Page 17 of Hearts of Briarwall

“Are you well, Miss Janes?” Spencer asked her.

She nodded. “I’m quite enjoying myself, actually.”

He served himself the savory bread and mushroom-stuffed fish, as tender and aromatic as he remembered. Though Miss Janes’s company was a bit perplexing, he was enjoying himself as well. He glanced up mid-bite to find Miss Wooding studying him, her dark brows bent downward.

She immediately cleared her expression and picked up her fork. “Mr. Hayes, how do you feel about clocks?”

He looked around at all three of his dining companions, who watched him, waiting. Miss Janes wore an expectant grin, as if Miss Wooding had asked him if he’d enjoy a holiday in Shanghai. Andrew looked perplexed. Spencer swallowed. “Clocks?”

Miss Wooding nodded, smiling encouragingly. “Is there a particular timepiece you are fascinated with, or perhaps just the inner workings themselves?”

He sat back, considering not only the answer to the rather odd question, but why he’d been asked it with no context or forewarning of the subject. “Uh, I do appreciate clocks. As much as the next person, I suppose.” He frowned. “Exploring the inner workings of London’s Clock Tower as a boy was fascinating, now that I think on it. I have a pocket watch of my father’s, but it is currently in need of repair. Is there ... is there a favorite clock of yours, Miss Wooding?” He looked to the others for approval of his response.

Miss Janes simply watched, and Andrew merely shrugged and sliced into his beef tournedo.

Spencer eyed the footman coming around with another dish.

Miss Wooding seemed a bit disappointed in his answer. Did she expect him to wax poetic about Archimedes with his gears, pulleys, and counterweights?

“I ... I have a pearl watch pin that had belonged to my mother,” she said. “I wear it all the time, don’t I, Florrie? But not to dinner. I fear ruining it. Oh.” She shifted in her chair. “Perhaps you remember the mantel clock in the study, though it was kept on a bookshelf and not a mantel. A bronze griffin with his front foot upon—”

“—the timepiece,” Spencer finished. “Yes. I do remember.” It had captured his attention as a boy. “A very unique piece.”

She leaned forward, her eyes alight. “Yes. I believe it’s Georgian, though I’m not sure which George. Do you know, Andrew?”

“Third. Egyptian Revival.”

“Yes, George the third. Of course.”

“And you still have it?” Spencer wondered at this young woman’s interest in clocks as he helped himself to the tournedo, the seared beef rounds juicy on their bed of creamed spinach.

“Yes, it’s in the study. Oh, but I said that, didn’t I?”

Andrew had mentioned his sister was nervous about playing hostess. Perhaps she was only reaching for conversation. About clocks. “You did. I’ll have to seek it out while I’m here.”

“When I was a little girl, I believed griffins were real because of that clock. I desperately wanted one of my own. I was convinced he’d get along just fine in the stable and would befriend Poppy and Treacle.” She laughed, her eyes dancing. “I fancied calling him Frederick. Apparently, that was the most fearsome name I could come up with.”

Spencer broke into a smile and laughed along with her.

She paused in her laughter, her expression open, studying him. She looked to Miss Janes, who let out a small squeal of delight and clapped her hands in a short staccato.

Odd. Yet somehow charming. He cleared his throat. “I have a great-uncle named Frederick. I assure you, fearsome is one of his more prominent qualities.”

“Well, Mr. Hayes, I feel both validated and sorry to hear it.”

He chuckled and lifted his glass in her direction. “Cheers.”

She lifted her glass in return. “To Frederick. Griffin, great-uncle, and clock.”

Miss Janes happily lifted her glass and joined them in their ridiculous toast. “But not one and the same.”

“So far as we know,” Miss Wooding said with a wink.

Spencer was warmed by their shared laughter, letting it course through him before tamping it down once more.

Andrew studied his sister as she sipped her wine. “Had I known the clock brought you such entertainment, Lydia, and you, Miss Janes, I would’ve displayed it more prominently. As it is, the thing no longer works.”

“Is it fixable?” Miss Wooding asked.

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