-THE SHORE-
John lay on his back, one hand resting behind his head, staring at the shadowy ceiling. He had slept only for a few hours. He couldn't seem to settle.
He rolled to his elbow, careful not to disturb the mattress with his movement. Margaret had been awake for a long time last night before she'd finally drifted off to sleep. She slept soundly now, he could hear the faint whisper of her breathing.
He rose from the bed and walked to the window. Quietly so as not to wake her, he pulled aside the curtains. Pale light entered the room. It was not yet dawn but already the shop boys were bustling about the street. He watched for a long time as the boys opened the shuttered store windows and set up the awnings before running out again and returning with firewood and other supplies for the day. Soon the fires and lamps would be lit to drive out the night time chill and early morning darkness. It was a routine he was all too familiar with.
Watching it all, he couldn't help but wonder how his life would have been if his father had been alive. He imagined he would have been living a perfectly ordinary life. He had been a perfectly ordinary boy, good at his studies and games and with enough mischief in him to get into occasional trouble; he was respectful towards his father, gallant towards his mother and full of uncomplicated wonder and love for the pink-faced, squalling infant sister he was allowed to hold for ten minutes every morning. He would have finished his school and gone to Cambridge and returned, his head full of big ideas, to manage his father's business.
He leaned against the window frame, looking out. Would he have run into Margaret in that perfectly ordinary life, he wondered. Would she have come to Milton? Or would he have married a woman from a suitable Milton family long before that? It seemed possible.
He glanced back into the room, towards the bed. Only her shiny head of hair and the curve of her shoulder were visible as she lay on to her side, facing away from him.
He had been surprised that she'd agreed to share the bed. He suspected practicality and courtesy had led to the offer—she wouldn't have thought it fair to consign him to the sitting room. It was after all his room and his bed, even if temporarily; he had been sleeping in it for the past two nights.
But he was also very aware that this was a big step for her, even if all they had done was sleep in the same bed. There had been this sense that some barrier that she held between them had dissolved. That she was not going to hold herself so far away from him. He did not know what had brought about this change, but he was glad for it.
It was so far removed from what he had felt when he had set out for London. He had told her the truth last night: he had every intention of dragging her back to Milton. He had been driven by worry and fear and unbelievable fury that she would dare to do such a foolish and utterly unnecessary thing. She had sounded so infuriatingly calm and practical in her letter, almost blasé, as if running away from her home and her husband was no great matter. It had enraged him beyond all measure.
But hours later, alone in the train compartment, when he imagined confronting her in London, mere hours after her own arrival, he saw how it would cause needless speculation about the state of their marriage. Her family would guess at the truth. He would rather resolve their quarrel in private and with dignity.
Warranted or not, she had felt the need to put some distance between them and perhaps that was a good thing. He had checked into his usual hotel and then realised that he hadn't brought along his notes and papers, his appointment book, his production schedule—things he never travelled without. He had waited to feel annoyed with himself. But he had merely felt disencumbered and free to do what he would have done even if he had been surrounded by all his papers: brood about Margaret.
She was not without grounds for her unhappiness. He had been so assured in his understanding of her. He had never fully realised the extent of her wounded pride at being forced into the marriage. He knew that he hadn't especially wooed her into accepting him. He had found it somewhat foolish and uxorious, this notion of courting his own wife. As a result, they had skipped all the stages of courtship and marriage and gone straight to being a firmly married couple, arguing destructively and with an endless supply of unspoken complains between them to feed their resentment.
He thought about their last quarrel. He had no desire to curb her freedom but he didn't want to think about her visiting Princeton. It was no place for her. The extremes of poverty and filth, the narrow, dark streets, and all manner of unsavoury characters. He wished he knew what to do about it.
He worried about her lack of trust in him. He worried about problems he could only guess at, fears she would never admit to him. And he worried about matters they had yet to resolve.
They were back where they had started. On their wedding night, he had agreed to give her time, and he had, but it had been empty time. They hadn't accomplished anything meaningful in those weeks. They were still strangers to each other in all the essential ways. He knew his behaviour had given her the impression that he was only interested in having a dutiful wife, that he didn't care about her as a person. He wondered how that had happened when nothing could have been further from the truth.
As he stood at the window, thinking, he noticed the first light of dawn streaking the sky above the buildings. He drew the curtain slightly to keep the light from disturbing her sleep. Things could have been much worse between them, he realised. He shook his head. What a deuced thing to take comfort in but after last night, he believed he was not wrong in hoping that they might finally find a path together.
