Not a Gentleman

by Tintinnabula

Chapter Seven

The Pic-Nic

John was elated. He had not expected Margaret's quick response, and was quite taken aback to hear his name upon her lips. It was a pleasant surprise, however, quite a pleasant surprise. He bit back a hopeful smile as he regarded Mr. Hale. But for once, the older man, so often socially unaware read the situation correctly.

"Margaret?" the father cried out in astonishment. However, it was too late, as daughter had already left the room to leave the two men to their conversation. So Richard Hale turned to Margaret's suitor instead.

"I had no idea, John," Mr. Hale said, removing his wire-rimmed glasses to polish their lenses. "Is this what I think it is? I had not realized Margaret had warmed up to you. In fact, I thought she seemed, well..."

John nodded in agreement, as he struggled to find words. Did Margaret want him to mention that their engagement would be time-limited, and merely a sham, as he had placatingly suggested earlier in the day? If so, why had she said his name just now? And what was that current of electricity that had passed between them only minutes before? John was certain she had felt it, too, and he was certain that it meant something. All of what had passed between them these past few days had to mean something, despite Margaret's protestations. He would not pretend differently to her father. At the very least, he knew his own feelings to be real.

"Yes," John said, finally. "Well, perhaps the fact that we seemingly clashed so vehemently over every little topic camouflaged a growing attachment."

"Indeed. It may have been proof of it."

"I would like you to know that my esteem for your daughter has grown steadily since the day I met her. I have known no finer person. She is truly a credit to you and Mrs. Hale."

"We have done our best to raise her as a good and moral person."

"She displays that at every opportunity. Even in situations where a weaker person would tremble, she stands tall. That takes integrity. Mr. Hale, you taught her well. I know that I am but a mere manufacturer, but-"

"John, do not talk like this! You know that I consider you as one of my dearest friends, despite the fact that our friendship has been short. You are like a son to me. If you are asking me if I would agree to you marrying my daughter, I must tell you that it would be in no way a condescension."

John sighed. "She is too good for me."

Mr. Hale laughed. "Nonsense. The two of you are evenly matched. I have often wondered if I made a mistake in raising my daughter to be as independent as I did. It would take a special man to accept her spirit and her outspoken nature. You are that man, certainly. I feel blessed our life took us to Milton and crossed our path with yours. To have you in our family would be an honor. Truly, John. It would be an honor."

"Thank you, Mr. Hale." John's face was transformed as he smiled without reserve, his eyes crinkling into the crowsfeet set there by concern.

"Call me 'Richard'. Or perhaps, 'Father'?" The older man replaced his glasses on his face and returned the smile. "I suppose continuing with our studies tonight is out of the question. I do have some recollection of young love and its capacity to turn the brain into a sodden pulp. I imagine you will have no more patience for Greek philosophy tonight. It is, I fear, a bit more dry than thoughts of wedded bliss."

John's color rose, and Mr. Hale chuckled.

"You are too easy to rouse, my friend. There is nothing wrong with being in love. I hope you will remember this. I, for one, cannot be happier for you and my daughter, although I know that you will treat her with the dignity and honor she deserves-"

"I would not do otherwise, Mr. Hale!"

"I know, John, I know. But it must be said. Reputations must be protected, and I hear no end of it from the women of this family. According to Dixon and my sister-in-law, who both unduly influence my wife, I should not allow Margaret to visit her friends unchaperoned. I should not allow Margaret to leave the house alone. I should not allow Margaret to leave her room, I suppose. Poor girl. Knowing you as well as I do, I am certain that entrusting her to your guardianship will not convey her into a form of bondage she has never experienced, John, but at the same time you may find that the months until the time when you are wed will be vexing-"

"I love Margaret as she is. I have no desire to clip her wings. And you must know that I am a man of honor. I would never impugn her virtue. I am not a boy of seventeen, Mr. Hale. I am familiar with self-denial." John understood the necessity of this conversation, but it was nonetheless uncomfortable.

"Let us speak no more of it. I believe that etiquette demands a visit from your mother to our household, but in the present circumstances..."

"My mother is aware of Mrs. Hale's condition. She will understand. Surely under these circumstances the rules of convention do not necessarily apply."

