Clockwork Image

by L G Rollins

  A long table filled most of the room. The board always met here, and Tressa had wondered more than once if they felt more holy if they could discuss the children whose lives were in their hands and smile at them at the same time. Brox sat near the head of the table. The moment he saw her, his eyes lit up and, standing, he moved toward her.

  “How is Tom this morning?” he asked, taking hold of her elbow and guiding her further into the room.

  “Still improving slowly, but improving nonetheless.” Tressa both wanted to savor and ignore the heat from his touch. She hadn’t allowed herself to daydream about a man in years, and now that she could, Tressa often found herself thinking of Brox.

  She loved the feel of standing so close to him, his hand on her elbow, but still wasn’t confident Brox saw her as anything more than a good-ol’-pal, similar to the way he saw Jasper. “He woke up long enough to say thank you to one of the nurses.”

  Jasper came up behind her, fiddling with another one-time-use bulb for his camera. “The nurse nigh on cried, too. It seems everyone has grown inordinately fond of our Tom-boy.”

  Tressa wanted to say, ‘speak for yourself’, but chose not to. Her brother had barely left Tom’s side since the doctors let them see him. Jasper read him books and brought him a wooden toy horse he’d carved himself. If anyone had grown inordinately fond in the past few days, it was Jasper.

  “Mr. Broxholme?” A delicate voice called out from the doorway.

  The three of them turned. A young woman, probably barely twenty by the looks of her, stood with perfect, blonde ringlets framing her plump cheeks and button nose. The woman was dressed in a stylish pink dress with white lace.

  Catching sight of Brox, she smiled daintily and bustled over to them. Tressa suddenly felt quite bland in comparison. If this was the type of woman Brox spent time with, it was no wonder he’d inadvertently hinted that Tressa’s company felt more like male companionship.

  Tressa brushed her hands down the skirt of her dress. She’d told Jasper that meeting before the committee required one to dress in their finest. Secretly though, she’d been thinking of Brox as she’d donned the light blue dress which, she always felt, showed off her dark skin in the best way.

  “There you are, sir,” the young woman said in an annoyingly high pitch. “I have done all you asked; letters were addressed and sent this morning, your other suit has been delivered to the tailor, I purchased a broach for your mother’s birthday . . .”

  As the perky woman spoke on, Jasper leaned closer to Tressa and whispered, “Christina Brown. She grew up here in Westwood, same as us, is Brox’s secretary, and,” his voice dropped even lower, “is the only woman in town I avidly avoid.”

  Tressa eyed Miss Brown. “What does an orphanage tutor need with a secretary?”

  “He only tutors here as a volunteer,” Jasper explained. “Brox is a very successful barrister.”

  Miss Brown glanced at Jasper and batted her lashes, then quickly returned to speaking with Brox, the most innocent of expressions on her face, as though she hadn’t just made eyes at her employer’s friend.

  Tressa grinned. “Don’t tell me she had a tendre for you?”

  Jasper’s gaze jumped from Tressa to Miss Brown and back again, a small grimace playing across his lips.

  Her brother had an unwanted admirer. Oh, this could be fun. Suddenly, staying a little longer on land didn’t seem like a bad idea. She’d certainly missed out on some priceless things while gone, things like mothering her grown brother, or teasing him mercilessly. Now felt like the perfect time to catch up.

  “Will you all please be seated,” Mr. Clark said over the din.

  Jasper showed Tressa to a couple of seats near the wall and they sat. Several others lined the wall beside them—individuals who cared for Westwood but weren’t official board members.

  Those who were members, like Brox, took the high-backed seats lining each side of the long, rectangular table. Mr. Clark, who sat at the head, opened the meeting without preamble.

  Jasper shifted his weight around and aimed his camera at Tressa.

  “Not now,” she hissed.

  “This is a big moment,” he whispered back.

  Tressa placed her hand against the wide flash bar and pushed it back down.

