“Thank you for coming,” Margaret whispered into her ear. “You look just how I imagined you would! Oh, you must both meet John!”
She turned, her hand extended to him, and found him standing a little aloof, just at the door of the house. His eyes bore a sentimental sparkle, and he appeared to be enjoying the scene with detached reverence, as if interrupting would break some spell.
“John Thornton!” Frederick ascended the steps and fiercely grasped John’s hand in his own. His other gripped John’s shoulder, and his eyes welled with feeling. “I know not what to say to you, sir, but God bless you!”
John glanced swiftly to Margaret, somewhat bewildered. “We are pleased to see you safe, Hale. You are most welcome to our home.”
“If I am so, it is your own doing. Thornton, you have my eternal gratitude—not least for securing the happiness of my beloved sister.”
“The honour has been entirely mine.” The two men spared another moment; hands clasped, eyes locked in mutual respect, and at length both turned to her.
Margaret’s heart was too full. She wanted to laugh, to weep, to rejoice to the heavens and dance upon the oceans that had separated them for so long. She touched her fingers to her mouth, her body trembling, and could only sob for joy, the tears streaming freely down her face. Tears—she had shed so many this year, but these tasted sweet as they washed away all the past.
John came gently to her, drawing out his handkerchief, and Margaret saw the pleased triumph in Frederick’s face as he witnessed the tender gesture. Yes, let him admire her husband! The world should know that her own John had won his place in her heart by every virtue man could possess, and that he would hold it forever.
“Margaret—” he tipped up her chin, stroking it with his thumb and permitting her to compose herself—“shall we invite our guests in from the cold?”
She laughed, brushing the last tear from her eyes and bestowing a watery smile on her beloved, and then took Dolores by the hand. “Do come. Surely, there is much to be said!”
~
“Frederick, you stayed in London last night, did you not?” Margaret had seated herself near Dolores on the sofa, while John and Frederick claimed the straight-backed chairs opposite. Dixon had hovered possessively near Frederick until Margaret had demanded that she also draw up a chair.
“Yes, Edith insisted that we stay with them. I finally met Captain Lennox, but we spoke little enough. I was mostly engaged with his brother, Henry Lennox. He seemed surprised to see me. I think no one had told him the news.”
Margaret darted her eyes to John, but his expression remained impassive. “I wonder why that would be?”
“I gather he has been visiting less frequently. He seemed rather uncomfortable—why, he turned red as a cabbage when I asked Edith if she had more recent word than I of your health… er, I apologise, Margaret, I am afraid I may have let slip an indiscreet remark or two, for Edith appeared rather uninformed….”
“It is no matter, for it can hardly be a secret now. I am surprised that Edith seemed to know so little! I had written to her, of course, and more than once.”
“I suspect she may not have taken the time to read your letters. Why, they hardly seemed to comprehend how it was I could have been pardoned, so I had the very great pleasure of extolling Thornton’s efforts, so they might understand. Lennox nearly lost his temper when he heard, I am sure of it, for he quitted the room in what looked to be a fit of pique. When he came back again, he managed himself tolerably well, and asked how it was he had not been told certain details of my case, for as a barrister he could have done more than a simple magistrate, etcetera.
“I had given him precisely the same testimony as I gave you, Thornton—” here, he turned to John, whose ears had brightened to an embarrassed pink—“but he remained convinced that you had held some advantage, or worked some secret leverage somewhere. Some men simply cannot abide giving credit to another! Anyway, I spoke no more with him, for he went away just after that. But Edith! I am sure you wrote her everything, Margaret, but other than knowing to expect our arrival she seemed perfectly ignorant of every matter of import.”
Dixon stirred and made some uncivil noise, but Margaret caught her eye with a warning. “How do you mean?” she asked carefully.
“Why, if we were not talking of travelling or babies, she could not speak more than two sentences together on any one object. I tell you, Margaret I scarcely knew her! When did Edith get so simple?”
“I do not think she has changed. Perhaps it is only our perception, you know—oh let us not speak ill of her, Frederick.”
“Forgive me, Margaret. Edith always was more for dinner parties and fine clothes than anything really serious, so I suppose she is the same, as you say. Then it’s us that’s changed, is that it? Yes, perhaps it is. I shudder when I think what a conceited, vainglorious blockhead I was in my youth. And now look at me! The family heritage I boasted of was lost, and I had only my head and my hands to make my way in the world—and a bit of kindness where I had least looked for it. A proud tradesman I have become, but I would be an ungenerous fellow if I did not also acknowledge the gifts of good fortune strewn along my path.” He bestowed a loving smile upon his bride, which was just as affectionately returned.
“You know, of course,” he continued, “that Dolores’ father has made me a partner. I have nothing to complain of, and every reason to be content.”
“What is his business?” John asked.
“Rail.”
Margaret blinked and looked at John, who had frozen with his cup halfway to his mouth. “R-rail?” he stammered.
