Chapter Twenty-Nine
Business matters did not improve. In fact, they had gotten significantly worse.
Margaret felt entirely alone, despite being surrounded by so many people every single day. Her husband was comatose indefinitely, her mother-in-law never left his side until Margaret was able to stop working and spend time with John herself. Mary was wholly preoccupied in taking care of the young Boucher children, as well as the remaining injured who had returned to the Princeton District. Dixon was still visiting with her sister in the country, and probably did not even know of the fire. The extent of her remaining family's concern was limited to a letter expressing condolences towards the imminent death of her husband. Her parents were dead, and she was alone. She had Nicholas; but ever since she proposed that they become business partners and reestablishment the Mill together, he was just as busy as she was. The only conversations they ever had time for were directly related to business, and that was if they even had the time to begin them.
There was so much more to do than Margaret even thought possible. They had to organize the safe deconstruction of the Mill itself, they needed to inspect all the machinery individually to determine if they were even fit to be used. They needed to dispose of each body individually as they happened upon it in the clearing process. They had to contact suppliers to conduct an arrangement for bulk orders of cotton. They had to contact each buyer in the hopes that they would still consider doing business with them. They had to ward off investors and bankers alike, each clamoring for their money, believing that Marlborough Mills was finished. The latter had by far been the most difficult opposition yet.
Margaret had known all that time ago when she accepting John's proposal, that this was likely ruining his reputation as well. But it had never been so blaringly obvious just how badly she had damaged his respectability until she began to take his affairs into her own hands. Throughout the duration of their marriage she had been unable to go out in public without dressing herself down, and even then it was only so that she could make it to the Princeton District. Almost every shop, street vendor, and respectable person either forced her to leave, or abruptly closed their place of business when they spotted her. Speaking to highly respectable businessmen within Milton was just as difficult. Part of it she was certain must be her gender; business after all, was strictly a mans world, and women had no place in it. More of her difficulties she feared had stemmed from her tattered reputation.
It had been one of two main factors that inspired her to offer Nicholas a partnership in Marlborough Mills. Something she thought John might be pleased with, even if he did not ever know it for himself. They had been close friends for some time. The other contributing factor was simply that Nicholas knew the cotton industry just as well as John did. He knew every process of Mill operation, every intricate part of the looms, and if Margaret were honest, she needed someone she trusted to be the face. She could not do it herself, but Nicholas' reputation was vastly better than her own. A knock sounded at the door of John's study in the early hours of one day, and she looked up from her papers to see Carter.
"Mistress." He said politely, bowing his head a little. Margaret inclined her own head by way of acknowledgement and smiled at him. "I have inspector Mason here to speak with you." Margaret frowned, highly puzzled as Mason entered and Carter left, closing the door behind him.
"Hello Inspector," She said somewhat cautiously. She had not been expecting him any time soon.
"Mrs. Thornton." He said, looking at her with a carefully neutral expression. Margaret felt a sense of unease as she looked at him. "Forgiive me for coming unannounced, but I needed to ask you a few more questions." Margaret nodded, still rather wary.
"Please, do sit." Mason shook his head, and opened his small notepad.
"I need to know where you were on the morning of the fire." Margaret narrowed her eyes slightly, wondering why he needed to ask her these questions again.
"I was under the impression that I had already given my full account of that day to you." She said, carefully schooling her expressions into calm indifference.
"Yes Ma'am you have." He replied. "I'm afraid that I need you to make that statement once more."
"Am I under investigation?" Margaret asked incredulously. Mason did not respond, but looked her directly in the face. It was answer enough. "You believe I started the fire?!"
"I did not suggest that." He replied tersely.
"Your silence suggested it enough." She muttered, positively furious. "You want to know where I was that morning?" Again the inspector did not respond, but he removed the cap from a fountain pen and positioned above his paper. "I was at Crampton, packing my dead father's belongings into a box." She spat venomously. Mason paused in his writing to look up at her face his mask still firmly in place. Margaret cursed herself for her loss in composure.
"I may need you provide me with an alibi for the evening of the fourteenth, between five and six thirty in the evening. Can you do that?" Margaret faltered.
"That was approximately the time I was walking home." She said quietly.
"So you cannot provide me with an alibi?" He asked shrewdly.
"I was walking home," Margaret replied. "Anyone in the streets would have seen."
"But you cannot undeniably confirm your location on that day and time?"
"Of course I can," Margaret replied scathingly. "But it is obvious that you'll need more than simply my word on it." Mason narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly at her. "You may write to my servant Dixon who is on holiday with her sister. We both left my father's house at the same time on the evening of the fourteenth at approximately six in the evening. I could not tell you what time I arrived at Marlborough, I was rather preoccupied, as was everyone else. Do you have any other questions for me?"
