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

by C. J. Archer

  "Tell me about your new position," Catherine said. "Does it involve watches?"

  "In a way."

  "Good. You've got a knack for fine repair work, so Father says. He was quite impressed by how quickly you learned everything. He used to hold you up as an example of why women ought to be allowed to perform men's work if they chose." She screwed up her nose. "Sorry, India, but I am glad he stopped all that. I began to feel quite inadequate next to your perfection."

  "I'm hardly perfect," I scoffed.

  "Father has always appreciated brains over beauty." She patted her bouncy blonde curls. "Some men do, you know," she added, as if such men were a rarity.

  "Most prefer a little of both," I said, laughing, "but not too much of either."

  She broke into giggles again.

  "We'd be quite the combination if we were one person," I said, still smiling. "With your looks and my watchmaking skills, we'd have all the gentlemen for miles around purchasing our watches."

  "Stop putting yourself down like that, India." She nudged my elbow. "You're pretty. I don't know why you think you're not."

  "Because next to you, I'm not."

  "Bollocks." She giggled at the crass word. "That Eddie Hardacre has a lot to answer for, always putting you down the way he did. I don't know what you saw in him."

  "Nor do I," I said on a sigh. "I suppose it was because he was the first man to pay me much attention and the first to ask me to marry him."

  "He was only the first because you intimidate most other men."

  "I do not!"

  "You do. Ask Ronnie and Gareth. You frighten them to death."

  "That's because I don't fall at their feet and run hither and thither to please them like other girls."

  "That and your quick tongue. They think you're going to tease them."

  I rolled my eyes, but her words were quite a shock. Did men truly find me intimidating? All men, or just pretty brainless twits like her younger brothers?

  "Where's the shop located?" she asked. At my blank look, she added, "The shop where you'll be working?"

  "It's not a shop. It's a short-term commission to help a gentleman find a certain watchmaker he met some years ago. I know it sounds odd," I said when she blinked back at me. "But the gentleman seems very nice and he's paying well. The work won't be much, and I can continue to make inquiries for further employment while I'm driven to every watchmaker in the city."

  "See what I mean. I would never have thought of that. How clever of you. Soooo…" She nudged me again. "Is this gentleman handsome?"

  "Very. He's also amiable and wealthy. We had tea at Brown's."

  She gasped. "Then you must wear something prettier than that old dress." She jumped up and opened the drawer where she kept her gowns.

  "Catherine, I won't fit into any of your clothes."

  "Oh." She closed the drawer and regarded me with a critical eye. "Then we'll do something with your hair. I've been wanting to modernize your style for some time."

  I sighed and succumbed to her ministrations. She plucked out the pins and ran her hands through the tresses.

  "Your handsome gentleman employer will be surprised to see you tomorrow. I think we can cinch your waist a little more, too."

  I groaned. "He's not a prospect, Catherine."

  "Every unattached man is a prospect." She paused, her hands in my hair. "He isn't married, is he?"

  "He didn't mention a wife, but I didn't ask."

  "You must find out for certain, first thing. Now, what else can you tell me about him?"

  I told her his name and that he was American with possibly some English heritage. She oohed and aahed as I thought she would and bounced on her toes when I told her he had a house in Mayfair. I told her everything I remembered from our conversation.

  I didn't tell her there was quite a good chance he was a Wild West outlaw on the run.

  "She shouldn't stay here." Mr. Mason's hissed voice could barely be heard over the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen as Mrs. Mason washed dishes. He had dismissed all of us except his wife after the evening meal. Throughout dinner, he'd cast odd looks my way, as if he were seeing me in a new light. It was so strange that I'd almost asked him if something was amiss, but decided against it. He must simply feel peculiar having me stay in his house without Father, and perhaps he missed Father's company too. I'd returned to the kitchen for a drink, but stopped upon hearing Mr. Mason's whisper.

  "She's too close to Catherine," he went on.

  "India's a good girl, sensible," Mrs. Mason said. "Catherine could learn a thing or two from her."

