Not a Gentleman
by Tintinnabula
Chapter Six
John the Liar
Hannah Thornton was tired. Her back ached from sleeping in a wing chair for three nights running, and her neck had a crick that made holding her head straight a painful endeavor. And while it could not be said that her household was in disarray, it was not running to the degree of clockwork precision it normally did. All this was thanks to the Hale girl, of course, who still occupied a bed in the green room.
Hannah entered that room now, a bundle of fabric over her arm, and regarded her son's choice of fiancee, who was still sleeping, despite the late morning hour. Of course it was not out of the ordinary that the girl did so- Dr. Donaldson had expressly stated that Miss Hale needed her sleep. Fighting off an illness took away greatly from the body's reserves, so it made sense that a person occupying a sickbed would be very little aware of her surroundings.
And that had its benefits, as far as Hannah was concerned. For one thing, it meant that John was not hovering around, and could spend his time at the mill, as he should. The elder Thornton was more than irked when she woke in the wee hours to the sound of her son reading poetry to an enraptured Miss Hale. Her son should have been sleeping, after a prior night spent keeping vigil. There was no time for such nonsense when the fate of the mill hung in the balance. Thankfully, she'd been able to limit her son's time with the girl to an hour the next night. The fact that he was completely exhausted made it easy to do so. Still, her son had put up a fight. He'd wanted to spend another full evening reading poetry to the girl, like some love-struck Romeo. But in the end, he could barely keep his eyes open. Mother had walked son to bedroom, as she'd done many years before, and the boy had fallen into bed fully-clothed, already asleep.
Hannah shook her head as she smiled.
John had never been in love before. As his mother, Hannah was certain of this. And persons in love behaved in very predictable ways. She should not be surprised that he would put the invalid girl's needs before his own. With just the slightest bit of encouragement from those large, grave eyes he would have done anything that girl had asked of him. Hannah supposed her son was lucky the girl hadn't taken advantage.
Maybe she was the type of girl who would take advantage. But maybe she wasn't. After the near- endless stream of women Hannah had paraded before him over the past five years—none of whom he'd seen fit to offer more than a second glance- maybe John knew what he wanted in a wife. Maybe his mother should give him more credit.
Hannah sighed aloud. She would reserve judgment for now.
Miss Hale stirred as Hannah returned to the wing chair, with a silent vow that yes, this particular piece of furniture would be replaced as soon as the mill was turning a profit. It was easily the most uncomfortable chair in the house, of that she no longer had any doubt.
"Mrs. Thornton," the girl sat up groggily. "What time is it?"
"It's half eleven."
"Oh!" Miss Hale's eyes widened, and Hannah smirked.
"Is there someplace you needed to be?"
"No. It's just that..." Miss Hale was flustered, in a way that was probably quite attractive to the opposite sex. "You see, Mrs. Thornton, I greatly appreciate the hospitality you have shown me since Saturday, but I am also certain that it has been a tremendous imposition." The girl bowed her head. "I apologize for this."
"Do not apologize, Miss Hale. Of course a manufacturer such as my son would take care of someone who had been hurt on his property. Propriety demands it."
"Yet you have stayed by my side these nights, instead of in your bed. Surely this is not fair, propriety or no. You have your own health to worry about."
Hannah nodded once in agreement, tight- lipped. A servant certainly could have kept vigil these nights, but that was not a possibility with John by the girl's side. However, Hannah's actions were for him, not for Miss Hale. There was nothing she would not do for her son, and it was unlikely someone who was not herself a mother could possibly understand this. John had given up the latter part of his childhood for her, and grown into a man who far surpassed her hopes and dreams. And those hopes and dreams certainly excused any lingering doubts Hannah had about this girl he'd taken into his heart.
The matriarch unfolded the yard of white cotton fabric that sat in her lap, and nipped one selvage with the tiny scissors that hung from her chatelaine. Next, she tore the cloth with a satisfying rip. She noted with pride how few fibers flew into the air as the cloth tore cleanly through the warp threads.
"You are making bandages?" Miss Hale asked.