“And textiles, of course. The Barbours started out as wool merchants, and the family’s trading house is still among the largest in the country. Barbour saw the need for better ground transport, particularly from Barcelona where much of the wool is manufactured. He was one of the first to raise support for a rail line to Mataró, which finally opened seven or eight years ago. It is a short line, but it allowed for easier transport to and from the Barcelona port for the vineyards—and it proved how convenient such a system can be. It was not the grand network he envisioned, but it was a beginning. It was harder in those days to finance such an undertaking, but of course, since then, the laws have changed and now we have French and English investors. I should think in only ten or twenty years, he will see his vision realised.”
John cleared his throat and put his saucer aside, looking significantly to Margaret. His right brow quirked, and he addressed Frederick again. “Our Mr Bell was, at the last, involved in a similar undertaking.”
Frederick’s lip curled, a sage twinkle shone in his eye, and he tapped his boot in smug restraint. “Was he? The old devil, it was always something for him.”
“Frederick!” Margaret was leaning forward in her seat now, and she caught the silent amusement passing between Frederick and Dolores. “You were his partner!”
“Indeed, I was—or, rather, the Barbour house was, is that not right, mi vida? And profited a rather tidy sum, if I may express such vulgar satisfaction. However, it was not that which persuaded me, but the hope of being useful to Bell, and by extension the both of you, for he told me his intentions towards you. He also told me a bit about that scoundrel Wright and some of his shadier practices. I was only too pleased to lend what help I could. Why, you are laughing, Margaret! Should I not look to the interests of my sister and her husband, a man who had already done much for me?”
“Oh, Frederick! You always did try to look out for me, even when we were children.”
“Ah, yes… I recall getting a few thrashings which you probably deserved more than I. Remember when you dressed Farmer Grady’s old dog up for Sunday services and brought him right under our pew? It was a marvellous idea, if I do say so, but I never thought you would actually do it.”
“You did what?” John straightened, his brow furrowed.
“Oh!” Margaret flushed—“that was not nearly so shocking as our late-night forays into the garden, climbing t
rees and counting the stars. Do you remember, Fred, the last night before you left for the Navy?”
Frederick’s face softened. “Like it was yesterday.” He leaned back in his chair, contentment seeming to settle over him as he looked at each person in turn. “I told you, did I not, that the Northern stars would guide me home? Had I only known then that they were not in the heavens, but here, in people—a sister possessed of more strength and spirit than even I could have suspected, and a brother worth more than all the friends and family I ever lost.”
Margaret’s eyes had grown misty again, and she raised them to John. He had gone quite still, and his voice was husky when he replied. “I believe, Hale, that loss is really only a starting place, a making room for all that is to come. We have gained far more.”
~
That evening, the stone house on Marlborough Street nearly quaked on its foundations for all the exultant celebration taking place within its sombre walls. Frederick and Dolores Hale’s arrival merited no less an acknowledgment than the company of all those dearest to their hosts. And this evening, Margaret would hear nothing of formalities, for Dixon took her place at table beside her long-lost boy.
Nicholas and Mary Higgins sat near Dr and Mrs Donaldson—who raised her eyebrows but held her tongue. Dolores had quickly bonded with Fanny over the rosy-cheeked babe in the nursery, for she had left her own child home in the care of her family. Even Captain and Mrs Fortin had made the journey to Milton for the occasion, and the gaiety shared by the gentlemen dispersed round the table was matched only by the knowing smiles and gently shaken heads of their ladies.
Margaret had taken her place at the foot of the table, and so often that night her eyes swept the disparate assembly of beloved faces to search out that one seated at their head—the one with the power to arrest her eyes and cause her pulse to still by the sound of his laughter. Each time she sought him, some sense caught his attention—or, perhaps he had been seeking her, as well. A quiet shared smile, an intimate understanding, and they would turn again to their guests. If they imagined their exchanges to be discreet, they were greatly deceived, for not a soul about that table could miss the devotion shining openly between the master and mistress of the house.
It was a home of the sort she had never imagined she might call her own, yet it suited her in every particular. Steady and practical, seasoned by both bitterness and beauty, the house that had once been only a token of her husband’s prestige now reflected her touch in every surface. Its very walls seemed permeated by joy, its rooms welcoming and gracious. John had once told her, just after they had come back to it, that never had he felt such a sense of home anywhere he had known.
Home. Indeed, it was, but it was not the bricks or the furnishings, nor even the mementos of their mothers which decorated its corners. It was him—the lover of her heart who dominated its centre, whose life was bound up with hers and who had given to her all that he was and would ever be. She admired him now as he held sway over the room; the candid honesty of his pleasure, the humble frankness of his wisdom, and even the boyish sense of his humour.
He paused in his conversation, noticing her gaze lingering upon him, and his eyes warmed. She smiled back—an invitation and a promise. When all had departed again, and the house had gone quiet, it would be in his arms where she would take her rest, and nowhere else.
~
2 February 1857
“With this ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
The gold band caught the evening light from the window and shone his reflection over its warm face. Worn now—burnished by pain and glory, all its imperfections smoothed away—it held his eye as he clasped the hand wearing it. Every vow made that day he had fulfilled with his very soul, the blood of his heart, and the core of his being. His life had begun that day; everything that had passed before being only a prologue, a context for the purpose of his existence—the purpose he had found in her arms.
