Not a Gentleman

by Tintinnabula

Chapter Eight

The Shroud

John opened the gates to the mill at half past five. Normally this was a task for Williams, but the man was sick in bed with a summer cold. John was glad he had not caught it, as the illness had affected different members of the mill staff with varying levels of severity. John stood for a minute in the cobbled yard as he regarded the yellow-brown sunrise illuminating long strands of soot reeling forth from the many chimneys of Milton. Today was going to be scorchingly hot- he could tell after many years of living in the place. The grey, insulating batt laid down in great quantities by the factories made summer days worse than they would have been otherwise. But such was the price the city paid for progress, and the price England paid for its position as largest manufacturer in the world.

A cart pulled by two draft horses jangled to a stop in front of him, and a burly man, dressed in well-patched fustian jumped down from the pile of tools thrown in back. John recognized him instantly. It was Higgins.

John sighed. He was in no mood for a confrontation in the middle of the street, directly in front of his mill. The bruise on his cheek was beginning to heal, and had now entered its even uglier purple-green phase, but it had elicited any number of rumors that had been very difficult to put down. And now arrived the source of said rumors.

But Higgins had carefully uncovered the pic-nic hamper from the pile, John noticed, which he now carried toward the manufacturer. What's more, the man looked contrite.

"Might I have a word, Master?"

"You'd better come inside," John said begrudgingly. It was preferable, he knew, to move things to his own turf. That way any altercation would remain unseen by his workers and passersby. John led Higgins into his office and shut the door firmly.

The former mill worker set the hamper carefully in a corner and removed his cap. "You can punch me, if you like. You owe me at least that."

John raised an eyebrow. This was not at all what he expected.

"Is everything there?" he asked, instead.

"Ah. Yeah. All but the brandy. I'll owe you that, then."

John shrugged. "I expect it would have been consumed if you'd joined our party."

Higgins said nothing. Apparently that was the sum of his apology, John guessed. His tolerance turned to irritation.

"Where are you off to this morning, then? Fomenting more unrest?"

"Keeping my family fed as best I can, which is hard, as I can no longer use my hard-earned skills."

"That's no one's fault but your own." John did his best to control the sneer that threatened.

Higgins narrowed his eyes. "There's some would disagree. But I must be off. My team won't wait forever, and there's ditches t' dig." Higgins returned his cap to his head, and left with haste.

John carried the hamper to his desk and opened it. Every dish and jar inside was spotless, he noticed, and replaced with care to its original location. And despite the fact that the hamper had traveled on the back of a cart destined for some construction site, the wicker container was itself as clean as it had been when it had arrived at the Higgins house. That had taken some ingenuity, given how filthy the streets of the Princeton district were. John realized that although he might not like Higgins, there was much to respect about the man. And there were some things the pair shared in common: pride, for one thing.

Margaret puttered around her mother's room tidying away the detritus of a several days spent abed. She would open the windows to clear the air of the sickroom smell, except in recent days the air outside had been more soot-filled than usual. It was strange: one might expect that in summer the usual Milton fog would dissipate, the warm weather carrying clear skies with it. But instead the city was enshrouded in a thick, sulfurous blanket that tinged the dawn and sunset skies with sickly tones of yellow, brown and grey. Even in full daylight the city and its residents seemed more sallow than usual, and sadly this look of poor health was mirrored in its residents' attitudes. People were ill-tempered, and more than one small altercation had broken out, even in the normally well-behaved streets near the Hale's residence.

Margaret rummaged through a bureau, until she found several sachets of lavender and one of dried roses. She poured their contents into a bowl and rubbed the tiny flowers between her hands in an effort to release the oils long-trapped in the tiny purple and pink buds. There. The air was smelling a bit more fragrant already. She turned to her mother with a smile.

"At what time does Mrs. Thornton arrive?" They had decided it would be best to receive John's mother in this room rather than the parlor, as Mama still was too weak to sit up for long periods of time. Surely Mrs. Thornton would understand.

"At half past one, Margaret. Not long, now. We do have a lot to discuss." Maria Hale regarded her daughter lovingly. "Margaret, please stop pacing and come sit with me. Surely there is no need to be so nervous. Mrs. Thornton is imposing, yes, but you are more than her equal."

Margaret perched on the edge of the bed and nervously twisted her skirt.

"Stop that. It will wrinkle," her mother chided her. "Besides that, you know better. Actions say so much more than words."

With difficulty, Margaret calmed her hands. "Yes, Mama."

