“Aye, lad,” the captain rose and clapped John on the shoulder, as no one in Margaret’s previous experience had ever dared to do. “And a lucky fellow ye are! I ought to call ye Perseus, who won himself a princess! Eh, but let us have done with the sea stories, for I expect ye and yer lovely lady here must be near to burst with curiosity.”
John’s face changed colours again as he glanced uncertainly to Margaret once more. She watched him then, staring for a long second at the captain’s satisfied expression, and saw his posture ease somewhat. “Margaret,” said he, beckoning to her with an outstretched hand, “I believe we ought to be seated to hear his news.”
She settled tensely beside him, and both instinctively leaned forward. The captain, his face perfectly grave, bent to a satchel at his feet and withdrew a rather impressive-looking document. Margaret could see even from a distance that it bore half a dozen signatures as well as an official seal of some sort. John’s hand clamped tightly over her own.
“I have here—” Fortin permitted himself a broad grin at last—“an official pardon from the Board of Admiralty for all persons, living or deceased, previously convicted of mutiny aboard the Russell.”
The room tipped at odd angles, and the air rushed from her lungs. Her eyes were dazzled, unfocused, and she felt John’s strong arm slipping round her shoulders. “Margaret?” his voice called from far away.
She felt herself trembling, blinking but not seeing—much as John had done the day before. “It is impossible!” she murmured, again and again.
“I have the proof here, madam,” the captain was laughing. “I should say that many things were more impossible!”
“But… but there was nothing to be done! I have read Frederick’s letters, the ones he wrote at the very point of the crisis! Please, sir, do not toy with my feelings… John, can he be in earnest?”
“He is.” John caught her fluttering hand and held it firmly, anchoring her in his presence until at last she could perceive the natural colours and shapes of the familiar room clarifying behind him. “I did not tell you before because I did not wish to inspire false hope, but it seems the captain here knew his business. Your brother’s name has been cleared.”
“I do not understand!” The formal document was now in her hands, the list of the condemned and exonerated men printed before her eyes. “On what grounds could they reverse the judgment? Justified or no, Fred and the others were mutineers! They put off the officers and took the ship—it was in all the papers. There must be some mistake!”
“No mistake, madam, but a lie. A wretched, villainous lie to save face for the Navy, and even some of the crew repeated it because they were promised leniency if they confessed to the crime. Lieutenant Hale must have done the same, but I were there, madam. There was naught I could do then, nor the others who saw the wicked deception played out. We had our orders, and none of us wished to hang beside those poor devils on board the Amica when they were court-martialled.”
Margaret blinked as understanding flooded over her. “Fred has never told me any more about it, since that first letter to Mother. Last year when he was… when I spoke with him, he said there might be a chance, he wanted to defend himself, but I did not understand…. I thought it was impossible! How have you done this, sir?”
“’Twere not my own doing! Yer husband here is a man of good sense, Mrs Thornton. It were a lucky thing we met. ‘Twas a burden we both bore—he in his heart, myself in my conscience. I and others could bear witness, but I had nothing worth bringing before the Admiralty, and had no hope of ever making sense of it all before I met your Mr Thornton here. He made just the proper arguments and won the trust of one of the crew who could testify. The Admiralty found enough evidence that they determined a quiet pardon, without the fuss of the papers, the best way to avoid scandal.”
She raised her brimming eyes to her husband, that flawed saviour who had borne with her through so many trials and sought her interests above his own. His cheek was tight, and twitching with a rich conflict of emotions she could read more easily even than her own heart. Proud delight warred with humility, joy with regret, and hope with that old air of confidence, rendering his expression in that moment the perfect mirror for her tumbling feelings. She lifted a hand to his cheek, sniffling and weeping, and touched her forehead gently to his—a promise that she would find some way, however long it took, to properly express her gratitude for all his tender care and devotion.
“My dear,” Mrs Fortin’s low voice broke them apart as she spoke to her husband, “perhaps we ought to call again on the morrow. Mr and Mrs Thornton must have a deal to talk over this evening.”
“No!” Margaret’s and John’s voices raised in unison. They shared a brief glance, a mutual resolve, then Margaret spoke.
“Please, we would ask you to stay for dinner. This is cause for celebration, and do you not know that the bearers of such glad tidings must be shown the highest honours? I am afraid what we have to offer is modest at best, but we would cherish your company.”
Mrs Fortin’s gaze moved from John to Margaret, and her face blossomed into a sincere, jubilant smile. She seemed not to care for her husband’s opinion on the matter—her mind was clearly resolved, and she answered for them both without taking her eyes off Margaret. “We would be delighted, Mrs Thornton.”
“Please! You must call me Margaret. I should like to think of you as a friend, Mrs Fortin.”
The lady’s expression softened still more. “Deborah,” she said.
Margaret inclined her head. “Deborah. I am dearly pleased to know you. Oh, you must meet Fanny—I do not suppose you remember her?”
