v. In which Arthur is made a proposition
Arthur took Sasha to the drawing room. Agnes’s old deck of cards was on the mantel. She’d kept it there as long as Arthur
could remember; seeing it comforted him.
“How about a game of war?” he asked.
“Pirates is more fun.”
Arthur smiled. “You don’t have your sword, duck.”
Sasha plopped down on the carpet, though the room boasted several cushy armchairs and a davenport to boot. “All right.”
She quickly became more enthusiastic about the game, especially since she kept beating him. As with so many other things,
Arthur was terrible at war. If the game had been called “romance,” he might’ve been better at it. Then again, maybe not. He
was good at reading romance, but when it came to real life, on the rare occasion potential romance presented itself, he mucked
it up as he had with Mary Tierney.
Mucked it up was an understatement in this case. He’d thrown it away with both hands. He still wasn’t entirely sure why, except that,
while he’d grown fond of Mary, he hadn’t been in love with her.
Partway through their third game, Agnes slipped into the room.
She perched on the edge of the davenport, in her habitual spot but not her habitual pose.
Usually, she sank into the cushions. She’d always been warm and easy.
Even the death of her husband of fifty years hadn’t ruffled her.
Now, however, she looked shrunken, hands fidgeting in her lap.
Arthur got up from the floor with difficulty, putting a hand to his lower back as it spasmed in protest. That had been a fortieth
birthday present from his body, the muscle spasm in his back. Usually, it hit at odd moments, but he had to admit that, in
this case, sitting on the floor had been fair provocation.
“Hey,” Sasha said. “We’re not done yet. It’s no fair to stop because you’re losing.”
His smile was more of a grimace this time. He rubbed his back. “We’ll finish up, duck, I promise. Let me speak to Mrs. Livingston
first.”
Sighing dramatically, Sasha flopped back to gaze at the intricately painted (albeit flaking) ceiling. Arthur’s grimace turned
into a real smile as his pain faded. He used to come in from his work to find Agnes and Charlotte lying on the floor that
way, head to head, their hands behind their heads as they pointed out fanciful shapes in the painted clouds to each other.
He wondered, briefly, whether Charlotte could be induced to do such a thing now with an aid in place, or some good pillows.
These days, with her fatigue and aches, lying on the floor would be terrible, and getting up would be worse.
Arthur sank into the nearest armchair and reached for Agnes’s hand. She chewed her lower lip. Usually, she stopped after a
few seconds, laughed, and said perhaps she’d break the habit in another fifty years or so. Today, she merely went on mangling
her lip.
“Mrs. Livingston,” Arthur said, “you wanted to discuss something with me?”
“Yes,” she said faintly, then more firmly: “Yes.” Her posture relaxed; she stopped chewing her lip. “It’s about a clock.”
“What else?” Arthur said with a smile, but Agnes shook her head.
“Not one of my clocks, dear boy—not yet, at any rate. The last time Gracie and I were in Port Lorne, we saw this grandfather
clock in an antique shop. The shopkeeper claimed it was over a hundred and fifty years old, but by God it was the ugliest
clock I’d ever seen. All square edges, hardly any ornamentation . . . Gracie went to look at it every day, God knows why.
It was absolutely hideous. I didn’t buy it, of course.”
“Of course,” Arthur said in confusion.
Agnes drummed her fingers on her knee. “I want to buy it now.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“I want you to buy it for me. As my agent.”
Arthur opened his mouth but closed it without saying anything.
“I can’t leave Gracie,” Agnes said, “not while she’s like this. I simply must be with her. But I want that clock for her.
If I had known when we were there that she’d— I’ve wired the seller, of course, to make sure it’s available—someone else had
their eye on it, but I convinced him I could pay more. It’s dreadfully ironic. That clock will likely end up the most expensive
piece in my collection once I have it—imagine! The ugliest clock you’ve ever seen, but—”
Arthur’s tongue unstuck itself. “Mrs. Livingston . . . why do you want me to buy this clock for you?”
“It’s for Gracie,” she said wildly. Sasha glanced up from the floor, frowning, but resumed her painted-cloud gazing without
interrupting. “I need to buy it. For Gracie. Don’t you understand, dear boy? For all my riches, I can’t do a thing for her.
There’s no cure in the world money can buy. I can’t even give her relief without going to your sister or some doctor for help—but
I can do this. I can buy a hideous old clock for her.”
She sat gulping down air for several moments, eyes damp. Arthur fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She clenched it in her fist without using it, but when she spoke she sounded calm again.
“I would like you,” she said, “to travel to Port Lorne on my behalf,” and Arthur’s heart leaped. “I’ll provide you with a
horse and cart. You’ll have to go the direct route, through the wood, I mean—going around would take far too long. By the
time you returned she might be— I’ll provide money for any expenses you might incur, of course. You know clocks better than
anyone in the village, certainly, and frankly better than half the so-called experts I’ve met in my travels. I want you to
see the clock before I buy it. Make sure it’s in working order and hasn’t suffered any damage. If he tries to talk you up
on price—well, let him, I suppose. I must have it as soon as possible, and the money is no matter . . .”
