The Clockwork Three (10 page)

A younger boy, a piercer, leaned toward him. “Psst. How long will the loom be down?”

“Hard to say,” Frederick said. “A few hours maybe.”

The boy coughed. It was the dust from the flax and the cotton. It filled the air and covered every surface, adding grit to the food they ate standing at the loom. Frederick pounded the boy’s back to help him choke the dust out.

“Talking, are we?” Roger Tom walked up behind them. The foreman’s voice always sounded hoarse, like he had just been screaming at somebody. “Freddy?”

“No, sir.”

“How ’bout you, then?” He turned his bulging eyes on the other boy.

“No, sir.”

“Really. I distinctly heard talking. Are you suggesting I conjured that out of thin air?”

“No, sir,” the boy said.

“So you were talking?”

“No, I —” The boy looked at Frederick, wide-eyed.

In a flash Roger Tom had his belt out. He whipped it around over his head and brought it down on the boy’s back with a crack that echoed through the factory. The boy dropped to his knees, but did not scream. All the other orphans stood transfixed, shaking.

Roger Tom coiled the belt around his knuckles. He glared at Frederick, and Frederick dropped his chin to his chest, arms straight at his sides. Roger Tom swung around on the other orphans.

“No talking.”

Then the foreman stalked down the line without another word or glance. Frederick turned to the other boy, and without speaking he helped him to his feet. They went back to their positions on the loom, and Frederick held his stomach, relieved that it had been someone else.

A short while later Mrs. Treeless returned. She snatched Frederick by his shirt collar and hauled him with her, the little dog bobbing in the crook of her other arm. “Get up there.” She pointed at the machine.

Frederick looked up at the monstrous beast. “I told you, I don’t think I can fix it.”

Mrs. Treeless stepped in closer. “You’re going to try. The machinist will be here soon, but if this loom gets up and running before then I don’t have to pay him a cent. You have until he gets here.”

“But ma’am, I can’t reach the —”

“I don’t care if you have to climb all the way inside it! You’ll get this loom working. Now, move!”

Inside it
. Frederick had seen orphans with missing fingers, even hands. And he had heard of worse happening. Orphans died in horrible accidents working the machines, pulled inside and chewed up, broken bodies scattered over the fabric.

“I can’t, ma’am.”

She grabbed his ear and hissed into it. “You will, boy, or I’ll tear you to pieces faster than any machine.” She let go and pushed him toward the loom.

Frederick’s stomach felt like he had eaten a bread crust with too many worms. He grabbed up his tools and turned to the beast where its jaws opened. He crouched down and climbed through the teeth, down the throat, to the belly where the air felt heavy and foul with the undigested residue of industry. Frederick closed his eyes for a moment, took a few steady breaths, and then began to work.

He studied the design of the loom, and traced the intended movements of its parts. Machines were the only things that made any kind of
sense. Their function followed their design, and he could predict their actions. As he worked, the world outside the machine faded from his mind until the machine was the only thing left. Deep in its bowels he ceased feeling threatened and began to feel comforted and safe.

Time passed and he eventually found the problem. A metal screw had worked itself loose, causing a support arm to wiggle, creating instability in the mechanism and flaws in the fabric’s pattern. Predictable. It was a simple repair, and within a few moments he was reluctantly crawling back into the world of the orphanage and fabric mill.

He emerged onto the platform just as Mrs. Treeless greeted the machinist. The lanky worker saw Frederick squirming out from inside the loom and gasped.

“What in blazes were you doing in there?” he said, eyebrows arching.

“I went in to fix it,” Frederick said.

The machinist turned to Mrs. Treeless. “You let him?”

She began to pet her dog, plucking at its little curls. “So what if I did? I wouldn’t have to if you charged a reasonable fee.”

The machinist shook his head. He turned to Frederick. “You all right?”

“I’m fine. I think it’ll work now.”

At that, Mrs. Treeless, toothless, grinned.

The machinist looked startled at Frederick. “You fixed it?”

Frederick nodded. “I think so.”

“I better take a look.”

Mrs. Treeless grabbed the machinist’s arm. “I won’t pay you for it. The boy says it’ll run.”

He shook her off and went to peer into the loom. “What did you do, lad?”

Frederick described the location and nature of the repair, feeling foolish in the simplicity of it.

“On the contrary,” the machinist said. “You’ve a keen eye. A trained man could’ve missed it. What’s your name?”

“Frederick.”

“Well done, Frederick.”

“Thank you.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Mrs. Treeless. “Back to work, boy.”

It was a few days later that the machinist returned. This time, he brought an old man with him. They came marching down the line with Mrs. Treeless and stopped when they reached Frederick’s position on the loom.

The machinist pointed at him. “He’s the one, sir.”

