!” Martha quickly stepped aside, the water in her pot sloshing over the rim and dampening the flagstones. “Watch yer step, missy!”

  “Sorry, Martha.” Giving the lady a wider berth, she dashed to a peg on the wall and took down her apron. She made short work of tying the waistband and tucking in an extra cloth for wiping tables, then scooted to the taproom door before her father could find reason to scold her further.

  Once she entered the public area, she slowed her steps and drew in a deep breath. No one liked to be waited upon by a ruddy-cheeked snippet of a skirt. Scanning the room, she frowned. Only two tables were filled. Surely Father could have managed to wait upon these few—

  Her gaze landed on her golden-haired hero, ramping up her heartbeat to a wild pace. His broad back toward her, in deep conversation with the fellow seated next to him, William Barlow changed the entire ill-lit taproom to a brilliant summer landscape simply by merit of his presence—and his laugh.

  Mina grabbed a pitcher and quickly filled it with ale, the pull of William too strong to deny. Bypassing the other customers, she headed straight for his table.

  “He’s invited me to a tea, of all things. Me!” His voice, smooth as fresh-flowing honey and just as pleasant, grew louder the closer she drew to his table. “Can you imagine that, Fitz? A tea. How awful.”

  A smile curved her mouth, imagining taking tea with William. Just the two of them. She’d pour a cup for him. He’d lift a choice little cake to her lips while speaking of his deepest affections. She sighed, warm and contented. “I should think a tea would be very pleasant,” she murmured.

  Both men turned toward her. Mr. Fitzroy, William’s friend, spoke first. “Well, if it isn’t the lovely Miss Scott, come to save me from this boorish fellow.” He nudged William with his elbow.

  William arched a brow at her, a rogue grin deepening the dimples at the sides of his mouth. “I was wondering when you’d grace us with your appearance, sweet Mina.”

  Sweet Mina. Heat flooded her cheeks. She’d be remembering that endearment in her dreams tonight.

  But for now, she scowled. “Mr. Barlow, if my father hears of your familiarity, I fear—”

  “Never fear, my sweet.” He winked—and her knees weakened. “I’m a champion with ruffled fathers.”

  Ignoring his wordplay, she held up the pitcher. “Refills?”

  William slapped his hand to his heart. “You know me too well.”

  Not as well as I’d like to. La! Where had that come from? Maybe Father was right, and she had been reading too many books.

  “I’m as intrigued as Miss Scott.” Mr. Fitzroy held his cup out to her, for she’d filled William’s mug first. “Why would you not want to attend your uncle’s tea? As I recall, he’s a jolly-enough fellow.”

  William slugged back a long draw of his ale, then lowered his cup to the table. “Nothing against Uncle Barlow, mind you. It’s just that I’m to bring my wife along.”

  Wife!

  Mina’s pitcher clattered to the floor. She stared at it, horrified. Ale seeped into the cracks of the floorboards, the very image of her draining hopes and dreams. William had a wife?

  He shot to his feet. “Mina! You look as if you’ve seen the Cock Lane ghost. Are you ill?”

  “I’m f–fine. The pitcher—it slipped, that’s all.” She crouched, yanking the rag from her waistband and mopping up the mess with more force than necessary. The rogue! The scoundrel! All this time he’d been trifling with her when he already had a hearth and home tended by a wife? Did he have children, as well? She scrubbed harder. Her knuckles grazed the rough wood and scraped her skin. Good. She relished the pain and, for a wicked moment, thought about swishing the spilled ale over William’s shoes.

  “Wife?” Surprise deepened Mr. Fitzroy’s voice also. So … William’s best friend had not known, either? That was a small satisfaction, at least.

  “This is news,” Mr. Fitzroy continued. “When did that happen?”

  Holding her breath, she strained to hear, though why she cared indicted her for being naught but a dunderheaded hero seeker. Silly girl. Silly, stupid girl.

  William sank back to his seat. “Well, I don’t actually have one yet. And that’s the problem.”

  “Thank God.” The words flew out before she could stop them. She bit her lip. If Father heard her brazen speech, he’d take away more than her book.

  William’s face appeared below the table. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Yes. Just finishing up.” She forced a smile and reached for the runaway pitcher, then stood. This afternoon was turning into a novel in its own right. For the first time since she’d met William, she couldn’t decide if he were truly a hero or a villain.

  William straightened, as well, his gaze trained on her. The sun slanted through the front window, angling over his strong jaw and narrow nose. But it was his eyes that drew her. So brilliant, so true blue, a sob welled in her throat. She swallowed. She truly was a silly girl.

  “Say, Mina,” he drawled, “you wouldn’t be willing to be my bride, would you?”

  “I … I …” The words caught in her throat like a fish bone, and she coughed, then coughed some more. Heat blazed through her from head to toe. Surely, she hadn’t heard right.

  William’s grin grew, his dimples deepening to a rakish angle. “Oh, don’t panic. It would just be for the day.”

  Mr. Fitzroy leaned back, studying them both. “What’s this all about, Will? For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve run from matrimony, not toward it.”

  “Oy, miss! Another round over here.” Across the taproom, a stout fellow, buttons about to pop off his waistcoat, held a mug over his head.

  William reached out and grasped her sleeve. “Please, Mina. This won’t take but a moment.”

  A frown tugged her lips. Father wouldn’t like her dawdling with William, but how could she refuse the man she’d cast as the champion in every story she’d read?

  She glanced over her shoulder, nodding at the customer with a brilliant smile to stave him off, then turned back to William. “Make haste. I have work to attend to.”

  “Right. Here’s the thing.” He leaned forward, the excitement in his tone pulling both her and Mr. Fitzroy closer to him so that they huddled ’round the table.

  “My uncle Barlow is ready to choose who will inherit his property. It’s between me and my cousin Percy—”

  “Egad!” Mr. Fitzroy rocked back on his chair. “That pompous hind end? I should think there’d be no competit
ion whatsoever.”

  “I agree, but my uncle favors a married man. And since I am not …” Will tugged at his collar, loosing his cravat. “Well, I gave Uncle Barlow the impression I’d recently wed, or I’d not even be considered.”

  Mr. Fitzroy let out a long, low whistle.

  Mina’s eyes widened. “You lied to your uncle?”

  William shook his head, the tips of his hair, long past needing a trim, brushing against his shoulders. “No, not outright. I merely led him on a merry word chase, and he arrived at a particular conclusion.”

  Mr. Fitzroy chuckled. “One day, my friend, your deceptions will catch up to you.”

  “Perhaps. But not today. Not if you, my sweet Mina”—William captured her free hand and squeezed—“will agree to be my wife for the tea. What do you say?”

  Say? How could she even think when savoring the warmth of his fingers wrapped around hers? The blue of his gaze entreated her to yield to him. It would be lovely to live a fairy-tale life if only for an afternoon, take tea in a grand house—

  “Miss!” the man across the room bellowed again.

  And escape the drudgery of serving corpulent patrons who more often than not smelled of goats and sausages.

  Pulling her hand away, she smiled at William. “I say yes.”

  She sucked in a breath. God bless her—for surely her father wouldn’t.