"I will ask Maria. She will know how these things are done correctly. She is quite the lady, you know. This despite the fact that she stooped so low as to marry a parson like me." Mr. Hale smiled again, and John was reminded of why he so valued the man's friendship. Richard Hale completely lacked pretension. There was not a shred of affectation in the man.

John stood. "I should take my leave. May I have your permission to call on Miss Hale this Saturday? Unfortunately, I will be quite busy with mill business until then, but I am certain I can rearrange things to spare the afternoon, should she be available. Perhaps we might go for a walk."

"Yes, I am sure you are busy getting the mill running again. You burn the candle at both ends- I can see it in your face. I'm certain such an arrangement would be fine, John. Margaret's calendar is not so full that she would not be willing to prioritize her plans for her fiance. I will let her know. Shall we say eleven?"

John left, and was so caught up in replaying the day's events that he lost track of his surroundings until he was quite close to home. He found himself on the route he normally took between Crampton and New Street. The nearby Haight Street, with its profusion of dry goods establishments beckoned to him. The shops were long shut, but the bow windows set in cast iron facades held displays intended to enchant passersby.

One in particular caught his eye. Of course it was at the store Fanny most favored, Lewis and Farnett, the most expensive dry goods store in the row, and the one that had all the latest wares from London only a few months after their introduction in the capital. This window held a display of fitted wicker hampers from G.W. Scott and Sons, along with a placard describing how said hampers had recently been introduced at the Great Exposition in London. The hamper, intended for a pic-nic, was truly ingenious, as every space was put to use. The hamper contained compartment to hold three bottles, each covered in woven wicker for protection, plus four wicker-covered beakers. Each of these, in turn, held smaller jars for pickles and chutney, also covered in wicker. In the center of the hamper was space for six squared-off, covered silver dishes, each large enough to contain a hot entree or dessert. In the lid were place settings for four: ivory handled forks, spoons, and knives, and silver rimmed plates, all buckled into place with leather straps. John noticed that the inner lid buttoned to the wicker frame, with space above for a blanket. Next to the hamper, a pic-nic was set up, a hamper emptied, its contents displayed prettily on a buttercup yellow wool blanket that spoke of summers in someplace delightfully sunny and warm.

It was perfect, he realized.

John blanched at the price (although Fanny certainly would not have), but not before deciding that he and Margaret would be pic-nicking on Saturday. He had savings, the result of long years of fiscal restraint. Why not lavish a small fraction on someone he loved?

John hurried home, scrawled a hasty note to Stokes informing him of the small excursion the butler would need to take to Haight Street the next morning, as well as of the need to organize a menu for Saturday.

John slept very well that night.


The following Saturday John showed up in Crampton at eleven a.m. on the nose. He was punctual by nature, but in this case, he didn't want to miss a minute of his allocated time with Margaret. He'd ordered horses for the day, as the site he chose for the pic-nic was outside of Milton proper and as the hamper, fully loaded, was quite heavy. He'd checked with his mother, however, for propriety's sake. He was happy to confirm that chaperones were not required for engaged couples during daylight, not even in covered carriages. That meant there was no need for Dixon or anyone else to blight their day together. He was looking forward to an afternoon alone with Margaret and the opportunity to get to know her better, unimpeded by the questioning looks and unnecessary comments of others.

It was a perfect day for a pic-nic and John was certain Margaret would be enchanted by the location he'd chosen. It was the ruins of a 15th century church in the hills just a mile to the south of Milton. It was located at the source of one of the streams that fed into the river that had allowed Milton to first become a milling town. The place wasn't quite bucolic, but it was as close as this part of the country came to that description. There were wildflowers at this time of year, and hummocks of moss that were perfect for laying out a blanket. Although most of the animals—apart from a feral cat or two-were long gone, there might be a few birds, and not all the trees had been harvested for firewood. The church itself was stone, little tarnished by the soot of Milton. Only two of its walls still stood, and those partially. All in all, it was as lovely as Milton and its environs got. John hoped Margaret would like it.

John took the steps to Margaret's Crampton home two at a time and rapped sharply on its door, only to be greeted by the dragon herself, who regarded him with a look that could sour milk.

"She's not here. She would have sent a note, but the missus is doing poorly today so there was no one to send it. We employ no servants on a Saturday." Apparently Dixon did not count herself among that group. That explained much.

