25. Chapter Twenty-Five

I t was finished.

There, in front of him, on the sheet-covered parlor table he’d used as a work surface, was his dream come to fruition. The wooden box had been polished until it gleamed. The dials and balance plates inside were brilliantly shiny. The winding key sitting on the table beside the box was free of scratches, as was the glass covering the intricate dial that would allow regulators and navigators to know precisely how long they’d been away at sea.

The rod running through the bottom portion of the box allowed the chronometer to function no matter the condition of the sea or the movement of the boat. He still needed to perform one more test on that portion by traveling around the city with the chronometer sitting on the floor of a carriage, but once the box left this room, it would no longer be a picture of perfection.

Life would soon mar the construction, which would in its own way be a form of beauty, as a clock or chronometer that never saw use was a waste of materials and design.

Still, he wanted to remember it like this. He wanted to remember that there was one thing in life he could get right. Because he’d certainly missed the boat in other areas.

The way Clara had looked at him in the porch of St. Anne’s still haunted him. No matter how many discussions they’d had or how many arguments those discussions had devolved into, she’d never looked at him like that. Like he had failed her. Like she wanted nothing to do with him.

Not that he would change anything if he could go back. The discussion he’d had with Ambrose after she abandoned the library wasn’t for Hugh to report even if he had thought through it so many times, he had it half memorized. Had he said all he should? There wasn’t any way for him to know.

Would Clara’s method have been more effective if she’d had Hugh’s support? He doubted it, but only God knew for sure.

He’d had to make the best choice he could in the moment and trust that he’d made the right one. As he’d told Ambrose, there was nothing he could do that would undo his prior actions.

Which meant standing here, thinking through all that might have been wasn’t helping anyone. It was time to move ahead.

He closed the hinged lid on the chronometer and scooped up the small box. He tucked it under his arm and went in search of his friend, host, and investor.

Ambrose was in his study, leaned back in the chair, staring at a small object he was rolling back and forth in his hand. Hugh knocked on the open door.

“Enter.”

He stepped inside and set the chronometer on the desk.

With wide eyes, Ambrose set the object aside—a simple but elegant bishop from a wooden chess set—and sat forward to open the chronometer. “This is it, then?”

Hugh nodded. “I’d like to borrow a carriage and driver, if I may, in order to test the balance of the chronometer on the support rod.”

“Of course.” He stood and crossed the room to yank on the bell pull before returning to look over the device. “I’ll go with you. We’ll take it over to the shipping office. Perhaps they’ve a dinghy you can take it out on as well.”

The Thames was hardly the rolling waves of the ocean, but the current would be a more accurate test than a carriage. “That would be excellent.”

A servant appeared and the carriage was ordered. In less than fifteen minutes, the two men and the device were bundled into a carriage and driving across London.

The box sat on the floor, lid open so Hugh could observe the rotation of the balanced clock as the carriage changed speeds while navigating the busy streets.

“Will this do it?” Ambrose gestured at the box. “Will this be better than what they have?”

Hugh nodded. “I believe so. The trick is in the balancing, as well as the accuracy of the gears and the ability to have the chronometer continue functioning while the spring is being wound. There’s an alternate spring that automatically—”

Ambrose grunted and held up a hand. “I consider myself an intelligent man, but I’ve already no idea what you are talking about. Your affirmation was all I needed.”

Hugh grinned and nodded. “Fair enough.”

When the carriage stopped, Hugh looked out the window and nearly gaped at the enormous house. London had crept up to the very edges, but it was obvious this home had once been an estate well outside the bustling city.

The footman opened the door and Ambrose bounded out. Hugh closed the chronometer and followed more slowly. Minutes later, they were climbing back into the carriage because, as luck would have it, Lord Northwick was at the shipping office that afternoon along with his father, Lord Prodford.

Once more the carriage set off, this time in the direction of the docks. Hugh settled in, knowing the ride would be longer than the trek across Mayfair.

