Not him. Not the talented performer who wove music like an intricate tapestry. Not the man who drew people into the warmth of his disarming presence. Not the man who had colored her Wakefield House days with brilliant strokes of red, green, and purple. Not the man who danced with a lean, masculine grace that made her feel as if she were floating.
Not him. Her heart ached, even as she knew the captivating man of her youth was still there, locked behind the despair of a new and indescribable infirmity.
She threw an empty box into the corner of the room and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Perspiration trickled down her backbone. Her hands were dry and grimy from breaking open crates and boxes, rummaging through machine parts and papers that made no sense to her.
Disappointment roiled through her. Monsieur Dupree might have written pages and pages of hieroglyphics, for all she could understand of his notes.
Every time she found a diagram that appeared to resemble a machine, she handed it to Uncle Granville for translation. Every time he shook his head.
“Music box,” he said, placing another drawing atop the pile already at his side. “A clock made of a birdcage. Letter keyboard. A cabinet with chimes. Look for a drawing that contains a cylinder and a rotating circuit wheel.”
“I am looking,” Clara replied with a touch of annoyance. They had been looking all morning, and so far had found nothing resembling a telegraph machine. “Perhaps he didn’t send them to you after all.”
Granville didn’t respond, which Clara interpreted as agreement. She thrust another empty crate to the side and reached for a box.
“Mrs. Marshall has breakfast prepared, if you’re both hungry.” Mrs. Fox appeared in the doorway, her eyes skimming the room in one glance. “Have you found what you’re looking for?”
“Not yet.” Granville stood and stretched, pressing a hand to his lower back. “Clara, come break your fast. You’ve been up since dawn.”
“You go. I’ll be in later.”
Granville’s hand closed on her shoulder. “Don’t make yourself ill over this.”
Clara whirled to pin him with a glare. “I’ve been ill since the moment I left Manley Park, Uncle Granville.”
Pain flashed behind his glasses. His grip tightened on her shoulder. “I know.”
He glanced at Mrs. Fox. “Please tell Mrs. Marshall we’ll take breakfast later.”
Mrs. Fox gave a crisp nod and turned. A few minutes later, she returned. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance. I’ve locked the front door, so visitors will have to ring for entry.”
Clara and Granville exchanged glances. At her nod, he told Mrs. Fox what they were searching for. The other woman pulled a chair to the table and began unrolling a stack of scrolls.
Clara’s hands stung with cuts from the wooden crates, and a layer of dust coated her apron. She wiped her hands on a cloth.
She tried not to think beyond this one goal, the desperate need to find the machine specifications. She tried not to think of what would happen if she didn’t find them.
Sunlight began to press against the windows, making it easier to see in the dusty storeroom. Mrs. Fox stopped once to return to the foyer, then came back with Sebastian behind her.
Clara’s heart jumped at the sight of his tall figure, his thick, black hair rumpled from the scrape of his fingers.
“Good morning.” His deep voice rumbled over her skin.
Clara could not help delighting in the sensations he aroused in her, not only because of him, but because they were such a pleasurable reprieve from her ever-present fear. Seeing Sebastian, being near him, was like taking a breath of fresh, clean air after escaping a smoke-filled room. Yesterday she had thought she would never want to leave the protective circle of his arms.
She rose, experiencing a new surge of hope as Sebastian greeted Granville and explained the reason for his presence. Her uncle responded with wariness, which Clara knew sprang from his concern about her new plan.
Yet even cautious Uncle Granville could not deny the plan might very well work.
She guided Sebastian to a stack of boxes in the corner and explained the organizational procedure they had devised—machinery parts went into the adjoining room, diagrams for toys, clocks, musical items, and larger automata were divided into stacks on the table, and undecipherable plans and notebooks were placed on a sideboard for Granville’s perusal.
Sebastian began unpacking one of the boxes. Several hours passed, with only the sounds of shuffling paper,