Timepiece

by Heather Albano

  “Of course it’s not a bribe, sir,” he said finally, lamely, not at all with the insouciance the moment required. “I was trusting you for the change. Now, the child, if you please?”

  Mr. Perry snorted and picked up his pen, and for a moment William thought he had lost. Before he could regroup and try again, though, Perry plunged his hand into the bag, counted out the coins required, and left the bag and the remainder for William to take. He reached and pulled a bell pull, and when a peaky-looking child appeared out of the left hand door, sent the boy for Mrs. Mason.

  William exhaled a breath. That went terribly, he thought. And then, But no matter. It worked.

  Mrs. Mason was dressed in an outfit like Annie Drew’s—perhaps a shade newer and a shade worse cared-for, but similarly made of cheap stuff with no hope of lasting long. Mr. Perry identified her as the matron of the girls’ orphanage and explained to her what was wanted.

  “Oh, but we couldn’t do that, sir,” she said, eyes wide. “You know as well as I do that we only get such children as haven’t mothers to care for them, and if this woman’s been mistreating her child, surely it’s our duty to—”

  “I haven’t!” Annie burst out, and “She’s done no such thing,” William said, forgetting the part for the second time and—separately—making his second mistake.

  Because the woman’s eyes were wide with innocent horror, but he could tell now it was manufactured innocence. She was almost licking her lips as she gazed at William’s smart brass buttons. Here’s where a bribe would have worked, William thought—and, Damn! Damn, damn, damn! Another bloody thing I can’t—

  “I’m sure the gentleman can see we’re in no position to take his word,” Mrs. Mason said stiffly, drawing herself up. “He might intend a mischief. You read of such things in the papers. No, sir, I’d be remiss in my duties—I certainly can’t without I go to Mr. Jorrick first. He’d be that angry with me if I...”

  “If you what? What’s this about, then?” The big middle-aged man who entered, also from the left-hand door, had the build and hard hands of one accustomed to manual labor. He wore a jacket that didn’t quite fit him over a shirt and trousers like Trevelyan’s, and his tie was only loosely knotted about his thick neck.

  “Mr. Jorrick is the factory overseer,” Perry said to William. “Mr. Jorrick, Mr. Carrington.”

  Mrs. Mason said, “This woman sold her child a while agone, and wants her back.”

  “Not quite,” William said. “This woman is a friend of my family’s, and we believe her child was brought here as a malicious joke on the part of a neighbor.” The story was right, but he hadn’t accomplished the requisite delivery, and Jorrick seemed to notice the mismatch between his speech and his clothing, for the man’s small eyes studied him for a disconcerting moment. “The girl’s name is Margaret Drew,” William repeated, giving up on the drawl and the slang as a lost cause. He picked up the bag of coins. “We’ve brought the money you would have given for her.”

  “Come with me to my office, Mr. Carrington,” Jorrick said, rousing himself from his study of William’s clothing, “and we’ll sort this out, eh?”

  William followed his sweeping arm, stepping through the right-hand door the man held for him and into a small and untidy cubbyhole. He could hear Annie following, but Jorrick shut the door before she had reached it.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Carrington,” Jorrick said, motioning to one of the two chairs on either side of a structure that seemed to serve double duty as a desk and a dining table. The big man circled to take the other chair, slapping at his pockets as though searching for something. “I’d offer you a cigarette, but I can’t seem to find—”

  There was an infinitesimal pause, and William knew that etiquette demanded he offer a cigarette in his turn, that Jorrick was expecting him to, and that it would be the best thing in the world he could do, for the man was making friendly overtures and a gentleman who did not stand on position would have a better chance of getting the overseer to do what he needed. He knew all this things. He did not have a cigarette to offer. Nor could he manipulate his right arm into the required searching, slapping gesture without drawing attention to his deformity. He tried to think what to do instead, what excuse he could make—for the type of man he was pretending to be would surely have smoking material ready to hand—and as he hesitated, Jorrick’s eyes hardened and his hands dropped to his sides.

  He had interpreted it as a snub. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

  “I needn’t take much of your time, Mr. Jorrick,” William said as pleasantly as he could over the renewed rapid beating of his heart. “This strikes me as a very simple matter.”

  “Ah, but there are considerations you know nothing of, young sir,” Jorrick said. “Rules and regulations. We take good care of all our youngsters, you know, and we’ve got to be ready to answer to Mr. Murchinson and the law should they inquire. I can’t just hand the girl over to you.”

  William unclenched his teeth. “I’ve brought with me the money Murchinson’s gave for her. Plus a bit extra—if there should be any fine imposed, I should be happy to cover it.”

  “But it would still be me held to account, wouldn’t it?” Jorrick shook his head as if sadly, and leaned against the wall, arms folded. “It’s plain you’ve little experience with men of business, Mr. Carrington—and nor should a young gentleman like yourself, of course. In any case, though, I couldn’t disrupt the work shift. The wheels are turning, you know. I’d have to go and find a magistrate to approve the releasing of the child to your custody. Why don’t you...ah...leave me with a card, and I’ll...be sure to send to you when I’ve arranged for the legal paperwork.”

