“Of course,” he answered, his eyes searching out Margaret once more. “Will you let me know if any assistance is required settling Mr Hale’s affairs? I should be honoured to be of service.”
“The matter is well in hand, but I thank you. Would you like any refreshment before catching your train, Mr Lennox?” Margaret glanced up in surprise, but John maintained a cool expression. He could afford to be gracious, for it was not he who had to leave this house without her!
“I… er, no, Mr Thornton. Thank you.”
As the guest made his polite farewells to Mrs Thornton—whose face still blanched in shock at these new revelations—John caught his wife’s eye. With a little tip of his head and a raised brow, they held a silent conversation. She blinked and nodded faintly.
Lennox shook hands with John once more, bowed briefly to Margaret, and left the room. Scarcely had he reached the corridor, however, when her voice halted him.
“Henry?” Margaret hurried to him, her eyes dark with some remorse.
He turned, barely able to meet her gaze. “Mrs Thornton?”
She hesitated, then drew herself up. “I wanted to thank you, for taking the trouble to come all this way. It was the gesture of a friend, and I shall never forget it.”
“It was little enough. I would have done much more, madam.”
“I know. Henry, I… I know what you must think. I want you to know you needn’t fear for me.”
He clenched his teeth, then blurted out what had troubled him since Thornton first walked into the room. “Can you be happy, Margaret? Truly, in this city, with… with him?”
She lifted that proud chin of hers, but her eyes flashed with compassion rather than hauteur. “I am, Henry. I married for love, not necessity.”
The last spiteful hope, that she might regret her marriage, withered in his heart and left him deflated. He nodded, vanquished. “Then I wish you every joy, Margaret.” He turned and let himself out, leaving her standing there with her fingers laced together and her brow furrowed in sympathy.
A respectable moment later, a pair of warm arms slid round her waist from behind, and a deliciously deep voice tickled her ear. “Are you well, love?”
She leaned back into him. “I am, John. Thank you for that.”
“You were able to convince him of your happiness?” His lips teased the base of her hairline, his breath sending little thrills through her.
“More or less, I think.” She turned about in his embrace to twine her arms up his shoulders and around his neck.
He bent to kiss her, then low tones swirled against her cheek, “Do you know, Margaret, you have always driven me a little mad when you do that.”
She glanced to her arms in surprise. “This? But when else would I have done so before yesterday? Oh!” she flushed in sudden memory. “The riot? I did not suspect you would have felt so! I only thought to protect you.”
“You thought I turned up on your doorstep the next day out of duty? Not so, my love! I never slept at all that night, and it had less to do with the riots than I would have cared to admit.”
“I can see now why you believed my motives were personal. Perhaps they were, and I was deceiving myself.”
“Not entirely. You acted out of nobility as well; it was my own vanity which saw only that brief second when you held me. I scarcely noticed at the moment, so angry was I, but later it was as if your arms were still about me, shielding me.” He shook his head, offering his most disarming smile as he tried to express the vagaries of feeling connected with that event. “I only wished for the dream not to end,” he whispered, tipping his forehead close to touch hers.
That look! Margaret could not resist caressing his face. That half-teasing, half-serious expression which was his alone—the one she used to struggle to ignore—warmed her in ways she never could have understood before last night.
Now she knew. She was meant to belong to him—wholly and without reserve—and to no other. All those youthful fantasies about her future life, where calm rationality displaced this deluge of passion, were thoroughly overturned.
He took her by the hand, tugging lightly, his eyes pleading her to seek some privacy with him—for a few minutes at least. Margaret yielded, her steps light and her head spinning like a schoolgirl. By some miracle, she had found the one soul in whom she could delight.
London
July 1847
“Edith? Edith, are you still awake?”
The blonde head twitched away, but Margaret was not satisfied with her cousin’s groggy response. She tugged at the blanket. “Edith?”
Edith groaned and rolled over. “Can you not sleep again, Margaret? Oh, please, let us talk in the morning!”
Margaret squatted back to her knees in disappointment. “Forgive me.” She rose to return to her own room, but with an exasperated sigh, Edith flipped the counterpane.
“You may as well stay here a while. Oh, you are cold as ice! You have been up pacing, again.”
Shivering and realising how cold she truly was, Margaret climbed into the bed. The two girls bundled together as sisters, pulling the thick blankets up to their ears and giggling a little.
“What is the matter, Margaret?” Edith demanded through a yawn. “Is it that letter you had from your father today?”
Margaret hunched lower under the counterpane. “No. Oh, it is just so miserably hot here in London in the summer! How do you bear it?”
“Is that why you are shivering?”
“I…” she heaved a sigh and confessed the truth. “I was so hoping Papa would take me home this summer. I thought he and Mamma would wish me to be there.”
Edith shrugged under the blankets. “Mamma says that surely Uncle will be here next week. Some of the sailors are to be brought back for trial, I heard her say.”
“Oh, how dreadful!” Margaret shuddered. “No, Papa will not wish to come for that. I think I know how it is, Edith. He has locked himself in his study, and Mamma remains in her sitting room, and they are seeing no one at all when they can help it. I only wished that I could… could….” A choking little sob, quickly swallowed, cut off any further expressions of sorrow.
