The Novelty Maker (4 page)

                Hesitating, Cole debated returning home and not going to see Harlowe. He didn't have anything to tell Harlowe about the letters, and Harlowe was probably busy, especially considering Bingley had pushed him into working on that last minute project at the last minute.

                But Harlowe had been so upset the previous night, and Cole was feeling too unsettled to go home. If he went home, he'd just end up pacing or redecorating the sitting rooms or something ridiculous. He could go visit Dwight, but his mother was probably already managing Dwight's every move after his disaster with Miss Luxon.

                He could stop by the sweets cart on Cliff Road and pick up something to raise Harlowe's spirits, Cole decided. That would give him something for Harlowe, since tracking down the special courier wasn't proving very fruitful. Decided, Cole abruptly changed directions, nearly running into a young woman carrying a parasol in an alarming shade of green before hurrying off on his self-appointed mission.

                *~*~*

                The shop was busy, as usual. Both shop girls were on the floor, and unfortunately, so was Bingley. Cole paused just inside the shop, glancing towards the door to the back room, which was firmly shut as usual. Cole headed that way, stifling a groan when Bingley left off fidgeting with a music box to intercept.

                "A word, Master Elliot." Bingley stepped in front of the door to the back room before Cole could reach it, blocking his access. He didn't look particularly pleased to see Cole—the polite smile on his face looked more like a grimace than a smile. He was a small man; short, thin, with a moustache that made him look sleazy instead of the suaveness he likely thought it lent him.

                Cole inclined his head, crossing his arms against the urge to hit Bingley for how upset Harlowe had been the previous evening. He doubted this was going to be anything good, given how his day was going thus far.

                "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist you do not go into our workroom any longer," Bingley said, grimacing as though it was a difficult decision for him to make. It made his moustache twitch like a dying rat. "As I'm sure you're aware, this business is very competitive. I regret that …" Bingley's moustache twitched again. "… we've had some designs find their way to our competitors—and of course, I don't think you had anything to do with that, but we need to keep things locked down more tightly, you see."

                "That's ridiculous," Cole said without thinking. Bingley's face darkened, and Cole forced himself to be more diplomatic. "I have a commission with Harlowe. How am I supposed to check on its progress without being able to go into the back room? You don't let him onto the floor."

                "That's his choice," Bingley said, his chest puffing up slightly. "You'll have to discuss it out here. One of the girls will fetch him for you, or you can discuss it when he's not working. You have the one piece, correct? That shouldn't take much
discussion
." Bingley gave Cole a look that insinuated he thought Harlowe and Cole did quite a bit more than
discuss
things outside of Harlowe's working hours, and turned, not waiting for Cole's response.  

                "This is not acceptable," Cole started, furious. He highly doubted Bingley thought he was a thief; more likely he didn't want Cole distracting Harlowe when Bingley could be working him to death instead. He tried to follow Bingley, but he opened the door—unlocked, so the thievery excuse really was a load of crock—and disappeared into the back room. The door loudly locked behind him, and Cole fought the urge to throw a temper tantrum right then and there. Would anything go right before the day was out?

                Taking a deep breath, Cole let it out slowly, straightening his jacket and turning to survey the shop. The crowd had thinned out a bit, but there were still a handful of people browsing around. The goods on display were a mix of Harlowe's delicate piecework and Bingley's more heavy-handled work.

                "I think it's my fault, I'm sorry," Susannah said from his right, startling Cole.

                "What?"

                "Bingley," Susannah elaborated, her painted lips twisted in frustration. "Come on, I need to be talking to a customer if he comes back out, else I'll get 'talked to.'"

                Cole obediently let her lead him out from behind the sales counter and over to one of the display tables. It held one of Bingley's machines—a medium-sized dog replica that would walk if the winding screw was turned.

                "Harlowe's been wanting to open his own shop ever since I started here," Susannah said, gesturing to the dog. Cole followed the movement with his eyes, letting Susannah's words sink in. "He's getting close to being able to do it, just needs a bit more money to buy the shop building he's got his eye on. He asked me to go in on it, be a full partner, but I think Natalie found out a bit about it and tipped off Bingley."

