Chapter 33
"Ambition's debt is paid"
"What do you think?"
Margaret contemplated the factory floor, admiring the efficient and quick way everyone in this area worked. "I think it's a marvelous idea. Having Marlborough Mill supply printed cotton is a logical next step. But are you sure we can afford it, John? This factory is rather large."
"I'm sure," said John warmly. "We can even buy it outright. Mr. Rider is keen to sell, so the price is very reasonable. The profits from this summer were excellent, and if you'd like to use your inheritance towards it too, that'll put us in great shape."
"Then I think we should," said Margaret assertively. "I think we need another focus, after all that happened this winter."
"That's precisely what I was thinking. Come, lets look in the cleaning shed again. I've already thought of a faster way for the cloth to be washed."
John led the way, Margaret followed behind him, smiling wryly. Last month, John had got it in his head to buy the factory, after he heard talk at Godfrey's that Mr. Rider was looking to sell. Mr. Rider had been unable to keep up with the increased demand over the summer, and now having visited the factory, Margaret could see why. He was a fair employer, but also rather miserly, which had not worked in his favor this year. He was also resistant to change, which was perhaps the main reason that his factory was languishing. He'd decided to cut his losses and sell it now, before he lost too much more.
John had met with him several times, arguing him down to an amount they both agreed on, then asked to view the premises before the final deal was made. Most of what they saw was promising. The hands were hardworking. The work itself was harsh, but no more than any other place. Both Margaret and John could see areas that needed improvement, but a complete overhaul of production wasn't necessary.
"This is the area most in need of amending, I think," John observed, when the two of them reached the cleaning shed. "Unrolling the cloth, submerging it, then re-rolling it is taking to much time. It ought to be done in a way where the fabric is rolled through the water, without having to be removed carelessly from the bolts."
"And have the water pressed out with rollers as well. Hanging it to dry also takes too long when it hasn't been pressed," mused Margaret. "The workers must be given gloves too; that soap is far to harsh to have their hands submerged like that all day."
The workers who were in charge of mixing and storing the vats of dyes were given gloves, but the washing women needed them just as much. Even standing at the entry way, Margaret could see their hands were chapped and red.
"I'm a little surprised Mr. Rider didn't think of a more efficient cleaning production. He uses rollers in the smaller printing rooms," Margaret frowned.
"He's not often here. He lives in Preston and his overseer has been kept under tight control. Mr. Rider made a point of telling me that the man was always making 'wild suggestions.' Now that I've seen the factory, I think the suggestions were less wild and more of a functional nature. But Mr. Rider loathes spending anything he doesn't have to."
"Did he tell you what his average output is?" she asked.
"Two thousand ells a day, give or take. I think we'd be able to get that to three and a half, without adding any additional workers."
Margaret grinned at John's confidence. "I've no doubt."
She thought it an achievable goal. The cleaning shed was the most haphazard, but improvements could be made all over, in particular the number of times the cloth was unwound from the spool and wound again somewhere else.
This factory had two dye rooms, the larger of which had a flat printing machine which produced detailed and colourful prints. Margaret had never seen anything like it. Bolts of plain cotton were loaded on rollers, which stretch the fabric taunt and flat against the surface of the long metal table. There were ten flat printing machines in the shed. Each machine had sixteen workers, two positioned at single printing screen. The workers pressed printing screens against the fabric, then used a large scraping tool to push the dye across the screen, the worker opposite grabbing the tool and pulling it towards themselves to complete its movement across the surface of the fabric. This action produced a pattern; more screens could be added to create a more complicated pattern with additional colours. The workers were careful to position the screen so as to not mark the cotton with any dye other than that on the pattern.
At the end of the flat machine was a warming machine that dried the dyes – the printed fabric maneuvered through it atop wooden rollers and spooled again on the other side.
Cheaper, simpler prints, and those that were all one colour, were produced on rotary machines, the rollers hand-turned to pull the cotton through the mechanism. The rotary room was far more crowded and produced faster, as the task was not as complicated. New employees and children worked in this room before they could be promoted to the screen printing. There were no warming machines in that shed; the dyed fabric was air-dried briefly, then put straight into the steaming room with the screen printed cotton. The steam room had wooden frames that the fabric was hung from and steamed for a few hours so as to fix the dye to the cotton. Without the warming step for the cheaper cotton, the dyes often ran, creating a streaked pattern or a bolt that was more faded on one end than it was on the other, as the dye pooled towards the floor.
It was the rotary cotton that was sold to the lower class dress shops. Margaret disliked that it was of a poor quality because it was simpler, and wanted warming machines to be added in that shed as well.
"So, shall I agree?" John asked her.
"Absolutely. This will be a wonderful opportunity."
John grinned and kissed her briefly, before heading back to Mr. Rider's office to inform him of their decision.
"Ask him what he paid for the warming machine," she called. "I want to buy more of those."
John nodded, climbing the stairs quickly. Margaret smiled. John was very enthusiastic about this. It was exactly what he thrived on; pushing the limits of what could be done. It brought him out of his somber mood of the winter, letting him focus on something new and exciting. Margaret would've agreed to almost anything to see John as happy as he'd been last summer.
Back at the manor, John told Mother that everything had been finalized; the papers being signed next week. Fanny was sitting at her piano, listening half-heartedly to the conversation as it didn't interest her. She could often be found practicing duets and the music Mr. Harris sent her. The two of them were keeping a regular correspondence, Fanny sharing tidbits so as to not make her mother think they were talking of anything they shouldn't be. Margaret trusted them – Mr. Harris had a good character and Fanny wouldn't do something that would truly risk her reputation.
"You ought to take out an advert in the papers, explaining that the dyer is now under Marlborough Mill," suggested Mother.
John nodded. "That's a good idea. I'd planned to write to all my regular buyers and Rider's as well, but an advert would reach new clients. I'll draft it and have it put in once everything is underway."
"The two of you are going to be incredibly busy for the next few months, if you end up implementing all that you want to," said Mother, frowning a little. "Are you sure you should be doing something so taxing?"