  I leaned closer. "You don't understand," he said heavily. Although I couldn't see him, I pictured him sitting at the table, running his hands over his bald head.

  "Then explain it to me."

  "I…I can't."

  A chair scraped and footsteps approached. I hid in a dark recess and waited for him to leave before I returned to Catherine's room. My feet felt like logs, my heart sore. Why didn't Mr. Mason want me here? Was I truly a threat to his sons? Did he think me no longer a virtuous woman now that my father was gone? I could think of no other reason—nothing else had changed since I'd last seen him. So why did he no longer want me near his family?

  "You didn't bring up the jug," Catherine said when I returned to her room.

  "I'm no longer thirsty."

  The noses of the entire Mason household were pressed against the front window when Mr. Glass arrived in his carriage. The men tossed out words like coupler, shafts and axles as if they were coachbuilders not watchmakers, while the women argued about how much he must earn a year to own such a handsome conveyance. I opened the door and went out to greet him.

  "Good morning, miss," said Cyclops from the driver's seat. "Forgive me for not coming down, but I only got one good foot left and I don't want to risk it." He flashed a grin as wide as his face and tugged on his cap.

  Someone smelling of bacon sidled up behind me. "India," Mrs. Mason whispered in my ear. "As a respectable woman and good friend to your poor departed parents, I feel that it's my duty to make sure you know what you're doing."

  "Why now? You were aware that Mr. Glass was collecting me yesterday."

  "Yes. Well. Now I've seen his coachman and I'm having doubts. Are you sure he's not a pirate? He's only got one eye."

  "I don't think pirates have such nice smiles." My flippant response may have been to tease her a little, but in truth, my heart was hammering. It wasn't in my character to ride in carriages with strange men. If my parents were here, they'd disallow it or insist on coming along. I knew the Masons wouldn't treat me the way they'd treat their own daughter, but it was kind of Mrs. Mason to act as my conscience. On this occasion, however, I was going to ignore it. I couldn't afford to be cautious. It wasn't just the pound that was at stake anymore, it was the two thousand American dollars.

  Mr. Glass's long legs unfolded from the cabin and he stepped onto the pavement. "Good morning, Miss Steele. Mr. Mason," he added, holding his hand out to Catherine's father. "Pleased to see you again, sir."

  Mr. Mason had avoided me all morning. Well, perhaps not avoided me. He'd gone to his workshop before I'd woken. While I wanted to know for certain why he no longer thought me a good influence on Catherine, I also didn't want to be told to my face that I was a poor example. My stretched nerves couldn't take any more strain. Besides, I was grateful not to have been thrown out of the house.

  Mr. Glass shook the hand of each member of the Mason family as the head of the household introduced them. "You're still looking for your watch's maker?" Mr. Mason asked.

  "I am," Mr. Glass said.

  "My offer from yesterday still stands. I'll see if I can repair it for you."

  "Thank you, but I prefer the original watchmaker himself to do it."

  "Most watches don't differ greatly from one another, you know. I'm sure I can manage to work it out if it's one I haven't seen before." He laughed a little nervously, making his jowls shake.

&
nbsp; "Not this watch." Mr. Glass folded the carriage step down for me then held out his hand. "Where to first, Miss Steele?"

  "Oxford Street, at the Marble Arch end," I said. "Do you know where that is, Mr. Cyclops? It's not far from Mayfair."

  Cyclops studied a dirty and much crumpled map spread out on his lap. "I know it. And it's just Cyclops, miss, no mister."

  Mr. Mason clasped the button edge of his waistcoat over his stomach. Mrs. Mason was an excellent seamstress and could modify a great many items of clothing, but she couldn't make her husband's waistcoat larger to fit over his increasing girth.

  "What makes this watch particularly special?" Mr. Mason pressed. The nervous laughter had died, and he now seemed anxious to catch every word that fell from Mr. Glass's lips.

