Beauty and the Clockwork Beast

by Nancy Allen Campbell

  Wondering about the herbs she had been unable to identify in the greenhouse, and with thoughts of Kate’s illness and bloodsuckers swirling in her head, she gathered her cloak, notebook, pen, and a waterproofed pink parasol that matched her day dress to stylistic perfection. Marching through the house, she made her way down the main floor hallway to the kitchen where she opened the back door.

  “Tea, Miss Pickett?” Mr. Grafton’s booming voice carried through the room as she reached her arm outside to flip open the parasol in anticipation of stepping out into the rain.

  “Thank you, no, Mr. Grafton. I’ve a mind to sketch some of your lovely plants.”

  The portly cook made his way to her, wiping his hands on a cloth that hung from the apron tied at his waist. “Are you an artist, then?”

  “No. A botanist.”

  “Ah! A female botanist. Most refreshing!”

  Lucy’s lips quirked into a smile. “I’d dearly love to believe you’re sincere.”

  “But I am!” The cook placed a hand on his chest, his bushy brows drawn. “My mother was knowledgeable about plants. She was a natural healer.” He paused. “Of course, the villagers thought she was a witch and put her to death.”

  Lucy blinked. “Put her to death? That’s positively primeval. Even if she were practicing Black Magick, she should have been given the option of banishment.”

  Which was still a primeval option, in Lucy’s opinion, but then some of the smaller towns and villages throughout the kingdom had yet to allow the practice of even Light Magick. People’s fears usually ruled the day when it came to Magick users, vamps, or shape-shifters.

  Shape-shifting predators were on an extermination list. Anyone, at anytime, was allowed to take down a dangerous shape-shifter with the Queen’s blessing, and even those not usually considered “predatory” were often hunted for sport while the law looked discreetly the other way. Lucy’s great-uncle was a fox shifter. He kept a very low profile.

  Mr. Grafton nodded with a deep sigh. “Those were different times. Saved my life, my mother did, by sending me away with her friend hours before the mob reached our home.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “It was long ago,” Mr. Grafton said, his voice gravelly. He shuffled his feet under Lucy’s regard. “So you’re a botanist?”

  She smiled at the abrupt subject change. “I am a researcher for the Botanical Aid Society.”

  “Are you, now? Well, that’s very fine. And what have you discovered?”

  “A few botanical aids, treatments for certain common ailments.”

  “You don’t say! We have an expert in our midst. I hope your earlier concoction helped your cousin? Mr. Jonathan tells me she is not feeling well these days.”

  “So I understand. Have you noticed a difference in her appearance or behavior since she took up residence here?”

  “Well, I’m certainly not one to spend much time in direct contact with the family, but I do find myself wondering if she might be falling victim to the curse.”

  “Curse?”

  Mr. Grafton flushed and cleared his throat. “Nonsense, of course. Nothing I should be wasting your time over. In fact, I must continue my preparations for tea.”

  Lucy watched the man as he retreated to the far side of the kitchen. Belatedly, she realized her arm, parasol open, was still hanging out of the open door. With a shake of her head, she stepped outside and took a deep, cleansing breath.

  What curse?

  The question lingered, and she determined to press for details after she made sketches of the herbs in the greenhouse. The bulk of them were readily recognizable, and she labeled them accordingly. There were a few she still was curious about, so she sniffed and even tasted some before drawing them carefully for later identification.

  Curiosity got the better of her when she exited the greenhouse and saw the path that led to the rock-walled garden hidden deep in the undergrowth. Of their own volition, her feet moved down the muddy path as she readjusted the parasol and held her closed journal close to her chest. Without the necessity of maintaining a slow pace for Kate, she reached the garden in a matter of minutes.

  Making her way to the far side of the enclosure, she contemplated the heavy gate. She nudged it with her foot, then, shifting the parasol, shoved at it hard with her hand. She pulled the handle toward herself repeatedly before admitting what she’d already known to be true. The gate was still locked fast.

