Etiquette With The Devil (2 page)

Clara shook her head, knocking away the haunting image of her bloodstained hands. The phantom weight of the makeshift blade that had filled her palm. Panic solved nothing. She would begin anew, free of the threats and ever-present fear that consumed her life.

If only her employer had arrived as promised. Now, storm clouds ate away at the remaining daylight, transforming a cloudy England afternoon to landscape of stretching green and a sky of obsidian. Of course it would storm, of course the sky would finally tumble down upon her, condemning her for her crimes.

Earlier, she had attempted to track down her employer’s whereabouts—this mysterious Mr. Ravensdale. Realizing he and his family might have been delayed during their journey from India, she thought perhaps a message had been left for her. Clara inquired with the stout man at the ticket counter. He stared down at her through his filthy spectacles, shook his head, then hurried her off with a gruff refute.

With little left to her name, but willing to pay for assistance, she had asked fellow passengers, even those who worked at the station, if they had means to convey her to Burton Hall—the Ravensdale ancestral seat. But each person recoiled at the mention of the place as if it housed the devil himself. One elderly couple advised her to purchase a ticket and return home, claiming it would be best if she never set foot on the cursed property.

Cursed? How silly.

Another gentleman had exited the recently arrived train, the engine’s steam filling up the summer air with even more humidity. He focused on the station’s exit as Clara approached him, her hands folded in front of her. She wished to tuck them behind her. Her gloves were worn, much too tattered to give the appearance of her being a well-born lady traveler instead of a homeless waif, which indeed she was.

“Excuse me, sir?”

He had paused his steps and adjusted his bowler hat. “Yes?” His word was full of the north, of the heavy and desolate, of that clipping sound the other girls had made fun of the maid for while she was away at boarding school in London.

“It’s growing late and I haven’t been able to find someone to assist me.”

The gentleman cocked his head, shifting his weight between polished shoes.

“That is,” she rushed to say, “I am willing to pay. I’m looking to be brought to Burton Hall. I’m the new governess…”

What little friendly light that had hid behind his eyes quickly vanished. He turned his head and spat on the ground.

Since, she had sat on the worn bench, her eyes cast out to the field beyond the small station, waiting.

Clara peered down at the worn letter in her gloved hands, skimming the lines of false promises once more. Hoping or wishing would not get her out of this muddle, and it certainly wouldn’t help bring an end to the rapid decline of her already dismal circumstances.

Only a few others remained mingling on the train platform, their attention still glued to her, the strange woman left waiting all day, traveling alone, dressed in nothing short of rags.

The tattered pull of her trunk would just need to hold a while longer.

Her legs tingled and ached as she stood and brushed her hands over the wrinkled gray cotton of her day dress. She stuffed the letter into her nearly empty purse, then dragged the trunk down the platform to make her exit, the blush of embarrassment heavy on her cheeks, even as she averted her eyes from the uncomfortable stares of the others.

With each tug of the heavy trunk, the whispers quieted. The busy village streets soon receded behind her, reducing the train station to a small spot on the dark horizon over her shoulder. Two hours later, as the darkness above opened up and rain poured down, Clara still had not spotted Burton Hall. Finally, with numbed fingers and chattering teeth, she paused at last, spotting no real promise of shelter. A disheartened release of her hand landed the trunk into the mud with a loud splash, spraying her best—least threadbare—dress.

Lovely.

She glared down at the trunk and gave it a sound kick. The jarring impact resonated up her cold bones. Her shoulders slumped forward as she stared at the swollen puddles surrounding her ratty boots. Her hand grasped at her neck until she felt the thin chain that had once belonged to her mother, then with one long and steady note, she bellowed into the lone fields of Yorkshire until the air squeezed out of her lungs and she thought she might collapse.

Her frustrated howl fell dead between the drops of rain as if they drew down the noise and buried her anguish deep into the ground with each strike, kept secret, forgotten.

