Frederick cocked his head to one side. “An opera?”
Hannah came up to the counter and laid her hands on the wood. “Yes, an opera. Italian, I think.”
“You know about opera?”
Hannah smiled, but there was sadness in it, and she did not meet his eyes. “I used to.”
Frederick frowned. “And Madame Pomeroy wants me to attend with her?”
Hannah looked up. “And with me.”
The clocks ticking around them suddenly sounded obnoxious and loud. He wanted to wave his arms and shout to quiet them down. “You’ll be there?”
“I will.”
Frederick took a deep breath. “You may tell Madame Pomeroy that I would be pleased to attend the opera with her this evening.”
Hannah curtsied. “She will also be pleased, Frederick.” She turned away from the counter and started for the front door.
“Hannah?”
She looked back. “Yes?”
“What should I wear to the opera?”
“Have you never been?”
“No.”
Hannah smiled again. “Neither have I.” She opened the door. “Just wear your finest. It really doesn’t matter. If you’re with Madame Pomeroy, people will stare at you, anyway. Be at the Opera House by eight o’clock. We’ll meet by the steps.”
“I’ll be there.”
Hannah left, and Frederick let out a long sigh. He was wearing his finest.
Footsteps clomped on the stairs, and Master Branch came down into the shop. “Who was that, Frederick?” he asked through a yawn.
“Madame Pomeroy’s attendant.” He tried to sound casual. “I think her name is Hannah.”
Master Branch looked at him through his white eyebrows. He smiled. “I believe you are correct. She was asking about the commission?”
“She was. I told her when to expect its completion.”
“Good.”
Frederick cleared his throat, but did not know how to approach the clockmaker about the opera that evening, and then the old man spoke before him.
“Shall we get to work on Mrs. Chatham’s mantelpiece?”
“Uh … yes, sir.”
For a half an hour they puttered around each other in the workroom by their own awkward rhythm. Frederick kept thinking about what Hannah had said, about his clothes. He could not wear what he had on to the opera, but had no money of his own with which to buy a new suit. He hated asking Master Branch for anything, especially money. As they worked he opened his mouth to speak several times but failed to make a sound. When Master Branch announced he would be leaving soon to meet a friend for an early supper, Frederick panicked and just blurted it out.
“Sir, Madame Pomeroy has extended an invitation to me.”
Master Branch set down his tools and lifted his glasses. “Has she? And to what have you been invited?”
“The opera. Tonight.”
“The opera?” Master Branch stuck out his tongue as if he had tasted something bitter. “I utterly loathe the opera. Perhaps she is unhappy with us.”
“I do not think that is the case, sir.”
“No? Well, you shall go, of course. I’m sorry to inflict that on you, but she is a customer.”
Frederick looked down at his stained shirt, and his pants, worn shiny at the knees. “I don’t think my clothes quite suit the occasion.”
Master Branch eyed him over. “Nonsense. You look fine.”
Frederick nodded. “You do provide well for me, sir. I couldn’t be more grateful. But from what I have seen, the opera requires a slightly greater degree of finery.”
“Does it, now?”
“Yes. From what I have seen.”
“Hmph.”
“Perhaps, sir, if you think of it as an investment —”
“How so?”
“Well, Madame Pomeroy is very wealthy and well connected. There will undoubtedly be a number of her acquaintances at the opera this evening.”
“Go on.”
“We would be wise to keep Madame Pomeroy happy with us, and make a good impression tonight, would we not? For the sake of future customers.”
Master Branch raised an eyebrow, like lifting a bank of snow. “Very well. You shall have some new clothes.” He pulled out a few dollars from his pocket. “But only as an investment, mind you.”
“Yes, sir.” Frederick accepted the money.
“Head on down to my tailor, Mister Hamilton. He’ll be able to set you up.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Frederick stepped out of the shop onto the street. He turned to the right down Sycamore Street and followed the lane till he reached the sign over Mister Hamilton’s shop, a swinging plank cut to look like a spool of thread. He went inside.