John was dispirited by Dixon's words, but he would not let the termagant see it. "And where is she?" he asked evenly.

"She went to visit her poor friend." The servant lifted her eyebrows as she partially rolled her eyes in disdain. "Bessy. The girl is not doing well today, according to her sister."

"Did she say when she would be back?"

"No." Dixon crossed her arms and smirked. "Miss Margaret said you would understand." I knew you would not, went unsaid.

"And I do. She is right to visit her friend." John thought quickly. It might be less bother to go back to the mill to check the employee records rather than continue to engage this unpleasant woman, but not every employee listed a place of residence. And in truth, residences changed frequently for many mill workers, as their finances were often precarious.

Dixon began to shut the door, but was stopped by John's query. "Tell me, you wouldn't happen to know where the Higgins girl lives, would you?"

"Of course I do," the stout woman said huffily. "As if I'd have Miss Margaret traipsing through that part of town without knowing exactly where she was going. We've only providence to thank that I haven't had to call a constable to search for her. The ruffians in that part of town- the things they get up to! It's not safe, I tell you-"

"An address?"

"Frances Street. Behind the Golden Dragon. It's a questionable establishment, from what I've heard. Our miss should not be tarnishing her reputation by being seen in such places, and it's up to you, now that she's-"

"Thank you, Dixon." John turned on his heel with alacrity, and jumped in the carriage. If circumstances made Margaret unavailable to pic-nic with him, he would simply bring the pic-nic to her.


The carriage stopped some distance from Frances Street, when the hired coachman informed John that the streets were too narrow to continue. John stepped down from the carriage, and directed the driver to wait while he continued on foot. It took him some time to find the Higgins' domicile, as the streets were unmarked and the residents appeared to somewhat unfriendly to him. That changed when he removed his hat, did his best to soften his naturally severe expression, and pressed a few coins into hands.

It was truly a depressing place. Laundry, already soot-stained and more rag than clothing, crisscrossed the narrow streets which were in shadow despite the unusual brightness of the day. Refuse- from scraps of newsprint to feathers-littered the street, piling up in the darker corners as if swept there by some slattern and immediately forgotten. Grime covered windows lucky enough to be glazed, while greased paper covered others, bashed out by violence. Paint, it seemed, was a rare accessory for many of these houses. Some windows and doors showed traces of past coats of blue, or brown or green, but most stood in disrepair, warped by winter rains, and rotting. The houses themselves seemed to sigh in despondency. They sagged against each other, not a plumb line in sight.

The Higgins home was in better shape than some. It stood relatively straight, and its door was almost fully green, and only chipped in a few places. Moreover, its windows were intact and moderately clean. Once he was certain he had found the place, John returned to the carriage, and unstrapped the heavy hamper from its back. He sent the coachman on his way, instructing him to return with the carriage in two and one half hours. Then John retraced his steps to the Higgins, setting down the hamper several times on his journey. Finally, he rapped sharply on the door.

A teenage girl he did not recognize answered the door, and John wondered if he had been misdirected.

"Excuse me, but I am looking for Miss Margaret Hale."

"She's here." The girl did not motion for him to come inside.

"Will you tell her Mr. Thornton is here?"

The girl's eyes widened. The door opened wider and she backed away. "Bessy! Your ol' master!" he heard her cry as she flew across the room to a bed set in a curtained niche.

John stepped inside. And there was Margaret, perched on a chair in the dim, close room, next to a shadowy figure in the bed.

"Mr. Thornton!" she said in surprise. "Why are you here? Is something wrong? Is Mama-?"

"No, Miss Hale." Could he call her Margaret? This was mixed company and she had not formally said yes to him. "Your mother is well. All is well. I came because I heard that your friend was ill and I wondered..." He moved forward with the hamper. "You see, I had our cook prepare a pic-nic for today, and it would be a waste not to eat it. Would you and your friends care to partake? I will leave it with you."

"John." She said his name and his heart sung.

"Allow me to introduce you. This is my friend, Bessy. I think you know her. She used to work at Marlborough Mills." John moved closer to the girl in the bed, who was sitting up now. Despite her gaunt appearance, the spots of color high on her cheeks, and the fact that her hair was down, John did recognize her.

"Miss Higgins. You worked loom 17, did you not?"