“What you said two days ago . . .” Ambrose allowed the words to trail off, leaving space for both of them to remember the prior conversation. “Do you truly believe salvation is for everyone? I always thought it a line used by the preachers to keep as many pockets as possible in the pews.”

Hugh shook his head. “My uncle is the rector for St. Anne’s Limehouse. Sometimes he goes down to the docks.”

“Rough place.”

Hugh nodded. “I’ll never forget the time one of the sailors came up to the rectory to help with a repair. He’d been talking to my uncle for years. Sometimes they’d go months between conversations, but that man loved Jesus. He looked rough, but I’d never seen anyone so happy to have the opportunity and ability to work with his hands.”

“Interesting sort of man to take to the sea.”

“He wasn’t that way when he started, at least not according to him. Then one day, he was leaving port after having talked to Uncle Patrick and he was watching the sun rise over the horizon as he secured the rigging, and he couldn’t deny God any longer. He became such a changed man, the other sailors thought he was possessed and threatened to throw him overboard.”

Ambrose grinned. “I can picture that. People who are too nice are frightening.”

Hugh nodded. “He became a sailor because he’d killed a man. It was flee the country and take to the sea or face execution.”

When the man across the carriage didn’t say anything, Hugh looked over at him. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but I’m pretty certain it wasn’t actual murder.”

“Ah, no. I haven’t that sin to lay at my door,” the other man said quietly.

“Then I think God can handle it.” Hugh shrugged. “And while you can’t undo the action, sometimes you can do something about the consequences. Life isn’t over until the breath leaves your lungs.”

Part of Hugh wanted to keep talking, to press Ambrose to make a confession and allow the Lord to have control of his life, but Hugh didn’t think he’d have been doing it for God. He’d have been doing it for Clara.

So, he watched the chronometer instead, pleased with the steady ticking of the timepiece and the steadiness of the device.

At the docks, they exited once more and took the chronometer into the building.

Lord Prodford and his brother, Mr. Fletcher, seemed impressed with the device. They didn’t take it out onto the river, but they did traipse down to the docks to watch the chronometer on a rowboat that was bobbing freely in the current, held to the side of a ship by only a rope.

The small boat bobbed and swayed and still the chronometer stayed steady.

Soon they were back in the office, the two shipping men excitedly discussing how much time and money could be regained from even more accurate navigation and tighter routes.

The victorious feeling of success threatened to bloom in Hugh’s chest, but he beat it back. Excitement wasn’t enough to lease a storefront or fit out a large workshop. It wasn’t enough to support him while he built up a reputation and a clientage.

“It will take a year for the Royal Observatory to declare a winner.” Hugh hated to stop the excited chatter, but they needed to know that the piece they’d invested in wouldn’t be declared better than everyone else’s for a while. “That is the only way to test the accuracy of the timekeeping over an extended period.”

“Are you confident you’ll win?” Lord Prodford asked.

“I haven’t seen the competition, but I know this is better than the ones currently available.”

He’d sold and repaired many of the standard model, an ingenious design created in 1761 by John Harrison. At the time, it had been an incredibly innovative piece.

Hugh knew he’d improved upon it.

What he couldn’t know was if anyone else had done it better.

The earl and the shipping magnate looked at each other. Finally, the earl said, “I want to be ahead of everyone else.”

“Agreed.” Mr. Fletcher nodded. “It’s only an advantage if no one else knows about it.”

They looked at Hugh. Lord Prodford nodded. “We’ve thirteen ships that sail waters we know can be traveled faster with better navigation.”

Hugh’s stomach tightened. These two men couldn’t possibly be saying what he thought they were saying. A guaranteed investment of that size would give him funds to rent workshop space and provide for himself while he made the chronometers and possibly other clocks as well. It would be enough to get him started.

“That’s a large investment in an untested entity.” Mr. Fletcher scratched at his chin. “I’d take that kind of risk with you, Prodford, but you’re family.” He looked at Hugh. “I don’t intend any disparagement, but our only connection to you is that Lord Northwick says you’re a good sort. And he hasn’t been the most consistent judge of good character.”

