Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  "It's something only a man can discern, and trust me, I know."

  He arose from the sofa. Stifling the urge to bolt out of the chamber in unsophisticated haste took all his concentration. "For the next several days, I must oversee the dye house while we wait."

  In desperation, he closed the door, a physical barrier and too easy to overcome. When was the last time he'd wanted like this? Simple to answer—never. Not before his brother's death, when he'd been free to indulge as he wished, and certainly not since. He would get a handle on this desire, would hold himself aloof even if it killed him.

  And if this night was an example of what was to come, it just might.

  Chapter 14

  "Mark my words, Nicola Moore was forced into this marriage."

  Malcolm paused in writing figures and peered through the gap in the velvet curtains that divided the office from the fabric shop he now owned through marriage to Nicola. Two elderly ladies stood in the aisle, gossiping. Did society know of his blackmailing Nicola? Or was it because he was so dark and she was so bright that there couldn't be any other explanation for their union but coercion?

  Carefully, he returned the quill to its well and sat back in the old chair. One of the legs wobbled. He took note to exchange the chair as soon as possible. For that matter, he would find another location for the dye office. Like the tide of the Nene River, a continuous flow of customers walked in and out of the adjoining display room full of bolts of cloth dyed various colors. All the commotion made him distinctly uneasy.

  Through the doorway, he could see the two women standing near a table. His attention snagged on the one who was nodding her head in an authoritative manner, whose air of expertise was hindered only by the fact she carried a rooster under her arm. And that she was rather odd-looking. The green gown she wore merely emphasized her wiry frame. Tufts of slightly greenish hair frizzed out from under her forest-colored bonnet.

  Her companion—with skinny arms poking out from bell-cupped sleeves and a gown that was as bright a yellow as any Malcolm had ever seen—turned from inspecting a bolt of lavender cloth. "You are saying the Callers chose him?"

  Mrs. Rooster nodded her head emphatically. "I'm certain of it, aren't you? The little pixies always do their work quickly. Why, when Birch Diderot was struck with Cupid's arrow, he married Anna fast enough."

  The elderly women talked about pixies as if they were commonplace. Bloody hell, this province was teeming with superstitious villagers! He didn't know why the fact amazed him, but he was still surprised.

  The glowing-yellow woman fingered an orange swatch of weave. "Somehow, I can't imagine the Black Falcon falling in love like Birch did with Anna. He was so doting." She sighed, and then rubbed the cloth experimentally. "He catered to his wife's every whim."

  Mrs. Rooster clucked and touched some sky-blue cotton. "Well, it's already starting with the Black Falcon. You do know he set her up in a beautiful salon just off Picadilly, don't you?"

  "You're jesting."

  "I'm not, and I don't know why he did it other than to cater to her whims."

  He did it to keep her happy so that they could live their separate lives. However, Malcolm wasn't about to correct the gossipmongers. Strangely enough, he discovered he had the urge to protect Nicola. The feeling bemused him. Since when had he felt compelled to shield another person? Long ago, he had learned that those tendencies led to disappointment. He'd thought himself finished with such notions and didn't like them creeping upon him.

  Mrs. Rooster's lips thinned. "You know poor Nicola was never good at millinery, and buying a pretty shop won't change that."

  "True." The thin woman held up cloth dyed with swirls of yellow and peach. "Isn't this just lovely? Too bad she didn't inherit any artistic talent from her father. Mayhap the Black Falcon will get rid of the shop when he discovers her lack of ability."

  "Perhaps, but I don't think so. Bea, believe me, the Earl is on his way to being harnessed and tethered."

  The thin woman examined her fingers, obviously looking to see if the dye rubbed off the cloth. "I still don't see it. Do you think the Callers made a mistake?"

  What were Callers? If he was to get to the bottom of this strange conversation, he had to ask. As he stood, the chair groaned loudly. The woman called Bea turned her head and met his gaze, then froze. Her golden eyes stared at him. Her chin was pointy... and so were her ears. She was the strangest-looking woman he'd ever seen.

  Mrs. Rooster continued looking at cloth. "They never make a blunder. I tell you, Bea, he'll soon be tam—Bea, what's wrong?"

  Her friend stared at Malcolm, opening and shutting her mouth like a fish in a net. Mrs. Rooster turned and gawked too. Her emerald eyes glowed and her broad cheeks seemed emphasized by a narrow, protruding chin. Her tufts of hair looked almost... green.

  Malcolm walked toward the pair. "Pardon me, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation."

  Both women were gasping for air.

  He continued on, used to disconcerting people. For an instant he wondered what it would be like to have a normal conversation—without the caution, without the fear—then decided he must be soft in the head. "Who or what are Callers?" he inquired politely.

  Mrs. Rooster turned as red as the comb on her pet's head. "Uh, d-don't mind us, my lord. We're just fanciful old fools. G-Good day to you." Both women made awkward curtsies and scuttled out the door.

