“He’s my uncle,” Minnie said, rising on her tiptoes to peer over the bar counter. Her small arm waved accusingly at the man. “I’ll be sick in your tavern if you don’t give me a drink of water.”
Clara fought back a laugh at the girl’s tenacity. Apparently, another family trait.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the woman cried, slapping the man with her towel, “the girl’s only a babe. Give her a drink.” She studied Clara next, waddling closer to the counter. “What did the girl say? Her uncle?”
“Uncle B—,” Minnie said, between a hungry sip of water.
“Yes,” Clara confirmed, although annoyed that Minnie could not keep her mouth shut. They would need to work on the art of conversation. After they had a lengthy discussion on tone and propriety and how to conduct one self’s in public. It was going to be a long list with Minnie, Clara feared.
“My, my. Is he with you lot? Is he outside?”
“Yes,” Clara said as Minnie and Grace battled over the glass of water for another sip.
“Well,” the woman exclaimed. A wide smile spread across her face as she bumbled out from behind the counter and toward the tavern door. Clara hefted Grace higher on her hip and followed the woman, tugging Minnie behind her. It appeared there was at least one villager who did not despise Mr. Ravensdale.
“Oh, my dear boy, you’ve come back to us,” the woman cried. She stood on her toes to pat Mr. Ravensdale’s cheeks with enthusiasm as if he were still a boy. He pulled back, stiffening under the woman’s excited touch. “Oh, I’ve missed you, you rascal!” She pinched his face before kissing his cheek.
“Mrs. Gibbs,” he said, his speech halting.
“My, my.” A grin stretched ear to ear across her round face. “Look at you. Oh, and who are these loves?”
“This is the Earl of Stamford,” he said, pointing to James. “And I believe you have met Lady Grace and Lady Minnie.” Mr. Ravensdale tugged at the ghost of his coat collar, then pulled at his shirt, shifting from foot to foot.
“They’ve the look of their father,” Mrs. Gibbs announced, her voice softening. The donkey bayed and the horse grew restless. Mr. Barnes held onto the reins of both as Grace now tottered at her uncle’s feet.
“And this is Mr. Barnes, a travel companion,” Mr. Ravensdale continued, glossing over Mrs. Gibbs last words. “And Dawson—” he cleared his throat, “—Miss Dawson, the children’s governess.”
Clara gave a small nod. She was not entirely certain about the character of the plump woman who caused Mr. Ravensdale to behave as if he were dangling above the fires of hell by a thread. He picked up Grace just then and squeezed her belly until she erupted into giggles, forgetting his shirt collar but still restless on his feet.
“If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Gibbs,” he said, beginning to turn away.
“Wait.” The woman boldly grabbed his arm.
He withdrew from her, hurt flashing across his face. His eyes grew cold, his jaded smile lost its sharp edges and faded, his tapping boot stilled. “It’s a long way back.”
“I’m well aware of the distance. I walked it all my years of working at that house, Bly, dear.” She dropped her hand, wringing it in the filthy fabric of her apron. “Until the last year, that is. Until you left.”
Mr. Ravensdale shook his head at the woman. “Don’t start, Tilly. What’s past is…”
“Is it though? You’re back after all these years, but I can read the fear in your eyes. Let me come and help with sorting out the house at least. I owe that much to you…and your mother.”
He passed Grace off to Clara and mounted the horse in a great leap, settling into the saddle. Mr. Ravensdale waved his hand out to James to join him.
“I don’t need help with the house, Mrs. Gibbs. You’ve helped enough as it on that account.”
James mounted the horse and adjusted his crown, peering down at his subjects with disdain. “Uncle, can we go back to India with you?”
Mr. Ravensdale whispered something in the boy’s ear, his eyes set on Mrs. Gibbs the entire time, hard and unrelenting. There was nothing soft about Clara’s new employer, seemingly nothing kind either. The pair set off, leaving the rest of the circus standing outside the tavern, watching a tattooed man and a pirate ride an unbroken horse through the busy village streets.
“Oh,” Mrs. Gibbs muttered, tears clouding her beady brown eyes. “The poor dear. He’s never going to forgive me.” She fussed with the cap pinned to her bushy silver and blond hair. “Perhaps I can call on you at the house tomorrow?”