The old man stepped forward. “You’re Frederick?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Isaiah Branch. I am a clockmaker.”

Frederick bowed his head, puzzled.

Master Branch turned to Mrs. Treeless. “Yes. I will take him.”

Mrs. Treeless squinted. “He’s worth a lot more to me now. He’s got a useful skill.”

Master Branch exchanged a look with the machinist. “So he has. Skills wasted in this abomination you call an orphanage.”

Mrs. Treeless snickered like she did while she watched Roger Tom at work with his belt. “Say whatever you want, Master Clockmaker. Your scolding don’t matter to me any more than a magpie’s.”

Master Branch stood up straight. “I am prepared to fully compensate you.” He looked at Frederick and shifted on his feet. “But I think we should discuss this elsewhere.”

Mrs. Treeless shrugged. “If you like.”

They turned and walked away.

The machinist walked over and patted Frederick on the back. “You’re getting out of this hell on earth, lad.”

And that very night, he did.

“Here we are,” said Mister Hamilton.

Frederick pulled his eyes away from the fabric, and his mind away from the memories. The past retreated back down the stairs to the cellar, and Frederick shut the door. The tailor came around the counter with the trousers held out across his arms.

“You’ll be needing a coat and vest as well?” He stopped. “Are you all right, my boy?”

Frederick swallowed. “Yes, a coat and vest as well.”

“Would you like to sit down, you look pale.”

“I’m fine. The coat and vest?”

“Yes, um, I believe I have your size.” Mister Hamilton hauled a little stool over to Frederick and hopped up on it. He applied the tape measure to Frederick’s arms and shoulders. “Yes, I believe I do.”

Again he retreated to his back room, and a moment later returned with the matching pieces. “You’ll look dashing for the opera. Now, will that be all? Nothing, say, for your master?”

“No.”

“Pity. Unless Isaiah Branch has found himself a new tailor, he must be outrageously out of fashion.”

Frederick smiled. “That he is, sir. But that’s just one of the things people love about him.”

He paid the tailor and strolled up the street with his new clothes
under his arm, wrapped in a paper parcel with twine. He entered Master Branch’s shop and called out. No reply. The old clockmaker must have left for that early supper he had planned. Frederick went upstairs, dangling the parcel on one hooked finger. He unwrapped his new clothes and got out of his old ones. As he dressed, he wondered what the opera would be like.

The Opera

H
ANNAH SMILED AS SHE LEFT THE CLOCKMAKER’S SHOP.
Madame Pomeroy was right. Frederick truly was handsome. She strolled back toward the hotel, and wondered if she would sit next to him at the opera. But she shook her head at the silliness of the thought.

A gilded carriage rolled by, and through the curtains Hannah caught a glimpse of a young, pale woman within. She wore a gorgeous dress of satin dyed the red, almost black color of an overripe cherry. She met Hannah’s openmouthed stare with a blank expression, both disdainful and unconcerned. A moment later the carriage had passed, pitching gently on the cobblestones as it lumbered on.

Hannah stood on the sidewalk and sighed after it. That manner of woman could likely attend the opera whenever she fancied. She probably had a new gown made for each occasion, and never wore them afterward, and they gathered dust and moth holes in her armoire.

Hannah looked down and smoothed her apron. Last week Madame Pomeroy had called in a seamstress and ordered a dress made for Hannah. The finished gown was supposed to arrive that afternoon, and Hannah was intended to wear it to the opera that night. Hannah had no notion of what to expect, but felt a thrill of anticipation. However plain, the new
dress would have to be prettier than the drab black maid’s skirt she wore now.

Hannah pressed on and soon emerged on Gilbert Square. The Opera House sparkled in the afternoon light, and she smiled. She crossed the square and entered the cool hotel foyer. A tall blond porter stood by the entry, his arms folded across his chest, his uniform hat tipped to one side. Hannah cast him a demure smile. He hopped forward and walked up alongside her.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello there, Walter.” Hannah kept moving, but slowed her pace.

“I haven’t seen you ’round much now you’re working for the tiger lady. I’ve missed you.”

“You miss all the girls,” she said. “Madame Pomeroy keeps me busy.”

He took a few quick steps, almost a skip, and slipped around in front of her. He walked backward for a moment, hands behind his back, grinning at her with his blue eyes.

“So,” he said. “Is it true?”

Hannah stopped. “Is what true?”

“That she has a tiger up there.”

“You told me you’d seen it.”

“Me? Nah. I heard it from somebody, though.”

“Well, it’s not true. I certainly would have noticed a tiger in her suite.”

“What about the ghosts?”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “You know you really shouldn’t believe all the rumors you hear, Walter.”

“So it is true!”

“I didn’t say that.” Hannah skirted him and started up the stairs.

“Hey,” he called after her. “Some of us are going for a clambake this evening. You want to come?”

