Legacy of the Clockwork Key Page 3

  “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.

  I pushed open the heavy doors with less trouble now that there was no wind to contend with. Within the sanctuary of the carriage house, the faint rhythmic sound of a brush kept time as a soothing melody floated through the air. It came from the stalls at the far end.

  I listened for a moment to the clear voice of the groom. The melody was sad, haunting in that lonely way that makes all things fall quiet and listen. I didn’t understand the strange language he sang. I didn’t have to.

  There was no time to dally. Agnes or Mrs. Pratt could return at any minute.

  I needed to leave the shirts and get back to the house. Another confrontation with the surly groom would ruin what progress I’d made in our unspoken agreement.

  But I couldn’t leave the shirts anywhere. Mrs. Pratt would see them when she returned with the cart. Biting my lip, I crept deeper into the carriage house.

  When I reached the corner that separated the stables from the main body of the carriage house, I paused, peeking around the worn stone.

  The groom’s large hands slid down the neck of the old seal-colored gelding with affection and care. My heart hammered in my chest as I watched the sleepy-eyed horse tilt his back hoof up in utter contentment. At least the groom was dressed this time in a proper, if faded, brown waistcoat, though he had his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  “Like sneaking around, do you?” the groom stated without ever looking up.

  “If that’s my greatest shortcoming, I’m hardly the worst sinner in this household.” I lifted my chin, determined not to let him get the better of me this time.

  He chuckled as he tossed the brush into a bucket. Patting the swaying back of the gelding, he turned and looked at me.

  “Do you want your shirts, or not?” I managed to say the words without much of a tremble in my voice, though I couldn’t quite move my feet without fear I’d stumble. Finally, I composed myself and stepped around the corner with a confidence I didn’t feel.

  “What’s your name, lass?” He grabbed a cloth from the bucket and rubbed the gelding’s face.

  “Margaret Whitlock. Everyone here calls me Meg.” As soon as I said it, I questioned the familiarity of letting him use my given name, but this was hardly proper society. He was the groom. I was the maid. There were different rules in this world.

  The beginning of a smile pulled at his wounded lip. “William MacDonald. No one here calls me anything at all, but you can call me Will if you want.” He wiped his hands as he approached.

  I fought the urge to step back as he strode toward me. He didn’t stop until he’d forced me to look up at him. A lock of his dark hair had fallen over his forehead and he pushed it away from his eye with his knuckle.

  “I brought your shirts and some of the treacle tart from yesterday’s tea.” Why did I find it so hard to speak? I had to force myself to remember that he’d been rude and insolent to me the last time I’d seen him. I thrust the bundle of shirts toward him with stiff arms, but he didn’t move back a step.

  “Treacle?” He smiled fully, and I almost dropped the shirts. They slipped out of my hands and I bent forward to catch them, crumpling them together until his hand caught mine.

  I held my breath.

  Slowly he helped me rise. Then he took the small rag-wrapped tart that I had crushed somewhat inelegantly against my chest.

  My gaze met his. “Consider it a kindness,” I mumbled. He just stared, his dark brown eyes so deep, I . . .

  I dropped the shirts on the floor and retreated toward the door. My face felt on fire as I heard the heavy beat of my heart in my ears.

  “Meg, wait,” he called.

  His voice stopped me, trapping me in the spot like a wild bird in a snare. My heart fluttered, beating wildly as I clung to the heavy latch.

  He crossed the distance between us. With a gentle touch, he lifted my hand from the door. “Let’s take a look at your watch.”

  I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. “Mrs. Pratt will be home soon.”

  Will smiled. “Aye, but Old Nick knows when Little Nancy is near. He’ll give us fair warning.” He winked, then pulled me deeper into the carriage house, leading me back toward the stables. “Come, Meg. Share a bit of tart with me.” He motioned to a worn chair by a small fat-bellied stove in the corner.

  I perched on the end of it but found my toe tapping in a rapid and unladylike way. I stepped on it with my other foot. He only wanted to help. It’s what I’d asked of him. I gathered my skirts, bunching the fabric over my apron. Will rolled over a barrel that had been cut in half to form a large tub and turned it down to make a small table near the stove. He grabbed a stool with a mismatched leg and eas
ed down beside me.

  We sat in silence as I watched him break the tart and hand me a piece. It was a bit of a mess without any proper plates or utensils, but it tasted heavenly.

