Not a Gentleman
by Tintinnabula
Chapter Four
The Wolf
Margaret awoke about two hours later to a parched throat and the greatest hunger she had ever experienced. It had been a good twenty-four hours since she'd eaten, she realized, a span of time in which she'd never gone without food before. She quieted her thoughts for a moment, allowing herself to fully experience the twin sensations of thirst and hunger, and then considered that the hunger pangs she felt were insignificant compared to those experienced by the Boucher children. How spoiled was she that twenty-four hours was the longest fast of her life! And how those poor children were still suffering, particularly the youngest, who had no words to express their pain. They had gone for weeks subsisting on little more than porridge that was more water than oatmeal. Hopefully the mill would be back in operation soon, so that their father could retake his place at the loom. She would need to ask Mr. Thornton about him.
Margaret turned her head and noticed that Mrs. Thornton was no longer seated in the wing chair next to the bed. The parlor maid, Jane, had taken her place and was peering at Margaret will rapt fascination. She blushed and looked away as soon as Margaret engaged her eyes with her own.
Margaret carefully sat up in the bed, and smiled slightly in relief as she realized that the sudden movement had not set the room spinning. She noted, too, that she could also see clearly once again, and that the bright morning light did not sting.
"Jane," she asked softly. "Could you direct me to my clothes? I would very much like to get dressed."
"Miss Margaret," Jane whispered, "that won't be possible just yet. The master is sleeping, and the mistress has asked that we not awaken him."
Margaret turned and realized that to her left, sprawled in a most uncomfortable-looking position was Mr. Thornton, fast asleep in the under-sized, straight-backed chair in which he had sat all night. His upper back was slumped against the slats and his head was tilted back to rest against the wall, his mouth slightly open. His legs, so long and gangly, jutted out at odd angles, like those of a stork perched on a chimney. She had never seen him looking so relaxed, she realized. This was despite the fact that he was still fully dressed in the clothes he had worn yesterday. His cravat was still tightly wound around his neck, his waistcoat- splotched with her own blood, Margaret realized with dismay- was still fully fastened, and his frock coat still covered the whole of the ensemble. There was blood on the portions of the shirt cuffs visible to her, which caused Margaret to wonder exactly how much she'd spilled the day before. She touched a hand gingerly to the plaster just above her temple. Surely head wounds did not bleed that much. Then, her second wound reminded itself of her presence. Her arm hurt frightfully. She touched it experimentally and immediately regretted such a stupid decision. It felt as though it was on fire.
What was it Mr. Thornton had said? That the doctor had introduced salt water into her for some reason, and then had prohibited her from imbibing. Surely this also explained the Sahara-like conditions in her mouth. She would need to ask Dr. Donaldson to explain the reasons for his actions- it annoyed her to have only a few pieces of a puzzle.
"Could I have some water?" she implored Jane as quietly as possible.
The girl blushed as she shook her head in an emphatic no. "I am sorry, miss. The mistress says it is not allowed. But the doctor will be here soon, I think. Mayhap you could try to sleep until then."
"No, I think not. Could you fetch me a hairbrush, please? And would it be possible for me to, well, I need to use-" Margaret looked at Jane and then at Mr. Thornton, not willing to talk of private bodily functions in front of him, even if he were sleeping.
"Oh, of course, miss. Here is a robe the mistress left for you to wear. Come with me, please."
"But surely I could get dressed while I am up?"
"I suppose so, miss." Jane crossed the room and opened an armoire where Margaret's clothes lay, neatly folded, boots besides them. "I will help you dress, shortly," she whispered as she gathered the bundle, then directed Margaret to a dressing room that stood nearly empty, apart from a large copper tub, a table stacked with towels, and a wooden commode.
Margaret returned to her bedroom, dressed in the clothes of the day before, hair styled simply in a low bun, and quickly made the bed, as Jane had left to find Mrs. Thornton. She sat on the bed's edge, ankles crossed, and shook her booted foot nervously as she regarded Mr. Thornton, who slept on. Clearly she needed to apologize to him for her behavior the day before, and to his mother for the huge imposition she had placed upon the family by becoming injured. But more than that, she wanted to be home. Her mother needed her, as did her father. Even Dixon did. The housekeeper could not run the household and take care of Mama both. It was far too much work for one person. Margaret would need to convince Dr. Donaldson that she was fully recovered and that no signs of injury lingered. She winced as she moved her arms to fold her hands in her lap. It seemed even moving her arm was an issue. It stung in one place in particular, likely the location where the doctor had cut her. She had not unwrapped the bandages to check the wound, but it was likely to be an unpleasant sight. She would need to act the stoic when examined.