Bolts of fabric lined the walls, and tables bearing different pieces of clothing crowded the small room. The smell of newly woven material stirred unpleasant memories, and something moved in the cellar of his thoughts, bumping the door. Frederick squeezed through the merchandise to the counter on the opposite end of the shop and rang a silver bell.
From a room behind the counter a little voice said, “Coming.”
Frederick put his hands behind his back.
Mister Hamilton pushed aside a curtain and stepped into view, a sprite of a man not much taller than his counter. “Yes, young sir, what can I do for you?”
“My name is Frederick. I’m apprenticed to Isaiah Branch.”
“Ah, yes, Isaiah. And how is the old clockmaker these days?”
“Quite well, sir.”
“Wonderful. You must give him my regards. In the meantime, how may I be of service to you?”
“I need to buy clothes to attend the opera this evening.”
He clapped his hands. “Ah, the opera. Very well. How much did you want to spend?”
“I’d like to be as frugal as possible.”
“I imagine so, knowing Master Branch. I think I have just the outfit.” He skipped over to a table and pulled a pair of trousers from a pile. “I believe these will fit your waist, but we’ll have to hem the cuffs.” He whipped a fabric tape measure from his pocket and ran it up the length of Frederick’s leg. “But only by a few inches. I could take care of it now. Can you wait?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mister Hamilton nodded and retreated through the curtains to the back room with the trousers hanging over his shoulder. “How long have you been with Master Branch?” he called out.
“Nearly three years now,” Frederick said, raising his voice to be heard.
“And before that? Where do you come from?”
“An orphanage,” he said.
The tailor went quiet.
Frederick sniffed and looked around. A bolt of cloth near the counter caught his eye, and the deep cellar memories rumbled again. He reached out to the fabric and took hold of it. The weave felt familiar, and the pattern blazed in his eye. In that moment the cellar door flew open, and like a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, the past rushed up to claim him….
The pattern in the fabric had a flaw. Mrs. Treeless held it up to Frederick’s nose. “You see this? I had to shut down the whole loom because of this!”
“I see it,” Frederick said, head bowed. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Well?” The toothless hag towered over him, smelling of whiskey. “Can you fix it?” The little white dog in her arms, an old, ratty thing, stared at him with vacant, beady eyes.
“I don’t know,” Frederick whispered. The great machine sprawled out before him, a maze of gears and pulleys, shafts and struts. “I don’t think so.”
She stamped her foot. “Don’t think so?”
“It’s beyond my skill.”
“Useless boy! I thought you were good with machines.” She stormed from the platform. “I’ll send someone for the machinist.”
Frederick relaxed some and looked down at the other orphans. They waited at their posts on the production line, uncertain of what to do. If they left their places, they might be
beaten. If they stood idle, they might be beaten. He leaped down to the factory floor.
A younger boy, a piercer, leaned toward him. “Psst. How long will the loom be down?”
“Hard to say,” Frederick said. “A few hours maybe.”
The boy coughed. It was the dust from the flax and the cotton. It filled the air and covered every surface, adding grit to the food they ate standing at the loom. Frederick pounded the boy’s back to help him choke the dust out.
“Talking, are we?” Roger Tom walked up behind them. The foreman’s voice always sounded hoarse, like he had just been screaming at somebody. “Freddy?”
“No, sir.”
“How ’bout you, then?” He turned his bulging eyes on the other boy.
“No, sir.”
“Really. I distinctly heard talking. Are you suggesting I conjured that out of thin air?”
“No, sir,” the boy said.
“So you were talking?”
“No, I —” The boy looked at Frederick, wide-eyed.
In a flash Roger Tom had his belt out. He whipped it around over his head and brought it down on the boy’s back with a crack that echoed through the factory. The boy dropped to his knees, but did not scream. All the other orphans stood transfixed, shaking.