“Dearest Margaret! Surely, they only think to allow you to stay here and be happy with us this summer. What more could you do in Helstone?”
“I do not know!” sniffled the heartbroken girl. “Papa has told me nothing more of Fred’s circumstances. I do not suppose he ever will. Mamma does not write at all, but at least she has Dixon.”
This last was spoken in barely concealed resentment as another shuddering sob made her tremble. If only her own mother wished for her to come to her! Instead, it was almost as though she were pushed farther away, as an unsuitable replacement for the child her mother had lost.
“Margaret,” Edith yawned again, “you must stop troubling yourself so. There is nothing you can do. Is there not something more cheerful we may think on?”
Margaret lapsed in to glum silence.
“Perhaps you ought to take up dancing again. I did have such fun today during my lesson, and do you know, I think the exercise might do you good.”
“I went walking,” Margaret mumbled defensively.
“With Mrs Drummond! Why, Mamma’s old pug walks faster than she! That must have been insufferably dull.”
“We went to the fountain. You know how I have always loved it.”
“Since we were very small. The lovers sitting on the benches there are always so charming. I adore watching them.”
Margaret’s face crumpled in distaste. “Do you? I never pay them any mind.”
“Do you not think it romantic? Oh, there was one tall officer when we went last, so handsome he was! His lady was so lucky, I thought. She was lovely, too, wearing such a soft blue walking dress. I simply could not cease gawking at them until Mrs Drummond caught me.”
“Surely,” Margaret objected rationally, “there is much more to consider than an officer’s looks. I do not understand why you like a uniform so well.”
Edith sputtered in a great gasp of derision. “How can you not? There is nothing to a sharp blue or red coat, with those bright buttons. Oh! Someday, I hope I shall catch some officer’s eye. Would you not adore the adventure of travelling to posts with an officer husband?”
“I would prefer a sensible, grounded gentleman,” Margaret answered flatly. “Perhaps his looks matter little enough, but I should like for him to be someone I could talk to. Every time I listen to Uncle’s guests in the drawing-room, I hear only ceaseless prattle about betting at the races and the sporting season.”
“Oh, of course they must speak of other things,” Edith assured her comfortably. “Mamma says that she had the finest suitor once who admired gardening immensely, and he taught her all manner of flowers, and—”
Margaret groaned. “I meant a gentleman who can discuss books and ideas, who is able to express himself clearly. I think I should prefer a man something like Papa—educated and gentle… but perhaps a little more candid and sociable.” Her forehead pinched in thought.
Her parents had once adored one another, that she knew, but it seemed that at least of late, her father was not a good companion for her mother—nor for anyone else since the word about Frederick. Intelligent and sympathetic company would satisfy her notions of an equal marriage—someone whom she could respect, who held a genuine affection for her and possessed the fortitude to stand beside her through tragedy. Margaret Hale, young though she was, had no desire to swoon over a man, only to find such frivolous emotions cooled within a few years.
“Oh, Margaret,” Edith twisted her head about sleepily, “Mamma says such a man does not exist. Men do not look to their wives for conversation of that kind, nor do I think I would at all care for it. How dull! You speak as if you would marry a parson yourself, or some university fellow.”
Margaret rolled to her back. “Perhaps. I shall not trouble myself about what is years in the future. In any case, I do not intend to make the pursuit of a husband my only occupation.”
Edith scoffed. “What else would you do? You cannot consider spinsterhood!”
She shifted uncomfortably. “There are worse things, surely. I would not marry simply because it is expected, Edith. I do not think I could submit easily to a man such as any I have known.”
“Mamma says you are too fond of your own way, Margaret,” Edith warned with a yawn. “Too much like Fre—” She cut herself off with a gasp, but it was too late, for Margaret had heard well enough.
Margaret stiffened, her eyes wide in the darkness with renewed anguish.
“Oh, forgive me, Margaret!” Edith implored. She sniffed uncomfortably, gushing excuses to palliate the horror she had unwittingly inflicted. Predictably, she sought to distract her cousin by turning back to the question of romance.
“Surely you shall find a gentleman someday whom you can admire. Perhaps we shall marry brothers! Oh, come, Dearest, you are only tired. May we please sleep now?”
Margaret tugged the counterpane up under her chin and muttered a good night as Edith rolled away. She ought to have known better than to think Edith could understand her feelings, but it comforted her to at least have her cousin near. She closed her eyes, pretending to sleep, and wondering if anywhere in this world there existed the sort of companion with whom she could truly share her heart.
“Love, are you well?” John tugged at Margaret’s hand as they moved to abandon the dining room. Hannah had already left them behind, and they lingered for a few stolen moments in privacy before he returned to the mill for the afternoon.
She hesitated, then turned back to him. The empty quality her eyes had taken on in the few seconds she had looked away terrified him. Grief was a fickle tormentor; raising its hideous aspect whenever it pleased, crushing any budding hopes of happiness beneath waves of guilt and remorse for aspiring to such.