                "He doesn't want Harlowe to go?" Cole hazarded. It wasn't hard to figure out that Harlowe's work was what drew people to Bingley's shop, even if most people didn't realize it
was
Harlowe's work, since he was rarely out to sell it.

                "Harlowe's stuff is all that keeps Bingley's shop from going under," Susannah said, snorting. She tapped the winding screw. "It's quite innovative; the winding screw is more powerful on the inside, so you get more power for less winding."

                Cole nodded appropriately, keeping his face blank as Natalie, the other shop girl, walked past with a customer.

                "So Natalie told Bingley?" Cole asked, tamping down the hurt that Harlowe hadn't asked him to help, or even said anything about his plans.

                "I don't know for sure, but Bingley asked me if Harlowe had been acting oddly," Susannah said, pursing her lips. She pushed back her hair, then reached out and wound the dog two clicks, making it take a few steps on the table. "I told him a little, but Harlowe didn't want him to know about the letters, so I couldn't use that as an excuse and I may have said something about you helping him with a problem and I think he read into that as you helping Harlowe fund the shop."

                "He's an idiot, and that dog is terrible," Cole said flatly, gesturing to the jerky movements of the mechanical dog.

                "I know, but I'm still sorry," Susannah said, shifting the dog back to its original place on the table when it stopped moving. "It also doesn't actually have an innovative winding mechanism."

                Cole snorted, then jerked his thumb towards the back room. "Can you get him for me? I'll meet him out back if he doesn't want to come on the floor."

                "Sure," Susannah said, giving him a sweet smile. "Think about the dog? I don't doubt it'll sell fast with as handsome a piece as it is."

                "I'll think about it," Cole said dryly, watching her walk away. Susannah would be a good partner for Harlowe, though it still stung that Harlowe hadn't even breathed a word of it to him. Did he like Susannah more than he liked Cole? Cole tried to ignore how petty that thought was, wandering around the display table, ostensibly studying the dog.

                "He'll meet you out back." Susannah suddenly popped up behind him, making him jump. "Come back in if you decide you'd like to get that today."

                "Sure," Cole said, straightening his jacket and trying to make his heart settle. Susannah gave him another smile and then slipped away to talk to another customer lingering over a huntress-themed music box.

                Leaving the shop, Cole ducked down the side alley alongside the building. Harlowe was waiting there, leaning against the side of the building. Cole hurried down the alley, slowing when he approached Harlowe.

                "Afternoon," Cole said, wincing when his voice came out flatter than he'd meant. Harlowe straightened slightly, and Cole tried to get a gauge on his mood, but the mask and the shadowed alley completely obscured any hint of emotion in Harlowe's face.

                "It is that," Harlowe said, and Cole relaxed slightly because Harlowe sounded tired, but not like he was ready to bite Cole's head off. "I'm sorry Bingley is being an ass—"

                "Not your fault," Cole said hastily.

                "I know, but I'm still sorry about it," Harlowe said, his shoulders slumping. "He's being worse than ever, but I didn't think he'd take it out on you."

                "Why didn't you ask me for help funding your shop?" Cole asked. "I would have done it—"

                "Because you would have," Harlowe snapped. He stepped away from the wall, scowling at Cole. "I didn't ask you because I didn't want to owe anyone anything for it."

                "I wouldn't have asked for anything," Cole protested. "Do  you really think me that much of a villain?"

                "That's not the point," Harlowe hissed, glancing at the door that led back into the shop. It was cracked open, and Cole wondered how close Bingley was, and if he was trying to listen in. "I want to do it on my own—"

                "You asked Susannah for help." Cole kept his voice low so it wouldn't travel, despite his frustration and how much he wanted to shout at Harlowe and shake him.

                "I can't sell," Harlowe said, gesturing to his face with a quick, sharp motion. "Susannah can, and she's never cared a whit about the mask."