"You have quite depleted our supply," was the dry rejoinder. "Luckily, we have a ready supply of fabric, although it is of far finer quality than what is required." Hannah rolled the first strip of fabric into a tight cylinder, then repeated the process of nipping and tearing. "I will see to your wound shortly. Is it causing you pain?"
"No. It is feeling much better."
Hannah nodded. "I am not surprised. I had a mind to suggest that remedy to Dr. Donaldson at the outset."
"Have you had much experience in treating wounds? Were Mr. and Miss Thornton rambunctious children?" The girl's lips curved into a pleasing smile.
"No," Hannah replied shortly, punctuating the word with another tear. After several minutes of wordless bandage-making, she continued. "My father was a physician. I learned a small amount from him."
"I see," said the over-curious girl. "I imagine he saw patients in the house? Did you assist?"
"Yes. And no. He had a practice where some patients came to him. But not many. My father's aim was to serve the upper crust of Milton, and that meant he must attend to his patients at all hours, and of course go directly to their houses whenever needed." She paused. "It also meant we saw very little of him."
"Oh." The girl had nothing more to say. Well, that was good. It seemed she had recently gained some skill in discerning when to keep her mouth shut.
"But he taught me some things, because I was very interested. I would have learned more, but-" Hannah abruptly decided she'd said too much. Regardless of his son's affections for the girl, Miss Hale did not need to know her own intimate history.
Nonetheless, recognition dawned on the girl's face. Hannah would have wriggled with discomfort, if her stiff back allowed it, and if wriggling was something she ever did. Instead, she sat as erect as usual, and busied herself with the task at hand.
"I see," Miss Hale replied compassionately. "I am so sorry. You were very young, I take it?"
Hannah sighed. "I was fourteen. So you see, Miss Hale, I do have an inkling of what you are going through with your mother."
"As does Mr. Thornton." the girl looked away as she said, "Death is too much with us. I have a friend who is also very ill. She is but nineteen."
"It is a fact of life, Miss Hale. We all must die, and know not when." Hannah rose stiffly from the wing chair and set all but one of the bandages upon it. "Let's see to your wound." She moved to the other side of the bed
"When is Dr. Donaldson coming?" Miss Hale asked as Hannah carefully unwound the long strip of cotton.
"He will not. He saw you yesterday. You were half asleep. Do you not remember?"
"I... no, not really."
"Perhaps you were more tired than either of us realized. Your fever was gone by yesterday afternoon. He said that all you likely needed was another night's rest." Hannah cut a strip of clean cloth from the bandage roll and moistened it with water from the ewer that stood at the bedside table. She wiped away the poultice and appraised the wound. "It's scabbed nicely, I see. I'll bandage it again, but as the doctor suggested, you won't be needing the poultice. The corruption is gone, thankfully."
"Thank you, Mrs. Thornton."
In response, Hannah busied herself with the re-wrapping of the girl's arm.
"Are you satisfied with the care Dr. Donaldson is providing to your mother?" she asked after a while.
The girl blushed. It seemed like she did so at the slightest provocation.
"I must thank you again, Mrs. Thornton. He has been a godsend to us. Without his care I am not sure my mother would still be with us."
Hannah nodded impatiently.
"Yes, but would you say your mother is happy with her care? He treats her... appropriately?"
The girl cocked her head. "He treats her with compassion and... intelligence." She thought for a moment, and nodded emphatically. "As he should. My mother and Dixon seem very happy with her care."
"Dixon is the servant, I recall?"
"Yes, she is always by Mama's side. She has been Mama's servant for many years."
"I see," said Hannah and dropped the matter. Clearly the girl had no recollection of her time in the bathtub, thankfully, and had not noticed anything strange about Dr. Donaldson's behavior. Sleeping dogs would lie still for now.
"Does that mean I can go?"
"Excuse me, Miss Hale?"
"If Dr. Donaldson is not coming today, does that mean I am sufficiently healed that I may rejoin my family? As you know, my mother needs me."
The hopeful smile that spread across the girl's face was infectious.
"I will choose not to be insulted by your over-eagerness to leave us." Hannah bit her lip to prevent it from echoing the girl's grin as she collected the used bandage and prepared to exit the room.
"Would it be possible for me to see Mr. Thornton before I take my leave? I would very much like to thank him for the time he spent by my side."
