His Clockwork Canary (20 page)

Willie chimed in with something altogether different. “I live like this too,” she
said softly.

He raised a brow. “You collect things you don’t need? Hoard?”

“No. But my belongings are typically scattered. Although I always know where everything
is. Organized chaos, I call it. Dawson typically refers to my desk as a disaster area.”
She shrugged without meeting his gaze. “I just thought you should know.”

Meaning she was thinking about them living together. He’d been too wary to bring it
up, knowing she was already skittish about their union. Her train of thought warmed
him much more than the damnable tea. He suppressed a smile. “Have I mentioned Fletcher
is a meticulous sod?”

“Your valet.” She nodded. “I’m thinking we’ll butt heads.”

“Most assuredly.” Now he did smile, even if only a little. “I’m looking forward to
it.”

She didn’t respond and he knew she was still torn. At least they were making progress.

They sipped more tea. A clock on the mantel ticked. No sign of Mr. Goodenough. “Your
father’s much younger than I imagined,” Simon ventured in a low voice. “And in fine
health. A little thin but . . . Does his mind really wander so wretchedly that he’s
unable to hold a job?”

“Oh, he works,” Willie said. “There’s a merchant in town, a kind and patient man.
He owns a sundry shop. My father works there four days a week, helping with stock
and chores. I think he’d go simply mad if he had nothing to occupy his time other
than thoughts of my mother.”

Simon dragged a hand down his face. “But you send him money—”

She motioned him to lower his voice. “Not directly. His pride would not stand for
it. I made arrangements with his landlord to pay the bulk of his rent and I struck
a deal with the woman who lives next door to cook for him at least a few times a week.
When he needs new clothes, I try to finagle something through the merchant he works
for. As you see, my father is obsessed with anything that reminds him of my mother
or her century. He spends his money unwisely, but as my mother handled the finances
in our house . . . he no longer understands the concept of budget.”

“So you take care of the essentials for him?” Simon bristled. “Blimey, Willie. Would
it not be better to have a talk with him?”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’ve tried, but to no avail. He would let himself starve
before passing up the opportunity to surround himself with another ‘piece’ of my mother.
He is beyond obsessed, Simon. You don’t understand. When she died . . .”

He reached across the table and grasped her hand. “It’s okay. Truly. Please don’t—”

“I have come to a decision,” Mr. Goodenough announced whilst bursting into the kitchen.
He’d already changed into his nightclothes and a tattered robe. A nightcap sat askew
upon his head.

The rumpled sight made Simon think of his own father. He hadn’t been there for Reggie
as much as he could have been. Maybe he could make small amends by helping another
distracted soul. Simon stood. “Would you like some tea, Mr. Goodenough?”

“What? No. Too late for tea. I always have a snort of brandy before bed. But never
mind that. I’ve come to make peace with my daughter.”

Now Willie stood as well. “You’re going to allow me to time-trace?”

“I can’t do that, Wilhelmina. But I will grant you this. Make a list of questions
regarding your mother and I will answer them to the best of my ability.”

Simon saw that Willie was torn between disappointment and euphoria. He could also
see that she was emotionally spent. “That would be most helpful, Mr. Goodenough.”

“Aye,” Willie managed. “Thank you, Daddy.”

He gave a stiff nod. “I’m afraid it will have to wait until tomorrow. I find I am
most distracted tonight,” he said whilst rooting through a box. “Ah, yes. Here it
is. They call this an electric blanket.” He showed them the electrical cord dangling
from one edge. “Most ingenious. Well worth the cost.” Then he glanced from Willie
to Simon, looking chagrined. “I’m afraid I only have one.”

“That’s all right, Daddy. We’ve arranged for lodgings this evening at a bed-and-breakfast.”

“Very good, then,” he said, breaking into an awkward smile. “On the morrow.” He turned
and left, the blanket around his shoulders, cord dragging.

Simon knew Willie wanted to hug her father and he knew the man wouldn’t let her. “Wife,”
he said softly, opening his arms as she turned and, teary-eyed, sought comfort in
her husband’s embrace.

J
ANUARY
22, 1887 C
ANTERBURY,
E
NGLAND

Upon reaching their room at the Hawthorne, Willie had been so weary she’d fallen upon
the bed fully clothed. All she wanted to do was sleep and recover from the emotionally
exhausting day. Simon had removed her spectacles and her boots and then he’d prodded
her to sit up whilst he’d helped her out of her gown and stockings. Still wearing
her chemise, she’d crawled under the covers with a weary sigh.

