Page 22 of A Figure of Love

Serena halted by the double doors to the great hall. “We?”

McElroy leaned unnecessarily close to reach for the door. “Aye, me and Gareth, both.” He opened the door and there was the man in question, crouched low in the middle of the black and white tile looking at something with her son.

∞∞∞

Gareth had wanted to merely send the horses along, but Declan had convinced him it was his duty to check on the progress at Rushton Park.

“You don’t want another incident like Featherstone, Gare. The way to avoid that is to have some oversight.”

Gareth had shaken his head. “You just want to see this woman sculptor, Declan. You couldn’t give two pins about the progress of my park.”

The Irishman had laughed, not denying his curiosity.

“We need to see to Kennelworth’s Brewery and it’s only a short ride from Rushton.”

“Yes, but hardly direct.”

“Humor me, Gare.”

So Gareth had let himself be talked into an unnecessary journey. He’d left Declan to whatever schemes he had devised about the horses and had gone to the library, only to find a boy spread out in the middle of the smaller reading room, several large books open on the floor, along with an automaton in half a dozen pieces. He had looked up at Gareth, his eyes vague as his mind was obviously still on his work. Of course Gareth knew who he was: the sculptor’s child. He looked like a miniature of his mother, his complexion rosy, his cheeks round, and his golden-brown hair a riot of unkempt curls. Only his eyes were a different shade than his mother’s, a calm blue gray rather than hazel.

“Who are you?” the boy asked, quite justifiably, in Gareth’s opinion.

“I am Gareth Lockheart.”

The boy’s jaw dropped and he scrambled to his feet and executed a hasty bow. “Oh, Mr. Lockheart. I’m sorry, sir. Mama did not tell me you were coming. I am Oliver Lombard.”

Gareth was momentarily nonplussed by the lad’s pronunciation of his name, which he’d spoken in the French style. He remembered the boy’s name, of course. He never forgot anything, an ability that was sometimes helpful, sometimes not.

Oliver Lombard shifted from foot to foot. “I beg your pardon, sir, but Mama told me I might use the library if I were to treat the books kindly and return them to their places. It will take me only a moment to put them back and—"

“You have taken apart your automaton?” Gareth asked as the boy’s nervousness and embarrassment began to settle over him like the faint, difficult to remove threads of a spider’s web. Society and its strictures made Gareth restless, as did apologies for things that weren’t bad or wrong. Gareth did not care if the boy used the library. In fact, it quite pleased him to have somebody using it.

The lad pushed a tangle of hair off his forehead, his expression becoming perplexed as he looked at the pile of tiny metal pieces scattered on a white handkerchief. “There is a problem with the tension in the spring, but I do not know how to fix it. I have rewound it, to tighten it, but that does not seem to work.”

Gareth crouched down, his eyes moving over the various parts, his mind already putting the pieces in their proper positions. He had a fondness for automata and had taken apart more than his fair share of clocks and other mechanisms with moving parts.

The boy knelt beside him and pointed to the book, which showed a schematic of a clock-winding mechanism. Oliver Lombard was a clever lad; he’d found Gareth’s well-thumbed science journals and then searched the indices until he found something appropriate.

Gareth looked from the spring in the palm of the boy’s grubby hand back to the drawing and picked up a metal plate from the small pile of parts. “I believe the problem lies with this small pin. Here,” he pointed to the drawing and then to the piece in his hand. “There is still a piece inside this dimple but it is bent almost in half. It will not catch the spring and hold it.” He looked at the boy, who was nodding his head, comprehension dawning in his sea-colored eyes.

Gareth gestured to his desk. “Go fetch the letter opener from the top right desk drawer and we will see if we can bend it back.”

After Gareth had carefully straightened the bent piece he turned to the boy. “Do you know how to put it back together?”

He shot Gareth a look of boyish scorn. “Of course, sir.”

Gareth watched in silence as Oliver deftly fit tiny pieces together with his dirty, but slender, agile fingers. The toy was some type of big cat with wheels beneath the lower panel hidden by the clever placement of the animal’s four feet. The key location was, naturally, just below the cat’s tail, a scandalous placement sure to please any young male.

Once he’d fully reassembled the toy they both stood and—without any need to consult on the matter—left the library to test the toy in the hall, which had carpet but only a runner, leaving a perfect strip of black and white tile down each side that was perfect for metal wheels.

Oliver put his hand on the key and then hesitated. He looked up at Gareth. “Would you like to do the honor, sir? You were the one to find the problem and fix it.”

“I will do the next one.”

Oliver’s smile was one of relief and he twisted the key with great care and then bent down, holding the toy in both hands before turning his head to look at Gareth. “Ready?”

“Ready.”