Hannah stopped and looked back at him. “I have plans this evening.”

“What plans?”

“I’m going to the opera.”

“With the tiger lady?”

She ran her fingers over the banister. “And a boy.”

“Who?”

“Just a boy. Enjoy your clambake, Walter.”

“Come now. Wouldn’t you prefer a clambake over some fancy opera?”

Hannah laughed and rose up the flights of stairs. That was Walter. Jovial, and charming, with lips born smiling. Not like Frederick, who seemed to be made of seriousness and nothing else. Where Walter seemed to glide on a boyish and inviting air, Frederick stayed remote and intriguing. Of course, there were those rumors about Walter. Connections and coincidences with several thefts from hotel guests. Hannah chose to ignore such things.

She reached the top floor and used the key she had been given as Madame Pomeroy’s attendant to enter the suite. She paused in the entryway.

“Madame?” she called.

No answer.

“Yakov?”

The only sound to reach her was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the drawing room. Hannah had never been alone in the suite before. She wondered if she ought to wait until Madame Pomeroy returned before going in. But then she thought of the treasure. Stroop’s suite had been somewhere up here. She tried to recall the image of the floor plans
to her mind’s eye. The two suites had been arranged next to each other, one on the north end and one on the south. Both looked out over part of the square. Madame Pomeroy’s suite took in the view of the Opera House and cathedral, as well as the mansions up on the Heights. What would Mister Stroop have seen out his window?

Hannah left the entryway and opened the door to the southernmost room in the suite, the library. Neither Madame Pomeroy nor Yakov used the room, and Hannah had only peeked in before. Now she crossed to the window and looked out. A buttress of brick blocked her view to the south, but she could see the edge of the Archer Museum.

Hannah heaved the heavy window open, admitting a breeze and noises off the square. She leaned out over the sill, flapped away a few warbling pigeons, and craned her neck to see around the wall. From her stretched vantage point she saw what she had anticipated. There were city blocks and the Old Rock Church’s white wooden steeple needling the sky. And the park.
McCauley held the key to his happiness
. Green and billowing, broken only by what looked to be a silver sliver of Grover’s Pond.

Hannah leaned back into the room and looked to her left, to the wall of books. Somewhere on the other side was another set of rooms entirely, and the view from that hidden suite would have fallen directly on McCauley Park and on Grover’s Pond.

Hannah heard the front door open.

“Hannah? Are you here, child?”

She slid the window shut as quietly as she could.

“Hannah?”

“I’m here!” she called.

“Come to me. I want to show you something.”

Hannah closed the door to the library behind her and followed Madame Pomeroy’s voice into the drawing room. The woman wore her customary black lace, her hair up in a loose knot at the back of her head. She held in her arms the most beautiful gown Hannah had ever seen.

It was made of pale blue satin that shimmered like the sky reflected in ocean waves. Royal blue applications of panne velvet decorated the dress with iridescent floral shapes, chrysanthemums and flowering vines that grew up from the train to the waist. Embroidered chiffon and lace circled the open neckline and shoulders, and the bodice sparkled with gems of aquamarine. Hannah covered her mouth.

“Come, child,” said Madame Pomeroy. “We must get you dressed for the opera.”

Hannah took a halting breath, and then began to cry.

“There, there,” Madame Pomeroy said. “We must see if it fits, and tears will stain a satin gown.”

No one had ever done anything so wonderful for her. Madame Pomeroy’s kindness shocked her, and she looked at the older woman as if meeting her for the first time. She wiped her eyes. “It’s so beautiful.”

Madame Pomeroy looked down at the dress in her arms. “I think so.”

“It’s for me?”

Madame Pomeroy chortled. “With a waistline this size, you think it’s for me?”

A giggle bubbled out of Hannah. “Madame, I don’t know what to say.”

“You still need to try it on, Hannah.”

“Of course.” Hannah reached around her back to untie her apron.

Yakov cleared his throat in a corner of the room, and Madame Pomeroy and Hannah looked up at him.

“Come,” Madame Pomeroy said. “Let’s change you in my room.”

Hannah bounced behind the older woman from the drawing room, down the hallway, and into Madame Pomeroy’s bedchamber. There her mistress laid the dress out on the four-poster bed and threw the heavy curtains open. Hannah took off her apron, and removed the white blouse and black skirt that all the maids in the hotel wore. She stood, goose-bumpy, in her chemise and petticoat and tucked her arms in, hands at her neck. She stared at the gown flowing over the bedspread like a satin waterfall.

Madame Pomeroy lifted the new dress with a flourish. “I dispensed with the corset,” she said. “Barbarous devices designed to torture women with suffocation and a bent spine. Besides which, your figure needs no assistance.”

