Charles’ face flamed as he glared at his brother. “Loudmouth lout.”
“Lovelorn lummox.”
“Don’t you dare start that worn-out routine, boys! I need details! Details! What is she like? What about her family? When can we finally meet them? Do you plan to propose before Christmas? Shall we plan on a spring wedding?”
Charles sagged against the piano, which protested with a cacophony of sour notes.
With a snort, Benjamin dissolved into laughter. Then he shielded his mouth with an open hand, whispering toward their parents conspiratorially. “Look how the mere mention of the lady gets him all flustered and red in the face. Isn’t it adorable?”
Mother nodded. “It is rather sweet.”
Father grinned, holding his slate aloft.Precious.
Charles sighed, his face no doubt turning a deeper shade of crimson. Impossible, the lot of them were completely and utterly impossible. “I believe you’ve made your point, family mine. Shall I attempt to answer your inquiries, or would you prefer to go on with your nonsense?”
“I don’t know, brother mine. I, for one, think between the three of us we could tease you for a good hour or two more before we run out of material. What say you, esteemed parents?”
A pounding on the front door had Charles jumping to escape his family’s repartee. “I’ll get it.” Perhaps the jolly jokesters could dispense with their hoots and giggles in his absence, so they might have a serious conversation upon his return. He really would like to tell his parents about Margaret. Seek their counsel and prayers.
Charles flung open the door to find Lady Marlow on their puddled stoop, attempting to shield Margaret with a lone umbrella from the steady downpour.Humperdinck and Wette!Ushering the ladies inside with all haste, he shut the door on the rainy night, but before he could offer to take their drenched cloaks, Margaret blurted, “Is he here? Is Papa here?”
The fear in her voice knotted Charles’ stomach. Why would she expect to find Lord Marlow here, and at this late hour? “No, he’s not. Should he be?”
Lady Marlow swayed, and Margaret began to cry.
Chapter
35
Papa hadn’t come home for dinner, and his untouched food had grown cold, along with the sense of dread in Margaret’s veins. A trip to the clock shop proved Papa hadn’t stayed to work late, and had turned off the lights, locked up as he was accustomed, and departed without a trace of foul play. No signs of a struggle. No evidence of anything amiss. Though something was quite obviously and painfully amiss. For Papa had never paid that visit to Charles’ home as promised, and Papa always, always kept his word.
Now Papa was missing, and that fact had brought every turning gear in Margaret’s mind to a grinding halt. She could not think where Papa might be. She could not think at all. She could only sit in the Noble family’s parlor, holding Mama’s trembling hand while others moved about them, making decisions and taking actions of which she was no longer capable.
Charles had gone to inform Professor Quimby and thereby alert the rest of the Daughters of Genius Society. Someonehad gone to Scotland Yard and summoned the authorities. Policemen had arrived at the Noble residence. Questions had been asked, so very many of them, and an investigation promptly launched into the mysterious disappearance of a marquess. Someone had offered a cup of tea Margaret couldn’t drink and a fresh handkerchief she couldn’t feel even as she used it absentmindedly. Not for the first time in her life, her body mechanically wept though her mind couldn’t process what triggered the automatic function.
Distress was too inadequate a word.
Nothing felt real.
She was benumbed . . . trapped in a nightmare.
At some unknown hour, Charles returned with Professor Quimby and the pair had conveyed her and Mama back home. To rest, they said. As though Margaret could sleep. To wait for word, they’d said. As though Papa would be found and normalcy restored at any minute.
After assuring them that every available D.O.G.S. resource would be utilized and no stone left unturned, Professor Quimby took her leave with a purposeful stride. Margaret and Mama retired upstairs long enough to change into dry clothes, but neither one of them would consent to lying down in their beds. Instead, they gathered in the parlor, which offered a clear view of the front door in the adjacent foyer. Charles assisted Margaret in transferring from her wheelchair to the settee, making her as comfortable as could be managed, swathing her in blankets to ward off the ache that had settled into her bones after being out in the rain. Meanwhile, Mama paced the carpet, wringing her hands and murmuring prayers that vacillated between strident demands and strangled pleas.
In stark contrast, Margaret could not bring herself to pray, either aloud or in spirit. She hadn’t the teaspoons or the words. Her tears would have to be prayer enough. For she’d nothing more to offer in supplication.
A somber chord resonated through the room, drawing Margaret’s unfocused gaze across the parlor. She blinked, and her bleary vision clarified. Charles sat at the piano, recalling another night when, at that same instrument, Margaret had used melodies to reset his short-circuited system. She swallowed against a lump in her throat as another tear wet her cheek.
If ever her soul needed a reset, it was now.
And somehow, instinctually, Charles seemed to understand that, for he began to coax music into the room.
Tenderly, a melody unfolded the lyrics of a hymn in Margaret’s mind. One of the many she’d woven into her medley for him that night.When peace like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll.When life brought seasons of peace and sorrow in turn ... still, it could be well with her soul.Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come.Though pain overwhelmed body and panic overwhelmed mind ... still, it could be well with her soul.
It was all right for Margaret to be needy and tired, helpless and fragile. For her helpless state was regarded, not despised. The Machinist, who made and mended souls, knew His inventions were formed from dust, and it stirred His compassion. Not indignation.
Finishing the piece, Charles allowed the final note to ring out long and clear, and Margaret let the melodic balm absorb into her aching bones. At some point, Mama had reclined upon the chaise longue. Not sleeping, but still. Before Margaret noticed his movement, Charles was on the settee beside her, stroking her hair as her head came to rest on his shoulder.
