Not a Gentleman

by Tintinnabula

Chapter Five

The Raven

John bounded up his home's wide stairs two at a time, medicine packets in one hand and invalid's cup in the other. He could not help his good mood. He'd had time to check on the remaining Irish replacement workers this morning, who were in good spirits, thanks to Williams. With them and the flood of workers likely to show up the next morning he would be back in full production before the week was out, which meant orders would not be terribly delayed.

As for his more immediate concerns, Mr. Lloyd had been more than willing to open up the apothecary when John caught him outside the church just as services let out, and it had taken very little time for him to measure out the salicylic acid or to grind the turmeric root with mortar and pestle. Right now Cook was preparing a poultice to Dr. Donaldson's instructions and John himself would make sure Margaret took the correct dosage of the fever-reducer.

He was glad he would have her in his house for another day. In fact, he could not believe his luck, mixed though it was. A fever certainly could not be said to be a good thing, but in truth he looked forward to spending an afternoon with Margaret, even it meant forgoing the sleep his body very much needed.

He knocked on the door frame, as the door to the green room was itself open, and was surprised to see that Margaret was not in bed. She was pacing the room, like a tigress in a too-small cage. By the time John crossed the room she had walked back and forth twice from the window to the march stand where a servant had arranged the bouquet of yellow roses. She paused, finally, to breathe in their fragrance, closing her eyes as she did so. Her expression calmed as she did so, and John was glad he had impressed on the flower vendor the importance of opening up shop on a Sunday.

"They are exquisite," she said, when he joined her. "I have never seen roses quite so lovely."

"They are not like those at Helstone, then? I was hoping they would remind you." John tried valiantly to hide his disappointment.

"Oh, no." Margaret smiled. "Those were quite wild. They quite covered the arbor, and volunteers even made their way into the hedgerow. They could not be contained! But these are elegant. Their shape is perfected and they have so many more petals. And I don't think I've ever seen a bouquet quite so large. I counted fifty blossoms."

The slightest tinge of pink crept into John's cheeks. "My mother usually does the purchasing of floral arrangements for the house. I apologize if it is a bit too much."

"Oh! Not at all. I did not mean to imply-" Margaret looked at her hands as she collected her thoughts, then looked back at John with grave eyes. "Once again, Mr. Thornton, you have made a kind gesture, and I have gone out of my way to offend. I seem to have a particular talent for doing so."

John smiled, and Margaret noted how the expression transformed his tired face. "We seem to be matched in that regard, Miss Hale."

"We do seem to go to great pains to misunderstand each other." Margaret bit her lip thoughtfully, then attempted to change the subject. "I have not thanked you properly for sitting up with me last night."

"I would not think I had any choice in the matter." John immediately regretted his words, as he saw Margaret stiffen as soon as they were out of his mouth. "What I mean to say is, I would not have chosen differently under any circumstances. You risked your life for me yesterday afternoon. I owe you a great deal."

"Mr. Thornton, I-"

"Yes?"

Margaret shied away from John's piercing gaze, and could not bring herself to say what she felt she must.

"It is nothing. I see you have brought the medicine Dr. Donaldson mentioned."

John set down the porcelain cup and tiny envelopes on the table next to the bed, and filled the cup half-full with water from the ewer that sat on a tray next to a tea service. He emptied a packet into the cup and stirred briskly until the white powder dissolved.

"Have you eaten? Mr. Lloyd said this treatment is best taken on a full stomach as it may irritate."

"Oh, yes. I had some gruel." Margaret wrinkled her nose. "Not to cast aspersions on your cook, but it is lucky that I was quite hungry."

John chuckled. "There is not much one can do to make gruel actually taste pleasant. I have eaten enough of it myself to know this."

"I did not realize you had such expertise."

"You forget I was poor, once."

Margaret blushed. Again she had put her foot in it. She did her best to mitigate. "Yes. I did forget. It is hard to reconcile the man you are now with the boy you once were. Perhaps some day you will tell me more about him."

John nodded as he handed her the spouted porcelain cup. "I would very much like that, Miss Hale."

"This is hardly necessary," Margaret said as she noticed the cup. It was of the same type her mother used on her worst days, when she could hardly get out of bed. "I am not an invalid. In fact, I am not unwell at all. I can readily drink from one of those tea cups, if it is truly necessary to take this medicine. But I do not think it necessary. I am fine."

