Chapter Seven
All of their burgeoning closeness evaporated overnight. Margaret took to her side of the bed, lying stiffly apart from John, and when he attempted to give her his now customary forehead kiss, she flinched away.
He did not sigh, understanding that she was upset with him. He even understood why she was so upset and could not blame her for her withdrawal.
Worse, this night she did not even migrate into his side, so he woke up cold and confused. Instead she was still determinedly curled up tightly on her own side of the bed, putting as much space between them as she could, and had stolen most of the blankets in the process.
It did mean that, for a change, he was able to rise and depart without waking her, a full hour before he normally would leave. He was dressed even before the maid had been up to light the fire or laid out breakfast; he gave terse instructions that he did not need any and went out to the mill. He'd had no intention of meeting with Latimer today but now the extra time he was able to put to use in the office.
A flurry of notes went between he and Latimer, wherein the banker confirmed he would be at the clubhouse again prior to luncheon. John didn't like that the meeting was being held there, rather in Latimer's office at the bank, but anything which made the man more amenable could only be a good thing. Even still, he went to the club with a cloud over his brow and a heaviness in his belly.
"Have you signed the contract?" asked Latimer from his customary place next to the billiard table.
"I have not," said John, "and I will not."
Latimer expertly sank one of the billiard balls. He often gave off the air of an affable old man, yet he had a sharp eye and sharper teeth. "We had an agreement, Thornton. The word of one gentleman to another." He continued onto the next shot.
"I have never been accused of being a gentleman yet," John replied. "But to continue would be the more ungentlemanly endeavour."
Latimer didn't even look up from the table, which he was rapidly clearing. He'd win before John was able to take a turn of his own. "If you renege on one part of our agreement, you renege on both parts."
This was what John feared. Without the leeway Latimer had promised, the mill would shutter even faster.
But at least he would be able to pay the workers when the time came. And Margaret would not be disappointed in him. The thought of her face last night—at first happy that he was involving her in his thoughts, then her dismay at the risk he was taking—was what he grasped to hold himself firm as he considered his next response.
"I understand. I'll seek alternative arrangements."
He knew it was a polite excuse—Latimer knew the same—but John made it anyway. There were no alternatives available to him, yet John would not lose face, and he would not be pushed into changing his mind because of Latimer's tactics.
Latimer nodded. "In that case, I expect your next payment to be made within the month. Otherwise we shall have to take steps to begin recovering the debt."
At that, he cleared the table, pocketing the black to win the game.
Margaret was waiting for John when he returned home that evening, and she didn't need to ask him whether he'd done as he'd promised: it was clear in his posture. She did what was necessary and went to him, to take his hands in her own and bestow kisses on the backs of them.
"Thank you," she murmured, and this small act seemed to lift some of the burden away from him, lightening his eyes. She always marvelled at the power she apparently held over him, which seemed to her to be a dangerous power if it feel into the wrong hands. Privately she vowed never to misuse it, though John was not the kind of man to lose his head over something as irrational as love and would not walk over hot coals even if she demanded it. For that, she was thankful.
"The situation has not improved," he reminded her gravely. "Sooner or later, the mill will fail."
"Then we will face it when it does. As a family."
There it was again: that shimmer of awe over his features, the one which made her feel curiously lightheaded when she witnessed it. Yet Margaret held firm, meeting his eyes despite her urge to duck her head and pretend she did not notice his open adoration.
"Mr Latimer did not appreciate my withdrawal," John commented.
"Did you tell him your wife forbids your participation in the scheme?" Margaret asked cheekily.
He huffed. "No, I told him I am a man of principle and remain so."
"You are," she replied softly. "It is one of your better qualities, even if we do not always see eye to eye on those principles. It would vex me to think you had wavered on my account. And John—you told me that you have never done anything without surety, but you must only have meant that in matters of business."
His forehead wrinkled in confusion once more.
"You asked for my hand without being sure of my answer," she reminded him, "twice. That took a great leap of faith. You married me without knowing how well we might fare together. You may be very conservative with your money, but you take great risks with your heart."
He shook his head. "Not at all. On those issues, it was riskier to keep my mouth shut. It was better to know you did not love me than to continue labouring under some delusion that you might. And if I had not asked the second time, I was only guaranteed misery and loneliness—by asking I had at least a chance of gaining you as my wife. It was a worthwhile gamble, and one I would not change at all."
