“I’M AFRAID THAT MISS CARTER is simply too old to be accepted for an apprenticeship,” said Mr. Moore, owner of Moore’s Curios Shop. “I never accept apprentices over the age of fourteen.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Moore,” Ethan said politely.
Sophie could hardly manage a curtsy to Mr. Moore, because the only time his beady eyes had looked at her during the interview, they’d been focused on her chest rather than her face. She sighed as she put her hand on Ethan’s arm.
He patted her hand lightly. “Don’t lose heart. I have two more interviews lined up.”
Ethan helped her back into the carriage and they drove for several blocks to a large building with a garish sign that read LONG’S EMPORIUM. They walked inside and Sophie was surprised to see a tidy showroom with every item for sale displayed perfectly, not a speck of dust to be seen. There was a young man standing on a stool dusting the higher shelves. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and Sophie could see bruises on his arms. When he noticed them walk in, the young man quickly unrolled his sleeves and clambered down from the stool to bow to Ethan and Sophie. She instantly felt sympathy for him.
“We have an appointment with Mr. Long,” Ethan said, handing the young man his card.
“This way, sir.”
They followed him up a narrow staircase to a spotless parlor with two sofas and three chairs. He picked up a bell on the table and rang it. Mr. Long, presumably, came into the room. He had a narrow face lined with black sideburns that reached down to his jaw. Behind him, a woman in a white cap came rushing into the room with one hand on her cap to keep it on her head. Sophie thought she must be the housekeeper.
“Mr. Miller, allow me to introduce my wife, Mrs. Long.”
Mr. Long cleared his throat and Mrs. Long bobbed an awkward curtsy before looking at her husband for direction. Mr. Long raised his eyebrows at her, and she shrank a little from him before saying, “Do please sit down.”
“You have a lovely home,” Sophie said, sitting on a sofa next to Ethan.
“We do indeed,” Mr. Long agreed. “And it’s a good thing, too, because I require all of my apprentices to live with us, and Mrs. Long treats them like they’re her own children, don’t you, Mrs. Long?”
“I-I do,” Mrs. Long said, her eyes wide and fearful. “M-my very best.”
Sophie knew that fear and pitied the woman.
“I’m sure you do,” Ethan said encouragingly.
“There’s no need to beat around the bush,” Mr. Long said as he looked at Ethan. “I’d be prepared to take Miss Carter on for my usual premium.”
Sophie cleared her throat. “What is your usual fee?”
Mr. Long glanced her way, but his eyes returned to Ethan’s. “Five hundred pounds.”
“Five hundred pounds!” she exclaimed. A quarter of her legacy from Captain Trenton!
“It’s not a bad premium for a seven-year apprenticeship, when you consider housing and board are included,” Mr. Long explained.
“Do your apprentices receive wages?” Sophie asked.
“They receive a small yearly stipend for clothing and other necessities.”
I’ve already worked eight years without wages, I’m not about to work any longer for free, Sophie thought furiously.
“Thank you, Mr. Long. I’ll consider your offer,” she said, standing. “Mrs. Long, goodbye.”
“Don’t consider too long, Mr. Miller,” Mr. Long said. “I only have the one opening and it won’t be vacant long.”
“We will let you know shortly,” Ethan said, and again touched his hat before squiring Sophie down the stairs and out of the establishment. She was relieved to leave the heat of the shop and the oppressive atmosphere. Even the close air of the carriage was preferable.
“If you’re worried about the money—” Ethan began, but Sophie placed a finger on his lips.
“Don’t. I know you’re only being kind, but I cannot and will not accept any money from you. Mariah and I already live in your home and your mother purchases our clothing. You know that I wish to be an independent woman.”
Ethan kissed her finger and gently held her hand. “I respect your independence, Miss Carter.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Miller,” Sophie said. “And I would not apprentice to Mr. Long even if he offered to teach me for nothing.”
“Why not?”
“Did you not see the bruises on his apprentice?”
Ethan shook his head.
“And how his wife startled in fright every time he spoke?”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid it escaped my notice.”