“My son’s been known to invest in scoundrels is what you mean.” Lord Prodford shrugged his shoulders. “What are your plans for the future, boy?”

Hugh swallowed down the protest that he wasn’t a boy. Everything he’d ever wanted was in reach. If they wanted to test his maturity first, so be it. “I’m going to have the finest clock shop in London one day. This order would just be the beginning.”

“So I’d be investing in two businesses. A new one and the one I already have.”

“Well, no sir.” Hugh swallowed. He wasn’t willing to let this one go. “My business would be mine. You’d be supplying the funds for the creation of a product you are buying.”

Mr. Fletcher chuckled. “My brother likes having a say in the businesses he deals with. He says the connection keeps men honest.”

Hugh swallowed. “I understand, sir, but I’ve already spent my life working under the direction of someone else. I can stay where I am and continue to do so.”

The shipping magnate leaned back in his chair. “I might have a solution. Family is a strong tie. It’s why we’ve not tossed Lord Northwick’s business ideas out without listening to them.”

Hugh didn’t say anything, his mind churning with thoughts on where this could be going and not finding anything.

“I’ve a daughter. She’s been asking for a Season, but that’s a lot of money and time she wouldn’t need to spend if she’s already married.”

Lord Prodford chuckled. “You’d probably buy chronometers for the entire fleet from a son-in-law.”

“I would at that.”

Everything thickened until it could barely move. The blood in Hugh's veins. The air sliding from his lungs. Even time itself turned into a sludge he could barely move through. He couldn’t bring himself to clarify the offer out loud, but there was no confusing it.

If he married this man’s daughter, a woman he’d yet to even meet, his every dream would come true. He’d have a family, a business, a name, and the chance to form a valuable reputation.

The man who would be his father-in-law pulled out a pocket watch. “Timing is just right for this conversation. She’ll be bringing me dinner any minute now.”

Hugh couldn’t imagine not going home for dinner, but then he couldn’t imagine using a daughter as a business investment. Then again, wasn’t that what many marriages were? He’d heard of dozens of matches that were formed because they made sense for the people involved. In truth, until Clara, he’d never imagined his future marriage as anything other than another step forward in life’s accomplishments.

The door opened and a pretty girl with bright blonde hair walked in with a basket. She smiled at the group, a tinge of pink on her cheeks. “Oh. Father, I’m afraid I didn’t bring enough for your guests. Would you like me to get more from home?”

“No, dear,” Mr. Fletcher said, his eyes watching Hugh watch his daughter. “They won’t be staying. You can leave the food on the side table.”

She nodded her head to the group and moved to the side to leave the basket of food.

Soon she was gone, and Mr. Fletcher closed the chronometer and handed it to Hugh. He wrapped both arms around it so that his nerveless fingers wouldn’t drop it.

Mr. Fletcher winked at him. “You think about it and let me know. If that money doesn’t go toward a Season’s worth of gowns, I could easily invest it elsewhere.”

Once they were back in the carriage, Hugh said nothing, even as Ambrose stared at him with considering eyes.

Finally, as they rolled back into the finer areas of London, the viscount spoke. “I can’t say that was what I was expecting from this adventure.”

“Nor I.” Hugh’s voice was rough as he spoke around the thick clog of confusion still lodged in his throat.

“Are you going to do it?”

Hugh opened his mouth, but Of course not and I’m not certain were both lodged in his brain, and he couldn’t follow through with uttering either sentence. Finally, he managed to say, “I can’t say that I will.” He swallowed. “It was exceptionally unexpected.”

“But not all that unconventional.” Ambrose shrugged and looked out the window of the carriage. “Marriages have been made for less gain before.”

That was true, but they hadn’t been Hugh’s marriages. And while he’d never given great thought to being married, now that the issue was pushed on him, he could think of little else.

And it wasn’t a blonde woman in a simple green dress that he could picture.