Chapter 2 #2
Margaret smiled. Leave it to Mama to know when she needed cheering up.
She pressed a brass button concealed among a row of upholstery tacks on her wheelchair’s armrest. A hidden partition in the carved mahogany opened, and a lever appeared near her hand.
She pressed another upholstery tack, activating the motor she’d installed in her customized mechanical wheelchair.
Grasping the steering lever, she met Mama’s playful challenge with a resolute posture. “Get set.”
Mama gathered the skirt of her wrapper in hand, taking the stance of a racehorse at Ascot. “Go!” Her mother took off at a run with a girlish giggle.
Margaret chuckled and wrapped an arm around the cat in her lap. “Hang on to your whiskers, Figs.”
With a forward tilt of the lever, her chair zoomed across the room.
She took a left in the corridor while Mama went right, heading for the servants’ stairwell.
As Margaret drew near the main stairway, a sensor in her chair activated another in the floor, and one by one, the stairs flattened, turning the curving staircase into a wide ramp with a slight decline.
Just one of many alterations made to the house after her accident. Papa really could fix anything.
As she rolled down the ramp, her speed increased.
With her foot, she applied a brake, so she didn’t go flying out the front door.
When she reached the foyer, she veered right and made her way into the dining room where Papa waited at the table, pocket watch in hand.
She rolled to her usual place on his left and turned off the motor.
Only then did Figaro deign to raise his head, look around, and yawn, unfazed by their transport and unimpressed by their victory.
Mama dashed into the dining room moments later, and at the sight of Margaret, gave a great huff. “Botheration! I was sure I’d beat you this time.”
With a hearty chuckle, Papa consulted the timepiece. “Our girl beat you by thirty-four seconds. A personal best.” He snapped the watch shut and tucked it in a waistcoat pocket. “Bravo, Maggie.”
Even as a woman fully grown, the delight of her father’s praise could still warm Margaret through. “Thank you, Papa.”
Dabbing her forehead with a handkerchief, Mama took her seat on Papa’s right. “If I didn’t know you to be an honorable woman, Margaret Marie Kingsley, I’d accuse you of cheating.”
Papa exchanged an amused look with Margaret, as though to inquire, Shall we inform her of our latest modifications to the motor?
A grin tugged the corner of Margaret’s lips, and she shook her head discreetly as though to admonish, And spoil our fun?
Never. It was far more entertaining to let Mama deduce such things herself or render her speechless with a well-timed surprise.
Margaret was still awaiting the opportune moment to stupefy Mama with the chair’s aviation capabilities enabled by the addition of her newest gadget, the Wheelicopter.
Tucking a cloth napkin about Figaro like a blanket, she proceeded to pour tea and commence the breaking of their fast.
The routine pattern of morning conversation progressed as eggs on toast were consumed, and another round of tea was poured as they moved on to dessert.
Having dessert at every meal, including breakfast, was an established family tradition.
Today the dessert of choice was strawberry scones with clotted cream and a strawberry-rhubarb jam.
Margaret, of course, shared a little of her clotted cream with Figs, who lapped up the treat eagerly.
Soon Mama and Papa sparked a faux argument over the last scone, exchanging flirtatious glances all the while.
Margaret smiled, letting their familiar banter fade to the periphery of her mind as her gaze took a turn about the room.
Like the rest of the house, the dining room was a veritable scrapbook of treasured memories.
Every piece of décor served as a page, recounting a moment in her family’s history.
Margaret often found herself mentally flipping through this scrapbook, letting the story each heirloom and souvenir told serve as a distraction when the pain that racked her body threatened to take full possession of her thoughts as well.
Her favorite item in this room was the automaton bear cub that had a permanent place at the table.
A memorial in bronze, the cub preserved the seat once occupied by Mama’s beloved grandfather.
The device was just one of many mechanical marvels crafted by her great-grandfather C.
E. Drosselmeyer, the first and last Inventor to the Crown.
Not a day went by that Margaret didn’t wish she could remember the man whose memory was dear to so many.