The last of this was directed at Margaret, rather pointedly. Mother had been making statements like this ever since Fred left. No doubt she'd noticed that Margaret and John had become as wrapped up in each other as they had been before Fred's incident, and obviously thought it meant something.
"I'll be fine; I enjoy being busy," Margaret replied.
Mother made an exasperated noise, her suspicion not confirmed. Margaret and John looked at each other amusedly. Margaret was sure that Mother would decrease the subtly of her remarks, before finally asking outright why Margaret was not yet with child.
Margaret knew that she still wasn't ready. She wanted to focus all her energy on this new expansion. They had so many ideas they wanted to implement, but they would be ones that required greater research, John not having as much experience in this portion of cloth production. The two of them would discuss it again after everything was more settled. It hadn't been that long since they were wed for their families to be alarmed.
"I hope you won't be too busy to take me to Sussex!" exclaimed Fanny, having heard the last of the conversation. "You've already promised you would, John, you can't beg off now."
"I'm not. We'll go soon," John sighed.
"When?" demanded Fanny.
"When Mr. Harris invites us. When we have the time."
"I wish to go soon. I need to make arrangements for everything and I can't do that if I haven't seen the place. Peter is describing it to me, but it's not enough; I need to see it with my own eyes."
"We'll go when I have time, Fanny," said John irritably. "In a month or two. I will be sure to inform you the second I decide."
"Margaret and I can go by ourselves," Fanny insisted.
"Fanny, you just heard that she is busy. Besides, I won't have the two of you taking such a long journey alone. Goodness knows what would happen," replied Mother firmly.
"We'd get to experience something new is what would happen," muttered Fanny sullenly, flouncing out of the room in a huff before anyone could reprimand her.
"I can't say that her attitude had improved much since her engagement," said Mother crossly.
"I think that's just how Fanny acts when she's excited," replied Margaret, smiling a little.
"I hope Mr. Harris is up to the task," said John in an annoyed voice.
"John," chided Margaret gently. "She's not being shipped off to a finishing school. She and Mr. Harris loved each other greatly."
"That was a poor attempt at humor, then."
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A letter from Fred arrived the next morning. He'd been writing steadily in the weeks since he'd left, assuring her of his contentment. He detailed the beautiful sights of Santander, the port city he'd arrived in and had yet to leave. This most recent letter detailed his plans to travel to Madrid. He also told her that his fits were not subsiding. Fred spoke of the odd things he did during them. They were alarming but not particularly destructive to himself or anyone else.
Margaret had been trying to find more information on people who suffered as Fred did, but other than a French scientific article, she hadn't much luck. She didn't want to ask Mr. Jenkins or write to any specialists, as that might lead to questions and investigations that had to be avoided if John's deception was to remain undetected.
Instead, she focused on researching medicinals for him. She learnt that St John's-wort was useful for fits of melancholy, and wrote to Fred about this remedy, although he told her the sadness didn't happen nearly as often. Margaret bought some of the plant herself, to keep for John if he needed it.
In addition to her medicinal research, Margaret had also been researching and developing ear protection devices for the workers in the spinning sheds, to help protect them from hearing loss. After a great deal of trial and error, she crafted a small device that was made from a wad of cotton covered with rubber. She wore them in the spinning shed, staying for an hour to test their effectiveness. They didn't completely block out the noise but they did bring some measure of relief. They would certainly be better than nothing.
She made a hundred pairs, for the workers and the inevitable misplacement of the small devices. She asked all the doffers to wear them, but gave the adults a choice as to use them or not.
John too was hard at work, building a roller machine for washing the lengths of cloth. He'd sketched out the design he wanted, then created a huge prototype in the courtyard. It was constructed in the form of a zigzag, each rolled hand turned. The lower rollers passed through square metal troughs to allow for washing, while the ones at the end allowed for the water to be pressed out. The rolling action meant that the cotton retained it's wound shape without having to be unspooled. It was a wonder to watch in action and an excellent example of craftsmanship.
By the beginning of March, he'd built ten and had them installed in the washing shed. They'd bought more drying machines for the rotary cotton, which improved the quality of them. Margaret had thought they'd have to increase the price of the plain cotton to help pay for the upkeep of the new machines, but John suggested they hold off, to see if the increase in quality lead to additional buyers instead.
John waited until all the workers adjusted to the new system, and then counted up how many bolts could be achieved in a week.
"Almost five thousand extra ells. Not as high as I wanted, but still a good amount."
"And a new supplier interested in establishing a contract," Margaret replied happily, showing him the letter that had been delivered while he was in the storage shed. "They want samples of the cloth sent to them. We ought to cut up lengths and keep them here to send away when we need."
She went to the cabinet along the wall of the office and began opening the drawers, trying to find if Mr. Ryder kept any samples of the printed fabric already. She hadn't been through these drawers much, as they were incredibly untidy.
"I'm afraid to find something terrifying in here," she said grimly. "How anyone can be this disorganized is beyond me. How did they ever find anything?"
"It seems organization was not high on their list of priorities," John agreed, moving to help her rummage through the contents. "There are vats of dye that look to be quite a few years old and have developed an awful tinge to them. A few of the old screens have been kept in storage without being cleaned, ruining the print."
"Some of the workers told me that their pay was late every quarter last summer. I'm no longer surprised that Mr. Ryder was forced to sell. How he managed to hang on to such a sensible overseer, I'll never know," said Margaret.
The drawers were in such a jumble that she and John spent the entire afternoon sorting through the contents. They kept the ledgers, although had to discard two of them, as an inkwell had been spilt onto them, making them illegible. There were letters from clients, tied together in no order whatsoever. Margaret even found a mouse skeleton in one of the bottom drawers. But she did also find some pattern books with wonderful examples of the prints that could be produced at the factory.
"I should show this to Fanny. See if there's anything in here that she wants to add to her trousseau," said Margaret, flipping excitedly through the samples.
"Better not. Mother was adamant Fanny isn't to buy anything more."
