The Watchmaker's Daughter (Glass and Steele Book 1) (10 page)

He snorted and pushed his spectacles up his nose again. "You don't know every watchmaker who ever worked in London, Miss Steele."

He had a point. "Where is he now?"

"I heard he was at the Aged Christian Society on Sackville Street, but that was some time ago. He may have passed."

"Where's Sackville Street?" Mr. Glass asked.

"Off Piccadilly."

"I know it," I said.

"Thank you, Mr. Lawson," Mr. Glass said. "You've been very helpful."

"Good day to you." Mr. Lawson cleared his throat and took a step away from the wall. "Miss Steele, do I have your promise not to mention that little incident to anyone at the guild? It was some years ago, after all."

"As long as your information isn't false, I see no reason why I need to speak of it." Father had decided not to make a fuss at the time, and although it galled me that Mr. Lawson had got away with it, Father was probably right. The onus of proof was on us, and I wasn't sure I had enough evidence to convince the biased guild members. "Good day, Mr. Lawson. I do hope your cuckoo clock isn't too damaged."

I walked out with Mr. Glass. "You were excellent in there," he said, as he helped me up the coach step. He was looking tired again, although not exhausted.

"Don't start that again, Mr. Glass," I ground out. "I'm not in the mood for your false niceties."

His jaw hardened. "I wasn't being false." To Cyclops, he said, "Drive to Sackville Street, off Piccadilly." He folded up the step, climbed into the cabin, and sat opposite me. He slammed the door shut.

I thought I'd upset him. Oh well. His moods were of no interest to me. It did mean an unpleasantly awkward journey, however.

It wasn't long before I regretted my outburst. Mr. Glass had seemed sincere, and it was unfair of me to snap at him when I was angry with Mr. Lawson.

"Miss Steele," he said, tearing his gaze away from the window. "I must ask you something about that exchange with Mr. Lawson. Can I, without risk of my head being bitten off?"

I pressed my lips together to suppress my smile. "Go ahead."

"You fixed that watch for him, even though he couldn't. How can that be?"

I shrugged one shoulder. "He's old and ought to retire, perhaps. It was only a matter of re-attaching the spring."

"Mr. Lawson has decades of experience, yet you wish me to believe he missed something so simple?"

"What other explanation is there? It wasn't working; I fixed it easily when he couldn't. There's nothing more to it."

He nodded slowly without taking his gaze off me. I found it unnerving so concentrated on the streets passing us by outside. After several turns, I realized we weren't heading in the right direction. I opened the window and shouted as much up to Cyclops.

He leaned over and looked back so that he could see me then touched the side of his nose as if to keep a secret. I closed the window again.

"What did he say?" Mr. Glass asked, rubbing his temples.

"That he knows what he's doing."

When we pulled into Park Street, Mr. Glass shoved open the door and leapt out before the coach had come to a complete stop outside his house. "What the devil are you doing?" he roared at Cyclops.

"Bringing you home to rest," Cyclops said. "And keep it down. You're scaring the horse."

The front door of number sixteen burst open just as I stepped out of the coach. A woman in her fifties stood on the threshold, an angry scowl on her face as she took in both myself and Mr. Glass. Dressed in black lace from head to toe, she looked like a cobweb in mourning.

"Matt!" Willie called out from behind her. "Better come inside real quick before she causes a scene."

"You!" The woman pointed at Mr. Glass before he had a chance to move. "Squatter! Intruder! Get out of my house or I'll have you arrested."

"
V
agabond
!" The woman cried in a shrill voice. "House thief!" She advanced down the steps, still pointing her finger at Mr. Glass. Her hand shook, and next to him, she looked tiny and fragile, yet she faced up to him as if she were a warrior. I admired her immensely.

I remained on the pavement, waiting to see Mr. Glass's response. Cyclops didn't move the coach onward, and Duke now joined Willie at the door. Unlike her, his gaze was on Mr. Glass, not the woman. He looked concerned.