"Just one." Mason replied, still focusing on something he was currently writing in his notebook.
"Well? I have rather a lot to be getting on with." She knew her tone was too waspish to be considered polite, but she had long since moved passed caring. The inspector closed his notebook, stowing it and the fountain pen safely away in his jacket pocket, before focusing completely upon her.
"Did you start the fire that burned down Marlborough Mills?"
Several moments passed in which neither said nothing, but stared intently, silently accusing.
"No, I did not." She replied lowly, her voice shaking furiously at the effort of suppressing her anger. "What in God's name made you think such a thing."
"Oh I'm not the only one to think it, to be sure." Mason replied, looking inordinately smug about something that eluded Margaret at the moment. It did nothing but make her angrier. "The way I see it, Mrs. Thornton." He began once more, somewhat circling her like a starving vulture. "You have quite a lot to gain out of this…unfortunate circumstance."
"Excuse me?!" She exclaimed, her patience and composure snapping like a taut thread.
"With your husband out of the way," He continued as though she had not spoken at all. "You become independent, free to do what you will with his money and his business."
"Are you accusing me of attempting to murder my husband?!" She cried.
"Of course not." He replied, flipping out his notepad and scribbling something rather quickly. "But that is an interesting theory." He flipped the notepad closed with a snap, and picked up his hat off the chair looking extremely pleased with himself. "Have a good day Mrs. Thornton." He replied smugly, and quitted the room.
Margaret only made it approximately fifteen seconds before picking up her teacup and smashing violently against the wall. Unfortunately took her another ten minutes to clean it all up.
How could this have happened? How could it be that she was now a suspect in-that she actually started that fire as a way to- She fought the urge to break something else. Dear God, what was happening to her life? John was her husband, the man she had married, the man she loved. How could anyone have come to the conclusion that she would commit such a crime? That she would set fire to the Mill, causing the death of over one hundred innocent men, women, and children? That she would do it to destroy her husband? To murder him? And for what purpose? Money?
This was the moment, Margaret realized. This was the moment where she grasped the full implications of her actions at Outwood Station. It was all coming full circle. How could she prove her innocence, when there was none left to believe her? John's reputation had saved her twice before, but it wasn't enough anymore. John wasn't here to save her, again. Margaret never realized until that moment, exactly how much she actually relied and depended upon John. Even before she became his wife, she depended on him. All the way back to before her mother became ill, before the ill-timed proposal, back to the moment she had stepped foot in Milton, she had been completely dependent upon him. Everything she ever needed, he had always provided it. And now he was gone. Alive and dead at the same time. She could not do this without him. The door opened then, and Nicholas walked in with his face buried one of John's ledgers.
"Margaret we might have a problem with-are you alright?" Margaret looked up at him from her usual seat behind John's desk. When she had sat down there, she did not know.
"I am as well as I have been Nicholas." She replied shortly, forcing all of her thoughts, her emotions into a box, suppressing them until she could not feel anymore. She could tell Nicholas did not believe her, but he did not question her on it. "What's happened?" Nicholas sighed heavily.
"I've been trying to organize getting the kitchen up and running so that we might feed the workers, but I've been going through the ledgers and run into a slight problem."
"What kind of problem?" Margaret asked dryly. Truth be told she wasn't all that interested in what Nicholas had to say at the moment. As much as she had tried to suppress everything, it was a little difficult to put aside the accusation of slaughtering dozens of people. What he had to say would no doubt pale in comparison to her morning news. In response, Nicholas handed her a small stack of papers, including the one he had been reading as he walked in. Margaret scanned the first page disinterestedly until her eyes caught sight of the last entry John had made on the morning of the fire.
"What?" She asked aloud, more to herself than anyone else. Quickly she grabbed the other pages, reading them as quickly as she could. She looked up at Nicholas, alarm swelling within her. She had been wrong; this was just as bad as the news she had received that morning.
"Are you certain?" She asked.
"I'm positive." He replied grimly. "The Mill has no money left." Margaret let out a shaky breath.
"There has to be some sort of mistake." Margaret said, shaking her head in outright denial. "He never said anything about this."
"Begging your pardon Miss Margaret, but I'm sure there's quite a lot he never mentioned to you." Nicholas said. Margaret cast a scathing glance in his direction.
"He would have told me about this." Margaret said firmly. "He would have told me if the Mill was failing." Nicholas looked at her somewhat skeptically, and she willed herself to believe that it was true. "It's not as though it's something that could be hidden!" She cried. She didn't understand why she suddenly felt so defense.