Margaret woke to the fresh and crisp aroma of tea. She blinked sleepily and watched the gleaming dots in front of her arranged themselves into a tea tray.
"Good morning."
She opened her eyes wide, momentarily disoriented before she realised where she was and why. John was at the tea table. He was already dressed. Raising herself on her arm, she sat up awkwardly in the bed.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Seven-thirty."
She could have sworn she hadn't slept a wink last night.
John crossed to the window and pulled away the curtains. Warm sunlight poured into the room, across the carpeted floor, across her lap and landed on the opposite wall.
"I ordered tea," he explained, returning to the table.
She watched him cautiously, wondering whether to pull on her robe and trying not to feel self-conscious about finding herself waking up to this strangely intimate situation. In Milton, they had an entire house, separate bedrooms and servants to keep them from any situational intimacy. Drawing up her knees slightly, she pushed up against the pillows.
He brought her tea.
"Thank you."
Their hands met and their gazes collided. His fingers, warm and long, slid under hers as he handed her the cup.
He grabbed the back of a side chair and moved it closer to the bed and sat down. They sat without speaking for a few moments, drinking their tea. His jaw looked freshly shaven. She was surprised she had slept through all that.
And then out of nowhere, she suddenly remembered. "Won't we be late for the train?"
He set aside his cup. "I was thinking we could stay in London for a day or two. We have travelled all this way after all."
"Oh." She looked at her tea. She had thought that he would be keen to get back to Milton. "What about the mill?" she asked.
"It can wait," he said. "William and the managers would be able to handle things for a few days."
He paused a moment before continuing, "I'm sorry I haven't spent as much time with you as I should have. It was not deliberate. The mill needed my attention after the strike. But things are beginning to return to normal. I had hoped to bring you to London. We had talked about it."
She nodded.
"I had said that day that I want us to begin again. I meant it. We don't know each other very well. It was proven by our inability to understand and deal with each other." He spoke slowly as he stared into the space at mid-distance. "Somehow, the . . ." he paused, searching for an appropriate word, ". . . the physical act of marriage has become a barrier between us. It is repellent to me that it has become this way or that you might feel under obligation in any way."
She stared at her tea as she listened, reddening by the moment and yet, she recognised that this conversation was necessary.
He looked at her. "I apologise for the part I played in it. It was never my intention to make you feel that way." He paused. "I would like us to forget what happened and start afresh. I would like us to know each other better."
She had thought about it during her stay at Harley Street. That she would like to put all this unpleasantness behind and try to attempt things again. She wanted to better know the man she had married though she had been hesitant to make any demands. It had felt presumptuous at the time. But she had tried to know him. She had tried to use the daytime to establish some kind of connection with him, connection that would make him less daunting at night. But when she had refused him that evening, it had severed their daytime connection.
She looked up and saw that he was awaiting her answer.
"I would like that as well," she said quietly.
They looked at each other, recognising this moment of agreement and understanding between them.
"So would you like to stay in London for the day?" he asked after a moment. "Tell me if you would rather not," he offered. "We can still make the train."
"No, let's stay."
He smiled slowly, his gaze warm. "What would you like to do?" he asked. "We have the day to ourselves. Is there someplace you would like to visit?"
"The Crystal Palace," she readily replied.
"You didn't visit it?"
She shook her head. Edith had been keen to take her and hadn't understood at all when Margaret had refused. "Did you?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No."
He drained his cup and rose. "I will go to the reception and arrange for a carriage. Shall I ask for breakfast to be sent up?" he asked.
She nodded and he stepped from the room.
Half an hour later, she entered the sitting room. Breakfast had been set out on a small table.
"I made some enquiries about your brother," he said when she sat down.
She lifted her head to look at him.
"I have a contact in the Navy here," he explained. "I met him and requested him to make some inquiries about the case. I received this note just now."
She looked at the envelope, feeling gratitude but also some of the guilt from last evening. While she had retreated, not only had he come for her, he had also been quietly looking into her problems.
"You need not have done it," she said. "You need not have troubled yourself on Fred's behalf."
He looked up. "But it is all right for Lennox to?"
"Henry is a barrister."
"And I am your husband. I have every need to exert myself on your behalf."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again without speaking. She picked up her teacup.
After a moment, she asked, "What did your contact say?"
"I'm afraid it doesn't look very promising. An acquittal is possible only if your brother can prove with credible witnesses that the Captain was acting against the interest of the Navy."
