‘Why, are you an orphan, too, sir?’
‘As good as. I know nothing of my parents – they abandoned me as soon as they had a good look at me. I suppose I can’t blame them; indeed, I am grateful they didn’t smother me in the cradle.’
‘Have you made no attempt to find them?’
‘To what end? A tearful reconciliation? I leave that to the scribblers. Nor has the prospect of revenge ever interested me. No, I consider my parents dead, and myself an orphan, as I said. It is simpler that way for all concerned. But what of your own parents?’
‘They died in a fire when I was but a babe,’ Quare said. ‘Or so I have been told. I have no memory of them.’ This was not quite true; in fact, Quare possessed certain vague memories – impressions, rather – that he associated with his parents. From time to time, most often as he was lying in bed, on the verge of sleep, a warm peacefulness would settle over him from he knew not where, all the strength would ebb from his limbs, and he would feel himself enveloped in a kind of tender, loving regard that he knew at no other moment in his waking life. As far back as he could remember, he had associated this feeling or mood with the presence of his parents, as if they were watching over him from beyond the grave. But he would not divulge such a private solace to Master Magnus or anyone.
‘I was raised in an orphanage,’ he continued, ‘and from there, at the age of seven or eight – to this day, I am not certain of my exact age – was sent to the workhouse, where I remained until, quite by chance, when I was ten, or perhaps eleven, I made the acquaintance of Mr Halsted, who often, out of Christian charity, hired some of us children to help in his workshop. He encouraged my interest in timepieces and, as my aptitude for the work became plain, arranged to take me on as an apprentice. I owe that gentleman everything. He was like a father to me, and more – like an angel, sir. A guardian angel.’ Indeed, as if the truth of that statement had not been manifest to him until he had spoken it aloud, Quare felt his throat constrict with emotion. He dried his burning eyes with the cuff of his coat and looked again out of the carriage window.
They had left the city of Dorchester behind and were travelling along a dusty road past open fields of rolling farmland. In the distance, under blue skies, he could see the glint of the sun off the River Frome. It was the furthest Quare had ever been from home.
‘What if I were to tell you that you are not an orphan?’
Quare’s head whipped back round to face his companion. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘An orphan is a child deprived by death of father and mother. It’s true your mother is dead – she perished giving birth to you. That is in the parish records. But your father remains very much alive, or so I believe.’
It took Quare a moment to gather his wits. ‘My father … alive?’
‘I have found no evidence to the contrary.’
‘Why has he not come for me? Why has he allowed me to believe I am an orphan for all these years?’
‘Because he does not wish to acknowledge you, sir. He does not wish to know aught of you, and he desires even less that you should know aught of him.’
‘But why?’
‘Is it not obvious? You are no orphan, sir, but a bastard. Some man’s by-blow.’
‘How do you know this?’ Quare demanded, his hands squeezed into fists at his sides.
‘I make it my business to learn what I can about every apprentice.’
‘But then who is my father?’ A sudden foreboding came over him. ‘Is it you, sir? Is that why you have come to fetch me?’
At this, Master Magnus threw back his head and roared with laughter while Quare turned the shade of a beet. When the master had composed himself, he answered: ‘No, I am not your father, young Quare. Have no misapprehensions on that score.’
‘Then Mr Halsted! Perhaps that is why he was so kind to me.’
‘Nor is Halsted your sire. Put such thoughts from your mind.’
‘Then who?’
‘Why, I do not know,’ Master Magnus confessed with good humour. ‘What I have related to you is no more than any man could have found at any time simply by perusing the parish records. Your mother’s name was Mary Trewell. A milkmaid. No doubt seduced and cast aside. A common enough tale, though a sad one, I grant you.’
Quare was reeling; he felt as though he had slipped into a kind of dream. ‘Did … did Mr Halsted know this?’
‘Who do you think it was that examined the records? He dispatched the information to me. A boy, Daniel Quare, born to Mary Trewell, father unknown. Your name, sir, is a witty reflection of that fact, from the Latin quare , which is to say “from what cause”.’
‘I … I scarcely know what to say, what to think,’ Quare mumbled, passing a hand before his eyes. ‘Why have you told me this?’
‘Should I have kept it from you? Surely a man has the right to know the truth of his own parentage.’
‘But you have told me a half truth, no more. Now I must wonder at who my father may be. Does he yet live? And if so, does he dwell close by or far away? Have I seen him, all unknowing? Does he know of me? Perhaps he does not, and would acknowledge me if he but learned of my existence. I must find him! Sir, can you not help me?’
‘I might look for years and never find him. No doubt the trail has gone quite cold. And who is to say that he wishes to be found? A man might very well know that he has a bastard son and yet desire no more intimate acquaintance with him.’
‘Please, sir. I should like to find him anyway.’
‘And what would you do then? What would you say to him?’
‘I … I do not know.’
‘You are no longer a boy, Mr Quare, yet neither are you a man. Wait a while, sir. Complete your apprenticeship. Acquit yourself well in all that is asked of you, and then, in a few years, when you have attained the rank of journeyman, ask me again, and perhaps I will be disposed to assist you.’
‘Thank you, sir. Do you know, I was angry at Mr Halsted for sending you my sketches. But now I see that I have to thank him as well.’
‘Not everyone would be so thankful to learn themselves a bastard.’
‘My whole life, I believed myself an orphan – that is worse. You and Mr Halsted have given me back my father, or hope of him. I will work hard, sir. You shall see! I will acquit myself well – and come to my father as a man he will be proud to acknowledge.’
‘An admirable plan, young Quare. I hope you are not disappointed. But life has a way of disappointing bastards, I have found.’
‘I will pray to God that it may be otherwise, sir, and trust in his providence.’
‘Why, do you imagine that God cares a fig for bastards? Surely he has more important things on his mind.’
‘I … I don’t know, sir. I mean, yes, sir, I suppose he does. Have more important things on his mind, I mean.’
The master’s leonine head nodded approvingly. ‘What sorts of important things?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know.’
‘Then I shall tell you. Time, Mr Quare. Time is the mind of God in motion. His thought, His intent, His very essence. We horologers, as much as or even more than the clergy, are doing His work, for every timepiece is a microcosm of the universe the Almighty created and set in motion. In making and repairing clocks and watches, we of the Worshipful Company expunge the errors and anarchies of the Adversary, restoring a small but significant measure of order to the world, without which the time appointed for the return of our Saviour might be indefinitely delayed, or never draw nigh at all. Do you think I exaggerate? Have you not felt the truth of it? In repairing a damaged timepiece, do you not also repair a part of yourself, some damaged spring or coil or counterweight of the soul, and, in so doing , for a while at least, draw closer to the master of clocks and men?’