The master of the house on Marlborough Street remained there, curled in a neglected mistress’ chaise before a weak coal fire, until the cold fingers of dawn crept through the window. When he arose, he was no less distressed and despairing than he had been the evening before, but one thing, at least, had changed.
He had a purpose.
Twenty-One
20 April 1856
Margaret hastily scrawled her name at the bottom of the note, then wiped her eyes on her handkerchief before the tears could ruin another sheet of paper. Sniffling, she blotted the letter, and read it over to herself before sealing it. The forced cheer, the inane ramblings, would not fool the recipient, but it was the best she had to offer.
She dared not confess anything of consequence to her mother-in-law, lest the reply be more bitingly truthful than she could presently bear. She grimaced at the superficial small-talk she had written to the woman who had come to know her as well as any other. No, Hannah Thornton… Donaldson… would not be deceived for a moment and would likely roll her eyes and snort through the entire banal missive. It was better than not writing at all, after weeks away and a new marriage for the other. Hannah had written twice to her in that time. She must send something, so long as she took care to pen nothing defamatory about the mother’s son.
As if she could! Margaret coughed slightly—a lurch of her heart, once again—as she folded and sealed the note, then composed her features. There was nothing ill she could say of John, even had she desired. Throughout this sleepless sojourn, it was her own conviction which had gradually shone through any residual anger she felt for him.
Nothing he had accused her of had been in error. For his temper, his pride, she could fault him, but had hers been better? In the presence of those who would slight him, he had perceived insults she never intended… but had she, even once, spoken in his defence? The casual disregard for his delicate position, the misplaced affinity for her spoiled cousin and the deranged sentiment which had led her hence; all were deceit, conspiring to rob her of the happiness that had been in her own grasp. How—how—had she become such a careless, heedless wretch?
She cast the letter, now ready for the post, down on her desk and laid her head back against her chair. Her hand brushed consciously again over her middle—that void from whence all her griefs had sprung. Why had she placed all her hope of joy in that one denied blessing, when the lover of her heart had been before her with outstretched arms? How easy it had seemed, in those dark weeks of danger and grief to blame herself, him, Milton… even heaven itself for all she had longed for and lost? What a selfish little fool she had been!
And yet, the damage was done. The unjust words had been spoken, the tender advances rebuffed, and the very foundations of his character dismissed. How fragile had been the dignity he had entrusted to her, and she had never known! What manner of wife could behave so unworthily?
So many times, she had thought to write to him, to beg his forgiveness and ask to come home to Milton. Would he hear her avowals of love? Or would he assume she was taking a stand against his authority, demanding to return to the city he had sent her away from? Did he even see anything in her that he still desired?
Blinking against the threat of more tears, she withdrew a sheet of notepaper and stared at it. Would he believe she loved him desperately, could not breathe without him, or had he persuaded himself that she was utterly beyond redemption? She dipped her pen once more, then gazed out the window for a moment before she had summoned adequate courage for yet another draft.
My beloved Dear John,
I have missed you so
I was hoping to return to Milton
The weather here has been fine enough for walking. Twice Edith and the captain, together with Henry, have persuaded me to short outings in the park, but I fatigued quickly I found it did not interest me. The park always looks the same as it did on a previous visit, and I confess, I have come to prefer somewhat livelier sights.
Margaret paused, reading over what she had written. It was an inoffensive beginning, perhaps. She dipped her pen again.
My aunt has been showing me some of the mementos she brought back from her travels abroad. Paris sounds a romantic, fashionable place, and she assured me I would love it dearly, but I think it would prove a deal too fashionable for my tastes.
She found herself staring blankly at the page again, fumbling with her pen with one hand and resting her forehead on the other. As if John would care about the weather in London or the fashions of Paris! But it was something, a tentative olive branch. Whatever she managed to write would certainly undergo at least two more drafts.
Sholto has been talking quite fluently this last week. He makes us all laugh when he tries to say my name. He pronounces it ‘Mawgwet,’ for his ‘r’s sound rather like a ‘w’. He remembers you as well, and only yesterday he asked me where ‘Jown’ was.
I attempted another likeness of him, this one a miniature, but it did not bear much scrutiny. I am not so skilled as I was when in practice. I did not even bother to show it to anyone, but I will include it for you to laugh at my bungled efforts. Please cast it into the fire once you have had your amusement!
I have had two letters from your mother. She writes most kindly, in hopes that I am enjoying my stay in London, but
She sounds satisfied in her marriage. I believe Dr Donaldson has been very busy. She says the sickness is beginning to abate in Milton. I am glad to hear it. I was so hoping to
Margaret stared at her letter in disgust. What a thoughtless ninny she sounded! Nothing of import could be said in safety, obliging her to offer only the most trivial of expressions. This would not do!
Frustrated, she shoved the paper away from herself and drew another from the stack. Perhaps she ought not to rush into writing to John. Perhaps she might try her hand at writing to someone else first, someone who could give her news without varnish or delicacy. She sighed, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling, and dipped her pen again.
