Mr. Noble nodded. Ate a biscuit. Drank some tea. Countenance stiffening as the silence lengthened, awkward tension sputtering between them as their conversation ran out of fuel and stalled with an almost audible hiss of exhaust. Apparently, Mr. Noble was no more skilled in small talk thanshe. Very well, she’d rather let the conversational engine sit idle and resume her work. Setting aside her cup and saucer, Margaret picked up where she’d left off in the 1895 box of files. Skimming over the remainder of February, she moved on to patents from March.
Midway through the stack, Margaret located her quarry at last. The Chatsome Catherine voice-box design, which allegedly had been developed on the premises of Innovation Park by an inventor named ... Mr. J.Dawkins. She had her second suspect!
“What say you to this one, Miss Knight?” Apparently Mr. Noble had followed her example and taken to paging through a box of files as he finished his tea. “A miniature steam engine designed to power a mobile carpet cleaner, patented just last year. While not as showy as some of the company’s other inventions, this device would provide an excellent example of how AlvanT. Harrison, Incorporated has impacted everyday life in the modern home. What do you think?”
Margaret’s brows knit together as she accepted the patent Mr. Noble extended. Such a device sounded oddly familiar, but why? A glance at the technical drawing and accompanying explanation of the machine’s function quickly explained her recognition. She’d seen this device before ... or one nearly like it ... at Cogsworth’s Workings, the machinist’s shop she and Papa patronized.
Over the years, they’d built a friendship with the Cogsworths, one close enough that Mrs. Cogsworth had once confided in Margaret about an idea she’d had to build a carpet cleaner powered by steam. A long conversation had ensued regarding the complications of making an engine scaled small enough to prevent the device from being too cumbersome, seeing as its purpose was to lessen the backbreaking work of housekeeping. Hadn’t that conversation occurred a little over a year ago?
Margaret gnawed on her lip. The similarities between this polished patent and Mrs. Cogsworth’s rough sketch of her design were too suspicious to be ignored ... as was the invention’s attribution to none other than Mr. J.Dawkins. Was the case of the purloined patent bigger than a single isolated incident of theft?
“Your silence speaks volumes, Miss Knight. A carpet cleaner is far too dull a selection. I shall have to continue my search for a gadget worthy of display at Westminster Hall.” With a sheepish, almost dejected air, Mr. Noble carried off the tea things.
As soon as his back was turned, Margaret withdrew her pocket watch camera and discreetly snapped photographs of the patents in her lap—the Chatsome Catherine voice box and the steam-powered carpet cleaner. The legitimacy of her suspicions must be ascertained. Once her film was developed, Margaret would pay a little visit to Cogsworth’s Workings.
Charles startled awake, and his neck seized with a crick.Vivaldi and Verdi!Groaning, he massaged the soreness from his stiff muscles. He must’ve fallen asleep at his desk, trying to finish the work he should’ve completed this afternoon instead of taking tea with Miss Knight. Gah, but he’d made a right fool of himself! He’d been so taken aback at finding Reverie upon his doorstep. Thrilled at the second chance he’d been given to learn her real name. Of course, it’d been a lovely name. Margaret.
Unfortunately, idiot that he was, Charles had gotten carried away by the serendipity of it all and come on much too strong. Then he’d been struck dumb with embarrassment, and when he had eventually recovered the use of his tongue, he’d decided to regale the beautiful woman with the most interesting of topics—a carpet cleaner. His palm flew to hisface with a sound thwap. No wonder Miss Knight hadn’t been able to get away from him fast enough.
Stupid, stupid. Charles dragged his gaze to the clock mounted on the wall of his new office at the Invention Factory. Wonderful. In addition to being stupid, he was also late. When Mother and Benjamin had learned of Mr. Harrison’s job offer, they’d been overjoyed and encouraged him to take the short-term position, but Charles had only agreed to do so on the condition that Mother let him maintain the night shift of Father’s care. He’d not rob Mother of the only reprieve she was afforded. She needed to rest sometime. He, on the other hand, could make do. If he hurried, Mother wouldn’t lose too much sleep on his account.
Charles rose from his desk, snatched up his jacket, and turned off his desk lamp. He blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the factory, which had closed hours ago. Thankfully, just enough moonlight streamed through the vaulted windows to prevent the building from being pitch black. He rode the elevator to the main floor and strode past the abandoned worktables and sleeping machinery. The inventors had clocked out and retired to their homes, a pleasant walk away in the company housing section of the Innovation Park grounds.
The factory was so different at night. Without the warmth of sunlight, clatter of industry, and congenial hum of the inventors’ comradery, the building felt cold and cavernous. The tapping of his shoes echoed in the vast space, emphasizing his solitude. During work hours, the Invention Factory seemed a cathedral of creativity, but now ... aglow in the faint moonlight, it almost felt as though he walked through a cemetery in some gothic opera. One so new that its hallowed ground had yet to be broken by a gravedigger’s shovel.
