Kneeling beside him on the floor, Lady Margaret aided him into a seated position. The room spun, and she guided him to lean back against a cold metal surface. A file cabinet? Charles shut his eyes, but he could feel Lady Margaret’s keen gaze. She pressed a cloth to the back of his head. “How frequently do you have attacks of panic?”
While her tone was without judgment, Charles was mortified all the same. How could he face her after this? Not only had he failed to protect her, he’d failed to keep the panic from overpowering him. He ought to be more resilient. Ought to have more control of his faculties. A grown man shouldn’t be so easily overwhelmed by intangible emotion. So easily overcome by a pain that was all in his mind. A pain that wasn’t even real.
“I used to have them too.”
Charles opened his eyes and gaped, slack-jawed. “You d-did?”
The green pools of Lady Margaret’s eyes shone with palpable sympathy as she nodded. “Right after my accident. When I was bedridden and unsure if I’d ever be able to move again. The attacks used to waken me in the night, jarring me from a deep, dreamless sleep. I don’t experience them much anymore.”
“I’ve experienced them as long as I can remember, but they got worse after.. .”
“Your father’s stroke.” Lady Margaret finished the thought he could not.
Charles’ stomach churned as acrid memories rose to his tongue like bile. “I thought he had a migraine. My father was having a stroke and I sent him to bed to sleep it off. And then I ... I just left—” He choked on sob. “I left him alone. To attenda rehearsal at Royal Albert Hall. If I hadn’t chanced to come home early—if I’d not summoned the doctors when I did—we’d have lost him. All because I l-left to rehearse for a s-s-stupid concert.”
A hinge creaked, and Lady Oakland appeared in the doorway, pistols drawn. “We lost him, Maggie.” With a frustrated huff, she holstered her weapons. “The cowardly varmint’s gone.”
Chapter
29
Like any other short-circuited system, Mr. Noble’s needed to be shut down for repairs. Which was precisely why Margaret had brought him here. She knew from experience how to power off a whirring mind, silencing the thoughts that hummed and crackled in an incessant current, draining the entire body even as it continued sputtering on fumes. Here, where it was safe to be fractured and aching, she could provide Mr. Noble with the mandatory reset he required. It was the right thing to do, she was certain.
Although it might prove rather difficult to explain.
Margaret waved at the departing carriage rolling off into the predawn blend of indigo tinged with lavender and shut the door to the house. There was no going back now. Jane and Iva Leene had been deposited at headquarters to give Professor Quimby a full report, and Mrs. Hackney had just trotted away with Misty. She was now quite alone with a man she’d brought home in the dead of night. Well, not technically alone. After all, her parents were just upstairs.
Margaret rotated her chair to face Mr. Noble, who still looked rather dazed and haggard. The foyer’s dimmed sconces revealed shadows gathering under his eyes, and occasional tremors still coursed through his right hand. They’d had quite the night. Exhausting and eventful, to say the least. Thank God no one had been hurt worse. Did the knot on the back of his head throb as badly as her shoulder did? She gingerly touched the spot where she’d be bruised by the morrow.
Come to think of it, perhaps they were both in need of a system reset. Starting with a dose of feline therapy. Margaret rolled toward the grand staircase where her cat snoozed on the bottom step, in the shape of a croissant. Alerted by the vibrations of her chair, Figaro’s amber eyes popped open. In two bounds, Figs was in her lap, purring. “Mr. Noble, allow me to introduce Figaro.”
Mr. Noble blinked at her pet. “Does your cat have a mustache?”
“Indubitably.” Margaret brushed her thumbs along the white markings on either side of Figaro’s black cheeks that resembled a perfectly curled mustache. “It cuts a dashing figure, what with his white spats, shirtwaist, and gloves, does it not?”
A weary smile tugged at Mr. Noble’s mouth, and he scratched Figs behind the ears. “Have you brought me here to meet your cat, Lady Margaret?”
“Actually, I’ve brought you here to meet another friend of mine.” Clasping his left hand in her right, she levered her wheelchair forward, guiding them toward the darkened parlor. With a flick of a switch, the chandelier overhead bathed her haven in warm light.
An audible exhale relaxed Mr. Noble’s taut features, his gaze captured by the grand piano tucked in a niche of floor-to-ceiling bay windows. Margaret still couldn’t fathom that he’d gone years without playing. How had the man enduredsuch deprivation? There was a reason her morning routine was structured to include time at the keys—music was a healing balm as vital to her well-being as calisthenics.
Margaret gave his hand a squeeze before releasing it, so she could roll up to the piano. She parked before the keys, turned off the wheelchair’s engine, and engaged an emergency brake for added stability. Figaro alighted on the piano, curling between her music boxes and settling in for what came next. She pressed an upholstery tack on the armrest. A wooden board ejected from the chair’s left, and a pair of retractable brass legs lowered to the ground, creating a miniature bench. One of her parents often sat next to her when she wished to play duets. She patted the bench, beckoning Mr. Noble to join her at the piano.
A tremor disturbed his hand, and he shook his head. “I ... I d-don’t think I can play.”
“I didn’t bring you here to play. I brought you here to listen.”
After another moment’s hesitation, Mr. Noble settled on the bench.
One by one, Margaret wound each of her music boxes, and the automaton creatures awakened, striking up their instruments. The noise would undoubtedly wake the household, but since her parents and the staff were accustomed to her playing at odd hours when she required distraction from the pain, no one was likely to check on her straightaway. Hopefully, they’d remain undisturbed long enough for both of them to reset.
Fingers taking to the keys, Margaret joined her automatons in their customary duet of “Abide with Me.” When the machines wound down, ending the song, she kept the music flowing softly. Arranging her favorite hymns into an impromptu medley, she played, in spite of the pulsing throb in her shoulder. She played, and she praised God for theirsafety. She played, and she prayed for the man at her side who carried a guilt not his to bear.
Soon, Mr. Noble began to breathe in time with the music. Lengthening his inhales, slowing his exhales. The tension started to unwind from the top of his head to his stiff shoulders to his fisted hands that uncurled and settled at his sides. She played until his countenance relaxed completely and the tremors finally ceased. Until at last, they were both still and at rest.
When Margaret finished the final strains of “It Is Well,” a serene sort of silence enveloped the room. She turned toward Mr. Noble, noting the tears cascading over the angular lines of his face. “Five years without music, without air, is too long. You must allow yourself time to play. Time to breathe. You said the attacks of panic worsened after your father’s stroke ... when you gave up music. I cannot think that is a coincidence.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Taking time to play feels reckless. Like I’m walking out that door, leaving Father alone again, and—I ... I can’t be that selfish. I won’t. Father’s physical condition entails real risk.Realpain.”