Dear Nicholas and Mary……
~
22 April 1856
The latest meeting with Captain Fortin had come off rather well… except for the excruciating discomfort of having to journey to London for it. He had tried, without success, to forget that Margaret was a mere fifteen-minute carriage ride from the house in which he sat. No, he could not forget that! Not even when old Kramer’s kindly daughter bestowed on him her gentle woman’s smile, nor when the business at hand attempted to pull his mind from more personal matters. She was ever foremost.
The captain was deeply pleased with Lieutenant Hale’s testimony, for it corroborated his own in every way. Even more so did he seem impressed with John’s efforts. A proper barrister might have done more than a mere magistrate, but John would be damned before he turned to Lennox with a case that viper had already given up as hopeless. He was not without abilities and understanding of his own, and could write a legal opinion as eloquently as the next man. What a naval board would do with it was beyond his control, but the arguments and citations he had composed would, Fortin assured him, go far in the eyes of the Admiralty at Whitehall.
“Public opinion rules land and sea, my lad,” Fortin grinned as he poured John a drink. He leaned conspiratorially close. “Now, with what ye have writ here, if word leaked to the papers that a crew had suffered for the captain’s crimes and the Navy itself were responsible for the cover-up….” Fortin allowed that statement to hang, accompanied by a crafty wink.
John leaned back in his chair, an inspired twinge warming his face. “Then when next you come to Milton, allow me to introduce you to a certain Mr Smythe who works for the Examiner.”
“There, me boy! Ye learn quick. I’ll speak to some of the lads. There’s many who’ve borne this on their conscience for far too long. If the Admiralty won’t hear us when we whisper in their ears, we may have to shout in the streets.”
“You remember my conditions. Hale is not to be compromised. He understands the risk in signing his
name to the testimony and revealing that he still lives, but I’ll not divulge his location.”
“Aye, lad.” The captain stood and extended his hand. “I’d not expect any less.”
“So, John Thornton,” Mrs Fortin asked when he accepted his coat to leave, “have the two of you saved the world yet?”
“That is for tomorrow,” he winked with forced bravado.
“Do you go to Mrs Thornton now? She is still here in Town, is she not? I am sorry she could not come this evening.”
He froze. “She is. But I think… no, I shall not have an opportunity to visit her this time. She has been rather occupied with her family, and I must return to the mill.”
He began to turn away when her hand stayed his arm. He looked back curiously and found the lady regarding him with sad contemplation. “Is something wrong, Mrs Fortin?”
She shook her head gently. “You look weary, John Thornton. Do not do as poor Papa did, working himself to an early grave.”
Her words checked him, and he stared for a moment. “I shall remain above ground some while longer, Mrs Fortin, if only to please you.”
She smiled and stepped aside so he could shake the captain’s hand once more. The man had the grip of a bear, and an equal measure of enthusiasm as he pumped John’s fist. “I’ll send ye word, lad, though ‘twill be some while.”
“Of course. I am only curious why you should exert yourself at all, for a case so long considered closed. Will you not cause yourself significant trouble?”
The captain merely offered a twinkle of the eye, and a cryptic, “A matter of justice. And also, Mrs Fortin speaks well of ye, lad. It is a wise man who pleases his lady.”
Sunken and buoyant at the very same moment, John had gone to his lonely hotel to await the first morning train. He had done some little in his way for Margaret’s brother, but how deeply he longed to tell her of it! If only he dared go to her now, bursting with the hope which might make her smile on him once more! To see her again… the thought both made him quiver in anticipation and made his stomach twist in terror.
He had almost told her everything, last night in a letter. And the night before... every night this whole blasted week. Each draft had been discarded with contempt. Surely, she would assume his pitiful ramblings little more than a pathetic plea for approval, and his dignity could not suffer for her to think any more meanly of him than she already did. She was well enough entertained, with her cosseted cousin and that coxcomb of a captain and… and that wolf Lennox, who had not the decency to respect the sanctity of a married woman!
His fists curled even now as he thought of it. So many nights of late he had awoken in a boiling sweat, crying in rage and preparing to lunge at the man who would dare to claim intimacy with his wife. And she had permitted it! Whether blinded by sentiment, wilfully ignorant, or a receptive party to Lennox’s obvious ploys for her notice, it was himself she had rebuffed for his natural jealousy, rather than the bastard who was responsible for it!
In his more wrathful moments, he wished he could see her suffer the consequences of that choice, but then his heart bled, and his foolish passion won out. All he could do was to play the gentleman, remaining at a distance until such time as she made some request of him. Let her believe he was well enough without her; that he was sensibly focused on, rather than obsessively consumed by his work; that his feelings were clear and orderly, not battered upon the seas of bitter jealousy. Let her think he was not merely half a man.
It mattered little what she would have thought of him anyway, for he knew it for himself. Moreover, everyone in Milton seemed to know it. His hands all stared behind his back, traded whispers about the master and absent mistress. “She is visiting family,” was always his terse reply whenever anyone stopped him upon the street to ask after Mrs Thornton.
