Clockwork Image

by L G Rollins

The Constable glanced up at the dangling, up-turned buckets. “Aye. It appears you both have.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Tressa asked.

  “Well,” the Constable shrugged innocently. “I passed through this door not ten minutes ago, and those buckets didn’t tip over on me.”

  He had a point; apparently whoever did this had specifically targeted either herself, Brox, or them both. Moreover, whoever it was, had to have been present to make the buckets tip when they wanted. Tressa searched all around her but didn’t recognize any faces.

  Just wait until she got her hands on whoever had done this. They were going to learn what humiliation really felt like.

  “Was it Mr. Clark then?” Brox asked. “Is he the culprit?”

  The Constable, still eying them up and down, let out a suspiciously light-hearted cough. “Him? No.” Another cough, though this one sounded more like a chuckle.

  “Are you certain?” Tressa shivered. It was a warm day, but the water had been icy and her skin had goosepimples all over.

  “Quite,” the Constable said. “He seemed far more embarrassed at being caught shopping at an establishment less than en vogue, than he was interested in meeting with anyone.”

  “Blast,” Tressa said. A camera flash from behind lit up the store wall and the hanging buckets.

  “If we get plastered on tomorrow’s paper looking like this, it won’t be good for Westwood,” Brox muttered. “We’re already being ignored by donors who used to support us.”

  Stupid upper echelon. Still, she couldn’t deny that Brox was right. There were several individuals who only needed to see a board member humiliated in print and they would pull all funding.

  Tressa took hold of Brox’s arm. “This way.” They pushed past the Constable and into the store.

  The shop’s owner and a young man with scruff along his jaw looked up at their sudden entrance. The owner’s gaze dropped to the puddle that followed Tressa and Brox in.

  “Just passing through,” Tressa called over her shoulder. She pushed farther into the store, pulling Brox behind her, and moved toward the back.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, Tressa and Brox walked quickly down a nearly deserted side street.

  “I swear I’m going to strangle whoever did this,” Tressa said as she pulled on the collar of her shirtwaist. The fabric was sticking quite uncomfortably to her chest and refusing to let her warm back up, despite the summer sun shining down.

  Brox only chuckled at her proclamation. “Just save some of the strangling for me.”

  She shook her head. “You’ll have to wait in line.” A violent shiver ran down her spine and Tressa heard her own teeth clatter.

  “Here.” Brox slipped off his brown jacket. “It’s as wet as we are, but it’s still thick enough to keep you warm. Hopefully it will help you stave off any cold that might come calling.”

  “Oh, I never get sick,” Tressa said as he slipped the jacket over her shoulders. There was something intimate about the action and Tressa’s bad mood lightened.

  The jacket was already warm from him wearing it. Tressa pulled it tighter over her shoulders and fought the smile that tried to pull her lips upward. Well . . . at least the afternoon wasn’t turning out all bad.

  “Truly? You’re never sick?” Brox asked.

  She nodded. “I think the last time I was sick was—” she had to pause and think back more than one decade. “I was still in Westwood so before I turned sixteen.”

  “Lud, that has to be nice.”

  It was. When she was young, Tressa just assumed ‘being sick’ meant one was too lazy to push through and do the work. It wasn’t until she’d helped a crew through a horrid bout of scurvy that Tressa realized the people around her weren’t weak, she was just unusually resistant to sickness.

  “So,” Tressa said, her tone sounding far less put out than it had a few minutes earlier. “Who hates you enough to dump water all over your head?”

  “Me?” Brox placed a hand against his chest, feigning offense.

  “Well it can’t be me. I’ve only been on land a few months. Not long enough for anyone to decide to hate me.”

  “And I’m the more likely candidate for hating, am I?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you, but . . .” She shrugged in mock innocence.

