“Not today, LeBeouf,” another added.
“Never,” a third called.
“Marry me! I’ll marry you,” the old woman called then cackled loudly.
I glanced over my shoulder.
The old woman was waving the rose toward Gerard.
Annoyed, Gerard turned on his heel and headed back to his own stall.
Sometimes it didn’t pay to be nice. Gerard was perfect on the outside, but inside he was a slimy rat. I was growing tired of his romantic jokes and pawing hands. It was one thing if he wanted to court me properly, but such outlandish exchanges were just vulgar. I felt embarrassed.
Shaking my head, I moved toward the back of the hall where my father usually lingered. Of all the men in London, why did Gerard LeBoeuf have to set his cap toward me? I mean, it would be nice to have a suitor, but not him. I’d thought I’d found a match with the brooding, but kind Doctor Murray. The doctor had frequented my home and was a friend of my father’s. He was the perfect man: intelligent, handsome, and reserved. But I should have known Doctor Murray was in love with his childhood friend, Elyse McKenna. My affection for Doctor Murray had been entirely one-sided. My hopes had come to nothing. I couldn’t begrudge Doctor Murray and Miss McKenna—well, she was Missus Murray now. I had never seen a happier couple. I only hoped that I could find a love like that one day.
Shaking off the encounter with Gerard, I headed toward the back of Tinker’s Hall. There, I spotted my father talking to one of the craftsmen.
“Ah, here you are, my dear. Two centimeters and as slim as can be,” my father said, handing a package containing a glass cylinder to me.
“Wherever did you find one?”
“Find? Oh no, my girl. The Wizard of Glass blew the piece just for you,” he said, waving to Vinicio Bintello, a Venetian glassblower, four stalls down.
I waved in thanks to the man then turned to my father once more. “Thank you, Papa.”
“Of course! Now, do you need anything else? This will be your last chance to shop before we set sail Friday.”
I shook my head. For months, Papa and I had been working on a series of commissions for a Scottish nobleman. He had met my father and me in London in the autumn and had fallen in love with our work. Certain his new wife, who was a connoisseur of fine art, would love my clockwork sculptures, he’d commissioned clocks from my father and art pieces from me. The work had taken months, but we were finally ready. Now that I had the glass cylinder, I had everything I needed. The wedding was just a week away. Papa and I would sail to the Isle of Islay on Friday to deliver our creations. I was beyond excited. Not only were we planning to attend the wedding, but Papa had also arranged for us to participate in a symposium in Belfast where we would meet with renowned Irish tinkers.
It was the trip of a lifetime.
I could hardly wait.
Chapter 3: Love’s Bloom
After we finished up at the market, Papa and I walked home to our workshop between London and Blackfriar’s bridges along the Thames. As we walked, I flipped through the pages of the book on the ancient inventor Hero of Alexandria. The book chronicled the man’s inventions, though the details of how the machines worked lacked specificity.
“Apple?” Papa offered as we walked, pulling a green apple from his pocket.
I nodded, slipping my basket to the crook of my arm so I could eat and walk at the same time.
Papa took a bite of his own apple as he rolled a round device in his hand.
“What are you reading, dearest?” he asked.
“Mmm? Oh, a treatise on Hero of Alexandria.”
“Hero of Alexandria. I believe I saw a reference to him in one of McGill’s essays. McGill, always spouting off about this or that ancient inventor. He’ll be at the symposium, you know. Shall I have a look at the text when you’re done? Perhaps I can find something McGill hasn’t read before.”
I chuckled at Papa’s propensity for professional rivalry. “Of course. And just what are you rolling around?”
“Master Bintello blew me a glass orb,” he said, lifting the glass and holding it toward the sky. He squinted one eye as he looked through the sphere.
“You have a hundred such orbs.”
“Not like this, my dear. Look,” he said, handing it to me.
I lifted the orb and looked through it. I was surprised to see that the reflection in the distance was reversed. I gasped. “Now, how did he manage that?”