Margaret looked up, to see piercing, brown eyes examining her. They put her in mind of the dream of the night before. Yes, Mrs. Thornton was the smaller raven, the one who had so much to say as it attempted to drive the wolf away. Of course, that made her son the other raven, the one who had pressed his outsized wings against her. Margaret blushed at the thought. What exactly was her mind suggesting? And what had she missed while she was unconscious?
"Miss Hale," said Mrs. Thornton in familiar dry tones, although much softer in volume than usual, "I see you are already dressed. Are you that eager to leave our dirty, smoky home?"
Of course the woman would take offense to something as innocuous as dressing, Margaret thought with an internal sigh.
"No, Mrs. Thornton," she replied politely. "It's just that I wasn't dressed in the most appropriate manner. Well, to be honest, I am concerned about my mother and father. You see-"
"Walk with me," the older woman commanded, her voice no less authoritative when whispered. "We must not wake my son. It is clear he is exhausted." She did not add, "And it is you who have exhausted him," but she did not need to, Margaret felt. It was written in the woman's forbidding countenance.
The pair descended to the lower level of the house, entering a brightly lit drawing room Margaret had not previously seen. It was less forbidding in its décor than the public rooms of that level, and from its softer furnishings, was clearly the private room of the mistress of the house. Several baskets of sewing and embroidery were neatly arranged on a side table, another by a mohair-upholstered chair closest to the fireplace. Mrs. Thornton took that chair and gestured to its mate.
"My son told me that your mother is more ill than you initially mentioned. Although why you did not simply tell us this is a mystery." Mrs. Thornton clucked disapprovingly at the girl as she remembered her own comment about "low spirits." She would not have had cause for such a petty remark about Mrs. Hale if the woman's own daughter had been more forthcoming from the start.
Margaret bowed her head. "It is not something even my father fully realizes, I am afraid. He does not yet understand..." She could not say the words.
"Is your mother in pain?" Mrs. Thornton had no such trouble getting to the crux of the issue. The woman was dying, that was all there was to it. Denying such a thing would be of no benefit.
"Yes. The laudanum helps, but not enough. And that is why the water mattress is such a blessing. I thank you for your generosity in loaning it to us."
Mrs. Thornton waved her hand in dismissal of such a small act. "Yet your father is so blind that he does not see the pain writ upon your mother's face?"
Margaret sighed. "I must admit Dixon and I have not shared all aspects of my mother's illness- or treatment- with him. Mama asked us not to. And I do not know how much he and Mama have talked. Perhaps he is not ready to acknowledge the severity of her illness." She shook her head and forced a smile that appeared more of a grimace. "But in the end it does not matter. He is not able to care for her, as he has students to teach. And Dixon cannot care for Mama and take care of the house, too. Therefore, I must do my share."
"You take on the household chores?" Mrs. Thornton narrowed her eyes as she regarded Margaret in a new light.
"The stove grate must be blacked daily, the rest of it weekly. Laundry must be done. Provisions must be bought. There is no shame in seeing that these things are done." Margaret lifted her chin. "At least, I see no shame in them."
They were not so different, Mrs. Thornton realized. Sixteen years prior, she had been in a similar situation to Margaret, forced to take on work that was considered far beneath her. Yet she had felt the very same way. There was no shame in seeing that these things were done. Because they must be done.
A small seed of respect planted itself in Mrs. Thornton's breast. This haughty girl, with all her airs and graces was more complex than she had initially considered. No wonder John was so intrigued by her. There was much more there than a fair face and pretty wit. Much more, indeed.
Their tête-à-tête was interrupted by a knock on the door. The butler, Stokes, announced the entry of Mr. Hale and Dr. Donaldson.
"Margaret? I was so worried..." Her father looked so frail, so unsteady on his feet. Margaret noticed that his hair fell in a soft, disheveled halo around his head, as though he had not thought to comb it that morning.
Daughter rushed to father's side, much to Dr. Donaldson's consternation.
"Young lady, I did not expect to see you out of bed this morning. You are in no condition to be dressed."
Mrs. Thornton barked a short laugh. "If you think you can tell Miss Hale what to do, you have not spent much time around her."
"I am much improved, Dr. Donaldson," Margaret chose to ignore her hostess' well-placed barb. "Certainly I feel as well today as I did yesterday morning. I am hoping you will allow me to return to Crampton. I know I am needed there." She turned to her father. "How is Mama? How did she sleep last night?"