A metallic screech rent the air.
Charles froze, gooseflesh raising on his neck. He turnedabout slowly, scanning the factory floor, but no human forms moved among the shadows, confirming what he knew to be true. He was alone. Everyone had gone home for the day. Every tool remained still, untouched and unmoving. Every machine remained silent, unpowered and unmanned.
And yet ... he’d heard something. Distantly, yet distinctly. Something harried and high-pitched. It had almost sounded as though a machine had begrudgingly rolled over mid-slumber, stretching the kinks in its rusted gears. But that was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
Chapter
11
Of all the simple joys in life, one of Margaret’s fondest was accompanying Papa and Mama to Cogsworth’s Workings. As a little girl, she would run ahead of them in anticipation of hearing the welcoming ring-a-ling of the bell above the door, the quaint machinist’s shop possessing the allure of an enchanted candy emporium. Instead of sweet confections showcased beneath glass counters, this shop sold infinite possibilities. Gears and gaskets. Springs and screws. Cogs and cranks. What most saw as mere parts and tools of trade, she saw as small parts of a larger whole. As building blocks with which her imagination could play.
Nestled in the heart of London, Cogsworth’s single-handedly kept the city ticking, as Papa would always jest, so fine was their craftsmanship. Mama always countered that if Cogsworth’s kept London ticking, Papa was most certainly the one who kept it tocking, so sought after was his ingenuity for solving mechanical problems. Without fail, this compliment would lead to a flurry of banter betwixt her parents as herlittle fingers sorted through boxes of parts. As their conversation became more hushed in the background, Mama and Papa would take to snickering together with the mirth of children. Mama swatting Papa’s chest playfully, then kissing his cheek. Papa flushing bright red, grinning in his lopsided way.
These treasured moments, these precious memories, lived within the walls of Cogsworth’s Workings, so ingrained were they in the building’s framework that Margaret couldn’t help but recall them as she struggled to navigate through the entryway, holding the door ajar with one hand, maneuvering her motorized wheelchair’s steering lever with the other. Overhead, the bell announced her difficulties for all to hear. It’s melodic ring-a-ling reduced to a jarring ding-ding-ding as she made her awkward entrance.
Once inside the shop, Margaret released the door and heaved a sigh. Perhaps it had been foolish not to utilize the Arm of Chivalry, but the last time she’d deployed that particular gadget here, she’d been swarmed by machinists with more questions than respect for her personal space. It wasn’t fair to the Cogsworths for her visits to necessitate the clearing of their shop, although it had been somewhat amusing to witness Mrs. Cogsworth coming to her defense with a broom.
Papa had offered to accompany her as a replacement Arm of Chivalry, but she’d declined, and he hadn’t pressed. He seemed to understand that sometimes the need to exert her dwindling independence for the sake of her mental well-being superseded the need to accept aid for the sake of her physical well-being. It was a fine line to tread, to be certain, but she’d observed a day of rest after visiting the Invention Factory, so she’d reasoned she ought to be fine for a brief solo excursion. Besides, while fetching Papa’s order provided a good cover, she was here first and foremost as a lady inspector, and theHandbook for Lady Inspectorssaid nothing about conducting covert assignments with one’s father in tow.
Thus, Margaret rolled as an independent entity through the shop, taking in the unique aroma of wood shavings, engine oil, and the metallic tang of iron and copper coming into contact with industrious hands. At the front desk, Mr. and Mrs. Cogsworth engaged with customers, so she lingered before a new display of pliers, waiting for the latter to conclude her business so they might converse.
The door ring-a-linged, and two young men strode into the shop. Apprentices, judging by their age, fourteen ... perhaps fifteen at most, with raw spots on their hands where calluses had yet to fully form. Sawdust powdered their denim overalls, indicating they were likely training under a carpenter. Under normal circumstances, Margaret wouldn’t have paid the pair mind beyond these cursory observations, but a muffled snort hooked her attention with its contumelious tone.
“Eh, perhaps you’d get farther along with a hobbled skirt. She couldn’t be running away from ya, in any case.”
Margaret’s delicate frame turned to steel—ridged, impenetrable, numb.
“Nothing doing. I ain’t so desperate as that.”
Deliberately, defiantly, Margaret forced herself to take a breath. Then release it slowly. This was not the first time such remarks had been uttered in her hearing. Nor was it likely to be the last. For, unfortunately, the able-bodied populace seemed to be under the impression that to have a disability was to lack humanity. As though the mind automatically ceased to think and the heart to feel simply because a member of the same body didn’t function as designed.