  A low growl from behind startled her, and she whirled around to see an older man dressed in a raincoat with a cap on his head, under which shot tufts of white hair. “What do ye think ye’re doin’? This is private property!”

  Lucy stepped back from the gate at the look on the man’s face before she regained a modicum of courage and stood her ground.

  “My apologies, sir,” she said. “I am visiting my cousin, Mr. Jonathan Blake’s wife, and she is unwell. I thought to explore the grounds while she rests.”

  “Mrs. Blake ought to have told ye that certain places are ta be left alone.” The man’s eyes flashed at her, and she found herself once again fighting to keep from running away.

  “Might you be Mr. Clancy?”

  He flared his nostrils. “I might.”

  “As a fellow lover of horticulture, I ask your patience with my lack of manners. I only sought to observe the treasures on the other side of the wall.”

  He scowled heavily, his eyebrows lowering over brilliant blue eyes. “The garden belonged to Lady Marie. She . . . is no longer here to tend it.”

  Feeling as though she were trying to coax a small animal to her without frightening it, she weighed her next words carefully. Smiling as though feeling sheepish, she said, “I know better than to be poking my nose where I’ve not been invited. I suppose I was drawn to the garden out of curiosity—it seems quite grand. I’ve a fondness for plants that exceeds what most people might define as ‘normal.’”

  The old man studied her for a long moment, and she fought to keep herself from fidgeting under his tight regard. He finally withdrew a large iron key from his inner pocket. “Not much ta see in this weather,” he grumbled as he fitted the key into the lock. “Can’t imagine why someone would be out explorin’ in all this rain anyway.” He was forced to twist and wiggle the key several times before the audible click of the bolt sounded in the chill air.

  The gate swung inward on hinges that squeaked a loud protest at the invasion, and Mr. Clancy motioned for her to precede him, his expression inscrutable. She entered the walled enclosure with a sense of awe as the garden itself seemed to steal the air from her lungs.

  Lush, green grass and foliage carpeted the ground. There was a small, wrought-iron gazebo in the far corner, encased in thick green vines that dripped with rain, and an intimate seating area near it that consisted of iron chairs, a round table, and a bench big enough for two adults to sit comfortably side by side.

  The interior of the garden was lined with large planter boxes that contained multitudinous varieties of flora, among which she spied roses, foxglove, meadowsweet, and lady slippers, which had long since bloomed. Large lilac trees graced each of the four corners and, as evidenced from outside, ivy covered the walls and escaped over the top. The lawn was overgrown, and there wasn’t a plant in sight that wasn’t in need of trimming or deadheading or just plain removal, but the beauty that the garden surely possessed when cared for was readily apparent.

  “It is absolutely stunning,” Lucy breathed and glanced at Mr. Clancy, who looked at the gazebo with his jaw clenched.

  “She did love it,” he finally muttered.

  “When the weather clears, would you allow me to clean it up a bit?” Lucy asked. Her fingers itched to fix the mess, and she began mentally organizing the whole of it, deciding where she would start and how she would go about restoring order. With concerted effort, she refrained from flipping open her sketchboo
k and making notes. “I didn’t know her, of course, but I would think this garden should be cherished and cared for as a tribute to Lady Marie, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mr. Clancy finally looked at her. “No. It was hers and she’s gone.” His worn face was weary as though he’d seen the grief of a thousand lifetimes. His eyes looked strangely wet, and Lucy felt her heart soften by several degrees.

  She nodded. “I understand. And I do thank you so much for allowing me to see it. It’s splendid.” She picked her way back to the threshold, watching her step to avoid patches of mud.

  “Wait,” Mr. Clancy called, and when she turned, he joined her at the gate. “Clean it if you must, then, but don’t be pesterin’ me for help. I’ve other duties ta attend.”

  Lucy smiled. “I promise not to pester you. Other than to ask you for the key.”

  He nodded, and although he didn’t smile, she caught a gentle shift in his features. “But not after six o’clock in the evening. My arthritic knee acts up after dark.”

