What was it father always said? “Incremental improvements, Scarlette. Incremental improvements. Before you know it, you’ll be wherever you were headed.”
While the notion of incremental improvements was undoubtedly right—though father always seemed to remind me of this when I was feeling the least patient—at this moment, I wasn’t even sure if I was improving in the right direction. The truth of the matter was, I just didn’t know much about clockwork. I could see the design in my head as clear as day, but making the design work in metal was something else entirely.
I stared at the little gnome. “Sorry, little friend. You look like a drowning man waving for someone to save him. I’ll keep working. Incremental improvements. We shall see what we can do.”
“Scarlette, do you know what time it is?” Laura called from the other end of the workbench.
“No,” I replied absently.
“It’s almost afternoon tea.”
“Goodness,” I exclaimed, rising. While I loved roaming around the village, I never missed afternoon tea with Uncle Horace. And didn’t he say the first of his guests were going to arrive today around teatime? Now I was going to be late for tea and appear rude to Uncle Horace’s guests. “Can I take these with me?” I called to Laura, motioning to the gnomes. “And the parts?”
“Of course. Take whatever you want. You’ll find a basket on the shelf,” she replied.
Moving quickly, I laid the gnomes—there were eight in all—in the basket and then added the box of parts. I also grabbed a bin of buttons, lace, and other miscellaneous trim, things that Laura had discarded, and threw it into the basket. I headed toward the front of the workshop. There, I found Laura practically buried under a heap of doll dresses, teddy bears, and porcelain heads and arms.
“What’s all this?” I asked.
“Orders, orders,” Laura said, barely looking up.
“All for Christmas? This Christmas?”
She laughed then nodded.
“But this is impossible.” I glanced toward the front of the shop where Lizzie was boxing up a chess set. “Laura, why didn’t you tell me you needed help with these?” I asked, suddenly feeling sorry I’d wasted the whole day on the clockwork gnome.
“No, no,” Laura said absently. “We need that piano girl done, and you’re our only hope. So, tell me, any progress?”
“Yes. Well, yes and no. I need to work on it more tonight. I’m on to something. Maybe. I’ll have something for you tomorrow. I think. I hope.”
Laura chuckled. “Well, if you’re so certain.”
“I’ll be back first thing in the morning to finish the piano girl then help with these,” I said, eyeing the mountain of toys. The sisters were so sweet, they never said no. But completing this many orders on time just wasn’t possible.
“If the earl permits it, of course,” Laura said, pausing to look up at me over her glasses. “And if you are not too busy with your own affairs.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. It won’t be a problem.”
Laura raised a tell-tale eyebrow.
I winked at her. “See you tomorrow.”
She grinned. “See you tomorrow.”
Clutching the basket, I headed to the front of the store.
“Goodbye, Lizzie. See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, Scarlette.” Lizzie waved.
I shrugged on my red cape then balanced the basket in the crook of my arm as I pulled on my gloves with my teeth. I headed back outside. A stiff wind blew, kicking up the snow. It was a lot colder than it had been earlier that day. I pulled up my hood then headed down the road away from the village toward Strawberry Hill.
The air was cold, dry, and crisp. The freezing wind froze the end of my nose. As I walked, the snow crunched under my boots. The tall blades of grass in the field along the road were covered in ice. The branches were topped with an inch of snow. I loved how the snow shimmered when the sun cast its glow on the surface. In an array of incandescent light, the powdery white snow gleamed under the sunlight.
I followed the road through the forest. As I walked, I considered the problem of the jerky movement of the clockwork mechanism inside the gnome’s arms. I needed to smooth out the motion. Surely, I would have that sorted out by tonight. Maybe if I increased the pressure on the cogs at the shoulder, it would help.
A stiff wind blew, blowing my hood off and pulling my long, brown hair away from the bun at the back of my head. The wind whipped around me, and inside it, I heard voices.
“Come buy, come buy.”
My skin rose in goosebumps.
I stopped.
Looking around, I tried to figure out where the voice had come from.
“Come buy. Come buy.”
Scanning the woods, I searched for the source of the sound. Deep in the forest, I spotted a row of small tents. They were oddly colored, orange and purple, silver and blue, green and gold. Colorful banners were strung between the tents. As well, something sparkly—shimmering like mirrors—bedecked the tent fabric. How very unexpected.
“Come buy, come buy,” a voice called again.
I stared into the glen. I couldn’t make out the tradesmen clearly—if they were men at all. Their stature was very small. They wore hooded robes made of patchwork designs. They danced in a circle around a campfire. One was carrying a basket, another a bowl, and the third a platter that sparkled like gold.
“Books, sweets, and delights.
Apples and quinces, oranges and lemons.
Everything a girl could want.
Everything a girl could desire.
Come to our market.
Come buy. Come buy,” the men sang as they danced in a circle.
I stared at the strangers. Highwaymen? Roma?
“Come buy. Come buy. Come buy, Horace Walpole’s niece. Come buy.”
Gasping, I turned and rushed away as quickly as possible. While the sleepy little town of Twickenham was peaceful, robbers were said to roam the roads, preying on innocents. And if they knew I was connected to Earl Walpole, they’d expect me to have money.
Holding tight to my basket, I rushed away. Exiting the forest, I spotted the spires of Strawberry Hill in the distance. My heart beat hard in my chest. Any moment now, I expected someone to grab me from behind. Once I exited the shadows of the trees, I cast a look behind me.
There was no one.
I peered into the woods, looking for the merchants’ tents.
It must have been too far away. I couldn’t see the camp anymore.
I headed toward the castle, reaching the wrought-iron gate not long after. It was so cold that when I pushed open the gate, I felt the cold of the metal through my glove. I made my way down the long drive. The picturesque little castle, built in the Gothic design, was genuinely whimsical. Even the gardens surrounding the place had their own charm. Uncle Horace had collected an odd assortment of statues, the most peculiar of which was the overgrown rooster, in addition to other unusual statuary. Even the topiaries were shaped like everything from mermaids to flamingos. The afternoon sunlight glimmered on the stained glass windows. The inside was no less eccentric than the outside. Every room was stuffed with paintings, statues, vases, figurines, artifacts, and lots and lots of books. Uncle Horace was not just a gentleman; he was a writer with his own press. His novel, The Castle of Otranto, had taken England by storm. The book, which told the tale of a cursed family, excited the wit and filled the reader with terror and horror. Uncle Horace might be odd, as Laura had put it, but he was also a genius. Of course, he wasn’t really my uncle. He and my father were dear friends. I’d always called him Uncle Horace, and he’d been a part of my life for as long as I could remember, but we weren’t truly related. Luckily for me, Uncle Horace and I got along very well, which is how I’d come to stay at Strawberry Hill while my father went to Italy to work on a commission.