No one calls him by his name in this town. He is "lad", "draper boy", sometimes "mister" and rarely "John". To all of Milton's society he is an orphan, having arrived about a year ago with solely the clothes on his back to account for. Like many before him, he traveled up north to find work, and his youth and strength would have quickly granted him a position in any available cotton mill, as was his purpose.
It was right before he went to Marlborough's when the entire building burned to the ground in less than two hours. John stood almost mesmerized by the flames while the city was thrown into chaos with smoke and grieving. He offered his help as soon as the fire was contained, and has never fully shaken the sensation of being covered in ashes. After, it was no wonder he couldn't enter another factory, and luckily his prompt offering for help cast him on the good side of a few masters and others in trade.
John is startled from his reverie with the ringing of the doorbell tearing over the quietness in the drapery shop. He looks towards the entrance, ready to greet the newcomer, when in comes a downcast, wisp of woman. She looks up with round, soft eyes that take his breath away, along with his wits, and he stands there frozen.
"Well, that is a warm welcome" she comments with a tinge of sprit, lips spreading into a haughty smile as the sudden spell John must have temporarily succumbed to is broken. He adjusts his posture akin to her own – back straight, head high – and musters every single ounce of politeness from his slightly offended self before asking "How may I help you, miss?"
He recognizes her now, the young Miss Hale from Crampton, and his heart clenches in sadness at the memory of Mr. Hale's public lectures at the Lyceum Hall.
"I have an order from Mrs. Sh-" she clears her throat, "Madam Hale, of Crampton" and almost gingerly delivers him a list.
He pauses for a second perusing the beautiful calligraphy work, but his eyebrows rise up out of his own accord at the lavishness of the order. John clears his throat.
"This might take more than a month to be delivered. This kind of lace is currently only fabricated in France"
A frown mars her features, and he thinks she seems to almost deflate. "Are you sure there is nothing to be done about the wait time?" she asks, with a wilting blue disposition washing over her that appeals to something deep – and treacherous! – inside him.
"I-" he again clears his throat, thinking how sore it would become if he keeps in this fashion, "All the other gowns can be delivered sooner, within next week, and I shall see about the lace". It was honestly all he could promise; even if he wanted to do more, he was merely a draper assistant.
"Very well" she says in an exhale, sounds so close to being annoyed that it makes him defensive in turn. "Thank you and have a good day, mister"
oOo
As the sun starts its setting course, Margaret struggles with the weight of the groceries as she enters the house and calls for Mary – the girl who has been working as a cook for the family since her father's passing and after Madame Hale dismissed all of the servants. Both struck a quick, albeit shy, friendship. It wasn't well known around Milton about the condition of the young Miss Hale, and Mary was quite surprised to find her a glorified maid. For all of Milton society, Miss Margaret was just keeping to her mourning, only leaving the house to aide on urgent matters of the household and breathe some fresh air.
"Mary, where are you?" was the now impatient call as Margaret sits the basket heavily on the table, taking off her coat and carefully hanging it.
"Oh, Margaret, you're back already?" sounded Edith's voice from outside the kitchen. She never put her dainty feet inside it, so that Margaret always had to go to her.
"Oh, there you are, finally! I heard your voice, and thought you might be looking for the cook."
"Yes, indeed I was, Miss Edith, do you happen to know her whereabouts?" she knew the other woman couldn't possibly care about the help, and a bad feeling started coiling inside her.
"Oh, mama is so forgetful sometimes!" Edith huffed, "She was supposed to tell you that we discharged the girl last night! So, now you must plan your day according to your new tasks" she ended almost sweetly, as if to rub salt to the wound.
Margaret couldn't answer right away, and stood frozen in her ladylike posture – the one that consistently has Madam and Edith's feathers ruffled, and one of the reasons why they treated Margaret so poorly, in hopes to see her finally fail at something. After a heartbeat or two, she finally opened her mouth to speak, but was beaten by the other woman gasping, hand over her mouth as she feigned to suddenly remember something.