One of the footmen entered and placed a silver tray laden with the day’s post on the table. With a word of thanks, Papa quickly flipped through the mail, removing an envelope from the stack before passing the tray to Margaret. She set her tea down and perused the remaining correspondence.
Crimson wax impressed with the silhouette of a mushroom caught her eye. She dispatched the seal with a swipe of a butter knife, keen for Helena’s account of the D.O.G.S.’s latest mission. The brief missive in her friend’s climbing-ivy penmanship made her smile.
Dear Maggie,
You may rest easy concerning the ensnared robin I made mention of in my previous letter.
After acquiring the proper tools and the aid of some mutual friends, the bird was successfully freed from the thorny bramble-wood tree without incident.
Though understandably shaken, the robin was otherwise in good health, and I expect it to make a full recovery now that it’s been relocated to a safer habitat.
Yours truly,
Helena
A sigh of relief mingled with gratitude escaped Margaret’s lips. The Parasol Grappler had worked as intended, and the rescue mission had gone as planned. Thank You, Lord!
Folding Helena’s letter, Margaret returned her attention to the envelopes yet stacked on the tray, all addressed to her from the patent office. It was the first of the month, so these would contain the royalties her patented devices had accrued in March.
“Papa, would you mind depositing these checks in my account?” That would spare her the spoons a visit to the bank required.
“Of course. It’s on my way to the shop after all.” He leaned toward Mama, lips quirking in a lopsided grin. “Our girl had another profitable month, it seems. I daresay her inventions will be supporting us all one of these days.”
Mama’s eyes gleamed. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”
Taking up her tea, Margaret mirrored her parents’ proud smiles, albeit dimly.
She merely hoped to be able to support herself.
Relieve her parents of the burden of her care in their dotage.
With eighty-nine patents to her name thus far, she was well on her way to achieving that end.
Thanks, in large part, to her most lucrative invention to date—a machine that automated the manufacture of flat-bottomed paper bags, performing the various folds and adhesive application, thereby allowing for industrialized mass production.
Papa’s pocket watch chimed. “Right-oh, I’d best be off.
After I pop in the bank, I need to procure an order of supplies from Cogsworth’s Workings for my newest commission, a malfunctioning polyphon music box.
” Kissing Mama and Maggie in turn, Papa departed with a jaunt in his step that accentuated the unique percussion of his familiar gait, the dull thud of a leather boot juxtaposed with the metallic clank of a prosthetic one crafted of brass and bronze.
Despite being given the honorary title of Marquess of Marlow by Queen Victoria, Papa continued to work in Great-Grandfather Drosselmeyer’s old clock shop, earning him both renown for his ability to fix unfixable machines and a reputation as an eccentric.
The latter of which he wholeheartedly embraced.
After all, Mama’s family had always been notorious eccentrics.
Papa said it was one of the many reasons he’d fallen in love with his Clara.
Mama rang a bell, and a maid appeared to clear the breakfast dishes.
The set of blue-and-white delftware was a souvenir from one of the last trips Margaret had taken with her parents to the Netherlands, back when they could set off on a grand adventure at the drop of a top hat, gathering fantastical tales for Mama to include in her bestselling travel guides.
Back when Margaret was able-bodied instead of . . .
“An exhausting chore. Isn’t that why you don’t travel anymore, Clara? Just because you’re willing to sacrifice your comforts and dreams doesn’t mean my child should have to do the same.”
The harsh words of a childhood friend’s mother shouldn’t affect Margaret so after all this time, and yet her hand quaked.
She lowered her cup and saucer to the table, disturbing the pottery with a jarring clink.
Shutting her eyes, she stroked Figaro’s ears, willing the tremors to still and the memory of Mama’s muffled sobs to quiet.
“Has the pain worsened, dear one? Is there anything I can fetch you? Anything I can do?”
Margaret sighed as she opened her eyes. How she wished there was something Mama could do, if only to smooth the furrow from her brow.
How she hated to remind those she loved, time and time again, that the arduous effort they put into her care was a futile endeavor.
Hers was a pain that couldn’t be relieved, only managed.
“It’s not the pain. I . . . I’m just tired.” So very tired.