Chapter 31
Chapter
Another muscle spasm seized Margaret’s ribs. Her body screamed to brace against the sharp twinges of pain, but she knew from experience it must be worked through, not against. She forced herself to exhale and relax as much as could be managed.
Confined to bed, she attempted to distract herself with the mural Mumsie had commissioned Henriette Ronner-Knip to paint on her ceiling after the accident.
Famous for her romantic paintings of animals in bourgeoisie settings, cats being her specialty, Mrs. Ronner-Knip was unsurprisingly Mumsie’s favorite artist and dear friend.
The mural she’d created for Margaret was nothing short of enchanting.
A trio of kittens—one orange, one black, and one white—frolicked across a piano’s keys while their mother—a white cat with the elegant je ne sais quoi of a French duchess—watched on admiringly.
Tucked at her side, Figaro purred steadily, and Margaret drew comfort from stroking his fur. Surely there was nothing so luxurious and soft as the silken fur of a fluffy feline.
A knock rapped before the door cracked open, and Papa peeked inside. “Fancy a spot of tea, my girl?”
The endearment warmed Margaret through, and she mustered a taut smile. “With you? Always.”
“Right-oh.” Papa tossed her a wink and disappeared momentarily before returning with a pair of wooden chairs, one tucked under each arm, while Mama trailed in behind him with a laden tea tray from which steam wafted in tendrils.
Papa placed the chairs to the left of Margaret’s bed and then helped prop her up with a mountain of pillows so she could drink without making a mess of herself.
Once she was settled, he pressed a kiss to her crown and took a seat.
“I’ve run into difficulty with that polyphon music box I was commissioned to repair.
Could I trouble you to pop by the shop and take a look—when you’ve enough teaspoons, of course?
You’ve such a knack for music boxes, and I’d be grateful for your expertise. ”
Leave it to Papa to avert and redirect Margaret’s attention with the prospect of a pleasant task that made her feel useful when she was anything but. “Certainly, Papa. I’d enjoy that.”
Having placed the tea tray upon her dresser and served their afternoon fare, Mama now moved to arrange dishes upon the quilt that swathed Margaret’s lap, clockwork butterflies flitting about her black chignon.
Margaret gasped. Clockwork butterflies signified but one occasion—Great-Grand Drosselmeyer’s birthday! How could she forget? Time was a blur during her crashes, but that was no excuse. “Oh, Mama . . . I’m so sorry. I should’ve remembered.”
“No need for sorries, dear one. You’ve had a lot on your mind of late.
Conducting your first case. Embarking on misadventures with a handsome young man.
” With a teasing smirk, Mama settled in a chair, sipping from a cup she’d acquired in Japan.
The once-fractured porcelain had been reborn through the art of kintsugi, which mended broken places with lacquer mixed with gold to create a new work of unique beauty.
“I would chastise you for failing to mention Mr. Noble’s attractiveness, but knowing you as I do, I’ve a feeling you only just noticed it yourself. ”
Cheeks flaming, Margaret averted her gaze.
Papa cleared his throat. “While I’m still not keen about the whole leaning incident, I sympathize with Mr. Noble’s episode and understand why you brought the lad here. You did the right thing—the kind thing. I’m proud of you, Maggie girl.”
Margaret’s eyes burned with unshed tears.
There was so little she could do to make them proud .
. . so many ways she failed them as a daughter.
Papa would never get to walk her down the aisle of a church.
Mama would never get to hold a grandbabe in her arms. Her life was as it ever would be.
She knew this. Had accepted it. Why then did the notion now evoke an empty pang of discontent?
Mama grasped her hand. “I wish you could’ve met Grand. Wish he could see the woman you’ve become. He’d be so very proud of you, dear one.”
“He would that.” Papa swiped at his eyes. “All the more reason we couldn’t let our girl miss the old codger’s traditional birthday repast.”
