Etiquette With The Devil

by Rebecca Paula

  The Ravensdales paraded into town like circus sideshow freaks—a pirate and ballerina, a toddler on a donkey led by a stumbling Romeo, a prudish governess, and the devil of Burton Hall. The coy stares bothered him. The unguarded gawking of the passersby set his blood boiling. He did not mind on his behalf. He was used to such reactions. But he did mind when it regarded the children. They adored the attention their caravan was receiving. The awed looks were only cloaks for something harsher—village gossip. His only solution was to take another swig of the flask and flash a smile that dared someone to come forward and speak ill about him or his wards. It had been a few months since he flattened a man to the ground with his notorious right hook. He craved the opportunity to do so again.

  A hum filled his ears, soft and sweet. He turned, discovering it was Clara humming in between explaining the different shops to the ever-quizzical Minnie. The girl was going to be like her mother. He couldn’t think of a more fitting punishment for his wicked aunt than to see to her upbringing. Minnie would cause the woman to tear the hair from her head, no doubt.

  He ducked into the next shop, followed by Clara and Minnie. Barnes waited outside with Grace and James. The donkey bayed, calling attention to their entrance. Time seemed to stand still as wide eyes greeted them. A woman gasped and yanked her son to her hip. The man behind the counter turned to his associate and whispered. A fine welcome, as expected.

  “Good day,” Bly offered with a curt nod. Everyone continued to stare.

  A ghost, he heard whispered. It can’t be, another uttered. You know, someone began, his poor mother. His left hand flexed and crumpled the list of items Barnes had drafted the evening before. Bly stormed to the counter, a giant in the tiny shop, and slammed his fist against the lacquered counter. The candy jar beside the register rattled, and the shop clerk, a small and timid excuse for a man, jumped and unseated the spectacles on his bulbous nose.

  “S-sir,” the man stuttered. His pudgy hand shook as he attempted to right his glasses.

  Bly quirked a leering grin, glaring the man down as the whispers filled up the confines of the stuffy shop. They turned his stomach, much like the sallow wallpaper on the walls.

  “Yes, hello.” Clara pushed up to Bly’s side. She freed the wilted paper from his grip and smoothed it out over the counter, throwing Bly a disapproving backward glance as he ground his teeth.

  He looks like a savage, came another whisper.

  In the shop’s bright light, he noticed a small brown spot that sat upon the top of Clara’s cheekbone, just below her left eye. Somehow, he had missed that during his inspection of her last night by the fire. She looked horrible in that rag of a dress of hers today. Much like the wallpaper, the color did her no justice. And though had he been out of the country for some time, he was positive that dress of hers was nearly as old as she was, if not older. The cut reminded him too much of his mother’s wardrobe before she passed.

  Clara prattled off the items on the list without giving Bly another glance. All he heard in between her haughty demands for bee’s wax and lamp oil were the hushed judgments in the shop.

  I thought he died in the Indies.

  I heard he ran off with his father’s mistress while stationed in India.

  If the Buddhists were correct about reincarnation, Bly would track down his lousy brother and murder Walter once more for his interfering request. If he weren’t so hell-bent on fixing the wrongs of his damned family, he would have ripped up the will and left the children in India.

  He feigned disinterest at the heated exchange between the shopkeeper and Clara, but it was riveting to watch. The toad-faced man was no match for her spinster bravado. She handled him with the firm authority of a queen, cutting the man even shorter with her icy stare. In no time, the counter was stacked high with provisions.

  She turned back to Bly, folding her hands in front of her muck-colored gown. He was sure she spoke to him. Her lips were moving. As she spoke, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, calling attention to how plump and heart-shaped they truly were.

  “The bill, Mr. Ravensdale.” She narrowed those cold eyes of hers on him.

  Bly reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of bills, which to his satisfaction, made the shopkeeper’s jowls drop closer to the floor. He eyed the man, who turned scarlet under his stare, before slapping the money onto the counter with a resounding smack.

  I wonder who the woman is with him?

  Is that his child?

  Good lord, is the devil married? Just imagine! The poor woman.

