Mrs Hamilton inclined her head, conceding to her daughter’s whims. Margaret began to suspect that was the normal state of affairs in this family- though her mother at first appeared severe, Genevieve Hamilton exhibited every symptom of a young lady who often got her way.
“Of course, my love,” the older woman answered, with only a touch of stiffness. “Miss Hale, we are hosting a small dinner party next Monday evening. A celebration, if you will, in honour of Genevieve’s return to Milton. We would be most obliged if you- and your father, of course- could attend.”
Margaret’s brow rose sharply. “I am most grateful for your invitation, Mrs Hamilton, but my father has not been well, you see…” she darted her eyes back to Miss Hamilton. Oh, how she had longed for this chance! Only now, when the possibility of continued friendship with a cultured and educated woman near her own age seemed within her grasp did she fully admit how greatly she had desired it. She blinked a little, trying to decide how she could be both honest and receptive to the other’s invitation.
“Oh, do come, Miss Hale,” Miss Hamilton pleaded. “There is so much I would like to talk to you about! I heard from Fanny Thornton that you have a great many concerns for the working class, and I had hoped to introduce you to the founder of one of the local charities!”
That was more than sufficient inducement for Margaret. “I shall speak with my father,” she decided firmly. “I know he would very much appreciate your hospitality, if he is well enough.”
Mrs Hamilton answered with a prim nod of her head, but Genevieve gushed her delight effusively. “We shall have so much more time to talk! I am afraid we really must be going now, for Mama is expecting callers later. Miss Hale, you will call on us soon, I hope?”
Margaret assured the other young woman that she would, and her company departed. As the front door closed, she collapsed against the wall in the entryway- exhausted but at the same time brimming with hope. For the first time in a very long time, she had found a young lady she might call a friend.
~
The next afternoon brought Mr Thornton for his regular visit. Margaret had braced herself all day to face the cold blue of his eyes, steeled against any flicker of emotion. It was somehow worse now- now that she knew a real heart dwelt within him, and that he hardened his features for her benefit.
Dixon happened to have gone to the market, and Margaret was obliged to answer to his knock herself. His face reflected a flash of surprise, but he quickly composed himself. “Good afternoon, Miss Hale,” he greeted her with perfect equanimity.
She managed a shy half-smile, hoping she would seem welcoming. “Good afternoon, Mr Thornton. Father is in his study. He asked if you could come up directly.”
He nodded. “Of course, thank you.” He began to move off when she stopped him.
“May I bring you any refreshments?” she called hopefully.
He turned, his eyebrows quirked curiously. Margaret was a mesmerizing hostess, but always in the drawing room. It had never been the norm for her to bring anything to Mr Hale’s study herself. Mr Hale always offered him something, and on the rare occasions when he accepted, it had been Dixon summoned to serve the tea.
He felt a soft tug playing about the corners of his mouth. Fool he likely was, but any overture from Margaret could not help but lift his spirits. “I thank you, Miss Hale, that would be most welcome.”
His heart flipped involuntarily when a gentle smile warmed her face in reply. Even when cool and distant, she was the loveliest woman he had ever laid eyes upon. When she smiled- at him! - he was utterly bewitched.
He must have remained there, smiling back at her, for a little too long, because her eyes began to shift uncomfortably to the side. She had trapped one taper finger nervously in her other hand, and stood as if she were longing to step away as soon as he turned his back. Blinking, he recalled himself. “Excuse me then, will you, Miss Hale?”
With a sigh to himself, he turned and mounted the stairs. What was it about her that instantly brought him to his knees when she was around? Why was he, a man of maturity and wisdom, constantly humiliating himself before her? She was only a penniless daughter of a reduced gentleman, just one among dozens of others in Milton! Ah, but none other possessed her gentleness, her intelligence, her frankness… or her sweet, soothing voice.
He closed his eyes, relying on his hand on the rail to guide him up the steps. She refused you, do not forget that! Her heart belongs to some other! Margaret Hale was not the kind of woman to change her mind on a whim. What she had determined, she would bring about, and what she had rejected, she would not return to. Exactly the sort of character I should admire….
His fingers found the end of the stair railing and he opened his eyes. He drew a long breath. She is not for you, he reminded himself harshly. He paused another moment before knocking on the door, cleansing his thoughts and preparing himself once again to become the student rather than the master.
It was a service to his friend, if not to himself. This afternoon, Mr Hale’s spirits were only marginally improved. As their lesson unfolded, it was obvious to Thornton that Hale still possessed much of the air of despondency which had lingered since his wife’s death.
Thornton sat quietly as he waited for Mr Hale to answer his question about the bonds of brotherly affection. The older man had canted his chair so that he could as easily gaze out the window as look directly at his pupil. Mr Hale’s style of conversation tended to involve many spaces of silent contemplation, and he was uncomfortable with eye-to-eye discussion. He stroked his smooth chin now, his gaze soft and unfocused.
“Do you think,” Hale answered at last, “that Plutarch allows for cases in which there is no brother or sister to be had?”
