The Sum of All Wisdom
"The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope."
Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo
Chap 13 – Black and White
The morning following their street altercation, Mr. Thornton felt more determination than ever to make his mill succeed. All of the want in the world may not be enough to sway Margaret's mind or her heart—he could, however, do his damndest to provide for her, should she ever want him.
That evening, he was drawn to Crampton with a stronger sense of purpose than he had ever felt in the past—unlike that evening before he had proposed so many months ago, nothing could dissuade him from this visit. The nervousness that he felt while standing before that all-to-familiar door was wholly consuming.
Once the cold had utterly penetrated his core, Mr. Thornton decided to knock. With the first yielding no response, he tried a second—louder—attempt, which was answered by a harried Dixon.
"Why Mr. Thornton, we did not expect to see you this evening. I daresay that the Master will be pleased. Sore for company, he is." She turned from the door and began to walk back to the kitchen. "You may see yourself on up, if you don't mind."
Mr. Thornton did not mind. When he entered Mr. Hale's bookroom, he released the breath that he had been unconsciously holding at the site of its lone, resting occupant. Not having the heart to wake him, Mr. Thornton stoked the dying fire and took the time to allow the warmth to seep through his body.
Though there is no cure-all to grief and sorrow, a friendly face certainly has its merits in such situations—or such was the case when Mr. Hale awoke to find one of his dearest friends standing before his fire, in his bookroom.
"John, please excuse my rudeness, I did not know that you were here." Mr. Hale stood and offered his hand, which Mr. Thornton, gladly accepted before taking his usual seat.
"Do not apologize, it is I who am visiting unscheduled and uninvited." Though his primary purpose for visiting was to assess the damage that the previous evening had caused, Mr. Thornton became acutely aware as too how sincerely he missed his friend.
"I do not know that I am in a state to hold one of our sessions, I am afraid," Mr. Hale apologized. Mr. Thornton waived off his apology and they fell into easy conversation, speaking for some time on matters of ill consequence. Mr. Hale told his guest of his proposed trip to his Alma Mater in some weeks or months, to visit Mr. Bell, who had only left the day before.
"Before I forget, I am actually here on an errand." Mr. Thornton handed Mr. Hale an envelope that he had pulled from his breast pocket.
"Now what have you brought to me, today?" Mr. Hale rhetorically asked as he began opening the envelope addressed to himself and his daughter. "Your sister, Miss Francis, is to marry Mr. Watson—what a fine match," Mr., Hale added, receiving a nod from Mr. Thornton. "Next week, my, that is soon!" Mr. Hale should not have been surprised, special licenses had been nearly unheard of in his humble parish, however, he had heard that they were somewhat commonplace among the wealthy.
"Fanny cannot wait to move away from the mill, I suppose," Mr. Thornton offered.
"Will she not be moving from one mill to another?" Mr. Hale queried.
With a little laugh, Mr. Thornton answered, "I believe that her acceptance may have been contingent upon her removal from mill-living. Not all masters live on their business' premises as I do." Mr. Thornton grimaced, "Though, I could not imagine living any other way."
"There are things that a man could—or should—do for a wife that he could not previously imagine," Mr. Hale mused.
"I suppose that you are right," Mr. Thornton settled thoughtfully.
"The same could be said for a woman, could it not," both men turned to the doorway to see Margaret holding a cloth on her arm. She offered her father and their guest a genial smile before continuing, "I would like to think that an honorable woman would respect her husband's position well enough to consider seeing the benefits of living near his place of business." Margaret caught herself and added, "I do not mean to say anything of your sister."
"Miss Hale," Mr. Thornton stood, offering his seat and moving another chair near to allow them all to converse. "What benefits would those be?" He asked with genuine curiosity, though his question was derailed by the state of Margaret's arm. "What happened here?"
Instinctively, Margaret pulled her arm to her chest and covered the spot with her cloth. "It is nothing, just a little burn."
"Let me see," Mr. Thornton insisted, as he lowered himself to one knee on the rug before her. Seeing little other option, Margaret released control of her arm to Mr. Thornton. "This is bad, Margaret!" He said far too forcefully—too familiarly—for Margaret's liking, all the while closely inspecting the burn.