The light sheen of perspiration on her brow belied her words, John thought. Margaret was stubborn in all things, it seemed.

"Indulge me, Miss Hale. You will need to drink it all. I was told it will be quite sour."

Margaret lowered her brows, but did as he asked, tilting her head back to allow herself to drink from the silly cup. It would have been much more efficient to gulp the mixture down from a normal container. This cup forced the fluid to come out in a frustratingly slow trickle, but at least the mixture was not sour as Mr. Thornton had suggested it would be. It was not unpleasant tasting at all. Finally, the job was done. She set the cup down on the table with an emphatic thud.

"So. This will cure me of what does not ail me. And then I will be able to go home to attend to my mother?"

John's face darkened. "You are not a hostage, Miss Hale. You are here at your father's request."

Margaret blushed furiously, then blinked back tears of frustration. "I know. That was unkind of me, Mr. Thornton. I have done it again, and once again, I apologize. It is just that-"

In a lapse of propriety, John reached for Margaret's hand and directed her to the wing chair next to the bed. Then he knelt next to her and offered her his handkerchief, which she gladly took.

"I should not speak ill of my father. Especially to his friend. But somehow I feel that perhaps you might understand and not think too poorly of me for talking of my father in such a way." Margaret sighed.

"I would not do that, Miss Hale. Sometimes these things must be said. Please speak freely."

"It's just that he did not consult me, and this is not normal for him." Margaret shook her head as she dabbed at her eyes. "I know that women- and daughters- are often seen as nothing more than ornaments, or possessions, but my father has never treated me in that way. He has always seen me as a whole person, endowed with intelligence and wit, someone capable of making my own way in life, of making my own decisions."

How deeply hurt she was.

"I would not presume to speak on behalf of your father, Miss Hale. I have never had a daughter and therefore have not experienced the type of deep bond you share. But I do know that if I loved someone so deeply as your father loves you that I might act irrationally at times. It was easy to see this morning that your father was concerned for your health. Perhaps that explains his decision. It was done out of love, not out of some desire to proscribe your autonomy. I know your father thinks the world of you." As do I, John added silently.

Margaret frowned. "I know my father loves me. I have no doubt of this. Yet I am well, and my mother is ill, and she needs me."

"But the doctor did say you are running a fever."

"But I do not feel warm. I feel a bit chilled, in fact."

"Then under the covers might indeed be the best place for you, just as the doctor suggested."

"I would rather sit here and read, if I may."

John sighed, but forced a smile. "Again, Miss Hale, you are not a prisoner. Your ability to make your own decisions has not been rescinded while you are within these walls." The manufacturer stood and dusted imaginary flecks of dirt from his knees. "Would you like me to bring you some books? I have a fairly good selection in my study. If you would tell me what might interest you I would be happy to bring up a stack for you to choose from."

"Might I see your study?" Margaret asked hopefully. "It's just that at home, most of Papa's books are classics and I've read them all. And as we don't subscribe to a lending scheme I am forced to reread the few books I brought along with me from Helstone."

"Of course, Miss Hale. And I hope you would feel welcome to borrow any titles you found of interest."

A bright smile rewarded his suggestion.

"There was something I wanted to ask you. Dr. Donaldson said something this morning I found confusing."

"Oh. Did he mention the treatment?"

"Yes, he did, although he did not deign to explain it to me. But-"

"Well, I will be happy to explain." John launched into an detailed explanation of the doctor's hypothesis and rationale for treating Margaret, as well as the reason for the wound on her arm. By the time his short lecture was complete, the pair had made their way downstairs to John's study, and Margaret had forgotten her initial question.

Her sudden bout of forgetfulness was not only due to the impromptu science lesson, however. Margaret's mouth opened in astonishment as her escort opened double doors onto a room that glowed with warm tones of polished wood and smelled comfortingly of leather and ink. "But this is not a study. It is a library! I was not expecting such a grand room."

It was indeed grand, much nicer than the library John remembered from his youth, and the one room in the house he had taken great pains to make his own. John did not often spend money on himself. Out of long-ingrained habit he preferred to see to the comfort of his mother and sister instead, but the creation of this space was one indulgence he had allowed himself. Floor to ceiling bookcases covered three walls completely and flanked over-sized windows on the fourth. Brass rails secured two-thirds up each case allowed a movable ladder to slide the length of each wall, allowing ready access to the upper reaches of the collection. Of course, the shelves were not completely filled yet. Time would see to that, as John was not the type to buy books by the yard.