"Oh, dear me, how could I forget? Margaret, I dropped my tin of beads next to the fireplace a while ago! You must collect them all before mama arrives, you know how angry she can get!" at that, she turns towards the stairs, leaving Margaret trying to constrain the red hot anger that burns inside her.
oOo
The week before Edith's wedding is full with mind-numbing work. Margaret's entire body aches, and she wonders how such a town of gossips still passively believes in the façade she struggled hard to maintain. Her coat couldn't hide its used coarseness anymore, even when kept with utmost care, and the warming temperature would soon stop requiring its constant use. She did fear that day. Try as she might to be strong and remember her oath, being degraded inside her own home was enough to endure; she feared she wouldn't have the courage to face the entire society with her head held high if it was the case.
With a sigh, she resumes ironing petticoats until she is interrupted by Madam Hale.
"I have a new addition to your chores!" she announces grandly, as she is bent to whenever springing a sudden, trying task on Margaret. "Since me and Edith both agree that there's no way you cannot attend the ceremony without having questions asked, we decided to extend our utmost kindness towards you. So here, take this dress and make it ready for the day after tomorrow" she left a bundle of fabric on the ground with a final flourish. "Hurry now, dear, I don't believe you'll have much time for dying and readying it"
Her laughter still echoed as she left, and all of a sudden Margaret is hit with the ugly purple urge to cry. Instead, she lifts the hot iron carefully and pulls up the now straightened petticoat, arranging it to be carried back to the dressing room. She takes a deep breath, trampling down the knot in her throat and at last takes the courage to slowly start towards the dress, a silky teal beauty that shimmered slightly with a silvery quality.
It was one of her old dresses, one of the first Edith has claimed.
She picks it up with such tenderness she isn't sure who is more afraid – her, or the poor fabric for being handled so roughly – and both tremble faintly. She holds it close, feeling its smoothness, and feels very sorry to have to ruin such a lovely color with her black dyes. She murmurs an apology as she places it in a metal bucket, turning to the kitchen to boil some water.
It is late in the evening when she finally suspends the dress to dry, having completed all her tasks. The stark black greets her mutely, the color finally being properly welcomed by the first reluctant fabric. It does look heavier now, and Margaret can't help feeling the same. She tries to shake the tiredness off, and runs her hands over her face to bring back the rosiness chased away for so long. At an hour like this, she might leave the house with no one to worry about, hidden by her coat and scarf.
Listening carefully, she ascertains that both women upstairs have retired to their rooms, drinks a cup of tea and softly closes the back door, making sure her steps are feather light.
The library has been a true refuge after her dear father's passing. Since she now lived in the dull, cold part of the house, being greeted by warm wood floors and walls and the smell of books is surely a blessing. It is there where she can truly respire and let go of all strung-up tension inside her soul. She nods to the night clerk, a stony fellow who moved little and talked even less, and makes way towards the Literature section where Mr. Hale's leather bound Homer edition now rested. Madam Hale made her very first duty to get rid of the once beautiful library he so much cared for, and it had felt like losing him all over again. Her life had undeniably taken a subdued quality ever since then.
She is startled by a cough behind her, and turns quickly, heart beating fast against her chest.
"I apologize, miss, if I had frightened you" it was the draper assistant – what was his name? "I was just asking you if you were finished in this section."
"Oh, right, yes…" she felt disconcerted by his sudden presence, and stepped aside. "I was just picking this one to take with me, sorry mister…?"
"John, but you may call me however you like." Her face scrunches up at this, finally remembering he was an orphan – but unlike her, one with no family name to take any comfort in. He asks if she enjoys Homer, and it takes her a few seconds to answer.
"Yes, it's not my favorite, but this is the most beautiful edition there is, to me" it was strange that her heart was still fluttering, but it's been a long time since she had any sort of opportunity to talk about books with someone else. "See, it has my father's commentary all over it" she offered the book to him, finally looking in his eyes.
They talk until the clerk comes to cast them out. And both leave with lighter minds.
AN: If you are reading this, then thank you for bearing with me! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and how the story starts to unfold. I obviously took liberties with the tale here, since I wanted to bring the characters together slowly. I don't mean to rush to the happy ever after, so this will be about 5 chapters long.
Special thanks to the Guest who reviewed! If possible, do tell me if you like it!