Maria spoke softly. "Mr. Thornton- your John- is a good man. He has been so attentive to this family, and to me in particular. The lovely roses, and two gifts of fruit in so many days- and such fruit. I have not seen its like since leaving Helstone. But Margaret, I must ask. When did you know? Richard and I were wondering, as we saw no signs of your attachment."

Margaret looked away to hide the blush that crept across her face. "Mama, I do not know. It has come upon me gradually, I think. The story I constructed in my mind about John turned out to be wishful thinking. No, that is not correct. Perhaps it was malicious thinking, as many of the things I believed him to be were so utterly mistaken. I have begun to see that he is not the person I thought he was."

"No?"

"I cannot pretend that I understand the decisions he makes in running his mill. He is, indeed, a hard master. But I have talked to his workers- to his hands- and they expect this. In fact, they respect him for this hardness. It is hard to fathom. They expect him to beat a man who is insubordinate. Or to yell and act in other uncouth ways."

"And you can love such a man, Margaret?"

Margaret turned to her mother, eyes wide. "I...yes. I think so."

A smile spread across Maria Hale's face, while her eyes took on a far-away expression. "Do you remember in Helstone, when I suggested that we renew our acquaintance with the Gormans?"

"The carriage makers. Oh, Mama, will you remind me of my immaturity?" Margaret groaned in embarrassment as she remembered her many dismissive words about tradesmen, both in Helstone and Milton. What an arrogant snob she'd been.

"It is interesting to see how a person's perspective can change in just a few month's time, my darling. You would have nothing to do with the Gormans' son, as they were mere carriage makers. And yet the Thorntons-"

"Mama, do you think John is not good enough for me?"

"I did not say that, Margaret. But the question is, do you?"

"Please do not remind me again of my foolishness. I see now that a man who has made himself is worth ten- no, one hundred- of a man made by fortune's kiss. John may be rough around the edges, but look how he seeks to polish himself! And even if he did not..." Margaret's voice trailed off. She liked his roughness, she realized. She liked that John was not an effete London man, soft and untried by life. She liked that he was a man of passion, that he angered. And loved.

How he loved. Her hand moved involuntary to her lips, as she remembered the passionate embrace they'd shared days before.

It was terribly unladylike of her to allow it, but she had seen such pain in his eyes. In that moment she had wanted to heal him, both of his memories of the terrible mind-scarring mill fire, and of his memory of their first interaction. But there was more, if she were honest with herself. He'd surprised her with the first kiss, but she'd allowed the second, and the third, and all following. She'd felt wonder as her body responded to his and she'd not held back as a lady should. Even more disconcertingly, she felt no shame, even now. She was quick to rationalize: an embrace was acceptable between an engaged couple. Certainly, it should not occur in a public place such a cemetery, but no one had been watching. Her reputation, therefore, had not been further tarnished. All was well.

But what of this type of engagement? Mr. Thornton—John- had said it would be for the public's benefit, that they would appear as a couple for only enough time to quell any rumors related to her behavior at the riot and her short residency at his house. It was obvious he felt a strong passion for her. Perhaps this was the eros her father had spoken of. But love? He had made no such declaration. Margaret racked her mind. No, she was certain the words had never been said.

So, then. Perhaps it was simply passion on his part.

And what did she feel for this man? Eros, to be sure. But was there more? He brought a pic-nic to her invalid friend. He bought her flowers. These actions had made her feel so warm, so comforted. Loved. Yes, loved. But surely love was more about more than receiving. It seemed so transactional, so closely related to buying and selling.

And while these actions did make her feel a way she was certain she'd never felt before, she could not forget the lying. Oh, that most egregious lie! Yes, he had saved her life, but the way he'd done it was heavy-handed, and had done much to land her in this predicament. These were the actions of an insufferable man, Mr. Thornton the manufacturer, the man who of necessity made decisions alone, using only his wit and his gut, and who had no time to listen to the counsel or wisdom of others. That was the way of the fast-paced and cut-throat world of business, was it not, where a moment's hesitation might cost a man a fortune? But was it also the way of a lover? Of a husband? Margaret found she still had not fully reconciled the two disparate aspects of the man's personality. And much of John's later actions—those that had so charmed her- could be viewed as mere mitigation for the faux pas made by Mr. Thornton in lying about their engagement.

One moment she thought she might be in love, and then next her stomach churned with anxiety. Why did this have to be so complicated? Surely for Edith, falling in love had been as easy as falling down.

"Mama," Margaret asked tentatively, "How did you know? About Papa? That you lov-"

The housekeeper interrupted their conversation with a knock to the opened door. "Mrs. Thornton is arrived. Shall I send her up?"