"Yes, and sometimes loom 18." Bessy spoke reedily, and with effort. John shook her hand.

"And this is Mary Higgins, Bessy's sister. Mary, this is Mr. Thornton, my fiance."

The slovenly girl nodded her head and went red in the face. She did not extend her hand, but rather captured her grease stained apron, which she began to twist fretfully.

"Where is your father?" John addressed Bessy.

"He is at the Golden Dragon, most likely," came the uneasy and slow reply. "He hasn't been himself since the strike ended. He canna get mill work. He's been digging ditches. It pays half as much as mill work, and he drinks most of his wage." Bessy shook her head as she caught her breath and Mary looked away.

"Bessy," Margaret smiled brightly as she changed the subject. "And Mary. What do both of you think about a pic-nic, here in the house?"

"A pic-nic? You were going to have a pic-nic and you came here instead? But that weren't right. You've only just gotten engaged and you said things were-" Bessy ended her sentence prematurely with a single, body-racking cough, then moaned in frustration.

"You are my friend, Bessy, and I knew John would understand." Margaret looked pleadingly at her fiance, who nodded.

Bessy bit her lip, but acquiesced. "Well, I've always wanted to go on a pic-nic, although it's not something people like us would ever do. And I'm sure what's in that basket is far better than anything I've ever eaten, given how you masters live. D'ya think we could use my blanket as the cloth? I can't get down on the floor, after all."

"I brought a blanket." John leaned over to unlatch the hamper and produced the cloth, eliciting a smile from Margaret.

"What a perfect shade of yellow. Of late, I think that has become my favorite color."

"I thought you might say that." John smiled, then stood and grabbed his hat. "I will leave you to it, then."

"No, you mustn't," wheezed Bessy. "It's only right that you stay."

Margaret rose and placed her hand on John's arm. "Bessy is right, of course. How else will we know what delicacies your cook has prepared?" she asked playfully. But in his ear she whispered, "You are too kind, John Thornton."

Margaret unfolded the blanket and laid it carefully across the bed, and directed Mary to move the chairs placed by the open hearth closer to the bed. Then she asked John to move the table itself next to the bed. She began to unpack the hamper carefully, first removing each of the square silver dishes.

"Tell us, John, what did your chef prepare for us?"

"Cook made a pigeon pie."

"Pigeons? Those dirty things?" Mary queried incredulously, then blushed again.

Margaret laughed. "I believe these are different birds, Mary."

"And in here is lobster salad."

"I've never had lobster," said Bessy. "What is it, exactly? It comes from the ocean, doesn't it?" She began to cough and her sister immediately was at her side to soothe her.

"I think you will like it," replied Margaret once the attack abated. "It is very rich. In London it was only served only rarely, as it is very hard to come by." She raised an eyebrow at John. "Did you have to send to Liverpool for it?"

John shrugged. "You would have to ask Cook. I know better than to involve myself in her affairs."

He opened another silver container, this containing a trembling, molded affair of palest pink, adorned with berries in syrup. "And here we have a strawberry blancmange."

"I love strawberries," mumbled Mary as she moved closer to inspect the offering with greedy eyes.

"And here is bread and butter," John continued, "and an almond-paste tart, and finally, assorted fruits and cheeses." He opened the last silver container to show green and red grapes, small plums, strawberries, and raspberries along with Stilton, Dunlop, and Cheshire cheeses.

"I think I would like to try everything," Bessy said, and Mary nodded emphatically in agreement. John unpacked the plates and cutlery and Margaret served, then passed around the smaller containers of pickled gherkins, cherries and Indian chutney.

"I believe Cook has provided us with lemonade, claret and brandy," John said, as he removed the three bottles and uncorked each.

"Lemonade," said Bessy dreamily. "How perfect." Margaret poured her a glass and one for Mary, as well.

"I think I would like the claret for myself," Margaret said, allowing John to pour for her. She waited until John had poured his own glass, then spoke again. "I would like to propose a toast. To my dear John, who surprises me every time we meet. May such surprises continue."

Bessy and Mary giggled.

"And to my dear Margaret, whose beauty is exceeded only by her strength of character. May I live up to her example."

"And I will toast the both of you," said Bessy. "Even if I won't be at your wedding."

