Mrs. Thornton’s eyes twinkled. “I shall do so. I do not think Miss Hamilton will object.” She allowed her warm gaze to linger upon him.
“Hmm?” he caught the uncustomary expression upon her face in some puzzlement.
“She is, after all, a very proper young woman. What can be more proper than calling upon the sister of Milton’s most respected Mill Master?”
His eyes thinned to sceptical slits. “I do not need you to play matchmaker just now, Mother. She is a handsome enough woman, I grant you, but I have other matters which require my attention at present.”
She scoffed. “When has it ever been my desire to bring another woman into this house? You must realize, John, that you have caught that young woman’s eye.”
“I have never caught any woman’s eye, Mother. I beg you would leave off trying to excite my hopes toward any such notions.”
Mrs Thornton’s dark eyebrows quirked over her sewing glasses as she tried once again to concentrate on her paragraph. She lapsed into silence, with an occasional sly glance at her son’s face as her words settled into his thoughts. Was it possible she detected a flicker of pleasure there? Well. She had no particular wish to secure a wife for her son, but if thoughts of Miss Hamilton might banish his melancholy, she would continue to plant them there.
~
Margaret and her father found Nicholas and Mary Higgins, as usual, doing their best to wade about with six high-spirited children milling round their meagre abode. “There yo’ be, Lass!” Nicholas greeted her warmly as he waved them inside. “‘Adn’t seen yo’ a’ the week, ‘as we Mary?”
“Aye, Da’, Miss Marg’et was ‘ere Wen’sd’y last. Mind, the tart.”
“Aye, so ‘t’was!” Nicholas patted his belly, a little less thin now than it had been some weeks ago. “A right toothy treat, Lass. Mary set ‘side a bite for me,” he winked. “‘Tis ‘ard, tho’, yo’ mos’ly ca’ when I’m workin’ these days, Lass!”
“You are looking well, Mr Higgins,” Mr Hale offered in his soft, gentle way.
Nicholas may have been a man of modest means, but his pride was as fierce as any man’s. It made his strong heart faint to observe Mr Hale’s steadily weakening manner. “‘Ere, sir, set,” he insisted, carefully leading Mr Hale to a pair of chairs. The old man gratefully took his seat, panting slightly despite the gentle walk. Nicholas promptly drew his own chair near and trained worried eyes upon his guest.
Margaret and Mary had lingered near the stove, granting their fathers some modicum of privacy, but the children quickly garnered Margaret’s attention.
“Miss Marg’et,” begged Jenny, “Coul’ we play the slipper game?”
Margaret laughed and consented. This had become another favourite of theirs, a parlour game Margaret had taught them for the afternoons when they were too restless to listen to a story. Mary procured a small stocking which was not currently in use, and all but little Johnny gathered round her in a circle.
Margaret picked up the youngest herself and plopped him in her lap. The stocking was passed and the guessing game began, eventually ending in squeals of childish laughter when Daniel came up with the elusive item.
By this time, Mary was ready to present a humble tea for their guests, and their fathers drew their chairs near. Margaret seated herself next to Mr Higgins, with a few of the youngest children casting longing glances toward her lap. At a sharp look from Mary, they withdrew with their little meals to the other side of the room, to be seen and not heard through the duration of the repast.
Margaret spared them one last warm smile, then turned to her friend. “How are things at the Mill, Nicholas?” she asked.
“Oh, well y’nough, Miss. That friend o’ yo’rs is a ‘ard master, but ‘e’s treated me fair y‘nough.”
She dropped her eyes. “Mr Thornton is hardly my friend,” she replied, her tones hushed.
“Aye, may’ap,” Nicholas rubbed his jaw, eyeing her sceptically, “but ‘e’s right decent when it comes to it. Folks’s sayin’ ‘e’s gone soft since the riots, talkin’ gentle-like to the children an’ such, but Thornton was allus a fair one. Jes’ see if there’s another strike, ‘e’s as much bulldog as e’er.”
“Surely, you cannot expect him to give way to every demand made of him?” Margaret questioned gently. “Were he to do so, where would it end? I expect he must make certain the mill remains profitable, for if it does not, where would everyone find work?”
