“I told you, Margaret, he has gone to Mrs Grey’s,” her mother explained patiently. “She is dying, and he must do his duty by her. Goodness only knows when he will return.”
“But he has been away so long!”
“And so he always is. Come away from the window and have your tea.”
Margaret obeyed, but reluctantly. Her thoughts were all for the door, and she watched it with the devotion of one who believed that a moment of inattention would render her worrisome hopes a vanity. She nibbled from her plate, sipped dutifully from her cup, but whenever her mother’s absent-minded gaze should stray, Margaret would again strain her neck to look out the window.
“You may as well put up Mr Hale’s plate,” her mother sighed to Charlotte. “I do not expect he will return for a long while yet.”
In dismay, Margaret watched as Charlotte carried the meal set aside for her father into the kitchen. Her mother was not looking her way, so she stole a bit of bread from her plate to secrete it behind her back. A moment later, a generous slice of cheese joined it, and then the rest of her cake.
Her mother remained inattentive, fussing with the lace at the edge of her shawl and speaking now and again to Dixon of topics that could hold no interest for Margaret. A table napkin had disappeared; swept behind her to bind round the little stash of comfort she meant to save for her father. Last of all—and this would be the most difficult—she filled her tea cup again and dropped two cubes into its amber depths.
“Mamma, may I be excused?”
Mrs Hale glanced over Margaret’s plate and dismissed her, but Margaret did not scamper away at once. The napkin parcel she had tucked into her sash, but she could not secure the cup without some distraction. It came in the form of Charlotte, whose task it was to clear away the tea, but she stopped for a moment for some instruction from her mistress. Margaret saw her chance, and the next minute, both girl and saucer had vanished.
Her father was very late—so late that the rest of the house had gone to bed, and only a single lamp was left to greet him. Margaret had slipped from her room to crouch on the steps, and when his dark, stooped figure entered the house, she met him in the passage.
“Margaret! My child, why are you awake?”
She pointed shyly towards his study. “I saved some dinner for you, Papa.”
His beloved face softened, and he bent to gather her in his arms. “I could have done very well for myself in the larder, my dear, but it was kind of you to think of me.”
She tightened her arms around his neck and he carried her, then lowered himself into an old settee near his desk with her on his lap. “Well, now, you have even saved me some tea! You are quite the hostess, my dear.”
She beamed proudly until he lifted the cup, although her pleasure faded when no comforting steam rose from its surface. But her father acted as cold tea were his particular favourite and never betrayed an instant’s displeasure, even when she could see that the lumps of sugar had never been properly stirred. Nor did he object to the crumbled, half-eaten cake or the bread and cheese which had dried out. He savoured them as if they were served on the finest settings from her aunt’s home in Harley Street, all while snuggling her on his knee and telling her of his day.
Margaret leaned her head back against her father’s shoulder. She could listen to his gentle, measured tones without ceasing, whether he preached a sermon or read to her from Homer or simply chronicled all the doings of a country parish. His lap was her favourite place, for nowhere else did she feel so safe and understood.
She never did see him swallow the last drops of his tea, nor have the satisfaction of carrying his empty plate to the kitchen for him. The voice she loved so well was better than any nursery song, and with her ear pillowed against her father’s chest, she drifted to sleep.
Margaret could not remain in her seat as her mother-in-law so placidly managed to do. The entire day had passed and ended, with no appearance at all by her husband. The only word she had was a hastily scrawled note apologising that he would be detained through the afternoon, and possibly even the evening meal.
Margaret slipped her hand within a concealed pocket of her gown, and her fingers clasped the note. He was not avoiding her, was he? Her eyes burned with the sum of an entire day of unshed emotion. Spent and weary as she had been of late, it was possible her feelings were not to be trusted, but… she darted a quick glance to John’s mother, who, in her dogged application to her needlework, appeared wholly unperturbed by his absence. Perhaps it was not at all unusual for him to be delayed in the evenings, but her lonely insecurities continued to trouble her.
She paced, without realising that she was doing so, until a low noise from the other woman distracted her. “Margaret—” Hannah Thornton did not bother to look up, but spoke seemingly to the work in her hands—“perhaps now would be a good time to discuss some of your duties as mistress of the house.”
Margaret tilted her head curiously. She had been requesting such information, but the elder woman had seemed reluctant to divulge. “Is there anything in particular we ought to discuss first?”
“Indeed,” was the indifferent reply. “Possibly it has been your upbringing, as the daughter of a country parson, to pay social calls on the working class. You must recognise that you occupy a very different place in society now.”
Margaret had turned to gape at the woman. “I do not believe I understand you properly.”
Hannah grimly set aside her needlework and deigned to look Margaret in the eye. “I understand you spent the afternoon in the workers’ kitchen with the daughter of a Union leader. Even were you not in mourning, it would be unseemly for the mistress to condescend so.”
“Mary Higgins is a friend! May I ask why it should be improper for me to take an interest in my husband’s workers? I should think you would encourage me to learn more of the mill.”