  Mr. Glass bestowed a smile on him, but his shoulders had gone quite rigid. "If I knew that, I wouldn't need to find the original watchmaker."

  He climbed in and Gareth folded up the step and closed the door. Cyclops had the horse pulling away from the curb before Mr. Mason could speak another word. The poor man stood there, his mouth open, his eyes darting between Mr. Glass and me. He'd gone a little pale, which hadn't escaped his wife's notice. She clutched his arm but he seemed not to register her presence.

  I waved to Catherine through the window and tried not to show her how anxious I felt. By the look on her face, she was anxious enough for us both.

  Mr. Glass angled his legs so that they did not touch my skirts. "I hope you're refreshed, Miss Steele. We've a lot to do this morning."

  "There are several watchmakers in and around Oxford Street," I said. "Cyclops can remain near Marble Arch and we can walk from there. It will take longer than the morning, however. As you said, there's a lot to do."

  He leaned his elbow on the window ledge and rubbed the back of his finger over his lips in thought. Shadows flickered through his tired eyes. "We can return this afternoon after luncheon."

  "There are some excellent chop houses in the area. We can dine at one of those and resume our investigation immediately."

  "I prefer to return home for an hour or two."

  I was about to protest that no one needed that long to eat luncheon, but held it in check. Perhaps long lunches were an American custom. It wasn't my place to disagree with him when he was paying me. Nor was it my place to ask him why he was so tired this morning, although the curiosity would probably force me to at some point during the day.

  "As you wish, Mr. Glass," I said. "But we do have quite a lot of watchmakers to visit, and I require some time to myself."

  "For shopping?"

  "For making inquiries at employment agencies, as well as lodging houses."

  He arched his brows. "You're not staying with the Masons?"

  I had to tell him at some point that he wouldn't be collecting me from there tomorrow morning, but I hesitated nevertheless. In the end, I could only do it while not looking directly at him. "I don't want to inconvenience the Masons any more than I have."

  He was silent a long time in which I could feel his gaze on me as I pretended to take interest in the passing scenery through the window. "You can stay in my house for the duration of your employment," he finally said.

  I gasped and snapped my gaze to his. I was lost for words, something that happened rarely.

  He smiled, sending my already rapidly beating heart plunging. "Well?" he prompted.

  "I… I…" I sounded witless, but I couldn't think of an excuse to refuse him. Live under the same roof as a foreigner who was quite possibly a gunslinger? I'd be mad to consider it. "I shouldn't. It wouldn't be proper."

  "You don't seem like you're in a position to worry about what's proper." At my second gasp, he merely shrugged. "Are you?"

  "No-o," I hedged, "but it's not polite to point that out to a woman in reduced circumstances."

  "My apologies. The rules surrounding politeness here are numerous. I'm not familiar with them all yet."

  "You're forgiven."

  "So is that a definite refusal of my offer?"

  I should say that it was without hesitation. I ought to insist on finding my own accommodation.

  But it would be wonderful not to have to worry about it for the week. And living in the same house as Mr. Glass would make it easier to spy on him and learn the truth. If I locked my door at night and slept with a knife under my pillow then I ought to be safe. Besides, the newspaper article didn't say the outlaw attacked women, only stole horses and robbed stagecoaches—aside from the murder, that is. I had nothing of value for him to steal, and I wasn't a lawman. If I learned something that connected him to the man in the newspaper, I would tell only the police and not give him so much as a hint of my suspicions.

  "I'll stay with you only if I live in the servants' quarters and you tell everyone that I am your housekeeper or maid," I said.

  "I employ charwomen, not maids. My female cousin came over with me and is staying in the house. Does having another woman present make you feel more at ease?"

  "Yes, it does."

  "Then consider yourself a temporary guest of number sixteen Park Street, Mayfair."

  The speed at which the decision had been made was dizzying. It took a moment to sink in that I was about to live like a duchess in one of London's best addresses for a week. When it did finally sink in, I had to bite the inside of my lip to hide my smile.

