At the word mutiny, there sounded a great crash, as though someone purposely began breaking china or vases. He should get the house keys soon before they divided the silver and ran off with that, as well.
Bly turned with Minnie in his arms to head back to nursery when the front door pushed open to reveal his reinforcements. He had hoped Tilly would come with Grace, but he was not expecting the others along with her.
Tilly’s daughter, Molly, carried a young boy. Another clutched onto the woman’s hand, hiding behind her skirts as the parrot dove from the balcony to the table in the middle of the foyer. Freddie Nash stood solemn behind Tilly as Grace tried to bury herself in the folds of his old nanny’s coat.
“Your sister is home,” he said, making his way down the stair’s landing. Minnie grasped his neck tighter, not saying a word. “Let’s say hello.”
The group watched, their faces not hiding their shock. He did not understand why he elicited such a strange reaction. They weren’t strangers. Maybe it was only Raja dancing about the tabletop as the sounds of the servants packing up echoed through the halls. They had walked in on a madhouse.
“Hello,” Bly said. The deep auburn curls of Grace’s head leaned forward until her gray eyes peered around Tilly’s coat. “Hello, Grace.”
She promptly hid again.
Bly glanced to Tilly for an explanation. He was not expecting that sort of reaction from Grace. In fact, he had anticipated a much warmer welcome from the young girl. She had cooed over him enough as a babe.
“You do look a bit frightening, dear,” Tilly said.
His pride had just been wounded by a five-year-old.
“We heard in the village that you had returned.” Grace pulled at his old nurse’s hand, but remained hidden.
“We’d like to work for you again, Mr. Ravensdale,” Molly added.
Be cordial, Bly reminded himself. He could not go about chasing this lot off too. “The others are just leaving.” He noticed Freddie smile at that. Freddie was never one for words.
“We should have a chat in the other room, perhaps,” Tilly hedged.
He was done with being told what to do today. He needed to return to Clara after he saw Minnie to bed. Then he could deal with the other hundred tiny fires spiraling his day out of control.
“I’ll take the girl up to bed,” Molly said. She held out her hands, but he gripped Minnie tighter. He hadn’t asked for help. This was his doing, this entire mess with the house and apparent neglect of his family, and he would make it right.
“Do you remember me, Minnie?” Molly asked.
“Of course.” Minnie wiggled about, frowning up at him. “You’re crushing me, Uncle. Let me down.”
“We’re here to help, Mr. Ravensdale,” Molly said.
His entire life had been of his own hand—his mistakes and failures, even the few successes—were his own. Help was for the weak, yet help he gathered as he looked over the group, was the one thing he needed most if he was to right his wrongs. He handed Minnie off without another thought and turned on his heel to rid the house of the rest of the vermin breaking the family heirlooms.
“Bly, dear?” Tilly called out behind him.
He continued walking even as he heard a whimpered protest and the sound of Tilly’s shuffling feet behind him.
“Blythe Everett Ravensdale,” she yelled. He smiled at that, remembering how she used that tone when he was a small boy. He still enjoyed vexing her.
“Mrs. Moreley,” he shouted, storming through the hallway. “Mrs. Moreley!”
Tilly still huffed behind him, scurrying to keep pace.
“Will you stop?” Tilly yelled. It was loud enough to halt Bly in the hallway. The small boy in her arms fussed louder.
Bly turned, his face impassive. He only wished to return to Clara, since the others would not care for her. She was alone in that room and it would not do, especially in her condition. “What is it, Tilly?”
“You need to know. That is, is Miss Dawson really as ill as word in the village?”
He could elaborate but a simple answer sufficed. “Yes.”
“Oh, heavens. Well…”
Bly studied the boy who wiggled around in her arms. He was small, his cheeks were plump and red, his ears a bit large for his head. His hair was an unruly chestnut gold. But his eyes, they were the eyes of the boy’s mother.