Thornton glanced down, smiling faintly. It was like his friend to answer a question with a question. “I do not think he disallows it, certainly, but it is not the context of this essay. I believe the emphasis here is on the preservation of sibling affection in preference to others, as a means of honouring one’s parent and blood family.”
“Indeed,” Hale nodded slowly. “But he does not go into detail about how one is to manage after the loss of this relationship- or in the complete absence of such.”
Thornton narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “He does speak about the loss of a brother as irretrievable, but when he speaks against other relationships- a friend, for example- it is never in the absence of a brother, but in preference to.”
“Yes, irretrievable, that is precisely it. I wonder, then, what affinities Plutarch would endorse had the mortal severing of that bond in fact taken place.” Hale rocked back slightly in his chair, his gaze on the steady downpour of rain against his window.
“I would suppose,” Thornton answered after a moment, “that one who is like a brother, in spirit and comradeship, would be the best possible replacement, although in this case Plutarch is silent.”
“Or a sister….” Hale made no further answer but the slight narrowing of his eyes. Thornton puzzled over his words. Hale’s manner this day was even more introspective than usual, and he wondered what personal quandary his friend was sorting out.
At that moment, a soft knock at the door sent Thornton’s heart into his throat. His breath quickening, he stood to answer the door and moved to allow Margaret to enter the little room with her tea tray. He rapidly cleared a space among the stacks of books on Mr Hale’s desk for her to set it down.
Her eyes flashed quickly to his, with such an expression of gratitude and… was it warmth he saw there? Perhaps that was only the product of his active imagination, but most certainly the cold hostility he had previously known was gone. He answered her gaze with a boyish little grin, the one he wore for his mother when she did him some small gesture of kindness.
Margaret’s own smile deepened, and with a flutter of lashes she looked quickly away to serve the tea. Thornton felt his face warm. He was blushing like an adolescent! Mercifully, her back was to him, her eyes train
ed steadily on her tray.
He indulged his craving, hungrily watching her graceful form as she moved about the tea tray. To his regret, she had not worn that troublesome bracelet today and he had not the pleasure of musing over the way it dimpled her delicate flesh. Her long-sleeved dress was a disappointment as well, but he consoled himself by admiring the loosened tendrils of hair curling above her prim collar as she bent her neck. Seldom had he been afforded such a view.
“Thank you my dear,” Mr Hale was smiling at his daughter. “That was very thoughtful of you, though I had not expected you to trouble yourself. Is Dixon still out?”
“Yes, Father, she is,” Margaret dipped her head, too embarrassed to look Thornton in the eye again. She was well used to facing down his challenging stares. She had even had opportunities to grow uncomfortable under a gaze which could only be called one of manly desire. Today’s warm, friendly expression was entirely new- and eminently preferable.
Shyly she dared herself to raise her head… and found his eyes shining tenderly at her. Her stomach fluttered.
“Thank you for the tea, Miss Hale,” he bowed slightly, flashing a most distracting smile.
Flustered anew, Margaret inclined her head sharply and made a dash for the hall, where she could be safe from the confusing swell of feeling. Her fingers white on the tray she carried, she scolded herself. Why, she had practically flirted with him! It would serve her right if he thought her more shameless now than ever. Yet… his look had been far from disapproving.
She shook her head. What did it matter what he thought? He was much too complicated for her to sort out at the moment. For now, she had a dinner gown to make over and a visit to the Higgins family to prepare for.
Chapter Seven
Thornton’s mind was difficult to manage through the rest of his time with Mr Hale. They digested the Greek essay slowly, painstakingly, but sibling affection could not hold his interest. His feelings were far from fraternal. His imagination instead filled with a vision of plum satin and ivory lace, peeking through a curtain of dark curls, all tumbling down….
“John?”
He started. “Forgive me, I think I did not hear your question.”
Mr Hale gazed carefully back for a heartbeat before replying. “I asked whether you thought a man’s loyalty could be given to a sister as easily as to a brother.”
His eye twitched involuntarily. His friend seemed obsessed with the concept of a sister today! “I suppose it must be, but I have no experience in that case, as I have no brother to compete for my loyalty,” he almost grumbled. He then clenched his jaw in remorse at the surprised lift of Mr Hale’s brows.
“Forgive me for sounding so terse,” he sighed. “To be quite frank, I have a difficult time applying Plutarch’s wisdom in this essay to any of my own affairs. I found the Moralia essays on virtue far more valuable.”
“But, John, you do have a sister,” Mr Hale protested. “Do you not find his insights meaningful?”
“Not particularly,” he frowned. “Fanny is nearly thirteen years my junior. I have felt more of a father than a brother these many years.”
“Ah, yes, I can see that.” Mr Hale tipped back toward the window, his fingers gently stroking his chin once more. “So we must return to my earlier question- what of cases where there is no sibling?”
Thornton was, by this time, growing more than a little tired of the subject. “I do not suppose it is a necessity of life,” he answered shortly.
