“And providing yourself with fame and glory? Really, Harrison. Your actions were far from altruistic.”
“I admit ...” Harrison shook his head. “I wanted to make a name for myself, but not for the sake of fame. Once I borrowed enough patents to establish my reputation, I stopped borrowing. Except for the ten percent I kept back to raise capital for construction of Innovation Park, the inventors received the rest of their royalties in full through the Benevolence Legacy. Essentially, I acted as their agent and received an agent’s due. I was going to give it all back eventually. You know, you’ve seen. My will and testament not only repays the ten percent with interest but it will endow the patent rights back to the inventors. Upon my death, everything will be restored, and I’ll be remembered.”
Charles heaved a sigh. He’d heard enough of the man’s misguided excuses. He needed to do what he’d come here for and go home. “Your rescue of the boy, confession, and show of remorse have garnered you limited favor with the authorities, but your duplicitous actions are not without consequences. Nor will your crimes go unpunished. A fragment of the polyphon cranium engraved with Lord Marlow’s maker’s mark was recovered amid the automaton soldier’s remains. That physical evidence, combined with the marquess’ testimony, are enough to assure your conviction in court. However, certain powers that be have made special arrangements with the police. I’m here, on their behalf, to offer you an unusual ultimatum—government seizure of your empire and life in prison, or voluntary distribution of your assets to those you’ve wronged and life of monitored house arrest with compulsory community service. The choice is yours, Mr. Harrison, and I leave it with you.”
November7, 1895
In the Rescue Aid and Train Society’s library, a gaggle of little ones flocked about Mr. Harrison as he read aloud fromOliver Twist. Gathered at his feet and perched in his lap, the children listened in rapture to the tale of an orphan, just like them, who’d survived the ghastly institutions and grisly streets of London. As the book closed, the children broke into pitiful entreaties for one more chapter.
Mr. Harrison looked at his new boss imploringly. “Might we, Mrs. Stanton? They’ve all seen to their lessons and completed their chores with utmost diligence.”
With a mock sigh of agitation, Mumsie shifted the Lhasa Apso pup on her hip and glanced at the lyre clock on the wall. “It’s getting rather late, and the duckies have yet to bathe.”
Aiden, the little match boy who’d been spared the fate of the destroyed automaton soldier, popped up among the group of children. After the incident at the clock tower, it’d soon become apparent the boy had no parents, so he’d been brought to R.A.T.S. The seven-year-old with rosy, cherub cheeks marked by dimples took a deep breath as though steeling himself to speak before Parliament. “If we bathe without fussing and swear not to sneak out of bed to play with the animals next door, may Mr. Harrison read us one more chapter? Please, Mrs. S.?”
Margaret rested an elbow on the armrest of her wheelchair, grinning at the darling boy’s pluck. “That seems reasonable, Mumsie.”
Beaming from ear to ear, Mr. Harrison ruffled the boy’s fair hair. “Quite. Excellent negotiating skills, lad! All the makings of a man of business, this one.”
Mumsie made a show of rolling her eyes in despair, but Margaret caught the amused twinkle in their blue depths. “Very well. But if I find someone’s failed to scrub behind theirears, the chapter is forfeit, and it’s straight to bed with the lot of you. Deal?”
“Deal!” The children cheered before stampeding toward the washroom.
Mumsie set down the Lhasa Apso, whom she called Mr. Bingley due to his amiable disposition, and the gray-and-white dog dashed after the tykes, barking enthusiastically. With a chortle, Mumsie rolled up her sleeves. “I’ll see to the girls while you tend the boys, Harrison. And mind the scamps put on fresh pajamas once they’re scrubbed and dried. I caught a clean boy sneaking to bed in mud-caked dungarees last night.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be sure to inspect the troops more thoroughly.”
