An ache gripped Charles’ heart. The tender ministrations that had brought him so much relief last night had left Lady Margaret depleted. In her condition, such acts of compassionrequired greater effort, and therefore took a greater toll. Not many people were willing to sacrifice their comfort for another, and yet Lady Margaret had done so without hesitation. He could only hope she hadn’t overexerted herself. He hated the thought of her suffering, especially on his account.
As a maid was clearing the dishes, the butler announced the arrival of Professor Quimby. The woman soon entered with a brown poodle and a golden beagle prancing at her heels, as though they were quite accustomed to accompanying her everywhere. Lord Marlow rose and pulled out a chair to his daughter’s left, bidding the professor to make herself comfortable and asking the maid to bring a fresh pot of tea. Once Professor Quimby was settled betwixt Lady Margaret and an automaton bear cub—which no one had bothered to explain—Lord Marlow rounded the table and pulled out the two chairs on Charles’ right. Not a single lash in the room was batted as the dogs immediately hopped upon the silk-covered chairs, joining the humans at the table.
Charles’ jaw dropped as he turned to Lady Margaret. A golden sparkle flashed in her green eyes as though she found his astonishment amusing.
The maid returned with a fresh pot of tea and left them.
Then the professor clasped her hands upon the table, addressing Lady Margaret. “I shall be brief, Inspector Kingsley. I’ve come for three reasons. Firstly, to place you on compulsory bed rest, pending reevaluation in one week’s time. Secondly, to inform you that I’ve assigned inspectors and covert assets to follow and observe the movements of Flaversham, Tinkerton, and Harrison in rotating shifts. And thirdly, to reassure your parents that the man who dared to lay a hand on you at the factory will not go unpunished. Nobody attacks one of my lady inspectors and gets away with it.”
Chapter
31
Another muscle spasm seized Margaret’s ribs. Her body screamed to brace against the sharp twinges of pain, but she knew from experience it must be worked through, not against. She forced herself to exhale and relax as much as could be managed.
Confined to bed, she attempted to distract herself with the mural Mumsie had commissioned Henriëtte Ronner-Knip to paint on her ceiling after the accident. Famous for her romantic paintings of animals in bourgeoisie settings, cats being her specialty, Mrs. Ronner-Knip was unsurprisingly Mumsie’s favorite artist and dear friend. The mural she’d created for Margaret was nothing short of enchanting. A trio of kittens—one orange, one black, and one white—frolicked across a piano’s keys while their mother—a white cat with the elegant je ne sais quoi of a French duchess—watched on admiringly.
Tucked at her side, Figaro purred steadily, and Margaret drew comfort from stroking his fur. Surely there was nothing so luxurious and soft as the silken fur of a fluffy feline.
A knock rapped before the door cracked open, and Papa peeked inside. “Fancy a spot of tea, my girl?”
The endearment warmed Margaret through, and she mustered a taut smile. “With you? Always.”
“Right-oh.” Papa tossed her a wink and disappeared momentarily before returning with a pair of wooden chairs, one tucked under each arm, while Mama trailed in behind him with a laden tea tray from which steam wafted in tendrils.
Papa placed the chairs to the left of Margaret’s bed and then helped prop her up with a mountain of pillows so she could drink without making a mess of herself. Once she was settled, he pressed a kiss to her crown and took a seat. “I’ve run into difficulty with that polyphon music box I was commissioned to repair. Could I trouble you to pop by the shop and take a look—when you’ve enough teaspoons, of course? You’ve such a knack for music boxes, and I’d be grateful for your expertise.”
Leave it to Papa to avert and redirect Margaret’s attention with the prospect of a pleasant task that made her feel useful when she was anything but. “Certainly, Papa. I’d enjoy that.”
Having placed the tea tray upon her dresser and served their afternoon fare, Mama now moved to arrange dishes upon the quilt that swathed Margaret’s lap, clockwork butterflies flitting about her black chignon.
Margaret gasped. Clockwork butterflies signified but one occasion—Great-Grand Drosselmeyer’s birthday! How could she forget? Time was a blur during her crashes, but that was no excuse. “Oh, Mama ... I’m so sorry. I should’ve remembered.”
“No need for sorries, dear one. You’ve had a lot on your mind of late. Conducting your first case. Embarking on misadventures with a handsome young man.” With a teasing smirk, Mama settled in a chair, sipping from a cup she’d acquired in Japan. The once-fractured porcelain had beenreborn through the art ofkintsugi, which mended broken places with lacquer mixed with gold to create a new work of unique beauty. “I would chastise you for failing to mention Mr. Noble’s attractiveness, but knowing you as I do, I’ve a feeling you only just noticed it yourself.”
Cheeks flaming, Margaret averted her gaze.
Papa cleared his throat. “While I’m still not keen about the whole leaning incident, I sympathize with Mr. Noble’s episode and understand why you brought the lad here. You did the right thing—the kind thing. I’m proud of you, Maggie girl.”
Margaret’s eyes burned with unshed tears. There was so little she could do to make them proud ... so many ways she failed them as a daughter. Papa would never get to walk her down the aisle of a church. Mama would never get to hold a grandbabe in her arms. Her life was as it ever would be. She knew this. Had accepted it. Why then did the notion now evoke an empty pang of discontent?
Mama grasped her hand. “I wish you could’ve met Grand. Wish he could see the woman you’ve become. He’d be so very proud of you, dear one.”
“He would that.” Papa swiped at his eyes. “All the more reason we couldn’t let our girl miss the old codger’s traditional birthday repast.”
Margaret did look forward to their Sweets of Many Lands afternoon tea each year, comprised of piping hot Darjeeling served alongsidestroopwafelsfilled with caramel, cream-stuffedvetrníkpastries, gnome-shaped gingerbread biscuits, and chocolate truffles fashioned into bear paws.
Margaret’s cup hit its saucer with a heavy clink.The bear!If it weren’t for her health crash, they’d be gathered at the dining table with Mumsie and Grandpapa right now, reveling in the annual dance of the automaton bear cub, an exact replica of the one Grand had built and hid at the paws of a bear fountain in Bern to surprise his bride on their wedding tour.The recounting of Grand’s love and Granny’s laugh when his watch chimes had awoken the bear machine long ago were a beloved family tale. A cherished tradition, upheld every fourteenth of July for years, until her body sabotaged it.
“Oh, Mama ... we’re missing the bear’s dance. And Mumsie and Grandpapa’s company.” They’d no doubt refrained from coming over for her sake, common practice during the worst of her crashes. “Once again, your plans had to change to accommodate me. I’m so, so very sorry.”
Mama’s brows knit. “You know, Maggie ... you’ve a habit of sayingsorrywhen athank-youwould do. You’re not a bother to accommodate.”
Wasn’t she, though? Charles’ voice echoed through her mind.Ask them.“Are you sure?” Margaret blurted the words before she could calculate the pros and cons of voicing them. “Are you certain I’m not a bother? Because I can’t help thinking that my care is an unfair weight upon your shoulders. A burden you’d both be better off without.”
Her parents gaped in unison, nearly dropping their cups. Hurt etched itself onto their faces, and Mama shook her head in disbelief. “Dear one, why ever would you think that?”
“The last time Veruca came to call ... I heard the fight you had with her mother in the foyer.” Even now Margaret’s memory rang with the exchange of sharply whispered words.