A quick glance at Mr. Glass proved why. The telltale signs of exhaustion tugged at his eyes and mouth. "You're mistaken, madam," he said. "I own this house."

He
owned
it? I’d thought he'd simply leased it. How did an American come to own a house in one of London's best areas?

"You cannot own this house," the woman said with a haughty sniff. "My nephew does."

Willie's eyes widened so far they were in danger of popping out of her head.

"Coyote's balls," Duke muttered.

Mr. Glass blinked several times before finally clearing his throat. "Then you must be Miss Letitia Glass." He bowed. "I am Matthew Glass. Your nephew."

The woman stumbled backward, only to trip up the stair. Willie and Duke caught her and righted her. She hardly seemed aware of her near-accident or the people behind her, despite another colorful phrase spilling from Duke's lips.

"No," she muttered. "No, no, no. You cannot be Matthew. He is in America, doing…American things. He would write to notify me of his arrival." She leaned forward, squinted hard at him, then leaned back and continued her scrutiny, as if the distance would help her see better.

"Why would I write when I've never written before?" Mr. Glass said. "Aunt Letitia—"

"Don't call me that," she snapped. She reached out and caught his chin. He could have avoided her grip but he bore her inspection as she turned his head from side to side. "Hmmm. You do have some of the Glass bearing, and you're as handsome as your father. But you cannot be Matthew. He is only thirty. You look much older."

"He's been ill," Willie said.

Mr. Glass gave his cousin a sharp glare as Letitia Glass let him go. "I am unconvinced. Prove to me that you are Matthew and I'll allow you to stay here."

"You'll
allow
me?"

"Yes. I'll allow you, Mr. Whoever-You-Are. The more I see of you, the more I doubt you are my nephew. My dearest brother would not bring his son up to be impertinent to his aunt. Harry had manners."

At mention of his father, Mr. Glass lowered his head. He heaved a sigh.

"
You
prove who you are," Duke said before Mr. Glass could respond.

The tiny woman turned to him. "Everyone knows me." She waved a hand at the neighboring window. The curtain moved and the face that had been watching disappeared. "I am well known in London. I was—am—a dear friend to the queen." She touched the gray curls at the nape of her neck, poking out from beneath the cloud of black veil surrounding her hat. "I've been painted by masters, courted by foreign princes, and dined in palaces. A white knight even slayed a dragon for me, once."

Stunned silence followed her odd pronouncement as we all stared at her. A light rain began to fall and the curtain of the neighbor's house parted again. Letitia Glass stood in the center of us with an outwardly thrust chin, a straight back, and a glint in her eye that I now suspected was madness.

"Miss Glass," I said, gently. "My name is India Steele and I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. Please, come inside out of the rain. We'll have a cup of tea and see if we can sort out this misunderstanding. I give my word that no one will harm you."

She took in my face, my clothes, the reticule dangling from my wrist. "You do seem like a good, respectable
English
girl." She shot Willie a barbed glance.

Willie opened her mouth to say something, but Mr. Glass shook his head and she shut it again.

Miss Letitia Glass stepped back onto the porch and, after a brief hesitation, took Duke's offered arm.

"No one will harm her?" Mr. Glass murmured in my ear. His hand on my elbow gripped hard. "You think me capable of hurting elderly ladies?"

"Mr. Glass…" I stopped myself from telling him I didn't trust him and instead said, "It reassured her, did it not? Is there anything you can show her to prove who you are?"

"Is that for her benefit or yours?" He let me go and indicated I should step inside ahead of him.

"I never doubted you were Matthew Glass," I said, passing him. "Until now."

Mr. Glass didn't join us, and Duke disappeared after depositing Miss Glass on the drawing room sofa. I sat beside her, hoping my presence would give her some sense of comfort, although she didn't look in need of it. She sat as if she ought to be just there, her black skirts taking up much of the sofa. She touched a polished black stone, set in gold, clasped to her dress at the base of her throat, and wrinkled her nose.

"This room is stale," she announced. "You ought to open it up."

