Etiquette With The Devil (6 page)

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 exhale.

“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.”

“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.

*