Not a Gentleman

Chapter 25

The Inspection

John swirled the dregs of brandy in his glass as he considered the events of the day, and most importantly, Margaret's reaction to his display of familial authority.

Of course, he was in the right. He was the husband. It was not his privilege but rather his duty to be the head of the Thornton family enterprise.

John shook his head.

No, that sounded too cold and businesslike, and if that was how he'd come across to Margaret she'd surely had reason to be upset. But they had stood before God, hadn't they? And Margaret had promised, quite clearly, to obey. She must understand what that entailed. Every woman did, from the housewives in the humblest cottages to the Queen herself. Even she deferred on occasion to her husband, it was said.

John wondered for a moment what those arguments might be like. That poor man.

The master of Marlborough Mills knocked back the final drops of liquor, then stood to stretch out the kink in his back. It was half past nine and he was ravenous, and surely Margaret would be, as well. But a full twenty minutes after ringing for a staff member, he learned that that kitchen was closed for the night. Five minutes of quiet entreaty did not help, nor did a judicious application of the grease that did so much to move the gears of capitalism. So much for the amenities of a "full-service hotel." Clearly, he'd spent too long ruminating.

Of course, this wasn't the first hungry night he'd experienced. It was just the first since age 15 or so.

John crept into the bedroom and held the candlestick high enough to illuminate the better part of the room. Margaret's steady breathing indicated she was asleep. He hoped she would not awaken famished, long before morning. John stretched again. The bed looked inviting, even if its inhabitant had rejected him. As quietly as possible, he made his way to the dressing room to ready for bed.

He'd already removed his cravat when he noticed the gown, slung over the back of the chair where Jane had carelessly tossed it hours before. On the floor beside lay the rest of Margaret's garments in a higgledy-piggledy pile. John picked through them, folding each as after examining it, until he came to the hopelessly torn cloak. He sighed. Such a waste of a beautiful textile. Still, he folded it as neatly as was possible given its tattered state, and set it, along with the gown on the nearby vanity. Margaret's chemise was also damaged, he remembered. He sorted through the last of her garments until he found it, his brow creasing as he examined it. Its neckline was in a state of disrepair, its delicate lace trim torn through in places and ripped from the chemise in others. It bothered John immensely to consider that a garment that so close to Margaret's skin had been damaged so thoroughly in her struggle with those ruffians.

And then there was this mess.

John fumed. He'd explicitly directed Jane to mend the garments straightaway, as Margaret had need of them. John replaced the candlestick on the vanity, careful to avoid dripping wax on the still salvageable fabric of Margaret's clothing, and dropped to his knees to more easily unlatch the leather-banded trunk where his wife's belongings were stored. He rifled quickly through the meager assortment of items, noting the everyday appearance of the other made-over gown she'd packed for their trip. Such a garment would not do for visiting with her cousin Edith, he knew. Thankfully, the supplies Jane should have collected were also in the trunk. He gathered Margaret's workbasket, several paper-wrapped parcels of fabric, and a large, sharp pair of shears from the items stored in the trunk and added them to the tidy bundle he'd made of Margaret's clothing.

As quietly as possible given his exponentially increasing anger John crossed through the suite of rooms until he found himself at the door to Jane's quarters. He tapped lightly, so as not to disturb Margaret, and then ever more insistently. There was no answer. Like Margaret, Jane seemed to be a very deep sleeper.

John looked in again on Margaret, then shut the door quietly. It had been 14 years since he'd last held a needle and thread, but some skills were not so easily forgotten. He cleared off the writing desk, lit every lamp in the room, and set to work.

The gown was more damaged than the chemise, so John turned his attention to it first. He found a stiletto in Margaret's sewing basket, and used it took to unpick the stitches holding the sleeve to the armscye, and then the two long seams running the length of the sleeve itself. As luck would have it (and luck was not kind), both portions of the sleeve were damaged. No matter- he would use the existing portions as a pattern. John smoothed the gathers of the sleeve head between his fingers, then laid the cloth on the table. It would not lie flat, curved as it was by pressing and multiple wearings. He would need both box and goffering irons, as well a wool pad to do the job right. And those items must be in Jane's quarters, as he had not seen them in the dressing room at any point over the past few days.