"She had a restful night, Margaret. I think she is getting over this illness, at last." Margaret looked at her father critically. He did not seem to believe his own words. The half smile he wore, which seemed plastered onto his lips, was witness to this. It was not mirrored in his eyes, or in any of the many tiny muscles of his face. He did know, Margaret realized. Clearly, the words he spoke were solely for his daughter's benefit. He thought her a child who needed protection. This realization brought with it a confusing mixture of sadness and frustration.
Dr. Donaldson broke into Margaret's train of thought. "Mrs. Thornton, might we use this room for an examination? I would need a servant to stay of course. But Mr. Hale-"
"John's study is just across the hall, Mr. Hale. I regret that my son will not be able to join you." Mrs. Thornton side-eyed Margaret. "He had a rather exhausting evening, I'm afraid."
"Did he?" Mr. Hale's brow lifted in puzzlement. "No matter. I am sure John has plenty of books to occupy me. Dr. Donaldson, please take your time and make sure that my dear daughter is well. I should not like to find she is exerting herself prematurely."
"Father! I am certain I am well. Really, I must protest." Margaret's words did nothing to stop her father leaving. Mrs. Thornton briskly slid the pocket doors shut behind him, then reached for a key on her chatelaine to secure the lock.
"I will surely be a more able chaperone than a servant," she noted, as Dr. Donaldson's moved toward Miss Hale with alacrity.
"Let us check your eyes first. Mrs. Thornton, if you would light a candle, please?" The doctor nodded with satisfaction as he examined the immediate response of Margaret's pupils to the bright light. "They are almost back to normal. This is good news, indeed. Mrs. Thornton, do you know if your son was able to collect data last night? This information may be worth publishing in a letter to The Lancet."
"You will have to ask him yourself, Dr. Donaldson. At my age it is hard to spend the entire night awake. I do not know if he was able to collect any of your data."
The doctor harrumphed. "Have you taken any liquids?" he asked the patient.
"No," responded Margaret. "Nor have I eaten. And I am both terribly thirsty and famished."
"Good girl. Thank you for your obedience. You may have a thin gruel today, I should think. But no more than a cup of water until noon. We will need to watch very carefully to be sure that the swelling does not return."
"You are referring to the swelling in my brain, I think. And imbibing water might cause this swelling to recur?"
The doctor smiled, and patted his patient on the arm. "Do not trouble yourself with details, my dear. It is enough to know that the treatment worked and you are on the road to recovery."
Margaret lowered her brows but said nothing for a moment. The doctor's bedside manner left something to be desired, but he had healed her, and that was what truly mattered. She could ignore the condescension, she decided. Finally she asked, "Am I allowed to sleep, then? I mean, assuming the swelling is gone. There was some reason, was there not, for keeping me awake all night?"
"Yes, yes. You should be able to sleep now."
"Why?"
"It is a bit complicated, Miss Hale. I would not want to confuse you."
"It involves celery," said Mrs. Thornton with a smirk. "I will explain it to you later, Miss Hale."
Dr. Donaldson shot daggers at the elder Thornton. "Assuming your eyes continue to behave normally, I believe you are out of the woods, young lady. However, to ascertain this, it will be necessary to do a full examination. You will need to remove your garments. Down to your chemise, please." Margaret blushed, as the doctor made no move to turn away or even avert his eyes. "Come, now. I have seen this all before," he explained impatiently as he tapped his foot against the plush Persian carpet that covered the better half of the room.
"I am certain you have not," retorted Mrs. Thornton. "This way, Dr. Donaldson. You will wait in the hall until I call you."
The elder Thornton helped Margaret out of her gown and loosened her stays enough for the younger woman to easily unfasten its front-closing busk. Then Mrs. Thornton tidied the garments into an unobtrusive bundle before returning to the door to readmit the doctor. She hovered close by, however, prompting several looks of undisguised irritation over the course of the examination.
The doctor removed a snake-like stethoscope and auscultated his patient, holding one end of the tube to his ear and the other to her chest. He directed her to breathe in and out, and then hold her breath, then performed the same routine on her back. He examined her throat and palpated her glands, although to Mrs. Thornton's eyes he took entirely too much time on each of these tasks. Surely there was no need to touch her skin as much as he did, particularly that skin under her arms so close to her breasts. Or to place that strange listening device all over the girl's breasts, again and again. And why would he need to spend as much time as he did examining her legs as he tested the young girl's reflexes? She'd hurt her head, not broken her ankles, after all.
