Timepiece (3 page)

Freemantle, now returned to Wellington’s side, watched the special battalion at its work and supposed he ought to be thanking God for its presence. Somehow, the words would not come to his lips. Wellington turned abruptly from the massacre, and for the second time that day Freemantle could read his expression. Only for a moment: then the helm of the Iron Duke came down.

Hartwich, Kent, June 17, 1815

The pocket watch arrived on a day when nothing much else was engaging Elizabeth’s attention: no parties or social calls to prepare for or recover from, nothing but gardening or letter-writing to occupy a young lady’s morning. Or fancy-work, of course, but Elizabeth avoided needles and embroidery frames whenever she could.

Truth be told, she did not much care for letter-writing either. To her mother’s despair, she had no liking at all for any occupation that required her to sit still. She went for long walks every day an optimistic outlook could deem the weather fine; she climbed trees as frequently as she thought she could get away with it; she spent as much time as possible gardening or dancing, for those were the only two activities vigorous enough to please her while still being proper enough to please her mother. As recent days had been rather full of conflict with her mother over her chosen pastimes, and as there was no ball conveniently available, Elizabeth had elected to spend this particular morning in the garden and thereby avoid a quarrel. When Bronson brought her the parcel, she was pruning roses and only a little bored by the fine June day.

More accurately, she was bored by the rose garden. The day pleased her greatly, for it was of the sort whose fineness no one could dispute. No more than a handful of fluffy clouds marred the sky, the sunshine was not so very hot, and Elizabeth therefore expected to have no need of the usual coaxing or subterfuge to obtain permission to go walking later. But the canopies and marble statues of the garden could not long hold her interest—she had observed them so many times before, after all—and its high hedges prevented her from seeing anything that lay beyond. She might
know
that her father’s house nestled among rolling hills, that it was possible to glimpse the sea from the top of the tallest, that the second-tallest was covered with a sweep of white-blossomed apple trees, and that beyond the orchard lay the estate of Mr. Carrington—but she could
see
none of these things. For all her five senses could inform her, the entire world might have been made up of hedgerows, fencing, and rose blossoms.

Elizabeth was lost enough in her daydreams of sea and hills to clip the head off a perfectly healthy rose. She muttered in vexation, bending to scatter the petals lest she add yet
another
complaint to her mother’s ever-growing list. A shadow fell over her, and she straightened quickly, stepping to one side to hide the evidence of her mistake—but it was neither her mother nor her aunt who had pursued her into the garden. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with Bronson, the old butler. His eyes glanced down at the scattered petals as though he knew exactly what she had been doing, but he said merely, “This came for you, Miss Elizabeth,” and handed her a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

It was about six inches square, and not particularly heavy. The direction was written in a clear, bold hand. There was nothing remotely remarkable about it...except its presence, for Elizabeth could not think of anyone who was likely to be sending her a parcel. No one of her close family was traveling. Nor was there an imminent occasion that merited a gift, Christmas being more than six months away and her birthday only three months gone. She had the irritable feeling that this was going to be one of those transgressions against decorum that sent her family into fits of agitation over her behavior. Even though she had not sought this particular impropriety. Elizabeth sighed.

“Has my mother seen this?” she asked.

“No, miss,” Bronson replied in a tone so neutral no one but Elizabeth could have heard the faint humor in it. “I took the liberty of bringing it straight to you, without acquainting Mrs. Barton of its arrival. I thought it might perhaps be from a young gentleman.”

“Undoubtedly that is it,” Elizabeth replied. She reminded herself that she must not speak as though she had tasted curdled milk. A normal young lady of seventeen years did not react so to a mention of her presumptive suitors. She thought she managed the correct tone when she added, “Thank you,” for Bronson’s eyes twinkled. He bowed and turned back for the house.  Elizabeth, frowning once he was out of sight, used the pruning shears to attack the twine.

The plain brown paper proved to cover an equally plain brown box. Within the box was a small bag of red velvet. Elizabeth could not help but marvel at the quality of the material, even as her fingers hastened to undo the drawstring mouth.

The velvet bag contained a golden pocket watch, complete with a chain and fob. Elizabeth stared at it. Then she turned the brown paper over, to confirm that it was indeed her name written there. It was; but that only made her confusion worse. There was no note included, so she was no further along in discovering the sender. And to this question had been added another—who in the world would send her a gentleman’s watch?

It wasn’t new, but the gold of the casing and chain shone brightly, well-polished and well-cared-for. By looking closely she could see a few small scratches, but she could tell they were honorable wounds, signs of long service. Engraved on the casing were a sequence of intricate vines, flowers, hourglasses, birds, something that she thought might be the sun, and some others that appeared to be only abstract etchings.  The fob was not engraved, but the chain felt pleasingly solid as she ran it through her fingers.

The watch itself, Elizabeth reflected, also had a strangely solid feel. Now that she had it in her hands, it seemed heavier than it ought, and for that matter, considerably larger than was customary. Its ticking was somehow discordant, as well. Was it too fast, perhaps? Elizabeth opened the watch to see if it was keeping proper time.

And almost dropped it. The inside of this pocket watch was like the inside of no other she had ever seen. Instead of one face, it had four small ones, two crowded on one side and two on the other. One of these did look like a proper watch face, though its hands were not moving. The second had both an inner and an outer dial, with miniscule numbers running all around it. The third face was even more complicated, comprised of eight dials nesting within each other. And the fourth—Elizabeth stifled a gasp and brought the watch closer to her eyes. Could she possibly be seeing this? The fourth displayed tiny images—and they
moved,
flickering in and out of sight even as she stared at them.