  Malcolm followed to try to get answers, but the women were nowhere to be seen. He checked the nearby alley, but it was empty. Had they vanished into thin air? He shook off the thought, wondering instead if he'd been working too hard on the books.

  A sudden stab of emptiness hollowed his stomach. Shaking off the queer feeling, he returned to his decrepit office where he sanded the latest figures on the inventory, then pushed the parchment aside and checked his watch. The hour was getting late.

  He decided he would visit his new wife at her salon to see how she was faring. And while he was there, he would ask her about the strange conversation. He remembered his vow the previous night to leave her alone for a fortnight, so the millinery was the safest place to visit her.

  Nicola watched as her last customer left with only a handful of Clockwork Blue ribbon. The other patrons had merely looked, curious to see the shop. Oh, that one woman had bought a bonnet for her infant, and Lady Celeste had purchased a hat. But all in all, it had been a boring, unprofitable day.

  What was wrong? Why hadn't business picked up? The new shop was lovely. Nothing was amiss—unless there was something wrong with her product. No, she refused to even consider that possibility. No sense in allowing insecurity to dampen her enthusiasm.

  "So when are you going to give up on this silly hobby and start being a real countess?" Glissando asked, suddenly appearing on a bonnet displayed in the window.

  She remembered the night before—the failed seduction of her new husband—and felt despair rise in her throat. How could she have been so clumsy? Her cheeks burned as she remembered the manner in which she'd tried to remove his boots. Her attempt to discard his shirt had been utterly humiliating. She hadn't been successful at much of anything lately—not in preventing the marriage, not in seduction, not in her business. It was enough to make her downright crabby. "So, why is your skin green and Allegro's yellow?" she asked instead of answering.

  "Because that's how pixies are."

  The thought amused her. "So, if you and Allegro are different colors, does that mean you could have been born half green and half yellow?"

  "Bah, I'm not a woman! Only females are born in multi-colors."

  "You're jesting," she replied, awed.

  Tapping his chin, he narrowed his eyes. "I asked if you are going to keep this ridiculous business of making hats. Are you going to answer me, or continue to evade my simple question?"

  "It's a silly question, not simple. And the millinery is not ridiculous," she groused.

  "It is when you have everything you need."

  Exce
pt a husband who wants me, she yearned to shout, but instead she swallowed down the lump that had formed in her throat. "I need to feel useful, to create something. A successful woman of business is my destiny." "Not if your hats..." He trailed off, muttering.

  "What did you say?" Her sharp demand didn't make her feel any better.

  A slight stirring of the atmosphere whispered through the shop as Glissando started pacing, a dark scowl marring his features. "Lass, your hats are..." He stared at her, then looked down at the spray of flowers on her latest creation, sprigs that suddenly drooped. "Oh, what do I know about women's fashions…." He must have seen her wilted spirit.

  She sighed, realizing that Glissando's heart was in the right place and that she had no business taking out her ill- humor on him. "Tell me what you started to say. Go on. You can be truthful with me. You've been around a long time and have seen many fashions so I trust your judgment." Her tone was a tad aggressive, so she tried to smile. It was wobbly at best.

  Glissando flew toward her. "Lass, I like you and I don't want to hurt your feelings, but …"

  "But what?" She told herself to stiffen her upper lip, that she could take anything Glissando dished out. "Tell me what you think, truly, of my hats. Why doesn't anyone purchase them?" She let Glissando perch on her palm. "I can look upon any judgment as logical, sound advice."

  "Are you certain, lass?"

  "Go ahead," she replied, mentally preparing herself. "Tell me the truth."

  "All right, you asked for it. I've never seen such a lack in balance and design. Your hats are awful."

  "Glissando!" she cried. She'd been certain she could succeed at the millinery—that she must succeed. "How can you say that?"

  "Lass, lass, I knew I shouldn't have told you." He moaned, his brows twisting with worry. Abruptly, he stilled and then leaned over to look past her shoulder. His eyes widened. "Ooops." He threw her a sheepish grin and then vanished, coloring the air with a poof of green sparkles.

  Awareness crackled across her skin, and she knew who was in the chamber without even looking. Slowly, she turned to find Malcolm staring at her from the doorway. Why hadn't she heard him? Probably because she'd been too miserable with failure. From the wide-eyed consternation in his eyes, she realized she was in for an interrogation. Cogs. If she was to ever capture his heart, she would have to stop looking like a complete imbecile. It didn't seem possible.

  Slowly, he advanced. He didn't say a word, just continued looking at her as if she were a banshee. When he reached her, he captured her hand, the one on which Glissando had stood. Holding it palm up, he studied the surface, rubbing a callused thumb over it. She trembled from the intimate touch, yearning for acceptance, fearful of rejection.

  Carefully, he lowered her hand, still holding hers. "I thought you pretended to believe in pixies to dissuade me from marrying you. But it wasn't a pretense, was it?"

