Chapter 22
Chapter
Having Mr. Noble at her disposal had proven to be most pleasant. Almost too much so.
Margaret had come to look forward to the daily excursions to Innovation Park, around which she’d renovated her routine.
If said anticipation were merely sparked by her investigation, she would not feel this odd conglomeration of confusion, delight, and apprehension.
Yet as days turned into weeks and weeks rolled over into a month, it had become apparent the keenness she felt to complete her morning rituals and venture to Innovation Park posthaste had more to do with a certain person than a purpose.
At first, she’d attributed this anomaly to gratitude.
Accepting Mr. Noble’s assistance with heavy lifting—along with shortening her excursions—had aided in the prevention of another crash.
However, continued examination of her inner workings led her to determine that gratitude, while one part of the whole, wasn’t the central axis around which her emotions revolved.
There was something else . . . something there that wasn’t there before.
She wasn’t just grateful for Mr. Noble’s help.
She found Mr. Noble himself most pleasant. His company enjoyable.
Which was quite peculiar.
Together, they’d formed a new routine, which Margaret had settled into comfortably.
Monday through Friday, at precisely two o’clock, she arrived at the factory.
Then Mr. Noble accompanied her to the records room, where the table would be prearranged with boxes of patent files and tea for two.
Combining their efforts had significantly sped things along, as had Mr. Noble’s dedication to skimming over the records in search of J.
Dawkins on weekends while she recuperated at home.
In fact, today they’d finally made it through the last of the factory’s patent records.
As Mr. Noble carried boxes back to storage, Margaret studied her now complete list of patents attributed to J.
Dawkins. According to the patent records, Dawkins had worked for Alvan T.
Harrison, Incorporated, since the company’s inception.
After two decades of steady productivity, Dawkins disappeared from the patent records in conjunction with the retirement date listed in his personnel file.
A thirty-year gap transpired in which his name was entirely absent.
Then, unaccountably, his name reappeared in the patent records last year—alongside Mrs. Cogsworth’s design of a steam-powered carpet cleaner.
Gnawing on her lip, Margaret scrutinized the dates.
Retirement would account for the gap, but it didn’t account for the sudden resumed productivity.
Nor did it explain why Dawkins’ employment had never been reinstated in his personnel file.
She needed to compare this list with the patent office rejection pile so she could determine exactly how much of the man’s work was pilfered.
As the handbook stated, Accumulation of information is a lady inspector’s primary and perpetual objective.
Come to think of it . . . the Handbook for Lady Inspectors also admonished that Teamwork makes quick work of much work.
Iva Leene was currently hosting her parents who’d come “’cross the pond” for a visit, but perhaps Margaret ought to take Helena and Louisa to hasten the cross-referencing process?
That would appease the chief’s concerns about her being overtaxed.
She could make a show of giving her friends a tour of the patent office, introducing them to Mr. Glidden, the only employee who really took notice of her frequent visits.
Jane, meanwhile, she could task with locating Mr. Dawkins and surveilling him for suspicious activities.
Refocusing on the list, Margaret’s gaze bounced between the dates marking the gap in productivity.
Why had Dawkins come out of retirement? What had driven him to resume his work—or resort to theft, as seemed to be the case?
There had to be a reason. Her attention shifted from the dates to the devices.
Perhaps the answer lay hidden in that quadrant.
Might there be some sort of correlation between the purloined patents themselves?
“What do you think of this gadget for a gala display, Miss Knight?”
She looked up with a start as Mr. Noble appeared around the walls of shelves, holding a veritable miniature of the Silver Swan.
Margaret’s lips parted, her soul too overawed for even a gasp. The elegant curve of the swan’s neck was beautifully crafted, and the feathers comprising its wings, exquisitely rendered.
A chuckle resonated in Mr. Noble’s chest. “I thought you might like it.”
“For goodness’ sake, Mr. Noble! Don’t keep me in suspense. What does it do?”
In answer, Mr. Noble placed the swan on the cleared table and pulled it backward, triggering a delicate series of clicks.
When he let go, the swan proceeded to glide forward, leisurely and gracefully, as though floating upon water.
Instead of plummeting off the edge of the table, the swan turned to orbit their now empty teapot and creamer in the middle of the table as though circumnavigating the banks of a pond.
As it neared Margaret’s cup, the swan slowed to a stop and raised its wings, which had been folded in repose, to reveal a hidden compartment.
“It’s meant to be filled with sugar.”
Margaret grinned with all the delight of a child. A swan sugar bowl that swam across the tea table. What a whimsical contrivance! “Oh, it’s enchanting! The grace with which it moves recalls more than one girlhood memory.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.” Mr. Noble reclined in his chair and prompted her to continue with the wave of a hand. “‘When I was a girl . . .’”
Margaret laughed at his eagerness. “When I was a girl . . . my parents and I were avid travelers. On our final trip abroad, in the spring of ’77, we spent time in Moscow.
Mama’s quite fond of the ballet, so Papa procured tickets to the premiere of a new production at the Bolshoi composed by Tchaikovsky. ”
Mr. Noble’s eyes widened. “Swan Lake.”