"How is it organized?" Margaret asked as she ran her finger along the spines of several volumes. Her delight was palpable, and John asked himself why he had not thought of showing her this room himself. Of course, Richard Hale's daughter would have an abiding love of books. That much should have been obvious.

"Logically, I would hope." John finally replied with a smile. "Books relating to cotton production, manufacturing, and engineering are on the shelves closest to my desk. I'm not certain you would be interested in those. Philosophy is in that section," he pointed to a series of shelves near the door, "and literature and poetry are on the far wall." He pointed to the shelves above the brass rail.

"So high? I think that says something about your feelings toward fiction, Mr. Thornton." Margaret crossed the room, slid the ladder to the appropriate location and began to ascend.

"Miss Hale, I would be more than happy to collect any book you would like to read. I do not think it wise-"

"Not at all, Mr. Thornton. I have always wanted to avail myself of such a ladder. Not even my cousin's house on Harley Street has such a fine library. Although," she added with a low laugh, "I must say that like most Londoners, they are not really great readers. They spend more time talking about the books they claim to have read than they do actually reading them."

John stood close by as Margaret stretched to read the titles on several far away spines. "Rookwood? I am surprised. I would not think you interested in stories of highwaymen."

"Much of the literature collection is Fanny's, I must confess."

"Ah. That explains Oliver Twist, then."

"No. That is mine."

"Once again, you surprise me, Mr. Thornton." Margaret pulled the volume from the shelf and pivoted on the ladder to regard the manufacturer with a smile. He had turned away from her, however, to face the window.

"And why is that, Miss Hale? Do you think me incapable of even reading fiction- mere stories- about the plight of the poor?"

"No! No, that is not what I meant at all. It is just that Dickens is such a realist. I would think you have enough of that in your day to day activities. Please, Mr. Thornton. Let us not argue." Margaret replaced the book on the shelf and grasped the ladder firmly. Suddenly she felt a bit dizzy. It must be the near- constant disagreement. Why did every interaction with Mr. Thornton come to the same inevitable conclusion?

"I do not think I have a novel in me this afternoon. Perhaps poetry? Do you like Tennyson, Mr. Thornton?" Margaret grabbed a thick volume bound in red-leather, but found she needed two hands to hold it."Perhaps you could share your favorite-"

The room tilted and Margaret slipped from the ladder.

John turned back just in time to catch her, although the book was somewhat damaged by the fall, one corner dented, some pages bent. Thankfully Miss Hale was not hurt, herself. John cursed his pride in turning away from her, and his stupidity in even allowing her to use the ladder.

But what had she said earlier? Her autonomy was important to her. She was not some employee he could simply order around. He could not tell her what to do, not if he wanted a future with her.

John carried Margaret to the settee that sat in front of the window and arranged her carefully, then crossed the room and shut the french doors. He grabbed some papers from his desk and knelt next to his love, fanning her as he loosened her collar as much as he dared. He undid one button, then two, then pulled back the lace that fully encased her throat. His hand grazed her flesh, and he pulled back abruptly.

She was burning up.

"Miss Hale!" He rubbed her hand with his own, as he tried unsuccessfully to keep the urgency from his voice. But she did not respond, although her breathing was steady. John left her side and rang for a servant, and was soon joined by Stokes and a very curious Fanny.

"Oh. Has Miss Hale fainted again? Luckily, I have my smelling salts with me. I have been carrying them with me everywhere because of the dizzy spells I've had of late. You know, John, it really was wrong of Mother not to let me see Dr. Donaldson this morning. It's not like we can't afford it. If he has time for your pet projects he certainly should have time for me." Blonde leaned over brunette and waved the small vial under the unconscious woman's nose, soon rousing her.

"There, there, Miss Hale! You have left us, once again! Perhaps your corset is too tight?" Fanny nodded knowingly, as she pushed John aside.

