There. She’d been civil. He’d been civil. She could retire now.
“Did Drosselmeyer create all those contraptions?”
Clara paused on her turning heel and faced Mr. Arthur, who gestured toward the objects hanging from her chatelaine. Dratted civility. One pleasantry voiced in obliged politeness and people thought you wished to engage in a conversation that outlasted a meeting of Parliament. “Indeed he did. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Stanton.”
The complete lack of tomfoolery in Mr. Arthur’s voice prompted Clara to draw close enough to inspect him in the moonlight. His entire countenance now bore a heavy mantle of seriousness that she’d never seen him wear before, nor thought him capable of donning.
Raking a hand through his untamed mane, Mr. Arthur heaved a sigh. “It was my fault Drosselmeyer took off the way he did this morning. I should’ve paid more attention to the nuance of his words. Insisted he stay put until your arrival so you might’ve been spared the shock of it all. But I didn’t, and for that I’m sorry. Despite what you may think, the last thing I want is for your family to come to harm. Whether or not you take my word for it, I swear to do everything in my power to reunite you with your grandfather.”
Either this man without a surname was the most skilled liar she’d ever met or she had grievously misjudged his character. “I blame you for many things, Mr. Arthur. But my Grand’s departure isn’t one of them.” For she was the one who’d failed to notice the nuance of Grand’s words back at the Globe.
“He’s a rare man, your grandfather.” Something akin to fondness grounded Mr. Arthur’s words. “I’ve worked with many a clockmaker in my time, but Drosselmeyer has the sort of skill that can’t be learned. The sort of talent that’s built into the movement of a man by the Almighty Maker Himself. Drosselmeyer’s impeccable clocks and incredible inventionsare fit for the collections of royal palaces. His work is that fine. His attention to detail that meticulous. Which is why I’m surprised that compass he made you looks in such poor shape. Why hasn’t Drosselmeyer attempted to repair it?”
Because she’d told him to leave it alone.
Clara brushed a finger across the broken compass. The one Papa had commissioned Grand to make as a gift for her sixteenth birthday. The one Mr. Forrester had yanked from her chatelaine the evening she’d broken off their engagement. She’d never forget his words from that night.
“I’m not stealing from your precious family,Clara. Stanton Shippingand Forrester Freight will merge eventually when your father dies and you inherit. I’ve every right to put upmy future property as collateral in order to appease these creditors, and as my future wife, you’ve no rightto involve yourself in my business affairs.”
“I could repair the compass, if you like, Miss Stanton.”
A chill breeze laced with salt caused Clara to shiver. Wrapping both arms about her in lieu of a shawl, she braced herself against the cold. “Thank you, Mr. Arthur, but I’d rather you didn’t. Even in its current condition, it serves me quite well.” As a tangible reminder that it was far better to misjudge than to be misused.
CHAPTER
9
Once again, he’d have to watch them die.
Once again, the nightmare would win.
Bereft of saber and steed, Theodore raced across Balaklava’s valley of death on legs intact and unscarred. Sweat poured down his brow and saturated his uniform. His muscles burned, and yet the strength he exerted failed to produce momentum, produce movement. Burdened by a heaviness that could not be shaken, his sprinting legs remained in the exact same location. Stuck.Alwaysstuck. Shells careened toward him, exploding left and right. Each blast tossed fellow members of the Light Brigade into the air like bits of chaff. He tried to catch them, knowing all too well that it would do no good. In the nightmares, they always fell out of reach.
Broken.
Like him.
Becauseof him.
And there was nothing he could do to repair the damage that had been done.
Screaming without audible sound, Theodore collapsed on the bloodstained soil and clutched his right leg, now severed below the knee. Like every dream prior, he did not feel the injury. It was the slap yet to come that inflicted pain, and if this night terror progressed in the same manner as the others, it would happen soon.
Father strode onto the battlefield in a pristine suit, unfazed by the surrounding carnage, and looked down on him with that familiar expression of disappointment spiked with disdain. “How could you have misinterpreted a written order so grossly? How could you misdirect your men toward an artillery battery they’d no chance to withstand? How many more people must die because of you?”
In a blink, the scene changed, and Theodore was in the study at Kingsley Court, standing before Father on the day that had changed everything.
“Be a man and join the cavalry as is tradition. And if you can’t live up to your name, then don’t bother coming back.” Father’s palm struck fast and hard.
The pain scorched Theodore’s cheek as his head snapped to the left.
He was on the battlefield once again, lying beside a comrade-in-arms, now cold in death.No.Tears wet his cheek, still stinging from Father’s strike.I have to make things right. I have to fix this.Theodore turned the soldier over, and Drosselmeyer’s face lolled to the side with vacant eyes that chilled the soul.
Theodore bolted upright. Awake.
At last, awake.
