Chapter 16
Chapter
If there was one thing at which Lady Alfreda Darlington the Duchess of Darrowby excelled, it was hosting a superb soirée that attracted the crème de la crème of society.
If there was one thing at which Mumsie excelled, it was championing a noble cause by attracting as much attention as possible.
When the two matrons saw fit to collaborate, they were a force to be reckoned with.
A spectacle of angelic motives and audacious methods impossible to ignore.
Tonight, the beneficiaries of their cooperative endeavor were the sister orphanages Mumsie instituted for foundling children and disabled animals, jointly known as The Rescue Aid and Train Society—or R.A.T.S.
, for short. Though the organization had been established and christened before Margaret’s birth, Papa oft regaled her with the amusing story of Mama and Mumsie’s prolonged dispute over the orphanages’ title.
Mama’s contention was that the proposed acronym would reflect poorly upon the charity due to its negative connotations with the world’s least popular rodent.
Mumsie countered that not only was every word in the acronym essential—seeing as the society intended to rescue, aid, and train those brought under its wing—but that she’d consider no arguments based solely on prejudice.
For, according to Mumsie, rats were not inherently vile creatures.
The little dears were simply misunderstood.
To this day, Mama still lamented her inability to change Mumsie’s mind on the matter.
Margaret smiled, imagining the passionate discussion for the umpteenth time as she accepted book donations from a queue of elegantly attired guests.
After becoming friends with Lady Darrowby, Mumsie had encouraged the duchess to make use of her social standing, and the coveted nature of invitations bearing her seal, for the greater good.
Being as generous as she was gregarious, Lady Darrowby had been easily persuaded.
The pair had dubbed this season’s much-anticipated event the Bibliophile Ball for Literacy.
Guests had been instructed to bring a contribution of literary tomes suitable for children at a variety of reading levels.
No donation of books, no entry to the ball. Absolutely no exceptions.
Upon arrival at Lady Darrowby’s palatial home, servants directed guests into the Periwinkle Parlor, where their requisite donation could be deposited at a receiving table helmed by the Daughters of Genius Society before they proceeded into the ballroom.
Margaret passed another trio of books down to Helena on her left. Once Helena recorded the titles in a logbook, she handed the books off to Jane, who deposited them atop growing stacks upon the table.
Lady Darrowby appeared on Margaret’s right, beaming a smile so dazzling one couldn’t help but reflect its brilliance. “I’ve just spoken to my footmen. Thus far, not a single guest has arrived without a literary contribution in hand! Do your efforts reflect as much, Lady Margaret?”
“Indeed, we’ve been kept quite busy. By preliminary calculations, we’ve surpassed five hundred books and counting. We’ve hardly been able to keep pace with the deluge.”
Even as Margaret spoke, Iva Leene, Professor Quimby, and a rather giddy Louisa employed themselves at the other end of the table, crating books destined to fill the library and various schoolrooms at R.A.T.S.
Her smile broadened as she continued receiving donations, grateful she’d sufficient teaspoons to join her sisters tonight.
The Rescue Aid and Train Society was just one of many goodwill organizations supported by the Daughters of Genius Society’s charitable arm.
Not only did it allow the D.O.G.S. to practically assist those in need, but it also helped maintain the society’s guise of normalcy.
Bluestocking spinsters were expected to devote their time to one of two occupations, reading or charity work, the latter being considered the more respectable of the two.
Not a soul would suspect a society of bluestocking spinsters, thus decorously occupied, to engage in clandestine operations.
Or, heaven forbid, be possessed of secrets!
Secrets belonged to young lovers with notions of running away to Gretna Green, not unwed women in their thirties.
“Ducky, how marvelous it is to see you up and about!” Materializing alongside Lady Darrowby, Mumsie leaned down to press a kiss to Margaret’s cheek, bringing her nose to beak with an especially wide-eyed owl.
“Great gadgets!” Margaret leaned back, taking in a full view of Mumsie.
Her silver-haired grandmother was attired in a gown of crushed fuchsia velvet, accessorized with diminutive owls perched on either puffed sleeve.
Amusement quirked her lips, and she nudged Helena with an elbow, lest her friend fail to see their avian company.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your escorts for the evening, Mumsie? ”
Helena gasped. “Oh my morels, what little darlings! Athene noctua, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Ah yes! Well done, Lady Helena. They are, indeed, Little owls. Do pardon my manners, duckies. Allow me to formally introduce our newest residents at the animal orphanage, Spike and George. The two were found trapped in a train car, presumably after flying inside, seeking shelter. The length of their unfortunate incarceration isn’t certain, but it’s assumed the poor dears suffered from malnutrition and exposure to hazardous temperatures, resulting in significant emotional and cerebral trauma.
As a result, they’re just not”—Wincing, Mumsie waved a gloved hand in front of Spike’s round, unblinking eyes—“all there.”