Next thing she knew, the lamps were doused and Simon had climbed into bed, pulling
her into his arms. He was gloriously naked and she was so very tired. “I fear I am
not up to spectacular,” she whispered.

“I am not even capable of mildly wonderful.” He kissed her forehead, then tucked her
face into his chest. “We shall make up for it another time,” he said with a smile
in his voice.

Her heart had fluttered with tender regard, but then she’d drifted off and her dreams
had carried her into the next morning. She did not think she had slept overly long
and was alarmed to find Simon gone. Dawn’s light had yet to fully break through the
partially drawn curtains. She checked her time cuff. Half past six in the morning.
What the devil?

Just then he walked in the door, handsome and windblown, shaking off a chill.

“Where have you been?” she asked, pushing up to her elbows.

“Taking care of a few errands. Checked in on my mother and sister via Teletype. Heard
back from Harry, Ashford’s groundskeeper. He said they are in London visiting a friend.
I find it curious that they traveled to the city alone. It’s certainly not like Mama,
but at least they are together, and I confess I am relieved that they are finding
comfort in each other’s company. They have never been of like mind.”

“Perhaps your father’s passing has brought them closer. I wish my father would have
sought comfort in my company after my mother’s death, but instead his mind and attentions
drifted.”

“Speaking of your father,” Simon said whilst hanging his greatcoat on a wall peg.
“I arranged to have a supply of chopped wood sent to his cottage and hired someone
to examine the heating system. I spied a radiator in each room. There must be access
to steam heat at least.”

“There is,” she said, chest tight. “It’s forever malfunctioning, but as long as there
are fires in the hearth . . .” She choked up as her heart pounded with the same fierce
flutter as the night before. “Such kindness, Simon. How can I thank you?”

He grinned whilst shedding more layers and raking his gaze over her scantily clothed
body. “I can think of a thing or two.”

“Lucky you, I am feeling most refreshed this morning,” she said with a coy smile.

He dropped onto the bed and smothered her with an achingly sweet kiss that soon turned
torrid. “Lucky indeed.”

•   •   •

Their lovemaking had been passionate and frenzied, both in need but both anxious to
start the day. An unspoken physical and emotional symmetry that had been exhilarating
in its own right. Their ablutions had been equally rushed, although Simon had slowed
the process enough to change her bandages.

“A couple more days,” he’d said. “To be on the safe side.”

He had made no mention of the small but numerous and ugly puckered ridges marring
her shoulder and the region of her chest just above her breast, but Willie knew he
felt guilty. She saw it in his eyes, sensed it in his touch. He’d once noted that
she’d saved his life and she wondered fleetingly if that hadn’t influenced his determination
in marrying her. A debt of gratitude paid by offering his support and protection for
life? The notion rankled, but she pushed it away, choosing to focus on their immediate
mission. Their interrogation of her father and the confiscation of the clockwork propulsion
engine.

Once dressed, they’d rushed down to the dining area and found Phin seated and waiting
at a table, drinking coffee and reading the
Victorian Times
. He stood whilst Simon seated Willie, then poured them each a cup of coffee from
the steaming pot in the center of the table. “How did it go with your father?” he
asked Willie.

“Not well,” she answered, stirring sugar into the black brew. “He won’t let me trace,”
she said in a soft voice, “but he did agree to answer some questions this morning.
Any news of the Triple R Tourney in the
Times
?”

“Not that I saw,” Phin said, passing her the newspaper. “Although you may find another
article of interest.”

Intrigued, Willie focused on the front page whilst Phin updated Simon on the weather
and flying conditions. She was vaguely aware of the multiple conversations buzzing
around her via other breakfast patrons as she zeroed in on the top headline:
FREAKS ATTEMPT POLITICAL KIDNAPPING OVER ATLANTIC
!

Stomach turning, disbelieving, she pushed her tinted spectacles to the top of her
head and squinted at the short but damning article.

Last night, in a brash and disastrous kidnapping attempt, a rogue faction of the increasingly
dangerous Freak Fighters attacked a transcontinental airship transporting several
dignitaries, including staunch Old Worlder Prime Minister Avery Madstone. Although
the prime minister escaped abduction, lives were lost and severe injuries sustained
in the overseas skirmish. The British Naval Service and International ALE have been
placed on full alert. Details are unknown at this time but forthcoming.

Heart thudding in her ears, Willie reread each sentence, not wanting to believe, but
knowing that a more aggressive faction of the FF did exist.

Lives were lost, severe injuries sustained. . . .

No.

