Graven Images (6 page)

Nicholas considered the note, sure that such potent words as those would outweigh the morning’s mishap.

I shall attend the militia review this afternoon,
he continued,
in hope of finding you. Allow me to regain your precious favor.
He paused, then remembered Mr. Flinders’s phrase.
Which I crave as others crave food.

Since the author of the message would be obvious, Nicholas didn’t sign his name, and after waiting for the ink to dry, he folded the paper, picked up the shoe, polished its brass buckle with his sleeve, and tucked the note inside.

The apprentice pulled the nutmeg from his pocket. If Juliana attended the review, it would mean that she’d forgiven him. And if she’d forgiven him, he could bear to approach her and propose that they meet at the ball that night. Ardently praying for such an outcome, he put the nutmeg to his nose, sniffed it deeply — and saw the door burst open.

“I demand to see Mr. Quince at once!” The speaker was none other than Miss Catchfly, and Nicholas hurriedly hid the nutmeg in his pocket just as his master entered.

“My
dear
Miss Catchfly. How good to see you.” Mr. Quince closed the kitchen door behind him and gazed at her adoringly.

“You’ll change your mind about
that
soon enough!”

In a rage, she produced a pair of shoes and slammed them down on a bench.

“The tacks — they’re driving up into my heel! One more minute of wearing and I’d have never been able to pull them off!”

Mr. Quince examined one of the shoes. Anxiously, the apprentice looked on, wishing he could disappear like smoke up a chimney.

“Tell me, Nicholas,” said Mr. Quince. “Did you not attach these particular heels?”

“Yes, sir,” the apprentice mumbled.

“And did you realize at the time that the tacks happened to be a size too long?”

Nicholas cleared his throat. “No, sir.”

“Leatherhead!” spat out Miss Catchfly. “Idiot!”

Mr. Quince answered her scowl with a smile. “The boy’s new to the trade, you understand. Still learning to follow in the steps of Saint Crispin, patron saint of cobblers.”

“And scoundrels!” Fiercely, Miss Catchfly glared at the shoemaker. “I demand the shoes be repaired at once — before they make a martyr of
me.
”

“But madam, it being a holiday for the lad —”

“Aye, so he and the rest can wander free as pigs, getting into mischief! Why, just this morning I scared off a boy about to steal a fistful of flowers.”

Nicholas froze stiff as a fence post.

“The brazen rascal,” responded Mr. Quince.

“From the front of a church!” Miss Catchfly added. “
That
be the sort of villainy that holidays from work will lead to.”

Terrified that she’d recognize him, Nicholas turned his back to her and headed quietly for the stairs.

“Aye — and
that
be the boy right there! With the rip running down the back of his shirt!”

Nicholas halted. He felt for the rip, and cursed himself to recollect that he’d only been spotted from behind.

“Nicholas!” boomed Mr. Quince. “Is this so?”

The apprentice lowered his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

His master stared at him in shock. “Upstairs with you, boy, and change your shirt! Then you’ll come back down and devote the rest of the afternoon to Miss Catchfly’s shoes — putting a brand-new heel on each, to remember your carelessness by.”

Mr. Quince smiled across at Miss Catchfly while Nicholas shuddered, recalling the note.

“But sir — the militia review! I’d arranged —”

“The comfort of our customers’ feet comes first. Remember that, boy. Now be off!”

Sulkily, Nicholas climbed the stairs. He made out the sound of the militia’s drums and calculated it would take three hours at the least to finish Miss Catchfly’s shoes. By the time he was through, the review would be over and his last chance to speak to Juliana would be gone.

Slowly, Nicholas changed his shirt, bitterly eyeing the rip from the rose thorn and wishing he’d never heard of verbena. Stepping down the stairs, he saw that Miss Catchfly had departed, watched as his master left for the review, and realizing that the note he’d written to Juliana must be removed, turned toward the shelf — and found the shoe gone.

A chill scurried up the apprentice’s spine. Madly, he combed the shop for the shoe, then suddenly knew what had happened. While he’d put on another shirt, Juliana must have picked up her shoe, and left.

Desperately, Nicholas rushed out the door. He peered up and down the street in a panic, but Juliana was nowhere in sight.

The apprentice felt the strength drain from his limbs. After reading the note, attending the review, and waiting in vain for him to appear, she’d conclude that he’d meant to make a fool of her — and would never set eyes upon him again.

In utter despair, he shuffled inside and turned to Miss Catchfly’s shoes. Unconcerned with the time, he gloomily took the heels apart, ignoring the sound of the militia marching only a few blocks away. He constructed a pattern, and from the heaviest cowhide laboriously cut out eight pieces of leather. Hardly aware of the hours passing, he built up the heels layer by layer, only dimly aware by the time he’d finished that the sound of drums had long ceased.

Nicholas stood up. He felt numb inside and vowed to forget Juliana entirely. Putting Miss Catchfly’s shoes on the shelf, he glanced about, wandered outside, and chanced to look up at the weathervane.

Saint Crispin was facing west at the moment, though a breeze butted Nicholas from the south. He recalled how the vane had faithfully led him to a patch of verbena and to Juliana. And having nothing better to do, he set off in a westerly direction, wondering what it was Saint Crispin held in store for him.