Roger Tom coiled the belt around his knuckles. He glared at Frederick, and Frederick dropped his chin to his chest, arms straight at his sides. Roger Tom swung around on the other orphans.
“No talking.”
Then the foreman stalked down the line without another word or glance. Frederick turned to the other boy, and without speaking he helped him to his feet. They went back to their positions on the loom, and Frederick held his stomach, relieved that it had been someone else.
A short while later Mrs. Treeless returned. She snatched Frederick by his shirt collar and hauled him with her, the little dog bobbing in the crook of her other arm. “Get up there.” She pointed at the machine.
Frederick looked up at the monstrous beast. “I told you, I don’t think I can fix it.”
Mrs. Treeless stepped in closer. “You’re going to try. The machinist will be here soon, but if this loom gets up and running before then I don’t have to pay him a cent. You have until he gets here.”
“But ma’am, I can’t reach the —”
“I don’t care if you have to climb all the way inside it! You’ll get this loom working. Now, move!”
Inside it. Frederick had seen orphans with missing fingers, even hands. And he had heard of worse happening. Orphans died in horrible accidents working the machines, pulled inside and chewed up, broken bodies scattered over the fabric.
“I can’t, ma’am.”
She grabbed his ear and hissed into it. “You will, boy, or I’ll tear you to pieces faster than any machine.” She let go and pushed him toward the loom.
Frederick’s stomach felt like he had eaten a bread crust with too many worms. He grabbed up his tools and turned to the beast where its jaws opened. He crouched down and climbed through the teeth, down the throat, to the belly where the air felt heavy and foul with the undigested residue of industry. Frederick closed his eyes for a moment, took a few steady breaths, and then began to work.
He studied the design of the loom, and traced the intended movements of its parts. Machines were the only things that made any kind of sense. Their function followed their design, and he could predict their actions. As he worked, the world outside the machine faded from his mind until the machine was the only thing left. Deep in its bowels he ceased feeling threatened and began to feel comforted and safe.
Time passed and he eventually found the problem. A metal screw had worked itself loose, causing a support arm to wiggle, creating instability in the mechanism and flaws in the fabric’s pattern. Predictable. It was a simple repair, and within a few moments he was reluctantly crawling back into the world of the orphanage and fabric mill.
He emerged onto the platform just as Mrs. Treeless greeted the machinist. The lanky worker saw Frederick squirming out from inside the loom and gasped.
“What in blazes were you doing in there?” he said, eyebrows arching.
“I went in to fix it,” Frederick said.
The machinist turned to Mrs. Treeless. “You let him?”
She began to pet her dog, plucking at its little curls. “So what if I did? I wouldn’t have to if you charged a reasonable fee.”
The machinist shook his head. He turned to Frederick. “You all right?”
“I’m fine. I think it’ll work now.”
At that, Mrs. Treeless, toothless, grinned.
The machinist looked startled at Frederick. “You fixed it?”
Frederick nodded. “I think so.”
“I better take a look.”
Mrs. Treeless grabbed the machinist’s arm. “I won’t pay you for it. The boy says it’ll run.”
He shook her off and went to peer into the loom. “What did you do, lad?”
Frederick described the location and nature of the repair, feeling foolish in the simplicity of it.
“On the contrary,” the machinist said. “You’ve a keen eye. A trained man could’ve missed it. What’s your name?”
“Frederick.”
“Well done, Frederick.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Mrs. Treeless. “Back to work, boy.”
It was a few days later that the machinist returned. This time, he brought an old man with him. They came marching down the line with Mrs. Treeless and stopped when they reached Frederick’s position on the loom.
The machinist pointed at him. “He’s the one, sir.”
The old man stepped forward. “You’re Frederick?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Isaiah Branch. I am a clockmaker.”
Frederick bowed his head, puzzled.
Master Branch turned to Mrs. Treeless. “Yes. I will take him.”
