12 DAYS AT BLEAKLY MANOR
Once Upon a Dickens Christmas
CHAPTER ONE
London,
1850
There
was nothing merry about the twisted alleys of Holywell, be it Christmas or not.
Clara Chapman forced one foot in front of the other, sidestepping pools of. .
.well, a lady ought not think on such things, not on the morn of Christmas
Eve—or any other morn, for that matter.
Damp air soaked into her woolen
cape, and she tugged her collar tighter. Fog wrapped around her shoulders, cold
as an embrace from the grim reaper. Though morning had broken several hours
ago, daylight tarried to make an appearance in this part of London—and likely
never would. Ancient buildings with rheumy windows leaned toward one another
for support, blocking a good portion of the sky.
She quickened her pace. If she
didn’t deliver Effie’s gift soon, the poor woman would already be gone off to
her twelve-hour shift at the hatbox factory.
Rounding a corner, she rapped on the
very next door, then fought the urge to wipe her glove afterward. The filthy
boards, hung together more by memory than nails, rattled like bones. Clara’s
lips pursed into a wry twist. A clean snow might hide the sin of soot and grime
in this neighborhood, but. . .no. Even should a fresh coating of white bless
all, the stain of so much humanity would not be erased. Not here. For the
thousandth time, she breathed out the only prayer she had left.
Why
God? Why?
The door swung open. Effie Gedge’s
smile beamed so bright and familiar, Clara’s throat tightened. How she missed
this woman, her friend, her confidant—her former maid.
“Miss Chapman? What a surprise!” Effie
glanced over her shoulder, her smile faltering as she looked back at Clara.
“I’d ask you in but. . .”
Clara shoved away the awkward moment
by handing over the basket. “I am sorry, Effie, but I cannot stay. I must be
home, for Aunt’s developed a cough. This isn’t much, but I’ve brought you
something for your Christmas dinner tomorrow.”
Effie’s smile returned, more brilliant
than ever. “That’s kind of you, miss. Thank you. Truly.”
The woman’s gratitude, so pure and
genuine, rubbed Clara’s conscience raw. Would that she might learn to be as
thankful for small things in the land of hardship. And small it was. Her gaze
slipped to the cloth-covered loaf of bread, an orange, and used tea leaves
wrapped in a scrap of paper. Pressing her lips together, she faced Effie. “I
wish it were more. I wish I could do
more—”
“Beg your pardon, miss, but you are
not to blame. I shall always hold to that.” Effie rested her hand on Clara’s
arm, her fingers calloused from work no lady’s maid should ever have to
perform.
Clara patted her hand. “You are the
kind one, Effie. You’ve lost your livelihood, your everything because of my
family, and yet you smile.”
“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes
away. I suppose you know that as well as I, hmm?” Her fingers squeezed before
she released her hold. “I wish you merry, Miss Chapman, this Christmas and
always.”
“Thank you, Effie. And a very merry
Christmas be yours as well.” She spun, eyes burning, and pushed her way back
down the narrow alley before Effie saw her tears. This wasn’t fair. None of it.
Her hired hansom waited right where
she’d left it, an expense she’d rather not think on but altogether necessary,
for she lived on the other side of town. She borrowed the driver’s strong grip
to ascend into the cab, then settled her skirts on the seat while he shut the
door. Only once did she glance out the window as the vehicle jostled along
London’s rutted roads—and immediately repented. Two lovers walked hand in hand,
the man bending close and whispering into the woman’s ear. If Clara chose to
listen, no doubt warm laughter would follow.
She yanked shut the window curtain,
the loneliness in her heart rabid and biting.
That
could’ve been her. That should’ve been her.
Why
God? Why?
By the time the cab jerked to a
halt, she descended onto the street, weary and decades older than her
twenty-four years. She dug into her reticule and pulled out one of her last
coins to pay the driver. At this rate, she wouldn’t have to hire a cab to visit
Effie next Christmas—for she might very well be her neighbor.
“Merry Christmas, miss.” The driver
tipped his hat.
“To you as well,” she answered, then
scurried toward Aunt’s townhome. A lacquered carriage, with a fine pair of
matched horses at the front, stood near the curb. Curious. Perhaps the owner
had taken a wrong turn, for Highgate, while shabbily reputable, was no
Grosvenor Square.
Clara dashed up the few stairs and
entered her home of the last nine months. Noontide chimes rang from the sitting
room clock—as did a bark of a cough. She untied her hat and slipped from her
cloak, hanging both on a hall tree, all the while wondering how best to urge
Aunt Deborha back to her bed. The woman was as stubborn as. . .she bit her
lower lip. Truth be told, tenacity ran just as strongly in her own veins.
Smoothing her skirts, she pulled her
lips into a passable smile and crossed the sitting room’s threshold. “I am
home, Aunt, and I really must insist you retire—oh! Forgive me.”
She stopped at the edge of the rug. A man
stood near the mantle, dressed in deep blue livery. Her gaze flickered to her
aunt. “I am sorry. I did not know you had company.”
“Come in, child.” Aunt waved her
forward, the fabric of her sleeve dangling too loose from the woman’s arm.
“This involves you.”
The man advanced, offering a creamy
envelope with gilt writing embellishing the front. “I am to deliver this to a
Miss Clara Chapman. That is you, is it not?”
She frowned. “I am Clara Chapman.
And you are?”
He handed her the missive with a
bow, then straightened. “I shall await you at the door, miss.”
Her jaw dropped as he bypassed her,
smelling of lavender, of all things. She turned to Aunt. “I don’t understand.”
“I should think not.” Aunt nodded
toward the envelope. “Open it.
Clara’s name alone graced the front.
Fine penmanship. Perfect, actually. And completely foreign. Turning it over,
she broke the seal with her nail and pulled out an embossed sheet of paper,
reading aloud the words for Aunt to hear.
The Twelve Days of Christmas
As
never’s been reveled
Your
presence, Miss Chapman,
Is
respectfully herald
Bleakly Manor’s the place
Bleakly Manor’s the place
And
after twelve nights
Five
hundred pounds
Will
be yours by rights
She lowered the invitation and studied
her aunt. Grey hair pulled back tightly into a chignon eased some of the
wrinkles at the sides of her eyes, yet a peculiar light shone in her faded
gaze. Aunt Deborha always hid wisdom, but this time, Clara suspected she
secreted something more.
“Who sent this?” She closed the distance
between them and knelt in front of the old woman. “And why?”
Aunt shrugged, her thin shoulders
coaxing a rumble in her chest. A good throat clearing staved off a coughing
spell—for now. “One does not question an opportunity, my dear. One simply
mounts it and rides.”
“You can’t be serious.” She
dissected the tiny lift of Aunt’s brows and the set of her mouth, both
unwavering. Incredible. Clara sucked in a breath. “You. . .you think I should
go? To Bleakly Manor, wherever that is?”
“I think,” Aunt angled her chin,
“you simply must.”