Maria smiled at her longtime servant. "Yes, Dixon, and tea in about ten minutes, please."

Margaret stood and plumped the pillows behind her mother, then fussed with the lappets of her mother's cap. "You look well, mother," she said to the woman, before kissing her gently on the cheek. She then pulled up two chairs, one on either side of the bed.

"Mrs. Thornton," she said warmly, as that woman entered the small room, "it is very good of you to join us."

"Miss Hale," the older woman nodded to her as she rustled into the room, immediately taking the seat offered to her, and regarding Mrs. Hale as she did so.

"I must thank you for the loan of the water mattress," said Maria. "It has helped tremendously these past days.

"Please think nothing of it. Although my daughter may think she has need of it, she does not actually require it, so I am glad it may be put to use. Are you improving, Mrs. Hale?"

This was the most solicitous Margaret had ever seen Mrs. Thornton. Clearly the woman was making an effort.

"Yes, a bit. I am sure that in a couple of days I will be back to my usual duties."

The black-clad woman lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. "I see."

"I must thank you for this visit you pay to us."

"Propriety demands it, as our children will be wed."

"Yes, this is true. And it is joyous news, is it not?"

Mrs. Thornton nodded. "My John is well-pleased."

"As are we. Mr. Hale tells me your son is the best of men."

Mrs. Thornton beamed, and Margaret noted how her normally harsh features softened upon smiling. The elder raven was much like the younger. "Your husband is a fine judge of character, then. Your daughter could do no better. Although I may be biased as a mother, I speak this truthfully."

Maria cleared her throat. "I believe we must consider the planning of the several events preceding the wedding."

"Has a date been set?" queried Mrs. Thornton.

"It has not," Margaret spoke up. "I believe your son and I would like the opportunity to get to know each other better. We prefer a long engagement."

A look of worry passed across Maria's face. "But Margaret, there is much to be said for marrying sooner. You have assured me of your feelings-"

Mrs. Thornton's eyes pierced Margaret. "I agree, there is little point in waiting. You cannot tell what the future may bring. It is folly to tempt fate."

"But surely it is the decision of the two who are getting married!"

Maria Hale smiled at her daughter's innocence. "Margaret, while it may seem that weddings- or for that case, funerals-are about the persons being feted, in reality, they are about the family. And in the end, family will have its way."

"Mama, that seems terribly unfair."

"Yes, but then you will have your own daughters' weddings to plan someday."

Dixon interrupted them again. "Miss Margaret, there is a grubby little urchin at the door. He has a message for you from your friend Bessy's sister."

Margaret jumped up. "Has she worsened?"

"So says the boy. You are wanted."

"I am sorry, Mama, Mrs. Thornton." Margaret bowed hurriedly at the guest. "My friend is quite ill. I fear the worst."

"Margaret has many friends among the poor," Maria said by way of explanation.

"So I have heard," Mrs. Thornton replied dryly.

"I apologize, but I must be off."

Margaret dashed from the house, after grabbing her hat and reticule, heedless of the warm, cloying day she stepped into. But she slowed down several streets from her house, as the air was harder to breathe than usual. How Bessy must be suffering on a day like this, she realized. Margaret pulled a lace- trimmed handkerchief from her sleeve to mop her brow, and remembered she had promised to bring a cap or other small token for the girl. Now the handkerchief itself would not do, as it was perspiration-stained.

Margaret continued on more slowly, stopping once at a pump to rinse out the handkerchief. She wiped her neck with the cloth, then rinsed it out again and placed it in her reticule for safekeeping. It was more hot than she had realized, or perhaps it was the poor situation of Frances Street, in a low-lying location that made it warmer than hilly Crampton.

She knocked on the Higgins door, but as it was on the latch, she pushed it open gingerly and walked inside.

Bessy was coughing, more insistently than usual. A torn rag was to her face, and Margaret noted that the portion of her visage that was visible was red and blotchy, while her hair and bedclothes were drenched with sweat. Her younger sister sat with her, soothing her with a hand that gently patted her back with gentle, percussive effort.

Margaret quickly found a pitcher of water and poured a chipped, flowered teacup half full. She offered it to her friend once the fit ceased. But Bessy waved it away, sinking back into the bed again. The cloth fell from her hands as she did so, and Margaret's face paled at the quantity of blood that bloomed on its surface. But it wasn't just there. A trickle escaped from the corner of Bessy's mouth. Margaret took her own handkerchief, damp though it was and wiped her friend's mouth the corner, and then her face.