Papa chuckled. “A glassblower’s secret.”
I handed the orb back to Papa. “Ingenious.”
“Now, let me see what I can make of it.”
While my father’s formal trade had shifted from airships to clocks, his genius led him in new, exciting directions. He’d been working on creating devices that could help the sick and maimed. He’d become practically obsessed with building an optic that could work to replace a human eye. His interest in all things medical was how I’d come to meet Doctor Murray. The doctor’s knowledge of the human body coupled with my father’s sense of the mechanical made them a good match. Good for my father. Alas, not a match for me.
My thoughts went to LeBoeuf once more. I shuddered. How could a man be so perfect on the outside and so sloppy on the inside? I guess what they said was true, beauty was only skin deep.
I turned back to my book and took another bite of the apple.
Following the twists and turns of the London streets, soon we arrived home. I smiled up at the face of our little workshop facing the Thames. I was going to miss the view and comforts of home. But still, an adventure at sea and a lordly wedding were enough to get me to leave home without too much complaining.
Papa and I let ourselves in. Papa held his apple in his mouth while he pulled off his coat. The sight made me giggle.
“You look like a pig ready for the spit. Here,” I said, setting down my book and basket so I could help him shrug off his jacket.
Once he was free of his wraps, Papa removed the apple. “Thank you, dearest. Now, anything else you need from outside? A bonnet? Perhaps some ink? What about your dress for the wedding?”
“Delivered yesterday.”
“And did you go with the pink or the green?”
“Yellow.”
“Yellow. Very good. Anything else then?”
I shook my head. “My trunks are already packed. One for clothes. One for tools and books.”
“Very good. Very good. The workers will be by to collect the clocks and sculptures. Do you have everything ready?”
I nodded. “One last check and a minor adjustment now that I have this,” I said, lifting the glass cylinder.
With that, my father nodded. “Very well. I won’t keep you then.” Leaning in, he kissed me on the cheeks then headed toward his workshop in the basement. I grabbed my books and basket and went to my workshop at the back of the house. There, I had a good view of the garden. The sunny space was perfect. The ample sunlight allowed me to see the inner workings of my designs more easily. And since most of my work was inspired by nature, I loved being under the sky. The workshop was—so my father told me time and time again—my mother’s favorite space in the whole house. Though she died when I was very little, being there made me feel close to her, like she was watching me, helping me with my creations.
I met Martin, our footman, in the hall. “Miss Hawking, welcome home. Shall I arrange for some tea?”
“Please! And some sandwiches? Do we have any salted pork left? And cheese?”
“Yes, miss. I’ll see to it.”
“And a tray for my father as well, please. In our workshops.”
“Of course.”
I headed toward the back. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. I stepped around the tall palm plant and went to the table where all my commissioned designs sat ready. Three sculptures were completed. The fourth sat waiting on my workbench. I eyed over the designs.
The first was a sculpture that appeared to be silver birds roosting on a tree branch, but when the windup key
was turned, the birds sprang to life and sang Vivaldi’s Allegro-Largo-Allegro.
The second piece was a diorama of ice skaters spinning around a frozen lake. Using mirrors, I’d worked the device to shine sunlight onto the metal trees, making the crystalline snow I’d crafted shimmer with sparkling light. Like the bird sculpture, this piece also played music. This time, the tune was The First Noel.
Another of my designs was, in truth, my all-time favorite. It depicted a man and woman seated at a dining table. The couple, both made of bronze, were frozen in the expressions of laughing merriment. I turned the windup key then stood back. Suddenly, the table came to life. A feisty alehouse song played as the dishes on the table began to move in their groves, dancing across the table in interweaving patterns. The candelabra at the center of the table and the teapot danced around one another like they were at a country ball. The couple seated at the table swung their tankards as they watched the show. I chuckled. Dancing dishes. I hoped the lord and lady would like the quaint mirth I’d tried to capture in the piece. The music died down, and the bronze couple returned to their frozen positions, the cutlery and fine china behaving once more. I smiled at the clockwork design. Part music box, part clockwork display, it was fully of whimsy.