Hannah felt her cheeks flush as the older woman unlaced the bodice at the back. A moment later Hannah stepped into the gown, and Madame Pomeroy lifted it up around her. It was like getting wrapped inside a fairy story of dancing princesses. Hannah stood up tall and looked at the ceiling as Madame Pomeroy cinched her in. She felt her mistress’s hands working their way up her back, then adjusting the lace around her neck and shoulders.

“There.” Madame Pomeroy stepped back and looked Hannah up and down as if she were inspecting a mare at market. “Can you breathe?”

Hannah nodded.

“Well, I must say, you look exquisite, child. Come have a look.”

She led Hannah by the hand to a corner of the room with several tall mirrors set at angles to one another. Hannah stepped into their midst and found she could see all of herself, from her head to her bare feet, her front and her backside. She did not look like herself at all, and she felt
ridiculous, embarrassed. The girl in the mirror was much too fine. Hannah thought she looked more like a paper doll, not really wearing the gown at all, as if it were only laid over her, fastened with paper tabs.

“Absolutely breathtaking,” Madame Pomeroy said.

Hannah did not feel breathtaking.

Madame Pomeroy clapped her hands. “We must do your hair next.” She gestured to the ottoman in front of the vanity, and Hannah sat down. She faced an expanse of mirror, and an arsenal of silver pins and combs, powders and creams.

“Now.” Madame Pomeroy stepped into the mirror behind her. “I think we shall pull your hair up in a loose twist. Some curls around your face, and some locks looping down in back. Yes, I think so.”

Hannah said nothing as Madame Pomeroy fingered out her long braid. Then the older woman pulled out irons for curling and went to work, and within a few moments, Madame Pomeroy started to hum. Hannah closed her eyes at the feeling of someone’s hands through her hair, remembering how her mother used to wash and brush and braid. But her mother had not touched her hair in a long time. Hannah felt an urge to turn around and hug Madame Pomeroy, but she kept her eyes closed, held her hands in her lap, and let her mistress take care of her.

Time passed, and every so often Hannah peeked at the transformation taking place in the mirror. It was like being privy to the secrets of some magic being worked. When Madame Pomeroy stood back and said, “There,” Hannah opened her eyes fully.

She looked beautiful. Without vanity or shame, she could see that. But would anyone else? “Thank you, Madame,” she whispered. She turned her head to see all sides, and the combs and pins glinted in the evening light.

“You are most welcome, child. I quite enjoyed myself.”

Neither spoke, but both of them had tears in their eyes.

Madame Pomeroy cleared her throat. “I don’t want to sully your face with the vulgarity of makeup. I wear the stuff because I need it. But you certainly do not. Maybe just a little of this.” She lifted a bottle of rose water and spritzed Hannah with a floral mist. “Stand up now, child.”

Hannah rose, still caught up in the world inside the mirror, and pulled her eyes from her reflection. She did not want to, as if she would cease to be that girl if she looked away. It was still hard to believe it was truly her.

“Here are your shoes and gloves,” Madame Pomeroy said, and helped Hannah into them. Then she stepped back and rubbed her chin. “But there’s something missing.”

A rap at the door.

“Come in, Yakov.”

The door opened. “Madame, I …” He stopped.

“Yes, Yakov?”

The Russian stared at Hannah. She watched his face, waiting for his reaction. Both corners of his mouth lifted in a grin. “Like a princess,” he said.

And Hannah knew the girl from the mirror had come with her. She wanted to rush to him, to hug him in gratitude.

“Very much like a princess,” Madame Pomeroy said. “What was it you wanted?”

“It is nearly time,” Yakov said.

“So it is.” She returned her attention to Hannah. “I know what is missing.” She opened one of the dozen small tins on her dresser, one stamped with the shape of a butterfly, and pulled out a key. Then she marched over to a painting and removed it from the wall, revealing a
safe. Madame Pomeroy unlocked it and reached inside. She pulled out a box, closed the safe, and replaced the painting.

“I know I’m gilding the lily, as it were, but I cannot resist.” She opened the box and presented it to Hannah.

A necklace of diamonds sparkled inside.

Hannah touched her chest. “Madame Pomeroy, I couldn’t.”

“Nonsense.” The older woman set the box down and withdrew the jewelry. She reached around Hannah’s neck to clasp it. “It was given to me by one empress or another, but I never wear it. Someone should.”

Hannah felt the cold weight of the stones against her skin. All those years admiring the guests’ jewelry, and here she was wearing a finer piece than anything she had ever seen.

Madame Pomeroy nodded. “Now you are ready.”

As they came down the hotel stairs into the lobby, Hannah glanced at the tiny holly leaf carved near the base of one of the massive marble newel posts. Mister Twine had never desired to replace them, and Hannah smiled at her father’s little signature, as if he were whispering to her how beautiful she looked, and wishing her a magical night.