“Do you mind?” he asked quietly, and she glanced up at him in confusion. When she understood, she nodded enthusiastically, then bowed her head and listened as he asked a humble blessing over their simple meal. Smiling and blushing her pleasure at his unexpected and unassuming piety, she offered him one of the rolls after he had done.
He took and broke it as she passed him a small crock of butter. “Thank you.” He took a bite and his eyes widened in surprise. “These are excellent! Did you make them?”
“Yesterday,” she felt her cheeks warming still more. “What I mean by that is that I had Dixon’s help. You may not find the stew quite so appealing, as I made that on my own.”
“You make me all the more determined to like it,” he grinned disarmingly. He took an eager bite as she cast her eyes to the side, blushing furiously at his deep interest. When he was silent for a long moment, she looked back to him in concern. He coughed. “Salt, Margaret. It only wants a pinch, not a bucketful.”
“Oh! I am afraid I must have salted it… let me think… before I shelved the books, and then again after, and then… oh dear. Is it very dreadful?”
“I have surely had worse,” he winked, bravely taking another large mouthful. He swallowed with a gulp, then reached gratefully for the glass of water she set before him.
Margaret felt terrible. Here he was hungry and oh, so kind, and the best she had to offer him was a ruined dinner! “I am so sorry!” she apologized miserably.
“Do not be. That is an excellent carrot just there. See? Perfectly tender but not overcooked.” He managed to choke down another spoonful. Her expression remained morose, so he reached across the table to take her hand in his. “Take heart, Margaret. I am sure there is some chef’s secret to mending such a malady, but tonight let us simply savour our feast- for savoury it most certainly is.”
Margaret sputtered, trying to conceal her most unladylike outburst but not succeeding. She bowed her head in peals of laughter, resting her forehead on her free hand. John was laughing as well, his eyes sparkling dazzlingly at her. Gracious, where did the man get those mesmerizing eyes, and why had she never had so much trouble before in looking away?
~
They laughed their way through the pungent meal, trading stories from their childhoods. He was eager to hear all he could of Helstone and her early years there, particularly anything she could tell him about her youthful exploits tagging at her older brother’s heels. He cherished a vision of a dark-haired little maid with freckled cheeks doing her level best to climb an apple tree in her Sunday dress. He nearly forgot his hunger for laughter as he dragged tale after tale out of her about Frederick, the greatest prankster of the New Forest, and his deceptively innocent-looking young accomplice.
“I do not believe it!” he stopped her at one point to wipe his eyes. “You dressed the neighbor’s dog in stolen laundry? And then it truly ran through the churchyard on Sunday?”
“It was not precisely stolen…” she cringed uncomfortably. “It was from the charity basket, the one where the parishioners would donate unwanted items for the poor. That horrid green dress, though- everyone recognized it as Mrs Jenner’s old one. No one else would have it! Oh, how angry she was!”
“May I ask what your father said to you?”
“Not a thing.” She blinked wistfully. “Frederick immediately stepped up and took my punishment. It had truly been his suggestion in the first place, but I do not think he imagined I would actually do it.” She gazed at her hands with a sad little laugh. “No one thought twice about punishing Frederick. He never did anything truly wicked, you know. He only loved a good laugh. However, Fred was always the first one to step forward when there had been some injustice. A good many of the rougher boys hated him, but never dared anger him. I was never troubled by anyone, for his sake.”
“Then he did right. A brother ought to look out for his sister.”
Eager to leave behind the melancholy subject of her absent brother, she turned his words about. “Has it been difficult? You have almost raised your own sister, have you not?”
“Different, perhaps, than you might expect. I had little to do with most of her upbringing. I went to work.”
Something in his tone caught her attention. “You gave up your own education to do so,” she stated.
He sighed. “Yes, but you must understand, that was not thought to be such a hardship as it sounds to you. Many lads here in the North leave the schoolroom by that age and never turn back. It is considered a waste to leave a promising youth languishing behind dusty classics when he ought to be earning a living and learning the ways of business.”
“You had no regrets, then?” she probed softly.
His mouth tugged in that easy, boyish way she had grown fond of. “You sound as if you do not believe it.”
Margaret tipped back in her chair and gazed carefully at him. “Perhaps regret is the wrong word. You are not the sort of man to pine for what might have been, I think.”
He met her assumption with silence and a raised brow. She reddened for a moment, wondering if there were some significance behind his expression. She winced and forged on, wishing to smooth over her apparent blunder.
“I- I think you are not sorry,” she conjectured, “but you were glad enough to meet with my father, to revisit what you had left behind. He is very proud of your progress, you must know. He says he is quite certain you must have been an outstanding student as a boy.”
“I would hardly call myself outstanding. I was quick enough, you might say, but always my mind was on my ambitions. Father once counseled me to patience, saying that I would have time enough to forge my way in the world, and that I ought to take my opportunity to study and refine myself whilst I could. I did not listen as I ought.” His gaze grew misty and his voice trembled slightly. “That was only a week before he died.”