“True, Lass, ‘tis true.” Nicholas stroked his bristling chin for a moment, then opened his arms as little Jenny boldly climbed into his lap in defiance of Mary’s edict.
“Why Margaret, I believe that is the second time I have heard you defend Mr Thornton,” her father commented, tilting his head. “I am glad to hear you speak so justly. Surely, Mr Higgins, Margaret is quite right. I do hope some better understanding has been reached between the union and the masters.”
“Oh, things’s settled some,” Nicholas assured them. “Win’ner’s come on, and mouths’ve gots to be fed. Now’but i’s a ‘ard pinch, all ways ‘round. Wages ‘an’t gone up an’ the masters say they can’t ‘ford more pay.”
“I am sure it is true,” Margaret interjected, then reddened when both men looked quickly to her in surprise. She took a deep breath and rushed to explain herself. “Have you not both agreed that Mr Thornton, for example, may be many things but he is certainly honest- a master with integrity?”
“Aye, tha’s true,” Higgins pulled his mouth to the side in a resigned grin. “There’s talk,” he continued, “tha’ Master’s lookin’ for deeper pockets. ‘Ad a pair o’ dandies with ‘im yesterday. Spent hours, they did, lookin’ o’er e’r’thing. ‘Amilton, the older fellow’s name was. Ca’ed th’ other ‘is son.”
“Margaret, was that not a Miss Hamilton you met with Miss Thornton today at church?” Mr Hale queried.
“Yes, Father, it was.”
“Ah,” he smiled in pleasure, “I think her father must be the same gentleman John introduced me to at one of his Master’s dinners, some while back. He did not seem to know the man well, though, and I spoke with him but little. They must be well-to-do, indeed, if Mr Hamilton is such an investor! I do hope he decides to offer his support. It is a distinction, is it not, my dear, to be brought to her notice? I shall be most grateful to the Thorntons for welcoming you into their circle of friends. Very kind of them, I daresay.”
“Yes, Father, I am sure it is.” Her eyes drifted to Higgins, whose own opinion of John Thornton was somewhat less warm than her father’s. Higgins, however would never dare slight his employer in the presence of his guest.
Nicholas offered her a friendly wink. “Well, Lass,” he spoke to his daughter, “‘Ow’s ‘bout that mess o’ your’n in the oven?”
Mary scolded her father with a look of affronted dignity, but swept to her little cooking alcove, returning to her guests with a bubbling pot of stewed and spiced apples. The children’s careful training broke, and they crowded round the adults, their mouths clearly watering.
Margaret recognized the apples at once, and along with them, her friend’s mischievous smirk. Try that she might to continue in the charitable ways in which she had been brought up, the Higgins family somehow always found a way to return to her what had been given.
Chapter Six
Margaret spent all of the next day preparing for Miss Hamilton’s expected call on the following morning. She was a flurry of activity, though her father barely noticed, as she was careful to do her dusting and polishing in whichever rooms he did not occupy. By midday, her shoulders ached and her back was sore from stooping. She stretched her stiff muscles, reaching to massage her own tired shoulders.
Dixon, passing by with a tray for Mr Hale, shook her head and clucked in annoyance. “Plain wear yourself out…” she predicted balefully over her shoulder as she left the room.
Margaret grimaced, rolling her neck. Perhaps it was dignity, perhaps it was pride, but when
she received her guests on the morrow, there ought to be nothing about her home to cause undue shame. Their family’s current reduced circumstances would be obvious enough. It certainly would not do to present their home as anything less than perfectly ordered and welcoming.
With a last glance about herself, she let out a sigh of satisfaction. The little drawing room, her main focus this morning, fairly gleamed. Tilting her head, she tried to see it through the eyes of a more privileged young lady- one who was not accustomed to the surroundings. How would Edith see this room? she wondered. Edith’s tastes, at least, she knew. Miss Hamilton was still an unknown quantity, but perhaps the two were alike.
Casting her eyes about, she forced them to look on the worn furnishings, the aging carpet, the tattered bookcase and the cheaply framed portraits on the wall. She cringed a little.
