He assisted her on the stairs and to her room, settling her gently on the bed so she could catch her breath. He sat beside her, caressing her hand. “Are you certain you are well?”
She nodded, still breathing more deeply than he would have liked. “Yes. I only need to accustom myself to going out. I have walked so little of late.”
John glanced at the floor. “I know you have missed going out, but you know why it has not been possible.”
She smiled tightly, that expression which told plainly that she did not agree but did not wish to argue at present.
He smoothed his hand over her shoulder. “Would you like me to help you with your gown?”
Her eyes fell. “Edith’s maid will do that. I expect her in a few moments, as soon as Edith no longer needs her.”
John allowed his hand to drop and sighed, looking about the spacious chamber. “Was this your room when you used to live here?”
“It was Edith’s, before she married. Mine was a few doors down, but that room has become a nursery again.” Her tones were wooden, her eyes glazed faintly as she stared straight ahead.
“Margaret?” He touched her elbow in concern when she did not reply at first.
She started and drew a quick breath, pasting a brave smile on her face. “I am well, John.”
“You are lying, Margaret—not to me, but to yourself. It still troubles you.”
Her eyes fluttered, her lips parted, but the expression of doubt cleared swiftly, to be replaced by cheerful bravado. “Somewhat, perhaps. I am happy for Edith. I am not sorry we came. It is… it is good for me, to be around one who is so happy, and to see her little boy growing. H-he is….” Her breath seemed to catch, and she heaved three or four ragged breaths before she could continue. “Any m-mother would be p-proud.”
He could not know how to answer this. He looked away, out the window, while his hand still curled around her elbow. A moment later, she rose, pulling away from him.
“She was telling me how clever he is, and how he teaches his nurse what he wants,” Margaret continued with a false smile. “He even has a few words, though none but Edith and his nurse understand them. And such a beautiful child! Have you held him? How sweet he smells!”
“You are finding it… comforting?”
“Of course. I love Edith like a sister, and her boy… well, I shall never see F-Frederick’s children, at—at least not while they are small. Perhaps s-someday….”
“We will see them, Margaret. I will take you to Spain as soon as we can possibly go.”
She sniffled, with another one of those artificial smiles, and lifted her shoulders. “Naturally.”
He rose to join her, but hesitated before he touched her. “Margaret, I am sorry.”
Her brow clouded. “Sorry for what?”
“That I could not have taken you to see him before now. That I cannot even give you the freedom to recover your strength without fearing more harm to you. And I am sorry that you….” He swallowed, his fingers reaching to trace the lower buttons on her bodice. “You deserve the same joy as your cousin.”
He hoped, as one often does after such a confession, for swift absolution, but it did not come. She looked away, blinking afresh, and was forced to press her lips to still their quivering.
“Margaret, this house—” he glanced about the room—“it is comforting to you, is it not?”
She swallowed and looked down, nodding. “I have many happy memories here.”
“You can move about, more so than you can do in Milton just now. Your strength will return. And you are among those who love you.”
She raised her eyes to his, a question beginning to brim over her dark lashes. He cupped his hand to her cheek. “Margaret, I cannot stay, but you can.”
She shook her head faintly. “I do not understand.”
“I have to work, love. I cannot afford to stay. I intended to take the train back tonight, but we had not spoken of it yet.”
“So soon! But we have been here only two days. Did we not speak of a week?”
“Unfortunately, we hardly spoke at all. I believe you wished for a week, and I am happy to arrange that—or longer, if you wish. I cannot stay with you.”
“But John,” she began to protest, a tear slipping over the edge of her cheek.
He put a finger to her lips. “It is best, love. I will send Dixon on tomorrow’s train. She will be only too glad to come. As for me, you would scarcely see me at home, as I have so much work to do just now. You no longer have even my mother for company, and I would protect you from the fever in Milton while you are still recovering. Would you not enjoy some time here, with your relations?”
Her shoulders were trembling, and she stared down at the buttons of his waistcoat. She made no answer for several excruciating seconds, then at last in a whisper, “If you think it is best, John.”
Helstone
June 1850
“Maria, my dear, good morning. And Margaret—” Mr Hale added, almost in surprise at finding her there—“good morning to you.”
Margaret smiled at her father as he entered the dining room. She was seated beside her mother at the table, pouring her tea and trying to learn all she could of what had gone on in Helstone since last autumn. It was difficult not to mention Frederick, for she ached to hear of him. His name seemed still on the lips of each of the neighbours, but it pained her parents too greatly to ask what she longed to know.
“Mamma,” she reminded her gently, “you were speaking of Farmer Grady suffering some misfortune. Has he been ill?”
Maria Hale’s watery eyes were on her husband as he settled into his chair and bowed his head in a humble—and belated—blessing over the family breakfast. She seemed not to hear her daughter, but neither did she attempt to speak to her husband. She appeared rather to be waiting on him to offer her some further notice, but none such was forthcoming.