The sting of tears pricked her eyes as she reached once more for the trunk pull. Clara brushed them away with the back of her glove and forced herself to stand taller, even as the rain seeped through her dress. Forward was the only direction she would allow herself to move. She would not fall backward, not even a step. Not after what she had survived. She swallowed past the lump that settled in her throat at the memory of Mr. Shaw’s fingers wrapped around her neck, the struggle to suck in one last breath before the world fell to black around her.

She must move forward.

Clara trudged along the uneven muddy road until she crested the top of a large hill. Pausing to allow the burning of the healing wound along her side to recede, she spotted a great house in the distance. The wind whistled through the trees, the rain driving down against an unyielding cushion of deep summer green. And still, with the promise of life around her, there was something about the sight of that house that disconcerted her—its bleakness maybe, the way it stood squarely in the middle of late summer ripeness, but was itself dull and dying.

Clara flexed her stiff fingers and took hold of the trunk once more. She slipped and stumbled in her descent down the hill, her boots sliding deep in the dark mud. Once on level ground, she regained her balance and continued until she reached the large iron gates of the stately home.

Soaked from the driving rain, Clara stood in awe of the most palatial and decrepit mansion she had ever seen. It was hard to believe anyone could live there. A person could catch his death in that crumbling mass of a house. The long windows on each level of the three stories were void of light or movement. She supposed now would be the moment the ominous caws of a raven would ring through the air, but only the patter of rain broke the unsettling silence.

The drive was overtaken with weeds and debris. Even the surrounding gardens were tangled beds of vines and thistle. Only a few stray flowers peeked out from beneath the wild mess, reaching toward the sky as if desperate for light.

Clara hefted the trunk past the stone lions that stood as mossy sentries on either side of the granite stairs, and up to the elaborate carved door looming before her. She did her best to still her chattering teeth as she dropped the rusty knocker against the weathered wood, and waited. And waited. She tried the knocker a second time, rain dripping down the curve of her spine, sending a shiver throughout her body. What she would give to be dry and warm.

Unable to bear the cold rain any longer, good manners or no, Clara opened the door. She could chastise herself later for her poor behavior, once she could feel her feet once more.

“Hello?” The only response was a faint echo of her question. She abandoned the muddy trunk by the door, taking a tentative step into the cavernous foyer.

It felt as if she had tumbled backward into a long forgotten memory. Grand marble columns stretched from floor to ceiling, drawing her attention toward the second story balcony. Strips of murals spiraled off the walls, looking like a mess of discarded ribbons in a rag bag. The air was heavy with dust and age, full of a stagnancy that lent well to a forgotten relic, not a house, certainly not one with young children.

“Hello?” Clara called out again. A branch tangled with the muddy hem of her dress and she tripped, her hands stretched out before her in a frantic wave. Below her, the yellowed ivory floor tiles were covered in leaves and more debris. She kicked another branch out of the way as she regained her balance, spotting a porcelain doll laying upside down by the stairs, its arms reaching for the door, its brown hair matted and tangled with faded blue satin.

A flutter rolled through her stomach. Ahead of her, a faint flicker of light from down the darkened hallway ahead urged her to continue. Clara peered back over her shoulder to the door, to that blasted trunk, as the rain pelted against the brittle window panes.

“Don’t stop now. You’re getting warmer,” a man’s voice echoed from down the corridor.

Clara stepped back toward the door. Startled, she considered for a moment whether she should continue running for another day or rush toward the unknown. No, she had come too far to run now. She spun around and marched into the darkness, surprised to discover that the source of light came from a large sitting room.

A man lounged on a tattered sofa by a carved marble fireplace, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. Light glinted off the large ring on his finger that listlessly circled the rim of a nearly emptied glass resting on his chest. He made no fuss over her arrival, nor any effort to address her directly. It was rather rude, that.

Clara forced words to her cold lips. “Who are you?”

“The footman.”

The man settled his green eyes on her with a slow sweep from the ceiling, gripping his glass tighter. He did not inquire about her identity or how she came to be standing in the doorway, drenched from rain. He asked nothing. It was as if he were a ghost.

