Chapter 3: The Breakdown
The following day, John forced himself to focus on work until it was an appropriate time to make a call at Crampton. When Miss Dixon opened the door and let him in she brusquely said, "Master's in the parlor."
"Actually, I must speak with Miss Hale first, away from her father."
The servant's eyes narrowed and she replied indignantly, "that girl's been through enough, I'll not have you..."
Seeing the direction her mind had taken, John thought it best to interrupt this tirade. "It is regarding Frederick Hale. Miss Hale was quite adamant that she did not want to distress her father on this topic."
Miss Dixon's eyes widened in fear and in her agitation she grasped John's forearm and choked out, "is Master Frederick safe?"
"Unfortunately, I've had no news of Mr. Hale since he left Milton. My information, rather, concerns a Mr. Leonards." The servant swayed somewhat in distressed recognition of the name and John instantly knew that the altercation at the Outwood station was not merely the result of drunken impertinence. He gave a brief explanation of Leonards's death and the aborted investigation then urged her to fetch Margaret without exciting Mr. Hale's attention.
John paced the floor of Mr. Hale's study for an interminable period before he heard her soft tread on the stairs. She started slightly when she entered, "Oh, Mr. Thornton!"
"Miss Hale," he bowed. "Did Miss Dixon not inform you I was here?" He asked.
"No, she merely said there was a man who insisted on seeing me about an investigation. What has happened?" Her confusion was reverting back to nervous anticipation. She had stopped just inside the door and he retained his position near the window.
John fumbled for a moment over how to begin this story. Attempting to put her at ease and relieve some of the tension caused by their presence alone in a room — and the remembrance of the last time they had such a meeting — he constrained himself to a businesslike tone. "As you may be aware, I am a Magistrate. I was called yesterday afternoon to the infirmary to take down the deposition of a man injured in a fall at the Outwood station. He died shortly after."
The large dark eyes, gazing straight into his face, dilated a little. Otherwise there was no motion perceptible to his experienced observation. Her lips swelled out into a richer curve than ordinary, owing to the enforced tension of the muscles, agonizingly aware of her usual appearance, John at once noticed the sullen defiance of the firm sweeping lines. She never blanched or trembled. She fixed him with her eye. Now — as he paused before going on, she said, almost as if she would encourage him in telling his tale — 'Well ... go on!' She was attempting to maintain the same detachment he was projecting.
"Due to the incoherency of his tale and his impaired circumstances, I did not realize at first that this was the same Mr. Leonards, the same fall I had witnessed the night your brother left. As a witness, I had no choice but to recuse myself from the case. I finished taking down the statement then made my own statement to my brother magistrate, Mr. Hamper."
Her facade of calm cracked. All color drained from her cheeks and her eyes went wide. "You did not tell him I was there! About Frederick?" She gasped in terror.
At the sight of her distress all of his attempts at formality broke and he said with a pleading tone, "Margaret, I am an officer of the law, it was my duty to give an honest account of what I saw. But..." John trailed off in impotent fear as she swayed for an instant where she stood, and fell prone on the floor in a dead swoon. In an instant he crossed the room and knelt at her side. "Margaret!" He cried softly, aware of the grieving father above who must not know of Margaret's indisposition. He chaffed her hands, but when she did not respond he gently lifted her from the ground and laid her on the sofa.
Margaret did not seem the type of woman to carry smelling salts about her person and he was reluctant to call for a servant and lose the chance to speak to her privately. Acting on the experience of Fanny's frequent swoons, he went to the desk and grabbed a quill, then the mantle for a match. Kneeling beside her, he lit the feather briefly before quickly extinguishing it and waiving it under her nose.
The first symptom of returning life was a quivering about the lips—a little mute soundless attempt at speech, that broke his heart. Had he been more gentle, more clear, she would not be in this wretched state. Eventually her eyes opened and blinked unfocused about the room. When those eyes finally focused on himself John burst out with feeling, "Margaret, I'm so sorry to cause you such distress. There will be no inquest, no further investigation, nobody is searching for Frederick."
The pitiful contraction of suffering upon her beautiful brows eased and she sighed. "I told Hamper what I saw: without provocation, Leonards pushed you then attacked your brother. Your brother merely defended himself and you, then boarded the train and departed. Given my statement and the lack of medical evidence that the fall did anything more than irritate an existing internal complaint, Hamper dismissed the case without so much as an investigation."
Though her violent fear had passed, Margaret quietly asked, "will his name be on record? Will there be a record that he was in England?"
"It is unlikely. The case was concluded to be the mad rantings of a drunkard. I never referred to your brother by his given name, and I doubt either of your names will ever be on file." Her comb had fallen out of her hair and John couldn't resist the urge to tenderly brush some of the loose wisps of hair from her face. He added in a quiet tone, "can you not tell me what the matter is? It pains me to see you in such distress. I will do anything in my power to help, but I can do nothing without knowing the truth."