"But this is lovely! The blue with gold flowers… it would suit her."
"Do it if you wish, but when Mother complains I'll not protect you from her ire," John grinned.
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Mr. Harris came to Milton for another visit, planning to stay for one week but extending it to two. He and Fanny spent as much time as they could together and were just as companionable as before. They went to the theatre and a few concerts together, and Fanny took him to meet all her friends and show him off.
The day he left, Fanny came to Margaret in the drawing room.
"Margaret? May I please speak with you privately?"
She was surprised at Fanny's shy voice, but agreed cheerfully. She shut the door firmly and motioned for Fanny to sit beside her on the sofa.
"Is this about Mr. Harris?"
Fanny blushed. "Yes. I love him and I'm sure I'll be very happy with him. But I'm nervous about some things too. I wanted to ask you about… married life. One's intimate relationship."
"Your mother didn't explain the act to you?" asked Margaret stupefied. Mother was a tight-lipped woman, it was true, but she didn't have issue with expressing her views. Surely she would've wanted her own daughter to know about marital relations.
"I know the idea of it. What must be done. But… you and John are always so comfortable together and that's what I want too. I do feel comfortable with Peter but also anxious and I don't want to be. I don't want him to think I'm silly," said Fanny quietly, biting her lip.
Margaret was pleased by Fanny's straightforwardness. That would serve her well in her marriage, especially in this area. She resolved to be far more forthcoming than Mama and Edith had been when they explained sex to her.
"Everyone is nervous," she reassured her. "He will be as well. The best advice I can give you is to speak openly with him; have the two of you talk about it. You will likely need to explain to him about how to make you comfortable."
"Won't that be terribly awkward?"
"Yes, but that can make it fun too."
"Fun, really? Everyone says it's rather unpleasant," said Fanny, wrinkling her nose.
"It depends. The first time can go either way. Ask him to go slowly. It gets much better as you learn each other."
"Is it true that it's painful?"
"Just the first time."
"How do you know when the encounter is over?"
Margaret pressed her lips together in an effort not to smile. "You'll know. Usually when the man is finished."
"How long does that take?"
"Ah… well, that depends on lots of things. The act itself is not very long. But if you want it to be longer, you must tell him so he can… make it so."
"Why would I want it to go on longer?" asked Fanny, bemused.
"It takes longer for women to feel pleasure from it. You'll be able to tell that, if you're relaxed enough."
"Will he know that?"
"I think it unlikely. That's why you must speak with him about it. Make it into an amusing thing, rather than an accusation. Be honest, but be patient too. You're both new to it."
"What if I don't feel anything?" asked Fanny, mystified. "I didn't think it was supposed to be like that."
"It doesn't matter if you don't straightaway," said Margaret soothingly. "If you don't like it, that's fine. You can make it an irregular act if you want."
Fanny stared at her calculatingly. "Do you enjoy it?"
"Very much. It's an intimate thing, but that doesn't mean it has to be awkward. It helps foster closeness with your husband. You learn new things about each other."
"But if I act as though I enjoy it, won't that make him think I'm a fallen woman?"
Margaret thought on that. She and John were very open with each other, but she knew not all couples wanted to act in that manner. She didn't know Mr. Harris well enough to judge how he would perceive forwardness, and she certainly didn't want Fanny to misunderstand her and act melodramatically.
"I'm… not sure. You'll have to be mindful about it, and take your cue from how he acts. All you can do is be truthful and ask him to be as well. Nothing will be achieved if you don't communicate how you feel."
Fanny looked to be thinking on Margaret's words. "Is that why you and John are comfortable in each others company? You talk to each other about this?"
"About everything. But yes, that too. The first conversation was rather embarrassing, but now it's easier. It will be for you as well," Margaret assured her.
Fanny thanked her and went away with a calculating expression. Margaret hoped she'd been right in speaking truthfully about how she felt. She knew that irritation in one area of marriage could bleed into other areas, until you were cross about everything. She wanted to convey to Fanny that communication was important, rather than attempting to make one's self experience something that you didn't want to.
.
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Production began to run much more smoothly in April. The output John had set for the two factories was finally being met, and his new employees were working very efficiently. So efficiently, in fact, that he was constantly at war with himself over his need to intervene in the operation, and knowing that the factory was already a successful enterprise. He and Margaret had lost no time in organizing another mess hall in the new mill, and adding the children to the schoolhouse. John also increased the wages of the hands, as Mr. Ryder hadn't been paying them particularly well.
He and Margaret also debated over whether to change the name of their business to their own, since they now had the addition of another factory under their charge. But they ultimately decided that Marlborough Mill had too much recognition for a change to be useful.
This became even more apparent when a journalist from London came to Milton to interview John about the factory. This was nothing new, but this journalist wanted facts on the philanthropic improvements the Thorntons had made since John took over the mill.
John and Margaret spent a few good hours with the journalist, explaining all the changes that had occurred, from the layout of the mill to the dust masks. The man was very enthusiastic, and excitedly asking them any number of questions. He scribbled down everything he heard and saw.
"You've bought another factory recently, is that true?"
"A textile factory, yes. Three months ago. They dye and print fabrics," John replied.
"What prompted that decision?"
"We wanted to expand our enterprise, and be able to offer our buyers additional products that they often required anyway."
"Have you already introduced your improvements there?"
"Aye, in production and for the well-being of the workers."
"Why did you chose to focus on these improvements in particular?"
John motioned to Margaret, indicating that those were her projects. Margaret cheerfully described how her work at the hospital led her to create the dust masks, and her exposure to the mill prompted the addition of all the rest.
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The article was published on both sides of the North Atlantic. John soon began receiving a multitude of letters. Some were new contracts; others were more people inquiring about investments. But quite a few of them were philanthropists and humanitarians who wrote to praise their attention to the welfare of others. The proprietor of the Exchange and the mayor also wrote to him, thanking him for the positive attention for Milton, helping ease people's indignation over the factory conditions in the North. Even Fred wrote to congratulate him, having read the article in the English newspapers supplied to expatriates abroad.
