Legacy of the Clockwork Key

by Kristin Bailey

  Something in my life had to change, but there was only one thing I could call my own. I pressed my hand to my bib, feeling the broken watch push against my heart as I silently left the room.

  • • •

  That evening I sat at the table drying and stacking dishes, thinking about my broken watch while Agnes lumbered around the kitchen like an arthritic goose. Strands of her dark gray hair peeked out from beneath her worn cap as she set the kitchen right for the evening.

  “Did you enjoy the stew?” she asked as she straightened the shelves.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever tasted anything quite like it,” I teased.

  Agnes guffawed. “It’s my specialty.”

  I smiled. “Do you think the groom would be willing to perform a small task?” I asked. It was time to do something about the watch. Every time I touched it to my cheek, I longed to hear it tick.

  A knife clattered on the cooking board. “Good heavens, Margaret. Don’t you dare go near that carriage house. Do you hear me?” The cook’s words boomed in the kitchen, rattling the pots above.

  My hand slipped on the dish I was holding. I wasn’t expecting so much vehemence. I only wished to repair my watch. “I have something that’s broken. Doesn’t the groom tend the pots and harnesses?”

  “Aye,” Cook said, drawing the word out as if it had some deep importance. “He’s a tinker.” Her eyes widened as her mouth set in a frown. She gave me a serious nod.

  “Is he dangerous?” I didn’t know much about tinkers, nothing at all really. Once again my head started spinning with curiosity.

  Agnes threw up her hands and grabbed the old jug she kept near the basin. I wondered what was in it this time, but thought better than to ask. She was agitated enough. “He’s a traveler, dear, and a bleedin’ Scot at that.”

  I tried to follow but still didn’t see how that should make him some vile creature. “I don’t understand.”

  Agnes sighed and rested her elbow against the cooking board. She used her other hand to bat her apron. “You wouldn’t understand, living the way you did.”

  Now at that, I took offense. “My father’s shop on Oxford Street was very respectable.”

  “Aye, that’s the problem. Tinkers have naught to do with respectable. They’re wanderers, no better than Gypsies. A good girl like you should stay far clear of such associations. Why the good baron decided to take in a mongrel like that, I haven’t a notion. That tinker holds a candle to the Devil, you mark my words.”

  The thrill of fear coursed through me. I’d never seen the groom. He lived in the carriage house and hardly ever came into the main house. If he did, he was like a shadow, passing silently before I ever caught full sight of him. In my mind he took on a beastly quality that I found strangely compelling.

  “How did he come to work here?” I asked.

  Agnes flopped onto a stool and leaned forward.

  “The baron found him wandering down a road near Blairgowrie years ago. The whelp was calm as anything, just walking, covered in blood. Several miles down the road they came upon his family’s wagon, ransacked, the horse gone, and his father murdered in a ditch. Lord Rathford took him in and set him in the stables to help poor old John, God rest his sweet soul.” Agnes crossed herself and stared up at the ceiling beams with a wistful look on her crinkled face. Then her eyes turned as sharp as a hawk’s. “He is naught but trouble, mark my words.”

  I couldn’t say anything for a moment. All I could think about was a lost and frightened boy wandering down the road alone.

  “How old was he?”

  “No one knows, exactly, but he was thin as a stick. He couldn’t have been more than six.” Agnes crossed her arms over her bosom and leaned back.

  A deep sadness gripped me and didn’t let go. I knew what it was like to feel so alone.

  “And he didn’t cry at all?” I had cried. I had cried until I had made myself sick with it. I hadn’t known how I would endure without the sweet patience of my mother or the cheerful wit of my father. I’d cried until I couldn’t cry any more.

  Agnes shook her head, the ruffles of her cap swishing against her forehead. “It was unnatural. He couldn’t mourn proper for his own family. He didn’t talk, neither. Thought he was dumb for years. He’s a fair groom, good with horses, but you hear me right, child. He’s not to be trusted. You stay far away from that carriage house.”

  I nodded, but it was an empty promise I already knew I wouldn’t keep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE NEXT MORNING WELL BEFORE DAWN, I STOOD AT THE threshold, my fingertips touching the cold brass handle. Every moment I hesitated was another secret moment wasted.

  I knew I didn’t have much time. If Agnes caught me sneaking off to the carriage house the morning after she told me not to, she would make my life miserable.

  There was one rule every kitchen maid knew to the marrow of her bones. Don’t anger the cook.

  Agnes had a hot temper and knew how to hold a grudge. If she petitioned Mrs. Pratt, she could have me sacked for my cheek. After the incident with the shards, it wasn’t as if I were in Mrs. Pratt’s good graces either.

  The thought of being turned out onto the street terrified me.

  A girl with no prospects could end up in the workhouse. Or worse, I could end up working as a dollymop on the street corner, something a proper girl shouldn’t even know about, let alone consider.

  I shuddered.

  Was it worth the risk?

  Yes. I pulled the door open. Violent wind buffeted the mounds of snow piled against the ice-covered skeleton of the hedge near the back stairs. I gathered my shawl around my neck, but it was of little use. I shook as I stumbled up the steps and ran across the bleak gardens still shrouded by the thick veil of night.

  I kept my head down, but the skin of my cheeks burned with the bitter cold. In the dark I managed to find the large curved handles of the carriage house doors, and struggled to push them open. They didn’t budge until I threw all my weight against them, and even then I only managed to squeeze through the gap.

  The wind whistled through the door as I pushed it shut. It closed with an ominous boom, leaving me alone in the dark. My hands burned from the cold, so I tucked them under my shawl. A dim light flickered from somewhere deep in the carriage house, outlining the form of an elegant old landau coach that probably hadn’t moved in years.

  “Is anybody here?” I called into the empty dark.

  A bit of ice melted into my boot, sending a shock of chill down to my ankle. I took a moment to shake the rest of the snow off my skirt.

  “What are you doin’ here?” a low, calm voice asked, though there was no mistaking the subtle edge of anger.

  I wheeled around but lost my footing on the damp stone and fell against the door.

  A horse neighed, the sharp sound ringing off the stone walls. I stood and faced the man. He held a lantern in front of him, casting him in shadow.

  “Are you the groom?” I asked as I stood straighter. Yes, it was early, but no earlier than a groom is expected to rise.

  “No,” he answered with a very subtle Scottish lilt in his voice. “I’m the horse.”

  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.

  Blast
ed 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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  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.