That knot, the one that twisted in Bly’s gut, gave a painful wrench again. This time his breath crushed from his lungs and out his parted lips. He saw it now, even as Tilly rushed to speak and cut off his thoughts. He knew. A sudden coldness hit at his core.
“If anything were to happen,” Tilly said in a whisper. Tears welled in her eyes.
He couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet any longer.
“If anything were to happen to Miss Dawson, you should know that this is her son.”
Her son.
Tilly was wrong though. The boy wasn’t solely Clara’s son. He was also Bly’s son.
His son.
Their son.
The ache to gather the boy into his arms was unbearable. A worse ache still than the hell that awaited Bly upstairs in Clara’s sickroom.
“I know it is not my place, but there were no arrangements made.”
“Enough.” His words were edged with steel. “Mrs. Moreley,” he yelled. He kept his eyes averted from Tilly and the small boy. “Moreley, I will march into your office and find you,” he threatened, “and then I will rip those bloody keys from your hands.”
“Bly, dear,” Tilly pleaded, crying now as he left her behind.
Mrs. Moreley marched from the kitchen. “You are a just as appalling as your aunt warned us. You are a horrid man. I hope you burn in hell!” She threw the ring of keys at Bly, hitting him squarely in the chest.
It would have hurt if he weren’t still reeling and numb from Tilly’s announcement. They landed at his feet, but he did not stoop to pick them up. “The keys to the house are yours, Tilly. See that everyone leaves. I have to—”
Bly did not finish. He could not. He did not know what was next.
*
The fire within eventually burned to embers, and Clara found peace.
The fog, however, was unrelenting. She was aware of her mind and body, but there was still a large disconnect. She struggled, but after a time, she managed to open her eyes. They did not feel as heavy as before. She could move her fingers now as well, if ever so slightly.
Clara was resting in a room she had never been in before, in a large bed stacked high with blankets that kept her pressed into the feather mattress, motionless. She heard the crackling of a fire and watched as the light from the flames danced upon the walls, giving off a beautiful glow against the gilded millwork and mural of flowers on the wall.
A cool breeze swirled about the room—the briskness waking her further from whatever stupor she was emerging from. It felt like heaven against her skin.
Her gaze continued around the room until she happened upon the sleeping figure in a chair by the corner—the white spot she had fought to put into focus as she was stuck in the twilight of sleep.
His head was lolled to the side. In the faint light of the room, she saw that he was sun bronzed, and a beard hid the sharp angles of his face. His hair was to his chin and wavy.
Hazel eyes opened and met hers. Bly shifted his body forward in the chair, keeping his gaze fixed on steadily on her.
He had come back.
“Minnie,” Clara whispered. It was an ugly croak, but at least it was easier to speak now. She did not have that angry burn in her throat like when she woke last.
“She’s well.”
Clara blinked in relief. She would sigh, but it was already an effort to breathe.
“I had a second doctor come and issue his opinion. She’s well,” he repeated once more, his voice haggard and raspy.
Bly rested his elbows on his knees. His hair draped next to his exhausted face, but he had yet to remove his eyes from her. Even a
s she closed them, she felt his stare. Tears welled up behind her eyelids on hearing of Minnie’s recovery. Or perhaps it was the added appearance of Bly at her sickbed. Her head was much too foggy to tell.
“You look like death,” she managed after a time. She wished desperately for a glass of water.
“Don’t jest.” His words were sharp and clipping.
She supposed she should be angry with him. She hated him most days. Yet, she did not have the energy to do so now.
“How do you feel?”
“Tired.” She felt so very tired.
“You’ve been very ill,” he said, a strange hitch in his voice.
She wondered suddenly if he had been there for a long while. The dark shadows under his eyes certainly suggested that was the case. Clara nodded best she could and closed her eyes again. She tried to roll to her side, but the effort to do so was too much for her weak body. Quiet settled between them, and once again she felt herself trapped between sleep and wakefulness.