Hannah arched a dark brow over her sewing glasses. “As the mistress, yes. You ought to understand the ebb and flow of the business, so as to make intelligent discourse among John’s equals. We do not value a woman who is ignorant of such matters here in Milton, as the fashionable folk in London might,” she sniffed. “However, fraternising with the hands, disdaining all our social conventions and appearing to tender your loyalties to the workers, rather than to your husband, will not serve.”
Margaret raised her chin. “I thank you for your advice,” she retorted crisply. “I shall take it under consideration.” She spun back to the window, her fists balled. The nerve of that woman, to lecture her about her quest for companionship—as if she should wish to take on the aspect of the bitter, stone-faced matron who could claim no friends at all!
“I should hope so,” was the grumbled response, though Margaret failed to acknowledge it.
She continued staring out of the darkened window towards the mill. It was not difficult to pick John’s office window out from among the others across the way, for a feeble light still glowed from within—at least it should not have been difficult, if not for the prickling moisture clouding her vision.
“I expect that he may be some while yet.”
Margaret only glanced over her shoulder, less eager than before to hear Hannah Thornton’s thoughts. “Why should you say that?”
The silver needle flashed in the lantern light as the widow’s nimble hands never faltered. “He has a deal to occupy him,” was the brusque answer. “John has never been a man of leisure. I should think he has even more concerns at present than usual.”
“Madam—” Margaret flexed her fingers and then knotted them again into a determined fist—“I quite understand that you find me responsible for John’s additional burden. I assure you, I do not fail to appreciate his efforts.”
Hannah pursed her lips, and a light flickered in her eye which Margaret had not yet learned to identify. “That is rather an arrogant presumption, Margaret, to believe that your recent arrival could so disrupt the workings of the mill. John has long been accustomed to work late whenever
the need arises.”
Margaret felt the heat crawling into her face. As she had been earlier in the day, she was overcome with the stifling urge to flee to somewhere—anywhere!—else, so long as she was out of Hannah Thornton’s glowering presence. Her breath quickened as inspiration struck.
“If he is to work longer—” she lifted her shoulders in a flash of her old resolve—“then I expect he could do with a tray to sustain him. If you will excuse me, madam, I shall see to it.”
Margaret swept out of the room, grateful for the fresh air over her scalding face. Had she lingered and paid very close attention, she might, perhaps, have noted the crafty smile teasing just the corner of her mother-in-law’s lips.
Weston
March 1838
“John, you are going to starve yourself!” Hannah Thornton, the widow of Baker Street, had been hovering near the rear exit of the draper’s shop where her son spent his days. She knew it was often one of his duties to tote crates of scraps or empty bolts to the back of the shop, and here, more than once, her patient attendance had been rewarded.
Fifteen-year-old John, coated in sweat and caked in dust, turned in the darkness at his mother’s voice. “Another hour and I will have done, Mother. You need not have come so far.”
“I came because it is nearly ten. You have not had a bite since five this morning, and that only water-porridge. Take this.” She reached for the pocket of his coat and stuffed a small, dense parcel inside.
He felt of it curiously. “The last of the bread loaf? Mother, you must give this to Fanny.” He began to tug it free of his clothing, but his mother put a staying hand to him.
“John, you are too thin. A pretty thing it would be if I should let you, who provide for us all, drop at your work for want of a few bites of dinner!”
“I am to be paid tomorrow, and because of the additional shipments this week, Mr Davis has promised me an extra shilling. I shall eat like a king out of that.” He flashed her a gleaming smile in the dusky light—charming and carefree, and almost believable.
“John—” the perceptive mother halted him, placing a tender hand upon his cheek. “You need not bear this burden alone.”
She felt his jaw tense as he blinked, his breath quickening in his chest. He had not shed a single tear since that harrowing day five months earlier, but she was no fool. The wrenching trauma of all he had seen, and would not tell her of, had never yet ceased to haunt his gaze.
In word and deed, his manner ranged from gentle stoicism to forced cheer, but beneath his maturing exterior simmered a raging torrent of hurt, confusion, and anger. Though he never spoke the words aloud, the guilt he was determined to bear over that day’s terror yet darkened his spirits. One day, she feared greatly, it would all be brought to a head by some crisis of the heart. She could but pray and do all within her power to sustain him against that eventuality.
His chin shifted in determination beneath her hand. “I know I needn’t, but I would spare you what troubles I can. It is not right that you should have had to suffer so.”
“Many things are not right in this world, my boy. That is no reason that my son should hang his head. Whose infinite wisdom has sent us these days of hardship, and who saw fit to first give us many good years of plenty to strengthen our constitutions?”
He swallowed as his face dipped and he nodded in resignation. Her hand slipped from his cheek, and as it did, her sensitive fingers noted the first traces of masculine grit along the edges of his jaw. Her boy was growing to a man, but at the moment, he was a bewildered, tortured one indeed.
“My faith must be weak,” he murmured to the darkness. “I cannot think this good Lord you speak of could have permitted all this.”