Fred also wrote to Margaret, telling her that he'd made some wonderful new friends in Madrid; a group of artists and poets. His letter was filled with all the adventures they'd had, with barely a reference to his fits. Margaret had decided to cautiously hope that was due to his lack of them, rather than him discontinuing his routine.
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For Margaret's birthday, John planned a few days away in the mountains of Derbyshire. They took the carriage and Gus, and spent their time hiking over the hills. Completely secluded from everyone, Margaret tied her skirts up nearly to her thighs and savored being able to move more freely.
At the the crest of the mountain top, he and Margaret sat on the edge of a rocky ledge, admiring the spectacular view. Gus was afraid of the drop and instead lay down behind them, panting heavily from his brisk trot beside them.
"I'm always glad I live in a city, until I come to a place like this," she observed. "A little stone cottage all the way out here would be heaven."
"I could do it for a little while. But I think the solitude would become to consuming after a while. I'm not someone who should be left alone with their thoughts," replied John lightly, shading his eyes from the afternoon sun. Margaret leant against him with a sigh.
"I love how wild the scenery is here. I'm used to country land that is uniform, not this organized chaos that's allowed to reign free. And the multitude of greens! Those would make a perfect design –"
"None of that. No work, remember?" John reminded her.
"As if you aren't composing letters to Williams and Anderson inside your mind right now!" she shot back.
"I'm doing it quietly," he laughed.
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They arrived back at the inn rather late and missed dinner as a result. But they were able to find something far better to do.
With only the firelight illuminating the room, Margaret was beyond enticing. She removed her clothes slowly, teasing him. Even her corset, a new one, which was a plainer design that laced up at the front. She undid each item completely before letting it fall to the floor, standing at a maddening distance from the bed that he couldn't touch her.
When she came closer to him, he reached out and dragged her roughly against him, pulling her to straddle him.
"Don't make me wait any longer," he moaned. "That was torture."
Margaret giggled but did as he asked. Without bothering to remove anything more than his waistcoat, she unbuttoned his trousers and took him in hand, making him groan loudly. She went slowly again, smiling against his lips when he made a noise of frustration. John tangled one hand in her hair, using the other to pleasure her too. She was soon stroking him faster in response to her own heightened feeling. He was much closer than her and so gathered her in his arms and twisted them both until she was laying across the bed and he could slide his tongue inside her. Margaret cried out joyfully at the sensation, using one of her legs to press him closer to her. It wasn't long before she came apart, quickly keeling to the floor to return the favour. He was so tense from her teasing and his attention to her that he fell apart hard, moaning her name.
Margaret stood up and languidly pushed him back to the bed, sinking down to lay beside him. She trailed her fingertips down his sweaty chest, undoing his shirt as she went.
"Don't fall asleep, my love. I'm not even close to being finished with you," John promised breathlessly.
Margaret shifted up onto her elbow, leaning down to kiss him. When she pulled away, her expression was one of a beautiful desire.
"I want to watch you again," she whispered, dragging her tongue against his bare chest.
John groaned. He slid his hands down her arms, guiding her own hands to her core. "You first."
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"Here, what do you make of this?"
John reached across the breakfast table to give Margaret a letter and a thick card that was written in an elegant hand. The card was a formal invitation, requesting the company of Mr. and Mrs. John Thornton to visit the Earl of Calverton at his country estate, Whalton Park in Northumberland, three weeks hence.
John had been writing back and forth with Lord Calverton since the end of April. The Earl was the Lord Lieutenant of the Northumberland militia, and had commissioned Marlborough Mill to supply the dyed cloth for part of the militia's new uniforms, as well as for the livery of the Earl's two hundred employees in his personal homes.
Margaret read through the letter quickly, also surprised at the invitation. The contact had been completed not long ago and should've been the end of the arrangement.
"'I have been following your enterprise with the utmost interest recently. I am simply astounded at the scale of your mill and the leaps you have made in such a short span of time. The article in The Evening Standard intrigued me greatly; your humanitarian focus, while still maintaining a reputation for the largest cotton production in Britain. I wish to invite you and your wife to spend five days at my estate, so that I might meet you in person and learn more about your incredible rise to power.'" Margaret read aloud in astonishment. "Goodness. He makes you sound like a dictator."
John snorted. "Have you met him before? In London?"
"I don't believe so," replied Margaret, wrinkling her brow, trying to remember. "The name is familiar. His family name is Hampton-Claire if I remember rightly, but I don't think I've met anyone with connections to that family."
"Do you think we should attend?"
"Of course you should attend," Mother exclaimed. "One of your clients has asked to meet with you."
"In a rather odd way," John frowned. "I've never met him in person before. A more fitting course would be to visit us here."
"Perhaps he cannot be away from the estate."
"While we can be away from our business for twice as long?"
"We're putting too much thought into this," Margaret said. "I think he meant it to be for entertainment, and talk business at the same time."
"Because it wouldn't occur to an earl that we might have more pressing obligations," said John sourly.
"None of that," Margaret replied reprovingly. "The more I read this letter, the more I think he is very enthusiastic to meet you. He's read about us, and is simply curious."
John sighed. "Very well. Five days away shouldn't be a problem. I can't say I have a burning desire to visit a country estate, but we might as well go and see what all the fuss is about."
"I can't believe you're going on a trip again but still won't take me to Sussex!" exclaimed Fanny crossly.
"Nottingham is far closer. Please, Fanny, don't start again," said John wearily, when she opened her mouth to retort. "I will take you when we return."
Margaret understood Fanny's irritation; she herself knew how awful it was to be separated for one's fiancé, but Fanny was also becoming rather snappish in her demands. Mr. Harris had visited again only a few weeks ago, and John spoke the truth; they simply didn't have the time. There was one one else to take her; Mother was not keen to journey so far, and Edith had too many engagements at present to act as chaperone.