Arthur’s hand clenched on the arm of his chair. Money was no matter to Agnes because she’d always had a great deal of it.
“I’ll pay you handsomely,” she concluded. “Half when you leave, plus expenses, and half when you return.”
When she told him the sum, he rocketed out of his chair. Sasha popped up from the floor.
“Uncle Arthur?”
“I’m all right, duck.”
He ran his hands through his hair. It was so much money. So much. Charlotte could live comfortably on the first half while
he was gone. They could send for a doctor to care for her, to see if anything more could be done for her fatigue, her pain,
her dizzy spells and bouts of brain fog. She could hire out one of the village girls to keep house, if she wanted. Not that
she would want, because Charlotte eschewed all help, but perhaps if Arthur insisted . . .
Then—when he returned—with the rest of the money, they’d have enough to relocate to Port Lorne like he’d dreamed for so long, with some left over besides.
Here Agnes’s cousin fell ill, and Agnes offered him everything he’d ever wanted, except a wife. But surely courting would
go better if Arthur were a man of means, if not exactly of consequence, even if he was odd and not much to look at. With enough
money, he could hire someone to fix up the house, as old Mr. Livingston used to do, instead of muddling through repairs himself.
None of that would matter in Port Lorne anyway. Maybe, there, he could have a shop—make a living, a real one, not only repairing
but designing, making, and selling timepieces.
He’d follow the same path through the forest his father had taken for so many years. He’d see the city, the clock shop (if
it was still there), the ships coming in to port—the enchantment of the forest, perhaps even the Lord of the Wood—everything
George had told him about. Everything he’d been holding so tightly to in the thirty years since his father’s disappearance.
“Well?” Agnes said; he’d been pacing without responding.
The memory of George’s last trip knifed through him. Arthur hadn’t even said goodbye, too busy sulking.
He’d always wanted to travel through the forest. He’d always wanted to see Port Lorne. That was precisely why he’d been sulking that morning thirty years ago.
Yet now, instead of, Yes, of course, I’d be delighted to go, he said, “I shall have to discuss it with Lottie.”
He forced himself to sit.
“Of course. I’d expect nothing else.” Agnes leaned toward him, eyes wide. “But do decide soon, won’t you, dear boy? Gracie
hasn’t much time.”
His stomach clenched. He merely nodded, thinking of the sickness. He’d always believed in the enchanted forest their father had told so many stories about, but now the enchantment seemed to have soured.
Even so, something small and deep inside him ached to go into the wood.
“You must convince him, Charlotte dear,” Agnes said suddenly.
Charlotte had entered the room, leaning on Jonas. Arthur was on his feet instantly, forgetting Agnes’s proposal at the sight
of his sister. Her face crumpled in pain.
“What?”
“I’ve just made him the most wonderful proposal.” Agnes sounded more like her cheerful self, but it had a forced quality.
She rose, in a rustling of silk. “You must convince him to take it, and quickly, too. How is Gracie?”
Arthur gave Charlotte his arm. Her cane helped, but sometimes an arm was better. He relaxed as she clutched at him; her grip
wasn’t as tight as it could get when her pain and exhaustion were at their worst. The walk home would be long, but they’d
make it all right.
Guilt surged through him. Sometimes, when he had extra money, he hired a cart to take them back uphill so she could ride instead
of walk, but he’d given all his extra money to Mary.
“I did what I could for her,” Charlotte said. “I’ll leave you some tea, and a tincture to help her sleep. I’m afraid I can’t
do more.”
Agnes pursed her lips, blinking rapidly.
She pulled a pocketbook from her skirt, opened it, counted out money, and handed it to Charlotte.
Arthur saw the thoughts warring on his sister’s face: Their family could use the money, and Agnes could certainly afford it—unlike most of the villagers—but she hated to take so much for seeing a patient for whom she had done virtually nothing.
Their father had been the same way. He could’ve made plenty of money as a doctor in Glenwhistle or Port Lorne or any number of other places, but he’d been determined to do right by the place he’d grown up.
Charlotte handed the money back. “It’s too much, Mrs. Livingston.”
“Nonsense.”
“I couldn’t do anything for her.”
“I’m sure you did what you could.”
“It’s too much.”
Agnes sighed, recounted the money, and removed some. She shoved the remainder back into Charlotte’s hand.
“At least let me give you some of Theo’s old shoes for your boy. He looks ready for new ones. I’m sure he’s about the size
Theo was at that age.”
Jonas flushed but mumbled their thanks as Agnes found and gave them the shoes. They was only at home, no matter how much it chafed when the villagers said he. In a village where men were men and women were women, that had seemed safest, when they’d told their mother and uncle several
months ago, in a trembling voice, that they were uncomfortable being called a boy. Arthur had always had a hard enough time
being a failure of a man rather than something else entirely.
Charlotte gave a smile more like a grimace. Arthur put an arm around Jonas’s shoulder, thanked Agnes more audibly, and steered
the family outside.
“Think about my offer, Arthur,” the old woman called after him, but he merely waved over his shoulder as the door shut behind
them.