Etiquette With The Devil (27 page)

“Mama?”

Clara set down the chipped teacup and smiled. “Come in, Grace.” She gestured for the youngest Ravensdale girl to enter.

“You must remember to try and call me Miss Clara.” For three years now, she had asked Grace not to call her Mama and every day, Grace continued to do so.

“Are you looking forward to your lessons so much that you want to begin early?” Clara teased, nipping the frayed ribbon around Grace’s waist. She was a vision, with her deep auburn curls and little button nose.

Grace shook her head, staring down at the letter in Clara’s hand. “No,” she replied. “I think something is wrong with Minnie.”

“You need to stop growing so quickly. I’ve turned this dress over three times.” Clara examined the tatty hem at the girl’s wrist. Not only had she turned it over for Grace, but she had turned it over for Minnie when it still fit her. All the girls had for clothes were the dresses packed away in their steam trunks from India, or the few Clara had taught herself to sew. “Now what’s wrong with your sister?”

“Minnie has spots and the nurse was yelling. Now the doctor has to come.”

Clara patted Grace’s cherub-like cheeks, stretching a false smile onto to her own face. “There now, we will see what the matter is. Will that make you feel better?”

“Yes,” Grace said, but cried anyway.

Clara lifted the girl onto her lap and smoothed back the unruly crimson curls tied back with a large plum bow. “I am sure Minnie is well.”

Clara was sure she would hear a lecture from the nurse for carrying the crying five-year-old, but in that moment, she did not care. She closed the schoolroom door in hopes of saving any warmth from the dying fire within and proceeded to the nursery to see what the matter was with Minnie.

But Grace had been correct. Minnie was not well. By the time the doctor arrived that afternoon, the poor girl was shivering from fever, covered in a bright, red rash. Upon hearing the news, the only nurse left decided she no longer wanted the position and fled, leaving Clara to nurse Minnie through the worst. As for Grace, Clara was terribly frightened she would fall ill next. To her knowledge, Grace had never had Scarlet Fever before and was in danger of coming down with the illness as well. She bundled the girl up and brought her to the only person she knew would help in the village, and rushed back to Minnie’s bedside.

After three days, Minnie’s illness took a turn for the worse. Clara looked on, helpless and scared. The doctor said there was nothing left to do. Minnie would either battle through the fever or die of it.

Clara wrung out a cool cloth and placed it over Minnie’s burning forehead. The fever was relentless, and she was so young…

There was no other choice. Clara sent a telegram to a long forgotten friend, and waited.

*

Bly was drilling a group of young soldiers in Bombay when word arrived that his niece was ill. All he remembered was rushing back to his tent to retrieve his bag and writing a terse note for Graham. The rest—the departures and arrivals—were a fog. But he was in England now, and he had managed to travel as quickly as he could.

The telegram had been brief, making no mention of the others, only that Minnie had taken ill and there was little hope of a recovery. So that was the price he was to pay for not returning these three years? He was to bear the burden of knowing he had not been watching over his niece’s deathbed as he should be to comfort her?

The train was delayed north of London because of the winter weather, and he couldn’t find anyone willing to brave the winter storm for a carriage ride, so he bought the first horse he could find and rode the rest of the way on horseback.

He arrived, breathless and half-frozen, as he pounded on the front door. Ice pelleted across his face as he waited for an answer. He stepped back from the doorstep and examined the windows in the house, noting that there was little light. When he had first seen the house from the crest of the hill before entering the park, there had been smoke pouring from the center chimney.

“Open up,” he bellowed. Pain spiked through his bones as his hand struck against the door again. “For Christ’s sake, open the damn door.” Snow swirled around him and drifted at his feet.

The great door cracked open, revealing a well-dressed butler, complete with a ridiculous powered wig. “Your name, sir. We were not expecting visitors.”

“How is she?” he demanded. “Where is she? Tell me, am I too late?”

The butler rolled his eyes. “Your name.”