"All I'm saying is that he closed out his ledger with a negative balance. It's his writing." Margaret sighed loudly, before standing and hurriedly collecting the papers. "Where are you going?" Nicholas asked suspiciously.
"To see Mr. Latimer, Nicholas." She paused in the doorway. "He's the only one who really knows."
Mr. Latimer did know; quite a lot more than even John recorded in his ledgers. But he simply refused to speak to Margaret on any such matters concerning their financial status. He told her he still had to maintain his respectability, and with Margaret now officially suspected as the cause of the fire, he would not be sharing any information with her. The only thing he had done for her was to inform her that they had no money left in the business accounts, and that until her husband woke, she would have no access to his money. This had been the straw the broke the camels back for her.
"How can you deny me access to his accounts?" She demanded.
"I am sorry Mrs. Thornton," He replied, sounding anything but. "The police have frozen all of your joint assets for the time being. Until your name is cleared or your husband wakes, there is nothing I can do for you."
"How am I to care for my husband without money to do so?!" She cried.
"You may forward the doctor's bills to the bank, and we will take care to pay them out of his accounts."
"Absolutely not!" Margaret was fuming. "This money belongs to my husband! It is not your duty to pay his bills in his absence! That right belongs to his next of kin." Mr. Latimer scoffed.
"He does not have suitable next of kin, Mrs. Thornton." He was practically sneering at her, and it took Margaret every ounce of self control to suppress the desire to lunge at him.
"He has a brother-in-law! I have a cousin, who is a lawyer. Perhaps it might be considered proper to allow Mr. Watson to take charge of things, since I am not suitable!" He looked somewhat stunned at her determination.
"Mr. Watson informed me that you rejected his offer to take over the accounts in John's absence."
"I rejected his offer of taking over my husbands Mill!" She all but growled between clenched teeth. "I have no issue with him handling the accounts."
"Very well." Mr. Latimer replied icily, clearly none too pleased with their conversation. Margaret shared the sentiment tenfold. "I will contact him and inform of the changes in responsibility. Good day Mrs. Thornton." It was a rather clear and rude dismissal, but Margaret could care less. She was hardly eager to spend a moment longer in his company. She walked furiously, just under what could be considered stomping, threw the door open wide, and left without troubling herself to close it behind her. Her only hope now remained with Mr. Bell. Perhaps she could ask him not to uproot them from Marlborough just yet. At least give them some time to find somewhere else to live.
She quickly walked to his hotel, and approached a man seated behind a counter.
"Excuse me," She asked as politely as she could. "My name is Margaret Thornton, and I am looking for Adam Bell. He is my Godfather." The young man looked at her quizzically before replying.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Thornton, but Mr. Bell left early this morning for his passage to South America." Margaret's heart seemed to stop.
"I'm sorry, South America?" She asked. "Are we speaking of the same Mr. Bell?"
"He is the only Adam Bell we had staying here." He replied, looking extremely apologetic. "I helped him out to the carriage this morning; he said he was leaving to spend his remaining days in South America." Margaret stared at him in shock. "I'm sorry ma'am, didn't you know?"
"No." She replied quietly. "No I did not." She thanked the young man, and walked home in somewhat of a daze.
She spent the next several hours tearing both John's study, and his office to shreds, looking for any record he might have of their personal finances. She needed to know how much money they had. Workers were starving, the Mill needed to be rebuilt, they needed supplies for their own house, she was certain. But there was nothing. Why wouldn't he keep records of his account? It wasn't like him; he was incredibly fastidious. There must be records of it somewhere. But nearly two hours of demolishing the likely areas had produced nothing, and Margaret was beginning to crack under the strain of the day. There was only one possible reason she could think of that explained why she still could not find the ledger: John must have hidden it. And if John had hidden it, then it must have been to make sure that Margaret never saw it. Which could only mean that their own finances were in crises, that John had known about this for some time, and had not spoken to her about it at all. Nicholas had been right.
Margaret felt angry, so very angry, and even just a little betrayed. She had been by his side through this God-forsaken insanity, lived through every moment of neglect from him, but this was by far the worst series of events she had ever experienced. The small glimmer of hope and encouragement she had felt at the news of Fanny's pregnancy had all but vanished in a wisp of smoke. John had been getting better; why hadn't he told her? Why hadn't he given her just a hint of the ruin they were facing? Margaret was not a very material person, but this was different. He had said nothing about financial problems with the Mill, and nothing about their own. True, he had been unable to during the peak of his illness, but he had been recovering. He could have said something then. Had he planned on waiting until they didn't have a single pound left, and then come home to pack her belongings and uproot them? How could he have kept this from her? Why hadn't she been observant enough to see it for herself? She could not do this alone. She could not do this without John.
