Chapter 29
Chapter
Like any other short-circuited system, Mr. Noble’s needed to be shut down for repairs.
Which was precisely why Margaret had brought him here.
She knew from experience how to power off a whirring mind, silencing the thoughts that hummed and crackled in an incessant current, draining the entire body even as it continued sputtering on fumes.
Here, where it was safe to be fractured and aching, she could provide Mr. Noble with the mandatory reset he required.
It was the right thing to do, she was certain.
Although it might prove rather difficult to explain.
Margaret waved at the departing carriage rolling off into the predawn blend of indigo tinged with lavender and shut the door to the house.
There was no going back now. Jane and Iva Leene had been deposited at headquarters to give Professor Quimby a full report, and Mrs. Hackney had just trotted away with Misty.
She was now quite alone with a man she’d brought home in the dead of night.
Well, not technically alone. After all, her parents were just upstairs.
Margaret rotated her chair to face Mr. Noble, who still looked rather dazed and haggard.
The foyer’s dimmed sconces revealed shadows gathering under his eyes, and occasional tremors still coursed through his right hand.
They’d had quite the night. Exhausting and eventful, to say the least. Thank God no one had been hurt worse.
Did the knot on the back of his head throb as badly as her shoulder did?
She gingerly touched the spot where she’d be bruised by the morrow.
Come to think of it, perhaps they were both in need of a system reset.
Starting with a dose of feline therapy. Margaret rolled toward the grand staircase where her cat snoozed on the bottom step, in the shape of a croissant.
Alerted by the vibrations of her chair, Figaro’s amber eyes popped open.
In two bounds, Figs was in her lap, purring.
“Mr. Noble, allow me to introduce Figaro.”
Mr. Noble blinked at her pet. “Does your cat have a mustache?”
“Indubitably.” Margaret brushed her thumbs along the white markings on either side of Figaro’s black cheeks that resembled a perfectly curled mustache. “It cuts a dashing figure, what with his white spats, shirtwaist, and gloves, does it not?”
A weary smile tugged at Mr. Noble’s mouth, and he scratched Figs behind the ears. “Have you brought me here to meet your cat, Lady Margaret?”
“Actually, I’ve brought you here to meet another friend of mine.” Clasping his left hand in her right, she levered her wheelchair forward, guiding them toward the darkened parlor. With a flick of a switch, the chandelier overhead bathed her haven in warm light.
An audible exhale relaxed Mr. Noble’s taut features, his gaze captured by the grand piano tucked in a niche of floor-to-ceiling bay windows.
Margaret still couldn’t fathom that he’d gone years without playing.
How had the man endured such deprivation?
There was a reason her morning routine was structured to include time at the keys—music was a healing balm as vital to her well-being as calisthenics.
Margaret gave his hand a squeeze before releasing it, so she could roll up to the piano.
She parked before the keys, turned off the wheelchair’s engine, and engaged an emergency brake for added stability.
Figaro alighted on the piano, curling between her music boxes and settling in for what came next.
She pressed an upholstery tack on the armrest. A wooden board ejected from the chair’s left, and a pair of retractable brass legs lowered to the ground, creating a miniature bench.
One of her parents often sat next to her when she wished to play duets.
She patted the bench, beckoning Mr. Noble to join her at the piano.
A tremor disturbed his hand, and he shook his head. “I . . . I d-don’t think I can play.”
“I didn’t bring you here to play. I brought you here to listen.”
After another moment’s hesitation, Mr. Noble settled on the bench.
One by one, Margaret wound each of her music boxes, and the automaton creatures awakened, striking up their instruments.
The noise would undoubtedly wake the household, but since her parents and the staff were accustomed to her playing at odd hours when she required distraction from the pain, no one was likely to check on her straightaway.
Hopefully, they’d remain undisturbed long enough for both of them to reset.
Fingers taking to the keys, Margaret joined her automatons in their customary duet of “Abide with Me.” When the machines wound down, ending the song, she kept the music flowing softly.
Arranging her favorite hymns into an impromptu medley, she played, in spite of the pulsing throb in her shoulder.
She played, and she praised God for their safety.
She played, and she prayed for the man at her side who carried a guilt not his to bear.
Soon, Mr. Noble began to breathe in time with the music.
Lengthening his inhales, slowing his exhales.
The tension started to unwind from the top of his head to his stiff shoulders to his fisted hands that uncurled and settled at his sides.
She played until his countenance relaxed completely and the tremors finally ceased.
Until at last, they were both still and at rest.