Mr. Hale looked between the two and excused himself to find the salve or a bandage, or quite possibly anything that would take him from the room until the confrontation between his daughter and guest had dissipated.
"How did this happen?" She did not speak at first, causing Mr. Thornton to repeat his question with greater insistence, "How did this happen, Miss Hale?"
"The hot water kettle," Margaret said, looking away from him. Her eyes stung, she despised his knowing that their circumstances had suffered such a decline. "Dixon took over and sent me to you." Margaret said in an attempt to wave him off.
"The large one?" Margaret nodded, "You have no business lifting that kettle."
"And what do you propose, sir, shall I call you every time we have a guest for tea?" Margaret's perfect posture and defiant tone challenged.
"When I am that guest, surely!" He caressed the area surrounding the reddened skin.
The jingling of china brought Mr. Thornton to his senses and his feet, realizing that his position before Miss Hale could be misconstrued. Dixon was not long with settling the tea tray before making her excuses.
"You should take care with your manner of address in front of my father." Margaret whispered as she poured the tea.
"I-" Mr. Thornton began, but halted as Mr. Hale returned with a bandage.
The night continued on as those in the early days of their acquaintance had, Margaret immersing herself in embroidery whilst leaving the men to talk without her. The discordance of the previous evening coupled with the oddness of his reaction to her burn left Margaret feeling not quite up to conversing.
At an appropriate hour, Mr. Thornton suggested that he leave and Mr. Hale recommended her daughter see him to the door.
"Might I suggest that you leave it uncovered through the night? We have our share of burns in the mill and I have found that they do best if left in the clean air." Mr. Thornton recommended.
"Thank you, Mr. Thornton, I will do so. I appreciate your coming, I know that father has missed you." Margaret imparted. There was a lull before the conversation was picked up once more.
"I am trying, as you suggested." Mr. Thornton's voice was tender, if not clearly stilted.
"Trying?" Margaret asked.
"To stop making this so difficult." The allusion to the previous evening's conversation drew heat to Margaret's cheeks.
"I see." She smiled, allowing her eyes to flicker to his. "It may work better next time if you refrain from chastising me." He began to argue, but thought better of it.
"I will take that under advisement, Miss Hale." Before placing his hat on his head, he turned to her once more, "I hope to see you at Fanny's wedding—you and your father." Margaret nodded by way of an answer and bid him farewell.
The morning of the wedding, Margaret could not help but to feel anxious. Dixon had manipulated her thick hair into a style that she considered to be 'almost-elegant' and as Margaret watched in the vanity mirror, she took note of the drastic contrast between her pale-white skin and the stark black fabric of her gown. Dixon suggested adding flowers to her hair to add some color to her complexion, but Margaret adamantly refused. She was in mourning in reality as much as by convention and would not dishonor her mother by conveniently forgetting her for a little enjoyment at a wedding.
When a knock came to the door, Margaret answered and was pleasantly surprised to discover that Mr. Thornton had sent a carriage to transport them to the church. Margaret eagerly went above stairs to assist her father.
"Mr. Thornton sent a carriage so that you would not have to walk so far this morning, Papa." Margaret reached her father and tied his cravat, making the perfect knot—not too tight, not too loose and the height of London fashion, two years past.
"I do not know that he sent it solely for me," her father intimated.
"We were likely both in his thoughts," Margaret smiled sweetly. "We should be on our way, Father."
The wedding was lovely—Fresh cut flowers, rich silks and hundreds of candles. The bridesmaids entered the church and as the music began which signaled the bride's arrival, Margaret's stomach began to churn. She and her father stood and within moments, Fanny Thornton entered the church on her brother's arm. Mr. Thornton appeared to be surveying the congregation, smiling once his eyes met hers. He stayed in that occupation—escorting his sister, eyes locked upon Margaret—until they passed her pew and he was forced to look ahead. Once he had given her away and taken his place alongside the groom, his eyes found Margaret once more. She could not bring herself to look away.
As the bride and groom offered promises of love and obedience, Mr. Hale leaned to his daughter and whispered, "He does seem to love you, Margaret."
Smiling piteously, Margaret patted her father's leg and simply replied, "One cannot love where one cannot trust, Papa."