"Oh, Bessy." She lay the back of her hand across the girl's forehead and felt how feverish the girl was. "How can I help?"

"Please. Just read to me."

Margaret nodded, and found the worn Bible that Bessy kept near the bed. "Revelation?" she asked.

"I would like to hear 'bout what is waitin' for me. I have lived a just life, I think."

"I believe you have, Bessy."

Mary began sobbing and left the room. Margaret read quietly for quite some time. She read of trumpets, white raiments and golden girdles and Bessy smiled beatifically although her breathing grew more labored over time.

"Soon I will see the twelve gates. And the street a pure gold. I know it." She closed her eyes.

Margaret had never been with a dying person before, and had never witnessed a person passing from this life to whatever awaited them in the next. But Bessy, she noticed, passed quietly. It was as though she fallen into a restful, peaceful sleep.

Margaret rose, opened the front windows despite the oppressive, sulfurous heat, and climbed the narrow stairs to the small, attic room where Mary hid.

"Please come," she said quietly.

Tears stained the younger girl's face. "She's gone, isn't she?"

Margaret embraced the girl.

Nicholas had entered when they returned to the small room below.

"I came home to check on her. I had a feeling-Was she alone?" he asked, his voice cracking.

Margaret shook her head. "She was not. She went peacefully." She closed the windows she'd opened earlier and drew their grey, threadbare curtains in respect.

Nicholas twisted his cap in his hands and his face twisted equally in anguish. "I am glad of that small comfort to her. You have been a good friend to my Bess."

Nicholas sunk into the rush-seated chair that stood next to the empty grate. His hands, Margaret noted were covered in earth, his clothing and boots as well. His face was equally covered, although his tears had already begun to wear pathways through the dirt. He had not found mill work, then. But he wasn't drunk, she noted. This was a small consolation.

The father slumped forward in his chair and held his head in his hands. "My Bessy. Poor girl. Fathers don't bury daughters- 'tis not the natural way of things!"

Margaret sat next to him, but dared not comfort him. The man's pain was his own.

He laughed then, bitterly. "Mary and I are lucky, we are. When me wife passed I had a terrible time finding the funds to bury her. We barely avoided a pauper's funeral." Nicholas raised his head and looked Margaret squarely in the eyes. "And I needn't tell you why we would want to avoid that, am I right?"

Mary shuddered as Margaret looked at the pair questioningly.

"Y'do not know?" Nicholas looked at her incredulously. "The resurrection men. They steal bodies from graves for your fine doctors to carve up, they do."

"But there was an act of Parliament. The Anatomy Act."

Nicholas nearly spat. "Aye, an act that gives away bodies of all so unfortunate as to die in the workhouse. If the rich want to carve up the dead so badly, mayhap they should give up themselves." He calmed himself a bit and continued, "Even with this act, we still hear stories 'round here of paupers' graves desecrated, that we do. Better not to risk it, I say."

Nicholas found a chipped cup and poured himself a glass of water before continuing.

"I joined a club, and have paid dues weekly to make sure of a casket and a plot for me girls or myself. And I'm glad today I did. There's little enough food to put on the table, but dear Bess will not lie in some beggar's grave. No, she won't." He wiped away a tear.

"I am glad of your foresight, Nicholas." Margaret placed a tentative hand on the older man's back. "Who will make these arrangements?"

Nicholas crumpled. "I canna."

"Do you have family, Nicholas? Is there someone I could write to?"

His words were muffled as he'd buried his face in his hands. "Only my wife's family in Manchester. But they will na come. We are on our own, as always."

Margaret stood. "I will go. Who is in charge of this club?"

"Jenkins, at the Golden Dragon collects the payments. He will help you. Truly you're a friend to my sweet Bess."

"Mary, will you stay with your father?" The girl nodded.

Margaret stood to take her leave, but was stopped by the touch of Nicholas' hand on her sleeve.

"Will you sit with Bess tonight? I canna. And I don't think Mary-" The younger girl looked at Margaret in horror.

Margaret looked back at the pair gravely. "Yes, I will sit vigil with Bessy. The funeral will be tomorrow, I think. The warm weather will not allow for four days."

She stopped at the door and turned the small, tarnished mirror that hung just to the door's right, so that the glass faced toward the wall. Then Margaret hurried off and found the Golden Dragon straightaway. She'd avoided the place on her earlier trips to the district as she'd been warned away by both Dixon and Bessy. There were several men outside, already in their cups despite the early hour. They had coarse words for her as she moved past them into the dimly lit establishment.