Margaret closed her eyes. “I am sorry I brought it up,” she whispered bitterly.
“Do not be,” he assured her, his voice once again firm. “It is past time for such regrets. I have learnt to remember the joy instead. Up until that point, my youth was not so very different from yours, I imagine. My father was a hard businessman, but he appreciated the finer things. He was determined that I, as his son, would have the opportunities denied him as a boy. During the best times he sent me to London for two years, though my mother strenuously objected. I lived with one of his business partners and learned the classics, fencing, riding, and music alongside wealthier boys.”
She cocked her head, “You studied music? I never would have expected that.”
“And dancing! I will be frank, though, I am a terrible dancer. I had not then the proper motivation, perhaps, but I would be willing to again take lessons from someone more accomplished.” He graced her with a suggestive smile.
“You will have to look elsewhere, for I gave up dancing at age nine. I did enjoy the piano while I played it, though.”
“So did I,” he agreed.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why, Mr Thornton! You told Miss Hamilton that you did not know enough music to turn the pages for her! I thought you were always a paragon of honesty, sir!”
“I may have exaggerated a little,” he grinned. “I was not the only one, surely. And the name is John… Margaret. Please do not let us return to yesterday. I like today better.”
She drew a contented breath. “So do I, John.”
He smiled back at her, then down at his empty bowl. “Well… it looks as though it is time to wash up again. May I?”
Margaret nodded, her cheeks pleasantly warm. They worked even more efficiently together this time than the last, and they finished quickly. Margaret dried her hands and he caught her wistfully turning her palms over as she hung up her towel. His lovely, strong Margaret… he felt a sympathetic pang as she tried to hide her hands once more in her skirts.
“Look, Margaret, this is what Mother used to do.” She turned curiously as he found a small crock of cooki
ng lard. “Come here,” he beckoned hopefully.
She came cautiously. He dipped his fingers in the crock and held out his other hand to take hers. She gave it willingly and shivered as he began to stroke the rich emollient into her skin. She could not tear her eyes from his delicious fingers as they caressed her tender flesh.
She gave him her second hand when he reached for it, and he resumed his gentle ministrations upon both hands at the same time. He took rather longer about the task than strictly necessary, as he instinctively found and massaged the tired places within her palms. Margaret felt the release of tension traveling through her shoulders and down her spine as her skin prickled delectably over her arms and neck.
When he had done, both took half a step back and simply stood in breathless silence. Margaret could not even swallow, and it is likely that John suffered even more agonizingly from the sweet, sensuous contact. He gazed long down into her eyes, contemplating far more than only her hands.
Margaret stared down at her palms, brushing her greased fingers together. “I smell like a side of pork,” she managed at last, with a whimsical little smile.
John cleared his throat uncertainly. “One of the most irresistible perfumes known to man, I assure you.”
Margaret laughed merrily, holding her hands before herself with awkward care. “Whatever am I to do now? I shall stain everything I touch!”
“You are meant to wipe off the excess,” he frowned defensively, holding his own hands aloft.
Still laughing, Margaret found an old rag which could not be harmed by a little excess oil. “Allow me,” she chuckled, reaching to swipe his hands off after she had cleaned her own.
“Thank you,” he grinned when she had finished. “I think my hand will not slip from the door latch now.”
She sighed a little sadly, recognizing that the most pleasant evening she had passed in a long while was drawing to a close. “I suppose not. I expect my father will be looking for some supper by now, and possibly Dixon as well.”
John blew out a long regretful breath. “Of course.” He turned his forearm over and began to roll his long sleeves down once more. As he finished, he noticed that Margaret’s smile had vanished. She was gazing vacantly at the floor.
“Is something wrong?” he asked in concern.
She started. “No! It is only…” she shook her head in exasperation. “Sometimes I do not understand you. You seem at times so harsh and unyielding, yet when I see you like this….” She gestured vaguely with her hands, not certain what she dared to say.
“You think I am duplicitous?”
“Oh, no! I am only confused. I understand that at the mill you must be in unquestioned authority, and in Milton society you must appear confident among your business rivals, but… well, what of that hospital charity? I know now that you are not so churlish as I once thought, but I do not understand your position against such a worthy enterprise.”
He bit his upper lip thoughtfully. “Were you any other woman, Margaret, I would simply tell you what I believe to be the truth and that would be the end of it. You, however, are of a character which must know the whole of the matter. I would encourage you to investigate for yourself- find out if my own concerns are justified, as I fear they are. If I thought harm could befall you, I would not encourage you so. I think only that your time might be wasted, and perhaps you may feel yourself badly used. On the other hand, it is quite possible that I may be wrong, and that you will find it to be a useful endeavour. In either case, I have faith that you will in time discern the truth of the matter.”
“I see,” she responded slowly, considering the utter confidence he appeared to place in her judgement. It was truly a high compliment. “Thank you for your frankness.”
He gave her a thin smile and looked to the floor. “Well, I must be going.”
They slowly wandered together to the door, collecting his jacket and overcoat along the way. Once he was attired for his walk, with the exception of his gloves, he drew near once more. “You will look well to your father?”