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Margaret hadn't been on a country visit in years but remembered most of what ought to be done. She asked Caoimhe to retrieve the travelling trunks from the attic and set about making a list of everything that would need to be done between now and then. Lord Calverton had included a train schedule in the letter that followed the Thorntons acceptance, and explained that a carriage would be waiting to take them on the half hour journey from Newcastle to his estate. This was a kind gesture and meant that she and John would not have to deprive Mother of the carriage for a long exhausting drive across several counties.
Margaret asked Mama to come for tea, so that she could be sure she'd thought of everything.
"I'll have to order a new evening gown, he's sure to host a least one formal dinner," said Margaret, examining her list. "And tails and white tie for John. We might get invited to more of these in the future, we ought to be prepared."
"I don't think there will be enough time for you to go to London to be fitted," Mama fretted.
"No, we'll go to York."
"You'll need a country dress as well."
Margaret looked at Mama in surprise. "No I don't."
"Of course you do, what will you wear for the hunt?"
"Mama, there won't be a hunt. It's a business visit, not a friendly one."
"You can't invite guests to a country house and not shoot," Mama insisted.
"Lord Calverton knows we're not a hunting family. It would be more remiss of him to hold a shooting party in these circumstances."
Margaret had to chivvy John into coming to York with her to be fitted for his formal evening wear; he thought it an unnecessary extravagance, but Margaret knew that these visits were huge undertakings and that the etiquette must be followed to the letter.
"Perhaps we ought to ask Hayden to come with us as your valet," she mused.
"I don't need a valet. I'm perfectly able to dress myself," John replied irritably.
Margaret rolled her eyes. "Fine. I hope you don't bite the head off the footman they send up to attend to you."
All of their new clothing arrived on time and Margaret and Caoimhe carefully packed up everything in the trunks. She was particularly excited about her new evening gown – a lovely mulberry coloured one with dozens of flowers embroidered in silver thread, cascading down from her waist to the floor. They also went through Margaret's jewelry box and selected the pieces they thought she would need.
"I'm nervous, ma'am. They'll judge you on my behaviour. What if I forget things?" asked Caoimhe worriedly.
Margaret smiled. "Just remember you're above almost everyone else in station. You are the one to give instructions about how you want things done. If you have any questions, don't ask – demand, as though they ought to have read your mind and known you needed it in advance," she told her, half in jest. Caoimhe was Irish; Margaret hoped the others would be kind to her.
"What if I don't know my way 'round the house?"
"They'll show you were to go; they won't expect you to know things like that. The footman will take the luggage, and you'll follow him around to the courtyard and the servant's entrance. The butler will introduce himself and tell you which room we're in and what time he's to ring the dressing bell. I'm not sure when you'll eat dinner; lots of places do it differently. I expect before the family does, so it might be as soon as we get there."
"Shall I take the dressin' case with me?" asked Caoimhe, indicating to the case they were packing all of Margaret's toiletries into.
"Yes please, we don't carry anything in."
"You're making this far more complicated than it needs to be," John said from behind them. Margaret turned and made a face at him. He was leaning against the doorframe, glowering at the two women.
"It is complicated. There's a lot riding on this. What if this visit leads to other commissions?"
"Then it does. I don't see how wearing tails is going to influence anything."
"How like a man. You'll thank me when you see everyone else is dressed the same way."
They left Milton at midday so that they could arrive in Newcastle in the late afternoon. The carriage that was sent to pick them up was an elegant one, with a coachman, and a footman who stood at the back and leapt down quickly to help Margaret inside.
The short drive was beautifully scenic; they soon were out of the town and jolting down the road to Walton Park. The winding road cut through the hills, almost the entire road was lined with trees. In contrast, the gravel drive up to the house was a straight line, with a small circle at the base of the house to allow the carriage to turn around. The sun lit up the stone house with a wonderful orange glow.
It was a huge stately house, shaped rather like an E without the middle bar. A wide set of steps led to a grassy landing, and to another set of steps that led to the front doors. Livered servants were lined up on the second tier, maids on one side and footman on the other. John stepped out first and helped Margaret down.
"Hello, hello! Welcome to Walton!" puffed Lord Calverton, bouncing down the steps to greet them. "A pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Thornton. I can honestly say that you live up to your name."
"Lord Calverton," John greeted him. "Thank you for inviting us. This is my wife, Margaret Thornton."
Lord Calverton turn to her, a wide grin on his face. "The pleasure is all mine. I'm pleased to put faces to names at last. Come in, come in. We've tea set up in the small library."
Margaret liked Lord Calverton instantly; he was very personable and enthusiastic. He was a short, balding man with the beginning of a paunch, but carried himself with a rather graceful air. He led the couple through the foyer, their hats and coats taken by the waiting servants, then showed them to the ante library. It was a rather dull room; the books and walls being almost the exact same toffee shade.
"Margaret?"
A tall woman with beautiful brown hair stood and came towards her, a look of delight on her face. It took Margaret an agonizing moment to place her.
"Charlotte! Lady Calverton," she amended quickly.
"Oh, never mind that! It is you! How wonderful you look!" she gushed, embracing her lightly. "It's been ages since I saw you last, why, almost five years now."
"Yes, a long time," replied Margaret, still a little staggered.
"All this time Lord Calverton spoke of the Thorntons, I had no idea we had a connection!" she cried, grinning happily at her husband.
"Well, what a wonderful coincidence!" Lord Calverton beamed. "This is going to be an excellent visit."
Charlotte turned to John and said brightly; "I'm so happy you've come. Margaret and I were good friends in London, we came out together. Seems like such a long time ago, doesn't it? Come, sit and have some tea. We'll have a little chat before dinner. We've invited a few of our neighbors as well, so it'll be a merry party."
After everyone had settled, the butler made the rounds with the tea. Charlotte peppered Margaret with questions about her life since she'd left London. Charlotte was the daughter of a baronet, so to have married an earl and become a countess must've pleased her family to no end, but Charlotte didn't harbor such conceited behavior herself. She'd been one of the few of her London acquaintances that Margaret had liked.
"How exciting to live in a place like Milton at a time like this, to be right at the front of all this industry. Do you enjoy it?"