"Beating children is not against the interest of the Navy?"
He shook his head. "From what I gathered, floggings and drunk captains are not that unusual abroad a Naval vessel. The Navy would not consider it sufficient provocation unless the Captain's crimes are more severe than that."
She put down her cup. John remained silent, understanding her distress.
"So what do you suggest?" she asked.
He seemed to choose his words with care. "We can try looking for evidence if only to assure your father and your brother that no stone had been left unturned but it would not be easy to find witnesses so long after the mutiny. Most of the crew would have been drafted off to other ships. Many of them may have left the Navy."
"So precedence may not matter?" she asked in a last bid for hope.
"It might come into play if it can first be proven that the Captain's decisions were contrary to the Navy's interests."
Margaret took a deep breath. "I see."
"How long has your brother been living in Spain?"
"Five years. He was in South America for a while. He has taken the name of Dickenson. He works for Barbour and Sons. He recently became engaged to Mr Barbour's daughter."
John nodded. "I know the company. It is a good, reputable concern. It sounds like your brother is well settled in Spain. I would suggest he keep things that way."
She nodded but she had so hoped for some reprieve for her brother. It was hard not to feel depressed at the way of the world.
Then, in silent defiance against all this, she lifted her chin and firmed her voice, "It does not matter. I am proud of Frederick for standing up against injustice instead of simply being a good officer. I would always take comfort in that."
His gaze was sympathetic. "Were you and your brother close?"
"No," she said, then realised how strange that sounded. "I mean, Fred is ten years older than me. The last time I saw him I was nine. He must have found me a troublesome little girl, as you can imagine. He was away at school most of the year but I do have fond memories of him. I admired him greatly. We all did, especially father. Fred was very good at school and father had been keen that Fred distinguish himself at Oxford, become a Fellow like Mr Bell."
For a moment, she was transported to the study in the Helstone parsonage. Father reading aloud the school master's glowing report, mama reaching out to stroke Fred's hair as he sat at her foot with loose-limbed grace. Margaret remembered herself sitting behind father's desk and swinging her feet underneath her chair with childish enthusiasm, knowing mama couldn't see it.
She looked at John. "But Fred didn't want to be a scholar. He wanted to go to sea. He joined the Navy after mama passed away. I never saw him after that. I only found out the full story last year when I returned from London. Aunt Shaw had not given me any of the details and father couldn't bear to speak of it for the longest time. It was a great blow to him. I don't think he was ever the same after that. Sometimes I wonder if his doubts about the Church, his refusal to reaffirm to the Bishop . . ." she trailed off, recollecting how her father had paced up and down the length of his study. The effrontery! The man's ten years our junior and he tries to treat us all like children, he'd said. "It was a mere formality but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He thought it was unjust authority. He was willing to suffer—" Margaret broke off, realising she had said far more than she intended.
John was listening to her in a relaxed but engrossed way. She stared at her plate. She had never really spoken about Fred or her father with anyone. She had certainly never consciously thought these things. It felt deeply disloyal to her father, but she knew it was true.
She no longer felt like attempting any kind bravado, she feared John saw too much for that. She admitted the simple truth then, "I'm proud of Fred but sometimes I wish he had not been so brave if it meant father might see him once more."
It turned out to be a beautiful day, John saw, as they entered Hyde Park and neared the site of the exhibition. Margaret had been quiet during their ride from the hotel but as the crush of traffic increased and their carriage slowed down, she finally began to look out the window and take note.
After about ten minutes of their carriage trying to inch its way ahead, they did the only sensible thing. They left their vehicle behind and joined the crowd of visitors as they made the remainder of the journey on foot.
There was a hum of anticipation and excitement in the air as people were eager to see Britain's modern marvel. Walking along the Serpentine and the bridge over it, they caught glimpses of the building from between the trees until the ground rose and—
"Oh." Margaret had stopped.
The full gleaming structure—the brilliant transparency, the terraced revelations, the airy transept, the sheer size—finally revealed itself.
Someone had picked just the right plot of land, John thought. It was perfect for showing off the brilliance of the glass palace. And on this bright summer morning with white, cottony clouds scattered across a blindingly blue sky and a light breeze that set the flags and banners atop the building to dancing, it was quite something to behold.
Standing before it, there was a palpable sense of witnessing history and John was glad that he was sharing this moment with Margaret. She had caught up to him, though her gaze was still riveted to the Crystal Palace.