Though he could not understand the full intention behind his daughter's reply, Mr. Hale was never one to overtly pry into matters which made him uncomfortable. Once the wedding had concluded, those in attendance were invited to a wedding breakfast at the Thornton home. Just as Margaret and her father were discussing returning to their home, Mr. Thornton approached them with a personal invitation, to which Mr. Hale accepted, with the condition that he leave shortly after the meal.
The dining room at the Thornton's was truly astounding. The crystal, silver and flowers were nearly as overwhelming as the amount of food. As Margaret watched those mingle around her, she found herself acutely aware of Mr. Thornton's presence. No sooner had her father left her side than a man had taken it; she discovered that—though she had no recollection of the event—they had, in fact, met once before. In no more than five minutes, Margaret learned much. This previous acquaintance was named William Clarkson. Mr. Clarkson owned a mill. The mill was successful. He was also quite unmarried and inarguably as dull as powder. She offered her sweet smiles, made meaningless conversation and could not help but to be disappointed when the dinner bell rang and found herself upon his arm.
Fanny declared that her seating would be just like that of a London dining room—a man must sit beside a woman, no one married may sit beside their spouse, etc. Once every one stood before their seats, Fanny saw fit to rearrange several people to her liking. It was all rather convoluted and perfectly Fanny. Margaret reflected with some mirth that she had never experienced such a seating arrangement in all of her years in London. Mr. Thornton was placed at the head of the table, three seats down from Margaret. Mr. Clarkson attempted to entertain her through the first course until Miss Latimer—who sat just to Mr. Thornton's left—began to effuse over the fineness of the wedding and reception.
The wedding had apparently been everything that Ann Latimer had dreamed of since childhood, down to the recipe for the white soup. Margaret found the entire complement odd, as she had never heard much from the banker's daughter and this garnering of attention simply seemed out of character. The conversation turned to Mr. Thornton's brotherly attributes, how wonderful he was to Fanny in every possible manner, had she a brother, she only hoped that he would care for her in such a way. Just when those on the east end of the dining table thought that the pretty speech had ended, Miss Latimer made a rather egregious error—according to Margaret, at least. In complimenting the meal and state of the home, Miss Latimer added that she felt that Mr. Thornton's home could use a bit of a feminine hand. Margaret felt truly embarrassed for her, for surely she must realize that Mr. Thornton was not the decorator—to insult Mrs. Thornton was to insult her son and vice versa.
As the third course arrived, Margaret found herself the subject of Miss Latimer's inquiries. "Certainly coming from London, you must have been invited to several similar affairs."
Though she had little trouble speaking in any situation, Margaret had not intended on doing so with such an audience. "This is a fine affair indeed, Miss Thornton—Mrs. Watson, rather—has certainly had a wedding to remember." Margaret's eyes caught Mr. Thornton's for only a second before she returned her attention back across the table to Miss Latimer. "My cousin Edith's wedding is the only that I have attended that could be thought to be nearly so fine."
Several of the ladies interrogated Margaret for some minutes on the current fashions and traditions of a London wedding. She answered until she found a polite out of the conversation and feigned an interest in her neighbor once more.
All the while Margaret was speaking of weddings, Mr. Thornton thought to ask her a question—merely to have her address him personally—though she had turned her attention before he could find his in. The interest that Clarkson was paying her had not slipped his notice; he did not like it.
While Mr. Clarkson waxed on about profit margins and cotton sources, Margaret could not help but to split her attention and pay heed to Mr. Thornton's interactions with Ann Latimer. She did not know what intrigued her so about their conversation—the distance between them precluded her from actually hearing what they were discussing, though she found herself consciously observing them. Rather surprisingly, something that Mr. Clarkson said caught her ear, causing Margaret to turn her full attention in his direction. She asked him to please repeat himself.
"I was just telling you about Thornton's ridiculous new venture," Mr. Clarkson leaned in a little too close, by way of offering mock-secrecy.
"What venture is that?" Margaret asked, inclining her head. This was perhaps—no, indeed!—the most entertaining thing that Mr. Clarkson had said all evening.
"A dining room, if you believe it!" Mr. Clarkson laughed. "I cannot imagine even Thornton having the ability to turn a profit on such an endeavor." Mr. Clarkson near-immediately regretted his line of conversation when his pretty little companion turned her attention away from him.
