“Peace, Louisa. I’m not announcing my impending death, I assure you.” Margaret sighed. Perhaps suddenly gathering her friends about her bedside without explanation wasn’t the brightest of ideas. To the penny-dreadful author’s rather active and often morbid imagination, the scene must cut quite the grim visage. Poor, sweet Louisa. “I simply wish to answer the questions you’ve been too delicate to ask and tell you of the accident that necessitates my use of a wheeled chair.”
A hush fell over the room as her friends exchanged glances and then fixed rapt attention upon Margaret, cuing her to begin her story. Starting from the very beginning, she told them about the accident, the extent and chronic nature ofher injuries, and the doctors’ predictions that her condition would only worsen with the passage of time. The group listened in relative silence, although a few times Louisa clasped a hand to her mouth, and Margaret noted a sheen of tears welling in Helena’s eyes.
Clearing her throat, Margaret shifted her attention to Figaro playing with the piggies three, lest she lose her nerve before she’d concluded. “After the accident, I had very little in common with my childhood friends, and over time, they began to fade out of my life. Letters became sporadic, calls were paid with less frequency, and conversations became stilted.
“When I was fifteen, one of my closest friends came to tea, and during our awkward attempt at chatting as we once did, I gifted her a music box with an automated horse for her birthday. This prompted her to tell me how she’d celebrated the special occasion by riding in the park and picnicking with a group of friends I used to be numbered amongst. She prattled away about the party for the remainder of the visit, completely oblivious to the fact that I was shattering inside. My best friend hadn’t seen fit to invite me to her party. My friends had gathered, and I’d been excluded from their merriment. While I might not be able to ride, I could’ve sat beneath the oaks and drank tea. I could’ve been present, even if I couldn’t participate, but it seemed my presence was no longer wanted. Nor missed. That rejection cemented in my mind what I believed to be truth. I was no longer a fit companion for able-bodied girls. I was a broken thing my friends no longer wanted to play with.”
The tears came then, blurring Margaret’s vision so her friends resembled an impressionist portrait. “That’s why I never invited you to my home where I must accept the most aid in order to be the most functional in the workshop. I was afraid if you knew how weak I am ... afraid that if I relied onyou too much ... you’d leave me behind too. The thought of losing you was more than I could bear. For you are as dear to me as family, my precious sisters.” She sniffled. “There. That’s all there is to say ... there isn’t any more.”
Silence descended upon them with the solemnity of a house in mourning, clocks stopped and mirrors swathed in black cloth. Margaret shut her eyes, so if her friends should choose to leave, she’d at least not have the pain of their turning backs seared into her memory. The rattling of china disturbed the quiet, but the door did not whoosh open. Nor did it click shut. Instead, the mattress on which she lay sank lower. Weighted down by one, two ... four more bodies. Her eyes shot open. Divided into pairs, her sisters hemmed Margaret in without saying a single word. Gently, they drew near. Stroked her hair. Clasped her hands.
Coming alongside Margaret in her pain, they held her close. They rested tear-wetted cheeks beside hers on the down pillow. They wept with her in reverent silence, sharing her grief, entering her lament. They whispered hushed prayers over her, lifting her pain and fears to God. Her Father and theirs. With a mew and a few snorts, the animals shifted, settling into the nooks and crannies of the sisterly embrace, and like that, they stayed.
To the relief and astonishment of Margaret’s aching heart.
They stayed.
Chapter
33
August1, 1895
How had Margaret never noticed that Charles was a prime example of the golden ratio? The man was handsome. Mathematically so. Every feature exquisitely crafted, from his bronze eyes to the chiseled lines of his jaw, and it had become rather distracting.