The poor dear? She called him a poor dear? He was hardly a child. “It’s not for me to say, Mrs. Gibbs. Good day.”
“Of course.” It was difficult to ignore the quiver in her answer. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen him or been in the service of that family. No matter what the gossip is, that man is full of heart. I’m sure you understand.”
Clara did not understand at all. In fact, where the Ravensdales were concerned, she never did.
“Come along, Minnie,” Mr. Barnes called out, holding his hands out to the girl. She ran with enthusiasm and effectively ended the strange conversation. Grace squirmed to be put down and pulled hard on Clara’s hair. With another hard tug, Clara felt a pin slip and something much sharper ring through her head. A fiery pain surged over her skull and she winced, feeling the phantom slice of the broken bottle rip through her scalp once more.
“Miss Dawson?” She focused her eyes on Mr. Barnes, who hoisted Grace up with Minnie on the donkey. “Shall we?” He bent forward and extended his arm toward the retreating figure of Mr. Ravensdale.
“Yes,” she said, still flustered as flashes of that night danced before her. The nervous taste entered her mouth. “Yes,” she said more firmly, pushing aside the image of Mr. Shaw’s rage-filled eyes. She bobbed an awkward goodbye to Mrs. Gibbs and shuffled after Mr. Barnes and the children.
It was only as they were out of the village that Clara relaxed enough to feel the warm trickle running down her neck. She was not surprised when she discovered it was crimson red. She was entirely embarrassed, though. She pulled the remaining pins from her hair in an effort to hide evidence of the reopened wound, mindful that it was improper to have her hair down, though she must wear it as such. The others might not care, but she did. Years of suffering scolding from her teachers about her fine hair slipping its pins and bows left her aware it was another chance to present herself as a proper lady. Without manner, without etiquette, Clara was nothing more than that bastard her grandparents kept hidden away in the attic.
*
All was not well. Certainly not as Mr. Barnes shoved her into a rickety chair by the kitchen stove. Candles were scattered around the kitchen, most stuck into empty bottles, with sides covered in thick layers of melted tallow. The flames threw strange shadows across the walls, and once again, Clara felt as though she were being spied upon from the darkness that clung to the deep corners of the kitchen.
“Remove your hands from me,” she said, wrenching away and moving her weight to the opposite side of the chair. One of the legs wobbled as if it would give, so she fell back, back into Mr. Ravensdale’s touch as he searched for the source of her blood-soaked hair.
“Hold still,” he ordered.
“Holy hell. What happened?” Mr. Barnes barked, peering at her upside down. He poked and prodded her as if she were a science experiment.
“I fell,” Clara answered rather shortly. Mr. Ravensdale tugged once more and another stab of pain rushed over her scalp and shook down her spine. “Please, leave it be.”
“You fell?” Mr. Barnes asked.
She shut her eyes, dragging in a deep inhale to steady her nerves. It was no use. Mr. Shaw stood before her, yelling nasty threats as if she were back in her old employer’s stuffy morning parlor. There seemed to be no escape. He was always there, waiting. “Yes,” she said softly.
“Did you fall off Big Ben?” Mr. Ravensdale spread his fingers over her skull, forcing her head down. Clara knew if she f
aced him, he would be wearing that jaded smile she had grown to despise during their short acquaintance. “Your head is split open. This needs stitches.”
“No! No stitches.” Just as she moved to jump from the chair, the answering tug of her poorly healed stitches ripped at her side. She did not wish to be trussed up like a Christmas goose once more, by the hand of another unskilled fraud.
“Let me see,” James yelled, jumping up excitedly to see the wound. “Eww,” he and Minnie cried out in unison. They both bumbled backward as Mr. Barnes rushed forward with his arms outstretched, and growled.
Mr. Ravensdale leaned over her. “Who did this?” His hot breath against the nape of her neck sent a rush of warmth through her core. Her answer was lost between her lips, his nearness too distracting. Clara kept her eyes focused forward, as his heat wrapped around her. Her stomach fluttered. “No one.” Her voice was smaller than she wished it to be. “I fell,” she whispered with an edge of determination.