Turning, I went to my workbench where my last piece sat waiting.
On first blush, it seemed like a simple sculpture. A couple sat on a swing below an arbor of roses. The clockwork pieces had all been working perfectly, but my marriage of music to the movements had lacked an enchanting cadence.
Sliding my stool up to my bench, I opened the metal compartment underneath the sculpture. Pulling on a pair of goggles and dropping down the lenses to the most enlarging lens, I pulled out my tools and got to work replacing the brass cylinder I had been using with the glass piece Papa had commissioned at the market. It was delicate work, but with a little concentration, I’d have it in no time.
At some point, Martin must have come in with the tray. The wafting scent of freshly brewed Earl Grey tea distracted me for a moment, but I just about had the cylinder in place. I pushed my hunger pangs aside and focused on my work. I removed the tiny pins and screws, replacing the piece, then set in the new equipment. Testing the music pins, and adjusting for tone, I finally had it.
With a heavy exhale, I leaned back. I pushed my goggles onto my head and set down my tools. Reaching behind me, I grabbed the cup of tea only to find it was ice cold.
I flicked an eye toward the sky overhead. Was it already late afternoon?
I eyed the plate on the tray. I somewhat remembered seeing a bun there. The plate of food sitting behind me now, however, consisted of fruit, cheese, and nuts. Had Martin cleared the other plate or had I eaten? I couldn’t remember.
I grabbed a piece of cheese then reached forward and wound the machine.
The sound of Bach’s flute sonata, this time in E minor, filled the workshop.
I smiled.
One part, at least, was done.
Setting the tea back on the tray, I popped the cheese into my mouth then set to work once more. I reattached the music device to the rest of the clockwork gears inside the sculpture. It took some time, but finally, I managed to get everything aligned. Once it was done, I was ready to try it out once more.
“Isabelle?” Papa called. “Are you here?”
“Yes, Papa.”
My father joined me at my workbench. “I’m told we missed lunch, but dinner will be served in ten minutes if you’d like to get ready. Well, how is it? Still B flat or did we achieve E minor?”
I turned the key once more then stood back.
Once again, Bach’s sonata started, but this time the entire sculpture came to life. The handsome gentleman stood, his hands behind his back, in a formal posture—a pose I’d modeled after Doctor Murray—his lover on the swing began swinging back and forth. I’d used a very light weave of silver and silk string for the woman’s dress to give it movement. As it was, the music box was sweet, but a moment later, the magic happened. As the song shifted, the design reacted. The tiny metal rosebuds on the arbor slowly opened into large blossoms as if they were blooming in time with the music.
“Love’s bloom,” I said, watching my creation work.
As the tune slowed, the swing came to a stop, and the metal gentleman leaned down to kiss his lover. I watched the pair carefully. It had taken hours to time that movement just right. For at least a month my gentleman had banged his lady on the head, got stuck on the swing, kissed the air behind her, or just plain missed with the same lack of decorum as LeBoeuf. But today, his kiss landed true. The couple kissed. The roses closed once more. The gentleman and lady return to their waiting postures.
My father wrapped his arm around my waist. “This is... It’s just wonderful.”
I pulled out the windup key. “So much magic in one turn of the key.”
My father shook his head. “The magic is here,” he said, taking my hands into his and kissing me on the back of hands.
I giggled.
“Now, let’s eat something. Two sleeps, my dear, and the sea will be calling!”
I set the key down on the workbench and looked at my metal lovers. I smiled at them, proud of myself that I was able to render the sweetest of expressions in their gaze. Frozen in silver, they still looked at one another with the expression of complete and total love.
I wished I could find a man who looked at me like that.
