Chapter 21
Chapter
Margaret was perplexed, and the sensation was quite discombobulating.
She’d only indulged Jane’s ridiculous blink test as a lark, believing the preposterous notion of Mr. Noble fancying her would be promptly disproven.
Properly debunked. Instead, to her utter astonishment, Jane had been right—at least regarding the blinking’s persuasiveness.
If the prolonged ride in the steam-powered lift was any indication, Mr. Noble was highly susceptible to the effects of fluttering lashes.
Yet, despite the faux experiment’s apparent success, Margaret still couldn’t accept Jane’s hypothesis.
For the results were far from conclusive.
Yes, Mr. Noble was remarkably kind and patient.
But were those qualities alone proof of romantic fancy, or was the man merely being gracious to a pitiable invalid?
The latter was far more probable, and though her parents had taught a curious young Maggie to believe life full of marvelous possibilities, experience had taught a cautious, older Margaret that chasing after the marvelous could result in life-altering misfortune.
Holding fast to the probable was so much safer than reaching for the possible.
Instead of entertaining Jane’s hypothesis, Margaret’s energy would be better spent solving this case, so she could get her life back on its carefully constructed track.
The lift’s double doors opened to the Invention Factory’s basement level, and Mr. Noble met her gaze with a broad smile and that now-familiar twinkle in his brown eyes.
“Shall we go up again? I’d love to hear more about your idea of alleviating people’s fear of elevators by incorporating soothing musical accompaniment into the machine.
I think it’s sure to catch on. Perhaps Mr. Harrison might put it into development. ”
Was the man sincere or merely patronizing her?
Margaret studied Mr. Noble’s tone and countenance to no avail.
Alas, if only she could assess the complex inner workings of humans with the same ease as she evaluated a combustion engine.
“I think we’ve dallied long enough, Mr. Noble. We’ve important work that needs doing.”
The twinkle in Mr. Noble’s eyes dimmed momentarily, just long enough for her to perceive the difference. “You’re quite right, of course. Let’s be off to the records room.”
Taking the lead, Mr. Noble disembarked the elevator and veered to the left of the corridor.
Margaret rolled after him, noting a pair of doors in passing.
The first was labeled as a gentlemen’s water closet, the second as the personnel room.
At the end of the nondescript hallway, Mr. Noble opened a third door with one hand and granted her precedence.
With a nod, Margaret accepted the polite gesture.
In her periphery, she observed a flush of crimson washing over Mr. Noble’s cheeks as she rolled by.
She bit her lip. What could that mean? Botheration, now Jane had her analyzing every minute interaction with Mr. Noble.
As though she wasn’t self-conscious enough, what with the general newness of inspectoring in the field and collaborating with a covert asset.
She hoped she hadn’t been too forthright earlier.
She’d gotten rather carried away on the elevator, distracted by the machine’s simulation of flight and the nostalgia it kindled, but there was nothing for it now.
Focus on the task before you. The problem to be solved. Like you do in the workshop.
Parking her wheelchair, Margaret considered her surroundings.
The records room was just that—a room wherein records were stored.
Nothing anomalous or unexpected. Just four walls, electric lights, countless rows of shelves lined with boxes, and a single table, presumably to provide a suitable space for sorting.
Not quite as cavernous as the patent office’s labyrinth, but impressive nonetheless.
Everything appeared to be well organized and neatly labeled.
Hopefully that would make things easier.
Without being asked, Mr. Noble retrieved the boxes for the last ten years, which she hadn’t finished perusing on her first visit, and placed them in a row upon the table. “If you’re comfortable to continue your search alone, I’ll pop over to the personnel room to locate that file on J. Dawkins.”
“I am, quite. Thank you.”
Perhaps having a covert asset was going to be a boon rather than a complication.
Mr. Noble took his leave with a bow, and Margaret rolled up to the table.
After removing the lid from the box of most recent patents, she withdrew a notepad and pencil from her pocket and set to work.
One at a time, she skimmed the patent files, searching for the attributed inventor column before returning them to their proper place.