“You know it? Not many outside Russia are familiar with the production since it was deemed a critical failure. I never understood the negative response. Perhaps my perception was skewed by childish fancy, but I adored the production. The music is beautifully atmospheric and emotive, submerging to the depths of melancholy only to soar to the heights as love triumphs over evil, in spite of death. I tiptoed and twirled all the way to our hotel that evening. Even begged Papa to indulge me in a few dramatic lifts in the glow of the moonlight. How did you come to hear of Swan Lake? Did you see a production?”
“One might say that. Although, I didn’t watch so much as participate.” A blush turned Mr. Noble’s cheeks crimson, and he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was uh . . . in the orchestra that night.”
Great gadgets! In a previous conversation, Mr. Noble had mentioned playing the piano, but he’d said nothing of performing in a professional capacity.
He’d spoken as though he were a hobbyist, not a concert pianist of the Bolshoi’s caliber.
“Wait . . . that night, meaning the night of the ballet’s premiere in 1877?
That can’t be possible. You couldn’t have been older than—? ”
“Twelve. I was twelve.”
Twelve. He’d played the Bolshoi as a lad of twelve.
Margaret now vaguely recalled whispers of a prodigy about her age joining the Bolshoi Theater Orchestra that night, upon special request. The very same prodigy who later went on to achieve international acclaim in the music world.
“Gracious, you’re . . . Charles Noble! The Charles Noble? ”
Blush deepening, Mr. Noble shrugged. “Guilty as charged.”
Margaret didn’t know what was more fortuitous—that she and the Charles Noble had both been at the Swan Lake premiere all those years ago, or that their paths had crossed a second time due to an undercover assignment for the Daughters of Genius Society.
“This is a most unexpected turn of events. I followed your career for years.” She always perused the morning paper for stories regarding music as well as mechanics.
Even now, she could recall a front-page article bearing the headline Renowned Concert Pianist Cancels Upcoming Tour.
After that, his name had vanished from the entertainment section without so much as a farewell concert.
A dramatic departure that now suddenly made sense. Margaret’s heart sank to her stomach. “Your withdrawal from the stage . . . it was because of your father’s stroke, wasn’t it?”
His face turned ashen, and he swallowed. “I was needed at home.”
He was needed, and so he’d given it up. Just like that.
The travel, the spotlight, the music. Margaret knew what it was to have one’s life irrevocably upended, but in her case, the life-altering event had been of her own making, her own folly, and afterward she’d no choice but to live with the consequences.
She could only imagine how much more difficult it must’ve been for Mr. Noble.
He, like her parents, had his life overturned through no fault of his own. He, like her parents, had endured the trauma of watching a loved one suffer. And he, like her parents, had chosen to sacrifice his way of life to care for someone else.
“I trust you’ll not speak of this to anyone. I’d prefer to maintain my family’s privacy.”
“Of course, you’ve my word. Although, if you don’t mind my asking, what have you been doing all this time? You previously indicated you’d not been employed here long.”
“Indeed, my position with Alvan T. Harrison, Incorporated, is new and temporary. I’ve just been hired to coordinate the anniversary gala.
Then I plan to return to the law offices of Bailey, Barton, and Westland, where I’ve been a secretary these last five years.
That’s actually where Mr. Harrison and I crossed paths.
The job allows me to work near home and care for Father in the evenings, so my mother can rest.”
After working a full day, he served as his father’s caretaker at night? Just as Mama had cared for her all these years. As she cared for her still. “Do you regret it?” The question escaped before she thought better of it.
“Coming to work for Harrison?”
“Giving up your music. Your former way of life. Do you regret the sacrifice?” Did her parents? Did their hearts secretly harbor resentment the way hers secretly harbored guilt?
“One makes sacrifices for what one loves, and I love my family. They gave me the opportunity to enjoy a career in music, and for their sake, I willingly laid my music down. I’ve no regrets or resentments. I’d do it all over again.”
Margaret ached to weep, but her eyes remained dry. Perhaps there was hope her parents felt the same. “You still play for pleasure at least, surely?” His talent shouldn’t be left to rust.
“No, I, uh . . . I sold my piano. The Steinway covered the remaining costs of my brother’s education at university.
Benjamin. He graduated with a bachelor’s degree in law—top of his class—and has been attending the Inns of Court these last three years.
We expect he’ll be called to the bar this year.
” A proud smile whisked over Mr. Noble’s face, brief and fleeting, blown away by a chill of solemnity.
“Father’s stroke gave me perspective on what really matters.
I can’t in good conscience waste valuable resources on something as frivolous as music when my family has real needs that must be met.
” A slight tremor disturbed Mr. Noble’s hand, and he shoved it in a trouser pocket.
Sympathy welled within Margaret. A change of subject seemed in order.
“Next week, I’ll need to spend some time at the patent office.
While I’m otherwise engaged, could you discreetly ascertain whether any of the inventors on staff were acquainted with Dawkins?
I’d like to question them, if we can contrive a way to do so without raising suspicions. ”
“Of course. I’ll have that information waiting upon your return.”
Of course he would. The man was efficient, diligent, and reliable.
He offered help without hesitation and sacrifice without resentment.
The better question was how much should Margaret ask of him moving forward in her investigation, now knowing how much he already gave of himself, night and day, to so many.
Yes, Mr. Noble had agreed to be her covert asset, but the more she got to know him . . . the more he felt like a friend.
And the more she feared becoming a burden to the man who already bore so much.