A Grave Inheritance (17 page)

Before leaving the house this morning, I had wrapped the knife in a piece of oilcloth. Now with the oilcloth in one hand and a fistful of silk skirts in the other, I stepped from the carriage, silently cursing when my shoes sank into a soft layer of crushed rock and mud. Hiking up the front of my skirts another few inches, I glanced around at the shops that lined both sides of the narrow road. Coal dust coated the wood and brick facades, but the never-ending fight against the grime was most evident in the heavily smudged windowpanes. Tradesmen were in abundance, some engaged in conversations, while others hurried to and fro about their business. Other than a wagon and several work carts, Cate’s was the only carriage in sight. Two housewives passed in front of us, baskets in hand as their sharp eyes took in our silk gowns and fine woolen capes.

Wasting no time, Cate walked toward the nearest doorway, passing beneath a painted black sign with a silver hammer and anvil. Once inside, I blinked several times while my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

At first sight, the shop seemed a chaotic hodgepodge of metal work. Copper and iron cooking pots were piled in the corner directly to my right. Wooden counters ran along two walls, most of the surface space taken up with what appeared to be normal household items such as brass candleholders and pewter dishware. The third wall was covered by a variety of knives and swords.

A large man stood behind one of the counters, with a golden figurine resting in the palm of one hand. He held a tool in the other hand, grasped like a quill between his thumb and index finger. A pair of spectacles pinched the bridge of his nose, the lenses magnifying his eyes to at least twice their normal size.

He glanced up from his work. “You’re just in time,” he said, beckoning us forward.

Cate crossed the shop to where the man stood, her eyes locked on the figurine still in his hand. “What have you got there?” she asked curiously.

The man set the magnifying glasses and tool aside, then picked up what looked like a golden key. “A mechanical soldier. The Duke of Buckingham had it commissioned for the king’s birthday.” He stood the soldier on the counter, inserted the key into its back and turned three revolutions.

I watched in wonder as the soldier began to move forward, aided by nothing more than a pair of golden feet. Measuring about four inches tall, its stiff legs marched with surprising speed, covering the distance in a matter of seconds. Cate’s hand shot out just as the soldier stepped over the edge of the counter.

The man grinned, pleased with his work.

“Very nice, Mr. Faber,” Cate said, handing back the figurine. “I dare say, his majesty is sure to be pleased.”

Mr. Faber took out the key and set the soldier on the counter. “The whims of the wealthy,” he said. “Now what can I do for you, my lady?”

“This is Miss Selah Kilbrid,” Cate said by way of introduction. “She arrived from the Colonies a week ago, and brought with her the most extraordinary knife. I was hoping you might be able to tell us something about its history.”

Taking this as my cue, I placed the oilcloth on the counter. To my surprise, I glanced back up to find Mr. Faber staring intently at my face. Something akin to sadness flashed in his eyes—and longing.

Cate cleared her throat.

Mr. Faber gave a quick shake of his head and dropped his gaze to the counter. “What have we here?” he asked, pulling the cloth aside. When the knife came into view, his breath turned to a low whistle. Light from an oil lamp glinted off the Gaelic words, and he ran a finger across each letter. Then gripping the bone handle, he lifted the knife to eye level and stared down the long blade. “Made in Ireland about fifty years ago.” He tilted it side to side. “Most likely in a forge near Dublin.” Lowering the knife, he placed it back on the cloth.

I looked at the knife, perplexed by Mr. Faber’s assessment. To be sure, I hadn’t expected him to know its full history, how the smith god Goibniu had forged the blade in ancient days. But fifty years? A man skilled enough to create the mechanical soldier should have been able to do better than that. Movement caught my eye and I glanced up to see Mr. Faber staring at Cate, nodding ever so slightly.

“Well, there you have it,” she said, turning to me. “No more antique than my father’s first pair of riding boots. Shall we go? So many errands have given me an appetite. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stop at the teahouse on the way home. The baker there makes the most scrumptious red currant scones in all of London.”

The mere mention of food made my stomach grumble. I was on the verge of agreeing when the door banged opened, and a young girl came into the shop. She ran right up to Cate. “I’ve been searching for ye all morning, milady. Sophie said ye went out today and that I might find ye with Master Faber.”

