by Kelly Powell
She said, “I know what you did at the print shop wasn’t easy.”
He reached for her hand, his expression open and honest. “No, I can’t say it was, but it was no simple task for you, either, Catherine. And we did it nevertheless.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THAT NIGHT, Catherine sat awake in the back room, looking over the timepiece in the dim lamplight. So many had searched for it, wished for it. All this time, the life it held had already been given back to the person it was taken from.
She placed the timepiece on the worktable and turned down the lamp even further, so there was only a wisp of light to guide her back to the sofa. She was unsure of what tomorrow would bring. With Spencer in police custody, the print shop would be short of a foreman. She’d return there and continue her work. She couldn’t linger forever in the watchmaker’s shop. She had to choose a path to take—just as she had when she’d left home.
Tugging the blankets up around her shoulders, she listened to the steady ticking of the shop clocks. She knew what she wanted. She saw it when she closed her eyes, clear as day: her small room above the print shop, the clatter of the presses, the smell of paper and ink. She let her eyes slip shut, wishing and hoping as she drifted off to sleep.
* * *
It was early in the morning when she was pulled awake to sounds beyond the closed door. Guy, she thought, arranging things in the shop, in preparation for the day. She dressed quickly and opened the door to find him dusting the clocks behind the counter. He turned, cloth in hand. His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them up, smiling as he did.
“Good morning, Catherine. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Though you did wake me.”
Guy’s smile widened. He looked in good health compared to yesterday, his eyes clear behind his spectacles. “Owen is in the kitchen,” he said, setting down his cloth and coming around the side of the counter. “And there’s tea and toast for you on the table.”
Catherine made for the stairs, washed up with water from the ewer, returning back down when she heard a sharp knock at the door. Guy came out of the back room, his expression puzzled as he started across the shop to answer it.
Sydney Mallory stood on the step, holding a bundle of papers. “Hello, Guy.” He stepped past him nimbly, doffing his hat. He looked for all the world as though he were here on invitation. “Morning, Miss Daly.”
Guy closed the door, regarding Sydney with a wary expression. “What brings you here?”
“I came to speak with Mr. Smith.” Sydney walked up to the shop counter, peering into the back room. “I’ve a gift for him. Where is he?”
“I don’t imagine he wants anything of yours,” Catherine put in.
“It’s not mine,” said Sydney in an injured tone. “Rather, it’s something of his. You may pass it on to him if he doesn’t wish to see me. I can understand why, but I’m here to offer an apology.” He waved the papers he held. “And I’ve brought him this as a testament to my good character.”
Guy heaved a sigh. “I’ll ask him if he’d like to come down.”
Sydney put the papers on the counter as Guy started up the back staircase. He hung up his coat and hat on the rack near the door. Catherine asked him, “Are you still digging up bodies?”
He raised his eyebrows. “No. In fact, I’ve gotten an apprenticeship at the butcher’s. It’s why I’m here so early—I’ve my shift to get to.”
Catherine blinked in surprise. She hadn’t thought he’d give up the grave work, but perhaps Guy’s averseness had swayed him from it. “Well,” she said. “I’m glad for you. Do you enjoy it?”
“It’s good pay and respectable—and better than unearthing cadavers.”
The staircase creaked under footsteps, and Catherine and Sydney looked over. Owen followed after Guy into the shop, his countenance pale. He crossed his arms, aiming a level look at Sydney. “Good morning, Mr. Mallory,” he said, and his voice was as stiff as Catherine had ever heard it. “You wished to speak with me?”
“Indeed.” Sydney rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve come to apologize. I was wrong to frighten you as I did. I’m truly sorry. I—I’ve brought something you might be interested in.” He gathered the papers, offering them up to Owen.
Guy frowned and took his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket.
When Owen made no move forward, Sydney said, “It’s from the Boys’ Home, Mr. Smith. Your orphanage record. And the name they gave you, if you want it.”