At least, she reflected, the new papers on the walls brighten the room somewhat. She was grateful to their landlord for relenting on this one point, although she wondered what had changed his mind after their first negotiations. Surely her father had been able to offer little to persuade him. Occasionally, she fancied that Mr Thornton had had a hand in… but no, she must not allow her thoughts to wander more in that direction. That door was closed, rather firmly.
Gathering her dusting rags and polish, she decided she ought to look in on the entryway. It would, after all, be her guests’ first impression of the home. The most prominent item to catch her notice, of course, was her father’s umbrella where it dangled from its place on the hook. She groaned softly. Could she not even move about her own home without being reminded of Mr Thornton?
Her opinion of him had undergone a substantial revision in the months since she had first met him. Where at first she had seen only a man of business, set upon bending the world to his will, she now saw quite a different person. There was a kindness there that she had missed before, one which humbled her in her prideful former notions. More recently, however, she had recognized in him the same mask she herself wore. His armour was more difficult to chink, but she had glimpsed through it, nonetheless.
Was it her natural feminine compassion or something else which bent her thoughts more frequently toward him? Was it her kinship with the sorrows in his life which made her think kindly of him? Why else would she so often find herself wondering what he was doing each day, and if he had thought back on that rainy walk at all?
Her brow furrowed as she gently swept her oiled rag over the little table in the entryway. Had he others to whom he could turn when his troubles weighed upon him? Somehow she doubted it. His position in Milton society forbade any display of vulnerability. From what he had spoken of his mother, Margaret expected that Mrs Thornton would not be inclined to give ear to grief over her former husband. A tug of compassion softened her heart. His position was much like her own.
There was truly no one in whom she could confide. None could bear her burdens with her, for all had enough cares. Of those whom she could trust, her father was too weak, Mary Higgins too overwhelmed with her own worries, and Dixon too bitter for her to open the depths of her heart to. If only Frederick or Edith were near.… She clenched her eyes shut, squeezing out a stray tear.
She was effectively isolated.
Another tear joined the first and dripped on her freshly dusted surface. Margaret blinked, chiding herself. What if Dixon, or worse, her father were to happen upon her! She sniffed, cleared her throat, and completed her task with less sentiment and more efficiency than a moment ago. What was she about, drowning in self-pity when her very purpose was preparing to welcome a possible new friend?
Schooling her posture back into that of a sophisticated and dignified lady, she collected her cleaning items and paced by the little rack of hats and scarves in the hall. Reaching to straighten them, her notice shifted instead to her hand. She paused, and drew it close again for inspection.
Turning her palm over, she brushed her fingers together with a new cognizance. Her hands were growing strong and hard, exhibiting a roughness which had never before been present. Her nails were very practically blunted. There were new work lines crossing over her palms, and even a few callouses. They were scarcely the hands of a proper young lady! She sighed. Perhaps Miss Hamilton and her mother would not notice.
~
“Ah, Thornton, I did not expect to see you so soon!” Stuart Hamilton rose from his desk and extended his hand.
“You asked to see our forecasts,” Thornton replied frankly, taking the other man’s grip.
“So I did, but I typically must wait a week or longer for such figures.” Hamilton waved his guest to a chair, and sat again behind his own desk.
“I make it a point to know exactly where I am at all times,” Thornton replied. “It required very little additional preparation.”
“I had heard, Thornton, that you were particular with the numbers. It explains your reputation rather well, I think. A man must know where he is if he is to move beyond that place.”
Thornton tipped his head graciously as Hamilton took the thick folder he offered. Hamilton flipped to a summary sheet on the top of the stack and grazed his eyes over it quickly. “Interesting,” he nodded. “I will spend some time looking this over.
“In the meantime, my wife was hoping to repay the compliment of the other evening. Would your family be available for a small dinner party next week? It was my wife’s desire to host a party of sorts, celebrating Rupert’s and Genevieve’s return home. Knowing my wife,” he smirked wryly, “what she calls ‘small’ shall be anything but.”
“Of course, I shall be delighted, sir. I am certain my mother and sister would look forward to it.” He rose and shook the other man’s hand again.
