“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.
Shaking off my encounter in the woods, I hurried into the house to find Mister Edwards, the butler, waiting for me in the foyer.
“Miss Rossetti, we were beginning to worry about you.”
“Am I late?”
“No. We were just about to ring for tea.”
“Very good,” I said, setting down my basket as I pulled off my gloves and cape.
“Shall I have that taken to your room?” he asked, eyeing the basket suspiciously.
“To the library, please.”
“The library?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, on the long table. I have a project.”
“Very well, Miss Rossetti,” he said with a soft smile then took my wrappings from my hands.
Smoothing down my hair and shaking the wrinkles out of my gown, I hurried to the parlor where I found Uncle Horace leafing through a portfolio. He was relaxing on the window ledge. The sunlight made the gold buttons on his stylish blue jacket glimmer. His brown hair was neatly combed, parted at the middle, curling around his ears. The bunch of lace at his neck was as white as the snow outside. He was a picture of gentlemens’ high fashion.
“Uncle,” I said, crossing the room. I gave him a peck on the cheek.
He chuckled lightly. “Your nose is as cold as ice.”
I grinned. “Ever so sorry.”
“Were you still out?”
“Yes. Everything in town is so festive this time of year. It was quite fun. Now, what are you studying?”
“Sketches. Master Boatswain arrived earlier today. He’ll be joining us in a few moments. Indoor pipes. Hot water inside the house. Can you imagine? Quite ingenious.”
“Master Archibald Boatswain is here? Here?” I asked. Archibald Boatswain was the realm’s most brilliant tinker. There wasn’t a single person in England who didn’t know Master Boatswain’s work. But he was so very old. I was surprised to hear he
was traveling at all.
“Indeed. Wait until you see, dear Scarlette. Wait until you see how many great minds will soon join together at Strawberry Hill.”
“For any particular purpose?”
“To talk, laugh, think, and drink wine, I suppose.”
I chuckled, but part of me knew that Uncle Horace was being evasive. Surely, there was some reason why all these great scholars were gathering. What that reason was, however, had not been shared with me.
The door opened, and a tall, young, and very handsome gentleman entered.
“Archibald,” Uncle Horace said, crossing the room to meet him. “You’ve quite outdone yourself,” he said, motioning to the papers in his hands.
That was Master Boatswain?
That was not possible.
I stared at the man. He was a little older than me, maybe around twenty-five years of age. He was lean and had sandy brown hair and an angular face. His eyes, however, were what drew me. They were so light colored. Even from across the room I could see they were startlingly beautiful. Green or blue? I wasn’t sure.
He smiled at Uncle Horace then turned to me. “I was bored on the carriage ride and got to drawing and couldn’t stop,” the young man said. He glanced at the sketches for just a moment. But only for a moment. He turned his attention back to me. “And this is…?”
“Oh,” Uncle Horace said, realizing he’d forgotten me. “Yes. Sorry. Scarlette, meet Master Boatswain. Archibald, this is Miss Scarlette Rossetti.”
Master Boatswain crossed the room to meet me. He bowed lightly then looked up at me.
“Miss Rossetti.”
Green. Green as spring leaves.
“Master Boatswain. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard both Uncle Horace, and my father speak so highly of you. But…”
He smiled, his entire face lighting up when he did so. “I’m not what you were expecting. I am Archibald Boatswain III, Miss Rossetti. But my grandfather, the Archibald Boatswain, is here. He’s upstairs resting.”
“Oh. Yes. That makes sense,” I said, suddenly feeling awkward. “I can’t wait to meet him. Uncle Horace has told me all about his airship designs. Do they really work? Is it really possible to take flight?”
He laughed. “Indeed. I’ve piloted some of the prototypes myself.”
“Really? Weren’t you frightened?”
“Well, I trust my grandfather. It is quite a long way down,” he said with a good-natured laugh.
My cheeks reddened. Had I insulted him? What an awkward first impression. “Of course, I have no doubt in your grandfather’s invention. I was just…it’s such an amazing idea. My apologies, Master Boatswain.”
“No offense taken, Miss Rossetti. We’ll be finalizing the production plans for several commercial ships this weekend, I believe,” he said then turned to Uncle Horace. “When will Arthur and Violet Hawking arrive? I know Grandfather was keen on seeing the Hawkings’ balloon designs.”
“Soon. Very soon.”
Archibald laughed. “If they remember to leave their little workshop.”
Uncle Horace chuckled. “True, true.”
I had met the Hawkings just once. They were a delightful young couple, both of them amazing inventors. But like all great thinkers, they were prone to distraction. I was glad to hear I would see them again…assuming they remembered to come.
The footman, who was arranging the tea service, rang a small bell. “Tea is served, Earl Walpole.”
We removed to the next room, a small but beautifully decorated parlor, the walls adorned with so many oil paintings that they nearly covered the walls. Vases full of winter flowers, greens, and other holiday trimmings decorated the place. The footman pulled out my chair.
The table was set with a beautiful assortment of savory and sweet delights. From small finger sandwiches, to miniature fruit tarts, to cheese, pickles, meats, and delicious fresh-baked scones, there was a bounty of flavors to try. While Uncle Horace and Master Boatswain III turned the conversation once more to pipework, I filled my plate. It was only when I realized that I didn’t have any room left for a fourth kind of cheese, that I recognized my mistake. This wasn’t how ladies were supposed to eat. Especially not in front of eligible bachelors with startling green eyes and famous grandfathers.