The room hushed at Bessy's words, and no more was said for several minutes. There were several moans of appreciation, however, and the lemonade, a commodity not often seen on Frances Street, was quickly polished off.

Bessy had eaten her fill and Mary had just put on the kettle and started on a third helping of dessert when the door crashed open and Nicholas stumbled in. His face darkened as he took in the scene.

"I never woulda thought a master would darken my doorstep without an invitation," he slurred as he approached John.

"He was invited, Father!" Bessy cried, the volume of her words precipitating a coughing fit. "You're drunk."

Mary huddled next to her sister, as Margaret soothed both of them.

"You have a lot of nerve," Nicholas continued, picking up steam as he eyed the remains of dinner. "You drive good men away from their jobs by hiring those knobsticks, and then you humiliate us by givin' us charity?"

"I've done no such thing." John stood, drawing himself up to his full height- a good six inches taller than Nicholas- although that man was easily the same weight, and more solidly built. "I offered those Irish work when you lot refused."

"We refused because you wouldna pay us a livin' wage." Nicholas' voice raised.

"I paid you all I could afford." John kept his voice low and even, but it was nonetheless icy. "You know nothing of the trade in cotton, or the factors affecting its global price."

"I know how much it costs to put food on the table. And I know when my neighbor's babes are starvin'. Tonight Boucher's body was found in the river. Who will feed his children now?" Nicholas swung wildly and John was unprepared. The blow landed at the base of his cheekbone. He reeled backwards as Mary screamed. Margaret ran to John's side, her countenance pale, eyes bright with fear.

The scream had some sobering effect on Nicholas, as he seemed to recognize what he had done. His bloodshot eyes widened slightly and staggered past John into a chair. "Go," he mumbled. "Get out of my house. You are not welcome here."

"We must be off," John said.

"The hamper-" Margaret began.

"I'll send someone to collect it in a day or two, once he's cooled off," John said quietly. "We need to get out of here. Now." His tone brooked no dissension.


The carriage was not waiting for them when they extricated themselves from the warren of streets comprising Milton's slum district. This was not surprising: John had told the coachman to return in two and one half hours and barely an hour had elapsed.

"You need a cool compress on your face. Your cheek will swell, I think." Margaret said. "We can go to my house, if you wish. Dixon will take good care of you. She has excellent nursing skills."

John recoiled at the thought.

"I'd hate to think our pic-nic is over already. Would you be amenable to continuing, minus the food of course?"

Margaret looked down, and John noted the extraordinary length of her eyelashes.

"I'd like that, if you're sure you are well."

"I am. I know of a place." He offered her his arm and they walked.

The route was familiar to both of them, at first, as it cut directly though Milton's cemetery. It took a turn that was unfamiliar to Margaret, however, down a path she'd never explored before.

They arrived at a section of the cemetery that was very well tended, if a bit desolate. Unlike most of the location, the graves here were set well apart. The site John led her to was surrounded by a low, iron fence. A single headstone stood inside the very large space, and to its right stood a much smaller sculpture of a lamb. Across from both of these a large, evergreen magnolia was in bloom, a bench below it. John led her to the bench and sat beside her.

Margaret immediately turned to him.

"Is it bad?" She asked, gingerly touching his cheek.

John shook his head. "It is not as bad as it could be. I am lucky Higgins is shorter than I. There was not as much force behind that punch as there might have been, otherwise. Although I am certain I will have a terrible bruise tomorrow, nonetheless."

"No broken teeth? Let me see." John complied, although baring his lips enough to show his teeth was not an easy endeavor. He closed his mouth and breathed out a heavy sigh.

"Does it hurt to speak?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"Do not lie to me," she replied.

She surprised him then, with the gentlest of kisses to his bruised cheek. It was their first, John realized. He cursed his rotten luck. How he wanted to return this tentative kiss with an authoritative, passionate one. But sadly, he could not. It would simply hurt too much.

"I meant what I said earlier."

"What was that? That I am too kind?" John tried to smile, but his face would not cooperate. He only grimaced.

"No. Well, yes. You are too kind. Today, John, what you did for Bessy-I cannot tell you how much it meant to me."

John draped his arm over the back of the bench and allowed his hand to graze Margaret's shoulder. "I know you well enough to realize there was a good reason you broke our engagement for today. I assumed you were greatly concerned for your friend."