  William had heard enough. He recognized the glint in Jorrick’s eye as that of a cat enjoying its power over a mouse. An astutely administered bribe might compel Jorrick’s assistance; but then, he might find he preferred power to money. It was too late to try blather, and William had his doubts regarding the efficacy of that tactic in any case. Calm reason wouldn’t work at all—nor would pleading. Though both might have with Mr. Perry, Jorrick was cut of different cloth. William knew the cloth, for he had encountered it both at Eton and in the Army.

  Fortunately, that meant he also knew at least one sure tactic for defeating it. A young, mild-tempered, slenderly built ensign learns very quickly that he must not be afraid to assert his authority over private soldiers, even those bigger than he is. Especially those bigger than he is.

  William stood up sharply enough to knock the chair over, recalling to mind the techniques for hardening his face as though he had completely lost control of his temper. “That’s enough.” He looked straight at Jorrick, picturing him as a delinquent private soldier, and Jorrick appeared to abruptly derive less enjoyment from the encounter. “I’ve no more time for this nonsense. You know as well as I do that it’s as much as your position is worth to involve the law, and let me assure you I will not hesitate to do just that if this situation is not instantly resolved. You will take to me to where the child is. Now.”

  He didn’t actually expect instant obedience from a man not drilled to obey an officer’s orders, but he didn’t give Jorrick the chance to recover himself, turning instead to the door and wrenching it open before Jorrick could see how he fumbled to manage both the coin bag and the doorknob. He would lose if this came to a physical fight; but against so large an opponent, he would have lost even back when he had full use of both his hands, so that hardly mattered. He could only triumph if he acted as though a physical contest was an utter impossibility.

  He strode into the outer office, and made for the left-hand door. Mrs. Mason fell back a little at his face, and the clerk looked up, surprised. William ignored them both. “Come, Mrs. Drew,” he said, and led her down the narrow corridor with Jorrick’s “hey, wait!” ringing in the air behind him.

  The wave of heat struck him like a blow—not the searing, burning, bright heat of a Spanish summer, but a dull, overbaked staleness, like an oven. He pushed through the dead
air as though through a physical obstacle, Annie close on his heels and Jorrick and Mrs. Mason behind her. “You can’t—” Jorrick started.

  The passage ended abruptly in a room the size of Trevelyan’s laboratory. Around long trestle tables, half-grown children stood—girls at some, boys at others—fingers moving in steady rhythm. William knew what they were doing; Katarina had shown him matchsticks, and briefly explained their manufacture, so that he would not look like a man from an earlier era who had never seen the things. He was prepared for the tables, the boxes, the vats of liquid. He ought to have been prepared for the youth of the workers; he was, after all, there to fetch a child.

  What he was not prepared for was their appearance. Too thin and too pale—he had expected that; these were pauper children after all—but with red-rimmed eyes that seemed almost scarlet in contrast to the white skin of their faces. The hands that moved among the sticks and vats were equally red, worse than the mere rawness of a kitchen maid. The faces of the girls closest to him, engaged in packing finished match-books into crates, were horribly swollen, jaws distended with misshapen lumps, cheekbones sunken. Their skin seemed to glow green in the shadowed room. Another girl walked past him, a full crate balanced on her head, and when she set it on a pile of similar ones and turned back, he saw that hair clung to her skull only in occasional chunks.

  He felt like he was choking from the lack of air. He wondered what the attempted sabotage had been, back before Seward’s capture. He would have given a great deal right now for a way to bring this whole place down and fetch all of the children out of there.

  He drew a long, burning breath, Katarina’s argument with Trevelyan ringing in his ears. They were trying to bring the whole thing down—Trevelyan with his cannon, Seward with his conspiracy. It was not as though William could do better in a single instant, with no weapons except his educated accent and the brass buttons on his coat. He didn’t have a lever long enough to shift this world, and if he tried, he might well put into jeopardy Trevelyan’s evening plans. For certain he would endanger Annie. He turned abruptly to her.

  “Which?” he snarled through the thickness in his throat. He didn’t dare more than the one word for fear of how his voice would shake.

  Annie was already moving toward a girl working at a table set against the far wall, already calling her daughter’s name. She seized the child’s hand and stumbled back, and William turned on his heel, thrust the bag of coins at Jorrick, and shepherded his charges toward the corridor. “I’ll have the law on you—” Jorrick blustered behind him.

  “Do,” William said, opened the door for Annie and Meg, and made sure it slammed behind him.

  Chapter 12

  London, August 27, 1885

  Elizabeth stood looking down at the unmade bed for a long time before she loosened the laces of her bodice, unbuckled her shoes, and gingerly lowered herself onto the mattress.

  It shifted under her weight, the hay within crackling softly, and she thought a cloud of dust stirred itself briefly. The brown woolen blanket was rough under her fingers, unappealing. At least she did not need to draw it over herself. She was fully clothed, and the garret bedroom sweltering. She put the blanket to one side, and laid her head on the pillow she assumed to be Katarina’s.

