Legacy of the Clockwork Key (3 page)

Now I was the one who was vexed. I had come for help, not for biting retorts. I gripped my skirts to keep my hands from shaking as I deliberately ignored his comment. I stared into the light of the lantern without blinking. As my vision adjusted, I caught a glimpse of dark, shadowed eyes beneath
thick hair unkempt from sleep. Though clearly strong and tall, he had a long-limbed look of youth. I had thought he would be a grown man, but a shiver ran down my spine as I realized he was not much older than I.

“I need your help,” I stated calmly. Aloof civility would be my weapon, and I intended to use it.

He lowered the lantern and leaned against the ornate carriage wheel.

My breath hitched. I couldn’t help it. A fluttering began within my heart and took the strength from my legs. Indeed he couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen years. He had a rugged look, made more so by the deep bruise on his cheek and the cut on his upper lip. Had he been fighting?

Gracious. Agnes was right.

“What?” he asked.

I forgot what I had been talking about. “I beg your pardon?” I responded. He scowled, then touched his knuckle to the cut on his lip.

“Do you need my help, or not?” He set the lantern down on the footboard of the carriage then crossed his arms over his loose shirt.

Heaven’s mercy, I had woken him. No wonder he was in a surly mood. At least he’d had the decency to put on some
trousers and boots, though his shirt hung out at his waist and his bracers remained slack, hanging by his thighs instead of being properly strapped over his shoulders to keep his trousers up.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I need you to repair my watch,” I explained.

“You woke me for a watch?”

“Yes, it’s important.”

“If you need to know the time a’day, ’tis early,” he huffed, and I had to grip my skirt tighter to keep from throwing the watch at him.

“It is important to me. I wish to make it work. Now will you help me or not?”

He turned away from me, lazily pulling one strap of his bracers over his shoulder. “What are you willin’ to pay me?”

His question stopped me short. “Pay?” It slipped out before I could stop it. I didn’t want to reveal that I hadn’t thought of payment, but the word had left its mark.

“Aye, pay. You think I work for free?” He cocked his head. I suddenly felt like a beggar clinging to the hem of a rich man’s cloak.

“I thought out of kindness, you might—”

“Kindness.” He chuckled, but never in my life had I
heard a more bitter sound. Then he turned and walked away.

“Wait!” I demanded, but he continued walking. I lunged forward and grabbed his sleeve. My hand met the unyielding strength of his arm. The fluttering returned, but I stamped it down with all my will. I had to make him see me. I had to make him understand. I needed his help, and I was willing to do just about anything to get it. I tried to bargain.

“I don’t know what I can pay, but I’ll help with your work when I can. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes?” One of his dark eyebrows rose.

I let go of his arm, incensed that he might think I meant to suggest something improper. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? What would Mrs. Pratt think if she found you here?” He snatched the handle of the lantern and swung it in front of him. I backed away from the hot light. “I’ll tell you what she’d think,” he continued, though there was no need. “Young foolish ninny, good-for-nothing groom, loft full of hay . . . Are you followin’ me?”

Oh, I was already ahead of him. “I will not have you question my moral character.”

He chuckled again. “Spoken like the queen herself. You certainly have airs. For as much as you’re a prim and proper
maid
. . .” he intoned. I caught his insinuation and it infuriated
me. Whom was I supposed to have ruined myself with? Mr. Tibbs? “If Mrs. Pratt finds us,” he continued, pressing forward enough that he forced me to take a step back, “we’ll both lose our jobs. Did you think about that at all before you ran out here to beg a
kindness
from the tinker?”

He turned his back and strode to the far end of the carriage house, carrying the light with him.

“Arrogant bastard.” The vile curse fell too comfortably from my lips as I watched him go.

• • •

I managed to get back to the house without arousing any suspicions, then set about my chores with extra vigor. As I unmade the bed again, I poured my frustration into the simple act of yanking the linens out of place.

One thing. I only wanted this one thing. Surely, it was a simple enough task to repair a watch. But no.

I pulled it out and examined the tarnished silver.

What would it have cost him to take a look?

Nothing.