Margaret nodded. "She hides it very well."

"On the contrary. All the signs of advanced brown lung are there."

"You think so? I have been hoping against hope. But, somehow, I knew I was wrong. I keep thinking that each time I see her will be the last. So, what you did was more than a simple kindness. I think she felt like royalty this afternoon." Margaret's sad expression brightened. "You know, Bessy had very kind words to say about you from the start, and I think she was instrumental in changing my opinion of you."

"I must thank her, then."

"She told me why she came to work at Marlborough Mills. It was because of the wheel. She said she'd wished she come years earlier. That the wheel might have prevented her getting sick."

"It's not true, though," John said quietly, turning away. "The wheel helps, certainly, but you've seen the cotton in the air. Anyone spending time in there is at risk of brown lung, eventually."

"Even you?"

"I spend less time there, but yes, given enough time. I've had wheels in all my sheds for only two years. This is a risk we all take. I don't ask my hands to take any risk I would not take myself."

Margaret's brow furrowed.

"What I said before, when I toasted you-I meant it. You constantly surprise me. I think I understand you, but then some new facet of you is revealed to me and I see you in a different light."

John laughed. "That is an eloquent way to put it. A less erudite person might use the analogy of a layered onion, perhaps."

Margaret scoffed. "Why? Because facets describe something expensive, it is necessarily a better term? Do erudite people refer to more expensive objects, when they draw analogies, then? That sounds like London thinking, always equating rare and expensive with better."

"I is just that I had the same thought about you. Except I would have never used the word "facet" to describe your aspects."

Margaret laughed. "I'm an onion, am I? Well, I don't mind that. French onion soup is one of my favorites."

"And now I have learned something new about Miss Margaret Hale, a fact I will put to good use."

"And I have just learned something about Mr. John Thornton."

"And what is that?"

"You think you are less erudite, apparently."

"I am not learned."

"Sometimes it seems the things we like least about ourselves are the things others, perhaps, like the most. I like all that you have accomplished in your life under your own steam, for instance. That what you are, you have made yourself. I told my father I thought it fine."

"Did you?" John asked quietly. "Even then?"

Margaret did not reply. She blushed and intently inspected her hands, instead.

"Tell me, then." John pressed. "What was this surprising thing that you learned about me today?"

"Two things," she blurted out, then was silent again.

"Which are...?" John prompted.

She still did not look at him. "First, that you are a romantic. You had someplace special planned for today, did you not?"

John nodded. He would not deny it. His heart was on his sleeve.

"Where?" She looked at him, finally.

"I'll not tell you."

Margaret lower lip formed itself into a most pleasing pout, one he longed to kiss.

"But I will take you there. I promise." This evoked a radiant smile, which John returned with his eyes.

"You went a bit overboard, you know."

"You mean Cook did."

"I think we both know who is in charge, John." He loved how easily she said his name.

"Hmmmm."

"I've never seen such a hamper before."

"I couldn't resist."

"You bought it especially for today?" Margaret's mouth opened as she turned her body to face his. "But you shouldn't have! It must have been such a ridiculous expense!"

"Did it bring you pleasure?"

"Yes, but..."

"And did it bring your friends pleasure?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Then what is the problem?"

"It's excessive." Margaret shook her head, and John smiled as he noted the parson's daughter in her. "There is no need for such extravagances. I am not used to them and do not require them. You do not need to-"

"I do not need to. I want to. There is a difference."

"He won't sell it, you know. If you're worried about the hamper. Although the brandy might be a concern."

"You have a high opinion of this Higgins fellow." John raised an eyebrow. One thing he already knew about Margaret was that she was an excellent judge of character.

"I do. He is a person of integrity."

They sat quietly for a while, until Margaret said, "This is your family plot?"

John nodded. "Not my mother's connections. Only my father and sister are buried here."

"Your sister?"

"Emma. She died when she was a little over a year old, of scarlet fever. It was after my father..." Margaret reached for his hand and held it in her own. "She was our little lamb. We could not afford a grave marker for her for many years. Finally I was able to save up enough for the statue. And now that we can afford something much finer I find I don't want to replace it."

"I can understand it."

"My father left us with almost nothing when he died."

"My father told me how yours died. I am so sorry. I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been."