"Very much. Our house is actually inside the mill yard, so we are closer than most," Margaret smiled.
"How thrilling! What an exciting industry to be in. I read that article after Lord Calverton wrote to you, such brilliant ideas the two of you have."
"Marlborough Mill will revolutionize the cotton industry, mark my words," Lord Calverton supplied dramatically.
Margaret grinned at that, pleased at the compliment. She glanced at John, who smiled half-heartedly at the pronouncement. John said very little, perhaps to give Margaret and Charlotte time to catch up.
"Oh, there's the dressing bell. Clara, will you show the Thorntons up to their room?" Charlotte asked, turning to the maid, who nodded. "Dinner will be half an hour; we'll meet in the blue drawing room. It's at the end of the hallway to the left."
John and Margaret followed the maid to a bedroom that was at the extreme end of the wing, and had a wonderful view of a lake. Their cases had already been delivered; Caoimhe arrived promptly after Margaret rang the bell for her.
"No trouble finding your way then?" she said amusedly.
"I walked it a couple times so I would know the way," Caoimhe replied, grinning. "It's a grand house, isn't it? The footman downstairs was tellin' me the estate is over a thousand acres!"
Margaret chose her pleated green dress for dinner, wanting to save her new one for a grander night.
"Which one would you have me wear?" John asked Margaret bitingly, indicating to his evening outfits.
Margaret was a little taken aback at his rudeness. "The black tie; tonight won't be so formal," she said quietly.
John disappeared into the dressing room, the door banging shut behind him.
"Is everythin' all right, ma'am?" Caoimhe asked after an awkward pause.
"I'm not sure," whispered Margaret. She couldn't imagine what had irritated John so, particularly enough to snap at her. Nothing had happened since this morning, to her knowledge, and he'd been perfectly fine then.
She finished dressing in silence, and sent Caoimhe off with their travelling clothes, so that they could be cleaned. John returned to the bedroom, looking handsome despite his frown. He wore a look that she hadn't seen in ages, not since they'd been married. He was holding himself very stiffly, the corners of his mouth turned down in distaste.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes," she replied warily, taking his arm. He barely looked at her as they made their way down the carved staircase to the drawing room. He didn't remark on how beautiful she looked, as he normally did when they dressed up like this. Margaret's mind spun in circles, wondering what she might have done to upset him and why he wasn't saying so.
The room had two more couples in addition to Lord and Lady Calverton; they were introduced as Sir and Lady Merton, and Mr. and Mrs. Hartford. Everyone was friendly and welcoming, except John, who spoke only when someone asked him a question directly. The arrival of another pair, the Beatons, signaled the completion of their number and the butler announced dinner.
Margaret could see that John had been about to follow their hosts through the door, a logical move, but logic was not at play here. She stealthily held his arm so that the two of them waited until everyone but the Hartfords had gone through, then followed.
"What was that for?" he whispered irritably.
"Order of precedence," she whispered back. "You're a magistrate, that means we're supposed to go through next."
John made an annoyed noise. They sat opposite each other, and so Margaret was able to see every cross expression on his face. She was so preoccupied by his odd behavior that she hardly paid attention to Mr. Beaton who, thankfully, talked enough for both of them. The food was lovely and delicate, but Margaret couldn't appreciate it. John was behaving almost rudely and it concerned her.
Everyone here had heard of them and spoke easily about their own interests in manufacturing.
"How is it you got into the cotton industry, Mr. Thornton?" asked Sir Merton.
"Necessity."
The short reply bemused Margaret. It was a sad story, but John had explained it to others without such abruptness.
"How do you enjoy Milton?" asked Mrs. Beaton, directing the question at Margaret.
"It's wonderful; always moving forward. It has a unique beauty to it," she replied, trying to smile.
Dinner was long and awkward. Margaret had almost forgotten how boring these things were most of the time. It was particularly difficult when no one knew each other, and topics were only superficial ones. The dinner parties they held at the manor weren't nearly so stiff, as everyone had common links. John also did not have a liking for large groups; perhaps that was why he was acting so severe.
An hour and a half later, the ladies rose and returned to the drawing room. Margaret wished they weren't separating; she wanted to get John alone to ask him what was bothering him.
Charlotte came and sat beside her. Margaret was glad to see a familiar face.
"You look a little flushed," Charlotte observed quietly with a look of concern. "I hope I didn't alarm you with the party. I remember you not enjoying such things."
"Oh no, I'm fine. Only, I'd forgotten how taxing these things are," Margaret assured her.
Charlotte smiled. "I can't say I'm surprised at the avenue your life took. I never thought you'd be the type to content to remain in London forever. How is it you came to be in Milton?"
"We moved there after my father decided to take up teaching. He is a professor now, at the new college there."
"Was it quite an adjustment? It's such a different environment than in London."
"Yes it was, but a lovely one. Milton suits me much better than London did."
"I don't remember reading about your about your marriage in the papers. How long have you been married?"
"Almost a year," Margaret smiled. "It was only put in locally."
"I've been married two. I can't say I was taken with George when I first met him," confided Charlotte. "It was my parents who pushed me to make his acquaintance and put myself forward as a candidate. He wasn't fooled of course, society mamas pushed their daughters at him all the time. I didn't want to put in the path of a man like him, and he didn't want to be married. He much preferred the company of women he didn't have to attach himself to. We greatly disliked each other, and we didn't bother to hide it. That led to some rather backhanded maneuvers from the both of us. But then we found we actually enjoyed how… real we were with each other. All our flaws and impoliteness out for the other to see, rather than the prettiness of a façade. When he finally did propose, we were both half in love already, and we've only grown closer since."
"How lovely," smiled Margaret. "Very unconventional, and still worked out beautifully. That is similar to my marriage as well. Both of us from different poles, but our differences only strengthen our relationship."
"Yes, exactly," said Charlotte enthusiastically. "I've always felt that marriage ought to be a partnership, no matter who one is with. I married my family's candidate, it's true, but I didn't do it to please them; I did it because George was who I wanted to be with."