  The other pillow seemed to be staring at the back of her skull.

  She tried to ignore it. She had lain down upon Katarina’s bed, that was all. She was weary to the bone, and Trevelyan had brusquely ordered her out from under his feet, so she had gone to rest upon her friend’s bed. She would forget that it also belonged to a man. She would not think of Katarina lying here at Trevelyan’s side, nor of the hurt in Katarina’s eyes at Trevelyan’s coldness. She wondered what would be worse—to choose for yourself, and choose to love a man who did not love you, or to have a husband like Charles Wilton thrust upon you and know for certain that love was impossible? It was a knotty problem, but in the end the quandary and even the discomfort of the heat were no match for the fatigues of the day. She drifted off into a doze, her last conscious thought to wryly wonder if she would awaken in her own bed.

  A door slammed somewhere below, startling her upright.

  There was no way to tell how long she had slept. Sweat ran down her face and her heart hammered against her breastbone. The stuffy air pressed like tight-laced stays against her ribs.

  A man’s voice spoke, angry but indistinct. Elizabeth strained to hear the words. It spoke again, closer, and this time another voice answered. Katarina’s.

  “What the devil is wrong with you?” Maxwell demanded. His voice came clearly now; they must be approaching the bottom of the stairs. “What were you thinking, taking her out into the city?”

  “That she was at least as safe under my watchful eye out there as she would have been under Trevelyan’s inattentive eye in here,” Katarina’s voice replied tartly. “Especially when you consider—” She chuckled, but without much humor. “If I understand the young lady’s character correctly, she would have been very likely to sneak off on her own and go exploring. At least under my scheme, someone knew where she was.”

  Elizabeth felt herself growing even hotter.

  “And taking William to Murchinson’s? What would have happened if he’d drawn attention?”

  “Oh, you sound like Trevelyan. I took him because you weren’t here and it couldn’t wait. There might not have been another chance.”

  “We cannot risk losing—” Maxwell broke off. There was a pause. He seemed to use it in an attempt to calm himself, for when he went on, his voice was somewhat lowered. “We cannot risk losing people from the past. Their deaths could alter everything that comes after.”

  There was another pause. “I apologize,” Katarina said. “But there’s no harm done.”

  “I suppose not,” Maxwell admitted. “But at this stage—with Seward imprisoned—none of us should be taking any risks at all. The whole thing is balanced on a knife edge, and—”

  “Do you think it will work?” Katarina asked quietly.

  “I...don’t know.” From the sound of it, Maxwell had started to pace. “Do I think the weapon will fire? Yes. But it’s a long step from one working prototype to an army equipped with them. I do think it’s worth trying. I’ve always thought that.”

  “And if it doesn’t work…?” Katarina’s voice trailed off into a question.

  “Even if it does—” Maxwell sighed. “Orkney, the fifteenth of September, 1790. I’ll have another try at stopping it before it starts.”

  “Did you ever...” Katarina hesitated. “Did you ever think of going to Pendoylan, the eighteenth of May, 1872?”

  “Oh, Katarina.” Maxwell stopped pacing. “I’ve already been there. I’ve already failed there. Katarina...would you really wish for that to be altered?”

  “I think...yes, I think I would,” Katarina said. “But there’s no chance of it?”

  “No. I’ve already been there. And to the University of London the following year. To Geneva in 1788, to Inverness in 1800, to Carron Valley in 1855...to every place I could think of where the outcome trembled on a knife’s edge and there was a chance I could affect it.”

  “And now here,” Katarina said.

  “And now here. Then to Orkney, whether we succeed or fail tonight. To argue him out of his momentous decision if I can—” Maxwell’s voice turned grim. “—and to shoot him if I cannot. I have grown both brutal and desperate in my old age. We have to stop this. It doesn’t matter what tool we use.”

  “That’s why I took William to Murchinson’s,” Katarina said.

  “Yes.” Maxwell sighed. “I see that. But we can’t risk either of them any further. I’ll make sure they’re back home before the excitement starts here.”

  “I do not think the storm intends to cooperate with your timetable,” Trevelyan’s voice interjected, and his feet came to join them from the direction of the laboratory. “Their watch won’t work until, what, three in the morning? I doubt the lightning will hold off so
long.”

  “You’re ready for the test, then?” Katarina asked, almost as easily as though there were no harsh words or cold silence between them.

  “Indeed I am.” Trevelyan spoke with a satisfaction very nearly approaching warmth. “Come and see, the both of you.” The voices at the bottom of the stair moved toward the laboratory, and Elizabeth scrambled for her bodice and shoes. She could join them now, pretending that she had just awoken and that she had not heard any of what Maxwell and Katarina clearly had meant to be a private conversation.

  Her sweat-damp fingers fumbled the shoe buckles, and then she did the bodice lacings wrong and had to feed them through again. She located Trevelyan’s other spare boot by tripping over it as she had its mate, and nearly pitched headlong through the curtain and down the stairs. She caught herself, took a deep breath, and tried for a more sedate pace as she headed downward.

  William was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She froze.