When Margaret finished the final strains of “It Is Well,” a serene sort of silence enveloped the room.
She turned toward Mr. Noble, noting the tears cascading over the angular lines of his face.
“Five years without music, without air, is too long. You must allow yourself time to play. Time to breathe. You said the attacks of panic worsened after your father’s stroke .
. . when you gave up music. I cannot think that is a coincidence. ”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Taking time to play feels reckless. Like I’m walking out that door, leaving Father alone again, and—I . . . I can’t be that selfish. I won’t. Father’s physical condition entails real risk. Real pain.”
“Drawing comparisons to the pain of others is a pointless, belittling exercise that helps no one.” Margaret cupped his face, forcing his bronze eyes to look directly into her own.
She rubbed her thumbs along his temples, imagining the pain hidden within.
Oh, how she knew what it was to have pain no one could see.
Pain no one acknowledged was real. “When the panic surges through your system, do you hurt, Mr. Noble?”
Tears welled in his eyes. His throat bobbed, scraping out a reply. “Y-yes.”
“If you hurt, then your pain is real. All pain matters in God’s eyes.
Whether it afflicts the body or the mind, all pain grieves His heart.
Especially the pain we won’t allow Him to tend.
” Releasing Mr. Noble’s face, Margaret took up his nearest hand and placed it upon the piano keys.
“Seeking repair from our Maker, allowing ourselves sufficient time in His presence for regular maintenance, isn’t selfish.
It’s vital. For only when we rely on God as our Sustainer is it possible to shake and yet not be shaken.
What if, in sacrificing music, you’re sacrificing the very means by which the Machinist chooses to comfort and mend your soul? ”
Margaret allowed a moment for her words to settle in Mr. Noble’s windings.
She examined his bronze gaze, watching for a spark of comprehension as the pieces clicked together and gears began to turn.
Yet the gleam she noted was not one of comprehension.
It was the anomalous twinkle she’d come to associate with Mr. Noble .
. . but different, somehow. Warmer. Brighter.
As though a flame had been lit within them, the hue of his eyes darkened to a richer brown flecked with flaming umber. Mr. Noble’s gaze fell to their hands, laid one atop the other on the ivories. Clasping her fingers, he raised them to his lips.
Margaret’s breath caught as Mr. Noble pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles. Her jaw dropped. He’d kissed her! He’d kissed . . . her. Why would he—
“I thought that might wake me up, but it appears I’m still dreaming.” A flush of crimson swept a bashful smile across Mr. Noble’s face. “Ever since we met, you’ve felt like a sort of dream to me . . . a reverie. One from which I never wish to awaken.”
All means of verbal articulation fled Margaret’s faculties.
He was exhausted to the point of delirium.
He couldn’t mean . . . couldn’t feel this way about her.
It was impossible. And yet Mr. Noble looked at her admiringly.
Unwaveringly. Tracing his thumb along her fingers as though he feared she might flit away if he let go.
Leaning ever nearer until, eyes closing against reality, his forehead pressed against her own, his breath matching hers in syncopation.
In that moment, Margaret realized Jane was right.
Against all reason, against all logic, Mr. Noble did fancy her.
Even more startling, Margaret found she fancied Charles back with astounding fervor.
“Maggie, are you all right, dear one? Did the mission trigger a—”
With a start, Margaret broke away from Charles just as Mama abruptly halted in the foyer and Papa promptly bumped into her back. The pair of them were clad in white nightgowns, robes of velvet, and matching slippers. Mama stared in her kerchief while Papa gaped in his cap.
And Margaret blushed hot enough to spontaneously combust.
Cheeks pale and green eyes wide, Papa pointed in Charles’ direction. “Clara. Clara. There’s a man.”
Mama grasped Papa’s failing arm and secured him like an anchor. She took in the parlor view, and her rosy lips blossomed into a smile. “There is, indeed. A very handsome man.” She attempted to draw Papa away, whispering coaxingly, “Perhaps we’d best go upstairs, darling.”
“And leave this—this man—with my daughter? Alone, and at this hour? Why, just look how the bounder is leaning, Clara? Lean-ing!”
Mama’s silver eyes flashed at Papa. “Stars above, whatever shall we do? Shall we make them marry at first light to avoid the deluge of rumors and scandal?”
Margaret pressed a hand to her scalding face.
Bringing Charles home was proving to be even more complicated than she’d anticipated, but there was no backtracking now.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Noble, allow me to introduce my parents, Theodore and Clara Kingsley, the Marquess and Marchioness of Marlow.”