John knocked again on Jane's door, to no answer, before reluctantly reaching for his key ring. His anger rose again as he opened the door. Jane's bed was unmade, her small trunk open to display a disordered mess, and the overpowering floral fragrance that hung in the air only added to the feeling of chaos. But the irons and pad were easily found on an open shelf. John quickly exited the space, shutting the door behind him with a firm click, before crossing the sitting room to rebuild the fire, place the goffering stand on the hearth, and the iron slugs among the coals.

It was short work to cut a new sleeve, but even in the relatively dim light afforded by the room's lamps, John could discern a slight difference in color and weave between the new fabric and the old. In daylight it would be obvious: the new sleeve would stick out sorely from the other. Symmetry, he knew, could mask differences in the fabric used to mend a garment. With a decisiveness that would be easily recognized on the mill floor, John flipped the patterns and smoothly cut a second sleeve from the remaining cloth, then unpicked the unblemished sleeve from the bodice.

John found himself humming as he eased each sleeve cap in place, and smiled to realize his horrible mood had dissipated. He was working quite slowly as he lacked a thimble—Margaret's barely fit on his little finger. But the slow pace had done much to ease his anger. Perhaps that was the value of work: it allowed a person to lose himself and forget his worries for a time. Or maybe it was the nature of this work. With needle in hand, he could not help to think back to his time as an apprentice.

They did argue a lot, Mr. and Mrs. Coleridge. But the draper and his wife were as passionate in their arguments as they were in all things. Was that not a positive trait in a marriage? The teenaged John had witnessed many glances and touches in passing that evidenced the abiding nature of his mentor's marriage.

And really, this was the only marriage he'd witnessed in such close proximity. As a child he'd never considered the state of his own parents' union, and when he'd reached the age where he might think about such things he'd been packed off to school. And soon after, of course, it was too late to witness any interaction at all.

John turned his attention to the black bombazine bodice. Both inner and outer layers of fabric were torn. It would take hours to reconstruct the bodice in its entirety, considering the number of reinforcing tapes, and hooks and eyes that would need to be removed and resewn. A woman's garment was a marvel of structural engineering, after all. John counted twelve seams in the bodice, not including the sleeves and his thoughts alighted on the several sewing machines on display not far from the mill's equipment at the exhibition hall. Those would make short work of an intricate task, and would likely also increase the demand for fabrics of all quality.

John chided himself. The impact of sewing machines on the textile industry, and how best to capitalize on said impact was certainly something worth contemplating, but as the hour was growing late this was not the time. He rubbed his eyes as he regarded the torn garment again. Hadn't Mr. Coleridge once shown him quite a clever way to patch a garment along its seamlines? John smiled as the memory ignited. He carefully unpicked just the pattern piece that was damaged and used it to cut its twin in fabric, as well as a mirror image for the inner part of the garment. Then he stitched the pieces into the garment with a stitch that was sturdy on the inside, but almost invisible from the outside. Surprisingly, his fingers remembered the stitch.

John's thoughts returned to marriage as he sewed. Mr. and Mrs. Hale were another example of a successful union, he reasoned. But their marriage was one consumed by illness. It was obvious Mr. Hale had loved his wife, and she him, but things were necessarily disordered, so much so that their daughter had often occupied the role of hostess and even at times, the role of parent.

Perhaps that was the problem. Margaret had been given too much responsibility, too young. What had Mr. Hale been thinking allowing his daughter to roam the streets of Milton looking for a house to let? Who would give his daughter such a masculine responsibility? Or for that matter, train her up in so masculine as discipline as the classics?

"Now you sound like that bastard Doctor Donaldson," John said aloud.

"You judge much too soon, John, and much too forcefully." John's face reddened as another memory sparked. He stood on a stepladder, placing bolts of cambric on the shelf, arguing with the young man of twenty-or-so who passed him the fabric-a laggard, as John recalled. The subject was whether the laggard's wife-to-be should continue working after they wed. The voice was Mrs. Coleridge's long before she became Madame.

"How is it that a 15-year-old knows all there is to know in the world?" she asked, eyes blazing, as soon as the laggard had left the shop to return to one of the Milton's warehouses. "You don't know. You haven't met one percent of the people that live in this city. And the people that live in this city are not necessarily the same as the rest of the people in the world. Who are you to say why a wife might need to work? Now do you judge me for working alongside my husband?" The draper's wife stood fiercely, chin jutting, hands upon her hips.