I was trying to figure out how to discreetly put some of the food back when Master Boatswain chuckled and said, “I think Miss Rossetti and I are of the same mind.”
My cheeks reddened. I glanced at Master Boatswain.
He motioned to his plate, which was as full as mine. In fact, he’d added on a second layer.
“I missed luncheon,” I said by way of apology.
“As did I,” he replied.
Uncle Horace chuckled. “Well, that’s what it’s there for, and my cook makes excellent scones.”
“The baker in the village wanted to know if you need a plum pudding. I must admit—but never to Miss Ronald—that the village baker’s biscuits are a cut above hers. Should I buy a pudding from the village? I’m sure we don’t need it, but should I buy one anyway, just to support the local business?”
“As you wish, dear Scarlette,” Uncle Horace said then turned to Master Boatswain. “Miss Rossetti has fallen in love with Twickenham. Though I’m not sure what she does in town all day.”
“Oh, you know, gallivant about,” I said with a dismissive wave of the hand.
Master Boatswain smiled at me. “Gallivant about? Hmm. Interesting occupation, and also a very vague answer. Gallivant anywhere in particular?”
“The bakery. The church. The Christmas market. Oh, and I do enjoy talking with Laura and Lizzie Gabriel. They’re the doll makers at The Two Sisters Doll Shop and Toy Emporium. They’re older ladies, twins, and quite talented.”
“Talented at getting your money,” Uncle Horace said.
I chuckled. “Uncle Horace,” I said playfully. “They’re delightful women. I’ve also befriended a local family. Since you’re in the giving mood, Uncle Horace, I was wondering if you have need of a maid? There is a woman in the village whose husband has died, and she and her family have fallen on hard times. She’s very kind and hardworking. She has three children and is in need of a helping hand. Do you have an opening?”
“Sounds more like Miss Rossetti has taken up the work of alms-giving more than gallivanting about,” Master Boatswain said, passing me a knowing look.
Clever man. I grinned at him.
Uncle Horace sat back in his seat and straightened his waistcoat. “I’m not sure. Mister Edwards, are we in want of help?” he called to the butler who was waiting discreetly nearby.
“Yes, Earl Walpole. We are in need of a maid and a footman.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mister Edwards coughed uncomfortably.
“Ah, I see,” Uncle Horace said with a light chuckle. Apparently, the Hawkings weren’t the only ones who were distractible. “Put out an advertisement for the footman, Mister Edwards. And please have the housekeeper interview Miss Rossetti’s friend…”
“Missus Annabeth Buckingham,” I said.
Uncle Horace nodded. “Hire her if she is even remotely qualified.”
“Yes, sir,” Mister Edwards said.
I smiled at Mister Edwards.
He passed me a playful wink.
Feeling excited to tell Annabeth the good news, I celebrated by diving into my plate, relishing my victory one bite of fruit tart at a time.
When the tea service was done, Uncle Horace and Master Boatswain turned their attention to the sketch of the plumbing. And while my good opinion of Master Boatswain had only increased as tea had gone on, and although I’d very much like to linger more, I had my own work to do.
“Uncle, Master Boatswain, will you please excuse me?” I asked. “I have a small project that needs my attention.”
Both men rose.
“Never idle. Never idle,” Uncle Horace said. “When your father asked me if you could stay, I imagined you by t
he fire embroidering all autumn. He didn’t tell me you were as bored with idleness as I am.
“And haven’t we gotten along marvelously as a result?”
“That we have.”
“Master Boatswain,” I said, bobbing a little curtsey.
“Miss Rossetti,” he replied, inclining his head toward me. He gave me a soft smile.
My heart made a little leap at the twinkle in his eyes.
Grinning to myself, I exited the parlor and headed down the narrow hallways to the library. The library at Strawberry Hill was beyond divine. The walls were white and had set-in bookshelves. Each bookshelf was trimmed with ornate moulding that reminded me of lace and looked more like it belonged on a church window than in a stately home. The stained glass on the windows cast blobs of colorful light on the ceiling above which was dotted with elaborate mosaics. The staff had lit the fireplace. The room had a cheery glow. I went to the long table at the center of the room and began unpacking my gnomes, the clockwork pieces, and the sewing tools on loan from Laura and Lizzie.
As I looked at the little gnomes, I remembered my encounter in the woods. The strange merchants had worn clothes quite similar to my gnomes. Odd. I hoped they had moved on. My encounter with the traveling merchants had unnerved me. Part of me felt like I’d narrowly escaped harm. But maybe I was making too much of it. Slogging off the encounter, I settled in to work once more.
Chapter 3: Archibald Boatswain III
I don’t know how much time had passed, or how long he had been watching me, but I suddenly became aware of the presence of someone looking over my shoulder.
“Oh,” I exclaimed, turning to look.
Master Boatswain III chuckled. “I’m terribly sorry. I was trying to be quiet so I wouldn’t interrupt you.”
“Have you been here awhile?”
“Long enough,” he said then pointed to the left arm. “Two more turns on that screw should do it, I think.”
I followed Master Boatswain’s suggestion, making the adjustment, then slid the device carefully into the body of the gnome. Grabbing the windup key, I gave it a turn.
Finally. Finally. The arms moved with grace as if he were playing the piano.
“What a delicate movement. Is he conducting?” Archibald asked.
Frostbitten Fairy Tales Page 32