The knowledge that he was my age only made it worse. I had gone for six months feeling all alone in the world, and not fifty feet from the steps was another person I could have talked to, could have become friends with.

If he weren’t such a toad.

He was a fellow prisoner of this madhouse. Why didn’t he understand?

I tucked the watch back in its place and sat on the bed.

The house was so silent.

He had the horses, living, breathing things to care for. I had an unmade bed, a spilled cup of tea, and a broken watch.

Feeling the heat of my ire in my cheeks, I had to stop thinking of him. I had to go back to the pointless drudgery of my existence. If only I could return to the way it was before, when I didn’t know who the groom was.

That night I sat alone in the kitchen watching the fire slowly die on the charred stone of the hearth. I took out the watch once again and let it spin in the dim light of the fire.

Could I repair it? I had spent hours as a child watching my father work with his delicate instruments. He had such remarkable hands. Unbidden, the sight of his blackened hand in the ash came to mind. I shook my head, but my eyes suddenly stung.

He had made the most amazing things with those hands and his simple tools, but he had forbidden me from touching anything in his shop. As a child, I had a tendency to use his tools to take things apart, yet never managed to set them right again. It drove my father to fits. I couldn’t bear the thought of
dismantling the watch in my attempt to repair it, and having it in pieces.

I rubbed my thumb over the tarnish. I could clean it.

My heart pounded even as I thought about polishing the watch. Cleaning the watch wouldn’t undo the destruction of my life. It couldn’t be undone.

Of course it couldn’t be undone. That didn’t mean the watch had to remain as I had found it. It could be beautiful, even if it never worked again. I could do that. I could change that.

My hesitation seemed silly. I was clinging to something that barely made sense to me anymore. I needed to change something. I could change this.

No, it would not bring my parents back. No, it would not make me feel as if things had returned to the way they had been.

But I knew in my heart it was time to move forward.

I took the cloth I used to polish the cutlery and rubbed the watch.

A glint of silver shone through. It caught the light of the fire and gleamed as if it were alive. Dark ash clung to the grooves of the etchings, painting each line in dramatic black. I took a closer look, compelled. The etchings almost looked like an ornate compass rose with four sharp points for each direction and a second set of smaller points between.

I held it firmly in my hand, vigorously rubbing the life back into it. The silver grew warm in my palm, as if it belonged there.

It was no longer my father’s watch. It was mine. I would care for it. I would keep it, and I would make it work again.

Turning it over, I began to clean the back. With the first rub of the cloth, I noticed the tiny imprint of my grandfather’s mark. An anchor with two chains, there was no mistaking it. Papa had made this watch.

Swirling lines danced around the outer edge of the watch. In the center a circular design that reminded me of a three-petal flower had been engraved on a raised button of sorts. It was askew somehow. It seemed to me that one of the petals should have pointed toward the latch, but it did not, not by any means.

Still, it was beautiful.

I thought about my dear sweet grandfather, and found myself wondering if he had done all the etching himself. Papa had died about three years before the fire. I still mourned him as deeply as I mourned my parents.

Holding the watch, I settled in for bed. I tucked myself under my worn blanket, but I couldn’t find comfort. Every bone in my body ached with soreness from my work.

Shifting on the lumpy sack of straw, I tried to find a bit
of relief, but something pressed into the small of my back. I turned. It still pressed into my side.

Blasted lump.

Climbing out of bed, I lifted the edge of the tick and reached beneath it with some trepidation. It wouldn’t be the first time I found a nest of rodents in my bed. My fingertips brushed something soft, fabric. I pulled the lump of material closer and the warm scent of leather surrounded me.

Shirts!

Someone had hidden them where only I would find them.

With haste, I pulled them from beneath the bed and inspected them. There were six total, worn, handmade, and very old.

My finger poked through a hole beneath the arm of the one I was holding. Another had a missing button. On another, the seam at the collar had begun to unravel. They all desperately needed repair and laundering.

I smiled. I couldn’t help it. The tinker had given me a challenge and I accepted it gladly. I couldn’t fetch my sewing kit soon enough. Hope threaded through my heart as I began to stitch the first shirt.