                That made a certain amount of sense—Cole couldn't spend his time selling Harlowe's wares, after all. His mother would have a fit, and he had other responsibilities to see to, after all. He wasn't helpful to Harlowe at all—he was more of a hindrance, given that Bingley was making Harlowe's life hell because of Cole, after all. The best thing he could do was to go away, and stay away for a while, Cole decided.

                "Well, fine, if you want to back out, then I won't help you," Cole said, pitching his voice a little louder so that any eavesdroppers could hear clearly. Harlowe frowned, and Cole gestured at the door. Harlowe followed the movement, then reached out and shoved him, obviously not amused. "You'll just be stuck here at this shop forever."

                "You're an idiot," Harlowe said with feeling, shoving him again. Cole stumbled back a step, but flashed a smile at Harlowe, stupidly happy that even if he couldn't help Harlowe with his shop, he could still help this way. Even if the idea of not seeing Harlowe for a few weeks—maybe a few months?—was making his heart break.

                "As I've oft been accused. About the other matter—" Cole said more quietly, then paused, waiting for Harlowe to fill in the blanks.

                "You can stop trying to help with that, too," Harlowe said, shrugging. He glanced down the alleyway. "Prank or no, it's … not a terrible distraction."

                "… all right," Cole said, giving Harlowe a smile he didn't really feel. "I'll see you around, then."

                Harlowe nodded, and Cole walked away, feeling rather like Harlowe had trampled all over his heart when he'd in all honesty done no such thing. Reaching the street, Cole started back home, wondering what in the world would go wrong next. His mother had found out about Harlowe, Dwight was heartbroken and likely insufferable, he'd hit a dead end on the source of Harlowe's letters, he couldn't see Harlowe for ages, and Harlowe didn't care about finding the letter writer anymore.

                What if the letter writer made his or her move before Cole got to see Harlowe again? What if Harlowe couldn't manage to start his own shop? What if this was Harlowe's way of breaking ties with Cole? He could be sick to death of Cole's incessant hanging about, after all. Bingley's proclamation and Harlowe's new shop could just be the excuses he needed.

                Sticking his hands into his pockets, Cole's hand hit the box of sweets he'd picked up for Harlowe. He'd completely forgotten to give them to Harlowe, and wasn't that just fitting with his day? Cole sighed, shoving the box back into his pocket. He'd give them to his housekeeper. She would appreciate them, and Cole wouldn't have wasted his money on them.

*~*~*

                Cole dropped into a chair in Dwight's library, flipping open the book he'd pulled off the shelf. Dwight glared at him from the chair situated on the opposite side of the table.

                "You can leave if you're just going to abuse my furniture," Dwight said, but he pushed the tea tray closer to Cole.

                "Like you don't do the same to my poor chairs." Cole helped himself to a cup of tea and a scone, scowling at Dwight when he didn't reply. Dwight didn't even look up from his book, and Cole wondered why he'd let his mother talk him into visiting Dwight when Dwight very obviously preferred no company.

                "You can leave if you're going to stare at me or try to get me to talk about it, too," Dwight said, flipping a page. "I'm only tolerating this because mother won't get off my back."

                "She keeps pestering me about it, too," Cole grumbled, and didn't add that it was easier to do what their mother wanted than to think about how he hadn't been able to see Harlowe in nearly a week. "I tell her you're fine—" Cole paused, squinting at Dwight. He did look worse for wear, with his wrinkled jacket, mussed hair, and the dark circles prominent under his eyes. "Well, not dead, at least."

                "Shut up," Dwight said, but his lips twitched slightly. "You could go visit your mechanic. I'll tell mother you were here pestering me all afternoon."

                "Nah," Cole said, aiming for flippant. "He's been busy with a bunch of projects lately."

                Dwight snorted, but didn't reply to that, flipping through his book half-heartedly. "So I'm stuck with you, is what you're saying."

                "Lucky you," Cole said, crumbling his scone into small pieces. "Did you want to talk about it?"

                "Not even a little," Dwight said. He tossed his book onto the table. "Come on, then. If you're going to be staying all day, we can play snooker and drink."