"I am certain that won't be possible, Miss Hale. He is overburdened with work right now. I will be sure to convey your thanks to him, however."
"I see." Miss Hale's brow furrowed. "I owe him much. Both of you."
Hannah nodded. "I will send Jane to attend you. And Miss Hale, before you suggest the alternative, I will be ordering the carriage for you. You will not be leaving Marlborough Mills on foot."
Hannah swept out of the room with a rustling of skirts. She had no doubt that Miss Hale would be seeing her son later that day. He would, of course, be stopping by their tiny Crampton home to do the honorable thing and make a formal offer of marriage to Miss Hale. And Hannah also had no doubt that her son would be angry that she'd allowed Miss Hale to leave before he could make this offer at his own home, before the girl left.
But even if she liked Miss Hale a good deal more than she originally had planned to, there were some things Hannah Thornton simply could not permit. She would not be ousted so easily from the relationship she'd built with her son over one and thirty years. No, she would gladly be the target of John's frustration if it meant she could remain a few more hours as first in his affections.
It was good to be home!
Margaret had never thought she would find the cramped rowhouse as welcoming as she found it today, re-purposed chests, threadbare carpet and all. Those things did not matter of course, no more than they had in Helstone. It was the presence of her parents that made the place a home, and she was overjoyed to see them.
Dixon clucked over her, but that was to be expected, and Mama was feeling well enough, thanks to the waterbed, to be sitting up in bed reading the latest missive from Aunt Shaw. This was not at all what Margaret expected, and she felt a tremendous weight lifted off her shoulders to see her mother so full of life and vigor.
Her mother gasped over the gift of the roses. Margaret separated them into two bouquets- each still abundant- and placed one on the occasional table that held her mother's embroidery basket.
"These are not at all like Helstone roses," her mother said somewhat judgmentally, but approval shone in her eyes nonetheless. She had many questions for Margaret about the frigid Mrs. Thornton, and even more about her son. All of this was peppered with a running commentary about the extreme usefulness of the waterbed they had provided, and its similarity to the fine feather beds she'd experienced as a girl at Oxenham.
Papa's affect was much less vigorous. He more resembled a man who been through a windstorm, unsheltered, yet somehow survived. He had dark circles under his eyes and a look in his eyes of a man who knew a truth that had been withheld from him. Still, he was thrilled to see his daughter, and she him, and Margaret found herself spending the early part of the afternoon traveling back and forth between Papa's study and Mama's bedroom, meting out her time equally between the two people she loved best in the world.
"They took good care of you, Margaret, did they not?" her father asked as he looked up from the oversized book he was reading, one which Margaret did not recognize.
Margaret smiled brightly from the chair she had pulled to sit quite close to his desk. "Of course, Papa. Mr. Thornton, especially. I can see why you think so highly of him. He was quite solicitous."
Mr. Hale nodded as he returned to his book. "He is a good man, Margaret. I don't know that I have met finer."
No. Margaret had not met any finer man, apart from her father, anyway. She realized that now. How wrong she'd been about Mr. Thornton. He had demonstrated to her, over the past few days that he was nothing like the portrait she painted of him.
"Did John mention whether he would be taking his lesson this evening? It is the usual day."
"I do not know, Papa." Margaret smiled at her father's childlike enthusiasm. "I was not able to say goodbye to Mr. Thornton when I took my leave this morning. Mrs. Thornton did mention there is a great deal of work to accomplish in a very short time."
"Yes. Of course." Her father's crestfallen look pained her.
"But surely he will send a note if he is unable to come, Papa."
Mr. Hale returned to his reading, then looked up with an absentminded smile.
"I did not tell you, Margaret. Mr. Bell sent me this Bible. He thought I might be interested, in light of my dissension."
"Oh?"
"It's the version the Unitarians use. Archbishop Newcome's translation."
"Is it much different?"
"Why, yes. In some ways. Listen to this: Love is long suffering; and is kind; love envieth not; love is not vain; love is not puffed-up, doth not behave itself unbecomingly..."
Margaret graced her father with a patient smile. He seemed bursting to enlighten her.
"You see, Margaret, it's different from our version."
"But it's wrong. It should say, 'charity,' not 'love,' should it not?"