A good number of men, presumably out of work, given the hour, sat at tables inside. Some drank ale, others whiskey, still others both.

"I recognize ya, lass!" slurred one drunkard from across the room. "You're the one protected Thornton. Isn't she lads?" His two comrades whistled.

All heads swiveled in Margaret's direction.

"I am looking for Mr. Jenkins," she said in as proud and haughty a voice as she could muster. "My friend, Mr. Higgins, is in need of his-"

"Ya canna be friends with masters and weavers both, lassie! So which is it?"

"Are ya truly Thornton's friend?" shouted another. "I saw different, I did!"

This is what John was protecting her from, Margaret realized, just on a much grander scale. She felt herself growing faint and clutched the column closest to her.

"I'm Jenkins." A tall balding man came out from the back room and Margaret breathed a sigh of relief.

"My name is Margaret Hale. My friend, Nicholas Higgins is a patron of this establishment. He said he is a member of your burial club."

"What of it?" Jenkins glared at her suspiciously.

"His daughter, Bessy, is dead."

"The sweet thing." Jenkin's demeanor changed immediately. "You lot, settle down!" he bellowed at the trio in the back of the pub who had continued their taunting of Margaret, although in more subdued voices now that the publican had arrived.

"You'll be wanting Turner. Does odd jobs, including carpentry. All the funerals round here. Builds coffins and has a cart and team, he does. Now let me check." Jenkins pulled out a ledger and paged through it. "Nicholas has not paid the past few weeks. But given as he'd been payin' in for years I'd say he's due a coffin and plot. We'll not be providing any frills, though."

"Frills?"

"Turner'll take the coffin to the cemetery, dig the hole and so forth. But no shroud, no mourners, no clothing to hire for the family, that kind of thing. No headstone, neither. Nicholas will have to scrounge that up hisself. But Bessy won't be buried a pauper, that's the most important thing, yeah?"

"But what about a service?"

"Graveside. We provide a minister, or you can bring your own. Although our man Higgins is a bit of an infidel to my knowledge." Jenkins grinned.

"Not his daughter." Margaret shook her head vigorously.

"Just tell Turner what denomination your require. Anglican or dissenter, he'll oblige." Jenkins snapped the book shut with a heavy thud, then wrote out directions to the shop of one Mr. Turner, erstwhile funeral director, as well as a note indicating the details of Bessy's situation.

It did not take Margaret long to set up the funeral itself. It would be the very next day, thankfully, although later in the day, as Turner was already double-booked. Apparently his low-rent funeral business was booming.

Margaret found herself mentally exhausted as she headed out of the Princeton district and into the smarter part of town. She would need to purchase fabric and thread before heading back home to tell her parents the news. They would not be pleased to hear that she would be attending a wake for Bessy. But surely it was wrong to ask her family to sit with Bessy, and they had no one else to ask. Her parents would understand. They must.

Margaret found herself tearing up, as she had not yet allowed herself to consider all that had happened this day. Bessy was gone. Surely that was a good thing after all her friend's suffering but still, selfishly, she would miss her. Tears started to fall and Margaret searched for her handkerchief as she continued to walk, her vision blurred by grief. The cloth was with Bessy, she realized belatedly, stained with that girl's own blood. Margaret sobbed as the reality of her friend's death struck home, and she closed her eyes to hold back the tears.

"Shhh."

Margaret felt strong arms embrace her, and opened her eyes to see bright cerulean ones gazing concernedly into her own.

"Margaret?"

She leaned into John, burying her head in his frock coat. He held her for a moment, but cognizant of the public place where they stood, soon coaxed her out of the intimate posture.

"Come with me," he urged in a soothing voice. Soon they were on New Street and had entered Marlborough Mills. He led her into his office and offered her his own chair. "Tell me," he said quietly.

"It is Bessy," It took Margaret some time to say the words, as her voice betrayed her repeatedly.

"She is gone?" John asked. Margaret nodded miserably.

He took her hand in his own. "And you were with her?" Again Margaret nodded. "I am sorry. I know how much she meant to you." He pulled his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and offered it to her. She wiped her face and John marveled at how beautiful she was, even with swollen, reddened eyes. "How can I help you?"

"Where were you going?" Margaret asked, her nose stuffy. "I interrupted some errand, didn't I?"

"I was returning from the post office. Williams would normally take care of such tasks but he is ill today, so we are understaffed."

"Then surely you have better things to do than sit with me!"