They passed through a pair of intricately gilded iron gate and entered the central transept. Inside, the structure revealed its secret. Columns of iron rose from the ground, branching horizontally in the middle to support the two floors and then continuing to rise up and spread, web-like, to create the arched glittering roof shining over the vast hall below.
In the center of the hall, stood a crystal fountain, splintering and scattering colourful light in every direction. Behind it towered a full-leaved elm tree, saved from being felled by the ingenuity of Paxton's design. As if the architecture of the space wasn't dazzling enough, the hall was decorated with crimson and gold tapestries and colourful banners and brocades that hung from the galleries above.
He turned to Margaret. She was looking about with quiet wonder, her pretty eyes taking in the sights before her. Her disappointment and pensive mood from breakfast seemed to have receded. She looked happy. He moved closer.
"Where would you like to start?" he asked.
Before she could answer, the sound of loud chirping filled the air. She raised her head to look up and he was momentarily transfixed by the sight of her exposed white throat.
"Sparrows," she said. He looked up. Sparrows had come inside through the opening left for air and had begun to chirp and fly about the roof.
"Can we look at the machines first?" she suggested.
They went to the Machinery Court. Despite the rush and loud clanking of the machines, this section of the exhibition appeared to be the most popular with the people.
Once there, Margaret drifted towards the cotton machinery.
A large crowd had assembled to view the installations. To him, the fifteen machines, neatly arranged, were a simplified demonstration of the method. It lacked all the scale and the complexity of the real process, but Margaret seemed interested in the attendant's explanation.
"If you want another tour of the mill," he said, "you have only to ask."
"I know, but this is much simpler to see and understand."
"You found the tour confusing?"
She hesitated. "No. I understood the general idea of it but it was too much to take in, all at once." She regarded him with a reluctant smile and for a moment, the difficulty memory of that morning rose between them. "I don't think you realise it but a mill can be overwhelming to someone who has no idea what to expect. There is so much going on and well . . ." She gave a minimizing shrug. "Perhaps I should have said so and then you might have explained it differently."
He wished he could tell her that she should have told him but he knew she couldn't have. He had not been very approachable that morning.
Deciding to correct some of the wrongs, he began explaining the functioning of the machines to her. She remembered a good deal from the tour but unlike the last time where she had been silent throughout, this time, she stopped him occasionally to ask him to explain some term or with a question. She was mostly interested in the safety aspect, especially as young children were expected to crawl underneath to sweep out the cotton waste. He explained the practical difficulties involved but told her that loom makers were looking for both faster and safer means of production.
"I saw some of your notes in the office," she said as they stopped in front of the Harrison looms. "Do you collaborate with the loom makers?"
"Yes. They often come to the mill to see the machines. It gives them a better sense of the practical difficulties."
"Thornton!"
John turned around to find Mr Hamper, walking towards them. He was with a small group of men, some of them foreigners. John guessed they were the jury members for the cotton class of exhibits.
John shook hands with Mr Hamper, who introduced them to the rest of the group.
"You told us you would be too busy to serve as jury and yet here you are," the old man admonished. He turned to Margaret. "Are you enjoying the show?"
"Very much. It is very impressive."
They spoke of cotton trade for a while and John found himself being asked to comment about the recent strike in Milton and what it meant for the industry. He kept Margaret by his side as the crowd around them began to grow.
"Do you think we can bring about an end to strikes?" someone asked.
"Not in my lifetime," John replied. "But with time and patience, we might try to bleed them of their bitterness."
"You may try but I doubt much success," joined an aged, haughty French-accented voice.
It was the French jury member. He was a mountain of a man, domineering with shrewd grey eyes. He spoke English reluctantly and awkwardly, his voice conveying his disdain for both the language and the subject. But he had an old patriarchal and powerful manner and soon had everyone's attention.
"There can be no success when there are socialist," he declared to John but also to the gathered audience. "They make trouble for the employer and raise the expectations of the workers, inciting them to battle by causing them to see a satisfactory condition as unbearable."
"You find the worker's condition satisfactory?" It was Margaret, her voice cool, polite, seemingly interested.
There was a small silence during which the old man turned a surprised gaze at Margaret. She was the only woman in the group.
"You take an interest, Mademoiselle?" he enquired.
"I do," she answered.
He gave a humouring smile. "It is important to reconcile the workers with their place in society. One must not encourage ideas in their minds that lead them to war with their betters and ruin themselves and their employers with pointless complaints."