“Margaret—” John drew her aside—“perhaps you will allow me to perform the introductions while you have a word with Dixon.” He narrowed his eyes, a playful suggestion twinkling there, and gestured towards the document still in her hands.
“Oh!” She flushed, made a quick apology, and hurried from the room. She found Dixon seated at a small stool in the kitchen, her forehead resting in her hand in a moment of quiet repose.
“Dixon!” She fluttered the document, startling poor Dixon nearly out of her wits. “Oh, Dixon, it is the most wondrous thing! Fred has been pardoned, he can come home!”
Dixon jerked, then stumbled to her feet. Her eyes rounded, the strange truth of what she heard descending upon her as a glad shock infuses life into the hopeless. No protests did she utter—she merely clasped her hands over her heart, raising teary eyes to heaven, and cried out, “Fred, my boy! Oh, Missus!”
~
20 June 1856
“Yo’r brother, he’s to come back, then?” Mary Higgins asked as she passed Margaret a fresh cup.
“I do not know. We have written to him, of course, but he is married and settled in Spain, and his first child was born just a few weeks ago. I doubt they will go anywhere for some months, at least. I am simply relieved that he shall never again be in danger. We may visit each other whenever we choose, and I can even speak freely of him.”
“Tha’s a’ right, then,” Mary agreed. She offered a bit of bread and cheese, but Margaret lifted her hand and shook her head.
“Please, nothing to eat, Mary. I mean no offence—” she hastened to explain, when Mary’s eyes darkened at the presumed slight—“my stomach has been somewhat unsettled today. I only stopped by for a moment to visit and to see the children.”
“Da’s to come home soon. Yo’ll stay tha’ long today, won’ yo’?”
“Mr Thornton will be arriving home soon as well, but perhaps I may stay a short while. I was hoping Christine or Joseph might like to read a book I brought.”
At that moment, a knock sounded upon the door. Margaret straightened—recognising that sound by instinct and knowing even before Mary opened the door who she would find at the threshold. John’s imposing figure cut out the glare from the street, his eyes lightening in some relief when he found her. He ducked his head to enter the room, and his countenance looked grave.
“J
ohn?” She rose from the chair. “Oh, what is it?”
He cast round to smile at Mary. “Forgive me, Miss Higgins, but I must deprive you of your guest.” He looked then to Margaret, and his expression chilled her spine. Margaret hastened to leave, promising to call again when she could.
The streets were quiet when they stepped outside. Most of those who lived in the neighbourhood were still at work, and only a few young faces loitered about. John glanced about, then clasped her hand more tightly.
“Do you wish for the news now, or would you prefer to wait?”
She shivered, despite the spring day. “Oh, I should prefer to hear the worst now. What is so very dreadful?”
John stopped and drew a letter from his coat. “This was brought to me today. It is for you, but I assume the sender did not wish to distress a lady.” He held it for her to take, but her teeth clenched, and she flinched.
“Just read it to me, please. It is not some ill tidings about Frederick again, is it? I knew it was too good!”
“No, it is from Mr Bell’s solicitor.” He unfolded the letter, assured himself once more that she could bear up, and read.
Dear Mrs Thornton,
I regret to inform you that Mr Adam Bell of Oxford died yesterday. I had been engaged to meet with him that day on some matters of business, and his housekeeper gave me the news that he died without warning during his morning tea. I found a letter on his desk which was already prepared for the post and addressed to you, and I enclose it. I expect I will have more to send you as his affairs are settled.
John stopped reading as her hand tightened upon his arm. She was already wiping tears away with her bare fingers, and he procured his handkerchief. “I am sorry, love. I did not know he was so ill as that.”
“He has suffered gout for years, and they say the end can come on without warning, but I did not expect… oh, it is too much to lose him, as well as Papa!”
“It does seem to have been rather sudden. Come, let us return home before you open Bell’s letter. Perhaps he has left some prophetic words of comfort for you.”
~
She did not wait even long enough to refresh herself when they returned home. John followed her to the nook set aside as a study, where they could speak privately, and placed the letter in her hands before she could request it. She found the letter opener from the drawer, and he drew the chair back from the escritoire for her to seat herself. Then, contenting himself to kneel beside her, he listened as she read with wide eyes and pale lips.
My dear Margaret,
I had intended to come and stay with you again for a fortnight in Milton, but I have been feeling somewhat poorly. It shall pass, I am certain, and then I may again have the pleasure of seeing you and Thornton for some days this summer before I depart again for South America in the autumn.
I write regarding some matters of business. I would have preferred to discuss them in person, but I suppose it cannot be helped. You are aware, of course, that after that business with Wright, I came off rather handsomely. The mortgage I took out on the mill has, naturally, been satisfied, and there remain no further encumbrances. The disposition of the property has been of concern to me, for as you must be aware, a mill that is not operating is worth nothing, and deteriorates quickly.
Thornton is as hard-headed as they come, but he is also a clever fellow. I am depending upon you, my dear, to persuade him to accept some assistance in resuming operations. I am comfortably well off now and have less interest in collecting a lease than seeing the property tended. I would far rather trust your bull-headed husband with the property than some half-witted naif who cannot even tell cotton from linen. If he determines to be stubborn, my dear, tell him I will turn the mill over to just that sort simply to spite him.