"Mr. Thornton, Mr. Clarkson has mentioned a dining room, will you tell me about it?" She had no interest in hearing of it from anyone else.
"It was actually an idea that I got from your Higgins," Mr. Thornton replied, offering as much personability as a grand dining table and the separation of two seats could offer. "I—we—theorize that, if my workers are fed, they will be healthier, more able to push themselves, perhaps more appreciative of their work."
"You will be feeding them?" Margaret asked, marveling at this man before her. How long ago had it been since they stood together at the exhibition and argued profits versus humanity?
"They will be paying their own way, though I will make no profit from the food that they eat. I have the ability to order food in greater quantity and a higher quality than they can themselves. It will be the individual's choice on whether they participate, however, the response has been positive." Mr. Thornton had attempted to keep his voice low, though he was few words in before he commanded the attention of the table as a whole.
"Where will you feed them?" Any suggestion that Margaret could imagine seemed ridiculous.
"I am building a dining room on the North side of the property, you can see the building from the library—I will show you later, if you would wish-"
"Oh, John, let us not speak of such things, I shall only have one wedding and would prefer it to be untarnished by discussion of cotton and profit margins!" Fanny announced.
Margaret still had dozens of questions but felt that she needed to respect the wishes of the bride and continued to have pleasant conversations with those around her until the dinner had concluded. Mr. Clarkson requested the first dance with Margaret, to which she plastered on her most convincing look of disappointment while explaining that she was in mourning and would not be involved in any dancing that day. Despite some attention from several of the men in attendance, Margaret felt anything but desirable—clad in black and clutching her heavy heart.
After finding her father, Margaret discovered that he had truly over extended his good humor causing her to seek Mr. Thornton. The task was not overly difficult, as he had seemed to stay just out of arms reach since the reception had begun.
"Mr. Thornton, I do not wish to abuse your generosity, but, could I trouble you to call for a carriage for my father? He is tired and needs to be home."
"It would be no trouble at all," Mr. Thornton said, excusing himself for only a moment to consult with a bellman. "You are not planning on leaving as well, are you?" He asked upon his return.
"I think that I should. I cannot enjoy many of the festivities," Margaret said gesturing to her black gown, "and when father leaves, I will know few people aside from yourself." Margaret felt uncomfortable under such supplication, she had not considered staying behind, though, if she were honest, she was not fully averse to the idea.
"But you do know me." His tone was plaintive and playful all at once, and Margaret knew that she could not deny him.
Margaret waved her father off and returned to the house only to find the dancing had begun. She had to admit that Fanny seemed blissfully happy with her new husband and felt genuinely glad for them. The ladies were fashionable and young, full of life; Margaret felt keenly the contrast. After watching several dances—of which she took no part—Margaret removed herself from the ballroom.
It had been half of an hour since Mr. Thornton had seen Margaret. After his promised dances with both his sister and Ann Latimer, Mr. Thornton made his excuses and began to pursue his own interests. After a fairly thorough search of the public rooms, Mr. Thornton suspected that she may have left without saying anything to him and felt it harshly. Only then realizing that when he asked her to stay, he never actually received a response, as he had been called away before seeing the carriage off. Going down a different hallway than he had come to return to the party, Mr. Thornton noticed that the door to the library was slightly ajar.
Pushing the door open enough to allow him clear site into the room, Mr. Thornton smiled at the vision presented before him—Margaret absently, elegantly perusing the books. As he watched, he was amazed at the grace that she exuded, even when she thought herself alone. Gentleness in manner was extended even to his books. She moved about with a natural refinement, and she seemed almost reverent toward his collection, caressing the bindings with her fingertips as though she could discern what was within them by a mere touch—an act of which he took great pleasure in observing.
As he continued to watch her in silence, his mind took a not-all-too-unfamiliar turn as he wondered what those fingers would feel like against his skin—if she could decipher his thoughts and passions so easily. After some moments in that vein, his overt study of her person began to feel intrusive and he knew that he needed to make his presence known. He watched as Margaret took a book from the shelf and began to run her fingers leisurely over the pages. With a clearing of his throat, he entered the room, closing the door behind him.