"Stokes," said John quietly to the butler. "I will return Miss Hale to her bedroom shortly, but she will need help readying for bed. If you could send Jane to attend her, I would be most appreciative. Additionally, please find my mother and apprise her of the situation. Cook has been preparing a new poultice and Miss Hale will need her bandages changed. I am sure my mother will want to supervise. "

The man nodded and left quietly, as a very concerned John refocused his attention on Margaret and returned to her side.

"Miss Hale-"

"You know, John, it was really quite inappropriate for you to be in this room alone with an unconscious woman. The door was closed! What were you thinking? Do you have any idea what people will say when they find out?"

"But how would they find out, Fanny?" John asked icily.

Fanny's jaw tightened, but she smiled her most brilliant smile as her reply dripped acid. "I think you should go, John. I will take Miss Hale back to her room and wait for the servant. It is not right for you to be present. I don't know what Mother was thinking to allow it."

"Really, Miss Thornton," voiced Margaret weakly, "I appreciate the gesture, but it is not necessary. I will be fine on my own. And Mr. Thornton had promised to read some of Tennyson's poems to me. I was very much looking forward to it, to be honest. But you are welcome to join us, as chaperone, if you'd think that appropriate."

John smiled inwardly at the oblique invitation and helped Margaret to her feet. Fanny preferred to rant.

"Tennyson? Ugh! He is so old fashioned. I would rather listen to John read the dictionary. There's an issue of the American Review right over here. It took a while to get to us, of course, but Miss Hale, it contains the latest poem by Poe. His words are far more dramatic. And romantic! 'Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary -'"

"Fanny, please give it a rest!"

Brother and sister stared each other down, and as Margaret exited the room with Mr. Thornton she wondered why she and Frederick had never bickered in such a way. Perhaps it was that unlike she and Fred, who were of such similar dispositions, the two Thorntons were like night and day. Margaret smiled to herself. She definitely preferred the later hours. Still, she could tell that although it was in Fanny's power to annoy her brother mightily, it was not necessarily intentional. So, as was her nature, Margaret tried to smooth things over.

"Miss Thornton, should you join us, would you be kind enough to share this poem by Poe? I have not heard it, although certainly I know of the author. Your description has quite intrigued me."

Fanny nodded, then lifted her chin in an expression of eager rebelliousness as she regarded her brother. "Why, of course I will, Miss Hale. I cannot think of anything I would enjoy more."

John's hopes of a quiet afternoon of conversation with Margaret were dashed by circumstance. It was not Fanny's presence that was the cause: she stayed a mere twenty minutes, as she was annoyed when Margaret failed to attend fully to her dramatic reading of The Raven, complete with sound effects. Fanny was not amused by the several yawns, nor the numerous times that Margaret closed her eyes, despite a steady increase in volume over the progression of several stanzas. Fanny flounced out of the room in a fit of pique, her copy of Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque in hand, unopened, as clearly it was not worth sharing more Poe with such an uncooperative audience.

No, the cause was not Fanny. It was Margaret. She fell asleep just as soon as his sister left. John took the opportunity to claim the wing chair Fanny had vacated, and soon was asleep, as well. Darkness had long fallen by the time his mother woke him up, although not intentionally.

She was learning over Margaret, as she first applied a damp washcloth to the younger woman's forehead, and then wrung out a second cloth, which she used to wipe down the patient's arms and neck.

"She is quite feverish, John," his mother said quietly, once she noticed he was awake. "Is it time for another dose of medicine?"

John produced his pocket watch and held it near the candle his mother had lit to illuminate her work. "It's ten o'clock. I completely missed a dose. I am a full six hours late." He rose and prepared the solution with urgency.

"I am sorry, John. I did not want to wake you. You were sleeping so deeply. Heavens know you needed the rest."

"Mother, this is not your responsibility. This is my fault alone." What type of guardian was he, to fall asleep on the job?

He woke Margaret up enough to drink the concoction, but not enough, it seemed, to recognize either him or his mother. Margaret seemed to be having a waking dream, one that was markedly unpleasant.

"Is she delirious?" John asked his mother.

"I would not know. I wonder if we should call for the doctor."

"Bessy!" Margaret cried out. "The raven-"

"Bessy is her friend," John said softly. "A girl who works at the loom. She told me of this dream." He did not mention he and his mother were a part of it.

"Miss Hale is friends with the workforce?" Hannah rolled her eyes.

"Do you think she should care more for matters of class, Mother?" asked her son. "If she did, where would that leave me, a tradesman, given that she is a lady?"