"Did you find it difficult coming into such a grand lifestyle?" asked Margaret curiously. The leap from baronet to earldom must have been a huge change.
"Oh yes, very much so. I felt quite flustered in the first few months, even with George helping me. I still have trouble getting the butler to agree with me sometimes. Raleigh is loyal to the estate rather than the transient family, so we are at loggerheads regularly. He has this way of staring at me in such bitter disappointment that it makes me want to agree to anything just to make him stop glaring at me."
Margaret giggled. "That does sound rather trying. I can't say I've experienced anything similar. My mother-in-law runs our house, while I work at the mill with John. Some of our male workers resented a woman's presence but I've won them over."
"I do admire that. How thrilling to do something so purposeful every day."
The men soon joined them, but Margaret and John were kept apart. Margaret was asked to join a game of whist, and John was being monopolized by Lord Calverton and Sir Merton. Margaret wondered what they could possibly be talking about that was making John look so out of sorts.
Finally, at nine o'clock, Charlotte announced that every one ought to retire. "We've a picnic planned for tomorrow. It'll be great fun!"
Back in their rooms, Margaret asked John cautiously; "What was Lord Calverton talking to you about?"
"This and that. Sir Merton talked of investing," he said with a frown. "With intelligence, I'll admit, but I still don't want to bring him in. Even with the new factory, we don't need it."
Margaret agreed, but was miffed by his dismissive tone.
"What's wrong, John? You've been off all day. You barely spoke a word during dinner."
"Nothing's wrong," he said shortly.
That irritated her. "Oh no, were not doing that. Either something is wrong and you tell me right now, or nothing is wrong, in which case you were being rude tonight for no other reason than to irritate everyone."
John scowled at her biting tone, clearly debating whether to answer her or not. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, his eyes hard.
"I feel… inadequate."
Margaret stared at him, stunned. "What?"
"Seeing you here, with your friend, talking with her… you knew all the rules, how everything was going to work in this grand house, and you're comfortable here, whereas I am not. You're used to this, from your aunt's house."
"My aunt's house was nowhere as grand as this."
"You know what I mean," he snapped. "If you had stayed in London, you could have all this too. It made me realize – truly realize – all you left behind."
"Not this again, John –"
"I'm not saying you don't love me, or that you aren't happy!" John insisted. "It just… never occurred to me how different our lives are."
"My old life," she emphasized. "I never wanted a life like this, not even back then. Could you really see me happy here? I'd be so restless and peevish." Exactly how she'd been feeling all evening.
John didn't look appeased. In fact, he was looking at her with a strange expression; defensive and self-conscious.
"And all these bloody rules. An order of procession to walk through a doorway, the hundred outfits for every occasion. You've packed us more things than you did for our month away!"
"Because that's how it works here," said Margaret, trying to explain. John was angry about something more, but she couldn't tell what. "It doesn't matter in Milton, but it does to these people. I was just –"
"Are you ashamed of me, is that it?" he demanded, his harsh gaze darting towards her and away again.
"Of course not!" she cried, horrified. "That's not what I was doing at all! I only wanted us to be prepared, not… pretending to be something we're not. I'm very sorry, John, if that was the impression I gave you."
Margaret thought back her actions, seeing them as he must have. She'd completely bowled him over these past weeks. She'd been so focused on making a good impression that she didn't stop to think. Margaret brushed off his comments, thinking he didn't understand the gravity of their visit, when in fact he'd been telling her his opinion on all of it. She'd completely dismissed his feelings when he would never do that to her.
She went quickly to his side, taking his hand. Margaret gingerly reached up and turned his face to look at her. "I'm so sorry, darling," she whispered, stroking his cheek. "I wasn't thinking. This was supposed to be a fun thing and I've spoilt it for you. I didn't think about how it made you feel."
John sighed heavily. "Perhaps I was too sensitive about it."
"No, this was all my fault," she insisted. "You told me what you thought and I didn't listen. I won't do that again. And I'm not ashamed of you, I could never be that. You are worth ten times more than any of those others."
He smiled softly. "I'm glad to hear you say so. I'd been apprehensive since we arrived and that hideous dinner just stoked it further."
"It was rather awful, wasn't it? Charlotte I like very well, but the others were such bores," she said lightly, then regarded him sadly.
"Have I ruined it for you? Shall we ask Lord Calverton to leave tomorrow?"
"No, we'll stay. Now that I know your reasoning, I'll be calmer. Though I can't promise to be any more comfortable."
"Nor I. I never really enjoyed making visits of this kind. But perhaps it will become more business focused tomorrow. If not, we shall be uncomfortable together."
John chuckled and Margaret smiled, relieved. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him close, very sorry to have hurt him.
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John was rudely awoken the next morning by the sound a military salute. He jerked into a sitting position, looking blearily for the source of the noise. Looking out the window, he saw a man in uniform marching resolutely up and down the green.
"It's the militia anthem," said Margaret sleepily, pulling him to lie next to her again. "He'll be back later to wake us up properly."
"How was that not a proper wake up call?" he grumbled, burying his head beneath the pillow to drown out the noise. Margaret didn't answer, having fallen back to sleep already. John tried to fall back asleep as well but wasn't able to. Breakfast wasn't scheduled to start until ten o'clock, which left rather a void to fill with idleness. Yet another thing to make him feel out of place here.
When the bugler came back an hour later, Margaret also decided she wasn't going to sleep much longer either. The two of them dressed and went for a walk over the estate.
The lawn was perfectly tended to, the trees and hedges shaped into smooth rounds. Everything about this place was perfect – too much so. The rooms inside were more akin to a museum than a home. How odd it must be to live in a place of such grandeur, knowing that it wasn't truly yours; you and your family were merely passing through, the keepers for this generation only.
Breakfast was a quiet affair and pleasanter than last night. The food was laid out carefully on the sideboard, the butler standing to attention beside it for no reason than John could see.
"We've the rest of the party arriving at one o'clock for the picnic. We'll all meet on the front lawn," announced Lady Calverton.