  Brox laughed again. She could get used to that sound. She was already getting far too used to seeing his face and the feel of his hand against her elbow or back. If she wasn’t careful, one of these days he was going to tell her he’d found a beautiful woman he cared deeply for and ask, since she was such a grand friend, would she please help him know the best way to woo her. Then where would Tressa be? She may never have felt this way for a man before, but she still knew herself well enough to foresee the type of pain such a revelation would cause.

  “You are a barrister,” Tressa said, her tone serious. “Surely there are people who would like to get back at you.”

  “You mean people I’ve helped put in prison?” Brox’s smile stayed, but she could see his jaw tighten. “People like that tend to use more straightforward methods of showing their displeasure.”

  Tressa’s steps slowed as a weight settled in her stomach. He sounded like a man speaking from experience, not from hearsay. Did Brox know how to keep himself safe? He was tall, and with his wet shirt sticking to him she could see the muscles along his arms.

  “You feel certain it isn’t someone related to your work?” she asked. It was not common to meet a man her own age who had kept himself in good physical condition. It seemed the young bucks who were in their twenties kept themselves in good shape as often as not. But few continued the practice into their forties.

  Brox shook his head, knocking a few more droplets of water from his hair. “I doubt it.”

  “Who even knew we were going to be at Rayden’s?”

  “I told Christina, but no one else.” Brox stuck his hands into his pockets, holding his arms close to his torso.

  He looked cold. Should she offer to give him his jacket back? It felt divine around her own shoulders, and she was rather enjoying the view of his shirt, nearly see-through from the water, tight against his skin. No, she’d keep his jacket for now.

  “You don’t suppose Christina had anything to do with this?”

  Brox stared at her with wide eyes. “Christina? Are you kidding? She’s a perfect doll who gets frightened when a large horse looks at her sideways. And she doesn’t have a mind for mechanics. She never could have rigged something like that.”

  Oh, so Christina was a doll. Tressa’s boots hit the pavement with a resounding clap. A perfect, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, English doll. A perfect lady who never spoke out of turn. A perfect woman with curls and a button nose. Tressa clenched her jaw. Christina was perfect. And the young woman had just been added to the list of people Tressa planned on strangling.

  Tressa pulled Brox’s jacket off. Holding it between her two dark hands, she gave it a gentle snap, guaranteeing the fabric folded down the center with no creases. She’d hate to be responsible for a wrinkle in his bespoke jacket.

  She pushed it back toward Brox. “Here. I’m plenty warm now, thank you.”

  Brox took the jacket but his brow dropped and he eyed her closely. “Are you sure?”

  Was she sure? Ha. Some women were made of far stronger stuff than lace and giggles. “Quite.” Tressa picked up the pace, the evening breeze urging her to get to Jasper’s place quickly.

  Brox watched her for a second, then hurriedly caught up. “You seem upset. Did I say something wrong?”

  Oh, he said lots of things. All of which reminded her that men only ever saw her as a ‘pal’, a ‘good ol friend’. “I just had water dumped all over me. I think that’s reason enough to be a mite upset.”

  Brox let out an unconvinced grunt but walked on silently. He didn’t put the jacket back on, but left it draped over his arm.

  Tressa wasn’t about to stew over a blonde all the way to Jasper’s h
ome. If that was the kind of woman Brox preferred, then he would get what he deserved. Though, there was a small part of her brain that wondered, if a simpering smile and perfect curls was what Brox preferred, why hadn’t he settled down by now? England had women like that in droves.

  It didn’t matter. “You don’t suppose,” she said, not slowing her fast pace, “that the person who drenched us could also be the one who wrote that message on the platter?”

  “I don’t know. That message was purposely disturbing. This”—he shrugged—“this feels like a silly prank.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. However, the person who wrote that message and wanted to meet with the Constable—they might have guessed he wouldn’t come alone and so rigged the buckets in case he didn’t?”

  Brox’s head moved side to side. “It’s possible. But why ask for the meeting at all? What did the letter mean by ‘Westwood’s secret’?”

  A familiar tightness took hold of Tressa’s throat. Speaking of her past—of Westwood’s past—shouldn’t be that big of a deal. It shouldn’t be so impossibly hard.