"There ain't no point," Willie said. "We'll be gone soon, and it's always raining here anyways or the air's sooty."

"Miss Glass," I said, "tell me about your nephew, Matthew." I wanted to learn as much about him as possible before he returned. That's if the fellow who'd employed me was in fact her nephew.

"Ask him yourself," Willie cut in.

"Would he answer me?"

She merely shrugged.

"My brother is so dear to me," Miss Glass said wistfully. Her eyes turned cloudy and I doubted whether she saw her surroundings at all. "He's so lively and jolly, and terribly kind. He excels at everything he puts his hand to. So clever and amiable. Everyone adores him and wants to be his friend. Except Papa, of course." Her mouth twisted into a frown. "And Richard."

"Er, Miss Glass." I glanced at Willie. She shrugged back. "I was asking after Matthew Glass, your nephew, not your brother."

"Your brother is dead." Willie raised her voice, as if Miss Glass were deaf.

"Willie!" I hissed.

Miss Glass stirred and shifted on the sofa. "Yes. Of course he is. I know that." She lowered her head but not before I saw tears spring to her eyes.

"What do you know about Matthew?" I tried again.

"Nothing," Miss Glass said. "I've never met him. Harry wrote to me when his wife bore a son. That was thirty years ago, but it feels like yesterday. I was happy for him. For them both, although I never met her, of course. Her people were poor American folk, you see, and not at all suitable for a Glass. But Harry, being Harry, married her anyway. He always was the romantic one." She sighed.

Willie bristled. "Poor American folk?" she echoed.

"Quite the wrong sort," Miss Glass told her. "All very…rough, so one of Harry's early letters said." She sighed again. "He wrote often after he announced Matthew's birth, but Richard hid the letters from me. The housekeeper told me about them, but she didn't dare take them like I asked."

"Who is Richard?" I ventured.

"My brother and the current Baron of Rycroft."

"Baron!" both Willie and I blurted out.

"A proper baron or is that just what folk like to call him?" Willie asked.

"Why would anyone call him a baron if he is not one?" Miss Glass laughed like a young girl. "Silly Americans," she said to me, as if sharing a private joke with another Englishwoman.

I was still too stunned to respond, however. Mr. Glass was the nephew of a baron! But he was far too foreign. And although he could act the gentleman well enough, there was nothing noble about him. Surely there was a mistake and he wasn't the Matthew Glass related to this woman.

That would make him a liar, and a squatter, as she'd called him. It wasn't much of a stretch from there to outlaw. Dread settled into my bones. If this woman could prove he wasn't Matthew Glass then she could be in danger from him.

Duke entered carrying a tray. I poured the tea because Willie was busy telling Duke what Miss Glass had said. I used both hands, the one steadying the other.

"Did you know?" Willie pestered Duke.

He shook his head. "You didn't? But you're his cousin."

"Cousin?" Miss Glass
humphed
. "What did I tell you, Miss Steele? My brother married into a rough American family, and there's the proof." She accepted the cup and bestowed a genteel smile upon me, as if she hadn't just insulted Willie.

Willie advanced on her, hands on her hips, her nostrils flaring like a raging bull's. She didn't speak for an entire twenty seconds, simply breathed heavily and glared daggers at Miss Glass. "You take that back!" she finally said.

"Why should she?" Duke grunted. "She's right."

Willie marched back to him and punched him so hard in the shoulder that he was forced back a step. She stormed out of the drawing room to the sound of his chuckles. "We beat you in the war!" she shouted back.

"We've been at war with America?" Miss Glass asked, a hand to her chest. "Dear me, how dreadful."

"I think she's referring to the War of Independence over a hundred years ago," I said, trying not to smile in relief. Willie, at least, wasn't a threat—at present.

Miss Glass sipped her tea. "Where is he?" she asked, looking past Duke to the door. "Where is the fellow claiming to be my nephew? I want another look at him."

"Keep your hair on," Duke said. " He'll be back soon."

Miss Glass patted her gray curls.