"We were lucky that in some fit of reason, several years before, he had bought a plot in the cemetery. He was not able to mortgage it when he began speculating, so he avoided a pauper's grave. We could barely afford the funeral and headstone, as it was. The plot was not so large, then. Those around his remained unsold, as there is great stigma in being buried near a suicide. So when I could finally afford it, I bought those plots up. If nothing else, it's a restful place to contemplate. Heaven knows there are few enough of those in Milton."

"It's lovely. The magnolia, in particular, is beautiful. We had one in Helstone, but I am surprised it can survive in this climate."

"But we are on the lee side of the hill, so the frosts are not as bad. I planted that for Emma, before I could afford the lamb." John turned to Margaret and gazed at her intently. "I would hope you would feel welcome to come here, if ever you need a quiet place to contemplate, Margaret."

Margaret squeezed his hand. "Thank you. I will."

"So what was the other surprise?"

"With Higgins. You held back. You had every right to give back to him as much as he gave and you did not."

"No, Margaret, I did not have that right."

An expression of disbelief clouded his love's face.

"Consider it from his point of view. I was an unwanted guest in his house and one of the men involved with the strike that cost him his job. Not that I am in any way claiming any responsibility for that, I should clarify. But Higgins has just found out his neighbor has committed suicide. On top of all of this he is drunk. Can you really blame him for acting the way he did? And would it have been fair for me to strike back?"

"I suppose not." Margaret sat quietly.

"Something is bothering you," John said. And he had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what it was.

"Why did you beat that other man? Stevens?"

Stevens. Blast him. If only the jaws of hell could open up and swallow that man retroactively.

"How many men do you think I have beaten in my lifetime, Margaret?"

"I do not know."

"One. And you walked in on it."

"Why him?"

"I told you. Because he put the lives of 300 men, women and children at risk. Because he put five minutes of pleasure before the entirety of those lives. Because in that moment I saw my hands laid out in the yard, just as I'd seen men, women and children—young children!- laid out on the hillside behind Crofton's Mill last May after it burned to a shell. That fire was an accident, Margaret. It wasn't due to some idiot lighting his pipe. It was probably just a spark, metal striking metal. But cotton fluff is highly inflammable, and when you have particles in the air, aflame, a mill can go up in a matter of minutes. The fire brigade is helpless to stop it. It took twenty. Twenty minutes. That's all."

John closed his eyes as he remembered that day, and the memories, still frighteningly vivid, flooded back. But her hand was on his back now, rubbing him, soothing him. He continued.

"So I snapped when I saw Stevens and his pipe. I saw those burned bodies in my mind's eye. I smelled them, Margaret. Children. You saw me at my worst, at my absolute worst-" He needed her to understand.

"But it was for a good reason." Margaret's voice was gentle. "To protect those who work for you. I see that now."

"Do you?" John gazed at her, his cerulean eyes wide in astonishment.

"Do you think I am so stubborn that my mind cannot be changed?"

"No, Margaret. At this point, I am certain it can."

John gathered her in his arms and kissed her again and again, ignoring the pain. She melted in his arms.


Author Notes:

Thank you again to everyone who is reading, reviewing, favoriting and following. Just a few notes this time: The fitted, wicker picnic hamper was invented in 1851 by the G.W. Scott company, and displayed at the Great Exhibition in the Crystal Palace. They were obscenely expensive. The same company still makes custom picnic hampers and they are still obscenely expensive, but they don't have all the fittings anymore. The dishes and beverages packed in the hamper are all mentioned in cookbooks of the 1840s and 1850s, including Charles Francatelli's The Modern Cook (1846) and Eliza Acton's Modern Cookery for Private Families (1845). These selections in a picnic menu in the best selling Mrs. Beeton's Dictionary of Every-day Cookery. Although this book wasn't published until 1865, after the time frame for this book, it plagiarized Francatelli, Acton, and many other cookbook authors (in fact it is mostly plagiarized recipes!), so I think even though Francatelli and Acton don't specifically mention a picnic menu, what I've included is probably reasonable for 1845-1850 or so. About the lamb: My grandfather is buried in a cemetery that has Victorian monuments close by. I always found them fascinating, so much more emotive than modern headstones. My favorite was a tiny lamb that was placed as a marker for an infant. So sad! I always wondered about the story behind it. Now it is part of John's story. :)

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