Goblins and Snowflakes

by Melanie Karsak

  “Don’t worry, Miss Laura. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  “Sweet Scarlette,” she said with a smile. “Does Earl Walpole know you’re here, my dear?”

  “Of course,” I replied. He did believe I was in town at the doll shop, but I doubt he suspected I was a temporary apprentice there.

  “I like that man,” Laura said absently as she touched up the paint on the doll’s cheeks. “He’s an odd bird, but writers are always a strange sort. And I like his little castle. It’s very…whimsical.”

  Whimsical was an excellent word to use to describe Strawberry Hill, Uncle Horace’s home. The Gothic castle in miniature was a peculiar mixture of the fashionable, the melancholy, and the playful—a bit like Uncle Horace himself.

  One by one, I lifted the dolls and sewed the small buttons on the back of their gowns, tightening up anything Laura had missed. The work was delicate, the tiny buttons only half the size of the nail on my pinkie, but with a bit of concentration, I had them done in no time. Once I fixed the buttons, I straightened the girls’ dresses and laid them back down. “Three pretty—and properly buttoned-up—maids in a row. All done with these.”

  Laura looked up at me, her blue eyes wide with surprise. “Already? Well, that’s very good, very good. I have a job for you in the back. It’s a bit complicated. Lady Ashcroft has requested a special doll. We have the pieces, but we need your hands to finish the job.”

  “Special? Special how?”

  Laura set down the raven-headed beauty she’d been working on. “Come see,” she said then led me deeper into the workshop.

  We passed the shelves lined with doll heads and body parts, scraps of clothes, and boxes of broken doll pieces. At the very back was a table on which sat a tiny piano and an exquisite doll.

  “Lady Ashcroft saw an advertisement for a doll that can play the piano just by turning a windup key. We told her we couldn’t promise we could make such a thing, but we would try. We have all the pieces we need, now, we just need her to play,” she said, motioning to the doll and the piano. She then turned to a small box sitting on the table. She lifted the lid. “Mister Duke, the clockmaker, gave us the parts. And I have an old music box there. Do you think you could try it? Here is the advertisement Lady Ashcroft saw,” she said then handed a yellowed piece of paper to me. The ad was for a toy shop in New York City. It showed a doll sitting at the piano. According to the advertisement, the doll moved, playing the piano.

  “You want me to try it?” I asked.

  It was then that Lizzie came around the back. She adjusted the pins holding her mountain of silver hair on the top of her head then pulled her shawl tighter around her.

  “Cold back here, Laura. You’ll need to add some coal to the stove if Miss Scarlette is going to work on the pianist. So, will she?”

  “You interrupted before she could answer,” Laura chided her sister.

  Lizzie looked at the box. “Master Duke said you could stop by the shop if you need anything else. We knew that if anyone could make such a doll, it would be you, Scarlette.”

  I grinned. “I’ll try.”

  “That’s our girl,” Lizzie said. She patted me on the shoulder then headed back to the front. “I told you she would say yes,” she added, giving her sister a knowing look.

  Laura chuckled.

  “This doll is so beautiful,” I said, lifting the lovely red-haired doll sitting by the piano. “I’ll need to cut her open, tear apart her stuffing and stitches. I don’t want to make a mistake and ruin her. I wish I had something to practice on first. Do you have an old doll, maybe something broken or unwanted?”

  “Well,” Laura considered. “Yes. I do. I nearly forgot about them. There,” she said, pointing to a box at the bottom of the shelf. “We made those for a garden party. No one wanted them, so they sent them back when it was over.”

  I knelt down and pulled out the closed box. There was an inch of dust on the lid.

  “Laura?” Lizzie called from the front.

  “Feel free to work on those, Scarlette, and help yourself to whatever else you want, my dear,” Lizzie said then left to join her sister.

  I lifted the lid off the box. Pushing aside the soft cloth covering, inside I found a row of dolls. Well, they weren’t precisely dolls. They were funny looking little men dressed in patchwork suits, animal skins, overalls, and knickers. They were made of cloth and had long noses, wild hair, bushy eyebrows, buck teeth, and all manner of playful expressions on their faces. Gnomes. They were stuffed gnomes. They were a funny looking ensemble. Uncle Horace had an excellent book in his library on gnomes. The tome included illustrations of gnomes just like these. I loved them at once.