"No, Ma'am. Of course not. It's just that she'll likely be having children soon enough, and don't you think—"

"I think that some mothers must work. Their husbands die. Their husbands drink. Their husbands leave. Their husbands are laggards." She pointed toward the door.

"Yes! The laggard should be working, not leaving that task to his wife. That is exactly my point."

"No, it was not, John. You were speaking of the larger example—that women should be at home. You, young man, think in black and white." She pointed to a range of fabric along the wall. "I would advise you to consider gray."

Gray.

Not everything in life had the precision of machinery or the reliable outcome of a column of sums. Real life was remarkably sloppy.

Horribly so.

Mrs., and then Madame Coleridge worked, first as partner to her husband, then by necessity, as a widow. Had she wanted to work? Did she enjoy it? He had no idea. John's mother worked—over his objections, at first, but Mrs. Thornton had proven her usefulness to the mill time and again. She was as much as partner as any man could ever be. And indeed, she did enjoy working. John knew his mother would be unhappy to retire, when that time eventually came.

But Margaret was different. She was a gentlewoman. His wife was not meant to not to scrub linens or polish silver or cook. Her household skills were likely limited to embroidery and tatting. And that was as it should be. She should be living a life of refinement, a life he was happily able to give her. Eager to give her. Why on Earth would she want something else? Why would she want to spend long hours in a mill?

He didn't understand, he realized, as he placed the final stitch in the garment, and began to carefully press it into the proper shape. He placed the woolen pad on the floor, as the table was far too fine to risk scorching. His back protested.

With an extravagant yawn John began the final task. The cotton lawn of the chemise was intact, thankfully. It was only the lace that was shredded in places, and as it had been whip stitched on, it was easy enough to remove. He broke a thread and pulled, broke another and continued. Margaret had a fair enough selection of lace in her work basket to choose from. John chose a long strip of Bucks point lace and with impossibly small stitches whipped the lace to the neckline of the garment. He held the garment close as he did so, and could not help but inhale its fragrance.

How was it possible to miss the woman sleeping in the next room?

Margaret awakened well before sunrise to find herself in nestled against her husband. She inhaled John's scent until her lungs were full of him, stretched herself luxuriously against him, and very nearly placed a kiss at the nape of his neck before remembering their horrible quarrel. She stiffened, annoyed that he had come to bed. But where else would the man sleep? The settee in the next room was far too small, and marriage did grant a husband the right to sleep in his own bed, even if that bed were the transitory sort offered by a London hotel.

No, Margaret, realized, her annoyance was with herself. She had not awakened cocooned within the safety of John's embrace. Rather, at some time during the night, she had clutched her husband possessively, sliding against him until their torsos nestled like twin spoons in a cutlery drawer. She'd thrown her leg over his as well, her sleeping self repudiating her waking self's rejection of the man.

Disgusted at her own inconsistency, Margaret gingerly untangled her limbs from her husband's and crept from the bed, turning back warily once she was well clear of the fourposter. But John breathed as deeply and regularly as a sleeping man should. This was unusual. In Milton he'd be up with the songbirds, long before the first glow of dawn. Margaret stood on her toes to better peer at her husband's face. He looked tired. Dark smudges colored the fragile skin below the fringe of his eye lashes, and it was easy to infer that he was sleeping deeply, but not restfully. His eyes moved under their lids and he grimaced as he clutched his pillow. Margaret sighed. How late had John stayed up? she wondered. She padded across the room to the peer into the sitting room, and noted the single chair pulled close to the fire place, an empty tumbler and bottle on the floor beside it. He must have spent the evening with spirits for a companion. Margaret lifted her chin as she turned away from the sight. It did not signify. She had no desire for her husband's company last night nor this morn. Not without an apology.

Margaret crossed the room quickly but quietly, firmly closing the door separating bed chamber from dressing room before opening the drapes to better illuminate the space. Then she poured cool water from a porcelain jug into a bowl and splashed herself fully awake. She contemplated the coming day as she methodically combed her recalcitrant curls into order, then plaited them into a thick cord that she arranged into a simple knot at the base of her neck. There was no reason to disturb Jane, although the girl should already be at work. The girl would want a full account of her beau's feat of derring-do, and would likely be insufferable for hours, if not days afterwards.