"I do not, Margaret. My mother is back from her visit with yours. She can adequately supervise. Please. Sit and calm yourself. You are not well. Such events are not easy."

"No." Margaret stood and took a deep, but shaky breath. "I must go. I have much to do. The funeral is tomorrow, and I must sew a shroud." Her lip trembled. "Yet I have never done so. There is fabric and thread to buy, and I must purchase ribbon and crape and yew for the door. And I must talk to my parents about the wake-"

"The wake?"

"It would not do for Nicholas and Mary to stay with- with-" The tears started to flow again.

"With the body?"

She nodded. "They are distraught."

John grabbed her hand and did his best to purge the vehemence from his voice. "And you are not?"

"I am not a member of the family. It is not right to ask them to do such a task. It falls to me, a friend."

"Oh, Margaret." John shook his head. He rose and offered her his hand. "Please come with me."

John led Margaret through the sorting room and into the main space of the weaving shed, where he asked her to wait while he approached his mother. He ascended the cat walk and talked quietly with the older woman and Margaret was struck by how much the pair resembled a medieval lord and lady surveying their desmesne. He looked in the direction his mother pointed and frowned.

John was not gone long, tarrying just long enough to berate the object of his mother's interest.

"I'm sorry, Margaret," he said upon his return. "Needs must." He escorted Margaret out of the weaving shed and across the courtyard to the imposing house he called his own.

"I understand," his fiancee replied. "This is how the business works, is it not? It has been explained to be by several different people. A mill master must be harsh."

John frowned. "You think I am harsh?"

"In this regard, yes."

"I see." He invited her inside the house and gestured to a chair in the preternaturally white front drawing room.

" Please sit. I'll be just a moment." John returned a few moments later with a book that seemed familiar to Margaret.

"This is my mother's. Although we had a copy at the draper's where I worked years ago." The manufacturer paged through the book until he found the information he was looking for. "Plate 20, Figure 39. A breadth and half, two body lengths." He snapped the book shut, and held out his hand. "Come with me, please."

"And where are we going now?"

"To the warehouse, of course. There is no need for your to purchase fabric when it is in abundance all around you. We make shrouding flannel right here, Margaret." They walked the distance of the courtyard and he unlocked a door to a building contiguous to the mill. John beckoned for Margaret to step inside and shut the overlarge door behind her. Margaret saw row after row of shelves in the sunlit room, each containing paper-wrapped bolts of fabric, as well as carts to hold these bolts, most empty. John walked among the shelves until he located the correct bolt, which he hefted easily to his shoulder. He carried it to a large, oak table adorned only with a ruler on one end. He unwrapped the fabric and unrolled a long length of it.

"Two body lengths of a breadth and a half is six yards, generously." John removed a large shears from a peg on the wall and sliced into the fabric, then neatly folded into into a square and set it aside. "You will need thread as well." He quickly walked to the other side of the room, where shelves were filled from floor to ceiling with spools of cotton thread." He brought back one, and Margaret noticed the words Marlborough Mills engraved on the wooden spool end in gilt. She smiled at the man's eagerness, despite herself, despite the dismal day.

"John," she demurred, "this is unnecessary. You do not need to supply me with these things. The drapers is just down the street."

"But why would you go there when what you need is here?"

"Because, because you give too much. I do not need these displays of, of- I am not sure what. I know you are a wealthy man. You do not need to show me this at every opportunity."

John's expression grew icy. "Is that what you think I am doing?"

"Yes. No." Margaret shook her head. "I do not know!"

"You think of me like a bower bird, assembling a bundle of presents to win your affection."

"A bower bird? I have no idea what that is."

"It's a bird discovered in Australia. It builds a shelter of grass and twigs and attracts a mate by decorating the bower with the most beautiful shells and berries it can find, in shades of white and purples and blues. The male with the most attractive pile of goods wins."

Margaret pressed a knuckle against her lips as she tried not to laugh.

"Do I amuse you?" John was not smiling.

"Yes, actually. You claim to be ill-educated, but I think you are the widest-read man I know." Margaret shook her head. "I don't think you are a bower bird. You are definitely more of a raven."

Her words elicited a small smile.

"Although I hear that ravens do like shiny things..."

John laughed at her gibe, and Margaret realized she would like to hear the rich baritone sound much more often.

"I was only trying to help, Margaret. Nothing more. You needed fabric. I have fabric. I know fabric. I was a draper's assistant, after all. And now I make the stuff."

"I know, John. I'm sorry. What I said was harsh and unfeeling. It's just that... you overwhelm me, at times."

"I overwhelm you."