  “Noted.” She gave him a nod and, after a brief moment of hesitation, shifted her parasol to offer him her hand. He looked at her and took it in a perfunctory shake.

  “Ye’re Mrs. Blake’s relation, then?”

  “Yes. First cousin.”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it again. “Well, a good day to you.”

  “And to you.” They left the quiet sanctuary, and Mr. Clancy locked the gate behind them, pocketing the key. He gruffly told her that his quarters were in the cottage down by the stream and then left her in the falling rain.

  After checking on Kate, Lucy spent the rest of the afternoon in her room reviewing her sketches and comparing them to her plant reference guide. She also searched her notebook dedicated to medicinal herbs, wondering if there might be something that would restore Kate’s energy permanently rather than just a temporary mend.

  She heard the approach of a horseless carriage in the drive—a rather large one, from the sound of it—and she went to her window. Amidst some fuss and ceremony, she saw an older woman who began firing orders at the servants with a volume Lucy heard through the closed window. A young man and young woman emerged from the carriage as well.

  Lucy’s observations were interrupted as Kate knocked quickly and then entered, wearing a beautiful dinner gown. She looked better after having had a good, long rest. “Please come downstairs with me. The Charlesworths are here.”

  “I saw the carriage. Who are the Charlesworths?”

  Kate sighed as she took Lucy’s notebook and pen from her hands and placed them on the writing desk. “Mrs. Charlesworth is Jonathan’s paternal aunt. She has two children, Arthur, who is slightly older than we are, and Candice, who is our age; you might remember seeing their family portrait in the gallery. Mrs. Charlesworth’s husband passed on some five years ago. I shouldn’t wonder if he took his own life as a means of escape.”

  “Mercy, Kate.” Lucy moved her research materials into the desk drawer and locked it.

  “I know, but if you refuse to be my confidant, then where shall I turn? At any rate, I don’t care for Mrs. Charlesworth. She has a calculating look about her hideous face that sets my teeth on edge.”

  Lucy quickly exchanged her day dress for a dinner ensemble that was deep wine in color and trim in its fit.

  Kate made a spinning motion with her finger, and when Lucy turned around, Kate tied the outer corset strings snugly against her back. She grabbed a handful of hairpins, pulled Lucy down into a chair before the vanity’s large, ornate mirror, and began working on some of the more unruly curls of Lucy’s coiffure.

  “What does Jonathan think of the Charlesworths?”

  “He doesn’t much care for them either, but they are family. They don’t go away.” Kate finally settled for pinning the curls atop Lucy’s head and allowed a few delicately twisting tendrils to fall gracefully to her shoulders.

  “And Lord Blackwell?”

  Kate made an inelegant sound. “Who in the world knows what he thinks? He just broods and sucks the life right out of a room.”

  “Where is the man? I’ve yet to even see his face.” That’s the ticket, Lucy. Tackle the matter head-on. She squelched the nervous fluttering in her stomach with a command to stop fretting like a ninny.

  “Once a month, he goes to the family hunting lodge for four or five days.”

  “Does he hunt?” Lucy retrieved her matching shoes from the wardrobe and slipped them on. She selected a pair of gloves as well.

  Kate rolled her eyes. “I would assume so. He is at the hunting lodge, after all.” She shoved the gloves onto Lucy’s hands and pushed her out of the room.

  “You certainly seem to have regained your strength,” Lucy muttered as Kate swiftly closed the door behind them.

  “Words cannot express the depth of my distaste for that woman,” Kate huffed as they made their way down the hall.

  “Then why are we in such a hurry to meet with them?”

  Kate stopped midstride and looked at Lucy with eyes that widened slightly as she bit her lower lip. “I am now mistress of the house. Blackwell doesn’t have a wife or children, and Jonathan is heir to the earldom. There are expectations, you know.”

  Lucy nodded. “I do. I also know that I do not like the thought of someone making a nuisance of herself at your expense. Does Mrs. Charlesworth visit often?”

