Margaret attempted to smile back, but a jolt of pain in her rib twisted the expression into a grimace. “Sorry to have woken you so early.”
“No need for sorries, Maggie. I’m glad the pain subsided sooner than expected.” From a creaky drawer, Mama withdrew a chemise and tea gown, setting the individual garments beside her on the bed. For Margaret, comfort and functionality must take precedence over what society deemed in vogue, and thus her wardrobe had come to consist exclusively of tea gowns. More structured garments, especially those with fitted bodices, were wholly impractical, as was the practice of changing one’s attire numerous times a day to suit a new hour or occasion. The physical exertion of simply getting dressed in the first place was tiring enough and no small victory.
Fetching a cloth and a washbasin next, Mama filled it with water from a pitcher. Then she brought the basin to Margaret’s bedside and, dipping the cloth in the water, proceeded to gently cleanse Margaret’s face.
Margaret closed her eyes, trying to focus on the fragrance of the rosewater instead of the lingering throb in her side. And the accusatory ache of uselessness jabbing at her heart.
When Mama completed this part of her toilette, she transferred Figaro to the end of the bed and moved on to the process of helping Margaret dress for the day. Carefully, Mama brought Margaret’s nightgown up and over her head. In this moment, between the removal of her nightgown and the donning of her chemise, the ache of uselessness intensified to a pang of exposed vulnerability. As Mama slipped Margaret’s arms through her chemise and covered her once more, the pang transformed without fail into a conflicting duality of gratitude for Mama’s tender ministrations and sorrow that it was required.
A woman of thirty should not still need to be dressed like an infant.
A woman of fifty-three should not still have to wash her grown daughter’s face and brush the tangles from her hair.
Yet these should-nots were Margaret’s reality. While she knew it was common for other women of her privileged station to have servants assist with their toilette, the guilt still gnawed at her every morning before she pressed the call button for Mama. Dear, sweet Mama, who’d taken over her care after countless nurses and maids had proven ill-equipped, ill-tempered, or simply ill-at-ease around an invalid. One wholookedwell and able but was, in actuality, trapped in a body riddled with concealed fissures and scars. A body that would only get worse ... not better.
When Margaret was dressed in a tea gown of mazarine blue, matching embroidered slippers, and her D.O.G.S. brooch, Mama opened the curtains to welcome the morning sunlight. Fetching a brush and ribbon, she made quick work of arranging Margaret’s hair in a simple plait and then sat beside her on the bed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “How many teaspoons have we today?”
Margaret rested her head on Mama’s shoulder, staring at the wallpaper’stoile de Jouyprint of frolicking kittens inpinafores. How odd such a question would probably sound to an outsider. Most people, quite logically, used teaspoons as a unit of measure for the sugar in their afternoon cuppa. Only in the Kingsley home did teaspoons serve as a unit for measuring the intermittent spurts of energy Margaret had at her disposal in a given day. After the accident, she’d developed the teaspoon system as a way of communicating her level of functionality to her parents and of coping with her physical limitations. To push herself to grasp a teaspoon her body didn’t possess resulted in a complete and utter crash that could require days, possibly weeks, of recovery. A lesson hard learned. Yet it was another difficult reality she’d come to accept.
“Since I slept so fitfully, I’ve calculated I have about six teaspoons.” Dressing and attending to her morning toilette used only one teaspoon since Mama had lent a helping hand. The more aid she accepted at home, the more teaspoons she reserved for her work at the D.O.G.S. Keeping that purpose in mind was the only thing that prevented her guilt for overburdening Mama from becoming unbearable.
Mama’s brow pinched as she studied Margaret with the thoroughness of a physician. “Then we’d best not overdo the calisthenics. Just two turns about the room, I should think. Ready?”
Margaret nodded. Bracing herself against Mama, she stood and proceeded to shuffle oh so carefully around the perimeter of her chamber. After a night in bed, her muscles were stiff and rusty, making her gait awkward. Cumbersome. Yet move she must if she wished to maintain the mobility she’d regained after the accident. With every laborious, halting step, she distracted herself from the difficulty by breathing a prayer to the ever-present Helper her parents had taught her to lean upon.Thank You for the ability to take this step, Lord. Thank You for Mama’s arms to keep me steady. Thank You for never leavingme... .
