Chapter 41
Chapter
Margaret’s routine had sprung a gasket last spring, on that most ordinary of Mondays, when she’d been assigned as lead inspector on the purloined patent case.
Once upon a time, she’d wanted nothing more than to resume said routine.
Once upon a time, she’d thought it illogical to hope for anything else.
Yet, here she was, living the most illogical of hopes and experiencing the most improbable of dreams. A happily ever after.
With a gasket of hope, she and Charles had joined their hearts and their lives, inventing a whole new routine, built for two.
Wake the husband at precisely seven o’clock.
Margaret watched the cat-shaped clock hanging on the bedroom wall, its eyes shifting left and right as the curled pendulum tail swished below the stomach dial.
At last, the clock mewed the new hour, and she smiled with giddy anticipation.
Gingerly rolling onto her side, she kissed Charles.
His eyes opened, and a blush promptly turned his cheeks her favorite shade of red.
Never had Margaret imagined she could make a man blush, let alone with such regularity. It was rather intoxicating. As was the proper kiss with which hers was ardently returned.
Roughly a quarter hour later—this part of the routine was notably the most flexible—Charles assisted Margaret with her toilette.
As she had need, he helped to wash her face, dress in the tea gown of her choosing, and brush and plait her hair.
Next came teaspoon assessment and calisthenics.
Then Margaret enjoyed a respite in her wheelchair while Charles saw to his own appearance and attire.
She rapped her knuckles upon a built-in shelving unit, of which the third shelf from the top had been converted into a hidey-hole.
Emerging from the rounded opening, Figaro yawned.
His white mustache seemed to droop as he languidly hopped into her lap.
Margaret scratched his soft ears. Poor little dear was still adjusting to all the changes.
New routine, new home, new roommate. Although, thankfully, Figs had accepted the latter with minimal pouting, thanks to his generally amiable temperament and a rather persuasive tête-à-tête sweetened by a spot of clotted cream.
Once Charles was ready, it was time to board the steam-powered elevator Papa had installed to make their new home more accessible and revel in the ride downstairs.
Margaret wasn’t sure which filled her with more joy—having her very own elevator or having her parents gift her Great-Grand Drosselmeyer’s shop as a wedding present.
With a delightful ding, the elevator opened to the workshop on the first floor, where clocks had once been repaired and automaton animals brought to life.
The space Margaret now utilized to craft automated music boxes, featuring unique melodies composed by Charles.
After being closed for renovations, they’d soon celebrate the grand reopening.
What had once been Drosselmeyer & Son, Unique Clocks and Dreams would be unveiled to the public as Grand & Noble, Unique Music Boxes and Reveries.
Upon arriving downstairs, play the Steinway for half an hour before breakfast.
Charles held open the swinging door, allowing Margaret to enter the quiet shop front.
Decorative shelving displayed music boxes that contained hidden marvels for customers to discover with delight and welcome into their homes with wonder.
The sales desk and register stood at the ready for opening day, when the grand piano by the shop windows would surely draw many people through the door with the allure of untold harmonies.
Margaret rolled up to the instrument while Charles retrieved the pile of mail, which the postman had slipped through the front door’s slot. “More responses, Charles?”
Over the course of the renovations, they’d posted invitations to the shop’s grand opening.
Thanks to Mr. Barton’s penchant for punctuality, the Magi’s RSVP had been first to arrive, accompanied by a box of pastries from Mr. Westland and a postscript from Mr. Bailey saying he’d be “arriving in style with a beautiful woman on either arm,” referring to Elaine and Maya, obviously.
Professor Quimby had responded next, followed by her sisters at the Daughters of Genius Society.
Next had been an RSVP from Charles’ parents, folded with a note of thanks in Mimi’s script for the accessibility modifications Margaret and Papa had made to the Noble home.
Mumsie and Grandpapa of course promised to be there too, along with many of the shop’s former clientele.
“Indeed, Reverie. The stragglers on our list have finally responded.” Charles flipped through the envelopes. “Here’s a note from your parents, postmarked from Paris.”
“France?”
“Texas.”
Margaret grinned as she examined the postmark.
“Ah yes, I forgot France was last month’s adventure.
Mama’s publisher has been quite eager for her to write a travel guide of America’s Wild West.” She perused the letter.
“Mama says they’ll arrive home just in time for the grand opening, thanks to the propulsion pinions Papa added to the clockwork owl’s feathers. ”
“And Barrister Benjamin will make an appearance as well, the tardy toad.” Charles shook his head, reading over an open letter. “He’s just won another case, which means he’s going to be unbearable.”
“As will the teasing you employ to maintain his humility, no doubt. Honestly, the way the pair of you go on, any logical person would assume you detested each other.”
“Detest mine brother? Nonsense! Benjamin may be a toad, but he is first and foremost my toad. I alone may jest at his warts.”
Margaret snort-laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”
Figaro leapt from her lap onto the piano. Scaling the music desk, he settled beside her latest whimsical creation—a music box featuring a miniature replica of the Silver Swan.
After an intimate winter wedding ceremony, Charles had whisked Margaret away on a luxurious and leisurely train ride north to County Durham for a special surprise—a visit to the Bowes Museum in the quaint market town of Barnard Castle.
Unbeknownst to Margaret, ever since she’d accepted his suit, Charles had been searching for the automaton she’d once admired at the Paris International Exposition.
Eventually, he’d learned it had been acquired by art collector John Bowes and his wife, Josephine, to be featured in their museum.
Having arranged for a private tour, Charles had then surprised her with the Silver Swan.
Margaret would never forget how wholly loved she’d felt that day, watching the Silver Swan glide along the crystalline river of glass while Charles serenaded her on a nearby piano, specially procured for the occasion, with pieces that represented their story.
Debussy’s “Reverie.” Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake.” And Spafford’s “It Is Well With My Soul.”
Figaro stretched to his full length, swatting at the keys impatiently.
“Speaking of tardy, Figaro seems to think we’re running behind this morning. Figs is a most habitual creature, so we mustn’t distress his constitution by disrupting our routine.”
With a laugh, Charles assumed his customary place on the piano bench designed to fit snugly against Margaret’s wheelchair. He positioned his fingers alongside hers, hovering over the keys, and sought her gaze. “For the sake of Figaro’s constitution, my dear Reverie, let us play.”
And together, they did just that, in harmonious accord.