“I said horrible things before I left,” he admitted as she struggled to open her eyes. “And I’m sorry,” he added when her eyes met his once more.
There was an answer there somewhere inside her, but she could not voice it. She felt it instead, within the depths of her heart, which was a place he had never understood.
When she did not answer, a shadow passed over his face, and he stood. He appeared much smaller crumpled in the chair, lost in slumber. Watching him, she remembered what he had been three years ago—spirited, tiresome, and so breathtakingly handsome. He looked even more so now, even in his stained and crumpled shirt, wholly exhausted.
“Stay,” she whispered, without knowing why.
He gazed down at her, his fingers scratching at his beard. There was a long beat before he said in a low whisper, “I’m not leaving.” Bly walked over to a table in the dim light and returned with a tray. He pulled the chair closer to the bed and set the tray down, approaching her as if she were a fragile and frightened animal trapped in a cage.
He leaned down over her, his hands gently slipping behind her back, lifting her to rest higher upon the pillow. She stiffened, her body angry, yet longing for his touch. Years had made strangers of them. Even now, he might as well have been in India for all the distance resonating between them.
Bly remained quiet as he fed her—two ghosts in the silent darkness of night of a love long since dead.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Clara wiped the blood away with the stained handkerchief and fell back against her pillow. If she was going to die, and it certainly felt that way, she wished it would come quickly instead of taunting her. She only wished to hold her son again first.
Perhaps she should tell the boy’s father as well.
Clara had entertained the idea. She had even attempted it a few times. The words heavy as weights to her heart fell from her lips whenever she opened her mouth to reveal the secret. Even on what might be her deathbed, it was hard to ignore the deep-rooted fear of Bly’s reaction to the news.
She suffered the consequences of being a bastard her entire life—from the neglectful grandparents, to the endless teasing and taunting at boarding school, to her work as a companion, far away from any reach of proper society. She never wanted Rhys to know what it was like to be turned out by one’s father and left to suffer the unbearable burden of aloneness. It was a blackness that settled into one’s bones and seeped into the places left vacant from searching for love over the long days.
The only feeling worse was perhaps blindly falling in love without the foresight to predict its abrupt end. To be deprived of love, after thinking one had found it, was a pain she wished on no one. It had left Clara tattered around the edges, worn, and not quite as resolute as she once was.
It left her broken.
Even as Bly stayed by her bedside these past weeks, unwavering in his attentions, even as he ran himself into the ground to the point of exhaustion, she remained distant. She did not believe it would ever be possible to feel for him as she once had, and that made things all the worse.
Clara was staring at the portrait over the fireplace as Bly entered the room just after the clock chimed eight that evening. She turned her head and noticed him smile that earnest smile that had once reached out to her like a tender caresses. His face was shaved clean and his hair was cut to a more respectable length. It was still tussled nonetheless.
“I have a surprise for you this evening.”
Clara nodded for him to go on, managing in the silence that often settled between them. At least in that heavy silence, she could remain apart. She had no desire to share any part of her heart with him any longer.
He walked back into the hall and returned with a small plate, smelling of food—real food—still warm from the kitchen. It made her stomach growl.
“I know you’re not supposed to be eating heavy food, but I don’t see how you’re going to gain any strength by only drinking broth. So you and I are going to do what we do best—rebel.”
That easy smile floated to his face as it had done so long ago when he teased. She noticed the lines around his eyes and his mouth had grown deeper with the passing years, and that time had not been kind to him.
He waited for her reply, but when she made none, he pulled the chair closer and stuck a piece of chicken with the fork. It was covered with rich gravy that melted into her mouth as he pulled the fork away from her lips.
She let out a satisfied moan, blushing at the indecent sound.
He laughed then, a deep rumbling sound that caused her lips to turn into a smile. She did not mean for it to happen, but his laugh warmed her ever so slightly, like the sun beginning to thaw the frozen winter ground.