A thin line of worry appeared between Margaret's brows. She did not fully remember the events that had transpired the day before. But she must do her best to recollect them, as a constable would soon be arriving to interview her. John had clearly said Leonards had run off four men. Yet six had surrounded her. She was certain of that. Margaret closed her eyes and breathed deeply as she situated a shadow version of herself back in Green Park, back against the row of spiked iron finials, a clot of leering men eyeing her flesh as though she were a side of beef swinging from a hook in a market stall. Six men. Six. Her mind's eye moved from left to right across the half circle of roughs. The first was blond, his hair so fair it was almost white against the rough blue hessian of his jacket. That man had shouted something ugly: no wonder she remembered him so clearly. The next two were blurrier: one man was short and pasty, the third fully bald, but otherwise almost his twin.

"You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?"

Margaret calmed her breathing. The fourth? Brunet, tall, whiskered. But most men were. His clothing must have been non-descript because she had no idea what he might have been wearing. But what he said she remembered clearly.

"How do you think she would look in bloomers, Tom?"

Tom. That must have been the next man in the half circle, the one standing next to the speaker, because that man had guffawed, sending spittle in her direction. He had a scarf, a thin red neckerchief with small black and white sprigs. Or paisleys. Yes, paisleys. Odd how she could remember such trivial detail, but not the color of his eyes or the shape of his nose or ears. Although he did have particularly bad teeth for his age and station in life: she remembered that, too. Some were blackened stumps.

And the last man? Margaret opened eyes clenched shut to find she'd twisted her nightgown into knots. She willed herself to breathe as scattered images of a face with ruddy skin and a fringe of sandy hair extending from a Monmouth cap flew into her mind.

The turn of a key in the hallway door interrupted Margaret's belabored musings.

"Why didn'a wake me?" Jane cried as she entered the room, eager to turn her own tardiness against her employer. Margaret placed her forefinger against her lip in reply, then pointed to the bed chamber. The girl made a cursory effort at a curtsey in reply and picked up the hairbrush from the vanity.

No need, Jane. My own efforts will suffice," Margaret said softly as she patted her simple coiffure. "It's unlikely I'll be leaving the hotel, you see," she added by way of explanation, then frowned. She did not owe Jane or anyone else a rationale for her choices in dress or hairstyle. She picked up the garments she'd worn the day before, walking across the room to inspect them by the window, where the light was brighter. Her brows raised in surprise. One might never have guessed that her garments had been damaged. The torn lace at the neckline of her chemise had been carefully removed and replaced with a lovely, modest lace from her workbasket. The seam joining raw edge to edge was almost invisible and the stitches joining it to the cotton of the gown were impossibly fine. Likewise, the large tear in her shirtwaist sleeve, one that had allowed the entirety of her upper arm to become visible to park visitors, was gone, and the back was whole. Margaret ran her fingers over the fabric, feeling unsuccessfully for the mends. She bit her lip as she glanced up at Jane. The girl's skills put her to shame. She had not expected a chambermaid to be so skilled a seamstress, but of course, it was John's mother who had hired the girl, and doubtless from a score of applicants. Clearly, she had chosen the best, and clearly the matriarch had found reason to keep on such a flighty girl, apart from Fanny's preference for a companion in gossip.

Well, Fanny could have her.

Margaret quickly changed into the renewed chemise, and murmured a thank you, as Jane approached with corset and stockings. "You did an exemplary job."

"Did I?" The girl stared at her, a quizzical expression on her face. "Are you quite right today, Mrs. Thornton? You don't look well." She did not wait for a reply. "I think we should lace you up a bit more loosely than usual. Wouldn't want to have you swoon on us, would we? There." Jane tucked the long ends of the laces into the corset. Margaret stifled a laugh. That near-armored garment had been unharmed by the prior day's activities.

She stood patiently as Jane fastened the many small hooks running down the back of her bodice, and even allowed the girl to help with her stockings and shoes, tasks she normally would have insisted upon doing herself.