She needed John. She needed her husband, but he was not here.
She made her way to her bedroom, needing to escape for just a moment. She needed to get rid of the world, and sit by her husband, and fool herself into believing that everything was alright. That John was only sleeping, that he would wake and comfort her, and tell her she would never be alone again. That he would never leave her, ever again. But it was not to be. If he did not wake soon…he would be gone forever.
Hannah and Fanny seemed to understand her desire to be alone with John the moment she entered the room. She heard the door click shut quietly as she desperately grasped his hand. She pushed her chair as close to his side as she could, and rather awkwardly laid her head down on his chest, listening to the proof of his existence. The steady and calm thrumming of his heart, the expansion of his chest as he breathed… proof that he was still here with her. Proof that he had not left her permanently. The pressure of the day, the overwhelming mountain of stress that had been heaped so ungraciously upon her in that day pushed itself to the front of her mind. Agitated, she stood up, pacing and forcing the offending feelings aside. That was when she saw it. A leather bound book sitting in an open drawer in John's wardrobe on top of a stack of neatly folded cravats. She crossed the room quickly and snatched it up.
This was the very book she had been searching for; the one that contained the records of their personal finances. She opened it, immediately recognizing John's handwriting, and scanned the first page. June two years previous right after he proposed to her the first time. She flipped through to the end of June, and looked at the final balance: Eight thousand six hundred and ninety-two pounds. Margaret nearly choked on her own breath. She knew he had money, but she never knew…it did not matter. She flipped through the remaining pages, past the expenses of Fanny's wedding, up to the date of their marriage: one thousand thirty-seven pounds. She quickly located his last entry, also recorded on the morning of the fire: two hundred eighty-one pounds. She let out a shaky breath and set the book gently back in his wardrobe before going back to her husbands side.
"Why did you not tell me?" She asked brokenly, clasping his hand once more. Her eyes burned, and she blinked quickly with the hope of dispelling tears. "Why couldn't you let me in John, why?" His face remained perfectly emotionless. She was through with this; she needed her husband, if for nothing else than to listen to what was happening around them. What was now happening to them. She lost control of everything then; her composure, her emotions, her words, everything.
"I can't do this without you anymore John!" She burst. The tears fell fast and free, and it took an effort not to scream from the overwhelming feelings now battling for control inside her. "I do not know what to do! We have nothing! No money, no connections, no Mill, no prospects! I can not do this alone! Please, don't make me do this alone…" She paused for a moment, angrily wiping her tears away, and trying to steady her nerves.
"Come back to me John." She begged, desperately searching his face for any sign of recognition. "Please John, just wake up!" The desperation in her voice was rising, and distantly she could hear the sound of someone hurrying up the stairs. It did not register in her mind however, nor did the fact that she had actually grabbed John's shoulders, shaking them none too gently, or that she had begun yelling. "John wake up! Please, I need you! You have to come back! Wake up!" Someone pulled her arms away and spun her around.
"Margaret! Margaret calm yourself!" Hannah. Hannah had pulled her away from her husband, and Margaret fought against her to be set free.
"No!" She hardly recognized her own voice, etched with despondency and rage. "I need him! I need him to wake up! I cannot do this alone!" She fought harder against Hannah, only for her mother-in-law to force to her chest, embracing her tightly.
"You are not alone, Margaret." She said firmly, tightening her arms around her and making it impossible to break free. She fought against the comforting embrace; it wasn't the comfort she wanted. She wanted John. But soon even she could no longer force herself away from it; it was the comfort she needed. And she gave in to her mother-in-law, embracing her just as tightly, attempting to control her wretched sobbing.
"I need him, Hannah." She said, her voice betraying the true depth of grief she truly felt. "I need him."
"I know," Hannah replied, tears filling her own eyes. The two women sank to the floor as one, united in their similar pain, desperately taking whatever comfort they could from the other.
When John opened his eyes he had to blink several times to adjust to the brightness of the light. For the first time, he wasn't in the Mill, but standing before it watching flames pour from broken windows. The heat that came off in waves made him want to step back, but he didn't. He stared into the flames, listening to the chorus of pain that filled his ears. The cries of the broken-hearted, the agony of the people inside, the pleas for help. He wanted it all to go away, to be free from the sorrow in that noise, but there was no escape. He heard his name then, and turned towards the sound. He could not see who, but someone was calling for him. He ran towards the sound. There in a doorway, he saw a woman looking at him with such a desperation in her blue eyes that it made him want to die. He tried calling to her, but he made no sound.