"There seem to be no issues resulting from yesterday's treatment," the physician noted after some time, pulling out the leather-bound book he'd had by his side the day before and jotting down some lines.
"But why would there be?" Margaret asked.
"It is a very new treatment, to be sure."
"But you haven't answered my question. I wouldn't think age would have anything to do with efficacy, so long as the treatment was sound."
"What I mean to say is that the treatment applied was of an experimental nature." The man's patience was growing thin, Mrs. Thornton noted. She moved to stand by Margaret's side, although she decided it would be better not to intervene.
"I see. And was it therefore dangerous?" Margaret could not conceal her own irritation.
"Yes, to a degree," The doctor conceded. Margaret's eyes widened. "But it was decided that the potential benefits far outweighed the risks."
"Who decided?" Margaret asked.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, who decided upon this treatment?"
"Why Mr. Thornton, of course."
Margaret was silenced.
Of course? What could Dr. Donaldson possibly mean by that?
"Now, then. We will need to see if the poultice applied yesterday did its job." The doctor unwound the bandage covering the lower portion of her arm, and despite her earlier promise to herself, Margaret shrank bank at the sudden pain produced by this action. The doctor hissed softly as he sucked in his breath. This was not the sight he had hoped to behold. The incision site was an angry red, and lines radiated away from it in an irregular corona. Margaret's skin was quite warm to the touch and swollen in the area. "There are signs of corruption. I am surprised. A bread and milk poultice is usually helpful at preventing and treating these kinds of things. Your color is quite high as well, and you are fevered." He scratched some more in his small notebook.
"It is nothing," Margaret replied. "The fire has made the room a bit warm. That is all."
Mrs. Thornton lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing, although she was certain embarrassment and indignation had surely painted some of the color on the girl's face.
Dr. Donaldson rummaged in his bag and pulled out a long wooden box. Inside, shrouded in a layer of cotton wool was a long glass rod striped with markings. The doctor held it between his fingers and snapped his wrist several times, until the liquid within the rod moved to its very end. "I am going to ask you to lie down, Miss Hale, and not to move for the next twenty minutes. I would like to take your temperature, but to do so requires some quietude on your part. But first, get dressed. There is no reason for this measurement to be done in private." He was released from the room, once again, and Margaret hurriedly dressed.
Margaret lay on the sofa upon the doctor's return, although she felt rather ridiculous to do with boots on, and a foot-long device extending from her clasped lips. Nor was she pleased when her father returned to her side, for he immediately drew the wrong conclusion.
"Margaret, you are ill!" Mr. Hale set down the book he'd carried in from the study and took up his daughter's hand. "Yes, you are quite warm. And what is this device?"
"Ah, yes," Dr. Donaldson replied. "I have been reading about the measurement of bodily temperature. There are some that feel that humans have a body temperature that is normally somewhere between 97 and 99 degrees. We will see how your daughter compares."
"I am sure I have never seen such a tool before," said Mr. Hale with some curiosity, oblivious to the scarlet blotches seated high on his daughter's cheeks, and to the dampness of the curls at her hairline. "You men of Milton are full of scientific ingenuity." He nodded at Mrs. Thornton. "Why, John has been telling me of the inventions developed on Yorkshire soil, and how his mill is that much the better for them."
"We are not afraid to embrace change. That much is true, Mr. Hale," replied Mrs. Thornton proudly.
The noise of rustling taffeta preceded the entry of Fanny into the drawing room. She shoved back both doors completely before entering, but the gown she wore, a bright tartan in hues unknown to past generations of Scots and supported by several layers of horsehair crinoline required more width for her to pass through than the space the two opened doors would provide. She squeezed the gown to her sides as she passed through and ignored the slight reverberation the fabric made once she released her hands from her sides. Fanny looked from person to person with a look of pronounced annoyance.
"You didn't tell me the doctor was coming, Mother. I have been wanting to see him about those dizzy spells I have been experiencing."
"Perhaps if you stop inhaling smelling salts so regularly the dizzy spells will end," replied her mother calmly. "Breakfast is still on the sideboard, although I am sure it is quite cold by now. You might consider waking up before nine occasionally for the chance of a hot meal."
Fanny ignored the remark, turning her head away from her mother, to allow her lovely blond ringlets to bounce attractively around her shoulders in a flirtatious gesture. "Whenever you are finished with Miss Hale I will be waiting for you, Dr. Donaldson. I assume you have time? I have some other symptoms I would like to discuss with you."