“You will hear from me soon, Thornton,” Hamilton promised.
~
Mrs and Miss Hamilton came promptly at their expected time on Tuesday to the little house in Crampton. Mrs Hamilton’s eyes swept the dingy parlour at her first entry, but she politely schooled them forward. Still, Margaret felt more than saw a faint sneer in the woman’s manner.
Genevieve Hamilton displayed no such hesitation. She warmly opened conversation, inquiring about Margaret’s life in Hampshire and London before her removal to Milton. Margaret, a not a chatty personality herself, felt somewhat disconcerted at first, but slowly became at ease in the other’s company.
“Oh!” Genevieve exclaimed at one point in Margaret’s narrative, “I did not know you had family in Marylebone! Why, my brother Rupert has friends in that neighborhood. I am quite sure that is right, is it not, Mother?”
Mrs Hamilton dipped her head. “I think you are right, my love. My son,” she turned to Margaret, “has lived there some while, until just recently. He has been affiliated with the Exchange, you see,” she explained with a slight sniff. Margaret arched a brow, reflecting that there was certainly no shortage of filial pride among the matrons of Milton.
“I am monstrous fond of Rupert,” the younger woman interjected, losing some of her formality. “Miss Hale, have you not much family of your own? You have no brothers or sisters, I understand.”
“I… no, I suppose my family is rather small. Beside my father, of course, I have only my aunt and cousin I told you of, and my godfather Mr Bell who lives in Oxford.” Margaret swallowed. How it pained her to share anything but the plain truth! Perhaps someday she might trust Genevieve Hamilton enough to share Frederick’s story, but a family which moved in such circles as the Hamiltons were guaranteed to talk. She would have to be very sure of her new friend first.
“Bell!” Mrs Hamilton scoffed. “He is a Milton man bred and born, whatever airs he puts on. There are some,” she paused significantly, “who would say he is wasting his life away as a useless academic. Most in this town say that he ought to be doing his part here, working like a man, rather than simply reaping the profits from afar.”
Margaret smiled gently. “I believe Mrs Thornton might share that opinion.”
M
rs Hamilton straightened somewhat, fixing Margaret with an evaluating gaze. “No doubt. I take it you do not?”
“I think Mr Bell has been blessed with the opportunity to study, which suits him rather well. He is not of the right temperament for industry, I suppose, but he has been of great material good to many in Oxford. I think, too, that even from afar he has been instrumental in many affairs here in Milton. Has not Mr Hamilton himself partnered with Mr Bell in some matters?”
Mrs Hamilton’s lips twitched in amusement. “He has. You seem to be quite well-informed, Miss Hale, as well as rather outspoken for a young lady.” Margaret caught an unconscious flick of Mrs Hamilton’s eyes as they glanced once more over the room’s shabby furnishings. “I take it, Miss Hale, that you must have received much of your education elsewhere?”
“I was brought up largely with my cousin,” Margaret admitted softly. Inwardly her hopes began to die just a little. Mrs Hamilton was clearly less than impressed with what she had to offer as a companion to her daughter.
Margaret may have indeed been gently bred and brought up in the very best circles, but the truth of the matter was that she was but a poor relation- the grateful recipient of her aunt’s goodwill. The dignity of her station as a clergyman’s daughter was no longer even afforded her. Here in Milton she was simply Margaret Hale; a penniless young gentlewoman likely destined for permanent spinsterhood, with hardly a claim or connection to recommend her. Her mouth tugged to the side as her eyes dropped to her hands.
“I think that is most charming,” insisted Genevieve, causing Margaret to look back to her in mild amazement. Genevieve glanced back and forth between Margaret and her mother. “Do you not see? You always had a friend, like a sister to grow up with. I had only my brother, and he was such a bore when we were younger. Rupert was forever pulling my hair and calling me dreadful names! Oh! I do not mean to say he is not a very fine man now, Miss Hale. It is only a girl wants something other than a rowdy boy sometimes. I say, Mother, shall we not introduce Miss Hale to Rupert? It would be so helpful, Miss Hale, if you should know what he really is like before I run him down so very much!”
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