“It is not weakness to doubt, my son,” she whispered back, taking his hand. “Mankind has crafted for himself a wretched world, far short of the perfection which was intended—that is what we are to understand. Many things have not been revealed to us, but there is always a reason. You are being shaped for some purpose. I know not if we will ever see it clearly in this world, but you must trust in that.”
The pale glow of his eyes in the moonlight eclipsed to blackness. His tall form bent before her in some agony of feeling, and she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. His head bowed, he reached suddenly to enclose her in a tight hug, trembling all the while.
Hannah rumpled her young man’s dark hair; a thing she might seldom, if ever, have an opportunity to do again. She tried to sniffle back a rush of her own tears, but they stubbornly fell as an anointing on the shoulder of her son—the one person who had stepped into the gap between her and despair. “Bless you, my John!”
He drew back, his deepening voice cracking and hoarse. “I am blessed already, to have a wise, strong, faithful mother such as you. I could not do without….” She heard him swallow, saw him turning away in the shadows.
She took his face again between her hands. “John, you are my comfort and my joy. I will ever do what little I can, but you deserve so much more.”
He shook his head, then reached to clasp her calloused fingers. “One day, Mother, it will be I who will care for you, and you will not need to smuggle meals to me out in the night. You may do your needlework comfortably enthroned by a warm fire, and we will all retire for the evening with satisfied bellies and contented hearts. I would see you proud and happy, cared for in every way!”
“One day, John,” she agreed with a wistful smile. “Until then, carry out your duties with constant fidelity. Become the man I know you to be, my John, for anyone would be proud to call you her own.”
“That will be all, thank you, Sarah.” Margaret hung the lantern on a small hook just outside John’s office and took the tray from the maid who assisted her.
“Are yo’ sure, ma’am?” Sarah protested. “Yo’ll n’a be for walkin’ back t’ th’ ‘ouse?”
“I shall wait on Mr Thornton.”
Yes, she most certainly would, for she preferred to sit in the corner of a dirty office watching him work than to return to that frigid drawing-room. John would not object… surely…. Her hands trembling on the tray, she directed Sarah to take back the lantern before she could change her mind.
She forced herself to draw one last calming breath before she knocked. She had no idea what sort of protocol breach she was about to infract—after all, what did a mill master’s wife do when he was working without meals? What did his mother do when he was hers alone?
She knew what a parson’s wife did, she supposed—what Margaret Hale would have done. She must find her new way as Margaret Thornton—whoever she was. Gulping in quick resolve, she determined that she would remain true to the woman she had ever been, unless given sound reason to change. Her hand reached for the door.
There was no response to her soft, hesitant knock, nor was there any to the somewhat louder one she dared a moment later. She cast her gaze about the darkened hall. This was John’s office, was it not? Shifting the tray, she tried the latch and found it unlocked.
The light from the room poured over her skirts and the tray first, and she took a hesitant step inside. There, bathed in the tepid warmth of his own lantern, was John’s inert figure, slumped over his desk. He was sound asleep.
She paused. Never had she seen him so unguarded, so completely unaware of her scrutiny. Coming softly near, she set the tray aside to contemplate the resting features of the man she had married. Her stomach quivered, and a halting smile grew on her lips. Absent the austere mien which had tainted her first impressions of him, his face was… beautiful. There was no other word which suited, and she gave an inner start at that confession.
She tilted her head. She once declared him not handsome in the conventional way, but his countenance she always acknowledged as remarkable, simply for its quiet power and noble bearing. Now, without the look of the bulldog about him, she saw the man Mrs Thornton claimed to know—the man she had met last night. She saw the boy grown to full strength, yet still possessed of an innocence a
nd a vulnerability he carefully concealed from everyone else.
It was not merely the absence of his usual wariness which startled her. His features, soft in repose and made familiar by two days of living under the same roof, were positively striking. Her admiring gaze travelled from the dark locks of hair, curling defiantly over a brow that was smooth now in sleep, and down the bridge of his nose with its permanently thoughtful little furrow. His brows slanted straight and low over eyes which she knew to be impossibly black at times, and brilliantly blue at others. They were cloaked beneath the thickest, longest lashes she had ever seen on a man. How did she never notice that before?
The next detail to inspire wonder was his unshaven cheeks. It seemed he rushed out so many hours ago without attending to that task, and now a softly dishevelled shadow described his jaw. Margaret’s throat tightened. How often he forsook the morning ritual, she could not be certain. In her own experience, he always appeared perfectly groomed—but then he had been calling as a guest at her home during most of those encounters, and naturally would have taken care to present himself properly.
Yet, as he was now, he seemed so… so mortal—a being within her realm, instead of the industrial figurehead she first presumed him for. Perhaps it was rather inelegant of her, but she cherished a hope that he did occasionally skip his morning shave, so she might admire the masculine outline of his face by the evening. What would it be like to touch those short, sandy bristles… to feel them scraping and tickling against her neck, if he should come to her one night?
Her limbs crumpled, suddenly watery and faint. Gasping in shock at her indelicate new ideas, she sought the edge of his desk for some support against the disconcerting spin of the room. Her disobedient eyes, however, soon trailed to his bared arms sprawled over the surface. His hands… she forced her breath to steady.
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