  “I’ve worked on the board for many years,” Brox continued in Tressa’s silence. “While there are things I wish we could improve, I can’t think of anything I feel the Constable needs to know about. Unless the Constable takes umbrage at children being fed porridge every morning without sugar lumps.”

  If only unsweetened porridge was the worst of what she’d experienced as a child.

  The darkness of her past crept up Tressa’s shoulders. She was back in Westwood once more. Being marched through the door. Standing, shoulder to shoulder with several other orphans while the door shut and they were left in almost complete darkness. Pulling chalk from her pocket and scribbling ghostly images on the walls. The chalk filled the air around her, making her mouth horridly dry and her throat close off.

  She couldn’t call out, couldn’t scream her defiance.

  What was it about that chalk that had made it seem to glow in the darkness? Was that just her imagination or her memory warping that part of her experience? Waiting there, in the hall, coloring pictures on the wall. It was the one act of rebellion the children were ever permitted. But it wasn’t much, only a silent, unspoken resistance. Inevitably the door at the other end of the hall would open . . .

  Tressa clenched her hands into fists. Staying mute regarding the door and her experiences behind it had been beaten, sometimes even whipped, into her.

  “Tressa?”

  She blinked and saw the two-story townhomes around her, felt the breeze on her icy skin. The sun was almost set and the air was far colder now.

  She stood motionless on the sidewalk; Brox was in front of her, his hand enfolding hers, his thumb drawing circles across the back of her hand.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Tressa didn’t bother trying to speak. She only nodded.

  “You seemed quite far away.” Though it was a statement, he probably meant it more as a question.

  “I,” her voice croaked and she tried to clear her throat. “I’m afraid I’ve had a lot on my mind as of late.”

  Gads, that was a lame excuse if she’d ever heard one. Brox kept a close eye on her, probably not believing her. Tressa tried to give him an unconcerned smile and stepped forward.

  Brox didn’t move and, still holding her hand, kept her from going far. “Uh, Tressa?” he said.

  She stopped and turned toward him. She liked that he still had hold of her hand, leaving their arms stretched out between the two of them. Perhaps there was some, albeit small, part of his brainbox that recognized her as a woman after all.

  Perhaps she could tell him about her experiences as a child. He’d understood all she’d shared with him thus far: stories of traveling the world, watching as those coming aboard the submarine for the first time seemed younger and younger, learning to let go of the hate and anger that used to rule her life.

  Perhaps she could tell him this, too. But her throat still felt closed off, blocked by the chalk she’d once inhaled and the terror she’d once, and still, struggled to break through.

  Brox pointed to something directly behind her. “We’re here.”

  What did he mean they were . . . Tressa turned around.

  Gads, they were standing directly in front of Jasper’s small townhome. When had they arrived? Gears above, she had been lost in thought.

  “Oh,” was all she could say. Which, no doubt, inspired him with awe and wonder at her unquestionable powers of articulation.

  Still, Brox gave her a half smile and then, letting go of her hand, hurried up the steps and pulled open the door for her.

  Tressa’s cheeks were burning; she was sure they would warm her hands if she cupped them over her face. But there were benefits to having a darker complexion; only those who knew her well could tell when she was blushing.

  With head held high, Tressa walked up the stairs and through the door to her brother’s townhouse. The entryway was sparsely decorated with nothing more than an old landscape picture hanging above a small wooden table. Tressa suspected they’d been left by the previous owners when Jasper bought the place.

  There was no butler or housekeeper to meet them at the door; Jasper preferred solitude and extra money to having servants around.

  Tressa pointed toward the small table. “You can put your jacket there if you like.” She had no gloves to pull off. Most women in society never left the house without them; Tressa never left the house having remembered them. Life on a submarine certainly didn’t include gloves, unless they were the leather kind meant for work.

  “We should find Jasper. He probably has something dry you could change into.”

  Brox laid his jacket down. “And hopefully someone to send a message that my motorcar be sent for me.”