Mrs. Treeless squinted. “He’s worth a lot more to me now. He’s got a useful skill.”
Master Branch exchanged a look with the machinist. “So he has. Skills wasted in this abomination you call an orphanage.”
Mrs. Treeless snickered like she did while she watched Roger Tom at work with his belt. “Say whatever you want, Master Clockmaker. Your scolding don’t matter to me any more than a magpie’s.”
Master Branch stood up straight. “I am prepared to fully compensate you.” He looked at Frederick and shifted on his feet. “But I think we should discuss this elsewhere.”
Mrs. Treeless shrugged. “If you like.”
They turned and walked away.
The machinist walked over and patted Frederick on the back. “You’re getting out of this hell on earth, lad.”
And that very night, he did.
“Here we are,” said Mister Hamilton.
Frederick pulled his eyes away from the fabric, and his mind away from the memories. The past retreated back down the stairs to the cellar, and Frederick shut the door. The tailor came around the counter with the trousers held out across his arms.
“You’ll be needing a coat and vest as well?” He stopped. “Are you all right, my boy?”
Frederick swallowed. “Yes, a coat and vest as well.”
“Would you like to sit down, you look pale.”
“I’m fine. The coat and vest?”
“Yes, um, I believe I have your size.” Mister Hamilton hauled a little stool over to Frederick and hopped up on it. He applied the tape measure to Frederick’s arms and shoulders. “Yes, I believe I do.”
Again he retreated to his back room, and a moment later returned with the matching pieces. “You’ll look dashing for the opera. Now, will that be all? Nothing, say, for your master?”
“No.”
“Pity. Unless Isaiah Branch has found himself a new tailor, he must be outrageously out of fashion.”
Frederick smiled. “That he is, sir. But that’s just one of the things people love about him.”
He paid the tailor and strolled up the street with his new clothes under his arm, wrapped in a paper parcel with twine. He entered Master Branch’s shop and called out. No reply. The old clockmaker must have left for that early supper he had planned. Frederick went upstairs, dangling the parcel on one hooked finger. He unwrapped his new clothes and got out of his old ones. As he dressed, he wondered what the opera would be like.
CHAPTER 9
The Opera
HANNAH SMILED AS SHE LEFT THE CLOCKMAKER’S SHOP. Madame Pomeroy was right. Frederick truly was handsome. She strolled back toward the hotel, and wondered if she would sit next to him at the opera. But she shook her head at the silliness of the thought.
A gilded carriage rolled by, and through the curtains Hannah caught a glimpse of a young, pale woman within. She wore a gorgeous dress of satin dyed the red, almost black color of an overripe cherry. She met Hannah’s openmouthed stare with a blank expression, both disdainful and unconcerned. A moment later the carriage had passed, pitching gently on the cobblestones as it lumbered on.
Hannah stood on the sidewalk and sighed after it. That manner of woman could likely attend the opera whenever she fancied. She probably had a new gown made for each occasion, and never wore them afterward, and they gathered dust and moth holes in her armoire.
Hannah looked down and smoothed her apron. Last week Madame Pomeroy had called in a seamstress and ordered a dress made for Hannah. The finished gown was supposed to arrive that afternoon, and Hannah was intended to wear it to the opera that night. Hannah had no notion of what to expect, but felt a thrill of anticipation. However plain, the new dress would have to be prettier than the drab black maid’s skirt she wore now.
Hannah pressed on and soon emerged on Gilbert Square. The Opera House sparkled in the afternoon light, and she smiled. She crossed the square and entered the cool hotel foyer. A tall blond porter stood by the entry, his arms folded across his chest, his uniform hat tipped to one side. Hannah cast him a demure smile. He hopped forward and walked up alongside her.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello there, Walter.” Hannah kept moving, but slowed her pace.
“I haven’t seen you ’round much now you’re working for the tiger lady. I’ve missed you.”