Margaret nodded.

"You burn the candle at both ends, do you not?" Margaret touched his hand in conciliation. "And I would imagine it's been said that you never do a thing halfway. Am I correct?"

John sighed. "You are correct."

"Well, that takes some getting used to."

"I see. I think the same could be said about you, however."

"About me?" Margaret scoffed.

"I would not think Miss Margaret Hale has done a thing halfway in her entire life. She is all passion, all dedication. And most importantly, she is all integrity."

"You do not know me as well as you think."

"I know you better than you realize." His gaze was penetrating and discomfiting. Margaret turned away.

"Will Mary wear a hood?"

"A hood?" Margaret turned around to see John paging through the Workwoman's Guide.

"Have you never been to a funeral, Margaret?"

"No ladies I know have ever been to a funeral. And my family has not yet been touched by death. In fact, before today, I had never seen..." She was like a statue of the finest marble, Margaret thought, so lifelike, yet unbreathing. Margaret blinked several times and willed herself not to cry. This weakness was foolishness.

"Forgive me, Margaret. I thought that because your father was a vicar you might have seen such things, as your father undoubtedly has officiated over dozens. You said that you accompanied him on his visits to parishioners. He anointed the sick, did he not?"

"Yes, but he did not allow me by the bedside when people were so gravely ill. I was to wait, either in the kitchen if it were a large enough house, or outside. He protected me, I realize now. But what is this hood?"

John turned to the plates in the back of the book and pointed out the unusual garment to her.

"This is normal for a family member to wear?" Margaret queried.

"It is commonly worn by female mourners who are close to the family, in pairs. The bows down the side are asymmetrical on each garment, but are of a set, together."

"I think Mary will want this. And if it must be worn in pairs, then I will need one, too. But I wonder if someone might have some we could borrow."

"No. It is customary to discard such clothing once mourning has ended as it invites death to keep it."

John pointed to the rows of shelving.

"Will you allow me?" he asked.

Margaret nodded. It was pointless to say "No."

John left Margaret's side and procured the finest cambric, which he cut according to the directions in the book, and folded as neatly as before. Then he pulled brown paper and twine from rolls stored nearby and secured the fabric and thread, book underneath, as he'd done years before at the draper's shop. He handed her the bundle with the same neutral expression as before.

"Thank you, John. Once again, I am unable to reciprocate your kindness."

"There is no need. I will walk you home."

Margaret shook her head. "I have errands yet to run."

"Let me. I am sure you are tired. I can purchase the other materials and bring them to the Higgins' house later."

"I do not think he will want to see you, given your last meeting."

"We have made amends. Besides, you cannot stay in the house of a widowed man and his daughter without a chaperone."

"With you present I would still require a chaperone. We cannot be in the same house together after dark. You know this."

John sighed again. "It will be done, then." He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket. "It is half-past three now. My mother and I will come by the Higginses at six, well before sunset."

"Nicholas will not be pleased."

"If that be the case, then Nicholas can sit vigil with his own daughter." John smiled appeasingly. "My mother can help you with the sewing. She is swift with the needle."

"You are sure she will agree?"

"I am." John smiled. He had no doubt of it.

"But then," Margaret asked, "what is the need for you to spend yet another sleepless night?"

Margaret regretted her words as soon as she said them. He winced as though she'd cut him.

"You do not want my company?"

"People will talk. They already are. In the Golden Dragon-"

"Why were you in the Golden Dragon? That is no fit place for a lady!"

"Nicholas asked me. His burial club is sited there."

"And you were abused there, no doubt. Verbally assaulted." John eyes flashed in anger.

Margaret looked down at her hands. "Not assaulted. But the words were not kind. So, it would not do for us to be seen in the same house after dark. Even with your mother, I fear." She placed a consoling hand on John's arm. "Much as I would like your company."

"You would like my company?" John looked at her appraisingly.

"Do you have to question it?"

"In that case, will you do something for me?"

Margaret looked up at him and said earnestly, "Of course."

"Come with me." He offered his hand and led her away from the cutting table and the many-paned windows flanking it, to a solid brick wall that was out of eyeshot of any potential onlookers." As consolation for the loss of your company, kiss me."

She hesitated.

"Well?" John asked.

Margaret ran her finger over his bruised cheek. "All this time we have been talking about my concerns. I haven't even asked you how you are feeling. How selfish I am."

"Not selfish. Distraught. Saddened. Overwhelmed. And right now, reluctant." His look was searching.

"My friend has died today."

"Yes," he said quietly. "But still the world turns. And there is comfort in togetherness."