"I have some acquaintance with workers and their families. I don't think their complaints are pointless. I found their condition to be unbearable most of the time."
This was met with more silence. John saw that it was only now that Margaret was becoming aware of the faces turned towards her. He saw her straighten her spine and lift her chin in a familiar gesture. "I do not claim to fully understand all the nuances but the underlying principle does not seem very complicated. Both masters and workers are dependent on each other in every possible way. Their lives are so constantly interwoven, it does not seem far-sighted when one party views the interest of the other as opposed to their own."
The man kept his smile, though it had become less sincere. "The young lady forgets that the masters pay the workers for their labour. They depend on us for wages and we depend on them for labour. But a master's role is larger than only an employer of workers. We have to deal with investisseurs and régulateurs and—compétition."
"Yes, but the relationship between the masters and workers goes beyond the mere cash nexus. The masters cannot ignore that their workers are utterly dependent upon them. The masters have complete power over their lives and welfare. Shouldn't it fall on the more powerful to help improve the condition of those that are weaker? Isn't it because the masters have overlooked their duties that has led to unionization?"
A look of displeasure came over the old man's face and he gave John a pointed look. John ignored it.
John's initial impulse had been to intervene but Margaret had asked a fair question. Besides, there was something unexpectedly intriguing about watching Margaret debate the subject with someone other than him.
Dressed in a pretty striped peach dress, her glossy hair held back by a silver comb and with her small gloved hands clasped primly before her, she looked light, young and impossibly beautiful. But the cool clarity of her voice and the unwavering, ageless poise with which she met the Sexagenarian's gaze offset the youthful, feminine look. It was a public manner that he had seen her adopt before. The effect was intelligent, capable, untouchable. And something else as well . . . he hesitated but if he were to be completely honest, it was also provocative.
He glanced at the assembled people. He saw their surprised fascination with the pretty young lady who took a keen interest in male occupation and used words like 'cash nexus' and 'unionisation'. Words, he had no doubt she had picked up from Higgins. Was this that had fascinated him as well? He remembered the jolt of surprise when he had first met her. He had imagined Mr Hale's daughter to be an unmarried older woman, given Mr Hale's advanced age. He had not been prepared for the beautiful young creature in his office, chiding him with well-bred impatience and expecting to discuss rent and repairs with him.
As he watched her, he was aware of a possessive pride. This woman, graceful as a silken thread, sharp as a sword, fearless and kind-hearted, heart-stoppingly beautiful was his.
"Unrest in the working class is fostered with such philosophies," the old man was saying. "All these call for improvement, these réforme sociale, the workers would have been much happier to have known nothing about."
"So you would keep them in ignorance?"
The man closed his mouth into a hard line. He turned to John. "What does Monsieur think?"
Her colour rose slightly at the man's abrupt manner. She turned her gaze to him, her expression uncertain. He could discredit her point entirely, he realised.
"I think there is perhaps sufficient justification for unrest in the working class, socialist philosophies notwithstanding. Our industry is young, but it has not been not particularly fair or kind to the workmen. It is inevitable that the workers would organise themselves into a Union to safeguard their interest just as the masters have formed associations and councils to safeguard theirs from acts of parliament and tariffs."
The old juror gave a small disgruntled sound, not pleased with John's response. Mr Hamper, after a wry glance and a nod at John, announced that the jury members must continue on their way. They all left after a quick round of farewell and the crowd around them dispersed without any interesting discussion to hold them together.
"Who was that man?" she asked, once they were alone.
"He is the president of the French manufacturing council. He owns one of the largest cotton mills in Nord."
She looked troubled with this information.
"You were not hoping to change his mind?" he asked.
"No, but there were people listening to him and I didn't want them to think that the workers' condition is satisfactory and that they would be happy if only they knew their place in society."
She looked down for a moment, hesitating, then looked back at him. "Do you agree with him? I know you don't like the Union and I know you were trying not to contradict me but do you agree with him?"
"No, I don't." He saw the relief on her face. However, he said, more honestly, "But you must understand that he doesn't think industrialists are men without charity. He would tell you that manufacturers like him help the poor by founding alms-houses and installing canteens for their workers. But he also happens to be a staunch protectionist. He would fight you if you tried to regulate child labour or lower the domestic tariffs or told him that industrialism contributes to pauperism."
As he spoke, he saw her surprise change to contemplative silence. She turned to look at the place where the group had stood. Her confident public manner was replaced by a private introspective look, no less engaging, as she tried to make sense of the contradictions of the world.