“Elizabeth!”

That was her mother’s voice, piercing the air like a particularly shrill gull, and her mother’s figure followed the sound, visible through a gap in the hedge as she hastened over the lawn to the rose garden. Elizabeth clutched the pocket watch to her breast, then shook her head at herself. She cast about for another hiding place.

“Elizabeth!”

The querulous note in Mrs. Barton’s voice seemed more pronounced than was customary, and she was moving at an unusually quick pace. Elizabeth had not a moment to lose. She snatched off her bonnet, shoved the pocket watch and its velvet bag inside, and kicked the brown paper under the nearest rosebush. “Coming, mamma!” she called. Catching up the pruning shears with her free hand, she went to meet her mother as a good daughter should.

Mrs. Barton did not seem to notice the unusual courtesy. “I have been looking all
over
for you, and here you are out in this hot sun—and without your bonnet! You will ruin your complexion, I declare you will—”

“I only thought to feel the wind in my hair, mamma,” Elizabeth soothed. “I am finished in the garden and was just returning inside.” She hoped her mother would turn and accompany her, back toward the house and away from the telltale brown paper. To her relief, Mrs. Barton did just that.

“Your hair will be a fright by the time you get there; do you never think of these things, Elizabeth? Have you forgotten that Mrs. Wilton is to call this morning? And that she brings her husband’s nephew?”

Elizabeth bit back a sound of annoyance. “I am sorry, mamma. I
had
forgotten, or I would not have been gardening.” This was true. If she had remembered Mrs. Wilton’s incipient visit, she would have taken care to be out walking, as far from home as she could reasonably get.

“Well, go and tidy yourself now, at once. Put on your new muslin, and I shall send Sarah in to do your hair. Make haste, child, make haste!”

“Yes, mamma—” Elizabeth chose to interpret this instruction as permission to run in an unladylike manner. She darted into the house, ignoring her mother’s despairing wail about her hoydenish ways and clutching her bonnet to her so that Mrs. Barton would not notice how it bulged.

Elizabeth thanked her stars that she chanced to encounter Bronson as she pounded up the stairs. He stepped smoothly aside, and she paused to stop and whisper, “I have left the wrapping paper in the garden. Will you please go and tidy it, and please, Bronson, do not tell—”

“Leave it to me, miss,” Bronson assured her, and Elizabeth flashed him a smile and ran up the second flight of stairs to her bedchamber.

She had barely enough time to hide the pocket watch in the drawer containing winter underclothing before Sarah arrived to assist her in changing her gown. A simple morning dress would never do to wear before company, of course—even Elizabeth had to admit that—but she grudged the time it took to don her new white muslin. She supposed she should be grateful that it was of a simple enough line not to require a long corset and the fuss that entailed, but she still had a hard fight to keep from betraying her impatience at every step. And when the muslin was donned, she must sit still while Sarah combed and arranged her unruly curls. She had hoped for a few minutes between the maid’s departure and the guests’ arrival to examine the pocket watch again, but she heard voices below while Sarah was pinning up the last lock of hair.

Elizabeth made her way down the stairs as sedately as a young lady ought. Whether that sluggishness was due to reluctance for walking away from the pocket watch and its secrets or to reluctance for entering Mrs. Wilton’s company, she could not have said. She opened the door to the drawing room just as Mrs. Wilton and her nephew were invited to sit, which at least gave her mother and aunt no opportunity to criticize her appearance or caution her regarding deportment. But it also meant that all heads swiveled to watch her as she entered, and her chances for playing an unobtrusive role in the conversation were reduced to nothing.

Mrs. Wilton’s nephew rose. The ladies remained seated. Elizabeth made a curtsy to the room as a whole. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” she said.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Wilton greeted her, without any discernable warmth.

Something in the tone stiffened Elizabeth’s back. Mrs. Wilton might have been addressing a child, which Elizabeth certainly was not. She was of an age to be “Miss Barton,” in fact—but her father’s sister lived with the family and indeed was in the room, and it was she who claimed that title. Still, that did not give Mrs. Wilton the right to say “Miss Elizabeth” as though speaking to a schoolgirl.

“It is a pleasure to see you, ma’am,” Elizabeth replied as politely as she could. “I hope you are well.”

Mrs. Wilton sniffed. “Tolerably so, Miss Elizabeth, thank you. Perhaps you remember my nephew Charles?”

Elizabeth turned obediently to the young man who had risen, and made a second curtsy. He bowed, in a manner more theatrical than correct. As he straightened, she was able to observe the dashing cut of his blue coat and the dazzling starched whiteness of his cravat. He had folded it into that most complicated design known as the ballroom—indicating that either he had taken the time to become proficient at executing such a piece of nonsense, or that he had attempted the fold on numerous cravats that morning before getting one right. Mr. Wilton saw the direction of her gaze, assumed her approval, and beamed. Elizabeth stifled a sigh.

“Indeed, Mr. Wilton, it has been too long,” she said, and moved to take a seat.

“Allow me.” Mr. Wilton swung around, took a chair from the small table, and set it with a flourish beside his own. Elizabeth looked with longing at the far corner of the sofa, but seated herself in the chair.