Chapter 32
Chapter
At long last, the Daughters of Genius Society had been issued an invitation to Margaret’s inner sanctum.
Today, her fellow inspectors and dear sisters were to join her at the Kingsley home for afternoon tea, little realizing she’d be pouring out her soul along with the Assam.
No doubt, she’d need several cuppas to bolster her courage during the upcoming conversations.
And two scones, minimum.
Yesterday, three days into her crash, Margaret had felt improved enough to allow Mama to wash, brush, and plait her hair.
Then today she’d helped Margaret change from nightclothes into a tea gown of sky blue, which helped her to feel more presentable.
They’d discussed hosting tea in the parlor, but in the end, they’d agreed it was wiser for Margaret to remain abed.
With her current deficiency of spoons, traversing downstairs, even assisted by her wheeled chair, was simply too strenuous.
What little energy she had must be reserved for the visit itself.
A knock resounded on her chamber door, indicating Mama had escorted her newly arrived guests upstairs. Margaret took a deep breath. Lord, please don’t let me lose a friend today. But be my strength and comfort if I do. “Come in.”
One by one, her friends crossed the threshold bearing gifts as though it were her birthday. With a smile, Helena presented a potted plant, which she situated in a puddle of sunlight by the window. “I thought you might find the chamomile blooms soothing.”
Louisa presented a copy of Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell, “so the village ladies might keep her company,” while Jane handed her the day’s edition of the London Dispatch, having marked the science and technology section with a pink ribbon for her perusal.
Lastly, Iva Leene strode in with a wicker picnic basket slung in the crook of one arm.
From inside she withdrew a pocketknife, placing it atop the book and newspaper.
“When I’m laid up, nothing eases my mind so well as embroidery and whittling.
I assumed you’d everything needed for embroidery but reckoned you didn’t have a decent whittling knife.
Made this one myself. Sharpened it good just this morning, so take care not to lose a finger. ”
As Iva Leene set the basket on the quilt, something rustled inside the wicker, startling Figaro.
Curious but cautious, the cat tiptoed toward the basket, pausing to sniff the air with every tentative step.
Iva Leene shrugged. “In case the knife didn’t strike your fancy, I brought another gift guaranteed to make you smile.
” She opened the basket, and up popped several pairs of floppy pink ears.
“Piglets!” Margaret laughed, ignoring the pain it triggered.
Iva Leene grinned with pride. “Yes, siree. My folks, Jimmy Dale and Barb, brought these here little piggies all the way from their farm in North Carolina. Maggie, meet Fern, Wilbur, and Babe. Winners of the blue ribbon at this year’s Transylvania County Fair.
Don’t fret about your linens, now. I bathed the lot in buttermilk just this morning, so the piggies are clean enough to eat off of, as Pa would say. ”
Margaret smiled. “Thank you, Iva Leene. Thank you all. Please, help yourselves to some tea and have a seat.” She motioned to the full tea service Mama had arranged on her dresser and the semicircle of chairs Papa had positioned about her bedside.
Once her friends were settled, tea in hand, Margaret wet her lips. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you here out of the blue.”
They nodded.
“In truth, I’ve been woefully remiss in not welcoming you to my home sooner. Despite your being my dearest friends, I’ve kept you at arm’s length, but today I intend to rectify that and offer an explanation. To start, I’d like to clarify the state of my health.”
Louisa gasped, “You’re dying, aren’t you? Oh, Maggie . . .” A sob fractured her voice as tears sprung from her eyes. “I just knew the unexpected invitation was an ominous foreshadowing. I can’t bear it! Saying goodbye to another friend. It’ll be like losing Beth March all over again, and—”
“Peace, Louisa. I’m not announcing my impending death, I assure you.
” Margaret sighed. Perhaps suddenly gathering her friends about her bedside without explanation wasn’t the brightest of ideas.
To the penny-dreadful author’s rather active and often morbid imagination, the scene must cut quite the grim visage.
Poor, sweet Louisa. “I simply wish to answer the questions you’ve been too delicate to ask and tell you of the accident that necessitates my use of a wheeled chair. ”
A hush fell over the room as her friends exchanged glances and then fixed rapt attention upon Margaret, cuing her to begin her story.
Starting from the very beginning, she told them about the accident, the extent and chronic nature of her injuries, and the doctors’ predictions that her condition would only worsen with the passage of time.
The group listened in relative silence, although a few times Louisa clasped a hand to her mouth, and Margaret noted a sheen of tears welling in Helena’s eyes.
Clearing her throat, Margaret shifted her attention to Figaro playing with the piggies three, lest she lose her nerve before she’d concluded.
“After the accident, I had very little in common with my childhood friends, and over time, they began to fade out of my life.
Letters became sporadic, calls were paid with less frequency, and conversations became stilted.
“When I was fifteen, one of my closest friends came to tea, and during our awkward attempt at chatting as we once did, I gifted her a music box with an automated horse for her birthday. This prompted her to tell me how she’d celebrated the special occasion by riding in the park and picnicking with a group of friends I used to be numbered amongst. She prattled away about the party for the remainder of the visit, completely oblivious to the fact that I was shattering inside.
My best friend hadn’t seen fit to invite me to her party.
My friends had gathered, and I’d been excluded from their merriment.
While I might not be able to ride, I could’ve sat beneath the oaks and drank tea.
I could’ve been present, even if I couldn’t participate, but it seemed my presence was no longer wanted.
Nor missed. That rejection cemented in my mind what I believed to be truth.
I was no longer a fit companion for able-bodied girls.
I was a broken thing my friends no longer wanted to play with. ”
The tears came then, blurring Margaret’s vision so her friends resembled an impressionist portrait.
“That’s why I never invited you to my home where I must accept the most aid in order to be the most functional in the workshop.
I was afraid if you knew how weak I am .
. . afraid that if I relied on you too much .
. . you’d leave me behind too. The thought of losing you was more than I could bear.
For you are as dear to me as family, my precious sisters.
” She sniffled. “There. That’s all there is to say . . . there isn’t any more.”
Silence descended upon them with the solemnity of a house in mourning, clocks stopped and mirrors swathed in black cloth.
Margaret shut her eyes, so if her friends should choose to leave, she’d at least not have the pain of their turning backs seared into her memory.
The rattling of china disturbed the quiet, but the door did not whoosh open.
Nor did it click shut. Instead, the mattress on which she lay sank lower.
Weighted down by one, two . . . four more bodies.
Her eyes shot open. Divided into pairs, her sisters hemmed Margaret in without saying a single word.
Gently, they drew near. Stroked her hair. Clasped her hands.
Coming alongside Margaret in her pain, they held her close.
They rested tear-wetted cheeks beside hers on the down pillow.
They wept with her in reverent silence, sharing her grief, entering her lament.
They whispered hushed prayers over her, lifting her pain and fears to God.
Her Father and theirs. With a mew and a few snorts, the animals shifted, settling into the nooks and crannies of the sisterly embrace, and like that, they stayed.
To the relief and astonishment of Margaret’s aching heart.
They stayed.