“I’m happy with the name I have, thank you.” But he reached for the papers and held them to his chest. “Are you certain it’s my record?”
Sydney nodded. He looked to Guy and said, “When I came by the other day with your payment, you mentioned Mr. Smith was once an apprentice at the coffin shop on Burnside Lane.” He turned back to Owen. “That record says the same—where you were apprenticed after you left the orphanage.”
Guy narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t come across this record by chance, I assume.”
“I stole it, if you must know.”
“Sydney.” Guy took off his glasses. He pointed them at him, continuing on. “What if you were caught? You can’t go around—”
“It belongs to him,” said Sydney. “I’m simply giving him what’s his. Mr. Smith, would you prefer I take it back to the orphanage?”
Owen shook his head. Sydney looked back at Guy with a radiant smile. “You see, Guy?”
Catherine went to Owen’s side. He still had the papers pressed to his shirtfront, his arms wrapped around them. She leaned close as Guy and Sydney carried on talking and asked, “Aren’t you going to read it?”
He swallowed hard. “I must confess I’m nervous to. I know already I haven’t any family. A foundling, Mr. Watt said I was, but I don’t remember that person—the person I was before I died.” He bit his lip, before holding the papers out. “Will you keep it for me, Catherine? Until I’m ready to read it? I’d consider it a great favor.”
It warmed her heart that he had such trust in her. She accepted the record with care. “Of course.” She smiled. “Whenever you’re ready.”
A little while later, the four of them sat together in the kitchen. Catherine and Guy took turns telling Sydney of yesterday’s events, the ensuing somberness in the air broken only by Guy getting up to stoke the fire and brew more tea.
Owen’s record remained closed on the table. Catherine looked to it as the discussion moved on to Sydney’s new apprenticeship. Owen spent the time staring into his teacup. Once Sydney left and Guy went downstairs to work in the back room, Catherine said, “Don’t fret, Owen. We’ll go out today, you and me. You’ll make a fine apprentice at any trade.”
He said nothing to this, but when she stood up from the table, he dutifully followed her. In the hall, he tied his cravat in the looking glass, and in the shop, he made sure his hair lay flat in the shine of a long-case clock. Catherine took his coat from the rack, dusted it off before passing it to him. He put on his hat, and she saw it didn’t sit at too rakish an angle.
“There,” she said. “You look the perfect gentleman.”
He looked very young—his hazel eyes round, his hands soft and clean and without calluses—but then, most apprentices were young.
Guy appeared in the doorway of the back room. “Are you two off somewhere?”
“Yes,” said Catherine. “We’re to find Owen an apprenticeship by day’s end.”
This was not met with the reaction she’d expected. The look in Guy’s eyes turned dull and distant. “Oh,” he said. “Very well.” His shoulders slumped. “I only thought—I thought you might like to work here, Owen. I don’t yet know all that my father did, but I can still teach you. And I could do with an assistant now that—now that he’s gone.”
Owen removed his hat. “Work with you?”
“Yes,” said Guy firmly. “If you’d like. You’ve already got a room here, after all.”
Owen’s eyes gli
mmered with tears, with hope. He clutched the brim of his hat. “I would like that.” He wiped at his eyes, his smile bright and watery. “I really would.”
“Then it’s decided.” Guy walked over, took Owen’s hat and placed it back on the coatrack. “You’ll stay here with me.”
Owen laughed, the sound catching in his throat, and Guy produced a handkerchief, handing it to him. “Come now, Owen,” he said gently. “You’re all right, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Owen smiled through his tears. “I’m all right.”
The bell above the shop door rang out. A customer walked in, and Catherine ushered Owen into the back room. He sat down at Guy’s worktable as she pulled the door closed. She lit the lamp there, light glowing through the green shade. It shone over the tools and loose watch parts, the small nicks and scratches in the aged wood.
“Not too morbid for you, is it?” she asked.