Perhaps I’d hear the watch tick after all.

I STAYED UP AS LATE AS MY EYES WOULD ALLOW AND
mended the shirts. Working past the point of exhaustion, I tied off my final knot, then washed the shirts and hung them before the fire. I smiled. It was done. I must have stabbed my poor fingers more than the fabric, but it was worth it. Utterly spent, I fell asleep.

I didn’t know what woke me, only that I’d started awake with my heart in my throat. Good heavens. It was morning and Agnes would be up at any moment. Something clattered in the corner of the kitchen. The tinker’s shirts hung proudly before the fire, proclaiming my insurrection like a bloody Jolly Roger.

I leapt to my feet desperate to stash the shirts. In a kitchen filled with nooks for things to hide, I couldn’t settle on a single place to be rid of them.

There! I grabbed the washtub, threw the shirts underneath, and turned it over.

I snatched my dress off the peg by the hearth. Thankfully, I was in the habit of sleeping in all my underclothes, even my corset, for warmth. I pulled the stays tight and threw my dress over my head, my fingers flying up the buttons on the front.

“Have the tea on yet?” Agnes asked, rolling her shoulders and yawning as she emerged from the passage.

“Not yet.” I dropped to my knees by the fire and jabbed at the embers trying to get them to spark. My eyes drifted to the tub.

I tried to look away. If I looked at it, Agnes might notice. . . . One of the sleeves peeked out from beneath it!

The fire flared to life and I jumped away, backing toward the tub, but Agnes beat me to it.

“Wait.” I held my hand out to stop her. Then I bit my tongue as she turned around and sat on the tub like a great bullfrog on an awkward toadstool.

“My, you’ve gotten impertinent. Best mind yourself, girl,
you don’t wish to lose this position and I’m your superior. I shouldn’t have to wait for my tea.”

“Yes, missus.” I ducked my head even as I felt the flush of heat in my face. I tried to look submissive, but on the inside my relief and the tickle of absurd laughter nearly choked me.

She was sitting right atop them.

How would I ever get them out from beneath her enormous . . .

“Thank the dear Lord it’s market day today,” Agnes declared as she grabbed a pail and began peeling potatoes.

“Indeed.” I coughed. The urge to laugh had gripped my ribs, and I found it difficult to breathe. It felt good to have a secret. And the secret was certainly safe beneath Agnes’s voluminous—skirts.

I felt more alive than I had in months.

Mrs. Pratt burst through the door and marched across the kitchen like a stuffy Beefeater. All she needed was a Tudor bonnet, a halberd, and some poor prisoner to guard at the Tower.

If I wasn’t careful, that wretched prisoner would be me.

“I’m off to the butcher,” she announced. “We haven’t enough beef for the stew.”

That just about did me in. I choked, and then coughed
until tears came. I felt I would burst of laughter if I couldn’t escape soon.

“Heavens, Meg. Are you well?” Mrs. Pratt asked.

I sniffed, then held my breath. “Quite,” I forced out.

She crinkled her thin nose as she looked to Agnes. “Make sure all is in order by the time I return.”

Agnes nodded. As soon as Mrs. Pratt thumped up the stairs, Agnes turned to me. “I’ll be stepping out for a bit, if you don’t mind. Keep to your chores, will you?”

“Yes, missus.” I couldn’t believe it. Freedom was within my grasp. I’d be able to return the shirts that morning.

Trembling with excitement, I waited for Agnes to abandon her post on the washtub. I had no idea what she was up to, but I enjoyed the knowledge that I wasn’t the only one who wished for a brief escape.

After Agnes had been gone more than half an hour, I gathered the mended and laundered shirts and bounded up the stairs, nearly slipping on the ice.

The sun shone bright, so bright I couldn’t see, but the kiss of it felt warm and welcoming, a sign that perhaps winter would not last forever.

Careful to tread in the boot prints of the others who had passed to and from the carriage house, I made my way across
the snowy garden. Icicles dripped off the roof, glittering in the sunlight as they reached down over the twining branches of dormant ivy clinging to the stone. They shone as silver as my watch, the ice catching the light and transforming it into something breathtaking.