  Mr. Glass didn't hide his. "It's a nice house," he said, his tone teasing. "It's a little larger than what I'm used to, but I like it."

  "Thank you," I said. "It's very kind of you. Oh, that reminds me." I opened my reticule and removed his handkerchief. "Thank you for this. I don't know where I'd be without it."

  "Glad I could be of assistance."

  The way he said it didn't make me feel at all wretched for my situation. On the contrary, I felt like I'd done him a favor by accepting his offer of work. I supposed I had. The only other people who could point out all the watchmakers in the city were already in gainful employment and wouldn't be available for the time-consuming task.

  He pocketed the handkerchief and, as his hand moved away, he went to touch the coat pocket that he'd touched several times the day before, only to check himself. He glanced at me and smiled again, but I wasn't fooled. He was looking to see if I'd noticed. I smiled back, pretending that I hadn't.

  Cyclops pulled to the side of the road near Marble Arch and Mr. Glass assisted me from the coach. "No more than three hours," Cyclops called down. "Sir."

  Mr. Glass held up his hand in dismissal and waited at the curb for the traffic to ease. After a moment, I said, "We'll have to take our chances in that gap."

  With one hand holding onto my hat and the other picking up my skirts, we dashed across to the Oxford Street side. "Is the traffic as bad as this where you're from?" I asked as we passed by a draper's shop where a lovely red silk had been displayed to best catch the morning light.

  "No," Mr. Glass said.

  I tore my gaze away from the silks at his curt answer. It took a moment before I realized he wouldn't want to give me too much information about himself if he were an outlaw. The notion both thrilled and worried me.

  "Do you live in a city or village?" I pressed on nevertheless.

  "A large town at present, but I've lived all over the world."

  "Really? Where, precisely?"

  "France, Italy, Prussia, and now America."

  "Where in America?"

  "Here and there." He sidestepped around a boy carrying an empty crate on his shoulder and waited for me to catch up. He shortened his strides to keep apace with me.

  "You mentioned a place in New Mexico," I went on. "Broken Creek, was it?"

  "Yes."

  "How long did you live there?"

  "I didn't live there."

  "Then where did you live?"

  "You ask a lot of questions, Miss Steele."

  "I'm naturally inquisitive, but if I am to live in your house, I'd feel more comfortable if I knew you better." There. That didn'
t sound at all suspiciously nosy, simply cautious.

  "This looks like our first stop," he said, nodding at the sign jutting out from the doorway still some shops away. He was definitely avoiding answering.

  Mr. Thompson's shop was not unlike my father's or Mr. Mason's, although somewhat smaller. Rent was higher on Oxford Street and there was no space for a workshop at the back. I happened to know that Mr. Thompson no longer made watches or clocks, but sold ones manufactured in Clerkenwell factories.

  Mr. Thompson looked up from the cabinet, where he was rearranging watches, and smiled at Mr. Glass. He turned to me and the smile faded. "Miss Steele! What are you doing here?" He backed away and rounded the counter bench, placing it between us.

  "Good morning, Mr. Thompson," I said, stepping up to the counter.

  He moved to the side, away from me. I followed, but he moved a little farther again and made a great fuss over the selection of watch chains laid out on a velvet mat. His gaze slid sideways, watching me. I hadn't seen Mr. Thompson in two years, and clearly I hadn't changed or he wouldn't have recognized me. He'd been amiable to me back then, so why this odd behavior now?

  "This is Mr. Glass," I said. "He's looking for a particular watchmaker who went to America some five years ago."

  Mr. Thompson glanced at Mr. Glass and nodded a greeting.

  "He would be older than you are, Mr. Thompson," Mr. Glass said. "Do you know of any watchmakers who were in America around that time? He would be quite old now. Your father, perhaps?"

  Mr. Thompson, who was about my father's age, shook his head. "My father was a chandler not a watchmaker. And I don't know anyone who has been to America. Do you wish to purchase a new watch, sir? Or clock?"

  "Not today."