P.S. Be sure to invite Arthur along, for you shall require his assistance.
Clara’s posture deflated along with her lungs. Did Grand really think her so inept? After years of caring for him and her parents unaided, had she not proven herself capable? How could he even insinuate that she required help from—
“Does it say where he’s gone, Miss Stanton?”
Knuckles blanching in their grasp, Clara faced the automaton apprentice, who didn’t deserve to set foot in this special place any more than young Rupert had all those years ago. “Your assistance is not required in this matter, sir. Therefore, I suggest you shove off.”
Clara set off at a brisk clip, wanting nothing more than to leave Mr. Arthur and the stench of the Thames behind. Clutching the ledger, she stomped out of the warehouse and wove through the dock’s maze of cargo and longshoremen. The cab she’d hired was nowhere to be found. She shook her head. If she’d been thinking clearly, she would’ve withheld payment till her return, rather than leaving it on her seat for him to pocket. Now, as it was, she’d just have to make do. Though it might defy convention, she was perfectly capableof walking home unescorted. Perfectly capable of walking the world over if that’s what it took to bring Grand home.
“Wait up, will you?”
The clank of a metal boot and tap of a wooden crutch set Clara’s eye to twitching once again. “In case it failed to register in your dense masculine skull, the termshove offinfers that you go elsewhere. Preferably in search of a steep precipice.”
“Come now, Miss Stanton. At least tell me what the deuce is going on. Let me fix this somehow.”
The man had nerve. First, he took advantage of Grand, and now he wished to ride in like some hero? As if she’d be fool enough to trust him. She squared her shoulders. Perhaps ignoring the man would get her point across.
Hastening to her swiftest speed short of a run, she put distance between herself and the docks. Warehouses and shipping crates soon gave way to run-down tenement buildings. Haggard women leaned out of windows, stringing faded laundry on ropes between the apartments whilst gangly youngsters played in the road.
A little girl with unkempt curls and a threadbare dress stood apart from the other children, excluded from a game she watched with teary brown eyes. Being ostracized by one’s peers as an adult was bad enough. Teaching little ones to discriminate with the prejudices held by their parents ... that was heartbreaking. Clara secured a few shillings from the coin purse on her chatelaine and discreetly slipped them to the forlorn girl.
Any light the child’s tooth-sparse grin might have sparked was stamped out by the persistent clank of a metal boot. Clara huffed. No matter how fast she walked or how much she willed him away, Mr. Arthur remained on her heels like an irritating street hound begging for scraps. She would be tempted to report him to a constable, but the last thing herfamily needed was more attention from the very authorities who thought them mad.
Clank-tap, clank-tap.
Stars, did he intend to follow her all the way home? Clara hazarded a backward glance. Mr. Arthur offered her a crooked grin, which she promptly threw in the gutter as she stared ahead once more. Apparently, that’s exactly what he intended. But why? He couldn’t sincerely care for Grand after so short an acquaintance. A suspiciously formed acquaintance, at that. He must have an ulterior motive, and although he’d sworn to the contrary, she couldn’t shake the suspicion that it involved her ex-fiancé. Mr. Arthurmust’vebeen sent to steal the letter signed by a respected member of Her Majesty’s army, which would give Mr. Forrester written corroboration of his insanity claims. With that letter, Mr. Forrester would have tangible leverage to bend her to his will. After all, had it not been the word of a respected member of Her Majesty’s army that had doomed Uncle Fritz to his fate in a madhouse cell?
It was the only thing that made sense.
Clank-tap, clank-tap.
Botheration. The time had come to change tactics. If she let the street hound follow her home, Mum would want to keep him, and she didn’t need the distraction of worrying when the mutt would bite. Turning onto the next street, she spotted an alley betwixt an apartment building and a grocer’s shop. Hmm ... perhaps the best way to be rid of the mutt was to bite first.
Dashing into the alley, Clara pressed herself flat against the grocer’s shop and lay in wait. Her heart slowed, pounding in unison with her quarry’s ever-nearing clank-tap-clank. Just as Mr. Arthur peered into the alley, she smashed him in the face with the ledger, and he dropped his crutch to grasp his nose. Taking advantage of his disoriented state, she grabbedthe collar of his ratty overcoat, dragged him into the alley, and shoved him against the nearest brick wall. She pressed the edge of the ledger against his throat as though it were a blade, standing her ground even when she caught a whiff of his regrettable cologne.
Mr. Arthur gawked with eyes of green, stunned by her actions and the impending threat of papercut. “I’ve been warned against the sort of women who lure unsuspecting lads into alleys and have their way with them, but I’d never have thought it of you, Miss Stanton. Your grandfather would be horrifi—”
“My grandfather is gone.” The hollow words fell from Clara’s lips like a vase shattering to the floor. “And you’ve brought him and the rest of this family quite enough trouble as it is, so tell me. How much will it take for you to leave my family be?”
Creases pinched the edges of Mr. Arthur’s eyes as he made a study of her face. “Your parents are optimistic folks. As is Drosselmeyer. Who was it, then, who made you think the world is populated by naught but spies and villains? Was it that Forrester bloke?”
Clara flinched.
Keeping the ledger firmly against Mr. Arthur’s throat, she reached into her purse and from a hidden slit in the lining withdrew the twenty-pound note Papa insisted she keep on her person in case of emergencies. She slipped the currency into one of the interior pockets of Mr. Arthur’s overcoat. He could never hope to get as much from Mr. Forrester, especially now with the letter in Grand’s pocket out of reach. “Your apprenticeship is nullified. Henceforth, you will not speakwithmy family. You will not speakofmy family. You will simply use this note to leave Greater London, or I shall hire a private investigator with low fees and lower morals to uncover the past you’re so keen to hide.”
Leaving the deception and money behind, Clara fled the alley. Only when she found a hackney carriage for hire, climbed inside the glorified tinderbox, and pulled the ragged curtain over the window, did she allow the tremors rattling within to move without and shake free a restrained tear. She slumped against the torn seat. Here, amid the shadows of isolation, she could lower her guard and breathe. Just breathe. Just for a moment.
Until the carriage came to a halt outside the Stanton home. Time for Little Atlas to once again don her load.
Upon opening the Stanton home’s cheery red door, Clara was greeted by the wagging tails and slobbery tongues of two spaniels, one bloodhound, and a solid black Great Dane named Dudley, whom Mum had saved from having his ears docked. She patted each canine in turn and headed for the parlor, where Papa sat in his usual chair, reading the business section of the paper whilst the baby goat on his lap ate through the obituaries. Across the way, Mum was occupied in the knitting of a four-legged sweater, her progress overseen by Fred as he lounged about her neck. Such a tranquil scene of hearth and home. One that ought to include the presence of clockwork butterflies.
“You’re rather late, Clara Marie.” Papa remained fixed on the paper as he absently scratched his beard, the graying facial hair held up by muttonchops on his otherwise bald head. “I’ve never known you to not be home in time for tea.”
“She and Father must have been enjoying quite the adventure to lose track of the hour.” Mum peered up from her knitting, though her needles still moved. “Where did the pair of you go this week, ducky? You get lost in the pyramids again?”
Clara dug her nails into the ledger. “No, I ... I didn’t get lost, but I’m afraid Grand did.” She opened the flight log to the page with Grand’s letter and placed it atop the yarn on Mum’s lap.
Exchanging a look with Papa, Mum lowered her needles and proceeded to read the proffered page. Her eyebrows raised in gradual increments, and then she passed the ledger to Papa, who repeated the routine entire. Raised brows aside, neither exhibited much of a reaction. No frowns, exclamations of fright, or shedding of tears. They must be in shock.
