Chapter 35
Chapter
Papa hadn’t come home for dinner, and his untouched food had grown cold, along with the sense of dread in Margaret’s veins.
A trip to the clock shop proved Papa hadn’t stayed to work late, and had turned off the lights, locked up as he was accustomed, and departed without a trace of foul play.
No signs of a struggle. No evidence of anything amiss.
Though something was quite obviously and painfully amiss.
For Papa had never paid that visit to Charles’ home as promised, and Papa always, always kept his word.
Now Papa was missing, and that fact had brought every turning gear in Margaret’s mind to a grinding halt.
She could not think where Papa might be.
She could not think at all. She could only sit in the Noble family’s parlor, holding Mama’s trembling hand while others moved about them, making decisions and taking actions of which she was no longer capable.
Charles had gone to inform Professor Quimby and thereby alert the rest of the Daughters of Genius Society.
Someone had gone to Scotland Yard and summoned the authorities.
Policemen had arrived at the Noble residence.
Questions had been asked, so very many of them, and an investigation promptly launched into the mysterious disappearance of a marquess.
Someone had offered a cup of tea Margaret couldn’t drink and a fresh handkerchief she couldn’t feel even as she used it absentmindedly.
Not for the first time in her life, her body mechanically wept though her mind couldn’t process what triggered the automatic function.
Distress was too inadequate a word.
Nothing felt real.
She was benumbed . . . trapped in a nightmare.
At some unknown hour, Charles returned with Professor Quimby and the pair had conveyed her and Mama back home. To rest, they said. As though Margaret could sleep. To wait for word, they’d said. As though Papa would be found and normalcy restored at any minute.
After assuring them that every available D.O.G.S.
resource would be utilized and no stone left unturned, Professor Quimby took her leave with a purposeful stride.
Margaret and Mama retired upstairs long enough to change into dry clothes, but neither one of them would consent to lying down in their beds.
Instead, they gathered in the parlor, which offered a clear view of the front door in the adjacent foyer.
Charles assisted Margaret in transferring from her wheelchair to the settee, making her as comfortable as could be managed, swathing her in blankets to ward off the ache that had settled into her bones after being out in the rain.
Meanwhile, Mama paced the carpet, wringing her hands and murmuring prayers that vacillated between strident demands and strangled pleas.
In stark contrast, Margaret could not bring herself to pray, either aloud or in spirit. She hadn’t the teaspoons or the words. Her tears would have to be prayer enough. For she’d nothing more to offer in supplication.
A somber chord resonated through the room, drawing Margaret’s unfocused gaze across the parlor.
She blinked, and her bleary vision clarified.
Charles sat at the piano, recalling another night when, at that same instrument, Margaret had used melodies to reset his short-circuited system.
She swallowed against a lump in her throat as another tear wet her cheek.
If ever her soul needed a reset, it was now.
And somehow, instinctually, Charles seemed to understand that, for he began to coax music into the room.
Tenderly, a melody unfolded the lyrics of a hymn in Margaret’s mind.
One of the many she’d woven into her medley for him that night.
When peace like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll.
When life brought seasons of peace and sorrow in turn .
. . still, it could be well with her soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come.
Though pain overwhelmed body and panic overwhelmed mind .
. . still, it could be well with her soul.
It was all right for Margaret to be needy and tired, helpless and fragile. For her helpless state was regarded, not despised. The Machinist, who made and mended souls, knew His inventions were formed from dust, and it stirred His compassion. Not indignation.
Finishing the piece, Charles allowed the final note to ring out long and clear, and Margaret let the melodic balm absorb into her aching bones.
At some point, Mama had reclined upon the chaise longue.
Not sleeping, but still. Before Margaret noticed his movement, Charles was on the settee beside her, stroking her hair as her head came to rest on his shoulder.
Gentle sunlight peered through the bay windows, and the warmth of dawn washed over Margaret, soothing her weary soul as birds greeted the day, twittering a benediction of fresh mercy and renewed hope.
Charles would still be with Margaret, reveling in the feel of her tucked against his side, if the lady inspectors hadn’t arrived en masse to take his place by force.
Lady Belgrave, in particular, had been rather keen to extract him from the settee as the group encircled Margaret, effectively closing ranks.
Not that he could fault the women’s protectiveness.
Safeguarding Margaret had been his sole prerogative ever since she’d rolled across his threshold last night.
The sight of Reverie, pale and frightened, had nearly undone him.
Then those first tears, displacing the raindrops on her skin, had finished the job.
As Lady Belgrave had shooed Charles out the door, she’d insisted he go get some rest. While he was dead tired, rest held no appeal.
He needed to do something. But since there was nothing left to be done at present, what he probably needed most desperately was to seek wise counsel and fervent prayer.
Thankfully, he knew just where to find both in ample supply.
Charles burst into the offices of Bailey, Barton, and Westland, and the jingle of the bell over the door filled him with the comforting sense of retreating to a familiar refuge.
Barton was the first to rise, lowering his spectacles to gawk at one pocket watch and then the other. “Did we have an appointment I forgot to put on the books?”
As if Barton ever forgot anything. “No, this is an impromptu visit.”
Rounding his desk, Westland examined Charles with those observant eyes of blue. “You look as though you didn’t get a wink of sleep.”
In a trice, Bailey joined them by the door, Maya at his heels. “Out with it, Charlie. What’s wrong?”
Before Charles could finish recounting the very long night’s trying events, the Magi had linked arms and started to pray, though not in unison. Rather, three separate prayers overlapped one another for several minutes before a trio of amens harmonized into a single bass note.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Rubbing his prickly jaw that had missed its morning shave, Charles sought the time on the synchronized wall clocks.
Herman Bemberg, it was a workday! And the last thing Margaret needed right now was her covert asset raising suspicions and provoking questions by showing up to work late.
“I, uh . . . I should go. I need to get to the factory posthaste. Today I’m supposed to oversee the transport of displays items for the gala over to Westminster Hall. ”
Scurrying to his desk, Barton retrieved a thick folder. “If you’re headed to Innovation Park, would you mind delivering this copy of Mr. Harrison’s will?”
Charles accepted the folder wearily. “Made more changes, has he?”
“Yes, Mr. Harrison came in just last week requesting another amendment to include—”
“Additional beneficiaries.” Nodding, Charles paged through the file out of habit, and a familiar name caught his eye.
Then another. He rushed to his old desk, slapped down the file, and slipped on his reading spectacles.
The names of those chosen to receive bequests upon Mr. Harrison’s death jumped off the page as though written in all capitals with red ink.
Westland laughed. “That many typos, eh?”
No, not typos. Elucidation. The reason why the robbed inventors’ names on Margaret’s list had looked so eerily familiar.