  I closed my eyes. “This is good,” I murmured through my mouthful, then immediately looked at him abashed, until I noticed his cheek overstuffed with tart. I laughed.

  “Aye,” he agreed, eating what remained of his portion with another single bite. “You’re lucky.”

  “You think so?” I broke off a dainty piece of mine and tried to look elegant while eating in such a barbaric manner.

  “You get to eat this every week.” He shrugged. “I get left over beef scraps and whatever I can manage on my own.”

  “I’ve never had this before,” I admitted.

  “Why not?” He picked up a cloth and wiped his hands.

  “We’re not allowed to eat it. The cook makes one every Thursday, and I have to throw it away uneaten every Friday.” I finished the last of my piece then wiped my hands on my apron.

  “Why?”

  “I thought you’d know.” I certainly couldn’t find an excuse for such a waste of food and effort.

  He looked down and scuffed the floor with his shoe. “John never talked about it. Not once. Told me not to mind what goes on in the house, so I didn’t.”

  That was the crux of the matter. No one ever spoke of it. I felt as if all the pieces of a great puzzle were laid out before me, but I couldn’t see the picture. “All I know is this is how the baron wants it.”

  Will sighed as if he understood. “So, do you have the watch?”

  I reached to my neck and his dark eyes followed the motion of my hand. Slowly I pulled the watch out from beneath the front of my apron, but his gaze remained fixed on my bib. I tilted my head and he snapped his eyes to the timepiece spinning between us.

  Will reached up and stopped the hypnotic movement with the tips of his fingers.

  I paused. I hardly knew the groom at all. Could I trust him? He’d clearly been in a brawl, and he’d just admitted that he had to scrape for his own food. What if he took the watch and sold it to some seedy duffer?

  I hesitated, pulling the watch back just enough that it broke from the tips of his fingers.

  Will dropped his hand. His gaze turned icy.

  “Go back to the house, lass.” He placed his hands on his knees and stood, towering above me.

  “Wait.” I couldn’t repair it on my own. “Please, I’m sorry.”

  I quickly placed the watch on the barrel and pulled my hand back, but I couldn’t fight the urge to reach toward it again. I had to stop myself. Pulling my fingers into a tight fist, I brought my hand to my lap, but I couldn’t take my eyes from the watch.

  Will walked away. I felt my heart twisting. He loosened Old Nick’s cross ties and led him back to the stall, then slammed the stall shut and turned on me. I’d never seen such anger in a face. “Either you trust me, or you don’t.”

  Everything Agnes had said about him rushed through my mind. But it didn’t matter. I had no choice. I had to trust him. He’d given me no reason not to. Still it was difficult. The watch was all I had.

  Enough. I had to stop thinking before I drove myself clean out of my mind. “I apologize. It’s very precious to me. I have a hard time letting go. I need your help.” I looked him in the eye, determined to show him the sincerity of my words. “I can’t repair it on my own.”

  “Have you tried?” He crossed his arms.

  “I can’t bring myself to. I don’t want to break it.” I looked down at the watch. “I break a lot of things.”

  Will huffed. “Mrs. Pratt must be fond of you.”

  I tried to quell my nerves as I looked up at him. “Immensely.”

  He chuckled as he grabbed the stool and sat down again. I tried to gather my wits, but when Will reached out and took the watch, I felt an empty hole open up inside me, as if he’d just picked up my beating heart and was holding it in his hands.

  Will turned the watch over and over, smoothing his finger across what appeared to be the latch, or the hinge, I wasn’t sure. He pulled a short knife out of his boot and I winced.

  “Easy.” His voice dropped to a low and musical tone he probably used on the horses. His hands closed over the watch as he set the edge of the knife in the seam. With a swift pop, he cracked it open as if he were shucking a clam.

  I felt as if I’d just been jabbed in the ribs, but I forced myself to remain calm.

  His expression turned quizzical as he squinted in the dim light. “I don’t think this is a watch.”

  “What else could it be?” I reached forward to grab it then pulled my hand back. My fingertips came to rest on his, but he didn’t look up. Instead we both stared at the strange mechanism unfolding in his hands.

  Like an odd shining blossom, three silver structures rose up on a short brass stem as Will opened the cover. Each petal’s edge had a different pattern of irregularly shaped teeth. The shape resembled the flower embossed on the back, but with sharper edges and minuscule gears.

  “What is it?” I had never seen anything like it before in my father’s shop.