Of course Ethan hadn’t noticed. He’d never known fear or its twin sister, hunger. Sophie subconsciously shook herself. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t recognize the signs. “Where are we going next?”
“Mr. Elias Cooper, horologist.”
“A clockmaker?”
“I thought that your previous experience with clocks would be to your advantage,” he said with an apologetic smile.
“I hope so.”
Mr. Elias Cooper’s horologist shop was tucked in the back of an alley with only a small sign above the door. Ethan opened the door and a bell hanging from the doorknob chimed. The shop was tiny and very untidy. The walls and shelves were lined with all sorts of fancy clocks that Sophie had never even seen before—a cuckoo clock, a triple-decker clock, a mahogany beehive shelf clock, a steeple clock with reverse fusee movement, and wall clocks with painted pictures beneath the clock’s face. Other clocks had glass windows that showed their pendulum swinging back and forth.
Through a back door came a slight, older gentleman with round spectacles and an impressive gray beard that reached past his waist. He looked at Sophie through his spectacles as if appraising her.
“Mr. Cooper, may I introduce you to Miss Carter?” Ethan said formally.
Sophie stuck out her hand, but Mr. Cooper turned away from her. Self-consciously she let it fall to her side. When he turned back to them, he was holding a large shelf clock in his hands.
“I prefer demonstrations to words, Miss Carter,” he said as he set the shelf clock on the table. “I would like you to first tell me what is wrong with this clock and then, if you can, fix it.”
A smile formed on Sophie’s face as she pulled off her gloves. She lovingly touched the wooden casing of the shelf clock—it was mahogany—then opened the back and saw that it was a thirty-hour clock, time and strike, and weight driven. She turned the crank to raise the weight, which should have started the clock ticking, but it didn’t.
Carefully she checked the wheels, the rack, the snail, the ratchet, the hour hand, and the minute hand—they all looked to be in working order. She looked closer at the verge, the movement part that touches the pendulum and causes it to go back and forth, and noticed that it was crooked.
“The verge is bent,” Sophie said, then carefully bent the part back into position. She instantly heard a beautiful telltale ticktock: The clock was working again. Sophie closed the back and, out of habit, dusted it off before turning back to Mr. Cooper.
“Very good, Miss Carter,” he said. “Can you also repair a spring-driven clock?”
“Yes.”
“Your skills have not been exaggerated.”
“I’m eighteen years old,” Sophie said, her eyes darting to Ethan. “Some of the other masters thought I was too old to be apprenticed.”
“You’re not too old, per se,” Mr. Cooper said, stroking his long gray beard. “I accept apprentices up to the age of twenty-one.”
“Excellent,” Ethan said with a hopeful smile.
Mr. Cooper stroked his long beard again. “Where did you learn how to repair clocks?”
“From Mr. Nathaniel Ellis,” Sophie said. “He is a retired navy sailor who serviced ships’ chronometers. I helped him in his clock shop for the last eight years.”
He clucked his tongue. “He taught you well.”
“Mr. Cooper, may I ask what you would teach me if I were to be your apprentice?”
“Since you already seem to understand basic clock maintenance, I would probably first start with oscillation and regulators.”
“I’m already familiar with both.”
“The different levers?”
“I know how to repair and set the top lever, maintenance, count, warning, J, and hammer levers.”
He rubbed his beard again. “I see. Are you at all familiar with German cuckoo clocks?”
“I confess, I’m not.”
“Fascinating little creatures,” he said. “I could teach you all about them.”
“Then you would be willing to take me on?”
Mr. Cooper laughed, a low raspy sound. “I would be a fool not to. You’re clearly a very talented young lady.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said, exhaling. “I’ll think about it, if I may?”
“You can have as much time as you’d like—we have an abundance of time in this shop,” Mr. Cooper said with another raspy laugh at his own jest.
Sophie smiled. “You do indeed. Thank you, sir.”
“Best of luck, Miss Carter,” Mr. Cooper said, and he did not wait to watch them leave but turned his back to them and started fiddling with a cuckoo clock.
Ethan closed the door behind them. “Why didn’t you accept his offer on the spot?”
Sophie lifted her chin. “Because he couldn’t teach me anything that I wanted to know.”