“Willie.”

She blinked out of her daze when Simon touched her forearm.

“The waitress was asking if you’d like to see a menu,” he said as she passed the newspaper
back to Phin.

“My appetite is suddenly lacking, but I . . . I suppose I should have something.”
Horribly distracted, she tried to focus on the young girl’s smiling face, her stomach
flopping when the smile flattened and the girl’s cheeks flushed. It was then that
Willie realized her spectacles were still on top of her head, and thus her rainbow
eyes on full display.

“I’m sorry,” the waitress said in a hushed voice. “We don’t serve your kind.”

“What kind would that be?” Simon asked with a steely edge.

The girl swallowed and nodded toward Willie. “Her kind. There’s a sign posted outside.”
She lowered her voice even more. “‘No Freaks Allowed.’”

“I saw no sign,” Phin said, his own voice hard.

“Nor did we,” Willie said, her heart beating so frantically she feared her chest might
explode. “But we all came in after dark last night. Since when?” she asked the anxious
server. “I’ve passed by several times before.” She’d even eaten here, although disguised
as a male Vic. “I recall no such restriction.”

“New management, new rules.”

“I’d like to speak to that management,” Simon said, starting to stand.

Willie grasped his hand. “No, wait.” She was all too aware that she’d become the focal
point and that the whispered conversations throughout the room were now directed at
her. How many had read this morning’s headline? How many thought her dangerous and
aligned with the alleged Freak Fighters who’d attacked the prime minister’s dirigible?

“This is absurd,” Phin said to the visibly flustered waitress. “Her money is as good
as any Vic in this room.”

“The money is acceptable,” the woman fairly whispered, “but she is not. Please don’t
make a fuss. This is my first week on the job and I am desperate for the wages.”

Because she had always hidden her race from the public, Willie had never withstood
a direct and personal attack of prejudice. It set her blood and temper afire like
nothing else, and the fact that Simon looked ready to challenge the manager to a duel
only intensified her emotions. As much as she wanted to take a stand, that damnable
headline prompted her to proceed with caution. Drawing on her acting skills, she mustered
extreme restraint and calmly stood. “We were just leaving.”

“The hell we were,” Simon said.

Willie squeezed his hand. “Please.”

Stone-faced, Phin stood and reached into his wallet.

“Coffee’s on the house,” the waitress said as if desperate for them to leave.

“The hell it is.” Phin paid, then looked to Simon. “I’ll gather your possessions from
upstairs and settle the room accounts. Meet you outside,” he added as Simon slipped
him their room key. “Your wife looks as if she could use some fresh air.”

The use of the term
wife
instigated several gasps and murmurs and outright gawking.

In a show of defiance, Simon gently grasped her waist. “Come on, sweetheart.”

“You’re not going to shift me into a toad or conjure a perpetual rain cloud over my
head, are you?” the waitress asked in their wake.

“If only she could,” Simon said as he guided Willie outside.

Willie welcomed the bracing air as well as her husband’s avid support. Her heart pounded
and fluttered with mixed emotions as she fought for a calm and clear thought. “I appreciate
your outrage on my behalf,” she said honestly. Indeed, she was most certain she loved
him for it. “But now wasn’t the time to take a stand.”

“You can’t change the world if you ignore the problems.”

“I’m not ignoring, just choosing my battles, as it were. We would not have initiated
positive change on the behalf of Freaks,” she said, hugging herself against a chill.
“Not today. There was an attack last night. An attempted kidnapping over the Atlantic
Ocean. A rogue faction of Freak Fighters attacked Avery Madstone’s air transport.”

Simon gawked. “The prime minister?”

“It would seem he escaped but that others were harmed and killed in the attack. At
least as reported by the
Times
. It’s possible facts have been twisted. God, I hope they’re twisted.”

Phin joined them, their bags and coats in tow. “That was fun.”

Though his mind was obviously racing, Simon said nothing as he helped Willie into
her duster and then donned his own outerwear.

Phin passed a valise to Simon, saying, “One moment,” then ripped the
NO FREAKS ALLOWED
sign from the storefront and winged it into the alley. “Right, then,” he said as
he and Simon flanked Willie. “Did I mention I’m a bloody good cook? How does your
father feel about eggs, beans, and bangers?”

As someone who’d navigated life on her own these last several years, as someone who
had no friends, the allegiance of these two men filled a void in Willie’s soul that
she hadn’t fully acknowledged until now. “As long as you allow Daddy to make the toast,”
she said with an affectionate glance at Simon, “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”