  "It was." At least, she had pretended to see Glissando the time Malcolm walked into her shop two weeks before. Shivering from the warmth of his touch, she looked at his face, which seemed to be carved of marble, and chose her words carefully. "That day, I pretended to talk to a pixie in your presence."

  He leaned against an armoire and contemplated her. "What, precisely, are Callers?"

  Frowning, she wondered why he asked. "They are pixies that right the wrong in this world."

  "Bloody hell, this whole town is swimming in superstition," he muttered. He gave her a piercing stare. "What about you? Do you believe in otherworldly beings?"

  She evaded the question. "Don't you believe in magic and love ever after?"

  "No."

  Her heart sank, knowing it was true. "No? Why not?"

  "Magic and superstition are used to explain phenomena not yet explained by science. No, I don't believe in magic."

  She felt some hope return. "What about love?"

  "Love is a temporary flare, a chemical reaction between a man and woman also not yet fully explained by science. In other words, magic and love are both superstitions to explain scientific phenomena."

  "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

  "About what?"

  "That you've been hurt so badly."

  "What are you talking about? I haven't been hurt."

  "Deny it all you want. I know the truth." How sad. Although she had been wallowing in misery and self-doubt, she realized how much more alone Malcolm was than she had ever been. Without hope. Without faith. Without love. She wanted to remedy that. "Someday you'll change. Someday you'll believe that there's good in the world, and that pixies really do exist."

  "So you are telling me you believe in pixies."

  Somehow the pixies and love became interchangeable. In order to convince him of the existence of true love, she would have to persuade him to believe in magic. "I do."

  "And you were talking to a pixie just a moment ago?"

  "Yes," she admitted.

  "Ahhh. Does only one pixie exist, or are there many?"

  She knitted her brows at the notion. "I'm personally acquainted with only two."

  "Uh-huh. And do they have names?"

  His expression was calm but wary. She decided his interest was favorable. At least he wasn't trying to haul her off to the asylum—and perhaps he was beginning to at least consider the notion. "Allegro and Glissando."

  "Hmm," he murmured. "Do they visit everyone, or just a select few?"

  "You mean Allegro and Glissando? Or other pixies?"

  "Thunderation, you're telling me there are more?"

  "Glissando claims there's a whole world of them in the sky, but I haven't seen them. As far as Allegro and Glissando visiting other people, I'm not sure how it works. They allegedly visit me as well as every first-born female in my lineage. But I suppose they could call on others. Otherwise, what do they do in all the years between generations?"

  She realized he was staring at her with growing consternation. "Why is it so hard to believe there are little magical creatures that only a few people can behold? Just because some things are not understood by science doesn't mean they don't exist. Some things, the beautiful things, are just... unexplainable."

  "Don't waste any time trying to convince me of magic, Nicola. You need to concentrate on your hobby. You will have more success at that."

  His comment brought her back to the problem at hand. She plopped down on a chair. "I've heard my hats are awful."

  "Is that what the pixie—which one was it—said? Bloody hell, I can't believe I just asked you about your delusions." He frowned as if she were dicked in the nob.

  His criticism didn't sit well. Her lower lip started to wobble, but she bit the inside of it and jutted out her chin, determined not to be intimidated by his skepticism. "It was Glissando, but he felt bad afterward."

  Malcolm scowled. He picked up a wide strand of ribbon. "I suppose... well, I don't know what to think about your imaginary creatures as yet." He rubbed the ribbon and stared at her. "Nicola, did you start believing in pixies because you were an only child?"

  She threw him a moody glance. "Quit trying to analyze my mind."

  "Did you hit your head last night when you went sailing across the room with my boot?"

  Was such interest better than dark indifference? She decided it was. "Forget about my unbalanced brain and the pixies, and tell me what I'm going to do now that this whole business is hopeless."

  "Your shop has only been open a few days, Nicola. It's too soon to deem it a disaster."

  "It is a disaster if my products are awful."

  He looked about to speak, and then shook his head. "I wouldn't say your hats are that bad."

  "You wouldn't …" She couldn't help the hope rising in her bosom.

  He gave her a serious look. "I meant what I said at our wedding breakfast, Nicola. You are a true artist. But have you ever thought of writing novels as an outlet to all your... fantasies?"

  "You're trying to tell me my hats are horrendous!"

  "No, I'm not." He ran a hand throug
h his hair, clearly frustrated. "The only problem with your hats is that you're not … French. And you know the French dictate clothing styles right now." He glanced out the window and rubbed his chin. "However, we talked about it before—your station may have an influence on changing the styles."

  "I don't know," Nicola said. She sighed again, deciding there wasn't any hope after all.

  "Don't close your doors quite yet. I'll return in a few moments." He walked outside.

  Curious, Nicola followed. Lady Celeste was just emerging from the post office. The baroness had recently left the millinery with a purchase, one of her most expensive hats. Had Celeste merely purchased it to appease Malcolm? Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she really liked it.