Chapter 34
Chapter
“You’re overcomplicating a simple fix.” Margaret stood in the rear workshop of Drosselmeyer and Son, where Papa still took tinkering jobs on occasion.
Steadying herself with a hand upon the wooden worktable, she concluded her examination of the polyphon music box he’d been struggling to repair.
“The clockwork motor is in fine working order. However, the pressure bar needs to be adjusted so it keeps a firm hold of the disc as the drive dog revolves around the center post.”
Realization lit in Papa’s green eyes. “That would explain why the disc keeps bouncing when the plectra attempt to engage with the comb. I thought the motor’s vibrations were to blame. See? This is why I needed you, my girl. You’re the music-box expert.”
Margaret grinned. No doubt he could’ve solved the problem eventually. Invitations to help in the shop were Papa’s way of spending quality time with his girl, and she loved him all the more for prizing her company above her expertise.
She looked around the simple space, quaint and homey.
Every nook and cranny held fond memories of tinkering with Papa as a girl between their travels around the world.
He’d not worked here as often in recent years.
From bits of conversation overheard between her parents, she’d deduced that Papa was contemplating retirement.
The only thing holding him back was the shop itself, the unanswered question of what was to be done with the building should the shop cease to be.
Mama would never agree to sell, not that Papa was altogether keen on the notion himself.
Yet, the thought of letting the dear old place sit boarded up, forsaken and forlorn, didn’t sit right either.
If the building were wheelchair accessible and she were capable of living alone, Margaret would be tempted to make the space her own.
Papa proceeded to adjust the tension on the polyphon pressure bar. “That young man Noble came to visit me here the other day.”
“He did? Whatever for?”
“Mr. Noble wished to make his intentions toward you known but said he’d not formally ask for my blessing until he was sure of yours.” Papa cleared his throat, gaze fixed on his work. “Do you care for him, my girl?”
A conglomeration of emotion overwhelmed Margaret’s faculties.
Charles had declared himself to her father.
The weight of what that meant had her lowering into her wheelchair for support.
Great gadgets, he was really and truly serious about pursuing a future together.
Like a favorite tune, the rich timbre of Charles’ voice wafted through her mind.
“I’ve counted the cost, Maggie, and still, I choose you. I will always choose you.”
“I do care for him, Papa. Very much.” As soon as the words left her lips and the sound returned to her ears, Margaret knew they rang true.
She loved Charles Noble. And if he dared to choose a life with her after counting the cost, then she’d find the courage to choose him back.
Perhaps the cost wouldn’t feel quite so high if they paid it together.
Papa set down his tools and met her gaze, his eyes watery. “Then your Mr. Noble shall have my blessing. Lord knows he had your mother’s the moment she caught sight of him leaning.” A chuckle dislodged a tear from his eye. “Never have I seen my pretty little grump take a liking to someone so fast.”
Overcome with a combination of embarrassment and elation, Margaret fiddled with an upholstery tack on her chair. “I better head home before I run out of teaspoons.”
Papa rose and pressed a kiss to her crown. “Let me hail you a cab. I believe it started raining since you arrived.”
Margaret followed Papa through a swinging door into the storefront, the downpour becoming apparent as it pelted the front windows at a slant.
She stood and pressed the button to collapse her chair while Papa dashed outside.
Once he’d flagged down a carriage, Papa came back to provide her with the shelter of an umbrella while she climbed inside.
After loading her chair and giving the driver their direction, Papa returned to the carriage window. “Assure your mother I’ll head straight home after closing the shop—and paying a brief visit to your Mr. Noble.”
Nimble and quick, Charles’ fingers jigged along the piano keys, celebrating his brother’s major accomplishment with an upbeat melody to match the occasion. The notes stirred the air, refreshening the space with the hope of good things yet to come. New melodies yet to be played.
With a flourish of the ivories, Charles brought the piece to an end, and his small audience erupted in applause.
Father clapped his mobile hand against his leg, half of his face raised in a smile that Charles returned.
It had been a nerve-racking process carrying Father downstairs so he could see the new instrument, but by Brahms’ beard, it had been worth it!
He was grateful Benjamin had helped him transport Father to the sofa where he was supported by Mother and an assortment of strategically arranged cushions.
When had Charles last seen his family so happy?
He raised a glass to Benjamin. “A hearty hurrah for Barrister Benjamin, for being approved and called to the bar!”
Another round of applause resonated through the parlor, this time directed toward his younger brother, who’d angled his wingback chair to face the piano rather than the hearth.
Benjamin’s expression was a mix of relief, fatigue, and the ruddy glow of contentment.
“Thank you, all. I’m eager to get the family practice up and running again. ”
Taking up the chalk on his slate, Father wrote something and held it aloft.
Proud of you, son.
Benjamin nodded to acknowledge he’d read the words, then turned away for a moment, swiping at his face with his sleeve.
After erasing the chalk letters, Father wrote something else and angled the slate toward Charles. Good to hear you play again.
Charles’ chest swelled as Mother nodded. “Indeed it was, Charlie. Perhaps it’s time for you to consider returning to your first love and see about scheduling some concerts.”
“Ah, but Mother dearest, don’t you know? Charlie’s got a new love in his life now. The music has been displaced by a lady.”
Father’s eyes widened, and Mother gasped. “Charlie, do you and Miss Knight finally have an understanding? Why haven’t you introduced us yet?”
Benjamin leaned forward, elbows on knees, and chin atop his fists. “Yeah, Charlie, why all the secrecy?”
Charles’ face flamed as he glared at his brother. “Loudmouth lout.”
“Lovelorn lummox.”
“Don’t you dare start that worn-out routine, boys! I need details! Details! What is she like? What about her family? When can we finally meet them? Do you plan to propose before Christmas? Shall we plan on a spring wedding?”
Charles sagged against the piano, which protested with a cacophony of sour notes.
With a snort, Benjamin dissolved into laughter. Then he shielded his mouth with an open hand, whispering toward their parents conspiratorially. “Look how the mere mention of the lady gets him all flustered and red in the face. Isn’t it adorable?”
Mother nodded. “It is rather sweet.”
Father grinned, holding his slate aloft. Precious.
Charles sighed, his face no doubt turning a deeper shade of crimson. Impossible, the lot of them were completely and utterly impossible. “I believe you’ve made your point, family mine. Shall I attempt to answer your inquiries, or would you prefer to go on with your nonsense?”
“I don’t know, brother mine. I, for one, think between the three of us we could tease you for a good hour or two more before we run out of material. What say you, esteemed parents?”
A pounding on the front door had Charles jumping to escape his family’s repartee.
“I’ll get it.” Perhaps the jolly jokesters could dispense with their hoots and giggles in his absence, so they might have a serious conversation upon his return.
He really would like to tell his parents about Margaret. Seek their counsel and prayers.
Charles flung open the door to find Lady Marlow on their puddled stoop, attempting to shield Margaret with a lone umbrella from the steady downpour.
Humperdinck and Wette! Ushering the ladies inside with all haste, he shut the door on the rainy night, but before he could offer to take their drenched cloaks, Margaret blurted, “Is he here? Is Papa here?”
The fear in her voice knotted Charles’ stomach. Why would she expect to find Lord Marlow here, and at this late hour? “No, he’s not. Should he be?”
Lady Marlow swayed, and Margaret began to cry.