With that Mr. Harrison followed after the little ones, Mumsie trailing close behind with her eyes trained on the man like a cat tracking a mouse. Margaret chuckled. The Widow had been wise to suggest Harrison perform his compulsory community service at this particular orphanage. If the irremovable ankle cuff Margaret had built to monitor Mr. Harrison’s location wasn’t enough to keep him in line, Mumsie most certainly would. The woman might be dainty, but she’d also a well-trained pack of bloodhounds, bulldogs, and a rather gruff billy goat at her disposal.
Left in the library, Margaret reached for Helena’s hand. “Thank you for bringing me here, friend. It’s done my heart good.”
Helena squeezed her fingers. “My pleasure. You deserved to see the fruits of your labor.” Her throat bobbed. “Before we’re off, would you mind if we had a chat in private?”
What could Helena wish to talk about that required privacy? Curious, Margaret nodded. “Of course. Let’s retire to the feline quarters. It’s been too long since I visited.”
They made their way through the corridor, which connectedthe Rescue Aid and Train Society’s two wings—the west, housing the foundling children, and the east, serving as a sanctuary for disabled animals. No child or creature was ever turned away, regardless of circumstance, social class, or species.
Carefully, they entered the feline quarters, ensuring none of mischievous cats darted through the doorway. Custom shelving created a maze of walkways and hidey-holes along the walls. A skylight provided ample sun puddles for daytime basking, and a forest of scratching posts provided an outlet for claws at all hours. Plush chairs and sofas gave human visitors and felines alike several places to lounge.
Picking up an orange tabby named Bumble, Helena secured herself a seat and purring companion. Margaret rolled her chair alongside her friend’s, and another feline named Furmata brushed against her leg, requesting attention. She obliged, scooping up the cat who proceeded to fold against her chest and purr. Stroking Furmata’s soft, chimney-sweep gray coat, she settled her gaze on Helena, who was looking more unsettled by the second. “Out with it before you make yourself ill. What is it you wish to discuss?”
Sheepishly, Helena’s eyes fell to Bumble as she stroked his ears. “I may have eavesdropped at the chief’s door during your final case meeting.”
“Shall I pretend to be aghast?”
Helena’s lips tilted in a grin, but the expression lacked its usual spark. “I heard the Widow’s decision regarding your Daughters of Genius Society membership ... and her concession to accommodate your courtship with Mr. Noble.”
Ah, so that was what was troubling her friend. During her meeting, Margaret had communicated to Professor Quimby her intentions to accept Mr. Noble’s suit, though it jeopardized her future involvement with the D.O.G.S. For, as the handbook stated,Marriage precludes a lady from fieldwork, and men, as is common knowledge,makea lady’s life rather complicated.Therefore, lady inspectors are advised to guard their spinsterhood with due diligence and avoid romantic entanglements at all costs.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, Margaret had no problem with adherence to this rule. She thought it logical and frankly of little consequence, as she hadn’t any admirers.
Until Charles.
“Then you should be reassured. Nothing’s going to change. I’m permanently prohibited from fieldwork, but I’m to remain the society’s resident tinker. We shall see each other as often as ever. More so, since you’ll receive frequent invitations to my home, wherever that may be. Charles is a good man, Helena. I love him. I feel safe with him. When I’m with him, I feel seen as myself ... not as my condition.” Margaret bit her lip, bracing for an impassioned lecture on the evils of change.
Instead, Helena just nodded. “Oh, I know all that, Maggie. I’ve eyes and ears, and what’s more, I put the man through his paces, and he wouldn’t be frightened off. Your Mr. Noble has gumption, and I like that.” Her face grew serious. “What I wanted to say was this ... when Noble inevitably proposes marriage, don’t let anyone persuade you to refuse him. For life is too short ... and tomorrow is not guaranteed.”
Of all the befuddlements. Margaret eyed her friend suspiciously, sensing there was a story, buried deep in those words, as yet unshared between them. “I won’t refuse him, Helena. Promise. Now, we’d best make haste before we’re late.”