"You have made something of yourself, John. You are one of the wealthiest men in Milton. But what is a girl at a loom? She is nothing."

"I disagree. She is part of my mill and therefore very important to this family. It does Miss Hale credit to think her worthy of friendship."

Hannah scoffed. "You are blinded, son. The world does not work in this way. It never has." She stood and smoothed her skirts before resuming her familiar poker-straight posture. "I will have Jane bring up a plate, as it is long past dinner. You are not eating enough. I fear the strike and this most recent business has caused you to lose weight. You look gaunt." She paused at the door. "I would suggest we call the doctor if your young lady does not improve within the hour." His mother left in a quiet rustle of crisp bombazine.

John took up the washcloth his mother had left in the basin, and began gently wiping down Margaret's arms with the wet cloth.

She continued to cry out, occasionally, despite John's efforts to cool her.

"Fred-"

Who was Fred? And why did saying his name bring her such anguish?

"You cannot say you will never return!"

She said no more, her heated brain turning to other topics, none of which made much sense. John did his best to push her nonsensical words from his mind and to focus on her alleviating her physical symptoms. It was his fault, after all, that she suffered so.

John waited the full hour suggested by his mother before waking an underservant to call the doctor. Margaret's condition continued to deteriorate during that long hour and its conclusion he kicked himself for waiting. Dr. Donaldson arrived quickly, however and wasted no time assessing the gravity of the situation. He unwrapped Margaret's bandage with rapid precision and frowned.

"Her arm is much improved. See how the redness has abated? The turmeric is doing its job."

"Then why does her fever continue?" Asked Mrs. Thornton, who hovered over Margaret protectively. "Is it not due to this corruption you mentioned?"

The doctor nodded. "It must have entered her blood. But the salicylic acid should be helping. You did administer it every six hours, did you not?"

John's face colored in shame. "I must apologize. I missed a dose. But I did administer more, an hour ago. Yet, since then Miss Hale has only gotten worse."

Dr. Donaldson pressed his hand to Margaret's forehead and issued sharp orders. "Have a servant draw a tepid bath, no cooler or warmer than body temperature. The tub should be half way full. We will have to lower Miss Hale's temperature by immersion." As Mrs. Thornton hurried away to wake a servant, the physician turned to John. "Let me see the medicine you procured from the apothecary."

John picked up a packet from the bedside table and handed one to the doctor, who opened the handmade envelope, licked a finger to pick up some of the sample within and tasted it.

"This is not salicylic acid. It is the right color, but I am not certain of just what it is. I am afraid that either the Mr Lloyd made a mistake when he synthesized the drug, or he pulled the wrong preparation from his shelf."

John's brown wrinkled in concern. "Is she poisoned?" If so, he himself was culpable. This all led back to him, after all.

"There are no other symptoms beside the fever she already had. Perhaps this chemical is inert. But I would not want to possibly worsen things by giving her yet another medication, should the two interact. We will have to wait and see."

Jane, groggy from sleep and not as neatly attired as usual, entered the room to tell them that the bath was ready. John removed his frock coat and rolled up his sleeves before carefully lifting Margaret from the bed and directed Dr. Donaldson down the hall to the dressing room.

"We will place her in the bath fully clothed, of course, to preserve her modesty," the doctor said. "And we will need to make sure her bandaged arm does not contact the water, as the poultice should not get wet."

John knelt as he gently lowered Margaret into the bath, and swallowed a gasp of shock as the water transformed the thin nainsook of her nightgown into the most transparent of films. She was as much a goddess as any shown in a Renaissance painting, he realized. It was wrong for him to be seeing her in such intimacy, yet he could not look away from the perfection of her breasts, nor the curve of her waist and thighs. But look up he did, when he heard a strangled noise just across from him. It was accompanied, he saw, by a most lascivious expression on Dr. Donaldson's face, whose eyes ran back and forth across Margaret's nearly naked figure as though they were committing every detail to memory.

"Mother, a towel," John said, with as much calmness as he could muster. His mother handed a heavy white cloth to him which he quickly dropped into the tub. It floated for a few seconds, before submerging itself to fully cover Margaret's body. Then, with equal calmness John addressed the servant observing the scene, mouth agape. "Jane, thank you for extra duties this evening. You are dismissed. Please close the door as you leave, as there is a draft."