  Eyeing them over, I picked up a creature who wore shaggy, Angus-hide trousers, a knitted green sweater, and a red cap that covered his long white hair. He also had a substantial white beard in which the sisters had sewn a ladybug.

  “Hello,” I said, looking down into his beady glass eyes. “Are you in charge here? You certainly look like the elder of this group,” I said, eyeing over the others. “If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll do a little tinkering. Just a few snips, and you’ll be good as new,” I said.

  Taking the box of cogs and gears, I sat down at the workbench with a new goal in mind—to bring the gnome to life.

  Chapter 2: Strawberry Hill

  It was after noon when I finally looked up from my work. The design I needed to make wasn’t that difficult; it just required concentration. I needed to create a design that would allow the doll to give have the semblance of life. The piano player would lift and lower her arms and hands up and down to make it appear as though she played. The actual music would come from a music box cylinder, which I would place inside the piano. The pianist would activate the music box with a tap of her hand, setting the device in motion, then make it seem as if she was the one playing the score. I quickly arranged the music box inside the piano. That part was simple. Now I just needed to tinker the inner workings of the doll. In theory, the design was easy. Execution, however, was a little trickier. I was very glad Laura had given me the gnome to work with before I tried to tinker with the delicate porcelain doll.

  I’d created a rudimentary clockwork torso for the gnome. I sat back and eyed my prototype. It should work. Should. Turning the wind-up key, I watched as the gnome’s arms jerked up and down. The movement was uneven and lacked fluidity. It had taken me hours to get even this much right. I gently removed the clockwork mechanism from the body of the little gnome and loosened the joint on his right arm. As I worked, I reminded myself not to get frustrated.

  What was it father always said? “Incremental improvements, Scarlette. Incremental improvements. Before you know it, you’ll be wherever you were headed.”

  While the notion of incremental improvements was undoubtedly right—though father always seemed to remind me of this when I was feeling the least patient—at this moment, I wasn’t even sure if I was improving in the right direction. The truth of the matter was, I just didn’t know much about clockwork. I could see the design in my head as clear as day, but making the design work in metal was something else entirely.

  I stared at the little gnome. “Sorry, little friend. You look like a drowning man waving for someone to save him. I’ll keep working. Incremental improvements. We shall see what we can do.”

  “Scarlette, do you know what time it is?” Laura called from the other end of the workbench.

  “No,” I replied absently.

  “It’s almost afternoon tea.”

  “Goodness,” I exclaimed, rising. While I loved roaming around the village, I never missed afternoon tea with Uncle Horace. And didn’t he say the first of his guests were going to arrive today around teatime? Now I was going to be late for tea and appear rude to Uncle Horace’s guests. “Can I take these with me?” I called to Laura, motioning to the gnomes. “And the parts?”

  “Of course. Take whatever you want. You’ll find a basket on the shelf,” she replied.

&
nbsp; Moving quickly, I laid the gnomes—there were eight in all—in the basket and then added the box of parts. I also grabbed a bin of buttons, lace, and other miscellaneous trim, things that Laura had discarded, and threw it into the basket. I headed toward the front of the workshop. There, I found Laura practically buried under a heap of doll dresses, teddy bears, and porcelain heads and arms.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “Orders, orders,” Laura said, barely looking up.

  “All for Christmas? This Christmas?”

  She laughed then nodded.

  “But this is impossible.” I glanced toward the front of the shop where Lizzie was boxing up a chess set. “Laura, why didn’t you tell me you needed help with these?” I asked, suddenly feeling sorry I’d wasted the whole day on the clockwork gnome.

  “No, no,” Laura said absently. “We need that piano girl done, and you’re our only hope. So, tell me, any progress?”

  “Yes. Well, yes and no. I need to work on it more tonight. I’m on to something. Maybe. I’ll have something for you tomorrow. I think. I hope.”