"You were not wrong in pointing out his inconsistencies." He waited, then added, "I enjoyed it."
There was a pause as she glanced down, thick lashes veiling her eyes. Then she released a breath of soft, self-depreciating laughter. She looked up, smiling. It was such a welcome sight: her smile, so long absent.
As they resumed walking, a few people approached them. They wanted to speak with him. Margaret chose to politely step aside but she didn't go far.
John conversed with the men, gave advice, made suggestions, his gaze never straying from her for long, and after concluding the conversation, excused himself and went to where Margaret was waiting.
He was glad to leave the Machinery section. He was not here to represent his business or Milton. He did not want to be pulled by the demands of his work; he wanted to be just another visitor today. He wanted to enjoy the exhibition with his wife. He wanted to . . . idle the day away.
He wondered if this was really he who was thinking these things. He couldn't stand idleness, it was against his nature. But hadn't he asked her today to do just that?
So he strolled alongside her, happy to go where she wished, linger as long as she wanted, stopping occasionally as she examined some of the unusual exhibits more closely.
As they continued walking, she seemed to remember something. "I did not know you had been nominated as a jury member."
He told her how the town committee had decided to name Mr Hamper and him as Milton's nominees to serve as juries for the cotton exhibits. But with the strike looming ahead and trade looking uncertain, John didn't think he would be able to spare the time and so had asked Watson to withdraw his name.
"Do you regret it?" she asked. "Isn't it a great honour?"
He shrugged. "Assuming the Exhibition committee decided to select me. It was only a nomination."
She smiled, shaking her head, telling him that she found him too modest.
They finally wound their way to the textile exhibits where he was pleased to see that the samples from Marlborough Mills were displayed to the best advantage. Upon her urging, he explained why he had chosen those samples for the exhibition and what made them unique.
She admired them for a time until she saw the Dacca muslins nearby. She stood in speechless awe before the airy billows of sheer fabric. He smiled at her disloyalty.
The fabled muslin was an oddity; a handmade thing in an exhibition devoted to mechanically manufactured objects. But it was a beautiful oddity—expensive, fragile, the threads so delicate to be invisible.
He peered closely. "It is not perfect."
That stirred her out of her rapturous trance.
"The yarn is uneven and overtwisted."
She gave him an incredulous look. "Where?"
When he pointed it out, she stared at it and then stepped back a little to take in the entire length and breadth of the material. "It doesn't matter," she declared. "A person made it. Someone spun and wove it by hand, thread by thread. It must have taken months."
When he didn't have anything to say to that, she glanced at him. "You would never give it a medal, would you?"
He shook his head. "No."
"But it is exquisite." She looked at him with a small challenge. "Your machines would never be able to create something so fine."
"My machines would never twist the yarn."
"It's the hand of the artist."
He laughed at the romantic nonsense. She watched him, suddenly quiet, her green eyes wide for a moment before giving him a slightly crooked smile. "It is exquisite, nonetheless."
They went to the Stained Glass gallery. Heavy black cloths were used to block out the light and show off the paintings. Standing under the rich, coloured light, she turned around to look at him and smiled as if she couldn't believe how lovely this was. He smiled back at her.
She lingered in the gallery for some time, studying the paintings before walking to the railing to look at the scene below.
"There is so much to see," she mused. "It is impossible to see everything in a day."
"We can come again tomorrow," he suggested.
She looked below, where there were more countries, more stalls, more displays for them to explore.
She nodded. "I would like that."
After a light refreshment, they exited the exhibition and decided to stroll through Hyde Park. By mutual consent, they began to walk away from the stands and the noise near the Crystal Palace and towards the western end of the Serpentine where it was less crowded.
The day had grown mellow. The bright midday sun had dulled to a soft golden orb. They walked the path, growing increasingly quiet, each of them thinking about today.
She had missed this, she realised. Their strange intellectual friendship. What an odd thing to miss but it was unlike any friendship she had. The people she loved best were cheery and kind—Edith, Fanny, Bessy. She loved their openness, their sweetness—qualities she herself didn't possess. She was far too serious for it. Aunt Shaw blamed her reading for it. If only she would learn to dance and play the piano more and not be so stuffy with her odious books. Margaret shook her head fondly. The funny thing was she did like to dance, only she didn't want to make a production of it.