"Oh, Mr. Thornton," Margaret uttered, fully embarrassed to have been caught so separated from the party and assuming such a familiarity as to riffle through his personal rooms. "I should not be in here, I am sorry." She clung the book to her chest.
"Do not apologize, you are more than welcome in here." He approached her. "What were you doing?" he asked. Both feeling the intimacy of being alone in this room while the rest of the house was alive with gaiety.
"I only needed to escape for a moment." Margaret blushed and turned back to the books. "You have quite the collection." Deciding to take her words as an invitation—or perhaps through the complete inability to do otherwise—Mr. Thornton closed the distance between them. He wished to see what she was seeing, feel what she was feeling.
This moment, beautiful and alarming though it was, seemed the perfect time to finish their previous conversation. The problem with that plan was that Margaret could not remember what their earlier conversation had been—she could think of little aside from the feel of his breath on her neck.
"Have you found anything that you like?" Mr. Thornton asked absently.
"You have so much to please." Margaret turned her head, allowing their eyes to meet.
"Do I?" His eyes travelled her face.
Margaret blushed, turning back to the shelves, swallowing hard before finding her voice. "There are so many to choose from; I could happily spend many an afternoon here." Margaret attempted to appear as though she were searching titles.
"You are always welcome here, Miss Hale."
"If you never have time to read, this room must be a divine torture, Mr. Thornton," Margaret spoke to the red bound book in her arms. Though she knew him to mean his words, she knew just as certainly that she would never return just to look at his books—his mother did not like her, it would be impossible.
Becoming uncomfortable by their position, Margaret retraced her steps and returned the book that she had in hand. A novel—a rather familiar novel—caught her eye, she pulled it from the shelf and turned to face its owner.
"Did you read The Scarlet Letter, Mr. Thornton?" Margaret's excitement was palpable.
"I did." How long ago that seemed to him.
"Why did you not tell me? We could have discussed it!" As the moments after her question elapsed, they took Margaret's excitement with them.
What could he tell her? That he had read the book after they had stopped speaking? That the subject matter of the book was all too awkward—all too painful—to discuss? How had he come to find himself here, trapped between loving her and being unable to forgive her for not loving him in return? He cleared his throat and Margaret graciously changed the subject.
"I have not seen The Count of Monte Cristo, is it here?" Her new line of questioning was perhaps no less intrusive.
"I do not keep it in here," was his only reply.
"I am only happy to know that you still have it." The hesitation in her speech made her far too conscious of her own weakness in regards to Mr. Thornton.
"Of course I still have it," he replied before lightening his countenance. "Did you ever finish the book?"
"I did," Margaret said. "I found it rather enjoyable, though I must admit that I was somewhat disappointed in the end. I felt as though some were left to suffer far more than others, my favorite in particular."
"I suppose that you are right." He had dreamt of discussing it for weeks and could not believe how natural this reunion felt. "Though I thought that that particular ending was," he paused to think of an appropriate word, "realistic."
"Realistic?" Margaret laughed. "If that was your version of realism, I-" frustration overtook her for a moment. Taking a deep breath, she began again, "I would hate to think that the abuses that Mercedes suffered were real or fair. It seemed to me that there were some who committed rather grievous sins but were punished far less than those who sinned only out of having no other option."
"But life is not often fair, is it Miss Hale?" Mr. Thornton rejoined.
"No, but do we not read novels to escape realities of our world?" Margaret felt blood rush to her cheeks, she did not know why she felt so strongly a need to defend her poor Mercedes to Mr. Thornton, though she was compelled nonetheless.
"I believe that I know you better than to be one who only reads for a happy ending." His brows raised with his statement. Margaret released a ragged breath and nodded.
"That is why I am proud to have an overactive imagination, I suppose. I could think of a dozen different ways to end such a story and suppose that I will have to be satisfied with that, as Mr. Dumas took no pity upon my poor heart." She tried to laugh, but it fell flat.
"Can you, now?" Mr. Thornton asked. "Do you not think that an author would sell himself short by simply delivering us with a flower-filled love story?"
"You could hardly call being imprisoned for half of your life and then finally finding the one you truly love, flower filled!" Margaret laughed in earnest, this time. "I will partially agree you on some level, but do you not think that they had both had enough pain and loss and sadness to last a lifetime? That they could have been the key to the other's healing?