How long, precisely, did most ladies stay away for such a visit? Was a month too long? Two? At what point would everyone know the truth? Or had they already guessed because his face was too haggard to be answered by any other explanation?
The mill was quiet when he turned into the gates at midday. The workers had nearly all gone to their meals, and only a few stragglers remained, finishing up odd tasks before they, too, could eat. He grunted dismissive greetings as he passed, his head down and his collar shrugged up near his ears as he walked. Any rational worker would know better than to trouble him.
“Master?”
John hissed in annoyance and raised only his eyes while his chin remained tucked into his coat. “What is it, Higgins?”
The man approached, almost shyly. “We got tha’ loom fixed for good. I tho’ yo’d like to know.”
Another grunt, and John gave a short nod before trying to walk on.
“Master?”
John sighed and turned.
“I set th’ lads to shifting the bales in th’ warehouse, since Williams isn’t here. There’s room now for th’ next shipment, when it comes.”
John stared at the ground.
“There’s a shipment of new cotton coming tomorrow, isn’t there, Master?”
“No,” he heard himself reply. “Not this week.”
Higgins’ eyes, already pale and anxious, grew large. He drew a manful breath, though, and nodded smartly. “Well, we best see none is wasted. I think we have ‘nough to carry us ‘til next week, sir.”
John at last met Higgins’ eyes. Their look held for long seconds, and it was the master who looked away first. “I will speak to the hands tomorrow,” he mumbled huskily.
“Sir.” Higgins gave a steady nod and seemed to step back. Then, as if remembering another purpose, he raised his cap to catch John’s attention again.
“We’d a letter from th’ mistress yesterday. She sounds as if she were doing well.”
John halted, the breath dead in his lungs and his vision darkening. Slowly, he turned, and fastened hungry eyes on the only person who could give him word of her. “She is well?”
“Well, it sounds like she misses home.”
“Home. I wonder what you can mean by that.”
Higgins looked confused. “Why, here, of course, Master.”
“Surely she meant Helstone, where she came from.”
Higgins shook his head stubbornly. “She mentioned Mary and the childer. Asked after some o’ th’ spinner girls she knew, and one or two of th’ littler ones who were ill.”
“She is thoughtful,” John answered with as much diplomacy as he could summon. “What did you tell her?”
“I’m not much hand for writing letters,” Higgins confessed with a slow, guilty smile. “Mary, she said she’d answer. I know the mistress’ll want to hear th’ news.”
John closed his eyes, risking his first long, steady breath in some minutes. “I am sure she will.”
“But yo’ll be goin’ to see her soon, Master? Yo’ can carry a letter and tell her everything.”
John tightened his jaw. “Not… with matters as they are. I shall remain here this Saturday.”
Higgins sighed gently, defeated as John turned to go. “Don’ let it go too long, Master. There’s mills all o’er the city. There’s only one o’ her.”
John checked his stride, not glancing over his shoulder. “Good afternoon, Higgins.”
~
28 April 1856
“No!” Margaret whispered in dread. “Oh, I feared it would come to this, but I had hoped….” She turned over the rumpled note, squinting to comprehend the crabbed, irregular penmanship of the author, and shook her head again in denial. “Not the mill… oh, my John!”
Tears burned once more, and she started when Dixon thumped into her room with a basket of freshly laundered garments. “What a thing this is!” she exclaimed, heedless of Margaret’s intent, distracted posture at the escritoire.
“Those wash girls in Milton come dear enough, but I never saw such a thing as these in London now! Why, they must think they’re washing the Princess’ gowns, and they have not even so much soot to wash away as in Milton. He
re, what’s this?” she demanded, noting Margaret’s face.
“The mill,” she answered in a trembling voice, holding the note aloft. “Mary Higgins writes that the mill has failed and will be shut down as soon as all the cotton is gone. A few more days—a week perhaps—and it is finished!”
Dixon’s eyebrows raised. “Is it now?”
Margaret bolted to her feet, her entire being quivering, and swept away the scattered, blotted papers on her desk. “And this letter is already three days old…. Oh, why did he not tell me? I must write to John at once! I….”
She turned, swallowing and blinking back a new rush of tears. “Do you think he wished me to know? Surely, he would have written if he had. Oh, but I must write! I cannot hear of his troubles and not make some answer.”
Dixon blew out a weary huff and dropped the basket with a roll of her eyes. “I’d say it’s the mistress’ place to know of something like this. Have you not the right to address him? You’d have found out anyway, I daresay.”
“But I would not wish to offend him by writing prematurely. I ought to give him the justice of telling me himself.”
She wrung her hands in uncertainty, her breath quickening until her nervous excitement thrust her feelings over the threshold of decision. “Yes, yes, I shall write! Oh, I must speak with Edith at once, and have someone ready to carry this to today’s post before it is too late!”
Margaret rushed from the room, Mary’s note still clutched in her hand, and sought Edith in the drawing-room. She was not there, and Margaret determined to look in the nursery, but heard her name called as she passed by the library. She stopped impatiently, almost bouncing in her desire to speak to her cousin, but Henry came out.
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