Clara felt the tension ripple from his fingers over her skin as he remained silent. If he did not believe her…if he pressed for the truth about her injuries…
“Stay,” he ordered, walking to the cluttered kitchen shelves.
Mr. Barnes gave her a stern look as he leaned against the table in front of her, arms crossed over his body. He tipped forward slightly, no doubt the direct influence of the whiskey he had been siphoning off Mr. Ravensdale all afternoon. “How did you fall?” He squinted his eyes, bobbing left and right as though to keep her on his horizon. She suspected it was swaying a great deal.
“Leave her,” barked Mr. Ravensdale.
She winced again. His temper was just a thinly veiled threat as the night continued and she was afraid of being on the receiving end when it erupted. With the strike of a match, the air filled with the perfumed aroma of his cigars. He was a human volcano, not a handsome chimney.
“Does it hurt awfully bad, Miss Clara?” Minnie asked.
“It’s ‘does it hurt badly,’ Lady Minnie. And no, it doesn’t hurt. Lady Grace just pulled at the pins in my hair. I will be fine.” Clara spoke as politely as possible, but even her patience was growing dangerously thin.
“Bloody hell! Stop dancing, Minnie,” Mr. Ravensdale growled. The girl startled, and froze by Clara’s side. “The kitchen is no place for flying about. I’ll toss you to Lucy if you don’t stop.”
Clara spun around, grasping the top of the chair, her eyes just above the high back, and sent a look full of daggers toward the frightful man. He returned her glare with equal measure, but Clara held her ground, even as he arched an ominous brow and motioned for her to spin around. She lofted her nose as she turned, crossing her arms in a huff. He did not say anything further, even as he approached from behind and parted her hair. She winced, but did not cry out. She would not allow him the satisfaction.
“There’s no clean way to do this.” Mr. Ravensdale’s words were muddled from the cigar wedged between his lips. She lifted her head to see, only to feel a strong grip on the top of her head, pointing it downward once more.
She cinched the rag tossed around her shoulders just as a trickle of cold liquid splashed her scalp. “What are you doing?” Clara yelped.
“Stay still.”
Icy liquid slid down her back and violent shivers racked her body. She leapt from the chair, knocking the pot from his hand, effectively drenching herself.
“What did you do?” she yelled, facing him as he gave a hearty laugh. Her fists balled at her sides.
He shrugged, turning to deposit the empty pot in the sink. “Go with Miss Dawson, children.”
The cold was fast to set in. Blast! Would she ever be warm in this house? “What did you do?” she repeated, her voice low and as threatening as she could manage between chattering teeth.
Mr. Ravensdale removed the cigar from his lips and choked back another laugh at the sight of her. “It’s sugar water, not poison. It’ll help heal the gash on your head from your…fall. Since you won’t let me stitch—”
“Mr. Ravensdale, I believe you can understand my apprehension, as you are no doctor.” The line of his jaw tightened. “Sir.”
She held his stare, even as she wanted to melt into the floor and leave the day behind her. He raised a brow finally, coming out of his trance. There was the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. It was neither jaded nor earnest; it was entirely of its own kind. Clara could not look away.
“Why, this one time when we were in Persia, Ravensdale—” Mr. Barnes began.
“Let her think what she wishes.”
Clara swallowed, growing weary under his calculating glare. If he knew her to be lying, there was no knowing what would happen. Would he press her for the truth? Would she have to run again if he interfered?
“It’s her head.” He shoved open the kitchen doors with both arms and stalked away into the night.
Clara’s chest tightened in response to Mr. Ravensdale’s hasty exit, giving her the urge to follow. Why she would ever want to follow that man, she’d never know, but she did just then.
“Would you like a drink?” Mr. Barnes asked when she turned from the opened doors. The night air felt especially brisk as she stood in the middle of the kitchen, wet and shaking.
He studied the empty glass in his hand, his brows drawn in concentration as he tried to fill it with brandy in a shaky dance. When it seemed like an impossible pairing, Mr. Barnes took a swig from the bottle itself and, wearing a satisfied grin, held it out to Clara.
Forget escape. Clara had landed herself in a madhouse.