Margaret exchanged an amused look with Helena as she handed off more books, doing her best to keep the queue moving, despite the continued chatter of the night’s hostesses.
“Oh, Heidi, what a harrowing tale!” Lady Darrowby exclaimed. “Spike and George are most fortunate to have been entrusted to your care.”
“As fortunate as our foundling children will be to learn from the books you’re collecting tonight.
It’s such a boon, Alfreda! The little ones will be so excited.
Have I told you of my new initiative? I’m calling it Reading for a Good Claws.
The children who’ve struggled to read will be encouraged to cheer up the animals in our infirmary by reading aloud to them.
It’s already proven quite successful. Little Robin, who’s said nary a word since we rescued him, spent nearly an hour yesterday reading to a melancholic donkey who’d suffered a tail amputation. ”
Before Margaret could inquire after the donkey’s welfare, Lady Darrowby and Mumsie sauntered away arm in arm, twittering about the arrival of the surprise guest of honor .
. . whoever that might be. It seemed she’d be continuing her task without their diverting commentary in her peripheries.
Waving forward the next couple in the ever-lengthening queue, Margaret received their books and directed them to follow the string quartet’s summons into the ballroom.
Two by two, eager guests stopped by the receiving table before parading into the adjacent room with its glittering chandeliers and wallpaper agleam with silver leaf.
An hour passed in this manner, the queue finally beginning to dwindle when Helena’s parents stepped to the front of the line, exuding their customary air of starched formality and expensive perfume.
Oh dear, awkward exchange incoming. Margaret widened her smile to its full breadth, hoping to distract from her friend’s suddenly pinched lips.
“Lord and Lady Belgrave, how lovely to see you. Three volumes each? How generous! I’m sure the children will appreciate—” she glanced at the gilded spines—“this six-volume set of The Kings and Queens of England: A Comprehensive and Chronological Record Spanning from the Normans to the Present Day.”
Helena snorted derisively. “Oh, goody.”
“Ahem!” Shoving the books into Helena’s chest, Margaret extracted an oomph from her friend she prayed rendered her speechless. “A very good selection, indeed. Thank you, Lord and Lady Belgrave.”
Lord Belgrave’s rigid nod failed to crease his high white collar. In a contrasting show of warmth, Lady Belgrave produced a genial sniff. “But of course, Lady Margaret. The marquess and marchioness of Marlow are in good health, I trust?”
How Mama loathed Lady Belgrave’s manner of addressing them by their titles and their titles alone. Margaret forced her taut smile not to falter. “My parents are well, indeed, as you may see for yourself. They’re already in the ballroom, no doubt making quite merry with the waltz.”
Signaling his wish to depart, Lord Belgrave offered his wife his arm. Lady Belgrave accepted, bidding Margaret another decorous sniff as the pair hastened into the ballroom without so much as a hint of recognition directed at their only daughter.
Margaret squeezed Helena’s hand, now white-knuckled around her pencil.
One of these days perhaps Helena would finally confide in her about the obvious frigidity between her and her parents.
Explain what had created the rift so wide and wound so deep, acknowledging the void had become as impossible as traversing it. “Are you—”
“Lady Margaret.” Not raising her gaze, Helena gestured to the line with a nod. “The next person is in need of assistance.”
When Helena erected that wall of formality, that was Margaret’s cue not to press.
She turned her attention to the next person, who as it turned out, was the final person remaining in queue.
The only other person, aside from D.O.G.S.
members, left in the parlor. A gentleman, presumably, judging by the tailcoat sleeves wrapped around the veritable tower of books obscuring his face.
A tower that was beginning to lean eerily like the one in Pisa Margaret’s parents had taken her to see as a child.
“The table is just before you, sir. Take one more step forward and set it down. I’ll provide counterbalance to prevent total collapse. ”
As the man neared the table, lowering the books, Margaret steadied the stack with a hand until it came to rest on the table. “Brilliantly done, sir! That was most—”
“Miss Knight?”
Margaret froze. What on earth was Mr. Noble doing in the Periwinkle Parlor?
And if he was here, did that mean Mr. Harrison was—her heart stalled—Lady Darrowby’s surprise guest of honor?
That must be why their names hadn’t been on the official guest list. Why no one from D.O.G.S.
had thought anything of her attending the ball tonight as—
“Or should I call you Lady Margaret?”
Herself. Margaret gulped, mouth suddenly arid.
Mr. Noble stared at her quizzically, and his voice jumped an octave. “Are you actually the daughter of a marquess and marchioness?”
Helena’s pencil snapped, and the activity at the end of the table came to an abrupt halt. Every member of the D.O.G.S. fixed their gazes on Margaret and held their breath . . . waiting for her first case to explode before their eyes like an overheated steam engine.