A Passion for Pleasure(17)

“We’ve been open only fifteen minutes,” Clara replied.

“Yes, but the front desk should be staffed at all times during open hours.”

“Uncle Granville would hear the front bell if anyone comes in.”

“Anyone who enters should not be obliged to wait for someone to welcome them.” Mrs. Fox turned to Granville. “And Mr. Blake, I’m certain you wish to rest after your long journey.”

Granville muttered something under his breath, his attention on the entrails of the clock.

“Your bags have been brought upstairs, Mr. Blake,” Mrs. Fox continued. “And Tom is filling a bath. I suggest you make haste before the water cools. Mr. Blake. Mr. Blake!”

At the heightened pitch to her voice, Granville glanced up. “Oh, er, much obliged, Mrs. Fox.”

He picked up a scape wheel and examined the pointed teeth at the edges as he walked to the door. After he’d left the room, Mrs. Fox turned to Clara.

“I’ve rescheduled an appointment this morning so that Mr. Blake might have a bit of time to rest,” she said.

“Not Mr. Hall?”

Mrs. Fox frowned. “Mr. Hall is not listed in the appointment book.”

“He told me he would come sometime this morning.” Clara couldn’t prevent the surge of anticipation at the thought of seeing him again, even with the memory of their kiss burning like a dark star in the back of her mind.

“Well, really, Mrs. Winter, this is not terribly convenient,” Mrs. Fox said. “Shall I send word to Mr. Hall to postpone the appointment?”

“No. He has been wanting to speak with Uncle Granville for several days.”

“Very well, then.” Mrs. Fox narrowed her eyes with disapproval and swept from the room with her skirts trailing like coal dust behind her.

Annoyance prickled at Clara’s spine as she returned to the studio. She picked up her sewing again and was soon immersed in the rhythmic motion of pushing and pulling the needle through the heavy silk, a cadence that allowed her to focus on the task and empty her mind of thought.

“Meant to give this to you.”

Granville came into the room and extended a mechanical toy to Clara. “From Monsieur Dupree’s wife. She said he’d been intending to send it to you as soon as he finished it.”

Curious, Clara took the toy. A slender male figure wearing a harlequin’s costume and ruffled collar balanced on his hands atop a narrow table.

Clara found the key at the base of the platform and twisted it. The acrobat braced his hands on the table and lifted his body into the air, then executed a graceful somersault that curled his entire form before vaulting back to his original position.

She laughed, delighted by the intricate, whimsical action.

“For your collection,” Granville said, his smile edged with sadness.

Clara dragged a large wooden chest out from beneath a table and unlatched the lock. Several dozen toys lay inside the chest, some mechanical inventions that sprang into action at the turn of a key and others well-crafted stationary figures.

All were decorated with great care, bearing costumes of silk and satin, tiny jewels and buttons, intricately painted faces. There were ducks that waddled and quacked, dancing animals, wooden trains, singing birds, spinning tops, a shepherd who piped a tune on a flute, and a Turkish conjurer who concealed three silver balls beneath golden goblets.

“I’ll write Madame Dupree a letter of thanks this afternoon,” Clara said.

“She’ll appreciate that.” Granville gazed at her. “I’m sorry, Clara. I’ve instructed my solicitor to look into the matter of selling or transferring Wakefield House to your father again, but there’s not much one can do against a final ruling.”

Clara gripped the acrobat. “Perhaps we could appeal to the justices themselves?”

Granville just looked at her, his blue eyes swimming with sympathy. Clara’s heart closed in on itself as she sank down onto a chair and rested her face in her hands. A second later, her uncle’s arm circled her shoulders.

“Never give up hope, my dear,” he murmured.

“Such a fool I am,” Clara whispered, swallowing hard against a rush of tears.

“No mother is a fool who wants her child back,” Granville said.

No, but she was a fool to think she could ever appease her father into giving up custody of Andrew.

No further recourse, the solicitor claimed.

Clara could not believe it. She could not fathom a world in which a defenseless boy, her son, would be condemned to a life of isolation. And that she, as his mother, would have no further recourse.