I intend to set aside a sum for your purposes. I hope you will not consider it a loan to be repaid, but an instalment against the legacy I intend to leave you, which, naturally, shall include the house and mill property, as well as a handsome bank account for which I have absolutely no use.
Now, spare me your protestations, for I shall not hear them. I have no other heirs but you and Frederick, and your father was my dearest friend. As I understand your Thornton has found some way to clear Frederick, I trust we will see him in England again soon enough, and I may speak with him more particularly about his own inheritance in person.
You may be interested to learn that Wright approached me for a loan two days ago. It seems that one of those to whom he owed money was a Mr Abram Harris, his father-in-law, and Wright is most urgently seeking a means to satisfy the debt. For some reason there has been a falling out between the two—I can only presume it has something to do with the rumour I heard earlier in the week that Mrs Wright has gone to live in Paris. By the by, I was not inclined to agree to the loan, and informed him that I was committed to other interests.
As for yourselves, I have seen my solicitor today. He is to come again on the morrow to collect the last of the documents I have signed, and I hope you may have the mill open again soon. I will close now and write more soon.
Yours & etc,
A Bell
John took the letter from her as she laid it aside, his eyes brushing only lightly over Bell’s neat script. His heart was pounding in his ears. In one letter, the course of their lives had changed again… and he could not decide whether the news was welcome or not.
That Bell had been kindly disposed towards Margaret, if not himself, he had never doubted, but for the man to make her—them—his heirs… it was too incredible to comprehend. And that he was gone already, with no opportunity for his beneficiaries to protest his generosity, or even to thank him….
Was he thankful? Surely, he must be! But it seemed too easy, too obvious. What effort had he exerted for such a prize? The mill would belong to them, and it was his pleasure… his duty… to return to it. The only difficulty was that he was not certain he still wished for it.
He clasped Margaret’s hand and found it shaken and cold. Occasional sniffles betrayed her own heartache, and she wrapped her near arm about him to pull him close, seeking comfort. Another loss for her! Yet in her own quiet expressions of grief, he sensed an equal measure of concern for himself. He felt her fingers threading through his hair and he allowed her to draw his head to her knee.
“Margaret?”
She stroked her thumb over his temples, where his hair had begun to show the first shards of silver during her harrowing illness, and he heard a trembling sigh escape her. “You are to be the master of the mill again, my love.”
“Shall I?”
“What would you propose to do instead? Even in life, Mr Bell wished for this. His death must make it even more inevitable that it is to be yours.”
“I cannot deny that it would answer for every hope, but I do not like having that choice made for me. I have done nothing to deserve it.”
Margaret gave a low chuckle. “Then sell it.”
He lifted his head. “What?”
“All of it. Sell it off, take the proceeds elsewhere, and do what you wish.”
“But… would that not dishonour Bell’s wishes? How could you content yourself with something so mercenary?”
“What were his wishes, John? Do you think he cared about the buildings? About you making cotton?”
“Did his letter not say as much? He could not have been plainer.”
“Read it again,” she urged softly, tracing the edges of his jaw with her fingertips. “He was concerned for the upkeep of his property while it remained his, but his primary concern was for you—for us. Has he not always delighted in goading you with compliments disguised as impertinence? If he had admired you less or wished to impose his will without regard to your wishes, would he have taken the trouble to abuse your stubbornness or to tease you for your pride?”
He stared at her in wonder, even laughed a little. “And my love, you seem to take pleasure in advising me to do one thing when you truly wish for me to do the opposite.”
“You would not prefer that we remove from Milton entirely, shed from ourselves the trappings of industry? We could go to the South. You could plant rose hedges, like your mother’s, and I could—”
“Go mad? John—” she took his face between her hands—“the North is where we belong. You would suffocate in the South, for you could not take your ease. I know you aspire to more than you have accomplished thus far. Should you not begin again at the mill you know so well? What might you do for your workers, for your family? And when you have thought of a new object and the means, what more might you accomplish?”
“You are suggesting….” His eyes drifted from hers, and a slow smile grew as an inspired breath left him. “Ah. My Margaret, I know precisely what I wish to do. I believe you will be pleased, and Bell’s memory honoured as it should be. And… are you well?”
“I hardly know! I never knew Mr Bell intimately, and it has only been since we came to Milton that I have been reacquainted with him. But he was dear, for all that. Of course, I am grieved. He did care so prodigiously for Papa, and he has proved more than kind to us. It is too much, John!”
“I am sorry you have lost another.”
“Yes.” She pulled him close again, and he gratefully leaned his cheek against her thigh. “It feels unjust somehow, that he should intend to leave us such a legacy as he proposes.”
“Not ‘us’. You. I am merely the lucky man who married an heiress. You always were a queen consorting with a dustman.”
“Oh! If I have ever given such an impression—”
“Do you not remember the day we first met?”
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