By the end of the second turn about the room, Margaret’s muscles were warm but not yet quaking with fatigue. Mama had judged well. Lowering into her wheelchair, Margaret caught her breath while Mama put away her nightclothes. Figaro leapt into her lap, kneaded her skirts with his white mittens, and then resumed purring. The habitual feline knew her routine as well as she did. Calisthenics completed, she’d now join her parents downstairs for breakfast.
Crossing the room, Mama opened her door and then looked back with a frolicsome glint in her eyes. “On your mark?”
Margaret smiled. Leave it to Mama to know when she needed cheering up. She pressed a brass button concealed among a row of upholstery tacks on her wheelchair’s armrest. A hidden partition in the carved mahogany opened, and a lever appeared near her hand. She pressed another upholstery tack, activating the motor she’d installed in her customized mechanical wheelchair. Grasping the steering lever, she met Mama’s playful challenge with a resolute posture. “Get set.”
Mama gathered the skirt of her wrapper in hand, taking the stance of a racehorse at Ascot. “Go!” Her mother took off at a run with a girlish giggle.
Margaret chuckled and wrapped an arm around the cat in her lap. “Hang on to your whiskers, Figs.”
With a forward tilt of the lever, her chair zoomed across the room. She took a left in the corridor while Mama went right, heading for the servants’ stairwell. As Margaret drew near the main stairway, a sensor in her chair activated another in the floor, and one by one, the stairs flattened, turning the curving staircase into a wide ramp with a slight decline. Just one of many alterations made to the house after her accident. Papa really could fix anything.
As she rolled down the ramp, her speed increased. With her foot, she applied a brake, so she didn’t go flying out thefront door. When she reached the foyer, she veered right and made her way into the dining room where Papa waited at the table, pocket watch in hand. She rolled to her usual place on his left and turned off the motor. Only then did Figaro deign to raise his head, look around, and yawn, unfazed by their transport and unimpressed by their victory.
Mama dashed into the dining room moments later, and at the sight of Margaret, gave a great huff. “Botheration! I was sure I’d beat you this time.”
With a hearty chuckle, Papa consulted the timepiece. “Our girl beat you by thirty-four seconds. A personal best.” He snapped the watch shut and tucked it in a waistcoat pocket. “Bravo, Maggie.”
Even as a woman fully grown, the delight of her father’s praise could still warm Margaret through. “Thank you, Papa.”
Dabbing her forehead with a handkerchief, Mama took her seat on Papa’s right. “If I didn’t know you to be an honorable woman, Margaret Marie Kingsley, I’d accuse you of cheating.”
Papa exchanged an amused look with Margaret, as though to inquire,Shall we inform her of our latest modifications to the motor?
A grin tugged the corner of Margaret’s lips, and she shook her head discreetly as though to admonish,And spoil our fun? Never.It was far more entertaining to let Mama deduce such things herself or render her speechless with a well-timed surprise. Margaret was still awaiting the opportune moment to stupefy Mama with the chair’s aviation capabilities enabled by the addition of her newest gadget, the Wheelicopter. Tucking a cloth napkin about Figaro like a blanket, she proceeded to pour tea and commence the breaking of their fast.
The routine pattern of morning conversation progressed as eggs on toast were consumed, and another round of tea was poured as they moved on to dessert. Having dessert atevery meal, including breakfast, was an established family tradition. Today the dessert of choice was strawberry scones with clotted cream and a strawberry-rhubarb jam. Margaret, of course, shared a little of her clotted cream with Figs, who lapped up the treat eagerly. Soon Mama and Papa sparked a faux argument over the last scone, exchanging flirtatious glances all the while. Margaret smiled, letting their familiar banter fade to the periphery of her mind as her gaze took a turn about the room.
Like the rest of the house, the dining room was a veritable scrapbook of treasured memories. Every piece of décor served as a page, recounting a moment in her family’s history. Margaret often found herself mentally flipping through this scrapbook, letting the story each heirloom and souvenir told serve as a distraction when the pain that racked her body threatened to take full possession of her thoughts as well.
Her favorite item in this room was the automaton bear cub that had a permanent place at the table. A memorial in bronze, the cub preserved the seat once occupied by Mama’s beloved grandfather. The device was just one of many mechanical marvels crafted by her great-grandfather C. E. Drosselmeyer, the first and last Inventor to the Crown. Not a day went by that Margaret didn’t wish she could remember the man whose memory was dear to so many.
One of the footmen entered and placed a silver tray laden with the day’s post on the table. With a word of thanks, Papa quickly flipped through the mail, removing an envelope from the stack before passing the tray to Margaret. She set her tea down and perused the remaining correspondence.