"Well, my dear, that's a matter of translation from the ancient Greek, and different translators may not always agree. The Greek word is agape, which means love. To be clear, unlike us, the ancient Greeks had four different words for love. Agape is the purest, most selfless form of love- God's love, which we must do our best to imitate. It is unlike eros, the physical love between a husband and wife, storge, the love between a parent and child, or philia, love between friends. Agape is love as action, love demonstrated, not just a simple emotion. It is more than love felt."
"Love as action..." Margaret chewed her lip thoughtfully as she considered her father's small lecture.
"Yes. I do like the unvarnished clarity of this translation." The former pastor pushed up his spectacles as he turned back to his new Bible.
John was kind. John had been patient and long-suffering with her. He was many of those things called out in that verse of I Corinthians Papa had shared.
But certainly Mr. Thornton had his flaws, and she had yet to reconcile these. He was like the mythological Janus, a two-faced creation that had different aspects depending upon how one encountered him. The man who read poetry with intense passion- the man who made her wonder if perhaps she might fall in love with him-was the same man who kicked an underling with undiluted brutality. How was this possible? How could both persons inhabit the same body?
And what was she feeling toward Mr. Thornton? Was it eros? That was precisely the issue, the fact that she was feeling. It had to be eros. There was that strange sensation she'd felt the night before last when she'd awakened to hear the sonorous tones of his baritone voice, a fluttering in her heart, and elsewhere. And when he'd read the poem to her namesake she thought her heart might burst. She'd never, ever felt such a directed, intense feeling. It was as though she had discovered she had six senses instead of merely five.
Was eros wrong?
No, surely not. Her father would have said something, just now. And he and Mama were married, after all, and must therefore experience eros themselves... Oh, she didn't want to consider that.
Was she in love with Mr. Thornton?
Was he in love with her?
His eyes- those arresting cerulean eyes- had a look, such a look! – when she took his hand that night. Even when he came upon her inspecting that gorgeous, and ridiculously overabundant bouquet of roses his expression had been sublime.
He must feel something. Surely something more than Henry had.
Margaret almost laughed aloud as she thought again of the roses. Fifty! And somehow he'd obtained them on a Sunday, which should be impossible.
If only Edith were here. The two might stay up half the night giggling. Of course, Edith would want the whole story. The entire story from snout to curly tail. How would she tell her about how she came to be on the porch with Mr. Thornton?
Why did she go there? Was she feeling something for him even then?
Margaret shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind—and body- of the memories that came rushing forth. Of John Thornton, manufacturer, facing a hungry rabble, defiant and proud.
What else did the verse say? Margaret spoke aloud:
"...doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth."
"Yes," Mr. Hale said, "I will agree, the King James version has a poetic beauty to it that is unsurpassed."
Dixon interrupted the pair, and Margaret noticed for the first time the look of mental exhaustion the heavy-set woman wore. She had burned the candle at both ends while Margaret was gone. Not only Mama's current condition but also the unreasonable tidiness of the house attested to that.
"Miss, would you take a turn with your mother while I go out to the market?" Dixon asked. "For a change, the missus has an appetite, and I would take full advantage of it, but we are out of fruit as I have not had opportunity to purchase provisions."
"No, Dixon. You look dead on your feet. I will go. I have spent the last three days resting. And truly I need the exercise."
The housekeeper raised her eyebrows at Mr. Hale in silent entreaty. But as usual, the absent minded academic completely missed the signal. Dixon glowered with frustration. What else could she do but speak up? "Now Miss, it would not do for you to fall ill again."
"Nonsense, Dixon." Margaret brought herself up haughtily. "It is my decision to make."
She left the room and quickly gathered her reticule and hat, as well as a basket from the kitchen, and quickly checked the larder to assess the condition of their stores. Bread, cheese, fruit, cream, bacon, eggs. All needed. Plus fruit. All this would require visits to several stalls. She grabbed a second basket, and a container for the liquid.
She was on her way quickly, with a purpose to her step and a smile on her face. The weather was lovely, and unusually for Milton, a blue sky was peeking through the grey veil that usually clung to the city so tenaciously.