Margaret suffocated a small sigh of dismay. Nine months she had spent in London, as she had done each of the last seven years. Her return this spring had been delayed by nearly a tenth month before her father had at last arrived to take her home. She had been alive with eagerness to see her mother, and Dixon, and all her childhood friends. On this, however, her second day at home, her return seemed to generate as little interest from her parents as a new hen in the coop.
“Papa—” she attempted a new strategy—“what will you preach on this morning?”
Mr Hale glanced up in surprise from his plate. “What? Oh, I speak on… on Titus.”
“’That the aged men be sober, grave, temperate, sound in faith, in charity, in patience. The aged women likewise, that they be in behaviour as becometh holiness, not false accusers, not given to much wine, teachers of good things; That they may teach the young women to be sober, to love their husbands, to love their children,’” quoted Margaret.1
If she hoped to please her father by her quick recitation, she was mistaken. He seemed to have hardly noticed, but her mother’s mood darkened even further. Margaret drew back in her chair and toyed with the handle of her cup.
In short order, the family had all set out for the church. It was, however, with some dismay that Margaret noted her mother leaning heavily on Dixon as they walked. Mr Hale had offered his arm, but it had been declined. When he submitted to walk ahead, Margaret drew to her mother’s left and took her other arm, invited or not.
The usual faces greeted her that morning—welcoming, kindly folk, who all seemed glad to see her. Several bowed or curtsied, a few expressed their delight at her return, and one or two made some passing comment that she would bring great comfort to her parents just now. Margaret’s only response was a tight smile and a murmured agreement that she, too, was happy to be home. It was a relief when she could take her seat and lose herself in the service, and her dear father’s beloved voice from the pulpit.
“’Put them in mind to be subject to principalities and powers, to obey magistrates, to be ready to every good work, To speak evil of no man,
to be no brawlers, but gentle, shewing all meekness unto all men.2’
Her father looked up from his lectern, his grey eyes sober as he surveyed his flock. “Is that not our highest mortal calling, to be submissive and gentle towards one another? How, then, shall we render ourselves unto authority? Shall even an unjust administrator be obeyed without question? Indeed, it is written so. Yet we are not slaves bound to our earthly masters, for freedom and prerogative await us all, succeeding the laying aside of our worldly trappings. I refer you to the writings of Seneca;
’The story of the Spartan lad has been preserved: taken captive while still a stripling, he kept crying in his Doric dialect, ‘I will not be a slave!’ and he made good his word; for the very first time he was ordered to perform a menial and degrading service,—and the command was to fetch a chamber-pot,—he dashed out his brains against the wall. So near at hand is freedom, and is anyone still a slave?3’
“Now, my brethren, Seneca had not, as we, the hope which surpasses all understanding, yet even he understood that our present earthly lives are merely squandered when spent serving injustice. Let him be humble before righteous authority, and willing to lay himself on the altar for the sake of justice.”
Margaret, as always, was listening raptly to her father’s words, parsing them and taking them to her heart. It was some minutes before she perceived the faint murmuring passing through the church. A few pews squeaked, heads tipped towards one another, and eyes began seeking any object but the man in the pulpit. Margaret watched curiously, uncertain what could be the cause. Perhaps such esoteric comparisons made little sense to them, unlearned as most were. Margaret determined to pay them no mind, and to devote her thoughts instead to discovering her father’s meaning.
The Hale family were always the last to leave the church on Sundays. The parishioners paid their brief respects to Mr Hale, several greeted Margaret again, but most passed by Maria Hale as she stood, silent and withdrawn behind her husband. Margaret laced her arm through her mother’s as the last family lingered to speak a moment with her father.
“It was a wonderful sermon,” she suggested hopefully.
Her mother only shifted her eyes back to her husband.
“I particularly loved the references to Seneca. Is not Papa brilliant to have discovered such an insight to share? I do hope his intent was understood properly.”
Maria Hale’s lips puckered unhappily, but she would not speak a word. Margaret sighed and gave it up until her father turned back and offered them his arm. “Come, Mamma,” Margaret insisted, leaving Mrs Hale with no alternative but to accept her husband’s escort.
Once returned to the privacy of their own drawing-room, Maria Hale let her woes be known. Margaret had again complimented her father on his plundering of the old Latin texts, but her mother rose up.
“And what are we all to think? You uphold that pagan mystic as though he possessed some great spiritual wisdom, but not a single person even knew who he was! One moment you spoke of submission, the next of defiance and mortal sin! It is little wonder the bishop sent you that letter of remonstrance.”
Hale’s face softened, vulnerable as he was to his wife’s criticism. He turned gently away, his head down, to shelve the book he held in his hand.
“You did not think it fine, Mamma? He was not proclaiming Seneca as the fount of all wisdom, but merely observing that even—”
“He spoke of choosing defiance and death rather than to compromise and be left in peace,” Mrs Hale interrupted, her eyes limpid now with tears. “What honour is that? It is nothing of the kind, but a wicked heresy. Do you think it right to advise the people that death is preferable to seeking some workable accord?”
“I do not believe that is what he meant, Mamma. I think only that Papa meant to demonstrate that there is something greater than this life, and that spending it in some noble way is no loss, when compared to the great hope beyond.” She looked to her father, to see what he would have to say in response to her summary, but apart from a brief glance, he would not engage the conversation.