Cate bent over to face the girl. “What’s wrong, Ellen?”

“It’s Jenny, milady. She’s in a bad way. Ye’ve got to come with me now.”

“Charlie visited me last night,” Cate said, her voice suddenly tired. “I’ve already done what I can for Jenny.”

Ellen shook her head. “No, milady. It got worse after ye left.”

Cate’s expression turned thunderous. “Damn his black soul to hell,” she said, so softly I almost missed it. Standing back up, she patted Ellen’s cheek. “Run along. I’ll be over just as soon as I’m done here.”

Ellen didn’t budge. “There’s more, milady. Hannah Thorpe didn’t make it home last night.”

“Sure she did,” Cate said. “I brought her there myself once I was done with Jenny.”

“No, milady. Her papa found her this morning, dead as a doornail, curled up not ten steps from the back porch. Folks say she was covered head to toe with the pox.”

Cate’s eyes narrowed. “I see,” she said, then looked at Mr. Faber. “Tom, I need you to keep Miss Kilbrid company while I’m gone. Fix a pot of tea and put out some biscuits, if you don’t mind.”

“I should come with you,” I said, having no intention of spending the afternoon alone with the metal smith.

Cate put a hand on my shoulder. “Stay with Tom. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

I started to protest again, but she turned and hurried from the shop, Ellen close on her heels. The door closed behind them, leaving me alone with a man I had known for less than five minutes. For a brief moment I was tempted to run out, to insist that Cate take me along.

Mr. Faber shifted his weight. “Would you care for some biscuits and tea?” he asked.

I glanced up at him, unable to keep the dismay from my face. Mr. Faber was a large man, tall as Henry with powerfully built arms that looked strong enough to snap a person in half. A smithies apron covered his white linen shirt, the dark leather emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and lending him a savage quality I hadn’t noticed earlier. Looking at him now, I saw a different man altogether from when Cate had been standing beside me—younger, unkempt, his shirtsleeves stained and his long chestnut hair barely contained by the leather lacing.

Good Heavens!
How well did Cate even know this man? The obvious answer was not well at all, he being a smithy and she a lady of the first rank. Yet she had abandoned me to his care with nary a second thought for my safety. He stood across the counter, no more than an arm’s length between us. Unsettled by his nearness, my first instinct was to take several steps back. I forced the urge aside, thinking it best not to cause offense. It was his shop and, thanks to Cate, I was officially his guest. So rather than retreating, I attempted a smile, failing miserably when my lips faltered into something closer to a grimace.
Blast it all! Why did Cate have to leave!

The corners of his mouth twitched up. “Don’t worry, Miss Kilbrid,” he said reassuringly, reading either my mind or my pained expression. “I’ll not bite. Come have a seat. Lady Dinley will return shortly.” He walked to the end of the counter and waved me over. “This way.”

Seeing no other option, I took a deep breath and followed him into the adjoining room. The furnishings were simple, a sofa and armchair near the hearth, a wooden table and two chairs beneath the one window, and a bed along the far wall. Fabulous. Not only was I alone with a strange man, I was now standing in his private chamber.

“Sit there,’ he said, pointing to the sofa. “It’s the most comfortable seat in the room.”

A fire burned in the hearth, and I sat down on the cushion nearest the flames. A kettle was already steaming, having been set earlier on a trivet next to the coals. He picked it up with a thick pad, carried it to the table where he tossed a handful of tealeaves directly into the steaming water. While the tea seeped, he set out teacups and a plate of biscuits.

“They’re left over from breakfast,” he said in way of an apology as he passed the plate to me.

My stomach growled expectantly. I took a biscuit and bit into the sweet, buttery layers. “It’s delicious,” I said, surprised that a lone man would have something so tasty on hand. “Did your wife make them? I would like to thank her if she’s nearby.” It was a shot in the dark, and my one hope of redeeming what was becoming an increasingly awkward situation.

His mouth quirked, so quickly I almost missed it. “No one lives here but me, Miss Kilbrid. A boy delivers fresh bread and biscuits each morning from the bakehouse.”

I took another bite, stared down at the crumbs in my lap.