  Jasper pulled it back out from under her hand. “This is a momentous occasion. Now, face the board and give me your best solemn-moment expression.”

  “I don’t believe in looking away from the camera,” she said, careful to keep her voice from interrupting those around them.

  “Come on, Tressa. Images that look posed aren’t what audiences want anymore.”

  “And you telling me to look away isn’t posed?”

  “It doesn’t look posed. That’s the point.”

  Now photographers were posing people to look un-posed? That was ridiculous. As if asking someone to pose wasn’t fake enough, now people were being asked to fake being non-fake.

  “Why do you care what audiences want? Don’t tell me that these photographs are actually going to see the light of day.”

  Jasper pulled back and shrugged, suddenly far more interested in cleaning the lens of his camera.

  “For once, why not try and sell some of the images you’ve made?” she asked.

  Jasper tended to jump from one creative project to the next so quickly, it made Tressa’s head spin. But photography was one thing he’d always had going on the side. Ever since he nicked his first daguerreotype camera from a rich man’s carriage as it lumbered through Hyde Park, Jasper always seemed to have one kind of camera or another in his hand.

  “You know I’m not ready,” he mumbled, almost too indistinctly to understand.

  “Hogwash.” Tressa’s words came out clipped. “I’ve seen your pictures. You’re plenty good.”

  “Seawoman Wimple,” Mr. Clark called out.

  Tressa only just kept herself from sitting up straighter and responding with a “Present, sir” as she had hundreds of times back when she was a child.

  The weight of what she was about to do pressed down on her. She gave Jasper her best ‘we’ll talk about this later’ look, then took a deep breath and stood.

  Right now, she needed to focus on why she was here. It wasn’t every day a person came into possession of a huge sum of money and chose to give it away to a group one only half-trusted. Still, she didn’t doubt this was the right thing to do.

  Tressa approached the table, which felt much farther away now than it ever had before. Nonetheless, she was determined—somebody had to protect the young and homeless. Tressa couldn’t save them all on her own and Westwood was the only organization who was looking out for the little, lost children of the street.

  Only Mr. Clark and Brox knew she’d come today to hand over her small fortune. Standing near Mr. Clark, she looked over the many faces of the board of directors. Everyone else at the table watched her in silence, their curiosity evident in their steady gazes.

  “Westwood board,” Tressa began. “I have come—”

  A scream, high and shrill, filled the room, followed by a clatter and the crash of porcelain against the floor. Tressa whirled around.

  Miss Brown stood with hands covering her face. A large silver platter and the shattered remains of a tea set lay at her feet. What small incident could have possibly upset the young woman so? Granted, Tressa didn’t know Miss Brown at all; but she certainly looked like the kind of woman to fall to pieces at losing a hair pin.

  Brox marched over and took his secretary gently by the elbow. “What’s wrong, Miss Brown?”

  The young woman only sobbed and pointed, with a trembling hand, toward the silver platter. Tressa bent down and picked up the offending platter.

  It seemed normal enough, if a bit elegant for an orphanage. She flipped it over.

  Bright red letters dripped down the face of the platter.

  Oh, holy gears above. She knew that shade of red. It was blood.

  Westwood has killed.

&nb
sp; Now it’s time for the orphanage to die.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A chill fingered its way down Tressa’s spine. She blinked, then read the bloody words again. Who could have done this? Then again, all the children who had been at Westwood the same time she had been had ample reason to despise the place.

  She glanced up. Brox watched her closely. Though they hadn’t known each other long, she didn’t need him to speak to know he was asking what had caught her attention so wholly. Wordless, she flipped the platter around.

  His gaze moved over the words, the muscles along his jaw tightening. His gaze came back up and met hers—Tressa found her own outrage mirrored in his eyes. Brox led a still sobbing Miss Brown to a chair where he helped her sit and then stalked over to Tressa.

  “May I?” he asked, holding out a hand for the platter.