A screech ripped through the air as a light gust of wind swirled around Clara, disturbing the room’s fetid odor. A bird, larger and more vibrant than any she had ever seen, swooped overhead and settled onto the back of an armchair against a wall of windows. The bird appeared entirely out of place, sandwiched in a room of forgotten items with an overgrown courtyard barely visible through the grimy windowpanes.

“It won’t bite,” the man said. “It’s only a parrot.” He spoke about the creature as if the happenstance of a parrot flying freely about in England was quite ordinary. His demeanor, servant or no, irked her.

“Aren’t footmen normally in the habit of answering the door for their employer?”

“When I feel obliged.” His elocution was admirable, even if the word
obliged
dragged out on an uneven drunken lilt.

“I was standing outside for some time, sir.”

He returned to studying the ceiling, seemingly fascinated by the crumbling plasterwork of vines, flowers, and cherubs.

Clara stepped further into the room, noting the moth-eaten Oriental rug she stood upon. “And the weather was not agreeable.”

He propped himself up and gave her a surveying glance. Finally. “You do look positively soaked.”

“Quite,” she ground out, overcome by a mounting tide of frustration.

The man certainly did not dress like a footman. His curly black hair was a chaotic mess above a long, ruddy face and emerald eyes that sparked with overindulgence. And yet despite his raggedness, his morning coat was trimmed in black velvet, his yellow bow tie was perfectly straight, and his silk waist coat was without a stain or wrinkle.

“Now that you’ve found me, how can I be of assistance?”

Clara brushed back the wet hair escaped from its bun that clung to the sides of her face. “Yes, well you see, I am here—”

A sound erupted somewhere within the depths of the home, something she had never heard the likes of before. “Good heavens, what was
that!
?” Her hands clutched at her chest, anything to keep her racing heart trapped within her ribcage.

“The tiger.” The man flashed a sad sort of smile. “Lucy’s recently from India. I suspect she’s not fond of the English rain.”

“T-tiger?” Clara was cold, but she did not think she had lost her head because of it. “You have a tiger in residence?”

“Among other monsters.”

Clara stood there, her mouth agape as the man nodded as if to prove his point and made a shrill whistle. Then, as if on command, the house rumbled with a sound that conjured images of collapse.

A small girl with a cherub-like face and strawberry blond hair twirled into the room, stopping short when she noticed Clara.

“Hello.” The little girl dipped into a clumsy curtsey. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“As I am yours.” The words escaped Clara, sounding more like a question than a statement.

“My name is Minnie Ravensdale. Who are—”

A boy with chestnut hair tumbled backward into the room, interrupting the girl with a roar as he wielded a wooden sword toward another man, rather wild-looking in appearance. Both yelled and fenced about, neglectful of the soaked stranger standing in the middle of their sitting room.

Minnie tugged at Clara’s hand, commanding her attention, but Clara was struck with a curious wave of interest toward the man fencing. She had never seen a man so large before, and so beyond British social conventions. Nothing about him spoke of a man born into good breeding.

“My mother was a ballerina in the Russian ballet,” the girl exclaimed. “She was famous the world over.”

With an awkward spin from Clara’s fingertips, the girl tripped and landed firmly on her bottom with a piqued cry. The clacking of the wooden swords came to an abrupt end, then the wild-looking man faced Clara, shaking his head at the girl’s declaration.

“And let me guess,” Clara said, speaking to the small boy, “your father was a pirate king.”

“No,” he replied pensively, “a botanist.” He charged his fencing partner once more, ruthlessly stabbing him in the gut with the dull-pointed stick. The man crumbled to the floor with a groan.

The effort to receive a straight answer had led her nowhere. And apparently, attempts at being charming did not work either. “I see,” she said flatly.

Recovered, Minnie bounced back to her feet to twirl about the room. She skipped, attempting to leap, but her small legs only carried her a few inches off of the ground. With an outstretched arm, she bowed toward the man fencing and said, “And uncle is—”

“Uncle?” Clara repeated, surprised.

“As you can see,” the man groaned, pushing up to his knees, “I was busy fighting for my life. I’m Ravensdale.”