  “Yes. I’ve met her once before, and Jonathan tells me they are often regular fixtures around the place.” Kate resumed her pace down the hallway, and Lucy had to trot to stay at her side. “And she telescribed earlier today, insisting on hosting a ball in my and Jonathan’s honor at their home in Stammershire. I’ve told them repeatedly it isn’t necessary, that at some point we will just do it here, but Aunt Eustace insists.”

  “Oh dear, that is an unfortunate name.”

  “Yes. And I know she only wants to host this grand ball to keep up appearances for her lofty circle of friends.”

  “How lofty can they be? I had assumed she must have married a commoner.”

  “She did. But she was the daughter of an earl, and her husband made a significant amount of money”—she lowered her voice—“from the village rectory, or so the rumor goes. But nobody dares approach Eustace about the issue.”

  Lucy’s mouth twitched, and she tried to fight a smile as they reached the top of the staircase leading to the front hall where she heard a cacophony of voices that lifted on the air. “He was a vicar, I presume?”

  “He was,” Kate whispered as they paused on the second step down. “But he also had inherited money, which is why it is so baffling that he would steal from his own parishioners.”

  “This place is a circus,” Lucy murmured as they continued their descent.

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you.” Kate smiled and linked her arm through Lucy’s.

  Once all the formal introductions were made, the family gathered in the dining room for supper. Through some quick maneuvering on his part, Arthur Charlesworth claimed the seat next to Lucy. Opposite them sat Mrs. Charlesworth and Candice, with Jonathan at the head. Kate rounded out the party in the hostess’s seat at the foot of the table. She looked extremely ill at ease, and Lucy felt her protective instincts surging to the surface.

  “And where is my errant nephew this time?” Mrs. Charlesworth asked Jonathan as the first course was served.

  One of Mr. Grafton’s automaton kitchen helpers placed Kate’s food in front of her. Lucy noticed a subtle grimace cross her cousin’s features before she looked up at the ’ton and said, “Thank you, Robert.” The boy nodded and returned to the sideboard for more food. Kate had the right of it, Lucy decided. The lack of animation in the staff was disconcerting, to say the least.

  “Miles is at the hunting lodge,” Jonathan replied to his aunt. “He likes to visit every now and again for a few days. If he’s not there, his t
ime spent away is usually in London on parliamentary business. The majority of the time, he’s here. It’s your misfortune to keep missing him,” he finished with a wink.

  Lucy admired his smooth delivery. Had she not known from Kate that Jonathan wasn’t overly fond of his relatives, she might have thought him at pleasant ease with the woman who—Kate was right—had a hideous face. It wasn’t so much the features; it was the way she set them. Lucy wondered if the woman had ever smiled a day in her life.

  Mrs. Charlesworth opened her mouth to reply, but just then, Arthur leaned close to Lucy and asked her how long she would be gracing Blackwell Manor with her beauty.

  Lucy glanced at him as she ate a piece of asparagus. “As long as Kate wishes me to,” she told the man after swallowing. “It’s been ever so long since we have spent time together.”

  He smiled at her, and Lucy wondered how many hearts he had melted with that gift. That Arthur was handsome was an understatement. He had a thick head of sandy-colored hair styled to perfection, and his clothing hung well on his healthy frame. He wore his wealth and confidence with natural ease, the kind that came from generations of money and breeding—from his mother’s side of the family, at least. “Well, I sincerely hope your visit will be one of an extended nature.”

  Lucy’s late father hadn’t been titled, but he had been a wealthy landowner, so she had spent her life mingling with Arthur’s kind, and she was instinctively leery of him. “Polo?” she guessed, then took a sip of her drink.

  He inclined his golden head. “Of course. And more to my taste, rugby. I helped form the Northern Rugby Football Union.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. I used to be able to convince Jonathan and Miles to join in on the fun. Although I must admit,” he added in a faux-conspiratorial whisper, “that once Miles showed his face on the field, we had a distinct advantage. He scared the other teams witless.”

  “I am beginning to form a most singular opinion of Lord Blackwell.”

  “Oh, not at all. He’s merely been . . . toughened by his experiences in the war.”