Chapter 10 #2
“What say you to this one, Miss Knight?” Apparently Mr. Noble had followed her example and taken to paging through a box of files as he finished his tea.
“A miniature steam engine designed to power a mobile carpet cleaner, patented just last year. While not as showy as some of the company’s other inventions, this device would provide an excellent example of how Alvan T.
Harrison, Incorporated has impacted everyday life in the modern home. What do you think?”
Margaret’s brows knit together as she accepted the patent Mr. Noble extended.
Such a device sounded oddly familiar, but why?
A glance at the technical drawing and accompanying explanation of the machine’s function quickly explained her recognition.
She’d seen this device before . . . or one nearly like it .
. . at Cogsworth’s Workings, the machinist’s shop she and Papa patronized.
Over the years, they’d built a friendship with the Cogsworths, one close enough that Mrs. Cogsworth had once confided in Margaret about an idea she’d had to build a carpet cleaner powered by steam.
A long conversation had ensued regarding the complications of making an engine scaled small enough to prevent the device from being too cumbersome, seeing as its purpose was to lessen the backbreaking work of housekeeping.
Hadn’t that conversation occurred a little over a year ago?
Margaret gnawed on her lip. The similarities between this polished patent and Mrs. Cogsworth’s rough sketch of her design were too suspicious to be ignored .
. . as was the invention’s attribution to none other than Mr. J.
Dawkins. Was the case of the purloined patent bigger than a single isolated incident of theft?
“Your silence speaks volumes, Miss Knight. A carpet cleaner is far too dull a selection. I shall have to continue my search for a gadget worthy of display at Westminster Hall.” With a sheepish, almost dejected air, Mr. Noble carried off the tea things.
As soon as his back was turned, Margaret withdrew her pocket watch camera and discreetly snapped photographs of the patents in her lap—the Chatsome Catherine voice box and the steam-powered carpet cleaner.
The legitimacy of her suspicions must be ascertained.
Once her film was developed, Margaret would pay a little visit to Cogsworth’s Workings.
Charles startled awake, and his neck seized with a crick.
Vivaldi and Verdi! Groaning, he massaged the soreness from his stiff muscles.
He must’ve fallen asleep at his desk, trying to finish the work he should’ve completed this afternoon instead of taking tea with Miss Knight.
Gah, but he’d made a right fool of himself!
He’d been so taken aback at finding Reverie upon his doorstep.
Thrilled at the second chance he’d been given to learn her real name.
Of course, it’d been a lovely name. Margaret.
Unfortunately, idiot that he was, Charles had gotten carried away by the serendipity of it all and come on much too strong.
Then he’d been struck dumb with embarrassment, and when he had eventually recovered the use of his tongue, he’d decided to regale the beautiful woman with the most interesting of topics—a carpet cleaner.
His palm flew to his face with a sound thwap.
No wonder Miss Knight hadn’t been able to get away from him fast enough.
Stupid, stupid. Charles dragged his gaze to the clock mounted on the wall of his new office at the Invention Factory.
Wonderful. In addition to being stupid, he was also late.
When Mother and Benjamin had learned of Mr. Harrison’s job offer, they’d been overjoyed and encouraged him to take the short-term position, but Charles had only agreed to do so on the condition that Mother let him maintain the night shift of Father’s care.
He’d not rob Mother of the only reprieve she was afforded.
She needed to rest sometime. He, on the other hand, could make do.
If he hurried, Mother wouldn’t lose too much sleep on his account.
Charles rose from his desk, snatched up his jacket, and turned off his desk lamp.
He blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the factory, which had closed hours ago.
Thankfully, just enough moonlight streamed through the vaulted windows to prevent the building from being pitch black.
He rode the elevator to the main floor and strode past the abandoned worktables and sleeping machinery.
The inventors had clocked out and retired to their homes, a pleasant walk away in the company housing section of the Innovation Park grounds.
The factory was so different at night. Without the warmth of sunlight, clatter of industry, and congenial hum of the inventors’ comradery, the building felt cold and cavernous.
The tapping of his shoes echoed in the vast space, emphasizing his solitude.
During work hours, the Invention Factory seemed a cathedral of creativity, but now .
. . aglow in the faint moonlight, it almost felt as though he walked through a cemetery in some gothic opera.
One so new that its hallowed ground had yet to be broken by a gravedigger’s shovel.
A metallic screech rent the air.
Charles froze, gooseflesh raising on his neck.
He turned about slowly, scanning the factory floor, but no human forms moved among the shadows, confirming what he knew to be true.
He was alone. Everyone had gone home for the day.
Every tool remained still, untouched and unmoving.
Every machine remained silent, unpowered and unmanned.
And yet . . . he’d heard something. Distantly, yet distinctly. Something harried and high-pitched. It had almost sounded as though a machine had begrudgingly rolled over mid-slumber, stretching the kinks in its rusted gears. But that was impossible.
Wasn’t it?