"Jane, would you see to breakfast?" Margaret pointed to the door. "No, go down directly to the kitchen. I'd rather Mr. Thornton wasn't bothered by you ringing for a porter. And I'd like to check on today's luncheon menu. Service for five, and I didn't take care of it last night. I'm not sure that John did, either."

Chicken or pork. Steak or roast.

Yes, John had undoubtedly left the decision of today's menu to her, given her critical role as mistress of household.

"Mrs. Thornton?"

"Please inquire, Jane. I won't awaken Mr. Thornton over something so trivial. Return with a menu if the kitchen has not been informed and let them know that I'll send down a request directly."

The girl left, and Margaret returned to the vanity. She grimaced as she regarded her reflection, then frowned as she held up a mirror behind her head to view her earlier handiwork. It was a wonder Jane had not laughed openly at her. Margaret removed the pins from her hair, combed out the unruly length with a wide comb and rearranged her hair repeatedly, until she was satisfied with the low braids that coiled over each ear and intertwined to form a low bun at the base of her neck.

She might not be the most stylish but surely neither constable nor cousin would have anything to laugh at now.

Margaret consulted the timepiece that hung from her chatelaine and jumped. Five after seven. It was much later than she'd realized. The police officer was due in less than an hour.

"John?" she entered the bedroom to find her husband still fast asleep. She perched next to him on the bed, and called his name again. It took a gentle shake to awaken him.

"What time is it?" John sat up groggily, and Margaret noted the shadows under his eyes were still present, although perhaps not quite a dark as an hour earlier.

"The constable is coming at eight."

John grunted in response. Apparently, the songbird was not such a lover of mornings this day.

"You were up quite late."

"You know I have a temper. I needed to work off my anger."

"You're angry at me." It was more of a statement than a question, she realized.

"No, Margaret. Not you. Never you. I was angry at the day. At what might have happened. At how I treated you as a result. I don't want-"

Margaret waited for him to continue, but John rose from the bed instead and moved across the room with some alacrity.

"We'll talk later," he said, before closing the dressing room door to grant himself some morning privacy. Twenty minutes later, John emerged.

"You look lovely, by the way.'

She half laughed. "I do not."

"Very few women look well in black. You do. The cut of the dress becomes you, as well."

"I supposed I am an old soul, then. I was surprised to find it so expertly mended—" a knock interrupted their conversation.

"Breakfast," Jane said cheerily as John opened the door. Two young men stood in the hallway behind her, each holding a tray laden with food. "I assumed you wanted a full spread. Mrs. Thornton," she added as she bustled into the room. "Luncheon has not yet been ordered. Martin here will be happy to take your order." Her smile at the porter was less than subtle.

"It can wait," John said. "I know you must be hungry, Margaret. Martin, is it? Leave the menu. We'll have the order ready for you at a quarter past nine. We'll want a private dining room, of course. The Crystal Room on the second floor will do nicely, I think."

Margaret bit her lip. She could easily choose from the menu in a matter of a minute or two. She knew Edith's tastes better than her own. It was really quite simple: choose the most expensive items on the menu.

And were these decisions not under the wife's purview?

But John had things under control. The table was laid, the porters tipped and out the door before she even had opportunity to object. She sat down and gazed at the vast array of food piled on the table.

"You're not eating." John asked as he piled kippers onto his plate. "But surely you must be hungry. We haven't much time, you know."

"Indigestion." Margaret patted her stomach. Made worse by the ungodly smell of oily, smoked fish and sulfurous eggs. Who had ever nominated these things as a breakfast food?

"You're worried. Darling. Don't be." John reached for her hand. She let him.

"As a magistrate, you've dealt with these things, before, haven't you?"

John nodded. "Yes. Mind you, any truly serious cases would be quickly handed over to the crown court—"

"Truly serious?"

"Not that your situation isn't. By serious I mean loss of life. Margaret, I don't want to speak of such things with you."

"But we must."

"No. I most heartily disagree. Not today." John cracked an egg and dipped a buttered toast point into its oozingly soft yellow center. "Darling, please eat something. Or at least have some tea or coffee."

Margaret did manage a few sips of tea before the porters returned to clear away the morning meal. Such a colossal waste of food. Where did the leftovers go? She wondered. Hopefully, at least the staff was well fed.

