Not a Gentleman

by Tintinnabula

Chapter Nine

The Carriage

Margaret was not herself. This was obvious to John, upon hearing about the wake. It had gone off successfully, if such a thing could be said about an event that was necessarily so mournful. Upon her arrival back at the mill house, John's mother had remarked immediately on the fact that Margaret had not wept once as they spent the night together sewing and then preparing Bessy's body for the burial. This behavior, and more, had made a positive impact on Hannah Thornton over the course of those long, wakeful hours. John had learned that although Margaret's sewing was only "serviceable," it was far better than Fanny's, and that she now believed that the girl was not haughty at all, but rather, "poised," and "self-assured." Margaret had not shrunk back at the sight of a dead body, had not demurred at the task of washing or clothing it, and had behaved in a manner John's mother never would have expected from her own daughter. His mother's words had elicited an immediate smile from her son, as John knew them to be high praise despite their cold expression.

But Margaret's lack of emotion concerned John, as she had behaved so differently earlier in the day. Surely something was amiss.

At the funeral later in the day, Margaret remained tearless. She stood at the graveside silent, her arm in John's, not even mouthing the standard prayers she should know well as the daughter of a vicar. Her eyes were dimmed by lack of sleep and sadness, and devoid of the normal sparkle they carried. She was not present, John realized, but somewhere else, someplace desolate. Perhaps she thought of her mother's impending death, or perhaps, John thought, she was thinking of her own present and of the bleak place she had been forced to call home.

The manufacturer looked around him, at the rangy clumps of crab grass springing up in this poorly-maintained hillside portion of the cemetery, and then beyond, to the sea of blackened rooftops and chimneys extending in uneven waves towards the horizon. John had no pretensions about his native city. Milton was not a beautiful place, nor was it intended to be. It was born of and begat industry: its sole purpose was to be an engine of commerce, not succor to the soul. But for a person used to beauty, as Margaret was, it must be a difficult place to call home.

A breeze disturbed John's thoughts. Thankfully, the afternoon was a bit cooler than the last, due to a light wind, and the beribboned hoods Margaret and Mary wore kited in the occasional gusts like doves eager to take flight and leave the sooty environs of Milton for a cleaner, purer place. Presumably Bessy had done the same.

Mr. Hale did not join them graveside. He had complained of indigestion that morning, and apart from that it was likely better for him to stay by his wife's side. That left a party of only Higgins, his daughter Mary, John and Margaret, plus the grave diggers supplied by Jenkins, and a pastor of indeterminate lineage. Words were words, though, as far as Higgins was concerned. He claimed he did not mind that the man was not a Methodist, which Bessy might have preferred. She'd be going to heaven no matter what, if such a place existed.

Silence abounded, apart from the pastor's words, and Margaret clutched John's arm more tightly as the casket was lowered slowly into the grave on thick, hempen ropes. She turned away before the ragtag lot of teenage boys employed by Jenkins began to shovel dirt onto the plain, pine box that held her friend's remains. Her face was a mask, a dry, affectless mask.

But Margaret needed to weep.

John knew she must. What's more, he guessed her own home was not a place where she would feel comfortable grieving so openly, given the competing needs of her mother. So instead of walking her home immediately after the service, John took her to the place he'd decided was their own.

And once Margaret sat on the bench below the magnolia he'd planted many years earlier, he was proven correct. She clutched the lapels of his frock coat and buried her face against John's chest, damping his shirt front thoroughly. She sobbed, and sobbed, and he did his best to soothe her. He allowed his arms to encircle her, and he spoke quiet, soothing words of nonsense in an attempt to ease the spasmed breaths that shook her intermittently.

Eventually, she calmed. The ragged breaths evened, the tears abated slightly and she looked up at him, her face red and blotchy but as beautiful as he'd ever seen it. John offered her his handkerchief.

"I am sorry..." she began.

"Do not apologize, Margaret. It is not wrong to feel grief over someone you loved."

"To express such intense emotion so publicly is not- is not- and yet I have done so twice!"

"We are not in public now. It is just you and I."

"But I should not be showing such a side of myself to you. And I should not have done so yesterday. It is not ladylike. It is in no way-" she took a deep, ragged breath, "appropriate."