  Bly’s hand shook as he searched for a cigar in his coat. The anger—the seething red mess that swirled inside—left him nearly paralyzed.

  “Come along, Minnie. Grab what you can and bring it out to Mr. Barnes. Mr. Ravensdale?” Clara asked, gathering an armful of packages herself. Her gloved hand reached out and rested on his arm. “Let’s be on with errands, shall we?”

  He nodded liked a stunned idiot, his attention pinned to the frayed stitching on her clothes, the threadbare tips of her gloves. That was all he was capable of in that moment. The feel of her worn glove silenced the inner beast. He reached around her to take the rest of the packages.

  “Good day to you,” Clara called out as she followed Minnie out of the store.

  Bly made a point of looking the curious villagers in the eye. He was a fool to think he could slink back to England and deposit the children without so much as a fuss or whisper. Bly and his family had too much history in the village to go unnoticed, too much bad history.

  And maybe they were correct in their assessment. After years in the tropical sun, his skin was weathered to dark bronze. And if ever the tattoos that lay hidden beneath his clothing were revealed, in their eyes, he would be a savage. If word ever got out of the ungodly deeds he did as a living, then they would be justified in their condemnation.

  *

  The narrow streets of the village did little to confine Minnie and James. They barreled forward, their arms outstretched into the warm afternoon air, their heads tossed up to the sun.

  “Victory,” they chanted. “Victory is ours.” Minnie jumped and twirled, knocking into James before he stabbed her with his wooden sword. She charged after him and stomped on his foot, but instead of retaliation, the pair giggled and began their chant anew.

  Clara glanced at Mr. Barnes and Mr. Ravensdale, waiting for some intervention as she herself was weighed down with a squirming Grace. The toddler had a stubborn streak as strong as the mule and refused to be held any longer. The pair of men only nudged one another on the shoulder, passing a silver flask back and forth between them.

  She set Grace down, only to have to give chase as she zig-zagged on her tiny legs before gaining speed and dashing straight toward an oncoming cart. Clara scooped up the girl and retreated to the shade of the building, throwing her head back as Grace screamed and the children continued to terrorize the small village.

  “Enough,” Clara said quietly. “Everyone, stop. This is enough madness.” To her surprise, the group halted. She avoided the looks of those on the street, keeping her eyes fixed to the ground. Gaining notice wouldn’t help if she were to make a successful escape. “That is not how you behave in public, Master James and Miss Minnie. It is unacceptable. Behave yourselves or you will go without dinner.”

  She did not know why she made such a threat, having been on the receiving end of just that for most of her childhood. She hadn’t even done anything wrong to upset her grandparents. They just preferred to keep her locked away, best forgotten for the sin that she was. She was fed and washed at their inclination.

  Mr. Ravensdale raised his eyebrows at her threat, only bowing his head to her when she lifted her shoulders and set Grace back on the ground, this time clutching onto the small girl’s sleeve. Mr. Barnes ignored everything and reached into his coat, handing Minnie and James sweets.

  “You’re going to reward them?” she asked Mr. Barnes. “They should be able to walk through the village as eve
ryone else. Quietly. And without fuss.”

  He tossed Clara a piece of candy with a grin, then turned his back to her, jumping into the air and clicking his heels together.

  The candy dropped at her feet, its shinny wrapper a small reflection of disappointment as she picked it up and stashed it away her in dress pocket. She followed Mr. Ravensdale as he led the others to a stable with several horses out front. A hunched-over man walked them about in circles for a few onlookers.

  Clara called the children closer as a fine brown gelding shot to its back feet, kicking its front hooves in the air with an aggravated whinny. The sun struck its deep mahogany coat and its flank suddenly blazed gold.

  “How much for him, Mr. Sullivan?” Mr. Ravensdale asked, reaching into his coat pocket.

  She was struck by the way he examined the horse with only his eyes, the way he tilted his head and peeled back the mysteries of the animal. To everyone looking on, Clara assumed Mr. Ravensdale appeared mad being interested in the one horse who wasn’t broken in. But he possessed confidence as no one she had ever met before.