  Laura chuckled. “Well, if you’re so certain.”

  “I’ll be back first thing in the morning to finish the piano girl then help with these,” I said, eyeing the mountain of toys. The sisters were so sweet, they never said no. But completing this many orders on time just wasn’t possible.

  “If the earl permits it, of course,” Laura said, pausing to look up at me over her glasses. “And if you are not too busy with your own affairs.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course. It won’t be a problem.”

  Laura raised a tell-tale eyebrow.

  I winked at her. “See you tomorrow.”

  She grinned. “See you tomorrow.”

  Clutching the basket, I headed to the front of the store.

  “Goodbye, Lizzie. See you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow, Scarlette.” Lizzie waved.

  I shrugged on my red cape then balanced the basket in the crook of my arm as I pulled on my gloves with my teeth. I headed back outside. A stiff wind blew, kicking up the snow. It was a lot colder than it had been earlier that day. I pulled up my hood then headed down the road away from the village toward Strawberry Hill.

  The air was cold, dry, and crisp. The freezing wind froze the end of my nose. As I walked, the snow crunched under my boots. The tall blades of grass in the field along the road were covered in ice. The branches were topped with an inch of snow. I loved how the snow shimmered when the sun cast its glow on the surface. In an array of incandescent light, the powdery white snow gleamed under the sunlight.

  I followed the road through the forest. As I walked, I considered the problem of the jerky movement of the clockwork mechanism inside the gnome’s arms. I needed to smooth out the motion. Surely, I would have that sorted out by tonight. Maybe if I increased the pressure on the cogs at the shoulder, it would help.

  A stiff wind blew, blowing my hood off and pulling my long, brown hair away from the bun at the back of my head. The wind whipped around me, and inside it, I heard voices.

  “Come buy, come buy.”

  My skin rose in goosebumps.

  I stopped.

  Looking around, I tried to figure out where the voice had come from.

  “Come buy. Come buy.”

  Scanning the woods, I searched for the source of the sound. Deep in the forest, I spotted a row of small tents. They were oddly colored, orange and purple, silver and blue, green and gold. Colorful banners were strung between the tents. As well, something sparkly—shimmering like mirrors—bedecked the tent fabric. How very unexpected.

  “Come buy, come buy,” a voice called again.

  I stared into the glen. I couldn’t make out the tradesmen clearly—if they were men at all. Their stature was very small. They wore hooded robes made of patchwork designs. They danced in a circle around a campfire. One was carrying a basket, another a bowl, and the third a platter that sparkled like gold.

  “Books, sweets, and delights.

  Apples and quinces, oranges and lemons.

  Everything a girl could want.

  Everything a girl could desire.

  Come to our market.

  Come buy. Come buy,” the men sang as they danced in a circle.

  I stared at the strangers. Highwaymen? Roma?

  “Come buy. Come buy. Come buy, Horace Walpole’s niece. Come buy.”

  Gasping, I turned and rushed away as quickly as possible. While the sleepy little town of Twickenham was peaceful, robbers were said to roam the roads, preying on innocents. And if they knew I was connected to Earl Walpole, they’d expect me to have money.

  Holding tight to my basket, I rushed away. Exiting the forest, I spotted the spires of Strawberry Hill in the distance. My heart beat hard in my chest. Any moment now, I expected someone to grab me from behind. Once I exited the shadows of the trees, I cast a look behind me.

  There was no one.

  I peered into the woods, looking for the merchants’ tents.

  It must have been too far away. I couldn’t see the camp anymore.