Any invention attributed to J. Dawkins, she listed in detail on her notepad, beginning with the Chatsome Catherine voice-box mechanism.
On a separate sheet of paper, she jotted down inventions of note that might warrant display at the gala. If she and Mr. Noble collaborated in this manner, they’d avoid needless duplication of labor and proceed through the files more expeditiously.
Time passed without notice as Margaret progressed through the boxes in turn, making her way back to the year 1892.
She arched her back, gently working out lumbar stiffness.
Mr. Noble had yet to return. He must’ve encountered some difficulty locating the Dawkins file.
Consulting the watch pinned to her tea gown’s bodice, she noted the lateness of the hour, then stared at the row of boxes yet to be touched.
“I want you to be able to work this case, Inspector Kingsley, not have it work you into the ground.” The chief’s admonishment niggled her conscience.
Margaret sighed. She needed to exert wisdom and pace herself.
The work could keep. She’d just reshelve the three boxes she’d already searched, take her list of gala display options to Mr. Noble in the personnel room, and inform him of her intent to return on the morrow.
Hopefully, he’d have located the Dawkins file by then.
She slid the 1895 box onto her lap, wheeled toward one of the shelves, and rose from her chair, hoisting the box overhead.
A loud gasp startled Margaret, and she whirled around, nearly dropping the box.
The sudden movement triggered a spasm. She clenched her teeth, muffling a gasp of her own.
Rusted cogs! Like a fiery electric current, pain shot from her back to her ribs, tightening her muscles and shortening her breath.
“Joseph Bologne!” Mr. Noble took the box from Margaret before she could protest.
Not that she’d the wherewithal to protest at present. Inhaling and releasing staggered breaths, Margaret lowered into her chair. She shut her eyes, envisioning a teaspoon of sugar being tossed into the bin. Another betrayal by her own body. Another reminder of her frailty.
“I’m so sorry. I-I shouldn’t have . . . I didn’t mean t-to—”
Margaret held up a silencing hand, opening her eyes to find Mr. Noble standing before her horror-struck as he clutched the box of records.
“The fault is mine, sir. I’m sorry. I ought to have warned you.”
It’d been so long since she’d interacted with someone outside her limited social circle . . . so long since she’d been forced to explain the nuances of her physical abilities . . . so long since she’d attempted to make an able-bodied person understand.
Yes, she required the aid of a wheelchair. No, she didn’t suffer from paralysis.
Yes, she could stand and even walk on good days. No, she was not feigning invalidism.
Explaining wouldn’t be so wearisome if explanations actually satiated people’s curiosity.
But inevitably, the more Margaret tried to explain the complexities of her condition, the more questions were thrown at her like darts barbed with unspoken skepticism, and the more she felt like a fraud.
Her body’s brokenness was invisible, so it must be a hoax.
Her pain and stamina fluctuated, so it must be exaggerated.
If she really wanted to get well, surely all she need do was x, y, and z.
Never mind that every potential cure in the alphabet had already been exhausted.
Never mind that there was only so much that herbal remedies and modern medicine could do.
Yet, sometimes explanations were simply unavoidable. Lord, give me the right words. Please let Mr. Noble settle for the words I choose to give. Margaret propped an elbow on the arm of her chair and rubbed her temple. “My apologies, Mr. Noble. I should’ve explained my condition before—”
“You’ve no cause for apology.” Mr. Noble shook his head as an emotion—sympathy enhanced by an undercurrent of self-reproach—furrowed his brow.
“And you certainly shouldn’t have to explain yourself to me or anyone else.
Matters of health should never be up for public discussion or debate.
You’re entitled to your privacy. You’re not a criminal to be interrogated, cross-examined, or forced to provide a defense. ”
Margaret’s jaw went slack. He understood.
Somehow, he understood that to live with chronic pain was to feel as though one was perpetually standing trial and being found guilty.
Guilty of being a burden. Guilty of being a pretender.
Guilty of not doing enough to seek wellness.