  “He’s not for sale if he’s going to a Ravensdale,” the old man replied.

  “I’ll pay you twice what you want for him. He’ll be well looked after.”

  “Sure he will.” A chorus of snide snickers echoed throughout the onlookers. “Like the Ravensdales have looked after the village, no doubt, or Burton Hall. Such a fine promise that is, boy.”

  Mr. Ravensdale clenched this fists and strode up to lay a hand on the gelding. The horse calmed, but Mr. Ravensdale did not.

  “Why are they fighting?” Minnie asked Clara. She could only respond by shaking her head, hushing both the children once more.

  “Well, I guess it’s fair to mention the horse is for my stables,” Mr. Barnes interrupted. He strode up next, whispering to the man and pulling out a wad of folded bills.

  It was quick business after that. Whatever words were exchanged between the seller and Mr. Barnes held no significance to Mr. Ravensdale. He ran his hand down the animal’s flank, then each leg, and examined the hooves, before marching ahead of the others, leaving Mr. Barnes to settle up.

  Clara was not deaf to the whispers that had followed him all day, but Mr. Ravensdale’s past—no matter how repugnant—was no concern of hers. Her position was to be governess to his nephew and nieces. The family gossip would not affect how she handled the children. She was there to see to their education. That was all. That was all there was, because Mr. Shaw awaited for her if she left, if he had survived the blade that pierced his middle by Clara’s hand.

  Still, there was a corner of her mind that would not rest. Clara did not fear Mr. Ravensdale, but she was certainly cautious of him. It was true, after all, that in the light of day he looked very much like a savage; his skin was scorched by sun, his hair was longer than what was proper, he drank openly in public without care, and size-wise, he was quite intimidating.

  Whereas Mr. Barnes was tall and slim, Mr. Ravensdale was a great hulk of a man. Mr. Barnes appeared to have led a simpler, more leisured life. He did not carry the same scars that sullied Mr. Ravensdale’s skin, and he certainly did not have the body of a man who labored for a living. Mr. Ravensdale had broad shoulders built to carry the burdens of the world, and she supposed if the whispers they heard while in the shop earlier were true, he did.

  Grace stumbled and kicked against Clara’s side as she picked up the small girl once more. She couldn’t hold back the whimper as tiny feet collided with stitched flesh. If she were smart, she would wrap the wound with more than a single length of muslin, but that was all she had, and besides ripping up a dress for rags, she would have to make due.

  Mr. Ravensdale spun to face her.

  “Is there a problem, Dawson?”

  “No,” she lied. There wasn’t a problem, except that she should have been turning a room over in Burton Hall for a schoolroom, not escorting the men and children like a wandering theater group through the village’s streets. No problem, except everything had gone wrong for Clara and she simply wanted a moment of peace.

  In three long strides, he plucked Grace from her arms and swung the girl’s body around as if she were a ribbon on a maypole, bringing the tot to peals of giddy laughter. “There,” he said triumphantly, handing Grace back over. “That should do for now.”

  “It should,” Clara said. “But I think the children could do with a drink or maybe something to eat. Something other than sweets,” she clarified as he looked at her questioningly. “It is a long way back.”

  His hands settled onto his hips, drawing Clara’s notice to his whittled waist. The man was a walking wall of brawn. He yanked at the collar of his coat as he glanced over her shoulder, assessing something in the distance. “This bloody thing is going to choke me,” he grumbled, pulling the collar loose. With a swift movement, he shrugged out of his coat, tossed it over his shoulder, and stood the middle of the street in his shirtsleeves and suspenders.

  “Mr. Ravensdale!” As soon as she issued the warning, Grace struck her across the face, saving Clara the added movement of clamping a hand over her offending mouth.

  He eyed Clara, the corner of his mouth slightly quirked in the onset of a smug smirk, and continued to undress before her eyes. With a slip of a button, he rolled one sleeve up to his elbow, then the other to expose hardened forearms and—

  Clara’s eyes widened at the sight of his tattooed skin.