She writhed in pain now, those clear eyes darkened for a moment.
“Margaret? I am here, love.”
Her fingers clenched his as another tremor shook her, then she gasped in relief when it had passed. “John,” she panted—begged—“hold me!”
“I am, my love. I will not let you go. Not even the doctor will drive me from your side this time. I am here, and I will never leave.”
She flexed her wrist, pulling herself nearer so she could bury her tousled head into his chest. Her body shook and trembled, great tormenting spasms racking her, but through it all, she clung to him. She shrieked, moaned, and bore down in gritty silence. His soul nearly split, his own body sweating and agonising with hers. Voices echoed beyond, but his concentration was all for her; for soothing her fears, for lending strength in her suffering.
And then, it was over. With one last, triumphant shudder, she cried out and then fell back, heaving and exultant. He could see nothing but her face, awash in a radiant splendor he had never before witnessed, but beyond the makeshift veil held by the maids, a new voice reached his ears. The cry was lusty and intense, and something broke inside John Thornton’s strong heart.
He occupied himself in smoothing her flushed brow, stroking her dark, sweat-streaked hair, and fervently kissing her as she curled again towards him. “Margaret, my Margaret!” he crooned through his own joyful sobs. “You cannot know what you are to me, my life!”
Her eyes opened, a blissful peace now shining forth, and she touched his cheek. She said nothing, only caressed his face, but her weary tenderness was more than sufficient to convey her feelings. He pulled her against him, as well as he was able, and pressed his lips to her forehead. With every restorative gasp, he sensed the intrepid, miraculous power of her travails beginning to ebb, and she was his own once more.
“John, Margaret.” His mother was coming round the narrow birthing bed, her arms full and her proud features alight. “You have a son.”
Margaret could not yet straighten, so he held out his arms, then lifted his treasure for her to see. No barrier was to be tolerated, and they both eagerly pulled away the swaddling to reveal their son. Fingers… toes… a perfect little body and a thumping heartbeat. Dark hair—thick and shining already—fell over a rosy face, and two bleary eyes opened to them.
“What will you call him?” his mother asked.
John met Margaret’s eyes, beheld the faith and trust there. Only one name suited—a name to declare their heritage, to send forth as their legacy. “George. His name is George.”
Margaret kissed their child, then lay her cheek against John’s. “George,” she whispered in agreement. “And may the name be your strength, my son.”
One more added to their family. John held his two loves close. For all that had been, and all that was to come, he would look to the future with his head high, his courage by his side, and his hope secure.
Prologue
Regent’s Park, London
2 May 1837
The lanky boy with the dark hair stood enraptured before the glorious fountain, sprays of rainbow mist showering over his clothing. Blinking the drops from his eyes and squinting in the magnified sunlight though he was, he could not tear his gaze away.
It was not the aesthetics of the sculpture or the purity of the falling water which dazzled him, although the fountain’s beauty was beyond all that he had ever seen. It was the steady, silent pump he contemplated; drawing water from the shattered glass of the pool’s surface and forcing it into the explosive steam which dampened his garments. What a marvel of technology!
The pump was nothing new, of course. He had studied the mechanics of it long ago, but back home in Milton, there were not many opportunities to admire such graceful fusions of machinery and art. This is how it was meant to be! This was the perfect union of practicality and wonder, of simple principles employed to best advantage.
That such impressive technology could im
prove the nation, make lives better, and bring something of beauty to the hurries and wants of his world, made the boy’s gangling frame quiver in sympathetic yearning. The call was upon his life, and he longed to be about the business of making and doing, seeing the fruit of his labours borne out in the betterment of his surroundings.
He turned his face fully into the spray, closing his eyes and standing far nearer the shimmering mist than any of the more refined park goers. He was not of their kind, and already at fourteen, he knew it. Perhaps it was well, he reflected, that his mother had at last overruled his father’s desire for him to remain here in London.
The letters from home had never presented the facts so plainly, but John knew his mother. She was no silent, retiring little wife. More often than not, his father lost to her when she pitted her will against his. Therefore, he would be boarding a train the next morning. This was to be his last day in London for some while, and he counted himself fortunate that it happened to fall on a day when the splendid park was now open to the public.
He stepped back at last, beginning to sense himself conspicuous. It was not like him to display his pleasure so openly—he must take care in the future, or he would be mocked by those whose respect he desired. His enjoyment was honest and intense, but it would sink others’ opinions of his self-control, and that he could not have. He briefly shook the droplets from his face and hair and looked about for an empty bench where he might open the bread and cheese he had brought. He found one within easy view of the fountain and proceeded to savour his repast.
Just behind him, in a little grassy area, he could see a fine family enjoying their own day at the park. The gentleman was older, but his wife appeared young and merry. There was a boy, perhaps a year or two younger than himself, shepherding two little girls who were probably about three or four. John draped his arm over the back of his bench, observing with some delight as he ate his meal.
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