“Of course. And… would you give your mother my compliments?”
His eyes lit. “I most certainly will. Thank you for a pleasant evening, Margaret.”
“You are quite welcome, John.” She smiled and extended her hand to shake his, as she had often done of late.
He took it, and with a calculating glance, he turned her hand over in his so that he could swiftly bring her knuckles to his mouth, drawing a surprised gasp from her. He risked a single, gallant kiss- chaste and not too terribly improper, but oh! so delicious! “Good night, Margaret,” he murmured huskily.
Before she could cry in offense or slap him, he dropped her hand and placed himself at a safe distance in the doorway. A last parting look at her face as he opened the door revealed not an affronted glare, as he had feared, but a bewildered, flattered warmth.
“Good night, John,” she called softly to him as the door closed.
Chapter Sixteen
“John, there you are at last! Where have you been so late?”
John shook the rain droplets from his overcoat as he entered his own door. His mother had heard his arrival and met him in the entry. Had it not been for the worry in her tones, he might have taken offence to her demanding question. After all, he was a grown man who often worked late!
“I was out, Mother,” he smiled privately to himself.
“I could see that,” she retorted drily. “You were not in your office, and Williams said he had not seen you since midday.”
“True,” he replied cryptically, then dropped a cheery kiss on his mother’s forehead. He strode jauntily down the corridor, a merry whistle on his lips.
“John!” his mother followed him in exasperation. “What has got into you? Come, I doubt you ate any luncheon and you have not had supper. You are going to starve yourself. Why, you have lost your head already!”
“I am perfectly in my right mind, Mother, and I have already eaten, thank you.”
He curled into his favourite chair by the fire, but he needed no paper to divert his thoughts on this night. A pair of green eyes would do nicely….
“John!” Mrs Thornton huffed to catch up, then placed herself squarely between him and his fire. “What is happening? I have never seen you so flighty!”
“All is well, Mother.” He leaned back in his chair, and if he had been a smoking man, he would have tapped his pipe in satisfaction. “In fact, things could not be better!”
She knelt before him, her eyes shining. “Mr Hamilton has agreed to invest in the mill?”
“What? Oh, no. Well, I suppose things could be marginally better.”
A shadow crossed her face. “What has you so preoccupied, then? Has someone asked for Fanny’s hand?”
“Good heavens, no! I should imagine that would distress me rather than please me. Have you any idea what her wedding will end up costing me?”
“John!” she thundered firmly, in her best maternal tone. “Tell me what the matter is!”
He grinned hugely, leaned forward, and pecked another kiss on her cheek. “Mother, do you remember that diamond betrothal ring that you said I might have one day? The one that your aunt left you a few years back?”
Her gaze darkened suspiciously. “Ye-es,” she replied slowly.
“Do you know where to find it? I might have need of it soon.”
Her hand fluttered to her breast. “Miss Hamilton? I am glad to see you have come to your sens-”
“What? Do not be silly! Miss Hamilton? I could not afford to keep her, even if I did fancy her, which I most certainly do not.”
Mrs Thornton was by now thoroughly confused. “Tell me at once, John David Thornton, who on earth has caught your eye? For I see this is no mild infatuation you have!”
He cupped her face lovingly in his hands. “Margaret. Margaret Hale is the lady, and my heart is more firmly hers now than ever before.”
“John!” she cried in d
ismay. “I thought you had already learnt-”
“Hush, Mother. I learned much more today.” He drew her to the sofa, and with his arm around her shoulders, gently unfolded the events of his afternoon.
“And so!” Hannah Thornton stared blankly at the wall in utter astonishment. “That other man was not her lover after all!”
“No, but I beg you, Mother, you must keep this in complete confidence. I swear you to it, by all you hold dear! Even should she never become mine, I would not see her injured by betraying this secret. Do you promise, Mother?”
“Oh, you needn’t be so dramatic, John. Of course I promise. I am certainly glad to hear the young lady did nothing so unmaidenly as I once thought, but what does this change? She thinks herself a great deal too good for you, John. I hardly think she has changed her mind,” Mrs Thornton snorted expressively.
“She is not prideful, Mother. I believe she was frightened of me.”
“Frightened! She had no cause to be.”
He brushed his chin thoughtfully with his fingers. “We talked a great deal tonight. I think I understand her better than I ever did. The move to Milton was more traumatic to her senses than I had realized. To her, I represented everything which mortified and offended her about life in an industrial city.”
Mrs Thornton rolled her eyes. “Fine sensibilities. I’ve no use for such a skittish maid. You would spend all of your time trying to appease her, John, to no avail, for she will never be made content. Mind the ‘low spirits’ her mother claimed!”
“That is uncharitable, Mother, and you know it. Mrs Hale was suffering a mortal illness and was too dignified to speak candidly. Margaret possesses her mother’s gentility to a great degree, but she is more frank.”
“Aye, she is a salty lass, and no mistake,” Mrs Thornton scowled. “Oh, now I said nothing very funny, John, why are you laughing?”
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