Chapter 14
Chapter
Three days confined to bed. Three days unable to tinker or play the piano. Three days away from her important duties and sense of purpose at the Daughters of Genius Society.
Precious time, wasted. Irrecoverable time, gone forever.
Each day, as Margaret’s parents tended to her unending needs and supped in her chambers lest she dine alone, her guilt mounted.
The heavy, unstable weight dislodged doubt that tumbled unexpectedly, carving a path of destruction in its wake.
Had she been foolhardy to agree to lead an investigation?
Had she been stupid not to quit during the last society conclave as she’d originally planned?
As quickly as the doubts were voiced, her parents swept them away with encouragement and reassurances.
No, she wasn’t foolhardy. No, she wasn’t stupid.
“And no, dear one, you’ve not let anyone down.”
How Mama always perceived that doubt was present, despite Margaret’s refusal to say it aloud, she’d never know.
By the fourth day, Margaret was able to dress with assistance, perform minimal calisthenics, take breakfast downstairs, and enjoy an hour at the piano before her energy began to wane, which did much to raise her spirits.
This was not to be one of her longer crashes, thank the Lord! She was on the mend once again.
Retiring to bed for a respite, Margaret stroked Figaro as she paged through a book recommended by Louisa a month prior.
A knock disturbed her quietude, and she bristled at the mid-chapter interruption.
Preceded by Mama with a vase of water in hand, Professor Quimby entered her room bearing a bouquet of forget-me-nots and yellow roses.
As Margaret expressed her gratitude, Mama arranged the bouquet in the vase atop a nearby dresser and then graciously departed, granting Margaret the dignity of conversing with her visitor in privacy.
Privacy Margaret was most grateful for, considering what she must say.
What she should have said days ago. Evading eye contact, she fixated on Figaro’s white mittens with their unique assortment of black and pink toes.
“I’m sorry, Professor. I fear I’ll require another day or two of rest before I feel certain of avoiding a relapse.
Perhaps . . . perhaps you should reassign the case to another inspector? ”
The chief took hold of Margaret’s hand and gave it a squeeze much firmer than the tone of her voice. “Inspector Kingsley, look here.”
With a sigh, Margaret obeyed her commanding officer.
Professor Quimby had removed her boater hat, placing it upon the coverlet.
Her gray-streaked tendrils were perfectly ordered and compliant in their slick coif, and her suit neatly starched and pressed to create crisp lines along every tailored seam.
Yet, somehow, amid all this ridged refinement, there was an undeniable softness to her features.
A deeply rooted compassion, tender and matronly.
“You listen well now, Inspector. I’ll hear no talk of reassignment.
You were chosen as lead inspector, and you are well able to see this case through to the end.
Nothing about the case is time sensitive at present, so you’ve plenty of time to recuperate before resuming your investigation.
However, I do believe you’ve been pushing yourself too hard, so tell me, how can we make the process of investigation easier for you? ”
Margaret swallowed. She did so hate to request special concessions, but the chief’s expectant expression demanded an answer. “Well, Miss Knight’s wardrobe . . .”
“What about it, Kingsley? Speak up, speak frankly.”
“It’s terribly uncomfortable, Professor. I was half exhausted from sitting so upright before I ever reached the Invention Factory.”
“Then consider it stuffed with mothballs and packed away in the disguises trunk. What else? Remember, you’ve an entire team of inspectors at your disposal.
Don’t hesitate to call upon them. In fact .
. .” Professor Quimby pursed her lips in a fine line, and she seemed to weigh and measure her thoughts before giving them voice.
“Your fellow inspectors have been asking after you, most insistently. Will you not reconsider allowing them to visit? They care for you deeply, and I’m quite sure they’d be the very picture of compassion and understanding if you’d only explain to them the gravity of your condition. ”
Perhaps they would, at first. Until the gravity of Margaret’s condition became tiresome. Until they no longer saw her as Maggie, but as her condition.
“She’s no longer a companion. She’s a complication.”
The blunt words, accidently overheard, were forever etched in Margaret’s memory.
The day they’d been spoken by a childhood friend’s mother, she’d been faced with the harsh reality.
In the eyes of society, she no longer merited the consideration of a person.