Well did he know the conflict that bound her within its grasp. Her entire future—their future—hung on what measure of courage and faith she possessed to face her sorrows. She had begun to confide in him, but it was not yet with the strong force of habit which could break through the darkest melancholy.
“Margaret? What is it?”
She lifted her shoulders and her mouth worked helplessly. “It is nothing of any consequence, John. You mustn’t be troubled… Dixon is to arrive this afternoon. I will be grateful for her company. I shall be well.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Am I to understand that you have not found my mother’s company very satisfying?”
She swallowed, and her gaze dropped to his waistcoat again.
“Margaret,” he touched her chin, and those clear eyes braved his once more. “You are the only woman who never looked down to me, and I beg you not to start now. It is not your way.”
She blinked, then drew a slow, steadying breath as her shoulders squared again. “You may not be put off by my manner, but it is not with you that I shall spend most of my days. I do not wish to be at odds with your mother, but....”
“I know how she can be. You frighten her, you know.”
Astonishment swept over her face. “I? Frighten her? How is that possible?”
“Because you are yourself—my strong Margaret.”
She shook her head, brushing off his words with a dismissive laugh. “I feel that I am neither myself, nor strong of late, John.”
He pulled her close to press a loving kiss to her forehead. Had he perceived the unbearable frissons his breath sent through her hair and down her back, it is likely that he would not have returned to the mill at all that day. From him, at least, the gesture was one of innocent comfort.
“You will grow strong again, Margaret. It is your nature, and she knows it as well as I.”
She sniffed and turned her face into his shoulder. “I do not understand why that should trouble her. She could not respect me otherwise, could she?”
“No, but neither would she be threatened by you. She likes her own ways and has been left untroubled by contradiction for too long. I never questioned her domestic arrangements, and in late years she has had every resource and influence her heart could desire. All that has changed, for everything that was hers is now yours.”
“And I am undeserving! You need not say it, for I know that is how she feels. I never meant to displace her, either in her home or in your affections.”
“And you have not done so,” he insisted, tugging at her waist. “You have only brought to this home what has long been missing. It will take time for her to learn to trust in you as I do.”
She drew a long breath and shone a grateful smile. “Perhaps I will sit with her this afternoon, instead of….”
“Instead of going to the mill kitchen to visit Mary Higgins?”
She blinked a few times, then her old boldness made a little gasp of reappearance. She straightened and met his eye. “I had intended to do so, yes. I regret if you are displeased.”
“Not in the least. I was about to offer to escort you, but of course if you prefer to remain here with my mother….”
She studied him for a moment in puzzlement. “You would not feel it immodest of me, or a defiance of your authority, if I desire to pay social calls on one of the workers?”
“You would not be my Margaret if you did not defy me whenever the fancy struck you! I think I can withstand the shock. To be quite truthful, I have lately missed locking horns with you.”
“John!” she protested. “I beg you would not speak of me in such a vulgar way.”
“Vulgar! I suppose it was, but apt, nonetheless. I did not marry you expecting we would never disagree. Provoke me, challenge me, I beg you, for I will only love you the more for it.”
She frowned, but it was more playful than chagrined. With a hitch of her chin and a flash of her old poise, she surveyed him through lowered lids. “I ought to have expected you, of all people, to thrill in such a challenge. You have ever carried your way against those who wish to come against you.”
“Not always. I suspect you
will have the better of me yet, but I plan to enjoy the battle. And, since we are speaking of differing opinions, there is one contrary old fellow who has been asking after you for days. What would you say to a brief tour of the mill before I walk you to the kitchen?”
Her eyes lit expressively, and it was the only answer he required. He leaned down to kiss her once more—a soft brush, a secret pledge of later delights. “I will wait for you to make yourself ready,” he whispered against her lips.
As she turned away, her steps once more sparkling with energy, he gazed after her with the rapt admiration of a man hopelessly infatuated. She disappeared, and he laughed at himself. John Thornton, at last cowed and brought low by a proud look from a woman, and revelling in his own meekness!
He tapped a pensive finger against the leg of his trousers. Here was an opportune moment to speak with his mother, to salve her fears that he was lost to her, and to explain to her in detail that cryptic conversation with Henry Lennox. He found her not in her sitting room as he had expected, but in a small alcove of the stairwell, the window of which looked out to the mill beyond.
“Mother?”
She did not seem to hear his approach. When she did turn at last, he detected a redness about her eyes and a pallor to her complexion. Her thinned lips quivered, and her arms crossed defensively. “How long have you known about Margaret’s brother?” she demanded in a fragile voice.
“She told me yesterday,” he confessed, tugging his fingers through his unruly hair as he often did when he was troubled. “You may well have guessed that it was he who was walking out with Margaret at the station after Mrs Hale’s death.”
She turned her face back to the window, acknowledging his words with only a slight lift of her chin. “And what are these heinous charges she spoke of?”
“The Navy considers him a mutineer. Margaret tells me that his captain, a man named Reid, had gone mad—had antagonised and persecuted his men to the point of exhaustion and the limits of physical impossibility. The mutiny itself was instigated by the senseless death of a crew mate falling from the yard arm when he feared punishment by the captain. Lieutenant Hale is said to have restrained the men from hanging Reid there next.
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