In a new twist of boldness, he gripped her hand and brought it to her mouth, much as he'd done during that second proposal.
It was only fair, given the way she'd kissed his at the beginning of the conversation. And yet it did not feel fair at all, the way it caused such fluttering in the pit of her stomach, but Margaret did not protest, instead rewarding him with another smile for his boldness.
"Neither would I," she responded, and his answering smile far eclipsed anything she could offer him.
Though Margaret found some relief in John refusing to take part in the speculation, and putting his workers first, it was short-lived. He was soon putting in long hours at the mill again, and more than once she had to take his dinner across to his office. She found him there in shirt sleeves, his fingers stained with ink and his eyes bleary, working to the light of one small candle instead of the gas lamps. But he would not waste food, and she would not see him go hungry when he needed his strength the most, so he wolfed down the contents of the plate when it arrived and she was able to return to the house with it empty.
More often, she would take two plates across to him so they could at least dine together. She hated the thought of him spending so many hours isolated in the draughty room and a little company would be good for his spirit. She provided light conversation without requiring him to respond as he cleared his plate. In turn, she was learning to ensure she ate everything on her own plate—the height of bad manners in London and in her late mother's eyes, but doubtless the habit of a boy who'd grown up making every penny count.
Despite this, it would be later still before John came home, often only to wash and then retire straight to bed. She worried for him, and secretly wondered if the mill failing sooner would lift the burden from him. A small blessing, compared with the grinding effect many months of this would have on him.
On one of the evenings where John did not return home until long after dark, Margaret spotted him in the mill yard, sat down with one of the Boucher children, who was reading from a book. It was young Tom, judging by the little cap he wore. John folded himself down beside the boy on the edge of the ramp that led to the storerooms, peering down at the page as Tom pointed at it. Margaret started to make her way downstairs and outside, but did not get far: instead she made it only down one storey, peaking out around a curtain at her husband and Nicholas Higgins, who were having a discussion which seemed almost amicable. She wished she could hear what they were discussing, but she felt instinctively that if she went outside, she would interrupt, perhaps even become a source of irritation between them.
She could not deny the happiness she felt at the little moment she'd witnessed between John and the lad. John was a large man, accustomed to using his size to stake his presence in the room, to draw attention and make it clear that he held the power in any interaction. Yet with the boy he'd made himself small, to be less intimidating, and she'd even seen one of his rare smiles as they talked, lopsided and boyish in its own way. Tom had not seemed scared of John at all, not the way many of the workers were always a little intimidated by the master, and it was a touching scene. Not because John was displaying his capacity for tenderness; she was already well aware of that, but because he was displaying it with someone so far below his social station, and someone he had nothing to gain from it. It was his natural instinct to be pleasant with the boy, and it was more creeping evidence of his innate kindness. She would draw it out of him yet.
Under the cover of darkness, she felt safe to ask John what his discussion with Nicholas had been about.
"I saw you talking with Mr Higgins today." She was careful to use the formal name, wary of the last time she'd inadvertently revealed her familiarity with the man. "I trust he has proved himself to be no bother."
"None at all," John agreed. "Though he didn't quite stick to his agreement—he has actually been doing some thinking while at the mill."
"Oh?"
"Yes. It'll be beneficial, though. We're looking at opening a canteen to feed the staff."
"Are you?" She was full of delight again, grinning at him even if he couldn't see it.
"It's not like that—" he cautioned, "it's a business decision, not compassion. If the workers are fed well they will work harder. It's only a matter of economics."
"I'm sure it is," yet her tone made it clear she did not believe him one bit. His insistence only made it sound like he was protesting too much. "Perhaps Mr Higgins and I are having an influence on you."
"If you are, it can only be a bad influence." He tried to sound gruff, but she knew him enough now that it was not sincere. "The other masters will have me driven out of town soon enough."
"Ah, but perhaps the workers will come to your defence this time," she teased, and he gave a non-committal hum in response.
John's prolonged absence left her once more in the perpetual company of Mrs Thornton and Fanny, though so much of that time was taken up with Fanny's wedding preparations that it was almost pleasant to have a diversion.
As always, Fanny managed to excel in that manner. One morning the younger girl waited until her mother was engaged elsewhere before quietly asking Margaret for advice on the marriage bed.
"Mama is not approachable about this sort of thing and though my magazines are burdened with wondrous advice, on such matters they are frustratingly circumspect."
