“Would you have preferred that I ruined myself like some trollop?”
A childish pout scrunched Mum’s mouth. “Of course not, but you might’ve at least heard a few bells.”
“Do you want to be rid of me so badly?”
Mum cupped a gloved hand to Clara’s face. “I want to see my daughter freed from the belief that her father, mother, and grandfather are children she must look after. You should feel free to build a life, a family of your own.”
A tremor unsettled Clara’s jaw. “What if that’s not what I want?”
“In that case, I’ll gladly keep you till my ears are shot and wrinkles outnumber the hairs on my head.” Mum held up the broken compass dangling from Clara’s chatelaine. “But please, child, don’t let your life be navigated by fear.”
The door of the half-timbered inn opened, unleashing the warm aroma of ginger and cinnamon as Mr. Theodore stepped outside, flaxen hair still wavy and rumpled from slumber. Broad shoulders filling out every stitch of his patched overcoat. Clara’s heart stumbled a few beats. Snatching the fan on her chatelaine, she created a breeze before her face, which must surely match the color of the gingerbreadon her plate—little hearts dipped in red icing. Perhaps she shouldn’t have let Mum select the biscuits.
Mr. Theodore took a seat beside her, propping his crutch against the table. “Top of the afternoon, ladies. Is this to be our last day in Strasbourg?”
Considering the fantastical renown they’d garnered in the city, that might be for the best. “I thought we ought to wait for you and make that discovery together.” Clara patted the journal in her pocket, where Grand’s clue remained unread.
Mr. Theodore unfurled a smile. “You did, eh?”
“It seemed the polite thing.” Clara evaded his mesmerizing eyes only to be confronted with a knowing look from Mum. She flicked her fan closed and passed the inn’s menu to Mr. Theodore. “Do order yourself a biscuit, sir. I recommend the gnome in the green cap. The hearts, I’m afraid, have far too much icing.”
Mr. Theodore requested another pot of tea and, against her advice, a plate of the soft ginger hearts. For, as it so happened, he was in favor of superfluous icing. As their party reveled in the practice of afternoon tea, they discussed the rapid growth of their three dear kits, hypothesized about where Grand’s scavenger hunt might lead them next, and squabbled with Mum over how many cups of tea constituted an insalubrious caffeine dependency.
In the midst of this debate, a wheat stalk of a man strolled up the cobbled road, pushing a dingy pram, as an accordion bounced upon his slight back. Stopping before the inn, he deposited his cap on the ground.
Mum clapped eagerly. “A musical performance! How delightful! Perhaps I ought to fetch the children?”
And risk someone identifying them as the crazy tourists featured in today’s paper? Clara shook her head. “You’re not to take those naughty children anywhere until we have them fitted with leashes.”
A passing couple speared her with looks of horror and quickened their pace.
Clara bit her tongue. They understood English.Perfect.
Rising from her chair, Mum crept toward the inn at a snail’s pace, as though slowness might render her unseen.
Mr. Theodore obstructed her path. “Now, now, Mrs. S. You know the kits are safer in your room under Fred’s attentive care, so just sit yourself down. Right-oh, just so. I’m sure the little nippers will be able to enjoy the music well enough from their window. Besides, what if this musician has a dancing monkey in that pram? Why, it might cause a territorial tiff and result in injury to one of the furry youngsters. You wouldn’t want that, eh?”
Mum rotated sulkily in her seat to take in the forthcoming concert. “I hope the music man does have a monkey, providing it’s well cared for and treated as an equal business partner.”
Clara bit back a laugh. Mr. Theodore did the same, a fist pressed to his mouth.
She offered a grateful smile, which he answered with a wink. My, how the man’s green eyes could dazzle. Quickly, Clara averted her gaze, lest her complexion catch fire.
The lanky musician swung his accordion around to the front of his chest and proceeded to tune the instrument, subjecting them to a dissonance of sweet and sour notes. Once satisfied, he reached into the pram and pulled out a turtle.
Clara blinked. Yet the bizarre sight did not alter. Not as the man placed the turtle on the ground beside his cap. Nor when he began to play a mournful dirge. The accordion wheezed as it contracted and expanded, each bellowing movement a woeful cry for help. All the while, the turtle stared straight ahead, unblinking. Resigned to its pitiful lot in life.
Mr. Theodore whispered in her ear. “I’ve a feeling that poor bloke wasn’t hugged as a child.”
“I’ve a feeling that poor turtle isn’t an equal business partner.”
As the accordion continued its inconsolable lament, pedestrians hastened to escape the sound of melancholy, dashing by without dropping a single coin in the musician’s forlorn cap. Mum’s slackened jaw began to quiver, as though she might take to weeping. The funerary song concluded at last, only to be proceeded by the sorrowful opening notes of Thomas Moore’s “The Last Rose of Summer.”
“No wonder the chap’s thin as a sixpence. He hasn’t a clue how to sing for his supper.” Mr. Theodore sprung from his seat, leaving his crutch idle at the table. When he approached the musician, the accordion’s heart-wrenching ballad ended in time to spare the rose’s lovely companions from fading.
After a brief conversation between the two, the musician began to play quite a different tune, the ever-popular “Sir Roger de Coverley.” As the notes of the sprightly jig pranced through the air, Mr. Theodore offered encouragement by clapping in time and tapping his metal boot on the cobbles.
A young couple strolled toward the inn. Grabbing the lady’s hand, Mr. Theodore gave her a twirl and sent her spinning into the arms of her beau. The couple laughed, and the beau dropped a coin in the musician’s cap before sweeping his lady off her feet into a merry dance. One by one, passersby slowed and lingered. Danced and laughed. Coins fell from every hand, clinking into the cap. Mr. Theodore even directed a group of children to link hands and skip rings around the lonesome turtle.