He ran his fingers along the desk’s edge, considering the items before him. “Catherine,” he said, solemn in comparison to her lightheartedness. “What about you? Will you go back to the print shop?”
She nodded. “I’d like to. I can’t imagine Mr. Boyd liked hearing about Guy and I going through the place while time was stilled. Hopefully I haven’t lost my place there again.”
“I’m certain you haven’t.” He regarded her, his eyes luminous. “You and Guy have been so good and kind to me. I can’t ever repay you for all you’ve done.”
“Owen Smith, we are your friends.”
He reached over and clasped her hand. “Thank you, then, for being a wonderful friend.”
Guy entered the room holding a pocket watch. He set it on the worktable and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Owen moved to stand up from the chair, but Guy shook his head. “Listen and look closely, Owen,” he said. “This is the first day of your apprenticeship.”
Catherine readied herself to depart. She located her coat, her bonnet and gloves, and lingered near the door. Rain tapped at the window glass. She tucked Owen’s record away in her coat and took the umbrella Guy offered her.
Casting his gaze down, he said, “You know you’re always welcome back here, if you’ve any trouble.”
“Don’t say it like a goodbye.” Though her throat tightened and tears pricked the backs of her eyes. It felt like a goodbye, even when it wasn’t. “I’ll come to call tomorrow as soon as I have a chance.”
“Yes.” Guy looked up in earnest. “Yes, please do. I imagine… That is, the police might…” He put his arms about himself. “My father’s funeral—I haven’t had a moment to prepare.”
She brought a hand to his cheek. “Give yourself the time you need.”
Guy swallowed. The rain picked up, streaking the glass, the street outside becoming a misty blur of gray stone and weathered shopfronts. He said, “Wait here, won’t you? Until the rain lets up.”
And because he asked, she did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
IN THE QUIET of the print shop, Catherine wondered if it was the last time she’d set foot here. She rested a hand on one of the presses, the iron cool and familiar beneath her touch. The aprons were still hung on their hooks. The type drawers and pots of ink were put away. It was everything as it should be; Catherine wasn’t sure what else she expected.
How badly she wanted to stay.
On the third floor, she paused outside her room. Lamplight glowed beneath the door’s edge, though it was still quite early. She stepped inside and found Bridget sitting at the desk, already dressed for the day.
She turned, offering up a smile. “Catherine. It’s good to see you.”
“I suppose you’ve heard what happened.”
“Yes.” Bridget stood up from the desk. Light from the lamp turned her fair hair golden, shining over the wallpaper behind her. “The police were here most of yesterday. They told us about Spencer—about the timepiece—”
“The magic is gone. It’s only an ordinary pocket watch.” Catherine sat on the edge of her bed, looking about the room. Quietly, she asked, “How did Mr. Boyd take it? Is he angry with me?”
“No, indeed. Though he’ll probably want to speak with you about it.”
She felt the press of Owen’s record, secure inside her coat. After Bridget left to head downstairs, Catherine knelt at her bedside, pulling out the box beneath it. She set the orphanage papers carefully inside, among her reminders of her family home. It was still home to her, but then, the city had become her home as well.
* * *
Catherine put on a clean dress and pinned her dark hair into a chignon. She buttoned her cuffs and smoothed down her skirts. She did a quick study of herself in the looking glass above the washstand, the light coming in through the window catching in her blue eyes. Taking a breath, she started downstairs, waiting at her desk on the shop floor.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Mr. Boyd walked into the shop wearing a wool overcoat, which he hung on the rack alongside his silk hat.
“Good morning, sir,” she said. “Did you wish to speak with me?”
Boyd smiled, deepening the creases at the corners of his eyes. “Yes, Miss Daly. Your aid in the apprehension of Mr. Carlyle was rather notable.”
Catherine recalled her suspicion of Boyd when he’d first taken management of the print shop. She had thought it possible for him to kill Ainsworth, to have taken the timepiece, when Spencer was at fault all along.
