Chapter 11
Chapter
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 her little 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 the Handbook for Lady Inspectors said 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.
Such incisive ignorance had once pierced her heart. Now? Now Margaret was accustomed to pain . . . in all its cruel forms.
“Lady Margaret, always an honor to have you visit!” Mrs. Cogsworth made her way down the sales counter, speaking as though wishing all in the store to heed her words.
“How are your parents, m’lady?” For a moment, Mrs. Cogsworth’s eyes glanced just over Margaret’s shoulder and narrowed into a glare.
“The Mar-quess and Mar-chion-ess are in good health, I trust?”
Margaret suppressed a grin at Mrs. Cogsworth’s overt enunciation of her parents’ titles.
A muttered blaspheme proved the dear woman’s point had hit its mark. “Now ya done it!” The adolescent’s voice cracked on a hissed whisper. There was a shuffling of feet, indicating a swift retreat, confirmed by the door’s relieved ring-a-ling.
Mrs. Cogsworth’s eyes softened as they settled once more on Margaret.
“Sincerest pardons, m’lady. Mr. Cogsworth takes out the rubbish before opening the store, but on blustery days, some finds occasion to blow in off the street.
” The buxom woman dusted her hands on her crisp apron, rolled up the sleeves of her striped shirtwaist, and propped a dimpled elbow on the counter. “Now, what can I be getting ye?”
“I’ve come to pick up an order for Papa, and if it’s convenient, I’d be grateful for a moment of your time to discuss a private matter, which I believe will be of interest to you.”
“Well, color me curious! Such intrigue calls for a spot of tea, I think. Come along, m’lady.
” Mrs. Cogsworth navigated the length of the sales counter, stopping momentarily to whisper a word to her husband before opening a door at the back of the shop and motioning for Margaret to precede her into what appeared to be the stockroom.
Shelves lined every wall, and labeled boxes were stacked on every shelf.
A small table in the corner, flanked by a pair of wooden chairs, bore a tea tray.
Steam wafted from the teapot, nestled in a quilted cozy to retain the heat.
Mrs. Cogsworth folded one of the chairs and moved it aside, motioning for Margaret to make use of the open space at the table.
Margaret complied, turning her wheelchair and rolling backward so she could face the door along with her hostess. “What a lovely spot to repair to when things are slow in the shop.”
“Tush! Don’t keep me in suspense while we bandy niceties. Tell me this ‘private matter’ about which you’ve come.” Mrs. Cogsworth poured them each a cuppa, taking hers black and bracing, while Margaret made use of the offered cream and sugar.
“Do you recall your idea for a steam-powered carpet cleaner?”
“Aye . . . though I’m shocked you do, m’lady. That were a year ago now.”
“’Tis not uncommon for me to recall fascinating gadgets, Mrs. Cogsworth, and the blueprint you showed me was that. Frankly, I was shocked you never sought a patent.”
Mrs. Cogsworth’s eyes lowered dejectedly. “I . . . I did file for a patent, m’lady. The mister and I saved up for months to cover the fees, but my request were denied.”
Denied? Margaret’s cup clinked against her saucer. “What reason was given?”
“The letter I received said a similar design had already been patented. So you see, my gadget might’ve been fascinating, but it weren’t such an original notion after all.
I should’ve expected as much. I’ve never been the sharpest tool on the shelf.
” She elbowed one of the nearby boxes, making the screwdrivers within rattle.
“Should’ve known by the time I thought of it that it’d already been thought up by someone smarter. ”
Margaret ground her teeth, hating that Mrs. Cogsworth felt inferior.
Hating the realization that the patent purloiner wasn’t just robbing inventors of their ideas, but of their confidence and sense of agency.
As much as she wanted to reassure Mrs. Cogsworth that all would be set right, she couldn’t just yet.
Not until she had proof. She reached into the pocket of her tea gown, withdrawing the photograph of the steam-powered carpet cleaner design she’d captured while at the Invention Factory.
“What do you make of this, Mrs. Cogsworth?”
She studied the mechanical sketch, eyebrows raising.
“Gracious . . . I never knew ye took a photograph of me design when I showed it to you, m’lady.
However did you manage that without my noticing?
I’ve never seen a clearer photograph in all my days.
Why, you can even make out where Mr. Cogsworth spilt tea on my drawing when I showed it to him for the first time.
He tried to wipe it away, bless him, but there were nothing for it.
Stains something frightful, tea does. I didn’t even have the heart to scold him, he were so upset.
He’s very mindful of those tremors he gets from time to time, after he came back from the war, you know. ”
Margaret nodded, taking back the picture and staring at the now very apparent tea stain blotting the sketch.
A detail she’d failed to notice, so focused was she on the design itself.
A detail that clearly proved this design wasn’t merely similar to Mrs. Cogworth’s, but was, indeed, the very same sketch drawn by her hand.
The thief had altered the names on the other patent documentation, but they’d kept the originally submitted blueprint, tea stain and all.
“Why’d you want to talk about this today, m’lady?”
Margaret swallowed her growing outrage, breaths shallowing as pain began to flare in her ribs. “It was my intention to . . . encourage you, once more, to file for patent. Having not known you’d already done so, of course.”
“Ah, you’ve always been a kind one. The loss of potential earnings was a blow, I admit, but the Lord was good to meet our needs another way.
A charity here in London, the Benevolence Legacy, saw fit to grant us what they call an ‘income supplement.’ Think it was Mr. Cogworth’s military service what qualified us, if memory serves.
The amount we receive varies depending on how the charity’s donations fare from one month to the next.
It’s been a providential boon, make no mistake. ”
“But your idea—”
“There’s no use gawking at a closed door, as me mam always said. Best to be moving on. I appreciate your encouragement, though, m’lady. Let me fetch your father’s order while you finish your tea.”
As Mrs. Cogsworth rose, Margaret attempted to ignore the now-throbbing pain in her side and process the newly acquired data.
As she’d suspected, this case was bigger than a single purloined patent.
In fact, with proof of at least two stolen patents tied to Alvan T.
Harrison, Incorporated, the case might well be of great enough significance to warrant reassignment to a more experienced inspector.
She pressed a hand to her ribs, the applied pressure doing little to ease the sharp pain.
A lady inspector strong enough to perform basic tasks, for instance.
Like opening a closed door.