He had had quite enough of the ice and snow, of waiting for weeks for this very moment after travelling directly from Bombay. He wedged his foot into the door, shoved with his shoulder, and pushed the man back enough that he could enter.

“Sir. Sir! You cannot just barge into the house. The mistress of the house is not in. Sir!”

“I own this house. I’m the mistress’s nephew, Bly Ravensdale,” he shouted behind him as he stormed up the stairs in the grand foyer. “Aunt Margaret!” The hallways were ominously dark and quiet. “Aunt?”

Met with no answer, he ran to the nursery, expecting the worst. He braced himself in the doorway, his knees weak.

“Is that you, Uncle?” The wind rattled the brittle window panes, nearly drowning out the sound of his niece’s whisper.

Three years had changed everything, and now he was met with the first painful reminder. Minnie sat upright in bed, tucked in tightly under a heap of quilts. Her skin was dotted with a red rash, her skin pale as the snow whipping across the moors outside. “Hello, sweet,” he said finally. Bly hesitantly walked in, peeking over his shoulder. The remainder of the house was beyond quiet—it was silent as death.

He bent down by her bed and scooped his niece into a tight hug, kissing her matted strawberry blonde hair. “My, you’ve grown.”

“You’re so cold,” she protested.

Bly laid Minnie back against her pillows and tucked the quilt tightly around her again. “I heard that you were not feeling well. I came as fast as I could.” He brushed back the hair from her forehead as she stared up at him with her sunken hazel eyes.

Minnie chewed on her lip as she mulled over his words. “You do look tired,” she settled after some time.

“Yes,” he said, unable to hide a smile. “I suppose I am. But I had to see for myself that you were well.”

“I was very sick. The doctor says I must stay in bed and rest.”

She was not very sick, as she claimed. The telegram from Barnes had insisted she was not expected to survive. It was suggested he brace himself for news of her passing soon. Bly, of course, hadn’t waited for another telegram. He left immediately to bear the news in person.

“You rest, and when you’re well enough, I’ll take you into the village so you can pick out a new doll.”

Her hands flapped against the quilt. “Have you come back to stay? Truly? Grace and I thought you had left us for good.”

He could lie, but certainly not to his eight-year-old niece. Since he was not sure of his answer, he nipped her nose and changed the topic. “I think we should have a picnic for breakfast tomorrow here in your room.”

“You promise?”

“Upon my honor,” he said, crossing his heart, making Minnie burst out in giggles. He helped her to some water. “Rest now. I need to say hello to the others.”

“But they’ve gone,” she answered. Minnie rubbed at her eyes and yawned. A new fit of coughs wracked the girl’s small body. He unbuttoned the layers of his coats to fish out a handkerchief, and handed it to her, motioning for her to cover her mouth. It was then he noticed the scabs she had scratched at on her face—some healed over, others still raw.

“They’ve gone where, pet?” He squatted by the bed, waiting as she took another hungry gulp of water.

“Well, away, I think. Only Miss Clara has been to see me since I’ve been sick and I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

“Go to sleep,” he said, probably more forcibly than he should have. The idea of a sick child left behind with servants, all of whom strangers, set his temper raging, but Bly could not afford to lose it. He had worked so hard at putting himself back together. “Be a good girl and rest. I will be here when you wake up.”

He closed the door softly behind him, then stomped his boots in the hallway, shaking off the last of the snow and ice. His face still burned from the wind, and he was certain he would have ice in his beard for the next week.

The butler, now red-faced, huffed up the stairs, meeting Bly as he stood at the top. Below, on the landing, stood two maids whispering in hushed tones. The woman he assumed was the housekeeper, an old silver-haired woman fashioned for steel, followed behind the butler. She pushed through the gathered audience, the house keys rattling against her boney hips as she ascended, then folded her long fingers in front of her.

“Where’s my aunt?” Bly asked.

“We weren’t expecting you, sir,” the butler said.