Straining the tea into cups, he handed one to me, then took the other and sat down in the armchair. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched me in between sips of tea. I picked up another biscuit and munched it nervously while glancing around the room, looking anywhere but at him. Most of the walls were bare, except for one that housed an impressive display of weaponry—spears, swords and knives held in place by long iron nails. A bookcase stood within easy reach of the armchair, its shelves filled to capacity, and another pile of books stacked haphazardly near his feet. Drawing from his immediate environment, I began to construct the most improbable character sketch. Mr. Tom Faber, smithy, scholar, warrior...

“Tell me,” he said, the suddenness of his words making me jump. “What was it like living in the Colonies?”

A lump of biscuit stuck in my throat. Washing it down with a mouthful of tea, I related the first thing that popped into my head. “Less crowded and a lot less smelly.”

He laughed and nodded his head in agreement. “So I’ve heard. What about the native people? Were you familiar with any of the tribes?”

“My family has always been close to the Lanape. They are the predominant tribe in Pennsylvania.”

“Are they a warring people?”

This seemed a natural question coming from a man who decorated with spears and swords. “They prefer peace and generally fight only when provoked. Some of the tribes farther north are rumored to be more war-like.”

Mr. Faber nodded again. I awaited another question when silence settled between us instead. The same sadness and longing returned to his eyes, which gleamed brighter from a moment ago as though coated with unshed tears.

Oh, dear.
I shifted nervously on the sofa. “Are you unwell, Mr Faber? Shall I fetch some water?”

I started to rise, but he waved me back down. “You remind me of someone is all, Miss Kilbrid.” He blinked several times and his eyes cleared, though a general melancholy lingered in the air around him.

Someone deceased, I assumed. Most likely a sister or a sweetheart based on his reaction. Mr. Faber offered nothing further about the young lady, and I took a long sip of tea, all too aware that our situation had just moved from awkward to downright absurd. When the silence became too much, I set the empty cup aside and met his gaze the best I could under the circumstances.

“Have you and Lady Dinley been acquainted long?” I asked.

“Most of my life. We both came to London at around the same time.”

My relief was immediate and more evident than intended.

Mr. Faber arched an eyebrow. “Did you think she left you here without knowing my character?”

“The thought may have crossed my mind.”

He grinned at me. “Lady Dinley may not be perfect, but she is by no means careless when it comes to those in her charge.”

The shop door opened and a man’s voice carried into the back room. “Hey, Tom, ye in here? I’ve a broken axle on Beekon Street.”

Mr. Fabre stood and set his cup on the table. “Help yourself to more tea and biscuits. This may take a while.”

I listened as the two men conversed briefly about the axle, followed by the sound of the door closing when they left the shop. The fire crackled, offering the only noise in the otherwise quiet room. I looked around, a bit disgruntled to have been abandoned for a second time in one day. After wishing so adamantly to be away from Mr. Faber, it was somewhat strange to now feel a genuine loss of his company. My gaze came to the bookshelf and the stack of books on the floor. The one metal smith in Hopewell had been illiterate, and I found myself quite curious as to what Mr. Faber was reading.

The top book had a Gaelic title,
Lebor Gabála Érenn.
I translated the words with difficulty—
The Book of the Taking of Ireland.
Though my parents had taught me to speak passable Gaelic, reading was a challenge I had yet to master. I traded this book for the next one in the pile and read,
De Natura Deorum.
Good gracious! My Latin was even worse and I barely managed to decipher the words—
On the Nature of the Gods.
The writer was Cicero, a Greek philosopher I recognized from my father’s library at Brighmor. This too, I put back, returning to the sofa empty-handed and more than a little befuddled by the ever growing picture of Mr. Faber. To be sure, the man was proving quite an oddity. His appearance verged on wild, yet he owned books in both Gaelic and Latin.

Gauging by the light from the one window, the time was well past two o’clock. I sighed, bored by my own company and anxious for Cate’s return. The room did little to hold my attention, but at least it was toasty warm and the sofa a very comfortable pace to wait. So much, in fact, that the effects of last night’s escapade soon began to catch up to me. My eyes grew heavy and I leaned my head back, vowing to rest just for a moment...