She’d been reduced to the station of a cripple.
An invalid. The embodiment of pain and suffering, and no one, however kind, wanted to sit beside pain and suffering.
Pain and suffering were something to be mended, not something to come alongside.
Oh, people might rally around pain and suffering with sympathy at the onset, but if it could not be mended .
. . if the condition never improved and the pain never relented .
. . sympathy aged into discomfiture and avoidance.
Childhood friends stopped paying call. Visiting hours echoed with the silence of solitude.
When Margaret had been fortunate enough to make new friends years later, she’d resolved never to lean on them the way she’d no choice but to lean on her parents.
It was to that resolve she must cling now.
For her sisters must never meet the crippled invalid that resided in this house.
With as much tact as could be mustered, Margaret again secured Professor Quimby’s promise to honor her wishes regarding her fellow inspectors. Their difference of opinions on the matter settled uncomfortably between them, but before it became unbearable, there was a knock.
Mama peeked around the door. “Are you up for another visitor, dear one?”
Before Margaret could answer, Mumsie bustled into the room and exclaimed joyously at the sight of Professor Quimby, who promptly redonned her hat.
Greeting each other, the pair prattled away, seemingly forgetting Margaret amid discussion of an upcoming charitable event to be hosted by the Duchess of Darrowby the following week.
The Daughters of Genius Society were to collect donated books at the duchess’s grand Bibliophile Ball to benefit the sister orphanages Mumsie had established for foundling children and animals.
Having confirmed a few event details, Professor Quimby followed Mama into the corridor, leaving Margaret in the company of her maternal grandmother, whose skirts flounced about oddly, though she was standing quite still.
“You were sorely missed at yesterday’s reading circle, ducky.
The children chanted your name in chorus, protesting your nonattendance for a full quarter hour before I was forced to threaten a dinner of creamed spinach and turnip greens to restore order.
The darlings were quiet as stowaway mice on a merchant ship after that, bless them.
I must say, your absence was felt just as acutely at the sister orphanage’s weekly catnap outreach.
The Nap with a Cat in Your Hat initiative you started has done wonders for our foundling felines and the elderly community.
It endows both parties with a sense of purpose as well as providing each with much needed affection.
The children might have chanted your name, ducky, but the kittens screamed it at the top of their lungs with vehemence.
As the only human present fluent in cat, it fell to me to reassure the littler dears of your imminent return. ”
A smile stretched Margaret’s cheeks. “I have missed my sweet kittens . . . so much so that, strangely enough, I can almost hear them mewing.”
“Your hearing is as keen as an elephant’s.” Drawing closer to her bedside, Mumsie produced three little kittens from the pockets of her skirt, each one missing a tiny paw.
Affection and pity swelled in Margaret’s chest. “Oh my heart . . . these little kittens have lost their mittens!”
“And don’t know where to find them, more’s the pity.
” Mumsie shook her head gravely. “Our veterinarians, Farnon and Herriot, believe it’s due to a birth defect, which would explain why the kittens were found mewling in a waste receptacle in the park.
I thought the little dears might keep you and Figs company this afternoon, during my Soldiers in Petticoats suffrage meeting.
Figaro is marvelous with little ones, and the kittens would benefit from his fatherly influence. ”
Mumsie placed the squirming kittens, who’d yet to open their wee eyes, upon the coverlet beside Figaro.
Promptly, Figs assumed his role of adoptive father and commenced with bathing each kitten in turn.
Smiling, Mumsie adjusted her green, white, and purple Votes for Women sash.
“May the kittens bring you a bit of comfort whilst you’re still abed, ducky. Which will not be forever, mind.”
No, not forever. At least, not yet. Margaret stroked the kittens gently, willing her morose thoughts away.
“Indeed, with a little kitten therapy, I’m sure you’ll be fit as a fiddle just in time for the Bibliophile Ball. Then we shall both meet the surprise guest the duchess has promised will be in attendance. It’s sure to be a most memorable night!”
Dear Mumsie, always trying to keep her spirits up. As much as Margaret wished to oblige her grandmother, she’d make no promises of attending. She’d have to see how she felt on the day. “Figs and I are most honored to serve as kitty nursemaids, as always. Give my best to your sister suffragettes.”