John wasn't an overly friendly or open person but he was intellectually open. He welcomed different viewpoints, he didn't feel threatened by it. He also had this incredible tolerance for the vagaries of life, the nature of people. She had come to admire that about him.
She wondered if she was being too generous in her estimation of him. Perhaps she was trying to compensate for all the harsh things she had spoken to him. She wanted to be fair. He had been angry with her, angry at the length she could go to make her point. But he had forgiven it.
As they neared the Long Water, she stepped off the footpath and decided to walk by the shore.
"We would come here often," she told him as she passed under his arm while he held back a low branch, "Edith and I, once a week at least. To feed the ducks." She smiled, remembering. Today, a paddling of ducks swam serenely near the opposite shore.
"Do you come to London often?" she asked.
"A few times a year, when I have to."
He stayed back by the shade of the tree. She stepped as close to the water as she could without getting her shoes wet and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. There was just the lovely sound of water rippling as the wind blew over the surface.
"Is this not the most soothing sound? In Helstone, there was a small stream behind the parsonage and you could hear the tinkling of water all day."
She stood there, soaking in the view spread before her, wishing she could dip her toes in the cool water.
"That day in your room, you'd said that you had wanted a different life."
Startled, she turned to him. She licked her lips. "I am sorry I spoke so harshly. What I meant to say was that I had never imagined marrying so early or in such circumstances. That it all happened too quickly."
"Do you wish it were different?" he asked after a moment.
She looked down at the small, round pebbles, at the water gently lapping at her feet, uncomfortable with the candid turn of the conversation. She turned to face the lake.
"I want you to be frank with me."
She chanced an honest answer.
"I am afraid."
"What are you afraid of?"
She didn't know how to explain her fears. They were such private things—she didn't think they would make much sense put into words. What if she had made too much of them in her head? What if they couldn't stand the weight of his scrutiny? She had held these fears too close to her heart to give them up so easily.
"Tell me."
She kept her gaze straight, looking out at the lake. "I am afraid that I would lose myself in this marriage. I didn't think you truly cared about what I thought or wanted. Your life is so firmly established. Your decisions would circumscribe almost all of my life. You would have all the say and I would be nothing."
There was just silence for long minutes before his voice behind her said, "I am sorry you felt that way."
After a moment, he added, "We have never talked honestly before."
She laughed, a little bitterly, surprising herself. "No," she said. "It didn't seem to matter what I thought or had to say. Everyone tried to assure me that I was fortunate that you offered, that I should be grateful. That this was the best thing for me." For a moment, she couldn't speak, the helplessness she had felt rose up suddenly in her. "I couldn't help but resented it. My life had been turned upside down and all people could think to tell me was that I was lucky."
There was an even longer silence this time. She turned to look at him, wondering what he made of these admissions. Did he feel he was getting a great deal more than he had bargained for when he had asked her to be frank with him? But the man standing by the tree only seemed thoughtful.
"I don't really think about it now," she said honestly.
"Except when you are angry," he corrected.
She gave him a rueful smile. "Except when I am angry."
"What did you want to be doing instead?"
She knew that question was coming and it frustrated her that she had no definite, handy answer. She turned again to look at the water, thinking, then gave up. "I don't know. I was going to find that out. I only know that—" She hesitated a moment before plunging ahead. "I only know that when we married, I felt as if so much of what I wanted to do was going to be left undone.
"I wanted to do something meaningful. Something . . . more. I had hoped to discover something about myself, some quality in me, something that I could put to good use."
She had thrown herself into things—people, schools, committees, Milton itself—trying to find a productive role for herself. She knew how circumscribed her life would become if she allowed it. It was a fear in her that at times seemed disproportionate to the circumstances, even to herself.
Again, she thought about Edith and Fanny. Fanny, glowing in the anticipation of motherhood, so very kind to people, so loving—a Madonna almost. And Edith, sweet Edith, dunked in happiness, eternally cheerful. Both happy exactly as they were. And there was she: circumspect, too aware of herself, wanting too much, a fool. She wondered if Aunt Shaw wasn't right after all, if she didn't create these difficulties too much herself.
She had no idea how much understanding or sympathy he felt for the things she struggled with, but in forcing herself to speak these things aloud, she was emptying out all the hidden, restless thoughts inside her and seeing them for herself too.
"I liked that your workers would speak with me. They weren't complaining about the mill or the rules and I would never encourage it besides. I liked that they let me into their homes and their lives. Nicholas and Bessy made me wait before they invited me, you know. I hadn't known that. I hadn't known very much of anything." She took a breath. "I hadn't known there could be such suffering and deprivation but I also saw such force of will to overcome and endure. I don't know if there is anything I can do to truly help but I want to keep on.