"Dantes was blinded by revenge, so much so that when he returned he could not allow himself to simply be happy—happy in the way that I wished for him to, I should admit. Poor Mercedes lived all of the happiness in her life in the span of only a few days – days, I should add that were in anticipation of something more. She was good and kind and thought much more of others than she did for herself." Margaret took Mr. Thornton's hand and continued in a strained voice, "Notwithstanding her transgression—if transgression, it was—she was brave, despite herself. She still loved him, but it would never be as it once was." She stopped, looking down at their hands, "For he could not trust her."
Mr. Thornton had to clear his throat. "Was it a matter of trust?" He asked, attempting to focus his thoughts after Margaret's heated defense. "She betrayed him," he finished with conviction.
"She was lonely. She thought him dead. She needed to marry in order to survive!" Margaret smiled, Oh, how she had missed this! "She asked Fernand to wait, if Dantes would have only trusted his heart," Margaret looked down, "and hers-"
"But they were broken—both of them," Mr. Thornton said plainly.
"Would it not be better if—if," Margaret's voice subsided. Mr. Thornton noticed her arm that she had burned only last week. He rubbed his thumb over the fresh pink skin.
"If?" He prodded.
She placed her free hand over his wandering thumb to still her thoughts and breathed deeply. "If they could have been broken together?"
Mr. Thornton began, but was cut off by Margaret's abrupt removal of her hands from his just as the door to the library opened to reveal Fanny.
"John, I have been looking for you everywhere. Only you would think of stowing away someplace as tedious as the library during a party!" Fanny's eyes cut to Margaret, though she made no true acknowledgement of her presence. "You promised Ann a waltz and she is waiting to collect upon it."
"I have already danced with Miss Latimer, Fanny-"
"Well, do it again," Fanny paused, "please." Rubbing the beaded lace at the edge of her pristine white veil, Fanny continued in a softer tone. "I promised her that you would dance with her once more and would appreciate it if you would—for me." The question in her voice was sincere.
"I will be out there in a minute, Fanny." Her brother conceded.
When she got to the door, Fanny resumed her loud, happy tone and imparted, "After all, John, you know what they say, one wedding always leads to another!" John nodded and his sister disappeared as abruptly as she had come. He of course had never heard her little proverb, but would not challenge her on their last day together.
"You should go," Margaret said, breaking the silence.
"Will you allow me to walk you home?" Margaret laughed at his change of subject.
"I will not leave without saying goodbye, now go before you upset your sister on her day." Margaret could not help but smile at the dynamic between Mr. Thornton and his sister. Though their regard would not be considered tender, there was something that she truly admired between them.
Stopping just shy of the door, Mr. Thornton turned back to Margaret. "Miss Hale, I understand Mercedes better now than I had thought." He swallowed before continuing, "Our few days were the happiest of my life." He did not wait for a response. "If you will excuse me."
Margaret thought about following him and watching his dance with Miss Latimer, but decided against it—she did not enjoy the little bit that she had seen of the first and imagined that the second would bear much of the same. From the window, Margaret looked down upon the new construction that Mr. Thornton had alluded to during the meal. The thought of Mr. Thornton justifying the feeding of his hungry workers as beneficial to the profits of his mill made Margaret smile. She felt as though she truly knew his heart and the goodness that he tried so desperately to conceal.
As the time slipped by and guests began to leave, Margaret left the library to bid her farewells. Her felicitations were well received by the bride and groom leaving Mrs. Thornton—a prospect with which Margaret always found herself uneasy.
"Mrs. Thornton," Margaret bowed her head. "This has been a lovely wedding. I appreciate your having my father and myself." Mrs. Thornton answered in kind and was joined by her son who pleaded the Miss Hale allow him to accompany her home.
"I will be fine on my own, but thank you, Mr. Thornton. You have a responsibility here to your mother and sister and I will not be answerable to pulling you from it." Mrs. Thornton was almost certain that she detected a blush upon the young lady's cheeks.