Recovered from her crash, Margaret reclined on a chaise longue in the parlor of the Kingsley home, fiddling with her tea gown’s cornflower-blue silk as she endeavored to listen to Charles instead of merely staring at him on the neighboring settee. Endeavored to ignore how his distinctly masculine voice did peculiar things to her stomach as he recounted the latest preparations for the anniversary gala, now just a little over a month away. When the invitations were posted at the end of July, his office had been inundated with RSVPs, promising the gala would have an impressive turnout. Selection of a florist had been checked off his list as well, and just today,he’d been given leave to proceed with setting up the commemorative displays in Westminster Hall.
“Any new leads on the case, Lady Margaret?”
Margaret’s pulse jumped. The handsome man had asked her a question. A question that necessitated a response. A response that necessitated the ability to link words together in answer to the handsome man’s question.Great gadgets, Maggie, it’s just Charles! A friend you’ve conversed with dozens of times. Nothing has changed.
“Jane did uncover some rather interesting information while looking into the Benevolence Legacy. Turns out the charity was founded thirty years ago, which coincides with the retirement of J.Dawkins. In itself, the date correlation seemed immaterial, until Jane combed through the charity’s financial records and found a list of their regular aid recipients. The list of charitable recipients matched my list of robbed inventors, name for name.” Margaret picked up her copy ofCranfordand withdrew the two lists from its pages, placing them upon the coffee table for Charles to view.
Donning his spectacles, Charles picked up the lists and read over them. Then read them over again. “Corelli and Caldara, some of these names look familiar, but ... I can’t for the life of me recall where I might’ve come across them. Between the investigation and the gala, I’ve been reading over mountains of documents every day, featuring scads of names.” With a sigh and shake of his head, he set down the lists and whipped off his spectacles. He leaned back in his chair, tapping the glasses to his chin thoughtfully. “So, this Benevolence Legacy ... it’s nothing more than some misguided means of recompense?”
“That seems to be the case, yes. J.Dawkins is robbing inventors of the rights to their intellectual property and then using the charity to send them the royalties earned by their own work.”
“What is the man’s motivation, if not financial gain?”
“Credit. The prestige of genius. Thus why Mr. Harrison still tops my suspect list.”
Nodding, Charles pursed his lips grimly. “I’m not sure what to think in that regard anymore. I loathe the idea of Harrison being the culprit, but ... then again, the thought of Tinkerton or any of the other inventors being behind all of this is just as loathsome. Given that the charity predates Flaversham’s hire, I assume that he’s officially been cleared?”
“Of the thefts, yes, but he’s to remain under surveillance, and now that Jane’s finished investigating the Benevolence Legacy, she’s going to shift her focus to uncovering Mr. Flaversham’s contingency plan and the leverage he claims to have against Harrison. The chief fears Flaversham’s passion and growing frustration could prompt him to do something foolish and spell ruin for AlvanT. Harrison, Incorporated, which in the end would only serve to hurt those he wishes to help. If at all possible, she wishes us to bring Dawkins to justice without destroying the company so many innocent men and their families rely upon for their livelihoods. Have you noticed any more unusual occurrences at the factory?”
“None of the men, suspect or otherwise, have acted out of character. Nor has a single employee requested sick leave or visited the infirmary with a hatpin stab wound to the arm. I didn’t really anticipate our attacker would be so foolhardy, but due diligence and all.”
Margaret nodded. “And you wouldn’t have heard the noises again since the chief expressly forbade anyone connected with the case from being alone at the factory after dark. Correct?”
A grin showed Charles’ handsome features to their best advantage. “Trying to ascertain whether I’ve been adhering to protocol, are we, Lady Margaret?”
Good gracious, his voice was doing that peculiar thing toher stomach again. “You are my covert asset, Mr. Noble. It’s my job to ensure you adhere to D.O.G.S. protocol.”
That anomalous twinkle heated Charles’ gaze, transforming the bronze depths of his eyes into molten metal, glowing and golden. “Rest assured, my dear lady inspector, I’d never breach protocol without your express permission.”
A blush engulfed Margaret’s face. “I shall keep that in mind.”
“Good.” Charles returned his spectacles to their case, tucked them in his jacket pocket, and then leaned forward. “So then, what is to be our next move?”