After the maid left, and his mother with her, John did his best to control his rage. "I will thank you not to treat Miss Hale as your personal picture book of indelicate illustrations, Dr. Donaldson. You will not besmirch her virtue."

The doctor was speechless, but his shamefaced expression conveyed his guilt.

John took several deep breaths and with great difficulty calmed himself. He loosened his white knuckled grip on the copper tub and regarded Margaret before speaking. He felt the anger leave him quickly, almost as though she were speaking to him in soothing tones, as she had earlier, when she'd urged them not to argue. His voice was therefore even as he addressed the physician. "Dr. Donaldson, you are an educated man, and your help has been invaluable. I do not wish to lose you as our family's physician. However-"

"Miss Hale is your intended. I have overstepped, and I humbly apologize. In the moment I forgot myself. It will not happen again. You have my word." The doctor rose, and with a chastened expression began to pack his bag. "Miss Hale may spend another 10 minutes in the bath. Remove her immediately if she begins to shiver. Then back to bed. She will need to ride this out, I am afraid."

John nodded, as Mrs. Thornton returned to the room to take the doctor's place at Margaret's side.

"I would very much like to pretend this never happened, Dr. Donaldson."

The doctor bowed his head, cognizant of the sheer amount of power concentrated in Mr. Thornton, magistrate and manufacturer. It would not be good for business to make him an enemy. He did his best to convey this recognition. "As would I, with your permission. I have no doubt that you and Miss Hale will be the loveliest of couples. Milton society will be much improved for it."

John said nothing, although he felt a small knot of discomfort install itself in his gut at allowing his initial deceit to continue. Instead, he extended his hand to the man, although the grave expression begat by the physicians egregious actions did not leave his face. "I will see you out, Dr. Donaldson."

"I spoke to Jane," his mother said when he returned upstairs to find Margaret already in bed, in a fresh nightgown, her damp hair combed straight, and his mother by her side. "I gave her a pay rise. Hopefully it will be enough to keep her mouth shut. She is a smart girl, I think, smart enough to know she will lose her job if she talks out of turn."

John nodded. "Do you think Miss Hale will remember anything?" He could not imagine the level of mortification Margaret would feel to know that two men had seen her effectively naked. "I should not have been there, Mother." He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, and grasped hard on several unlucky locks. No decision he had made today was the correct one, it seemed.

"Yes, John. Have I not said this from the start?" Hannah said tartly. "But it is too late now. What is done is done." She regarded the young woman, sleeping more soundly now that her body had been cooled. "I do not think she will remember. But that is inconsequential. As a man of honor, you must-"

"Is there any question of that, Mother? Of course I must! Even before tonight I planned to marry Margaret. You know this."

Hannah shook her head at her short-tempered son, so much like his father in that regard. "No. What I mean is you must insist. We both know your Margaret is strong-willed. You must make sure she says yes. Otherwise she will be ruined. She has spent too many days in this house for tongues not to wag."

"She is her own person, Mother. I cannot control her. Nor do I want to."

"I am not suggesting you do. I am suggesting you use your brain."

Margaret stirred and the conversation ended.

John did not sleep for the rest of the night. He couldn't. He observed Margaret intently, noting every change in her breathing, every small sound she made. He lit extra candles so that he could get a better sense of any changes in her skin color, any return of the flush the fever would bring with it. And of course, the fever did return.

But it broke, just after 2 a.m. Her body stilled itself, and stopped perspiring. John allowed himself the luxury of caressing her forehead, and found it demonstrably cooler.

John felt relief, and then exhaustion flood into his body, but still he did not dare sleep. Margaret's fever could return and he would not foolishly be caught unaware if it did. John pulled the candles closer to himself and opened the volume of Tennyson they had planned to read earlier that day. He opened to a random page, but the words were not enough to keep him awake. They were too rhythmic and soon he found himself drifting. He shook himself awake and saw his mother fast asleep in the wing chair he had insisted she take. Conversation with her would be stimulating enough to keep him up, but that would not be fair to her. She had a full day's work ahead of her, just to run the house.

Maybe reading aloud would keep him from falling asleep. John turned the page, and spoke the words quietly:

"O blackbird! sing me something well:

While all the neighbours shoot thee round,

I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground,

Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

The espaliers and the standards all

Are thine; the range of lawn and park:

The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark,

All thine, against the garden wall.