“And what are these words about living as a slave? We have no slaves in our country. How are any of us to make sense of such words?”
“I think he refers to spiritual bondage, Mamma. Were we not all slaves before our deliverance? Or perhaps we could apply it to our social dignity, for everyone has their betters in society, I suppose, save the queen. Is there not something noble and fine in a man who rejects the unlawful expectations of his superiors in favour of what is good and right?”
“That is what I spoke of,” Mr Hale put in quietly. “And the sacrifice one must expect to render, if such a determination is made. It is better to keep a clean conscience than to live a slave to what is wrong.”
“You speak of such high-minded things,” Mrs Hale protested, “but what has that brought to you? You are still here in miserable little Helstone, preaching meaningless words to those who will not understand them, and all because you would not pay proper respects to the bishop when last he was here.”
“I did not, it is true,” Mr Hale sighed. Margaret watched his shoulders droop as he turned away from them. A moment later, he had disappeared into his little study, just missing Nancy as she brought the tea tray. Margaret watched him go with some regret but turned to help her mother situate herself for their midday repast. Dixon, however, was already there.
“Don’t know what the master was thinking of,” mumbled the lady’s maid as she assisted her mistress. “Rambling on about some slave boy and all that. If he’d only stay with the right topics, folks wouldn’t wonder so about him.”
“What does she mean, Mamma?” Margaret had, at least, secured a tea cup for her mother before Dixon could. She drew near with it and dropped three sugar cubes in, just as her mother liked it. “Are people speaking ill of Papa?”
“Oh, Margaret!” Mrs Hale’s tears flowed freely. “Do not we all wonder what he is about? I cannot bear the whispers of the neighbours. He could have had a better position last winter, but he refused to please the bishop. He simply will preach these meaningless sermons that do us no good. Of what use is it to preach about slave boys—I dare not even repeat the words! He should have spoken on the Eucharist or the Beatitudes or some other safe topic. I fear he will offend so many that the bishop will send us off to somewhere even smaller and more miserable than Helstone.”
“Helstone miserable! Dear Mamma, I think you are weary. Come, you must take your luncheon, and then perhaps this afternoon we may walk about the rose garden together.”
“My roses are scarcely fit to be seen,” Mrs Hale nearly sobbed. “I had not the strength to touch them this spring as I used to do. If only your father had not let Freddy go!”
“Fred?” Margaret brightened. “Oh, have you heard from him? How has he settled in Spain?”
Mrs Hale shook her head, now pressing a handkerchief to her mouth. Dixon took the teacup Margaret had filled from her other hand, and, with a poorly concealed glare towards the daughter, proceeded to comfort her mistress. “Now, Missus, there’s no sense making your eyes puffy again,” she observed practically. “I’ll fetch you some nice salts. Here, drink this cup, the other has grown cold.”
Margaret did not miss the resentful glance Dixon cast her way as she rose but chose not to address it. “Mamma, I do not understand,” she persisted as soon as Dixon had gone. “What has Fred to do with Papa’s standing in the church?”
“Oh! We are disgraced, Margaret. Everyone knows it all and they have still not forgotten. And your father, with his dusty old books, stands there in his church and preaches that Frederick was right to mutiny. How can he dare? What would have been right is having my boy back again. Oh, I am not ashamed of my Freddy—I am proud that he did what he felt was right, but if only he had not listened to your father! It would be all right then, if only—”
“Mamma, what happened? Why was Fred counted among the mutineers? What did he do? Will you not tell me some day?”
Mrs Hale
fell silent, deaf to her daughter’s pleas, and merely dabbed her eyes until Dixon’s return. The maid bestowed on her another dark look, and Margaret understood that she was occupying the coveted seat which Dixon had claimed as her own. Meekly she shifted to the other and watched as Dixon ministered to her mother.
No one walked with Margaret that afternoon in the rose garden. Undeterred, she took her watercolours and attempted a close study of one of the season’s lushest roses, but the colours would not mix properly. Try as she might, every mixture was contaminated with hints of green and grey. In the end, she set the easel and paints aside, never touching them again all that summer.
Margaret watched through blurred eyes as her husband bade farewell to his host and hostesses. She flinched at each cool expression of regret, at each insensitive remark cloaked in sympathy about his work calling him away. They could not have meant to be callous, but such they were, and John’s tight responses did nothing to encourage warmth. He looked slighted—offended, even—and his pride had long ago scorched a thick callous of disdain for any who would attempt to lord their ancestral gentility over his hard-earned respectability. He seemed glad to be making his escape from London.
At last it fell to her to make the proper farewell expressions, those naturally expected of a gently bred wife parting from her husband for a short few days. Maxwell Lennox had the goodness to withdraw—whether he intended to offer privacy for the couple or sought a fresh cigar, Margaret could not be certain. Her aunt and cousin remained. She felt their gazes on her, casting restraint and possibly censure as she slipped her small hand into John’s familiar, calloused fingers. His eyes flashed over her shoulder for an instant, then met hers with one last look of regret tinged with annoyance.
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