Margaret found herself gaping at her sister-in-law, lost for words. She was not sure what advice she could provide, given her own circumstances, though she was aware that Fanny must not become aware of Margaret's continuing maidenly status. Such news would certainly make its way to at least Mrs Thornton, and it was nobody's business except Margaret and John's. Instead, Margaret drew on the knowledge she'd relied on when accepting the terms of John's offer, and the nuggets of information her childhood had left her with.
"It is not so terrible," she told Fanny, "and you will have had such a marvellous day leading up to it that it will be nothing at all in comparison."
"But I have heard," and here Fanny dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper, "that it can hurt."
Margaret offered her a tight smile. "I am sure your Watson will relent if you are in a lot of pain. But if you are merely uncomfortable—well, the standard advice is to lie back and think of England."
"England? What good will that do me?" Fanny asked indignantly.
"I believe it is meant to suggest you are doing your duty to your country, as well as your husband. The key thing is to think of something pleasant—perhaps your lovely dress, or the things you would like to see and do on your honeymoon."
"I suppose I could do that," Fanny mused. "And though I have not seen my Watson's boudoir, he is not a man of great taste. Rather simple and a little dated, if his parlour is any indication, so I may be able to plan a new decoration scheme to occupy myself."
At that, she thanked Margaret for the advice and moved onto the well-worn topic of her wedding gown. Margaret could only pray she did not ask for further personal advice before she flew the nest.
John felt a sense of relief on the morning of Fanny's wedding. His sister had long forgotten the dim threat of Watson calling off the match due to John's own nuptials, and was now of the opinion that the entire world revolved around the event. John was glad this was the last of the expense he would have to expend on his sister.
It was admittedly an uncharitable response to have, but Fanny had never met a coin she wouldn't happily fritter away on something frivolous. From now on, it would be up to Watson to guard his money carefully against his bride's habits. In return, the Thornton household would have one less mouth to feed, and that could only be welcomed at this point. He'd scrounged up the money for a payment to Latimer by delaying one to a supplier, which kept the wolves from the door for now but not forever.
Though John did have a few misgivings about the match between Watson and his sister. She was younger even than Margaret but with none of the good sense John suspected Margaret had always had, and though it was not unusual for a girl Fanny's age to marry a man so much older, there was no real affection between the pair. Good marriages had been built on less, and all John had the right to ask at this stage was that Watson could provide for Fanny, yet he also hoped that love would blossom between them. He'd as good as raised his sister, and would not willingly give her up into the care of someone who might mistreat her.
John had mentioned this to Fanny, a few weeks' prior. He'd offered her sanctuary if Watson ever did cause her harm, and promised a swift retribution if Fanny ever came to him with news of the same. She'd brushed off the notion as if it was ridiculous, but then later come to him with a kiss on the cheek and a soppy little speech about owing him a great deal.
Today was the first big public occasion in Milton since his own wedding, and those guests who'd avoided his nuptials had confirmed attendance for these. John hoped this was at least partially because of the gossip he'd corrected among the masters, and that the tittle-tattle about Margaret had come to an end. Nevertheless he knew she remained nervous about facing so many of the people who had judged her, even if Fanny would be the focus of attention.
More than anything, though, John was delighted to be able to spend most of the day with his wife—arm-in-arm if they so wished it. He dressed in a pale yellow waistcoat and maroon tie, and Margaret matched him in a silk dress of similar colours he'd bought as part of her trousseau.
"You look lovely," he told her as he entered their bedroom from his dressing room. She was finished adding some pearl earrings to her outfit—another gift from him, to match her mother's ring.
"Thank you," she responded with one of her bashful smiles. "I have a gift for you!"
"A gift?" He followed her pointing finger to the hat box on her dressing table. "For me?"
"Is that not what I just said?" She was becoming more frequent in her teasing, and each occasion made his heart stutter with joy. "I thought today would be an appropriate time to give it to you."
He lifted the lid off and peered down at the top hat resting inside. Black, like his existing one, but in much better shape, and tied with a ribbon of maroon silk.
"The ribbon can be changed," she said hurriedly, "but I noticed you have rather a lot of the colour in your formal attire, and that the ribbon on your usual hat had become slightly—"
"Tatty. Yes it has. I've been meaning to replace it for ages, but never saw the need for the expense." He said it gently, so it did not seem a censure for her buying it. "Not after I bought the grey one for our wedding."
"I bought this before I knew about the financial predicament," Margaret replied with chagrin. "But you had spent so much on me that I felt a small token in return would be appreciated."