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring,

Thy sole delight is, sitting still,

With that gold dagger of thy bill

To fret the summer jenneting.

A golden bill! the silver tongue,

Cold February loved, is dry:

Plenty corrupts the melody

That made thee famous once, when young:

And in the sultry garden-squares,

Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse,

I hear thee not at all, or hoarse

As when a hawker hawks his wares.

Take warning! he that will not sing

While yon sun prospers in the blue,

Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new,

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring."

John looked up from the page to see Margaret gazing at him, a sleepy smile on her face. "That was beautiful, she said quietly. Would you read me another?"

"Miss Hale!" John wanted to grab her and kiss her. But of course this was not possible. So much was not possible right now. Then his eyes lit on the next poem in the volume and he smiled in recognition of serendipity. He moved his chair closer to the bed, and began reading, his voice just above a whisper.

"O sweet pale Margaret,

O rare pale Margaret,

What lit your eyes with tearful power,

Like moonlight on a falling shower?

Who lent you, love, your mortal dower

Of pensive thought and aspect pale,

Your melancholy sweet and frail

As perfume of the cuckoo-flower?

From the westward-winding flood,

From the evening-lighted wood,

From all things outward you have won

A tearful grace, as tho' you stood

Between the rainbow and the sun.

The very smile before you speak,

That dimples your transparent cheek,

Encircles all the heart, and feedeth

The senses with a still delight

Of dainty sorrow without sound,

Like the tender amber round,

Which the moon about her spreadeth,

Moving thro' a fleecy night.

You love, remaining peacefully,

To hear the murmur of the strife,

But enter not the toil of life.

Your spirit is the calmed sea,

Laid by the tumult of the fight.

You are the evening star, alway

Remaining betwixt dark and bright:

Lull'd echoes of laborious day

Come to you, gleams of mellow light

Float by you on the verge of night."

Margaret, tears in her eyes, grasped John's hand, and he was lost.

Author's note:

Thank you again to everyone who is continuing to read this story and to everyone who has been kind enough to review, follow or favorite it. You are keeping me going! This chapter is even longer than the last, but as several reviewers have said they actually like long chapters, I am hoping this is okay. I really didn't see a good place to break it up, and I wanted Margaret's illness to finally come to a conclusion in this chapter. :)

About the invalid's cup: In the BBC mini series, you can see Maria Hale drinking from a spouted porcelain invalid's cup. It is very similar to a modern toddler's sippy cup and I would think its use would feel infantilizing to someone who is not feeling ill. Hence Margaret's annoyance at John's insistence that she drink from it. They are feeling each other out. :)

About John's library: I think Margaret was surely an avid reader, growing up as the daughter of an parson/academic. But given their limited means she would have been unable to purchase books on a whim, as they were very expensive. And in Milton, which Gaskell based on Manchester, there would not have been a public library similar to the ones we think of today. In the 1800s Manchester did have the Chetham's Library, which was a free library, but it was not a lending library. Until the mid-part of the century the books were actually chained up. The way for middle class people to borrow books was to join a subscription service, where people pooled their money to buy and share books. However, I don't think the Hales would have been able to afford this. So I see John's library as being very, very attractive to Margaret.

About Rookwood: this is a novel written by William Ainsworth Harrison and published in 1834. Until Dickens novels came along and eclipsed it, Rookwood was considered the one of the most successful novels of the 19th century. However, I don't think it is a book John would have read, as it was a gothic romance and not at all serious. Definitely more Fanny's cup of tea.

About Poe: Fanny is quoting from "The Raven," which was published in the American Review in 1845 to immediate success.

About Tennyson: Tennyson was very popular in the 1840s and was a great favorite of Queen Victoria. For this reason I think Fanny would have found him a boring old fogey. The two poems John reads are The Blackbird, published in 1842, and Margaret, published in 1833.

About the salicylic acid: in the 1840s, pharmacists synthesized many of their own medications using the newly discovered organic chemistry techniques of how to put together and take apart complex molecules. (The job was a lot different than it is today.) However, as the science was new, the chemical produced were often impure. And sometimes the wrong chemical was accidentally produced, depending on the skill of the chemist. And of course, as in the present day, mixups inevitably occurred.