Margaret nodded and attempted to rise, John offered her his hand to steady herself and she sat up. As she did not immediately remove her hand from his, he sat beside her on the sofa with their joined hands between them. She began with a quavering voice. "Frederick was in the Navy and did very well there for a time, quickly rising from midshipman to lieutenant. Some six or seven years ago he was posted aboard the Russel. He had served with Captain Reid before his ascension to rank and therefore had a foreknowledge of his viscous tendencies. There was only so much damage he could do in the lower ranks, but as captain he had far more power to abuse. He used fear and corporal punishment to motivate his men, but his demands were not reasonable. As a lieutenant Frederick did everything he could to protect those below him. One day a man fearing punishment was reckless and died. At sea there was no higher authority they could turn to for protection from the captain's abuse, so they did the only thing they could do. Fred, he ..." Margaret broke off on a choked sob. John tightened his grasp on her hand, foreseeing the end of the story.
"They called it an atrocious mutiny. Some of the sailors who accompanied Frederick were taken, and there was a court-martial held; their story accorded with what Frederick had written us. They had placed Captain Reid and some of his more loyal officers in a boat in order to defend the lives and wellbeing of the rest of the crew. They were hung at the yard-arm. And the worst was that the court, in condemning them to death, said they had suffered themselves to be led astray from their duty by their superior officers."
Margaret began sobbing in earnest and John placed an arm around her to settle her head on his shoulder. His Margaret was suffering and there was nothing he could do about it but comfort her. "I'm every day expecting a letter saying he's safely out of England but none has come. If he is caught," she continued between sobs, "he will be hung. And it will be all my fault. I wrote to him of mother's condition. I begged him to come. He would be safe in Spain were it not for me."
"Margaret," he said soothingly, tracing his hand up and down her back, "If it were not for you, your mother would not have seen your brother before she died. He made the choice to come. He took the risk upon himself, and we can only hope that he will make it safely home."
John was unsure how long they sat in that manner, but the frantic sobbing had mellowed to a steady smooth stream of tears when Margaret spoke in a tone of desolation, "I no longer have a mother. Papa is looking more frail by the day. If they should catch Frederick ... I should be all alone in the world."
"Margaret!" His voice was hoarse, and trembling with tender passion, he wanted to tell her that she need never be alone. That he would be with her for the rest of her days. That he would love her and marry her and share his life with her. But the memory of his last proposal forced him to regulate his response. He would not take advantage of her current vulnerability to trap her. Offering her security at this moment would be little better than buying her as his wife – as she had so cruelly accused him of before. "Margaret, you are not alone. Your father is alive and well upstairs. Your brother is journeying toward safety. Miss Dixon, I am sure, is hovering like a mama bear in the hallway. I've heard of an aunt and cousin in London. And you have ..." the intensity of her gaze as she looked up at him expectantly almost drained his resolve to be a gentleman, but he finished tenderly with "...friends."
She slowly lifted herself from his shoulder and looked at him with penetrating eyes. "Friends, Mr. Thornton?"
The uncertainty in her voice pushed him to offer her some reassurance. He placed his hand lightly over hers and added, "far more if you should wish it — I believe you well know my wishes on the matter — but, you are in no frame of mind to make such decisions today." She gave him a watery smile that melted the cold knot of despair that had formed in his stomach when she had rejected him. Fearful of his own resolve, he cleared his throat and asked, "shall we join your father?"
She placed a hand to her disheveled hair and said evenly, "you go up, I shall join you soon."
As John prophesied, Miss Dixon was putting on a show of dusting in the hallway when he emerged. "Miss Hale needs a moment to compose herself, if you could announce me to Mr. Hale, she would probably appreciate your company after," he said to the scowling servant then followed her up the stairs.
He came up straight to her father, whose hands he took and wrung without a word—holding them in his for a minute or two, during which time his face, his eyes, his look, told of more sympathy than could be put into words. John was struck by the change in his friend. To be sure, he had come less frequently as of late to read with Mr. Hale because he wanted to give Margaret her space, but he had never expected the level of decline he saw. His wife's illness and death seemed to age him at least a decade. The lively keen intellect which had so often engaged John was now dulled by tragic loss. John's heart clenched at the idea of someday facing the same loss — of someday losing Margaret. A moment later he realized that he could not lose someone who was never his in the first place.
In Margaret's absence, Mr. Hale began to express the demons and doubts that had been plaguing him of late. It seemed he could unburden himself better to Mr. Thornton than to Margaret of all the thoughts and fancies and fears that had been frost-bound in his brain till now. Mr. Thornton said very little; but every sentence he uttered added to Mr. Hale's reliance and regard for him. No stranger himself to grief and heartache, Mr. Thornton readily engaged his host in this spiritual discussion of doubt, fear, shame, and redemption.
Presently Margaret came into the room and he could feel the change in the demeanor of each of his companions. Margaret, who had so recently released her torrent of sadness and suffering on his shoulder affected a brittle false cheerfulness for her father's benefit. Mr. Hale, who had been eloquently pondering the depths of his soul and condoling with John as a kindred spirit regressed further into himself.
Margaret took her work and sat down very quiet and silent. In spite of the dampened spirits, John felt that he gave some solace to both mourners. His presence was always a certain kind of pleasure to Mr. Hale, as his power and decision made him, and his opinions, a safe, sure port. Margaret's frequent glances at him, however were new. He was not so naïve as to believe that in two brief meetings he could turn her from bitter dislike to anything near his own regard, but when she looked at him she allowed her mask to slip. He could see her pain and could see that it gave her some comfort to know that she need not be bear up before him. She did not love him, but she knew she could depend on him. It was a start.