The tone on the street was different than on Saturday, too. The day of the strike the air had been oppressive, but even from the people on the street had come an unsettling feeling- one which had culminated in the riot. Today townsfolk seemed so much more friendly. Four, no, five men had tipped their tall beaver hats at her, and several well-dressed women had acknowledged her with a smile. That usually did not happen. Milton folk were typically too busy for such social niceties.
Of course, with the strike over, people must be feeling much more relaxed. Certainly if she was in such a position she would be celebrating in mind, if not yet in body. The thought of a steady wage rather than an empty cupboard should put a grin on anyone's face.
Margaret entered the covered market to more smiles and several "Good days," from shopkeepers she had never purchased from before. That was a bit puzzling. Milton vendors were not known for their customer service.
More puzzling was the fact that the egg seller bade her come to the front of the queue, serving her before several customers who were clearly there before her.
Then the baker, Mr. Hart, said something mortifying.
"I'd like to be the first to offer you felicitations."
Margaret nodded, as she typically did when conversing with the man. His Yorkshire accent was so thick that it generally took her several seconds to translate his words into southern English.
Moments later she colored, profusely.
"Pardon?" she asked weakly.
"Upon your upcoming nuptials." At least that's what she thought he said. "Your wedding," he amended. Those two words were quite clear.
Margaret nodded again, deer-eyed, handed him payment and walked away just as quickly as her feet could carry her.
Unfortunately, she had three more vendors to visit.
Margaret wasted no time on the remaining task, and rushed home and back out again. In minutes she was at Bessy's doorstep.
Her friend was in bed, and in much worse condition than the last time she'd seen her.
"I didna think I would see you again," the girl said quietly, her voice hoarse from coughing.
"There was an accident. I have been ill," Margaret began. "I am so sorry, Bessy. I would have come-"
"You have troubles of your own, I know it." The nineteen-year-old invalid closed her eyes and Margaret was struck by how much more gaunt she seemed since the last visit. Margaret glanced across the room at the girl's sister, who swept rough flags inefficiently with an ill-made broom.
"Yes, my mother has been doing poorly. But today she is much better. I was much relieved to come home to find her in such good condition."
Bessy's tried valiantly to sit up in the narrow bed crammed into the tiny, curtained alcove. "But where were you, then? You did not say you'd been on holiday. And how could you afford it?"
"I wasn't." Margaret shook her head. "Where is Nicholas?"
Mary swept faster and Bessy let out a long sigh, which was followed by a bout of coughing. Margaret leaned her forward and rubbed the girl's back as the coughs racked the girl's slight frame. Finally the fit abated, and her body stilled.
"He's at the Golden Dragon, most likely," the usually quiet Mary answered for her sister. "He's angry about Boucher breaking the strike."
"But it wasn't Boucher-" Margaret stopped herself.
"How d'you know, Margaret?" asked Bessy breathlessly.
"What did you hear of the riot?" Margaret asked.
"That a crowd gathered. And they threw rocks and clogs at the master and his sister."
"No. Not his sister."
"How would you know?" Bessy's eyes widened. "Oh. It was you, then."
"The rumor is that it was his sister? Oh, please say nothing."
"I would not betray you. Nor would Mary. Oh!" Bessy tried to laugh, but triggered another coughing fit instead.
"What would Father think to hear you were protecting the master?" Bessy finally gasped with a smile.
Margaret stayed with Bessy until her sick friend fell asleep, and then she did what she needed to do. She gathered up her considerable courage and made the half mile trek from the squalor of Frances Street to the orderly New Street and Marlborough Mills.
The remains of the large, wooden gate had been removed but the courtyard was as busy as ever. Therefore no one noticed as she slipped past the mill house and made her way into the office she'd visited once before.
Margaret did not bother knocking at the door, which stood ajar. Instead, she opened it quietly and stood silently for a moment, appraising Mr. John Thornton, magistrate and manufacturer. She should not be viewing him such, she realized, as he was in a state of undress, a state, she realized she had not seen in the three days they'd spent together. His frock coat was slung over an empty chair, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His cravat was missing and his neck was therefore fully exposed.