Mr. Glass strode into the drawing room, and Miss Glass immediately sat up straighter. She couldn't take her eyes off him, nor he her. He looked healthier again, the signs of illness and exhaustion gone. He dragged a chair over to sit near her and handed her a tintype photograph. He held another back.

"This is me with my parents," he said quietly. "I was about three years of age."

He watched Miss Glass's reaction intently. Her eyes shone with unshed tears as she traced the man in the photograph with her thumb. It must be her brother then. He looked remarkably like Mr. Glass did now, only with a mustache and hair parted at the side. He stood a little behind the seated woman with hooped skirts. She was very pretty, with slender features and large eyes. She held the hand of the little boy scowling at the camera. He looked like he resented having to stand still for so long.

"And this is me with my parents just before they fell ill. I was fifteen."

The couple's appearance had hardly changed. Her gown was dark instead of light, the skirts not quite so broad, and she wore a bonnet over her hair. The man's hairline had begun to recede a little, but he was still very handsome. The boy had grown up and now stood behind his mother's other side. He was taller than his father, with wide shoulders, and he no longer scowled at the camera but looked directly into it with calm countenance. His face may have been more youthful, but it was unmistakably the man sitting opposite, and he was most assuredly the son of the man in both photographs. It was a wonder Miss Glass hadn't noticed the striking familiarity immediately upon seeing him. Then again, she was touched in the head.

She sniffed loudly. Mr. Glass handed her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her eyes. "Harry," she whispered, stroking the tintype again. "My dearest Harry."

Mr. Glass watched her, his elbows on his knees, his throat moving with his swallow. "Aunt Letitia?" he murmured.

She wiped her cheek with the handkerchief and handed back the photographs. She clasped both his hands. "Matthew," she whispered. "We have so much to discuss. We must be quick."

"Quick? Why?"

She flapped the hand that held the handkerchief. "Is it true your parents died from an illness?"

He nodded. "Both died with weeks of the other."

"Then what did you do?"

He leaned back in the chair and studied each of the tintypes. "Returned to my mother's family in California. Until I was old enough to leave," he added with chilling bite.

I sat on the edge of my seat, waiting for him to dole out more pieces of the puzzle that could help me solve the mystery of Mr. Glass.

"Why did you come to England after all this time?" she asked. "Harry vowed never to return."

"I'm looking for someone." His gaze flicked to me them back to his aunt. It was the first time he'd acknowledged my presence since walking into the drawing room.

"I see. Well, I am glad you came." She wrung his hand in both of hers. "Are you married?"

He pulled free. "No."

"Promised to anyone?"

"No."

"Excellent! We must find you a bride now that you're home. A good English girl, someone from our set." She clicked her tongue. "If only I knew who the right girls are nowadays."

"Aunt, please, I'm not looking for a bride. Just a watchmaker." Again, he glanced at me. He must want to get away to speak with the watchmaker known as Mirth. "Nor am I here for long. I leave on Tuesday."

"Tuesday! But that is too soon."

He stood. She tried to clasp his hand but he moved away. He couldn't have failed to notice the attempt, however. He held himself rigidly as he went to stand by the mantel, as far away from us as possible while remaining in the room.

"I hope you are well, Aunt."

"Fit as a fiddle. But Matthew—"

"And my Uncle Richard?"

She clicked her tongue. "Still alive, more's the pity."

"Does he take care of your needs?" Mr. Glass asked.

"I am adequately fed and housed, like one of his horses, if that's what you mean." She clasped her hands on her lap, her proud chin once more tilted at an imperial angle. This was a woman aware of her elevated position in the world. The madness was nowhere to be seen.

"Does he know I'm in England?" Mr. Glass asked.

"Yes."

"Did he have me followed?"

"Followed? Why would he follow you?"

"I don't know the answer to that, but I do know that I'm being followed."

So that was why he constantly looked out the coach window this morning.

"When?" Duke sounded worried.

Mr. Glass dismissed his question with a shake of his head. Duke's lips flattened, and I thought he'd argue but Miss Glass started talking again.