Chapter 24
Chapter
With a clank, the lever smacked against the metal switch plate, killing the hum of electric power, and the machine came to a sudden halt.
Jarring silence resounded throughout the factory.
For a few hushed moments, no one dared speak or move.
Eventually, with much trepidation, the men began to emerge from where they’d taken cover.
Shuffling feet rattled shards of dishes.
The inventors assessed one another for injury, noting only minor bumps, bruises, and shallow abrasions.
Taking charge, the factory foreman organized cleaning efforts while Mr. Harrison attempted to console Caractacus, who was equal parts apologetic, shaken, and dismayed.
Still, there was no sign of Lady Margaret.
After assisting Mr. Tinkerton into a nearby chair, Charles extricated the fork from the man’s waxed mustache.
Though shaken and pale, Tinkerton and his facial hair were remarkably unharmed.
Assured of the older man’s welfare, Charles took to surveying the room.
A tremor jolted through his hand, and he fisted it tightly.
He’d not panic. Not yet. If Lady Margaret was nowhere in sight, that meant she’d vacated the premises before the pandemonium.
As she was wont to do, Reverie had merely disappeared.
Only this time, there was no library to serve as her sanctuary.
Where, then, might she have flown for refuge?
Maneuvering around debris and distracted inventors, Charles hastened to the foreman’s office near Tinkerton’s station, a potential hiding place.
He burst through the door and heaved a sigh of relief.
Chair wheeled backward into a corner of the small room, Lady Margaret curled in on herself, shielding her head with her arms. She was safe, but . . . Franz Listz, was she trembling?
Charles approached slowly, lest he increase her agitation. “It’s over, Miss Knight. All is well.”
Unfurling, Lady Margaret lifted her head.
Her complexion, already fair, had gone completely ashen.
Wrapping both arms about her chest, she leaned back in her chair, sunk down, and shook her head.
“I shouldn’t have been there. Not while the men were working.
I—I didn’t think. Why didn’t I think? I know better. I—”
“It’s all right.” Charles knelt before Lady Margaret and placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Everything’s going to be all right. You’re safe.”
“This time.” A shudder disturbed her frame as she breathed the words. “Thank God it was different this time.”
Charles swallowed. Based on what he’d observed in their time together and what little Lady Margaret had divulged, he’d surmised her physical condition was the result of an accident, rather than an illness.
But seeing her like this . . . he was overcome with the need to know beyond doubt.
The need to hear the minor keys struck by past events that still reverberated through the symphony of her life.
How else might he accompany her with harmonious comfort?
His hand wandered upward. Cradling Lady Margaret’s face, his thumb traced the lines of tension pinched along her temple. “What happened to you, Maggie?”
Lady Margaret’s gaze collided with his own.
Green eyes, wide and gleaming, she peered into the very depths of his soul.
He could almost see her running calculations, taking his measure.
The silence between them became kinetic, charged with the energy of a packed concert hall on opening night, hushed in expectancy.
Barely breathing, Charles remained perfectly still, lest she withdraw from his touch.
Lest Reverie vanish before his very eyes, withdrawing into a corner of that incredible mind of hers for sanctuary. Hiding where he couldn’t follow.
At last, Lady Margaret drew in a breath and spoke.
“Papa was asked to fix an industrial loom with a recurring malfunction that had harmed several workers. I begged to go with him, and my parents acquiesced. At the factory, Papa told me to keep clear of the machine while he worked, but I was curious to a fault. Unbeknownst to Papa, I kept tiptoeing closer to see the machine’s workings.
When Papa signaled for the loom to be turned on to test his repairs, I was .
. . too close. I turned to flee just as the loom roared to life and malfunctioned.
” Her jaw quivered in his palm. “A steel-tipped shuttle broke away and struck me in the back.”
Horror punched the air from Charles’ chest. Such an injury might have killed her!
“The wounds I sustained caused permanent damage. The doctors said I’ll likely suffer chronic pain and require care the rest of my life.
” Rolling her eyes heavenward, Lady Margaret shook her head.
“I should’ve been more prudent today. I’m already a burden.
I can’t afford to risk further injury when my parents have given up so much on my account. ”
Burden. The word had the taste of a sour note, bitter and cacophonous in its wrongness. How could Reverie see herself as nothing more than an undesirable weight? “Have your parents ever called you a burden?”
“They don’t have to.” A tear escaped Lady Margaret’s dark lashes. “The apparent strain my care places on them is sufficient evidence.”
Charles caught the tear with his thumb, wiping it away, wishing he could remove the anguish of her guilt with such ease.
“Strain is evidence of effort exerted, not an indicator of how one feels about the exertion. There were days practicing the piano, touring and performing, that were a great strain—but my love for the music fueled my efforts. Just as my love for Father imbues me with strength to care for him, even when I’m weary.
But even on the hardest night, I’ve never thought of Father as a burden.
After coming so close to losing him . . .
every minute we have together is a gift.
” Emotion lodged in his throat, roughening his voice.
“Considering how differently your accident could’ve ended, I’d wager your parents feel the same about you.
Ask them. You’ve much to endure in life already without the added weight of guilt. ”
Something sparked in the depths of Lady Margaret’s peridot eyes. Gaze darting to his hand upon her face, she gasped. “Release me immediately.”
Charles recoiled, flexing then fisting his wayward hand. “Forgive my forwardness—”
“Hush! Reception’s clear now.” Tilting her head, Lady Margaret pointed at her ear and whispered, “Listen at my earring. Quickly.”
Flabbergasted, Charles did as he was bidden.
He shifted positions on the floor so he and Lady Margaret were facing the same direction and then leaned in close .
. . closer, placing his ear next to hers, adorned with a dangling earring he’d not noticed earlier.
Awareness of their proximity transformed his high collar into a sauna.
What was he meant to be doing again? Listening?
The only thing he could hear at the moment was his pulse pounding in fortissimo.
“I may be old, but I’m not a fool.”
Charles’ jaw dropped. That was Tinkerton’s voice. Resonating, ever so softly, through Lady Margaret’s earring. “How—”
Soft fingers settled over his lips. “Receiver on his desk. Hush!”
“I swear on my favorite mustache wax, I didn’t tell them anything.” Tinkerton’s voice again, hushed but agitated. “Our plans will come to naught if we don’t trust each other.”
“Aye, I know.” That was Hiram Flaversham, the factory’s toymaking specialist. “That reporter and her questions have me on edge is all.”
“I didn’t get the feeling she’s on to us.”
“Even if she’s not, we can’t risk the press catching wind of our plans. Not yet. I’ve called a meeting with the rest of the lads. Ten o’clock, tomorrow night, my place.”
The fingers fell away from his mouth. Following their retreat, Charles turned his head and nearly brushed noses with Lady Margaret, who now faced him, a mere breath away. Her cheeks as rosy as her lips.
“Mr. Noble, would you mind accompanying me tomorrow night for a bit of reconnaissance?”