Chapter 17
Chapter
When a steam engine was primed to explode, there was only one logical recourse for most people—run like mad.
However, along with not being like other girls in high society, Margaret was also not like most people in general.
She, therefore, speedily ran through a flash of mental calculations and proceeded to follow through with the only logical resource at her disposal—deployment of her Sprightly Sprocket.
Margaret pressed a button concealed as an upholstery tack on her wheelchair, and the giant spring concealed within the base sprung, catapulting her and her chair over the table of books and Mr. Noble in a single leap.
Quite as expected. While in the air, she pressed the button again, thus retracting the spring to prevent further bouncing.
Her landing was abrupt but silent and smooth—quite as expected—thanks to the new shock absorbers she’d installed last autumn.
On the ground once more, Margaret pressed a second button that produced the hidden directional lever and, grasping it tightly, hit the brass to the brocade.
Her wheelchair whisked across the mostly empty Periwinkle Parlor and out the northern exit.
Careening on one wheel, she veered down a familiar corridor and made for the universally acknowledged haven for bluestocking spinsters in distress.
The library.
When Margaret was ensconced in the safety and silence of a room lined with bookcases, she slowed her frenzied flight, tucking herself betwixt a pair of leather wingback chairs that faced a plush toile divan and proceeded to hide.
A proceeding that involved shrinking into her chair and snatching up the nearest available tome.
The title didn’t matter, so long as said tome’s size allowed her to bury her entire face into the shelter of its pages.
Thus concealed, she endeavored to calm her rather stunned nervous system by inhaling the comforting aroma of old books, a balm that could neither be adequately named nor replicated.
Laying the acquired book upon her brow as though it were a medicinal compress, Margaret groaned.
Great gadgets, what had she just done? She’d well and properly panicked, that’s what, and what’s more, she’d disgraced the Daughters of Genius Society.
Her complete ineptitude was an embarrassment.
None of the other lady inspectors would’ve panicked so .
. . so . . . spectacularly. Oh, what must Professor Quimby think of her?
Surely, she was ruing her decision to assign a case to such a—
“Maggie?” Helena’s whisper, softened with concern and compassion, was followed by the shushing of silken slippers upon the carpet and the creak of the wingback chair to her right.
“Oh, Maggie . . . it wasn’t so bad, truly.
All the other guests were occupied in the ballroom, so only Mr. Noble witnessed you fleeing like a frightened March hare. ”
“A performer shot from a cannon seems a more accurate simile,” a second voice quipped.
Quite unexpectedly.
Margaret startled with a gasp and dropped the book in her lap.
At some junction, Jane had seated herself in the wingback to her left without a sound.
She clutched her chest. “Jane! For the love of all, please do make a little noise when entering a room. You know I detest surprises, and I’ve already had my fill tonight, thank you.
Besides, there’s no reason for such stealth when you’re not actively undercover. ”
Statuesque in an evening frock of pastel pink, Jane blinked placidly. “There’s always reason for stealth, if one doesn’t wish to be noticed.”
Going unnoticed was one of Jane’s most viable assets as a lady inspector.
She had a complexion trifecta that was ten a penny among the English aristocracy—fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes.
This, combined with her reserved countenance and hapless designation as the poor relation taken in by more affluent cousins, rendered Jane imperceptible to those in high society whose gazes never deigned to lower past their upturned noses.
Unless, that is, they wished to engage in the sophisticated sport of polite ridicule.
An injurious sport that had once driven the three to seek refuge in this very library.
Margaret looked at the bookcases standing sentry over their secluded corner, and then at her two closest friends, overcome with reminiscence. “I don’t think we’ve found ourselves situated thus since the day we met. During the first ball of the Season back in ’83.”
Helena’s freckled cheeks blanched. “Gracious, don’t speak of the date in that manner, Maggie. It makes us sound ancient. Like insects fossilized in amber.”
“More like old newspapers perused for a day only to be crumpled and tossed in the bin the next,” Jane quipped.
Margaret huffed. “I was attempting to be nostalgic, not morose.”
Color returning to her cheeks in earnest, Helena slouched in the wingback, crushing her gown’s moss-green silk. “Cremini, we’re doing a poor job of cheering you up.”
“Your presence always cheers. Always has.” Securing each friend by the hand, Margaret gave them a squeeze, recalling the comfort these women had brought her all those years ago when she’d taken flight to this very library after overhearing disparaging comments being bandied about her disability.
Hiding herself away, a young Maggie of just eighteen had wept into the pages of a hefty tome on engineering, thinking herself quite alone.
Until she was offered a frilly pink handkerchief by a blonde with a newspaper tucked under one arm, and a plate of macarons by a brunette clutching a botany book gilded with golden mushrooms.
After years of rejection and loneliness, Margaret had suddenly found herself in the company of friends.
Better yet, she’d discovered what it was to encounter kindred spirits.
Fellow misfits who understood how it felt to be misjudged.
Fellow introverts who’d rather read and converse with a few than prattle in a ballroom crowded with hundreds.
Fellow bluestockings with intellectual interests and unconventional aspirations.
On that night in ’83, in this very library, an alliance had been formed.
A sisterhood that promised no matter how many cruel whispers, judgmental glances, or cuts direct they received, they would be there for one another.
With encouragement and prayer, with handkerchiefs and macarons.
And to herself, Margaret had sworn not to be the weak cord in their strand of three.
It was an oath she’d avowed again, years later, when their sisterhood increased.
An unexpected offer to take tea with the renowned Professor Quimby had turned into an invitation to an exclusive intellectual salon where they’d met Lousia and Iva Leene, which in turn had resulted in their collectively being asked to join a society with a public arm of charity and a surreptitious arm of justice.
A society that offered a place to belong and an opportunity to use their minds for the good of others, for the glory of God, the Father of all genius.
On that day in 1890, the five of them had joined the Daughters of Genius society and assumed the role of lady inspectors, changing their lives forevermore.
A change that had led to Margaret’s aforementioned panic and rather dramatic departure from the Periwinkle Parlor not thirty minutes ago. She heaved a prolonged sigh. “Great gadgets, what am I to do?”
“I thought the next course of action quite obvious.” Jane arched an almost imperceptible blond eyebrow.
A gleam flashed in Helena’s hazel eyes, and she crossed her arms. “I still don’t care for this idea.”
Margaret’s head pivoted between the exasperatingly vague pair. “Would one of you please enlighten me?”
Jane’s tone was matter of fact. “You need to recruit Mr. Noble as a covert asset. Just as soon as the chief concludes his cursory interrogation and briefing in the corridor.”