Chapter 4: The Prospero
After dinner, I went back to the workshop to make some final adjustments to my sculptures. I almost hated to give them up, but I took comfort in the thought that they would bring joy to the newlyweds. It was close to midnight when I finally headed upstairs to bed. I flopped onto my bed and pulled out the book on Hero of Alexandria and his aeolipile. I must have dozed off because I woke the next morning to the sound of men in the house.
“Miss Hawking,” Agatha, our maid, called from the other side of my door. “Your father asked me to see if you could come down. They are almost done packing up the clocks. They want to start on your sculptures.”
“Coming,” I called with a yawn then sat up. No time to change. I smoothed my hair as best I could, pausing just a moment to wash my face and clean my teeth, then headed back downstairs to the workshop. I guess it was a good thing I’d collapsed into bed fully dressed. I’d just reached my studio when the men arrived with the empty packing crates, Papa leading them.
“Ah, Isabelle. Is everything ready?” he asked.
I nodded. “As long as they are packed in ample straw. I took the liberty of wrapping the more delicate pieces in cloth last night.”
“Very well,” Papa said then turned to the men, indicating that they could begin packing.
I snatched the leather strap on which I’d strung the windup keys from the table. “Thought these were best kept with me. If they get lost, it will take me a week to fashion replacements.”
Papa nodded to me. “Very good. Now, I will accompany these gentlemen to the shipyard to see the pieces and our trunks loaded. Can I bring you anything back?”
“No, Papa,” I said, watching anxiously as the men lifted the sculpture with the little birds, setting it gently down in the straw. I held my breath the entire time. I would need to ensure I packed all my tools with me. If the boxes were rattled too hard, I might need to make a quick repair when we arrived.
“Anything for the trip? Sweets, perhaps? A new parasol?”
I laughed. “A parasol? Father, you jest.”
“Not at all. It is a wedding, after all, Isabelle. Perhaps you will find someone who catches your eye.”
I felt a blush rise up on my cheeks when one of the workers gave me a passing glance.
“And what shall I do, bash him on the head with the handle of my parasol and drag him off?”
At that, both of the men packing up my sculptures chuckled.
Papa joined in the laughter. “Quite right. I don’t know. I thought maybe you could twirl it or some such,”
he said, giving off the air of a refined lady twirling her parasol while bending her neck in the most attractive of poses.
At that, the workers and I chuckled. “No, Papa. I have all I need right here.”
“Hmm,” Papa mused. “Perhaps LeBoeuf has won your heart after all.”
“Papa! Really.”
My father pinched my cheek. “My good girl. As you wish, no parasols.”
I smiled at him but was grateful when the conversation turned away from my prospects—or the lack thereof save LeBoeuf—to the wooden crates and the size of the storage hold on the ship.
I stayed in the workshop until the last sculpture was taken to the waiting wagon outside. I followed Papa and the workers out front. The boxed pieces and our trunks sat ready.
“Very good,” Papa said then crawled into the back of the wagon. “I’ll see these secured then be back. See you this afternoon,” he said, waving to me.
I gave him a wave then headed back inside.
Papa was right. A wedding was an excellent opportunity to meet someone. But then what? I wanted to be loved. Everyone did. But at what cost? I loved my little home along the Thames. I loved my daily work. I loved going to the market on Wednesday—save the encounters with LeBoeuf—and I enjoyed chatting with Papa about our work. I needed someone who understood the life of a tinker, not someone who expected me to twirl a parasol and crane my neck until my bones cracked. Perhaps the wedding would yield no results, but the symposium in Belfast might. A gathering of the most celebrated minds in all of Ireland was anticipated. The Celtic Clockworks, as they called the learned society in Ireland, was home to many bright minds. Maybe amongst them I would find someone.
And if I did, then what? I looked down at my dress. I was still wearing the same gown I had worn yesterday, and I was covered in gear grease. I should at least prepare myself with a proper bath. Parasol or no, it wouldn’t hurt to dig the grime out from under my fingernails and sweeten my hair with a little perfume in preparation for the trip. How were fashionable ladies wearing their hair these days? I wasn’t sure.
Beauty and Beastly Page 2