"It is. And you are right, today is the perfect day for me to wear it." So he did, without further mention to money.
The wedding went smoothly, with Fanny basking in the attention. It made it easy for Margaret to fade into the background at John's side, though with the wedding breakfast being held in the Thornton house once more Margaret was joint hostess this time. It opened her to the scrutiny of the masters' wives, but she bore it with grace, and John's careful examination of their interactions convinced him that whatever damage had once been done to Margaret's reputation was now repaired.
When the guests left, and Fanny departed to the house of her groom, a new peace settled over the household.
Fanny's departure relieved Margaret of one burden, as she was no longer required to discuss the frivolities her sister-in-law delighted in. Yet it left her exposed to her remaining burden, that of her mother-in-law, in whose sole company she could rely on most days. It almost made Margaret yearn for Fanny's return, something she'd believed unthinkable only a week prior.
Margaret inevitably, happily, found herself drawn into the planning for the new kitchen, which was opened very quickly. Her father was also thrilled with the concept, even if the pair of them were careful not to use the word charity around John. It was not charity, he insisted, as the workers were putting some of their wages in to pay for the food and it hadn't cost Marlborough Mills a thing. In fact, he claimed he could account for additional productivity and profit because of the change, and an influx of workers seeking positions.
"My wages have always been a little lower than the other mills for comparable work, if not by much, on account of the cost of the wheels and the fact that the work is simpler." Margaret nodded at the recollection of Bessie Higgins once confirming the latter. "This way I have not had to raise what I pay but the better quality workers come to me anyway, because I have something to offer them the other masters don't. It allows me to pick and choose."
It was one last attempt to save the mill: better, faster workers who made fewer mistakes would increase production, and there would be less fatigue all round due to full bellies. If it raised productivity enough they might be able to deliver their long-delayed orders after all, and catch up with their debts.
The opening of the canteen allowed Margaret to mingle with the workers even more, without having to leave the boundaries of the mill's domain. There was an additional benefit to this, because while at first some of the hands were slow to speak around her—distinctly aware she was now the master's wife and not Miss Hale anymore—that soon eased as she was able to show them her attitude hadn't changed. They might not grumble about the work or her husband in front of her, but they were happy to talk about their families, and to resort to their less-coarse jokes and tale-telling. It meant Margaret was able to determine where an extra basket or pair of hands might be needed. In turn, this gave Margaret the excuse she needed to venture out into town and provide the help she wanted to. Sitting idly did not suit her and never would.
That went for their household as much as it did everything else. John's fears did not ease, and Margaret was compelled to do what she could to assist.
She decided being forewarned was being forearmed. Her mother-in-law was doubtless fully aware of the precarious financial situation, and Margaret was not too proud to take the lead on the matter. She broached the matter over breakfast, when all the servants were out of earshot.
"You know that we will soon be required to make reductions in our spending," Margaret began, causing Mrs Thornton to look up from the newspaper she was regarding with disdain for her daughter-in-law's company.
"I do know. I'm surprised that you do."
Margaret ignored the slight. "I talk with John about more than Plato and Austen, and he has come to understand that he must be honest with me. Now, while I understand that things are not so dire as yet, I don't see why we cannot make preparations for what appears likely to occur."
Mrs Thornton's expression shifted into something almost approaching curiosity. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, would it not be wise for us to go through the household spending now and see what reductions can be made? Is there the possibility of us making savings to put to one side so they are available for later?"
"We already have savings."
"But more would not harm, surely?" John had already explained that his personal finances were technically separate from that of the mill, which was set up as a company, but if the mill closed his income would be drastically reduced. "And any cuts made now would feel less severe than those imposed later."
"I have always run a very tight household," Mrs Thornton stated, "but if it will please you, I am sure we can go over the finances and see if there are agreements to be made."
And though the process began swathed in acrimoniousness, with Mrs Thornton tightly rebuking every suggestion Margaret made, eventually she did agree to make some small concessions and for the money to be set aside instead.
"It seems to me," said Margaret, "that the greatest outgoing, other than rent, is on labour." They had a small contingent of household staff, far less than Aunt Shaw had, but then Aunt Shaw's income had always been greater.
"Surely you are not proposing we put the girls out of work?" Mrs Thornton said snidely. "I thought you were friendly with the workers and their plight."
"I'm not suggesting that! But—could they not find alternative households?"
"I'm sure they can find more work, but then where would we be?"