Margaret found herself blushing as she noticed the dark hairs peeking out from behind the placket of his shirt, suggesting a foreign landscape she'd never before considered. But why should she blush? She found herself remonstrating with herself. He after all, had spent plenty of time with her in undress- true undress. Yet she had witnessed nary a blush. Nor, she belatedly realized, had she received the smallest of apologies for this transgression against her virtue.
Anger sufficiently stoked, Margaret entered the room.
"Mr. Thornton."
The manufacturer looked up, and a look of irritation quickly dissolved into one of complete happiness.
"Miss Hale. I did not think I would see you today. My mother said you had gone home."
Margaret nodded.
"What did you say?"
Mr. Thornton looked at her quizzically. "'My mother said you had gone home.'"
Margaret raised her voice just a bit. "To the shopkeepers. What did you say?"
He opened his palms to her. "I have not spoken to any shopkeepers."
Margaret shut the door, perhaps a bit more firmly than she might have. "Yes. You did. On Sunday. You went to a florist, to purchase those glorious roses. And then you went to an apothecary. I will ask you again. What did you say?"
Mr. Thornton stood and rubbed at the vertical line that suddenly appeared between his eyebrows. "Miss Hale, clearly there has been some misunderstanding. Will you sit down so that we can discuss this quietly, please?" He rolled down his sleeves and grabbed his frock coat from the other chair and then gestured to the seat.
Margaret sat, and waited for Mr. Thornton to return to his own chair, which he'd pulled out from behind the desk to move closer to her own. She tapped her finger on her chair's armrest impatiently. "Well?" she asked, finally.
Mr. Thornton looked at her with confusion.
"I am still waiting, Mr. Thornton."
He racked his brain. "I asked the florist if he would be kind enough to open his store for me, as I had given him a very good price on some fabric he intended to use as bunting in a pageant this past spring. He agreed. He showed me the flowers. I knew I wanted yellow ones. We agreed on a price. I left."
Margaret breathed a heavy sigh of frustration. "And the apothecary?"
"I waited for him outside of the church, and approached him about opening shop. Again, he owed me a favor. Most merchants in town do. He opened the shop. He read the note from Dr. Donaldson, he ground the turmeric and he measured out the other drug- the salicylic acid. He noted the amount in his account book and I went on my merry way. Miss Hale, will you please tell me what this is about? What has happened?"
"You have not talked to any other shopkeepers?"
Mr. Thornton shook his head.
"Not Mr. Hart, the baker?"
"No."
"Nor Mrs. Wright, the cheese monger?"
"No."
"Nor Mr. Jeffreys, the bu-?"
"The butcher? No."
"Then how is it, Mr. Thornton, that those three shopkeepers, and two others wished me the best on my upcoming nuptials- to you? And how is it that the ton of Milton- if Milton could even be said to have such a thing- has had nothing but smiles for me this day, when previously they have ignored my very existence?" Margaret burst into tears. "It is only a matter of time before this news reaches my family!"
"Oh, Miss Hale." Mr. Thornton's face fell, as simultaneously his color rose. "This is my fault. Dr. Donaldson must have-"
"Dr. Donaldson thinks we are engaged? You told him this?"
Mr. Thornton nodded. He reached for Margaret's hand, but she pulled it away. And she waved away his offer of a handkerchief as well, preferring to wipe her copious tears away with her fingers.
"Why? Why would you say such a thing?"
"I had to."
"You lied."
"I had to."
"Why? What reason could you possibly have had?"
Margaret looked scathingly at this man she loved, yet did not love. He was a man of honor, yet a liar. Like Janus, he had two faces.
And he had no answer, it seemed. He was silent, his head in his hands. She waited. And waited. Finally, she rose to leave.
Then she heard his quiet answer.
"You would have died."
Margaret returned to her seat, astonished. "You exaggerate."
Mr. Thornton looked up, anguish writ across his severe features.
"I do not. You cannot understand, Miss Hale. You were grievously injured. A decision had to be made."
"And this decision was yours to make?"
Mr. Thornton sighed. "Dr. Donaldson made me aware of your mother's condition. Your father is my friend. I could not ask him to make a life or death decision regarding your treatment. Not when so much else weighs on his soul. And there was also the question of cost-"
"Cost?" Margaret raised her voice unwittingly.