  “Mr. Ravensdale. Please.” The sake of good appearances was clearly not weighing on his mind. Their sorry excuse for a circus did not need to draw any more attention. “People are staring,” she hissed.

  “So they are, Dawson.” He met her wide eyes and rolled the other sleeve. “There’s a tavern nearby. We’ll see if we can feed the children there.”

  Her stomach growled in response. She wished he did not hear, but the lines around his eyes deepened. “And something for you as well.” He gave a brief nod and led the way.

  *

  Like something out of a fairy story, The Bee and Thistle stood close to the road toward the outskirts of the village, its windows made of rippled glass, its walls of cream-colored plaster. A moss-covered pot of flowers bloomed by the granite step. A short stack chimney rose from the middle of a slanted slate roof. The tavern demanded recognition of its old age by its short and leaning stature.

  The group waited outside while Mr. Ravensdale checked if the tavern was serving food that afternoon.

  “Miss Clara?” Minnie asked, tugging at her skirts.

  Clara turned her attention away from the tavern’s door. He had gone inside with a simple question, one that didn’t excuse his absence for nearly ten minutes.

  “Yes, Minnie?”

  “I don’t feel—” The child lurched forward, opened her mouth, and spilled the contents of her stomach at Clara’s feet.

  The children belonged at home, under the proper care of a nurse. Clara apparently lacked the ability to supervise a simple walk into town.

  Mr. Ravensdale emerged red-faced, his hands in fists as they had been most of the morning. There was one difference as he walked closer. She noticed his shirt, wet and stained, as he growled a long string of curses.

  “What’s this?” he barked at the crying Minnie.

  “She’s been ill,” Clara snapped back, pulling Minnie to her side. He might be big, but she refused to be bullied about. She held his heated glare.

  His shoulders rose with each short, angry inhale. “Barnes,” he yelled, “we’re done in town.”

  “Minnie needs something to drink. They all do.” Clara stood resolutely, her arm wrapped around the small girl. If he was capable of compassion, he could at least show some for his niece.

  His mouth puckered, his fists clenching and unclenching at his side. Clara almost reached out, almost brushed her hand against his as he had done with the unbroken horse earlier. “We’re not welcome here,” he rushed out. He tore his gaze away from her and stretched his neck all on another large exha
le.

  “No?” She did not wait for answer. Clara grabbed Minnie’s hand and marched into the tavern. Mr. Ravensdale was a grown man; whatever feud he had with the townspeople was between himself and the village. For anyone to take it out on three small children was unacceptable. She would not stand for it.

  There was still a small rumble of laughter as she threw open the door and assessed the darkened room. A group of men, covered in dirt and smelling to high heaven, stared back.

  “Excuse me,” she said, dragging Minnie up to the bar. “I would like to pay for a drink.”

  “She’s a Ravensdale?” The man behind the bar was thickset and ruddy-faced. His eyebrows were wild nests of gray. Considering he was bald, it made for a funny contrast.

  “Yes.”

  “Then she’s not welcomed here.”

  “Sir, she’s a child—” Clara surprised herself with the strong tone in her voice. It had happened earlier when she spoke to the shopkeeper as well. “—and she is not feeling well. I am only asking for a glass of water. I will pay,” Clara said, holding up her purse as proof while trying to balance Grace on her hip. She opened it and started to fish for coin.

  “No need. The door is that way.” The small tavern filled with snickers and clinking mugs at the insult. It made the hair on Clara’s neck stand on edge. If they could be so cruel to a child, then what else did the village have in store for the Ravensdales, or her for that matter? If there was ever a search for her, there would be no protection here, not when the village seemed content to condemn the Ravensdales for simply existing.

  Minnie looked up at Clara with wide eyes, eerily similar to those of her uncle—a startling hazel.

  What other answer was there? “Then we shall wait until you change your mind.”

  “What’s all this fuss about?” A scarlet-cheeked woman came bustling out from the back of the tavern, beady-eyed and twice as stout as the man behind the counter.

  “The devil’s spawn is trying to get a drink. I told this woman no member of the Ravensdale family is welcomed here.”