  I headed toward the castle, reaching the wrought-iron gate not long after. It was so cold that when I pushed open the gate, I felt the cold of the metal through my glove. I made my way down the long drive. The picturesque little castle, built in the Gothic design, was genuinely whimsical. Even the gardens surrounding the place had their own charm. Uncle Horace had collected an odd assortment of statues, the most peculiar of which was the overgrown rooster, in addition to other unusual statuary. Even the topiaries were shaped like everything from mermaids to flamingos. The afternoon sunlight glimmered on the stained glass windows. The inside was no less eccentric than the outside. Every room was stuffed with paintings, statues, vases, figurines, artifacts, and lots and lots of books. Uncle Horace was not just a gentleman; he was a writer with his own press. His novel, The Castle of Otranto, had taken England by storm. The book, which told the tale of a cursed family, excited the wit and filled the reader with terror and horror. Uncle Horace might be odd, as Laura had put it, but he was also a genius. Of course, he wasn’t really my uncle. He and my father were dear friends. I’d always called him Uncle Horace, and he’d been a part of my life for as long as I could remember, but we weren’t truly related. Luckily for me, Uncle Horace and I got along very well, which is how I’d come to stay at Strawberry Hill while my father went to Italy to work on a commission.

  Shaking off my encounter in the woods, I hurried into the house to find Mister Edwards, the butler, waiting for me in the foyer.

  “Miss Rossetti, we were beginning to worry about you.”

  “Am I late?”

  “No. We were just about to ring for tea.”

  “Very good,” I said, setting down my basket as I pulled off my gloves and cape.

  “Shall I have that taken to your room?” he asked, eyeing the basket suspiciously.

  “To the library, please.”

  “The library?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes, on the long table. I have a project.”

  “Very well, Miss Rossetti,” he said with a soft smile then took my wrappings from my hands.

  Smoothing down my hair and shaking the wrinkles out of my gown, I hurried to the parlor where I found Uncle Horace leafing through a portfolio. He was relaxing on the window ledge. The sunlight made the gold buttons on his stylish blue jacket glimmer. His brown hair was neatly combed, parted at the middle, curling around his ears. The bunch of lace at his neck was as white as the snow outside. He was a picture of gentlemens’ high fashion.

  “Uncle,” I said, crossing the room. I gave him a peck on the cheek.

  He chuckled lightly. “Your nose is as cold as ice.”

  I grinned. “Ever so sorry.”

  “Were you still out?”

  “Yes. Everything in town is so festive this time of year. It was quite fun. Now, what are you studying?”

  “Sketches. Master Boatswain arrived earlie
r today. He’ll be joining us in a few moments. Indoor pipes. Hot water inside the house. Can you imagine? Quite ingenious.”

  “Master Archibald Boatswain is here? Here?” I asked. Archibald Boatswain was the realm’s most brilliant tinker. There wasn’t a single person in England who didn’t know Master Boatswain’s work. But he was so very old. I was surprised to hear he was traveling at all.

  “Indeed. Wait until you see, dear Scarlette. Wait until you see how many great minds will soon join together at Strawberry Hill.”

  “For any particular purpose?”

  “To talk, laugh, think, and drink wine, I suppose.”

  I chuckled, but part of me knew that Uncle Horace was being evasive. Surely, there was some reason why all these great scholars were gathering. What that reason was, however, had not been shared with me.

  The door opened, and a tall, young, and very handsome gentleman entered.

  “Archibald,” Uncle Horace said, crossing the room to meet him. “You’ve quite outdone yourself,” he said, motioning to the papers in his hands.

  That was Master Boatswain?

  That was not possible.

  I stared at the man. He was a little older than me, maybe around twenty-five years of age. He was lean and had sandy brown hair and an angular face. His eyes, however, were what drew me. They were so light colored. Even from across the room I could see they were startlingly beautiful. Green or blue? I wasn’t sure.

  He smiled at Uncle Horace then turned to me. “I was bored on the carriage ride and got to drawing and couldn’t stop,” the young man said. He glanced at the sketches for just a moment. But only for a moment. He turned his attention back to me. “And this is…?”

  “Oh,” Uncle Horace said, realizing he’d forgotten me. “Yes. Sorry. Scarlette, meet Master Boatswain. Archibald, this is Miss Scarlette Rossetti.”

  Master Boatswain crossed the room to meet me. He bowed lightly then looked up at me.

  “Miss Rossetti.”

  Green. Green as spring leaves.

  “Master Boatswain. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard both Uncle Horace, and my father speak so highly of you. But…”