"Miss Hale, I am aware of your family's financial difficulties-"
Margaret flushed scarlet, but attempted to control herself. "You have no right to speak in this way, Mr. Thornton. You have no way to know of my family's income. Nor is it proper for you to make such assumptions."
"I may be a half-educated Milton man, but I can do sums. Your father has six students of which I am one. I therefore know how much he charges for his tutelage. My sister is a hypochondriac. I pay the bills, and an therefore intimately familiar with the cost of a house call from Dr. Donaldson. Your mother sees the doctor thrice weekly, and is likely to see him more often in the near future. It does not pencil out, Miss Hale."
"My mother has a small income. We manage." Tears flowed again. The nerve of this man. The absolute gall.
"You could not have afforded this treatment. Should I have let you die? Should I have placed that decision on your father's already burdened shoulders?" The master's voice cracked as emotion overwhelmed him.
Margaret struggled to keep her own voice even. "So what you are saying, Mr. Thornton, is that I am in your debt."
"No!" Mr. Thornton jumped from his seat, eyes flashing. His hands had balled into white-knuckled fists, Margaret noticed. Here was the man she'd met that first day in the mill. But he surprised her by quickly calming himself. When he spoke, his voice much calmer, and closer to the rumbling baritone she found so enchanting.
"Miss Hale, you misunderstand. You will never be in my debt. I am in yours. What you did for me-"
"That was charity, Mr. Thornton. I simply acted in the way my father raised me. I would have done the same for any man."
"Any man?" Mr. Thornton's eyes widened in disbelief. He paced the room. "I do not understand. I thought...Even if you hadn't been injured I would have asked for your hand. I would have asked because under the circumstances- after what occurred there was only one possible course of action. This has nothing to do with debt. There is no statement of accounts, no debits and credits to be tallied or audited."
She was hurting him, she realized. But she could not stop. Her pride was too injured.
"You make it sound as though those circumstances- as though what I did was sinful."
"No, not sinful," Mr. Thornton replied quietly. "Foolish."
"It is foolish to protect someone from harm?"
"It is foolish to risk your reputation for someone you do not love." He turned away.
But she did love him. Not then, perhaps, but now, yes. At least, she had thought so until a few minutes ago. Now she was utterly confused.
"Miss Hale, I have acted egregiously. I can only beg your forgiveness. But what is done is done. Can we not make the best of this situation?"
"How?"
"Allow me to court you for a time, for propriety's sake. Then we can end the engagement quietly."
Margaret folded her hands in her lap as she considered his words.
"But that will not work," she said finally, "as we are not equals. Were we to end the engagement you would walk away unscathed, whereas I would be marked as a fallen woman."
"I would not allow that to happen. I would make it clear that you were without fault."
"But how?"
Mr. Thornton shrugged. "It would require some creativity, but I would find a way."
"You would do this for me?"
He simply looked at her, unblinkingly.
Margaret stood and collected her reticule. "Thank you for the offer, Mr. Thornton. I will think on it." She turned back towards him as she opened the door. "My father asked me to inquire whether you would be joining him tonight for your lesson."
"Would I be intruding, Miss Hale?"
"I would not wish to interfere with your education, Mr. Thornton."
"Then please tell your father I will see him at seven."
She did not want to join her father and Mr. Thornton in the study. Margaret sat with her mother and Dixon in her mother's bedroom instead, inviting huffs of disapproval from the caretaker and languid looks of concern from her mother.
"You always sit with your father when Mr. Thornton is here," her mother began. "Is something wrong, Margaret?"
"No, Mama, I am just more tired than I expected. I walked more than I intended this afternoon, and I don't think I was as fully recovered as I thought."
Her mother nodded in agreement. "You must not stress yourself. We depend on you so, don't we Dixon? I don't know how we survived your being gone these past days."
Dixon huffed again, annoyed to be displaced in her orbit around her sun. "I cannot take care of the missus and prepare the master's tea, Miss Margaret."
"But I can stay with Mama."
"Margaret," her mother pleaded querulously, "it is time for my bath and medications, and that is a job for Dixon, not you. It would be most helpful if you would tend to your father and his guest."