  Tressa paused halfway across the entryway. Brox lived in the opposite direction from Rayden’s as Jasper.

  “You didn’t have to walk me home,” Tressa said. He’d accompanied her home without question and without complaint, even though now he had twice as far to go to get home himself. The realization warmed her a bit, but not enough to chase away the last haunting tendrils still echoing inside her chest at remembering Westwood.

  “With the string of vampire attacks London has been facing lately, no one should be out in the evenings alone.”

  He had a good point. Unfortunately, Tom had not been the only one attacked as of late. The broadsheets were full of the news.

  Well, she’d best find Brox something dry to wear. Tressa hurried up the stairs, motioning for Brox to follow. Jasper would probably be in his art room; rarely was he not. Two flights of stairs later, they approached the glass French doors to what must have been a conservatory at one point, or perhaps an orangery. The room still housed a few pots of ferns and flowers Jasper had, for some reason, deemed worth keeping alive.

  Without knocking, Tressa pushed into the room. Jasper was hunched over one of several long tables. The tables nearest Tressa held several pottery pieces and vases, another held wooden toys, yet another held multiple paintings and several clay busts; one even held a tall stack of fresco paintings. Only the heavens knew what Jasper saw in coating the images with so much lime plaster.

  Tressa approached the table Jasper hunched over, his long dreadlocks held back by his customary strip of fabric. Spread across the table were over two dozen pictures. Most were fist sized, but some were big enough to hang in a gallery. Still others were so small, they might fit inside a locket.

  Jasper looked up and instantly his eyes went wide. Grinning, he flipped the images he had been studying upside down. “Hello. Had a nice evening?”

  Tressa’s gaze narrowed. Her brother seemed nervous, fidgety. He kept his hand atop the pile of pictures he had been looking at when she entered the room. Moreover, he didn’t seem at all surprised to see her and Brox together, both wet from head to toe. Granted, they weren’t dripping wet any more, but their clothes were still obviously soaked.

&
nbsp; Not even bothering to ask what he was about, Tressa stalked over to Jasper, flicked his hand away, and flipped over one of the photographs. Her mouth dropped open.

  It was a picture of her and Brox, standing in front of Rayden, water dripping off every inch of them.

  “Jasper Wimple,” Tressa ground out. “You will explain yourself, now.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jasper took two large steps backward, hands going up. “You said I should take non-posed pictures.”

  Tressa could have screamed. Instead of treating him to some of the more colorful phrases she’d learned from the world over, she clamped her jaw shut and reached for another photo.

  This one was taken just after the buckets tipped. Water poured down, she and Brox barely visible behind the blue fall.

  Her lips twisted into a tight knot. How dare he? Tressa charged at Jasper, grabbing his lapels before he had time to scamper away.

  Jasper held his hands up in surrender. “On the bright side, I’ve perfected a method of taking pictures without necessitating a flash. I took nearly a dozen images and you two never knew I was there.”

  “If you wanted to live,” Tressa spoke through clenched teeth, “you would have made sure I never found out you were there.”

  “Oh, gracious.” A squeak from the other side of the room.

  Tressa peered over Jasper’s shoulder. Sure enough, wide-eyed, beautiful Christina stood with a gloved hand at her mouth and . . . wait, were those tears forming in her eyes? Oh gears above, help. If Christina dissolved into a puddle of tears at the sight of Tressa holding Jasper roughly, then she wouldn’t survive seeing what Tressa planned to do to Jasper next.

  “What are you doing here, Miss Brown?” Brox asked, his tone sounding surprised. It was better, then, that he had asked. Tressa knew her tone would have been far more taught.

  “I . . . I . . .” Christina glanced at Jasper, at Brox, at Tressa, and at Jasper once more. “He asked . . .”

  The girl couldn’t even string a sentence together—no surprise there.

  Tressa released Jasper. “Brox, perhaps you should see that Miss Brown gets home safely. I’ll make sure Jasper understands what it is he’s just done.”