CHAPTER FOUR
In the quiet privacy of the park, Clara peeled off the layers of propriety for a few minutes of freedom. Hair down, no bonnet or parasol to protect her skin from being unfashionably sun kissed, no gloves or boots. Only another horrid dress of hers and bare feet, wickedly indecent, certainly improper. It was perfection.
And to add to that glory, she was far from the irritating Mr. Ravensdale, perfection indeed.
The sun above warmed her, casting flicking shadows through her closed eyelids as she laid in the tall golden grass of an abandoned garden in the park. Grace tumbled down beside her, mumbling. The babe was always mumbling.
The pair had been out a while and Clara no longer felt certain the two men could manage the older children. Her concern was not necessarily for James, but she was worried for Minnie, who seemed to need everyone’s attention. For all Clara could guess, Minnie was dancing on the furniture or leaping through the halls. Since she was so poorly coordinated, it was a danger indeed. She saw a lot of turned ankles and bruises in her future where Minnie was concerned.
“I think we should return, Grace. Would you like to see your uncle?”
“No,” the girl answered flatly, plucking another handful of grass.
“I don’t wish to see him either,” Clara said with a laugh. “But I fear we must.” And she meant that sentiment, truly. Clara’s employer unsettled her. They got on quite poorly, in fact, even in just three days’ time. It was always a battle: he, charming yet chiding; she, haughty and distant.
Clara righted herself, the picture of the gloomy governess once more. “Let’s gather some flowers for your sister.”
Grace looked up with a hearty grin, ambled to Clara’s side and latched onto her hand. Little by little, they walked toward the house, plucking flowers as Clara helped Grace recite her letters. She lifted the toddler to her hip and brushed the tangle of crimson curls away from Grace’s face as they reached the drive.
“Minnie is going to be very happy to see the flowers you picked for her.”
Grace nodded, trying to pull the head of a daisy into her mouth as if she were a grazing goat. “Pretty.”
“Yes,” Clara agreed, pulling the flowers out of reach with a laugh. “Let’s save them for looking. We can find something else to eat once—”
“It’s Miss Dawson, isn’t it?”
Clara strengthened her hold around Grace as she turned to see Mrs. Gibbs, flanked
by a young woman and man. “Yes…”
“We’ve come to lend a hand,” Mrs. Gibbs said, picking up a heavy leather duffle. “I won’t be having anyone slander the likes of a respectable woman placed in an unusual position. Living alone with two bachelors without another woman present. Hogwash.”
“Thank you for the thought.” Clara dropped a kiss on Grace’s head, unsure of what to say or do next. Three pairs of eyes looked at her for direction.
“I was the boy’s nanny for a time,” Mrs. Gibbs finished. “And housekeeper when his father abandoned his mother.”
The boy. Mr. Ravensdale certainly had the tendencies of such. Perhaps those rumors about India were true then. But why did Bly leave his mother alone to be with his father in India?
“I’ve brought my daughter, Molly, to help with the children. And her husband, Freddie Nash, has agreed to help with the house repairs and gardens. He’s a miracle worker with flowerbeds.”
Clara looked to the two newcomers and nodded her hello.
“And this is their son, Theodore. I’ll be watching him myself, so as Molly can look after the children proper,” Mrs. Gibbs said. A little boy with black curly hair, stuck his head out from behind the woman’s apron.
Molly appeared younger than Clara, a tall and skinny girl with a rash of freckles across her face and the same dull, beady eyes of her mother. Mr. Nash looked a few years older and was rather tall as well, with black hair and the oddest eyes—so blue they bordered on violet. It appeared as if Theodore inherited the same coloring.
“Follow me, please. I’m sure Mr. Ravensdale will want to give his opinion before you start.” He always has one, she thought. She shouldered the heavy front door open, Grace still on her hip, then paused in the foyer. Mr. Ravensdale and Mr. Barnes dangled before her, fencing from sheets tied to the second story balustrade. Minnie and James cheered the dueling pair on, jumping up and down like heathens charging a battlefield.
“Come. Here,” yelled Mr. Ravensdale in short, staccato exasperations. He attempted to swing toward Mr. Barnes, but Mr. Barnes merely laughed and swung the fencing sword again at his opponent.
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