“Your name?” Bly’s voice was a low threat.

“Wallace, sir.”

Bly moved his stare to the housekeeper, arching an inquiring brow at the skeleton-looking woman.

“Mrs. Moreley, sir.”

“You both haven’t answered my question. Where is my aunt?”

“She’s in Italy, sir,” Mrs. Moreley said.

Bly scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing. “And my niece and nephew? The governess?”

The pair looked to each again, confusion and secrets passing between them both. Below, there was another wave of hushed whispers. He would fire them all after he received the necessary answers.

“His Lordship has been away to Eton for two years now. And Lady Grace was taken away.”

“Away where? For Christ’s sake!”

“There’s no need for that language, Mr. Ravensdale. There are women present.” Mr. Wallace looked proud to have taken the higher moral ground, but Bly would be happy to throw the man into a wall if they did not start answering his questions.

Mrs. Moreley’s lips pressed into a thin line and her eyes narrowed in assessment of Bly. She showed no signs of being frightened. “Lady Grace took her to stay in the village when Miss Minnie fell ill. We were not told who with. Since the nurse quit, Miss Dawson has been caring for the sick child while we manage the house.”

Clara.
His Clara
. His mouth went dry. Bly could not to face her yet.

“Mrs. Moreley, I suppose you can fetch her for me.”

At that, the soft hush from below escalated to a frenzied buzz.

“We do not shame ourselves by associating with Miss Dawson.”

Shame? “I expect to discuss the house in the morning. In the meantime, I would like some broth brought up from the kitchen for my niece, and to know the whereabouts of the governess.”

A mousy maid stretched her neck and pressed up to her tip toes on the landing, peering up at Bly. “Excuse me, sir. She lives alone in the attic now. But Miss Dawson has fallen ill herself.”

“Light some bloody lamps in this house, and some fires while you’re at it. And fetch me a lantern.”

They stood frozen on the steps, the whole useless lot of them. Bly could not wait. He reached into his coat for a match, quietly snuck into the nursery and borrowed a lamp from the dresser.

Three years he had missed her. Three years he had loved her. Three years he had regretted not returning to her, deeply. And it was that regret that echoed in the dark and drafty hall of the attic as he searched for his Clara once more.

The door to her room was open, but an eerie silence hung heavy in the air. The fireplace was dark and cold. Snow and ice drifted in from the patched cracked window, and through the hole in the corner of the room, revealing the rafter above.

He tried to say her name, but he had no air in his lungs.

Clara.

She lay crumbled on the floor, her head tossed back, snow and ice clinging to her hair from below the window as if she had been staring into the starless night, searching. Quilts loosely draped around her; her shift stained with sweat. She was covered in the same scarlet flush as Minnie, burning to the touch.

Her body draped lifeless in his arms. His hands traced the line of her frail body through the blankets, trying to warm her, remembering that once, so long ago, he had called her an icy creature. She was no such thing. He was just a heartless bastard who left her behind.

“Come back to me, Clara,” he whispered into her ear. His roughened hand cupped her cheek. “Come back,” he whispered again, his voice haggard as his fingers twined into her matted hair. When she did not respond, Bly felt his calm waver and threaten to burst into heart-stopping panic. He would not lose her. “Clara,” he said softly, “love.”

Bly found her pulse, a faint, waning beat. There was not much to do but wait now. Either her heart would stop and she would die soon, or she would wake and fight.

“Clara, you need to wake up.” Regret hovered in his mind, waiting to pounce and take him down. Regret was something he did not have time for as he waited for her to wake.

She would wake.

Certainly, she would wake.

A soft exhale brushed across his neck, and Bly loosened his grip, lowering her so he could watch as her eyelashes fluttered open. Dull gray.

“Hello,” Bly whispered. He tried to smile, but he was not happy or relieved as he looked down at her. His throat felt thick and he thought he could be crying, but none of that mattered.