  “We can’t let whoever did this get away,” Tressa replied, handing it to him. But how? If they were looking for someone with reason to hate Westwood, the list would not be short.

  “I intend to make sure they don’t.” Brox moved past her and slammed the platter down onto the table where all could see it. “It seems,” he addressed the board, “we have acquired an enemy.”

  He got no further. The room erupted into shouts and protests, cries of offense and angry murmurings. Tressa watched the individuals of the board—who were, in most ways, a varied and eclectic group—all demand the culprit be caught and held accountable.

  And it seemed, since no one had yet left their chair, they all agreed that someone else ought to be the one to make sure it happened.

  “Idiotic peacocks,” Tressa muttered under her breath as she headed toward the door.

  Jasper jumped up and followed right behind. “I’ve never known you to run from a fight.”

  “I’m not running,” she spat. “I’m going to send someone for the police.”

  Jasper slowed his pace. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

  “Do you know someone else professionally trained at catching vandals?”

  Jasper folded his arms and stopped. He was probably still annoyed that she was agreeing to help Westwood at all.

  “I hear voices down that hall,” he said in a reluctant tone. “Send one of those children for the constable.”

  Tressa turned the corner in the direction Jasper had pointed. It led her to a long hall with only a couple of doors.

  One door in particular.

  Tressa pulled up short. The door seemed to loom up over her. Tressa was no longer the child she had been, but the door felt no less tall and foreboding.

  She took a half step back. Her hands and feet tingled with the urge to run. She knew the orphanage inside and out; how had she gotten so turned around to have not realized this was that hall. With that door.

  Tressa took a second step back, then a third. She thought she’d moved past her memories, past the throat crushing fear.

  Children’s voices came from farther down the hall, beyond the door. Hang it all. She spun on her heel, turning her back to the noise. There were other children about. This was an orphanage after all. She’d find someone else to send for the police.

  She marched back toward Jasper, who hadn’t moved. His gaze was cast down, but his jaw was still set at a defiant angle. “Just thought you might need a reminder.”

  Devil take him, he sent her toward that hall on purpose. Tressa’s brow dropped and she held out a finger, ready to ring a bell over his head.

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her throat closed off. She could breath, but she couldn’t force words out. Gads, she’d thought she’d grown out of this. Her hand started to shake and she dropped it to her side so that Jasper wouldn’t see. Swallowing hard, Tressa tried to force words out again.

  Still, nothing.

  Jasper turned away from her and hurried down a different hall and out of sight.

  Tressa sighed and shut her eyes. She wasn’t going to let seeing that door again upend her so. She just needed to step away for a moment and then she would be fine—her normal, articulate self.

  Three children ran by. Tressa reached out and grabbed the tallest one as he passed. He turned and she recognized his face.

  “You know where the police station is, Michael?” she asked. See, speaking wasn’t so hard. She wasn’t some mute with porridge in her brainbox.

  “Yes’m.”

  “There’s been an incident upstairs,” Tressa said. “In the boardroom. Get to the police station and have an officer sent here immediately.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Michael offered her a short bow and then bolted.

  Tressa would track down and exchange words with Jasper later. Her stunned terror earlier had now turned to boiling anger—and Jasper would hear of it sooner than later. After all she’d done to watch out for him and care for him after their parents died, this is how he repaid her? Forcing her to confront the one thing they both swore never to speak of?

  Tressa stalked back upstairs. The boardroom was calm once more.

  Brox seemed to have taken command and was speaking to all. “This is the time for us to rally together. Whoever wrote that message wants us to argue and point fingers. But they can’t break us without our consent.”

  His timbre and resonance filled the room, drawing every eye to him. His voice tugged on Tressa as well. He spoke on, talking of ideals and working as one, of helping children and continuing to be a bright light in a dark world.

  He brought peace and confidence as he spoke. Tressa glanced around at his audience. He held them in his palm. Gads, she’d known many a talented orator before, but never one as motivating and unifying as Brox.