  “I don’t know.” Will delicately flipped the device over. “Look at this.”

  The round nub had protruded out of the back, lifting the image of the three-petal flower out from the casing to create what looked like a button.

  “Press it,” I urged. My shock had dissipated in favor of raw excitement. I had no idea what would happen, but I felt like a child waiting for the jack to spring forth from the box. Will pushed the button, and with a click, the gears began to move. They twisted and spun as the mechanism turned in a slow circle.

  Music, the clear tones of tiny bells, reached out to me. Though the tune was delicate, it was as if I could hear my grandfather’s rumbling voice singing to me and only me.

  “Do you know the song?” Will asked, but his voice barely broke through the haze of my memories. I could see my fingers awkwardly pressing the keys of the pianoforte while Papa laughed. I could feel white skirts swirling around my legs as I stood on my grandfather’s feet and danced.

  It was a song we had created, a song only the two of us had known.

  “It’s my grandfather, my Papa,” I whispered. “He must have made this for me.”

  “ ’Tis a sweet music box,” Will offered. I couldn’t say anything in response. The song faltered and he inspected the tiny gears. After removing a bit of grit, he closed the musical locket again. It folded elegantly, the flower sinking neatly into the heart of the locket as the cover closed over it.

  He handed it back to me and I brought it to my chest. What had been important to me was now priceless. Will had given me something no one else ever could.

  “Thank you.”

  A shy smile spread over his face. “It were nothin’.”

  He stood and replaced his knife in his boot. Old Nick lifted his head and whinnied.

  “You’d better get back to the house.”

  I touched my eyes with the back of my wrist and nodded even as Will opened the side door. Keeping the locket pressed tight to my chest, I ran back to the steps.

  The bright sun felt warm on my back, soaking into me as I thought about Papa and his precious gift.

  I nearly slipped down the stairs to the kitchens, catching myself on the door. With shaking hands, I placed the locket back around my neck and tucked it under my apron. My brief freedom was over.

  I opened the door and ducked into the kitchen.

  A meaty hand caught my shoulder. My legs almost gave out as Agnes slammed me back against the closed door.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded. Her bloodshot eyes bulged out of her ruddy face, laden with accusation.

  I was caught.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “YOU WENT OUT TO THAT CARRIAGE HOUSE, DIDN’T you?” Agnes barked, and the sound rattled my bones. She’d never shouted at me before. Her grip tightened, squeezing my arm until I feared it would break. I tried not to b
reathe as the foul odor on Agnes’s breath nearly choked me.

  “I ate a bit of the tart, I’m sorry!” My mind worked furiously as I tried to think through the lie. I prayed a bit of crumb from the tart clung to my dress. “It crumbled on my apron and I went outside to shake it off for the birds.”

  I held deathly still, like a pup caught by the scruff. The suspicion in Agnes’s eyes burned, then her gaze whipped to the window.

  My heart beat once, twice. A cart’s wheels rumbled on the stones of the drive.

  Agnes paled, looking uncertain, then eased her hold on my arm. Tucking her nose against her shoulder, she smelled her own dress. She reeked of cigar smoke and liquor. I’d never been more thankful that the cook had her own demons to hide.

  “Prigged some tart, eh?” She released my dress. I took a step to the side trying to move clear of her arm’s reach. “That tart is not for eating.”

  “But it’s such a waste.” The more I could get her to focus on the tart, the more likely she’d forget about her initial suspicion. “You work so hard to make it, shouldn’t someone enjoy it?”

  She let out a heavy breath, and I had to stifle a cough from the odor. “It’s not for eating because it wasn’t eaten.” Agnes shook her head. “You should know this by now. Nothing can change from that day.”

  “The day the baroness died?” I didn’t know where the question came from. It just burst out of me.

  Agnes’s eyes grew wide, her gaze more clear and sober than I’d ever seen it. “What do you know of it?”

  I felt my heart drop into my boots. Dear Lord, I was right. It was as if all the pieces had suddenly arranged themselves before my eyes, and it was only in this moment of shock that I could see clearly. The bed I’d made every day, the vase, the teacup, the bath, the rose petals, the powder lid. All the things that were to remain askew in the house, they were all a woman’s things. I’d been playing lady’s maid to the memory of a woman who had been dead longer than I’d been alive.

  “I know nothing,” I whispered. I just wanted to leave, to think about this new revelation on my own.