Margaret nodded, defeated, and went to the kitchen to prepare the tea. The men were laughing when she entered the room, although at what she had no idea. She poured the tea silently, studiously avoiding any contact with Mr. Thornton as she handed him his cup, and averting her eyes throughout the entire process. She had intended to retreat immediately, planning for this by placing only two cups on the tray, but her father insisted she fetch another cup and plate and return immediately to them.
She did as she was told, fetching her needlework, too, so she would have something to occupy herself as long as she must stay.
She took the seat closest to her father and farthest from Mr. Thornton. She tried her best not to listen, but was inexorably drawn into the conversation.
"Margaret," said her father, "John was telling me that he was able to show you his study at the mill house. It is marvelous, is it not?"
"Yes, Papa. It is more beautiful than many in Harley Street."
"John, that is high praise, indeed! I think I could spend many an hour in there, myself."
"Of course, you are always welcome, Mr. Hale." Mr. Thornton smiled graciously. "Miss Hale, I hope you do not think this too forward, but as you so enjoyed the volume of Tennyson you selected while at my house, I thought it only appropriate to loan it to you indefinitely."
"I- thank you, Mr. Thornton." Margaret crossed the room to receive the book from Mr. Thornton's extended hand and this time was unable to avoid touching him. His hands brushed past hers as he placed the large volume safely in her arms and she felt a frisson of excitement pass through her as his fingers lingered in their journey. He caught her eyes and she was lost in their pale blue depths. She pulled away reluctantly.
Margaret returned slowly to her seat, oblivious to the two spots of color high on her cheek. She could hear only the lingering memory of Mr. Thornton's voice as he read to her.
"Margaret? I asked if you would refresh our tea, please."
"Oh! Father, I'm sorry. I was far away."
"Yes, Margaret. That was fairly obvious." Her father chuckled, and quite possibly Mr. Thornton was smiling, too, although Margaret did not turn her head in his direction to check. Quite mortified, the dutiful daughter poured the tea, offered cream and sugar, then returned to her place.
She did not stay there long, however.
"Father," she said abruptly, "if you and Mr. Thornton are done with tea, might I ask if I may take my leave?"
"Of course, my dear." Margaret approached her father and was encircled into a hug. "I forget that you are still recovering."
"It is not that." Margaret moved to the doorway and regarded Mr. Thornton with a clear, blue-green gaze and the smallest of smiles. "It is just that Mr. Thornton has something of utmost urgency he needs to speak with you about. Good night, Papa. Good night, John."
Author's note: Thank you again to everyone who has been reading, reviewing, following and favoriting. Your support means the world to me! I think this chapter is in some ways a pivotal one, and although for the most part I have planned for this story to be relatively free of angst so that it can focus on the development of the love story between John and Margaret, the huge misunderstanding caused by John's misrepresentation needed to be cleared up. I am trying as much as I can to keep all of the actors in this story as three dimensional and in-character as I can, as OOC characters really bug me. As a result, there was quite a bit of emotion here, as John and Margaret are both very passionate people. Poor Margaret is in turmoil, and John is bearing the brunt of it. However, now that the storm has passed, I think we can move on to the relationship-building phase. Thanks for your patience! :)
I also thought it was important to Margaret's character development to emphasize the fact that she is the daughter of a minister and the profound effect this would have on her development as a person. Although I grew up in a religious family, I am not a person of faith at all. Still, the huge influence of Gaskell's Unitarian faith on her storytelling is not lost on me. Margaret-as-minister's-daughter strikes to the core of who Margaret is, and why she stands up for the poor, why she is so willing to throw herself in front of John, etc. It is a key motivator for her, in my opinion, so I did not want to ignore it, even though it might be more comfortable to do so. So, although I probably will not be mentioning much else about biblical passages again I wanted to bring in at least one, as I think Margaret might very well be considering the nature of marital love and how it relates to what she has learned at her father's knee. I hope my telling was not too heavy-handed. As a vicar of the Church of England, Richard Hale would have used the King James version of the Bible. In the 1840s, Unitarians used Archbishop Newcome's 1808 translation, which phrases many verses (including I Corinthians) slightly differently. I think Richard Hale is academic enough to appreciate these differences.
Next chapter will be John-centric. :) (yay!)