"Mr. Thornton, I was hoping I could steal you away for a bit before we leave. I've some marvelous volumes in the library I think will interest you. That is, if Mrs. Thornton doesn't mind," said Lord Calverton warmly.
"Certainly not, Lord Calverton," she smiled.
Margaret went off with the ladies for a stroll in the gardens, while John followed Lord Calverton into the larger library. The room was impressive; thousands of volumes lining the walls, some of them appearing to be very old indeed. Lord Calverton eagerly showed John his collection of works on cotton manufacture, proudly explaining that he had a deep interest in the trade. He was enthusiastic and knowledgeable enough that John was soon put at ease; the two of them discussing the books companionably enough.
Everyone went back upstairs to change again, the dress for the picnic being light coloured clothing. A marquee was set up, as well as small tables and chairs for people to gather around. The footman worked their way through the crowd with servers of refreshments.
John could think of nothing more boring than this; standing stiffly and people watching. Even Margaret was smiling glassily, but accepted sincere thanks over her gown – the accordion sleeves and printed violets gaining a number of accolades. She made sure to express that the fabric was produced by Marlborough Mill, hopefully garnishing more support for the milliners that stocked their fabrics.
.
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Charlotte took Margaret to visit with her children in the nursery before they went down to dinner. The baby girl was a year old, and Margaret could already tell she was going to have her mother's beautiful hair.
The other child was an older girl, who, at five, was too old to belong to both Lord Calverton and Charlotte, but Charlotte made no reference to it. She sat the little girl on to her lap and spoke as kindly with her as she did her own child. Clearly, she'd decided to accept all of Lord Calverton's past when they married, as she had implied when she confided in Margaret last night. Margaret was glad of that; it was a wonderful woman who would be so devoted to their husband's love child.
.
Dinner was easier than it had been the night before, although there was far more people. Margaret was seated beside the local physician and passed the time chatting happily with him about his cottage hospital that was in the neighboring village. The courses were also more elaborate, and included a different wine with each one. They were only small glasses, but Margaret had barely anything to eat all day and could feel herself slipping. She stopped after the port, but the damage was done, which rather accounted for her behavior later that night.
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.
"Are you drunk?" asked John amusedly, watching her clumsily try and secure her nightgown.
"Only a very little. A different wine with every course! I'd forgotten that nonsense. It's a wonder they're not always drunk as lords." Margaret paused then snorted inelegantly into her hand. "Ha! I just understood that!"
John laughed. "I feel a little worse for wear as well," he agreed. "Lord Calverton was rather interesting, but the rest of the day just dragged on. How do they stand it?"
"I want to know how they can be so still all the time. All the ladies just spent their time sitting around. That's alright in its own way, but every day? It's a wonder they don't suddenly run screaming, desperate to do something outrageous."
John paused, halting himself from getting into bed, a shocking idea forming in his mind. "I think that's just what we ought to do," he grinned, pulling Margaret close and kissing her deeply. She tasted of madeira and oranges.
"Do what?" she asked breathlessly.
'Something outrageous," he murmured, kissing her neck. "Something reckless, to use up all the energy from today."
He ran his tongue against her ear, back to her lips. She pulled him harder against her body, molding herself to him.
"In the library," he whispered, voicing the fantasy she'd first spoken of in Yorkshire. Margaret stared at him, her expression torn between desire and cautiousness, before desire won. His own desire mounting, her took her hand and the two of them crept quietly down to the lower floors. There was no one about; everything was cleared, the lamps extinguished.
Propelled by alcohol and lust, the two of them were soon ensconced in the smaller library, Margaret sitting on the edge of the desk, her nightgown around her waist. He shoved himself into her frantically, both of them biting down on each other lips in an effort not to moan aloud. Margaret accidently dislodged a book in her passion; the thump of it landing on the ground sounding loud enough to wake the whole house. They both stilled their movements, John buried inside her, holding their breath in an effort to not be discovered.
They heard footsteps outside the door, both of them simultaneously remembering they had neglected to lock it in their haste. John grinned wickedly, and resumed his actions despite the heightened threat of interruption, pressing his thumb to her lips when she moaned. Margaret sucked his thumb into her mouth, eyes locked on his. She glided her tongue against him, becoming more ardent the higher she climbed. She came apart hard and he crushed her mouth with his quickly, muffling her cry.
She pushed him back, his body sliding out of hers. She knelt to the ground and took him in her mouth, the mingling of the two tastes causing her to grab wildly at his thighs. He pushed his hands into her hair, gripping tightly when she pressed her tongue against him in just the right way. She worked him quickly, gleefully and he shattered; collapsing with his hands on the desk in front of him. A whisper of noise and he had barely a second to grab the closest book and push Margaret further under the desk, before the door was opened by a footman.
"Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you," he said, calling up every bit of self-control he possessed to keep his voice impassive. "I just came in for a book."
"Of course, sir."
The door snicked closed again. John dropped to his knees and kissed Margaret ardently; both of them laughing soundlessly.
"Do you think he suspected?" asked Margaret breathlessly.
"I think I was pretty convincing," replied John smugly.
"Except for your wild hair."
"… Damn. We may have to tip him extra when we leave."
"It could've been worse. At least we're married; I bet he's walked in on far more scandalous lovers' trysts," said Margaret.
"That's an unpleasant thought; the fact that servants know so much about their employers lives. I bet some of them know devastating secrets about important people. I wonder if any would blackmail them?"
John stood and pulled Margaret to her feet. They both straightened their clothes, checking the other over amusedly.
"Maybe, if they we're bold enough to try. This story wouldn't be too shocking though, so nothing to worry about," said Margaret, smoothing down her hair as best she could.
"Wouldn't it?" chortled John. "'Manufacturer and his wife abandon duties to pleasure themselves in library of their benefactor'? Sounds like it would sell a few papers."
"Who says I was there?" grinned Margaret. "I was under the desk; he probably couldn't see me. So it would have just looked like you get too excited by libraries."
"Minx!"