  The shrill cry of a police motorcar broke the enchantment. Heads all around the board table swiveled trying to determine from which direction the sound came from.

  “I had the police summoned,” Tressa explained. “No doubt, they will be able to sort out this mess post haste.”

  “Thank you, Seawoman Wimple.” Mr. Clark spoke for the first time since she’d reentered the room. “That was quick thinking.” He was pale and his hands were shaking. For such a large man, he didn’t seem very tough.

  The room broke out in conversation, though this time it felt less volatile. Tressa walked to where Brox stood at the head of the table. “That was well done.”

  He stood with hands clasped behind his back. “You, as well.”

  “Seawoman.” Mr. Clark stood and moved toward them. “It appears we shall have to reschedule for another day.”

  Just then, the door opened with a bang. Tressa glanced over her shoulder. The police entered and immediately began speaking to each person in the room, asking what had happened and what they might know about the perpetrator. Directly on the heels of the uniformed men and women, were reporters. They snapped pictures and began harassing the trembling members of the board.

  Tressa turned back to Mr. Clark. “I’m certain this will only take a few minutes, an hour at the most. Could we not just resume after they all leave?”

  Mr. Clark shook his head. Westwood was founded by his wife’s ancestor. Since Mrs. Clark died five years earlier, Mr. Clark was the closest thing Westwood had to a proprietor. And now, he was just going to throw away the orphanage’s best chance at keeping its doors open? Truly? Wouldn’t that be doing exactly as the perpetrator wished?

  A hand rested gently against the small of her back. It was Brox. The spot he touched tingled and she was instantly aware of how close he stood to her.

  “We’re clearly dealing with someone who’s a bit unstable,” Brox said. “Learning that Westwood has suddenly been infused with new funds could send our perpetrator into a dangerous frenzy.” His voice dropped lower. “The children might be caught in the crossfire.”

  He did have a point. She refused to do anything that could put the children in danger. Tressa blew out a breath of frustration. “All right. We wait until this blows over. But only because I don’t want any children accidentally caught in a crossfire.” />
  But the moment they caught the perpetrator, she was saving children.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Paper, sir?” a young boy with dirt smeared across his face held up a broadsheet. “Only ten pence.”

  Tressa gave the boy a worried smile as Jasper dug deep into his breeches pocket. If the boy was trying to pawn off his papers for so little, he must have given up on turning a profit for the day and was simply hoping to eat less of his own cost.

  Jasper pulled a single, well-folded pound from his pocket. “Blast. This is all I have.”

  The boy’s eyes were wide with desperation. “I can break it fo’ ya. I can, sir.” The little thing dug his own hand deep into a pocket. Judging by the soft clinks, there weren’t many coins inside.

  “Sorry, my lad,” Jasper said. “We don’t have the time. Important meeting with the Constable.” Without waiting for the boy to respond, Jasper slipped the paper out of his small hand and pushed the pound note into it. “You’ll just have to keep the whole thing.”

  The boy stared at the bill in shock. “But sir . . .”

  Jasper ignored him, buried his face in the large, single sheet of paper, and studied it as he moved farther down the street.

  Tressa patted the boy’s shoulder. “Just don’t go showing it to the other boys.” She pointed to her retreating brother. “He tried that once. I was picking glass shards out of his back for a week.”

  The boy grimaced and then slipped the bill deep into his pocket.

  Tressa hurried and caught up with Jasper. “I remember those days. You lasted, what, eight months in that profession?”

  Jasper didn’t so much as glance up from the broadsheet, though she doubted he was paying it much attention. “A man won’t know what he wants from life if he never explores his options.”

  “So why didn’t you agree to let me help you explore life at sea?”

  “Because,” he said, folding the paper. “We both know I would have washed out of that one, too, eventually.” He said it will all the lightness of a man discussing the weather. “Getting me on a ship would have required you to stick your neck out for me and then you would have been left holding the bag when I found it wasn’t to my liking. I didn’t want to do that to you.”