Mrs. Thornton did not know if it was seeing Miss Hale interact with her son, or simply the reminiscence that a wedding brings, but she found herself urging John to go. She knew little of what would come from it, or even if she could imagine her feelings fairing much more than tolerance for the uppity girl—but the way in which her son looked at Margaret Hale was all the proof of love that she needed. That look was hers before it was his, for he had come by it honestly. Many years ago, such a look was for none but a flaxen haired man whose blue eyes she felt the sun to rise and set within. She remembered living for every look that George Thornton spared and could see the same devotion in her son. They of course had known one another from childhood and she had only been one of many girls crazy for him. The day that he had turned his attentions to her—serious Hannah Mays—she could barely believe it.
The walk home was light and easy—far from so many that they had shared. The conversation drifted simply from one topic to the next until they found their way to Edith's wedding.
"This is the cousin from the exhibition?" Mr. Thornton asked.
"The very one!" Margaret smiled. "We are very much like sisters, as different in personality as night and day, but exceedingly close."
"Her wedding was similar in grandeur, I suppose. I was very involved in the planning, so I know how hard your mother has worked these past weeks." Mr. Thornton nodded his head appreciatively. "Henry, Edith's brother in-law—you met him at the exhibition-"
"I remember." Mr. Thornton replied shortly
"Well I remember this discussion that I had with him about Edith's wedding. I had been so busy with all of the notes of invitation and elaborate clothing and bridesmaids and wedding breakfasts!" They both laughed at Margaret's obvious excited frustration. "It causes such a whirlwind of chaos before the event and I wondered if it is all necessary? Do you think it possible to have peace before the ceremony, to have something quaint and calm?"
"And what was Henry's take on the subject?" Mr. Thornton questioned.
"I would like to know yours first." Margaret smiled.
"Very well," Mr. Thornton began in his own decisive way, "I believe that each of those things—all of which were present at my sister's and, I am sure, your cousin's weddings—should only be necessary if the couple to be wed wishes for them." He thought that he spied the slightest of smiles grace Margaret's features. "From a young age, I vowed to make Fanny's life one where she wanted for nothing, where she was not touched by the hardness of this world. I am aware that this may have caused her to be a bit spoiled, but it was better than having to remember the hard times. She deserved to be care free." He turned toward Margaret and slowed his pace. "So, Fanny wanted everything for her wedding, and I gave it."
Margaret stopped walking, she thought to ask about the fairness of his being touched by the hardness of this world, but thought better of it. "You are a good brother, Mr. Thornton. You have given up much for her happiness."
"I am certain that if you had a brother, that he would do the same for you." His light words had an unexpected impact.
"Of course." Margaret's tone was a forced calm. She continued walking. The remainder of the journey was hasty and impersonal. They were almost to the porch, he was not ready for this moment to end.
"Thank you for allowing me to accompany you home, and for your attendance at the breakfast."
"Thank you for asking me to stay." Margaret turned toward the door before she felt a staying hand upon her arm.
"You never told me Mr. Lenox's reply," he hesitated before continuing, "on wedding necessities."
Margaret was caught off guard for a moment before answering, "Mr. Lenox was not quite as reasonable as you on the subject."
"So, you find me reasonable, now?" Mr. Thornton returned affably.
"Reasonable may be too strong a word—practical!" Margaret amended in a playful tone.
Mr. Thornton laughed, "After hosting an event such as I have today, I doubt that those in attendance would agree with the extent of my practicality."
"You are probably right," Margaret's continued, "Perhaps I, too, shall now form my opinions on you based upon those in the upper crust of Milton society-"
"It may be improvement," Mr. Thornton could not help but add.
"I do not think so." Margaret's eyes were steady upon her own interlaced fingers. "Your friends in the dining room today would not—could not—know those things about you of which I have become quite partial, and if they did, I fear that our opinions on such matters may vary greatly." He looked as though her was about to speak, but Margaret stopped him, embarrassed by her own revelation. "Good night, Mr. Thornton. Thank you, again for a delightful day."
"You as well. Good Night, Margaret." He removed his hat and bowed, the formality of his gesture not quite matching his words. "Tell your father that I will be by later this week if he is ready to resume our lessons."
"We will look forward to it," Margaret replied. Time stood still as neither seemed to want—or even know how—to make the moment end or last longer. Biting her lower lip, Margaret finally moved to the door and turned the knob. She waved one final farewell and they both parted in anticipation of the week to come.