Margaret did look forward to their Sweets of Many Lands afternoon tea each year, comprised of piping hot Darjeeling served alongside stroopwafels filled with caramel, cream-stuffed větrník pastries, gnome-shaped gingerbread biscuits, and chocolate truffles fashioned into bear paws.
Margaret’s cup hit its saucer with a heavy clink.
The bear! If it weren’t for her health crash, they’d be gathered at the dining table with Mumsie and Grandpapa right now, reveling in the annual dance of the automaton bear cub, an exact replica of the one Grand had built and hid at the paws of a bear fountain in Bern to surprise his bride on their wedding tour.
The recounting of Grand’s love and Granny’s laugh when his watch chimes had awoken the bear machine long ago were a beloved family tale.
A cherished tradition, upheld every fourteenth of July for years, until her body sabotaged it.
“Oh, Mama . . . we’re missing the bear’s dance. And Mumsie and Grandpapa’s company.” They’d no doubt refrained from coming over for her sake, common practice during the worst of her crashes. “Once again, your plans had to change to accommodate me. I’m so, so very sorry.”
Mama’s brows knit. “You know, Maggie . . . you’ve a habit of saying sorry when a thank-you would do. You’re not a bother to accommodate.”
Wasn’t she, though? Charles’ voice echoed through her mind.
Ask them. “Are you sure?” Margaret blurted the words before she could calculate the pros and cons of voicing them.
“Are you certain I’m not a bother? Because I can’t help thinking that my care is an unfair weight upon your shoulders.
A burden you’d both be better off without. ”
Her parents gaped in unison, nearly dropping their cups. Hurt etched itself onto their faces, and Mama shook her head in disbelief. “Dear one, why ever would you think that?”
“The last time Veruca came to call . . . I heard the fight you had with her mother in the foyer.” Even now Margaret’s memory rang with the exchange of sharply whispered words.
Mama, indignant with outrage. “If you were determined to exclude Maggie, you might’ve at least muzzled your daughter with common decency before bringing her into my home.”
Veruca’s mother, polite but dismissive. “I regret that she spoke out of turn.”
A veil of white fell over Mama’s face. “How much did you hear?”
Margaret wet her lips. “Everything.”
She’d heard Veruca’s mother abandoning all pretense of politeness.
“Maggie is no longer a companion. She’s a complication. Honestly, you must sympathize with the inconvenience of accommodating her condition. If she’d come, the girls would’ve felt obligated to keep her company, and they wouldn’t have had nearly as much fun as they did riding about the park.”
She’d heard Mama’s outrage wither to wearied frustration.
“Maggie could’ve ridden with them. She has a cart—”
“And it is a bothersome nuisance that would’ve slowed the girls down.
Admit it, Clara. Catering to Maggie’s needs is a burden.
An exhausting chore. Isn’t that why you don’t travel anymore?
Just because you’re willing to sacrifice your comforts and dreams doesn’t mean my child should have to do the same. ”
The memory of the conversation twisted Margaret’s stomach into knots.
“You couldn’t refute Veruca’s mother because her words rang true.
You wept when she left because she was right.
You forfeited your comforts and dreams for my sake, and I cannot help thinking I’m not worth the sacrifice. That I’m a burden not worth carrying.”
Mama and Papa exchanged a look, communicating silently.
As one, they reached for Margaret, sandwiching her hand in their unified clasp.
Mama choked back emotion, her voice as watery as her silver eyes.
“You listen to me, Margaret Marie Kingsley. You are not a burden. You are our most precious treasure and our greatest adventure. I’ve never told you this, but before your birth .
. . there were losses.” The word caught in Mama’s throat, and Papa rubbed her shoulder until she’d composed herself.
“The doctors told me I might never carry to term and then you came along. My Margaret Marie, my dear one, my pearl of great price.”
Papa nodded. “To us, my girl, you will only ever be beloved.”
Beloved. Like the kintsugi tea set, the word filled the fissures of Margaret’s heart with golden assurance, mending what was broken and creating something beautiful from the scars.