"I had thought that I might be allowed to do that. I was not trying to be willful or wayward. And you didn't seem to mind at first. At least that was the impression I got. That's why I was so angry and hurt. I thought you understood."
She noticed that John was no longer standing by the tree. He was walking along the shore, lost in thoughts. He stopped a little away from her, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
She watched him as he stood gazing at the water, the wind flapping his coat open and ruffling his dark hair, his profile quite, quite handsome. She had never really, openly looked at him, she realised. She knew he looked at her. All day today, she had pretended that she wasn't aware of his gaze on her. Well. She looked at him now. Took in the long, solid lines of him, his height, the shape of his back, the wide sweep of his shoulders.
Why couldn't she throw herself into him, she thought rebelling against herself. Last night, she had lain half-awake, half-asleep, her mind full of images of open shirts, dark wool, powerful shoulders, pocket watches with gold cover warmed by the sun. The physical act, his words flashed in her mind. She drew in a breath.
John had turned towards her and as he came up to her she realised with a sudden insight that she didn't wish her life were different. She liked this struggle, within herself and with this man. She had never before looked at a man in a way that made her cheeks go hot and made her wonder. She had certainly never been this open with anyone but it had felt surprisingly good to tell him things that she had not fully known herself.
"All right."
She stared at him blankly for a moment, before she understood. He was agreeing to her visiting Princeton. Then, she registered his manner, his voice. It was the reluctant sound of a man giving in to an unreasonable demand and it riled her in a guilty, prickly way. It was not fair—to her or to him. Especially after everything she had told him.
"I don't want your reluctant agreement, John. I need your understanding."
"I understand but I cannot pretend that I am easy about you visiting Princeton," he answered. "It is not a safe district or nice. There are gin-shops, thieves and drunks on every street corner."
She didn't know what to say for a moment. It was not the Princeton she knew. "I do not idly wander the place as you seem to think," she said reasonably. "I only go to Francis Street, where the workers live. There are families that live there. Families that I know." She waited for him, but he seemed worried in a way she did not understand.
She knew she was safe. Nicholas would have said something otherwise. But he continued staring into the distance, listening but not accepting. "Honestly, John. I will be fine."
When he didn't say anything for a time, she felt horribly let down. Somewhat stiffly, she suggested, "You don't need to worry about me."
At that, he turned to her with such a sharp, reprimanding look, she halted in her tracks. "If I worry about you it is because I care about you so much, because you are important to me. It is my responsibility to keep you safe. You wanted to know why I came here. I came because I couldn't stay in Milton and spend three days worrying about whether you had reached safely or not."
She stared at him, speechless. He was frowning at her, frowning at himself too, she could see, arms crossed, not at all pleased with all the things he had admitted. But she couldn't look away. She longed to ask why, why was she important, when did he come to care so much for her?
They stood staring at each other till, disquieted, she consciously lowered her gaze. She turned from him to hide the confusion on her face.
Long seconds passed. She heard him sigh. "I am sorry." She wasn't sure what he was apologising for, the sentiment or the manner. "Shall we return?" he asked after a moment.
She wanted to resist but after a moment, she nodded not knowing what else to do.
All the way back to the hotel, her emotions veered from confused to angry and back again. Where was the man who wanted her to be frank with him? Why wasn't he frank with her? Why did he get to keep his feelings to himself when he got to probe hers?
All these thoughts were tumbling through her mind when they reached the hotel and she watched him take a piece of paper that the receptionist handed him.
As he read it, he went completely still. She saw his expression change, his grip on the paper turn white-knuckled.
"John?" She rushed to his side. "What is it?"
He looked at her, his face ashen.
"It is Fanny."
A/N: A million apologies for the delay. Life just got in the way. Work, family, unexpected trips.
Anyway. The longest chapter yet! No wonder it took me forever to edit. Please let me know what you think. I live for your reviews and thoughts. You have no idea how valuable they are to me.
-SQ
PS: In my hurry to upload this chapter, I forgot to add a few notes. The French jury member is based on a real person, Auguste Mimerel. He was a jury member for the Cotton Exhibits at the Great Exhibition of 1851. I thought it would be fun to have Margaret debate him instead of John. Most of his arguments in the scene are based on his own writings and views on the subject.