"Of course, Miss Thornton," replied the doctor distractedly.
"Surely this is not necessary, Fanny. The doctor has other demands on his time." Mrs. Thornton eyed the man she'd suggested as physician to the Hales. After his behavior today, she wished she'd chosen another. There was something she did simply did not like about this man.
"What is that in Miss Hale's mouth? She looks so silly!" Fanny pointed at Margaret with undisguised mirth, just as her brother shut the front door.
He entered the drawing room, face flushed, hat in one hand, and a over-sized, conical bundle in the other. Yellow blossoms peeked out one end.
"John?" his mother asked. "I did not think you were awake yet."
He was out of breath, and took a good minute to reply. "I had an errand to run before Miss Hale left us."
"Are those flowers?" his mother asked. "But the markets are closed on Sundays."
John shrugged. "Being a tradesman has its small advantages. Good morning, Mr. Hale. Miss Hale, are you well?" His eyes widened in worry at the woman laid out on the sofa, thermometer still in mouth.
"Mmmph," was her eloquent reply, although there was a definite smile in Margaret's eyes.
The doctor removed the device and Margaret sat up abruptly and smoothed her skirts. "I am quite well, Mr. Thornton, although I fear you did not sleep much last night." To be sure, the wakeful night showed on his face. Shadows had appeared under his eyes, which were red-rimmed.
"I have a nap planned for most of this afternoon. I will survive, Miss Hale." The manufacturer smiled suddenly, and Margaret was surprised to see how much the action changed his face. He looked years younger.
"Have you been given a clean bill of health, Miss Hale?" the quicksilver smile left Mr. Thornton's face, and his brows knit into a well-worn expression of concern.
"Actually, no," interjected Dr. Donaldson. "One hundred two degrees cannot be classified as well. You are quite ill, Miss Hale. And, Thornton, as you seem to have a special relationship with the town's tradesmen, I wonder if you wouldn't do me a favor. I require salicylic acid and turmeric powder from the apothecary- one to fight Miss Hale's fever, the other the corruption."
"Corruption?" John's expression of concern deepened, and he stood quickly. "Of course, Dr. Donaldson. If you will write out a note with your requirements, I am sure I can convince Mr. Lloyd to open shop, as soon as he returns from this morning's church services. I have done him several favors in the past, I am sure he will oblige me in return."
"Good." Dr. Donaldson tore a page from his notebook and scratched out some quick words in pencil. John scanned the note and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, then consulted his watch before shooting yet another look of concern in Margaret's direction.
"Before you leave, Miss Hale-" John began, but he did not finish, as Dr. Donaldson had more to say.
"And while I am thinking of it, I will write out directions for Mrs. Thornton on how to make a new poultice. This one will be of shaved potato and turmeric. I am surprised the last worked so poorly, so we will try this."
"Mrs. Thornton?" Margaret queried. "Am I not to go home?"
"Margaret," Mr. Hale said softly. "Dr. Donaldson and I spoke in the hall. Your fever is likely to get worse before it gets better. I do not think Dixon and I can take care of both you and your mother."
"But Papa, I am well! And Mama needs me! Why did you not-" She held her tongue. He should have asked her. But she would not admonish her father in front of others. She bowed her head and held back tears of frustration. "I understand, Papa. Is this acceptable to you, Mrs. Thornton?"
"Of course it is acceptable," John replied in her stead, his face neutral, his heart dancing. Margaret would not be leaving him. Not yet.
"Then it's off to bed with you, Miss Hale. Mrs. Thornton, if you could have your servants prepare a thin oatmeal gruel and the poultice I mentioned?"
The elder Thornton nodded and rang for Jane, who entered the room with well-trained speed.
"Please take Miss Hale to the green room, as before, and ready her for bed. John," she turned to her son, "I expect you to get some sleep, as you just promised. You will have a full day ahead of you tomorrow. It won't do to face it in the throes of exhaustion."
"I am well aware of my obligations, Mother."
"Dr. Donaldson," the matriarch continued, "I am sure we have taken up enough of your time this Sunday morning. I am sure that even if you do not have other patients to see your wife anxiously awaits you."
Dr. Donaldson bowed, and said his goodbyes, as did Mr. Hale, much to Margaret's dismay.
"I am sure you will be well enough to come home tomorrow, Margaret," said Mr. Hale soothingly. "And I think you know this decision is for the best."
"I am worried about Mama," Margaret whispered as she hugged her father goodbye. "That is all, Papa."