"If we only got rid of one of them, and reduced the duties of the others, would that not work?"
At first Mrs Thornton did not agree, but a few days later she sought Margaret out in John's study.
"I have spoken to Fanny. She has agreed to take Lizzy on. In the meantime, the remaining girls will be fulfilling less duties, though exactly what still needs to be determined."
"I can help with that. Anything that I can do to help in the house—"
Hannah's mouth set in that familiar tight line. "Might I remind you that you are John's wife, and the mistress of this house. It does not become you to take on the duties of a common housemaid."
"Whether it becomes me or not is irrelevant. If the work needs doing and we have no alternative, then I will do it."
"For now we have an alternative, and John would not abide it."
"I'm sure he wouldn't. But the pair of you do not realise how capable I am, and I would not waste money where it does not need to be spent."
Margaret didn't need to do anything—the rooms were aired less often, the fires set only when required, which had the added benefit of using less coal. Whether John noticed the reductions, Margaret didn't know, but she was pleased they had succeeded in gaining any reductions at all.
"I do have another suggestion," she said to her mother-in-law over another breakfast, which earned her another grimace.
"Will I like this any better than the last?"
"If it will save you money, you may like it a great deal."
"Go on."
"At the moment my father has a small income, an annuity which covers his expenses even if it doesn't leave much leftover. However, in the event of our reduced income, would it not make sense to combine our two households?"
"Your father move in here?"
"I was thinking more that we might have to move to the house in Crampton."
Mrs Thornton bristled at that idea. "Move to Crampton!"
"The rent is a great deal less, and there are enough bedrooms to house us all in sufficient comfort! We would only need one or two staff to keep the house running."
"I'm sure." Though Mrs Thornton's mouth was pressed in a tight line, she as not as dismissive as she might have been. "If the mill does fail, we will need to vacate this house, though Crampton wasn't what I had in mind. I imagined we would return to Gloswick, where we lived after John left school." At Margaret's quizzical frown, she explained further. "It's a market town, only an omnibus ride away from Milton. The living is cheaper there, though wages are lower, and the air is cleaner. There John would not have to see the other masters so much, or give them occasion to gloat over him, and I might live out my dotage with better air."
"I see." Margaret understood, but now she found herself alarmed at the prospect of leaving Milton. Not for leaving her father behind; no, the principle of combining their incomes and living with him would be sound anywhere, if he could be persuaded. Gloswick might be a rural idyll, or what passed for one in this part of the country, but Margaret did not relish a return to such a slow pace of life and reduced society. She might not have to face social ills so often, but then she would not be able to help so much either. "I suppose it will be up to John to decide, and where he is best suited to work."
Mrs Thornton made a non-committal noise of agreement, and Margaret realised they would both separately be trying to persuade John around to their points of view.
Her next task was to carry out her promise to speak with Mr Bell, yet at present her godfather was in Oxford. This was not the kind of thing she wished to commit to ink, not least because it was much harder to practice guile in that form. In person, Margaret could look for the right opening in a conversation, and retreat at the appropriate moment should things not be progressing as she hoped. In writing, she would need to be plain, and it was all too close to seeking charity for her taste. There were people in the world—in Milton itself—who required charity more than she did.
Luckily, Mr Bell had extended an invitation for her father to visit him in Oxford, to retreat from the worst extremes of a Milton winter if only for a week or two. Her father had accepted on the basis that he had rather less company than he was used to, now Margaret had flown the nest. Mr Bell would then accompany her father on the return journey to attend a dinner held by the Hendersons, other tenants of his. His presence in town would provide the ideal opportunity for Margaret to raise the issue of rent.
The snow arrived once more to Milton on the day of her father's return. Margaret had plans to visit Crampton before dinner that evening, to welcome her father home, and was already in her thickest coat and sturdiest bonnet when Mr Bell's carriage turned into the mill-yard. She dashed outside to greet him, thrilled he'd brought her father directly to her so she did not have to make the journey on foot.
Yet as soon as she crossed the yard she could see Mr Bell was alone in the carriage. This was not so alarming; perhaps he had come to see her after dropping her father off. What sent a stab of dismay through her was the expression on his face: grey and drawn, a mask of grief which made her chest tight and her throat close up before he could even alight or speak a word. She knew why he was alone—would have begged him not to say it aloud if she could find the will to utter a word—and could not bear to hear it.
"Margaret," he said, "your father is dead."