Hale glanced back in surprise. “I speak of enriching one’s life, John. It is the comradeship of one like in heart that is so valuable. The lifelong bond, not severed by time or distance…” his voice grew soft, “... it is encouraging, to know there is another such as oneself in this world.”
Thornton’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You never spoke of a sibling before.”
Hale turned back to him. “I? No, not I. Bell, I suppose, would be the brother of my spirit… and Maria was...” He covered his mouth with his hand, and his younger counterpart looked respectfully away as he composed himself. He drew a ragged breath, blinking and making use of his handkerchief. “It is for the next generation that I am concerned, John,” he murmured at length.
A glimmer of insight finally came upon him. “In that case, it is regrettable,” he answered gently, “that Miss Hale has not the comfort of a brother... or a sister, as you say.”
If he had meant to commiserate with his friend’s concerns, he failed utterly. Mr Hale’s head dropped to his hands and his shoulders began to shake uncontrollably.
Sensing himself at a loss, Thornton glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. His time was at an end, but his friend was in no state to be left alone. Soft noises emanated from him and his face remained hidden. There seemed little Thornton could offer in the way of comfort.
Swiftly he rose and exited the room, careful to keep the door from thumping loudly as it closed. He took the stairs down in a quick staccato rhythm, but drew up abruptly on the first landing. Margaret had just exited the room there, and turned just as he reached her. The landing was small- barely large enough for them to stand without touching, and certainly not large enough for him to pass by her full skirts without some contact.
“Excuse me, sir!” she backed away, reaching behind herself for the knob of the door she had just closed.
“No, I was looking for you,” he put out a hand to stop her from retreating. She hesitated and he continued. “Your father… I think you should go to him.”
Worry crossed her features. “Is he unwell?”
“I do not know. He seems greatly troubled. I think it was something I said,” he admitted.
Though he expected and possibly deserved an accusing glare, instead she graced him with an expression softened by sympathy. “I see,” she answered quietly. With a gesture of her head, she indicated her willingness to follow him. He led her back up to Mr Hale’s room, where the older man had lain his head and arms in despair across his desk.
She stepped quickly to her father, resting gentle hands upon his shoulders and stooping to murmur soft reassurances. Thornton gazed upon the sight for speechless moments, wondering if it were right for him to remain, yet unable to command himself to go. His concern for his friend was too real; moreover, it was far too beautiful a scene to tear his eyes from.
His friend’s words played again through his mind. His view grew hazy over the young woman before him and he saw her with new eyes. She was alone. He still could not erase his reservations about her character, but she did not deserve the solitude she had inherited.
Was it that which had so troubled his friend? Margaret had no one but an aging, frail father and a sour, battered old maid. Surely Hale must fear for her. She needed someone able, one she could depend upon- someone who would not take advantage of her… She needed him.
Not as a lover… No, that she would not accept. Could he become as a brother, a friend? Was it even possible to rein in his own feelings for her good? Would she reciprocate, or would she reject any sort of fellowship as she had before?
There was yet another concern- if he were known to be too close to her, her reputation truly could be damaged beyond repair. He blinked, his breath tight. The risks were great, but the need greater. He owed it to his friend- and to his love, unrequited though it was- to try.
At length she looked back to him with a curious tilt of her head, surprised at still finding him there. He nodded in response to the silent question, recalling the cold realities of the rest of his day. “I will see myself out.”
She offered him one last fleeting smile before the door clicked between them.
~
Two hours later, the last thing Thornton had time to think of was making friends with Margaret. He leaned over the high scaffolding, affording him an unobstructed view of the cavernous room where dozens of looms filled the air with a deafening cacophony. His sharp eyes were on every worker, every machine by turn. If he could identify some little
inefficiency, some small thing which, multiplied, could save him tens of pounds….
Williams, his overseer, found him there toward the end of the shift. Words were pointless above the clatter of the looms, but he extended his tally sheet for the day. Thornton took it with a quick nod and scanned it, his brow creased. With a questioning glance, he pointed to a particular line. Williams’ only answer was a shrug.
Thornton set his teeth. The older combing machines had been breaking down a great deal of late. If only he could have afforded some of the newer Heilmann combers last year! He frowned. These were what he had to work with. There simply had to be a way to better maintain them. He passed the paper back to Williams and wordlessly descended the scaffolding just as the whistle blew. Machines almost instantly began to fall silent.
All about him, men and women began to flood into the rows between the machines, all eager to leave their day’s work behind. For just a moment, he envied them. When they went to their beds this night, their concerns would be only for their homes and families. It would not be the additional burden of orders, supplies, machinery difficulties and labor distribution which kept them from sleep.
A harried mother, tugging her recently hired daughter behind her, ducked out of his way. She glanced over her shoulder, apparently fearful that the girl’s awkwardness had offended the master.
He shook his head. I am being unfair, he chided himself. All had cares enough. Glancing about at the people filing out before him, he reflected that it had been many a year since any of the Thorntons had wanted for a meal or a new set of clothing.
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