But this train of thought was interrupted by Jane's rather brazen announcement.

"The peeler's here! And he's an important 'un!"

She hadn't cried. In fact, John thought as he sent the sergeant away, he would have thought his wife completely unaffected by the previous day's events if he hadn't known her better. The jutting chin, he'd learned, was a sign that she was gathering her courage. And there were other small signs that spoke of her nerves: the slightest tremor in one finger, the parting of her lips before she spoke, and the unwavering attention she paid to the hand-painted truncheon the sergeant had placed on the low table in front of her.

John had reached for Margaret's hand, but she'd ignored him, focused as she was on her responses.

She'd done splendidly. He couldn't have asked for a better witness were he sitting at Milton Town Hall. Her voice had held steady in volume. It did had not changed pitch nor cracked. She had not embroidered her story nor had it wavered. And somehow, prize that she was, she had managed to tell the truth while omitting the fact that they'd arrived at the park separately and argued before hand. Margaret might have been a first-rate solicitor in another life.

The interview had lasted longer than he expected. But London police were more highly trained than their Milton counterparts, so perhaps John should not have been surprised. And this one had carried a small, well-used notebook in addition to the truncheon and wooden rattle that was standard equipment. He had carried apologies as well. He'd apologized that neither of the force's commissioners had been able to attend in his place. As both were personally involved in the policing of the exhibition they were quite concerned that a family member of an exhibitor had been so brutally attacked. Without glancing at her, John had felt Margaret's posture become even more rigid as the man finished his apology. But the sergeant had continued, either ignorant of the effect he was having on the victim, or actively provoking it. He'd apologized again, this time for needing to ask "just a few more questions."

"She's already given you a full accounting!" John had objected vigorously, nearly leaping out of his seat.

"Yes, but sometimes in the retelling, additional details make themselves known."

"I am well aware of the procedures of policing. If you have learned that I am an exhibitor, you must have know I am a magistrate. My wife has given you a full statement. I think it is time for you to go." The anger had risen quickly, and it had taken a great effort to maintain a veneer of civility.

"Dearest," That single word had been a balm. He'd felt much of the anger dissipate as her hand found his. "It is no matter." Margaret had continued quietly. "I think the sergeant is right. Perhaps there is something I have forgotten."

She'd continued, evincing just the slightest chinks in the wall she'd constructed.

"You did well, love" John said now. "I am proud of you."

She turned away, but from the slight quivering of her shoulders it was clear that she was crying.

"Edith will be here soon. I must see to the menu."

His wife left the room in a hurried rustle of starched cotton and silk.

Author's note:

I hope this chapter is a pleasant surprise, as it has been a very long time since I have updated. In that time, quite a few people have checked in, and I know that others have been patiently waiting for an update. Thank you to everyone who has sent their regards, concerns, hopes, or worries. I apologize that it has taken so long. Life has very much gotten in the way.

When I last updated my job was in crisis, and I was actively looking for new employment. Given that the work I do is specialized, it took more than a year to find a position that would not require me to relocate (something I could not do, due to my husband's job). During that year+, conditions at my workplace continued to deteriorate. During my last few months on the job, five out of nine of us with similar positions left. The fallout was intense (or so I heard). I cannot give exact details (small world!), but the company is not the same as it was (in name or function). That makes me sad, because I worked with some excellent people there. Before the wrong people came on board, it truly was a great place to work.

I am happy in my new job—treated with respect, doing challenging work, etc. However, I have not had time to write over the past year, as I have been working extra hours to prove my worth to the organization. I haven't read any N&S fan fiction during this time either, as I did not want to accidentally conflate my story with another. (Let me tell you, this has been very difficult!) Yet every night, while falling asleep (especially after a stressful work day), I have been playing in my mind the movie of the continuing storyline. At this point, I finally have the time to take it up again. I am very, very happy about this, and I hope that you will be too. Please let me know, as your words mean a lot to me.