She ate in silence after that, keeping her eyes on Bly. His eyes were warmer than usual and more alive than they had been since his arrival. She wondered what the reason behind his transformation was, but she remained quiet.
When she was finished, he left with the plate and returned with a cup of tea and a book in hand. “I thought I might read to you tonight. I imagine you’re beginning to get anxious stuck there like a fallen tree.”
Clara positioned herself onto her side, nodding her consent, then sank deep into the pillow. The smell of approaching spring always had a lulling effect on her. It was crisp and sweet—full with promise.
Bly sat by her bed and began to read one of her favorite books. She looked up, surprised to hear the familiar lines. His voice was deep and rich as it flowed through the sentences with a lulling cadence. She had never heard him read, and she was sorry for it now.
Clara closed her eyes and took the comfort from his voice, forgetting the plot to the foolish novel, listening instead to the rhythmic beat that fell upon her ears, eventually drifting into sleep.
She woke to the gentle voice of Bly close by her side sometime later.
“What’s wrong, Clara?”
Her face was wet and her body shook from sobbing and the rattling of coughs as she struggled for air. When she heard her name, she buried her face deeper into her pillow, feeling as if a vise closed around her heart.
His hands gently cradled her face, urging her to look at him as he wiped away her tears with the rough pads of his thumbs. It was to no avail. His touch only made her weep more.
“Hush now,” he said. “Everything is fine, love.”
Love. The ache in her body tripled.
“Tell me what is upsetting you.”
He sat on the edge of the bed as she fell to pieces. Clara fought back the tears until it left her gasping for air, desperate for some calm. When she could not stop, he collected her against his chest.
Memories of that night flooded back as the beating of his heart sounded against her ear. She fell asleep once in these arms, she remembered. They had held her and cradled her. They had been a haven when the rest of the world had been hostile.
“Don’t be upset,” Bly whispered into her hair. “You’ll have your little victories.”
She nodde
d into his shirt, now soaked with her tears. Clara clutched at the fabric by his shoulder with all her strength, fearing that if she let go she would slip into the madness that lingered in the shadows of her mind.
Bly smelled of sandalwood, exotic spices, and leather. Nothing of the whiskey or cigars she remembered. She took in another breath, feeling herself press deeper into his hold.
“You had a proper meal this evening,” he continued, unaware of the confusion swirling inside her. “We’ll count that as your first.”
It was entirely improper for him to be there, holding her as only a husband should, but her reluctance faded as his fingers circled her back, silencing her tears. Who was she to insist upon propriety when she had a son out of wedlock with the man?
“What shall we do for your second?” he whispered into her ear. He gently swayed them side to side. “Hmm? Maybe we’ll go for a ride or start waltzing around the room? Maybe we can have races up and down the stairs?”
“I would like to fence,” she said, sniffing back her tears. She wanted her son, more like. “Preferably from the balcony.”
“I don’t know of another way to fence,” he retorted with a leveled voice.
She lifted her face to his, a shy smile playing at the corners of her aching lips.
“Just tell me how to make it better and it will be done.” He brushed his hand over her hair.
But it was a touch too much, one certainly too familiar. She thought back to him tracing his hand over her back, skirting her shoulder as if he had stumbled upon some personal heaven. His touch was reverent, even after all these years.
It was too painful. She shied away, drawing away from his embrace. “I would like a bath,” she said after a time. And though she was now nestled into her pillow and away from him, she couldn’t separate herself from the remorse haunting his eyes.
“Then that’ll be the second.” He walked to the door. “Rest. You can have your bath when I return.”
“We must…that is there is something I—”
“I’ll be back, Clara. Just close your eyes.”
She did just that, leaving the truth for another time. The next thing she felt was Bly’s arms as he lifted her from bed. He carried her across the room and into a hallway she never knew existed. A small washing room, lit with candles, and a tub filled with steaming water stood just beyond another door.
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