"You are a good daughter. I have no question in my heart about this. Nor does your mother. Let the Thorntons take care of you. We are lucky to have such friends as they. And part of friendship is obligation, you know."
"I know, Papa. I will do as you say."
Margaret turned away, tears in her eyes, and left the room with Jane, just before the doctor and Mr. Hale took their leave.
Fanny was furious. It was not normal for her to be something other than the center of attention, and for the past day Margaret had sucked all of the air out of the room, whether she'd intended to or not.
"Mother," she cried. "I needed to see the doctor! I could not have been more clear with you. Why did you thwart me?"
"I am sure it can wait, my dear. Perhaps you can compile a list of symptoms, with date of onset and severity, and we will present it next time?"
Fanny shook her head in defiance, setting her ringlets into motion once again. "That sounds like something John would do. Sooooo boring!" She flounced out of the room, forgetting to hold her skirt close to her as she passed through the doorway. She found herself wedged in the doorway, the bell of her skirt, fully occupying the opening. She yanked hard on her skirts and their accompanying crinoline, which finally obliged with a snap. With a huff and a glower, Fanny turned back to the face the room's occupants, her expression daring them to comment. But the eyes of her mother and brother were elsewhere, although they could not fully hide their mirth.
"I think Fanny will be asking for renovations, John, should skirt widths grow any wider," Mrs. Thornton said quietly once her daughter had left.
John smiled but did not reply, instead gathering the bouquet of flowers in his arms. His thoughts were focused, as they should be, on Margaret and the afternoon they would be passing together.
Author's note: another long chapter- I hope this does not bother people too much! Thank you again to everyone who has taken the time to follow, favorite or review. The reviews in particular mean a lot to me. I had two 11-hour days at work this week, and also had to work this weekend, but the fact that people have let me know they are enjoying the story lit a fire under me to squeeze in this chapter this weekend. So know that your reviews are cherished and keep me motivated! Not much of John in this chapter, but I hope you will find Margaret in character. As you have probably guessed, the next chapter will be all Margaret and John again- this chapter is setting that up, and once again, I needed to include some Victorian medicine to accomplish that. If you find that terribly boring, I apologize, but I find the contrast between our modern world and the world of 170 years ago to be absolutely stunning, and medicine is a part of that. To make a few things clear, in 1845, doctors and scientists did not know that germs caused disease, so Dr. Donaldson would not have known that the tools he was using to cut Margaret needed to be sterile, or that the salt water he was introducing into her veins was probably contaminated. So for the story to be realistic, she more than likely would have gotten an infection. :) Poultices, mashes of different household foods and herbs, were often used to draw out infection ("corruption") from wounds, but varied in how well they worked. And of course, it's possible that they could introduce infection, too, as people were not washing their hands. Aspirin wasn't yet invented in the 1840s, but pharmacists had begun purifying the related salicylic acid from willow bark, a traditional treatment for fever. It was harsher on the stomach than aspirin, however, and in high doses could lead to heart problems. Also, in the 1840s, primitive stethoscopes were in use, but they were only for one ear and did not work as well as modern ones. Most doctors did not use thermometers, because they took 20 minutes to get a reading, and also, no one had done the research to know that human body temperature was 98.6 F (37C). So Dr. Donaldson is definitely keeping up with his field, although it may not seem that way to our modern sensibilities.
As for a more delicate topic, Margaret's need to use the bathroom, which I alluded to at the start of the chapter, a very few extremely wealthy London homes did have flush toilets by the 1840s (they had been invented many, many years earlier—Queen Elizabeth had one!), but the vast majority did not, because there was no sewer system for the toilet to be hooked up to. It wasn't until the Great Exposition (1851) that public flush toilets became a thing, and it was much later than that when they began to appear in homes. So it is unlikely that the Thorntons, living in dirty, smoky and less advanced Milton, would have had a bathroom anything like what we would recognize. They probably had a commode, a wooden cabinet with a chamber pot built into it. Some of the more fancy commodes had a water reservoir and could flush into a lower reservoir (kind of like some modern toilets used for camping). But servants would still be responsible for emptying the chamber pot and filling the reservoir. (Ugh.) Back then, personal hygiene would not have been fun for anyone! As I am having a very hard time with the idea of a portable commode being moved from room to room, I went ahead and assigned a room to it and the copper bathtub. But I think this is probably not accurate. :) Modernity rears its ugly head... fis, the lines about Fanny are for you, since you asked about her. ;)