Best, tintinnabula

About the chapter: This one seems a bit morose, but after what happened in the Green Park, I think it is appropriate. I'd like to point out that the John and Margaret I am exploring are a product of their time and location. So, yes, John has some rather regressive attitudes toward women and marriage, and Margaret as very young wife is a bit immature. The thing I love about Gaskell's North and South (and the BBC production, and any good story) is its character growth. So, I promise that John and Margaret will be growing. Right now, John has an anger issue, and a control issue. And Margaret is a little lost. And she has gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick here. So, lots of growth to come. And for those who have asked, yes, they will be discussing "the letter." It will all unfold. I hope you will bear with me.

Thank you again for reading.

Historical notes: I hope you don't mind that this chapter contained so much about historical sewing. It is my other love.

John is likely over-tipping. Tipping has a long history, but was primarily used by the aristocracy until the 1800s. But as the commercial class grew, the practice spread. Wealthy Americans picked up the practice while visiting Europe and were often frowned upon for tipping too much. I am thinking that a nouveau-riche industrialist might also misunderstand the subtleties of the practice.

A box or slug iron had an insert (or several inserts) that could be heated in the fire, then picked up with tongs and placed inside the iron. It was an improvement over the charcoal iron, which contained burning charcoal, and therefore gave off smoke and soot and sometimes left ash on clothing. A goffering iron is cylindrical with a rounded end (somewhat like a modern curling iron for hair, but without the clip part). It was used for ironing collars, lace, ribbons, sleeve caps, etc. The first folding ironing board was patented in the 1860s, after the time period of this story. Before then people ironed on a well-padded table, or on a board propped between two chairs.

Point a rabattre sous la main is a specialized stitch that was used in hand sewing in the 18th century to sew both lining and exterior fabric at the same time. Super efficient! However, based on my reading of Victorian home sewing guides it would not have been a stitch in the repertoire of young women of the 1850s. However, I think it may likely have been within the repertoire of older dressmakers and drapers (and possibly passed down) as it might be tremendously useful for mending.

There were at least seven different sewing machines displayed at the Great Exhibition of 1851, from France, Great Britain, and the United States. Barthelemy Thimonnier, a French tailor, had patented a chain stitch machine (similar to the stitching that closes very large bags of dog food today) in France in 1830, and received a British patent in 1848; he was represented at the exhibition by the British company Barlow and Payne. (Notably, Thimmonier set up a factory to sew uniforms for the French army. It was burned to the ground by workers angered about being displaced.) W&C Mather of Manchester exhibited a machine that used a running stitch to sew together two pieces of fabric. It seems similar (to my understanding) to modern hand smocking machines. Charles Tiot Judkins, also of Manchester exhibited a lockstitch machine that could sew in straight lines or circles. Importantly, it could be hooked up to an engine to run at 500 stitches per minute. Like today's machines, the hole in the needle was in its the point, and the machine locked together two separate threads to form a stitch.

A Monmouth cap is the original name of that knitted hat (a.k.a. watch cap, beanie, skullcap) that is ubiquitous in winter. Its origin is Monmouth, Wales. These hats have been knit since the 14th century, were a standard (and regulated) part of the daily costume of sailors, soldier and laborers. They were a part of low-ranking sailor's uniforms throughout the 19th century. Unlike today's knit hats, Monmouth caps were knit large and felted to make them weatherproof.

The first professional police force in London was set up by Sir Robert Peel. Hence the name "Bobbies," or in the 1850s, "Peelers." During the 1850s, the standard London police uniform included a tall beaver hat, somewhat like John's except with a wicker armature. The hat was intended to serve as a sort of protective helmet, but given that it really did not cover that much of the head, I have to question its usefulness. ? Constables carried a wooden truncheon. These were hand-painted in ornate designs (because shouldn't the device you are using to head bash be aesthetically pleasing?). To raise the alarm, constables used a wooden rattle, that they swung in the air to make a clattering noise. This was the precursor of the whistle, which did not become a part of the uniform until 1884. During the 1850s, London had dual police commissioners. Both were appointed to the role of justice of the peace, and both came from the upper echelon of society. While it is true that both commissioners were actively involved in the policing of the exhibition (and argued over who would play the larger role), I thought it would be highly unlikely that they would find an exhibitor important enough to pay a visit, given the snobbery of London towards the industrial cities at that time.

You can find images of some of the artifacts I mentioned her on my Pinterest page for this story at: https colon / www dot pinterest dot com / Tintinnabula1 / north-and-south / (remove spaces and change dots to periods!)