"Is it not wrong to delight in another when a body lies cold, not a mile away?" A single tear fell to her cheek, and John brushed it away with the gentlest of caresses.

"The world is filled with light and shadow. But we need light to see the shadow, do we not?"

Margaret touched her lips to his in answer, and he marveled at their feather softness.

"Again, Margaret."

She complied, this time pressing a bit more firmly. John longed to deepen the kiss but restrained himself, instead focusing on the perfect fullness of her embrace.

"Again."

She attempted to pull away, but found herself unable to do so. His hands held firm around her waist.

"Why do you order me? I am not your employee."

"No. Never that," he murmured. "I wanted to know if the kisses we shared last time were mine, or yours."

"Oh." Margaret lowered her eyebrows in confusion, then lifted her gaze to John, wide-eyed. "Well?"

"I do not know."

She regarded him for a moment, then slowly smiled.

"Then kiss me."

He obliged, and Margaret closed her eyes.

"Again," she whispered.

He did, and she felt a curious, tingling warmth envelope her.

"Again."

He left her breathless.

"Well?" She asked, finally. "Mine? Or yours?"

"What do you think, Margaret?"

"Ours?"

His smile was brilliant.

"Yes. Ours."

He offered her his hand. "Come. I will walk you home."

Author's notes: Thank you to everyone who continues to read, review, follow and fave, especially to the several of you who so faithfully leave reviews every week. If you do not know how much your words encourage me, please allow me to tell you- your reviews play the largest role in motivating me to write. Even the shortest of reviews make my day, because they give me a link to an actual person who is reading, and they make me want to continue to share this story with you. So thank you for taking the time to tell me your thoughts- it really does motivate me, especially considering the crazy real-life schedule I have for work, which does not leave a lot of time to squeeze in writing.

I didn't think it would be appropriate to include a scene of great passion between John and Margaret on the same day as Bessy's death. But in the end, as this is a love story, I thought five simple kisses would not be too far wrong. I hope that Margaret's ambivalence stands in for any ambivalence you may feel about this juxtaposition.

A paper on the scientific discovery of bower birds was presented to England's Zoological Society in 1840. As John is quite the learner, I decided he might be aware of this.

Some notes on Victorian funerals: Body snatching was an issue in the early 1800s, because medical students needed bodies to dissect (just as they do today). However, people did not will their bodies to science back then, because most English people believed in the resurrection of the body after death, and felt that dissection would interfere with that. Medical schools were automatically given the bodies of executed murderers, but there were not enough of them to go around, so medical schools, and artists, and anatomists turned to body snatchers or "resurrection men" to illegally procure bodies for them. Wealthier people tried various methods to prevent grave robbing, including heavy stones and metal bars across graves. But the poor, and paupers in particular, had no means of protection, and their graves the ones most often preyed upon.

In 1832, Parliament passed the Anatomy Act to circumvent the problem of body snatching. By this law, families of the people who died in prison or in the workhouse had to pay to claim their loved one's bodies. If they could not afford to do so, the body was turned over to medical schools for dissection. The act was quite successful, but the public, particularly poorer segments of society continued to protest the act in the 1840s because they continued to believe that paupers' bodies were still being sold without their consent. And in a way, they were right, as Higgins points out, because if a workhouse inmate's family could not afford to claim the body, the deceased was no longer even afforded a pauper's burial. And if a person was already in the workhouse, how likely was it that his or her family could afford to claim his or her body? The Act therefore enshrined into law the likelihood that the body lying on a dissection table was likely that of a poor person.

As the Victorian era continued, funerals became more ostentatious and it became more and more important to be sure that one's family was buried appropriately. For that reason, the poor often formed burials clubs, a type of early insurance, really to make sure that funeral expenses were covered. Families often did without to be sure that were able to pay into these schemes, because burying the dead appropriately was all important, even more important than eating enough to stay healthy.

The customs I mention relating to death (such as opening windows, drawing curtains and hanging yew) were common in Victorian times. John refers to the book The Workwoman's Guide for the information relating to the yardage and directions for the shroud and hoods. This book was published in 1838 and contains directions for most types of Victorian clothing of the era. As a draper's assistant, I think it reasonable that he might have been familiar with the book, as individual clothing patterns were not sold back then. I also think it likely his mother might have had a copy, given her frugal nature. Also, the fact that they had lived on so little for so long suggests she would have made her own clothing.

This is all really ghoulish, isn't it? But considering the number of deaths in Gaskell's novel, maybe that is okay.