As though physical healing could simply be purchased from a doctor or earned by a prayer to the Almighty.
Mr. Noble shoved the box in its spot on the shelf and ran a hand through his hair.
“Any fault here lies squarely with me. I made ignorant assumptions, and I failed to temper my reaction when those assumptions were upended. It was beyond impolite. Please forgive me for being a dunce. And for frightening you half to death.”
She had no words. Not a one. For never had a new acquaintance responded to her condition in such a way.
He asked no prying questions. Made no subtle accusations.
He looked upon her with eyes softened by apparent compassion rather than sharpened by appraising curiosity.
As though he comprehended, at least in part, how it felt to live as she did.
Had she been correct about Mr. Noble suffering from invisible health issues of his own, or was his understanding gleaned secondhand?
The creases along his forehead deepened as the silence between them lengthened. “Are you hurt very badly? I mean . . . did I cause you pain by startling you so?”
Yes, he had, inadvertently. However, the man seemed so distraught, Margaret couldn’t bring herself to tell him as much. “I’m always in pain, Mr. Noble. Through no fault of yours, I assure you. Please, let’s forget the whole thing, shall we?”
“As you wish, but perhaps, in future . . . you might entrust me with the heavy lifting?”
“I’m quite capable of carrying boxes, Mr. Noble.”
“I’d never be so foolish as to doubt your capabilities a second time. But does hefting the boxes cause you more pain?”
She’d stopped thinking of pain in terms of more or less.
It just was. After the accident, pain had become her normal state, and she hardly knew how to gauge its severity anymore.
Mama often said that what Margaret considered minimal discomfort would bring most people to their knees.
“I suppose so . . . but truly, there’s no need for you to fret over me, Mr. Noble.
I accepted long ago that pain isn’t something I can choose to avoid. It’s simply a fact of life.”
Mr. Noble knelt before her chair, retrieving papers he must’ve dropped in his astonishment.
Hair grazed his brow as he collected the scattered pages.
“My, um . . . my father had a stroke five years ago. He survived but suffered the loss of his voice and partial paralysis, which confines him to bed.” He tapped the gathered papers level on his knee and tucked them in a file.
“So you see, I understand that life often thrusts pain upon us, which cannot be dodged. But time and again, as I’ve cared for Father, he’s shown me that while pain robs us of many choices, a helping hand is something we can always choose to receive. ”
A lump formed in Margaret’s throat. Her gaze fell as she voiced raw words she’d never before allowed herself to utter. “I don’t like to be a burden.”
Mr. Noble lifted her chin with a gentle touch and sought her gaze tenderly.
“Requiring help doesn’t make one a burden.
It makes one human.” A tear fell unbidden down Margaret’s face, and when it reached her chin, Mr. Noble brushed it away with his thumb.
“Will my doing the heavy lifting prevent you from tiring yourself out as quickly?”
Margaret nodded, unable to speak with her face held so in his hand.
“Then please . . . allow me the honor of being at your disposal.”
Moisture accumulated in Margaret’s tear ducts.
Inclining her head back, she withdrew from his touch and blinked to conceal the ill-timed emotion.
Surely a lady inspector wasn’t meant to cry in front of an asset?
“Is that the Dawkins file?” Not the smoothest conversational transition, but Mr. Noble kindly followed her redirect.
“Indeed. It was rather a pain to locate. The dratted thing had gotten caught in the gap between the drawer and the back of the cabinet, falling out of sight and beyond reach. At first, I thought perhaps it had been misfiled, but then it finally occurred to me to remove all the drawers, and lo, there it was on the floor, covered in a thick layer of dust.”
Standing, Mr. Noble paged through the rather worse-for-wear file.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of skimming over the contents while I gave the pages a good shake out, and I noticed something unusual.
The purloined patent that incited your investigation . . . it was taken recently, correct?”
Margaret straightened. “Yes, quite. Why do you ask?”
“Because according to this confidential paperwork, J. Dawkins retired thirty years ago.”