"John! John please!" She cried, falling to her knees and burying her face in her hands. He could see her convulsing with sobs, and heard the desperate and frantic way in which she called to him. He called again, but again his voice made no sound. "John, wake up please! I need you!" He was there, right in front of her. He reached out to touch her, but it was as though his hand had turned to smoke, and passed right through her. He looked at his hand in astonishment, trying over and over again to touch her but never being able to. Her cries intensified, and he looked around desperately for someway to communicate with her. But as he turned back to face her, the ceiling collapsed and the world turned to black.
When he opened his eyes again, he was standing outside the Mill. But it was different this time. It was daylight outside, and the smoke from the fire still hung heavy in the air. He turned around and noticed what appeared to be a funeral procession, only substantially larger. There were dozens of bodies, each being carried out individually on large wooden planks. These must be the deceased from the fire; several of the bodies bore obvious burns, and still more of them were covered in white sheets indicating that they were too gruesome to be seen. He watched as each body passed him, looking for a sense of recognition, but he found none. He felt oddly out of control of himself, as though he were outside of his own body merely watching from a distance. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he found himself looking up directly across from him on the other side of the procession. There he stood, directly across from himself. It was an unusual experience to say the least. He watched himself staring at the bodies, in exactly the same manner that he himself had just been doing.
His other self looked down, and John followed his gaze, leaping back with a start at what he saw. There on a wooden plank, was the body of his father. John gasped aloud at the sight of the man he had not seen in nearly two decades. He looked exactly the same as he had then, save the gaping hole in the side of his head where the bullet had forced it's way through. Time seemed to freeze for a moment as he stared at his father, but suddenly his body was herded off with the others, and he was left staring at himself.
He looked down then, and John followed his gaze. There, in his other self's hand, sat a gun. John looked up at himself, alarmed. He didn't move, but he seemed to be unable to look away from his own hand.
"John!" Someone cried. He turned to look at the same time his other self did. There in the doorway stood Margaret. She ran towards his other self, but John was transfixed by the sight of her, her hair completely free of its pins and flowing wildly around her. He didn't understand; but he did when he turned back to look at his other self.
Just in time to see him put the gun to his head and pull the trigger.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them he was inside of a church. He didn't recognize it. He looked around and saw that the church was completely deserted save for a single black coffin that rested high on a platform. Cautiously he made his was to it, unable to pull himself back, unable to prevent himself from looking inside. Soon enough he reached the coffin, and had pulled back the lid to reveal Margaret looking pale and peaceful, still in her wedding dress. He closed his eyes and fought against the pain that emanated from his chest at the sight. When he opened them he was in his house, walking slowly up to his room, Margaret's wedding dress draped over his arms.
It was exactly how he would have carried her into the house when they married. At least, it was how he had desperately desire to. He climbed the stairs and crossed to his room, gently laying the dress of the woman he loved across the chaise lounge. As his pain began to overtake him, and he gave into heartrending distress, he clutched the hem of her gown with every ounce of strength he had.
He opened his eyes, and found himself standing before Margaret. She looked up at him curiously, looking exactly as she had on their wedding day.
"Why are you crying?" She asked him gently.
"Because I no longer have you." He replied hoarsely. She smiled knowingly at him.
"You have always had me, John." She replied lowly, reaching forward to take his hands in her own. John stared at her incredulously, wondering what her unfathomable expression was hiding. But he did not truly care. All that mattered was that his wife was standing before him, alive, healthy, and looking at him as though…He was not sure; but he still did not really care about that. Margaret was here, this was their wedding day. So he did what any sensible man would have done in his position: he threw himself at her and claimed her lips for his own.
Passion raged through him at this level of intimacy, and he found himself lifting her skirts as high as he possibly could so that he might pick her up. Which he somehow managed to do without ever moving his lips from hers. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her hands destroying his hair and everywhere he burned. Her touch, her body, had set him on fire and he had never felt so alive as he did right then, stumbling his way up the stairs and to their bedroom with her in his arms.
He did not break contact until they reached the room, and he kicked the door shut behind him. Her face was flushed, her breath coming in short gasps, and as he set her back on her feet she wasted absolutely no time in undressing him. John smiled in disbelief as the world faded to black around them.
A/N: Heh heh. I hope you enjoyed that ;)
And you'd better tell me what you think/and or what you'd like next. Big chapter next time peeps. Big BIG chapter. Just you wait. ;)
Also, you should listen to "Ow" by Stephen Moccio while reading this. You'll love it. Oh, and sorry Margaret's part is so depressing. I had to get her to this point. But things start looking up next chapter! For everyone *wink wink*