“I did not do so alone, sir. Mr. Nolan was also involved.”
“Ah, yes. A reputable young man. It was a shame to hear about his father.” Boyd’s polished shoes clicked over the floorboards. “There’s no need to look so worried, Miss Daly. I shan’t dismiss you for something you are blameless in. What you did was commendable.”
A rush of relief coursed through her. “Thank you, sir. I was rather hoping you would take that opinion.”
His eyebrows rose and his mouth crooked upward. “I’ll be in the back office, if you require anything.”
The door to the back room clicked shut, and then, galvanized, Catherine went to fetch an apron. She slid out a type drawer on her way back, placing it on the desk and taking up her composing stick.
Bridget grinned, sorting through type in the drawer at her own desk. “You see,” she said. “I told you it would work out rightly. It was quite the to-do without you here, Catherine.”
“Just as I’d thought. Everything falls to pieces in my absence.” She looked at Bridget sideways. “It wasn’t as if I disappeared.”
Bridget’s countenance turned grave. “You could’ve told me, Catherine—about Spencer. You know that, don’t you?”
Catherine fixed her eyes on her composing stick. “And what if I was wrong? I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Well, if you ever suspect there’s a murderer in our midst again, I’d appreciate a note at the very least.”
Catherine put a hand to her heart. “I’ll do my best.”
* * *
The following day, Catherine made her way to the watchmaker’s shop. She walked with a lightness to her step as omnibuses clattered past on the street. She came to the corner and her eyes alit on the small green-fronted building. What a lovely sight it was, as dear to her now as the print shop. The OPEN sign was upon the door; she stepped inside and looked about at the assortment of clocks, the shine of the lamps against the wallpaper.
Guy Nolan emerged from the back room, pausing at the counter. “Catherine.” He grinned. “Did all fare well at the print shop?”
She pulled off her gloves, smiling back at him. “It did. Very well, in fact.”
He came around the counter to meet her at the front of the shop. He wore an apron over his clothes, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. “That’s grand,” he said as he helped her out of her coat. “I’m pleased for you.”
Catherine turned, gazing up at him. He looked back, his eyes dark. Carefully, he raised a hand to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. “Catherine,” he said, and swallowed. “Ma
y I kiss you?”
She nodded, wordless. She tilted her face up just as he brought his down. The kiss was soft, earnest, gentle, all the things she knew Guy to be. He pulled back, the color high in his cheeks, and she grinned at him.
Just then, Owen dashed down the staircase. His feet were hard and fast on the steps, in a way that was unlike him. He was no longer a stranger to her, no longer strange. Every day, she knew him better—Owen Smith, the boy she and Guy had pulled out from the grave. A smile lit his face. “Hello, Catherine. I thought I heard you.” He darted a look at Guy and said, “I meant to bring it down,” before hurrying back upstairs.
“What are you having him do?” Catherine asked Guy.
Guy crossed his arms, tipping his chin up with a smile. “We’re going through old watches. I thought it best for him to start with those rather than repairs for clients.”
“That’s probably wise.”
Owen returned with a crate in hand. He brought it into the back room and left it on the worktable. Standing in the doorframe, he looked over at Catherine. “What happened at the print shop,” he asked, “when you went back?”
“I still have my job,” Catherine told him. “Mr. Boyd thinks what we did is commendable.” She met Guy’s gaze. “The police have been there. They’re likely to pay you a call as well.”
And as she was preparing to leave, an officer came knocking at the door. Catherine had already given a statement to the police, but Guy had not, being asleep in their lobby. The officer sat with them in the back room, asking Guy questions and writing it all down. He set down his pen finally and asked, “What of the timepiece? Where is it?”
Guy pulled open one of the desk drawers, lifting out the silver pocket watch. It fit neatly in the palm of his hand, and he showed the officer the cracked crystal. “Do you require it for evidence?”
“No need,” the officer replied. “Mr. Carlyle has given us a confession.”