He nodded. “I see. Shall we keep looking?”
“No. Standing in his shop, I realized that I didn’t need to apprentice myself to anyone: clockmaker, tinker, or inventor,” she said, feeling a sense of calm in her soul. “I’m going to open my own shop and create my own inventions.”
“Excuse me, Miss Sophie,” the butler said with a bow, handing her a card. “A Mrs. Spooner to see you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jenkins,” she replied. “I’ll come at once.”
Sophie stood and followed Jenkins to the sitting room, where Mrs. Spooner looked uncomfortable and out of place, sitting on the edge of the sofa.
“Mr. Jenkins, would you please be so good as to order tea for us?”
“Of course, Miss Carter.”
Sophie held out her hands to the lady. “Mrs. Spooner, it’s a delight to see you.”
Mrs. Spooner took Sophie’s thin hands into her plump ones and gave them a squeeze. “The delight is all mine, Miss Carter.”
“We’re friends, you must still call me Sophie!”
Mrs. Spooner laughed. “I will then, Sophie. And I should, as a friend, give you leave to use my given name, but I would much rather you didn’t. It’s Prudence. Even shortened to Prudie, it’s insufferable. What were my parents thinking?”
Sophie laughed with her and gestured for her to sit. “I still believe I should call you Lady Watergate.”
“Me, a lady?” Mrs. Spooner said, shaking her head. “I haven’t the manners to be called a lady, nor the birth, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”
“Your manners are much better than your husband’s,” Sophie persisted. “And he’s called Sir Thomas.”
“He was born into a higher class.”
“But it’s your money that makes him the artist he is.”
Mrs. Spooner shrugged. “Money can’t buy birth. I know you mean well, Sophie, but I wouldn’t wish to embarrass him or myself.”
Sophie took her hand and gave it another small squeeze. “You wouldn’t embarrass Sir Thomas. I don’t think anyone could.”
Mrs. Spooner gave a loud chuckle. “I trust you’ve received Sir Thomas’s invitation to the premier of Joan of Arc at the Royal Academy of Arts?”
“Yes, indeed!” Sophie replied. “And I’d be delighted to see Lady Watergate there as well.”
“Who is she?”
“You are,” she said. “And London society will know it, and they’ll adore you just as you are.”
“I suppose I could come,” Mrs. Spooner said reluctantly. “I wouldn’t have to speak to nobody.”
“Except for Ethan and myself,” Sophie said. “He’s been eager to see the painting ever since I first told him about posing for it. He can hardly wait—I daresay we’ll be there so early that the doors will still be locked.”
Mr. Jenkins entered the room with a tea tray. He set it on the sofa table and bowed deeply to the ladies. Sophie nodded regally. He stood up straight and walked out of the room.
“His manners would put a duke to shame,” Mrs. Spooner remarked, putting a hand to her bosom.
Sophie laughed so hard, she spilled the tea she was pouring. “I know! It quite disconcerts me. But he’s so very efficient and really quite kind. Unlike my Aunt Bentley’s odious butler, Mr. Taylor.”
Sophie handed a teacup to Mrs. Spooner.
“Your sister’s painting will be displayed that night as well,” she said.
“Yes, I’m equally eager to see it.”
Mrs. Spooner lifted her cup to her lips, but she didn’t drink. Instead she placed it back on the saucer. “Is Mariah still pining for Lord Bentley?”
“Charles?” Sophie asked incredulously. “How could she fancy him?”
Mrs. Spooner laughed. “Different tastes, my dear, different tastes. She seemed quite despondent when I saw her in Oxsham’s Bookshop yesterday, despite her fancy new clothes.”
“Oh,” Sophie said, looking down at her cream lace gloves that were so delicate a spider could have spun them. She felt dreadful. She’d been so wrapped up in Ethan and finding an apprenticeship that she hadn’t noticed Mariah’s melancholia.
“Speaking of wardrobes,” Mrs. Spooner said. “I’ve a notion that I believe will cheer her up and make Mariah’s painting unforgettable. But I need your help.”
“Please, tell me,” Sophie said, leaning forward.