The streets were noisy with singing and shouting. Firecrackers rang out in the distance. Nicholas stopped while a cart passed before him, pulled by a pair of blindered horses — and at once the apprentice’s eyes lit up. He wondered if this could be the sight his patron saint had meant him to see — for his troubles would never have begun if he hadn’t cast off his blinders, opened his eyes, and noticed the extra nutmeg.

Puzzling over Saint Crispin’s intent, Nicholas pressed on farther to the west, caught a glimpse of the harbor, and halted. The saint, he suspected, had meant him to see the water, and suddenly the apprentice knew why. He must fling himself into the sea at once. Only that would solve his problems, and Nicholas anxiously turned toward the weathervane, wondering if this indeed was its meaning.

Horses and wagons hurried past, while men piled wood in the street for a bonfire. Nervously, Nicholas scanned the harbor. He decided to push on a block or two farther, just in case he might have misinterpreted Saint Crispin — and looked up to find himself suddenly face to face with Juliana.

“Good day,” she offered, stopping. “Again.”

The apprentice paled. His heart bolted. She didn’t seem to be angry, and in an instant he abandoned his vow to forget her and decided to right matters once and for all.

“Forgive me for not appearing!” he burst out.

The girl seemed amused. “Not appearing where?”

“At the militia review — this afternoon!”

Juliana gazed at Nicholas, baffled.

“As I’d promised you in the note.”

“What note?”

“The note I tucked in your shoe, of course!”

“
What
shoe?”

Nicholas gaped in wonder.

“The brass-buckled shoe you brought in for repair and picked up this very afternoon!” He fixed his eyes on her, then glimpsed the sight of Mr. Quince crossing the street — strolling arm in arm with Miss Catchfly.

“That?”
cried Juliana, disbelieving. “But that shoe was Miss Catchfly’s. She merely sent me to bring it in to be mended.”

The apprentice stared at Mr. Quince as he and the woman he worshiped turned a corner and disappeared from view. In a flash he knew what must have happened. While he’d been upstairs changing his shirt, Miss Catchfly had left the shop with her shoe and had read the note, devouring the praise that Nicholas had meant for Juliana and that Mr. Quince had originally meant for her feet. And since it was Mr. Quince who must have handed her the shoe, she’d naturally assumed the note was from him — and had joyfully joined him at the review.

Marveling at this turn of events, Nicholas realized that Juliana hadn’t waited for him and might still be disposed to look on him favorably.

“As for this morning,” the apprentice sputtered, “it wasn’t a bouquet of madder I’d brought you —”

Juliana cocked her head quizzically.

“I didn’t mean ‘vicious accusation’ at all. It was
verbena
I’d picked, with
five
petals to the flower.”

Juliana chuckled. “Does it make a great difference?”

Nicholas eyed her in disbelief.

“Why, the message,” he faltered. “I’d brought verbena for the sentiment it carries — ‘enchantment.’ In reply to the honeysuckle you wore.”

“In reply?” She appeared surprised at the notion. “And tell me. What message does honeysuckle bear?”

The apprentice gaped at her, dumbfounded.

“Why, ‘Boundless and devoted affection’ — of course.”

“Truly,” she replied. “How very interesting.”

Nicholas could hardly believe his ears.

“You were wearing some yesterday morning,” he declared as if pleading for his sanity. “The morning you gave me the extra nutmeg.”

He produced the nutmeg and held it before her, the undeniable proof of her love.

“Extra?” The smile fled her lips.

“Don’t you remember?” The apprentice trembled. “I ordered six and you gave me seven!”

“
I
did that?” Juliana gasped, and glanced about. “I must have been half asleep,” she whispered. “If Miss Catchfly knew, she’d scald me and skin me!”

Nicholas slowly absorbed her confession. He caught sight of Zeph, a block ahead, with a woman on his arm as promised. Staring cheerlessly at the couple, Nicholas put the nutmeg in his pocket and vowed never again to try his hand at the craft of love.

The cannons at Fort Johnson saluted the king. Sighing, the apprentice turned to go.

“As you surely know,” Juliana spoke up, “there’s a public ball to take place this evening. To honor the holiday.”

Nicholas, entombed in his gloom, hardly heard her words.

“I was wondering,” she persevered, “if I might expect to find you there.”

The bells of St. Michael’s church rang out. Thunderstruck, the apprentice stopped.

“You don’t seem at all like that odious Winthrop Whistlewood,” Juliana shouted, straining to be heard above the pealing.

Dazed, Nicholas wondered vaguely whom it was she was speaking of. In disbelief, he stared at her. He swallowed hard. He cleared his throat twice.

“Yes, of course,” he announced over the chiming. “I thought that I — that I might attend.”

A ship in the harbor boomed a salute. Firecrackers exploded nearby. His thoughts spinning dreamily, Nicholas turned, squinted, spied the copper image of Saint Crispin, and felt sure that this was what his patron saint had been pointing toward all along.

Lightning twitched like a dreaming dog’s legs. The wind blew. Rain fell. And Zorelli lay awake in the night.