"I want you to show all sides to me."

Tears flowed again. First a few, then a flood. She applied handkerchief to face, but the cloth was sodden almost immediately. Margaret turned away from him as she attempted to regain control over her runaway emotions.

Her back to him, head bowed, she said finally, "Why are you so good to me?"

"You do not know?" was John's quiet reply.

She did not reply, and her posture remained rigid.

"Margaret, look at me." John placed a hand on her shoulder. She slowly turned to face him.

"I love you."

Again, she was silent, and he could not read her expression.

"Do you not know this?" he asked gently.

"I thought... you did not say so. And then you offered to release me."

"Only because our engagement seemed so offensive to you."

"Not offensive. It was just a terrible shock. The decision was so very-one sided."

"I know I can be overbearing. I have a tendency to take what I want. But in this case-"

"I know, John. I know you did not. I have reconciled that you are two disparate people."

"You have?" John lifted an eyebrow in wonderment.

"John the student and friend is not Mr. Thornton the manufacturer. What's more, I know that what you did after the riot, you did out of concern. I no longer hold it against you. And my feeling for you..." Margaret blushed, and John found himself gazing at her raptly, watching every small movement of her face for messages uncommunicated.

"Margaret?"

"I think that I could be happy with you." Margaret twisted the handkerchief, then smoothed it in her lap. She blushed even more profusely, and John realized she had more to say.

"I have known for a while that I feel a certain... attraction to you and I thought perhaps that you did for me, as well..."

"Oh, you thought that? Was it so obvious?" John laughed quietly, as his arm encircled his love.

"But I worried that this was all it was, given your earlier words. I have never been loved before. Nor have I loved."

"Margaret, let me reassure you. I do not think that man has ever loved the way that I love you. You have my entire heart, and always will."

John's heart soared. She had not said so explicitly, but there was the implication: Nor have I loved. She loved him. She just was not ready to say so yet.

He pulled her closer, and lay a chaste kiss on the top of her head, then settled back against the bench to sit quietly for a while. She leaned against him, eyes closed, restful.

Despite their funereal surroundings, despite sharing in her grief, John found that he was happy. He could feel that their future was already recorded in a steady, flowing hand. He felt a such an unshakable sense of serenity and purpose around this woman that he could not fathom a future without her. And now, she had told him, he would not need to try. She was his.

Margaret needed her spirits lifted after the death of her friend, and John found himself willing to do almost anything to accomplish this. He spoke to Mr. Hale at his next lesson and arranged for a surprise: John would pick up Margaret at noon on Wednesday, and the Hales would make sure that she was present at the appointed time, but none the wiser as to the engagement. The thought of surprising her made John smile at odd moments, and surely surprised his hands, as well. They must be growing chary of his mood swings of late. But then again, given all the tittle-tattle surrounding Margaret and him, the hands had probably surmised the cause of his erratic behavior.

It took some rearranging of his schedule to accomplish the necessary time off. Work was backlogged and the lack of skill of the remaining Irish workers was turning out to be a major stumbling block. Too many bolts of cloth had been ruined by weaving errors. While the cloth could be sold as seconds, the mill would need to reweave each order, as only first-rate cloth would do for those. As a result, both labor and supply costs were mounting and the likelihood of meeting the schedule was growing less and less likely. However, by working late into the night for the past week, at least John had the books up to date. And he had no compunction about leaving the mill in the capable hands of Williams for an afternoon. Between that man's supervision and his mother's there would be no issues.

John had Stokes direct Cook to prepare another pic-nic, this one different than the first, apart from the strawberry blancmange, which Margaret had clearly enjoyed, while he himself walked down to the mews to ensure that a coachman would be available for his carriage.

It was there that he found himself wanting to become indebted to Watson. This was a strange sensation, and one he had never experienced before, although Watson easily was the least objectionable of his competitors. It was just that in the carriage house was a half-top barouche that would be the perfect conveyance to the site of the pic-nic. It was clearly brand-new, as John had not seen it on any previous visits to the mews. It was easily the most elegant carriage he'd seen in Milton, and so much more elegant than the rather staid brougham he'd purchased for his mother's use. The vehicle's sleek exterior was painted vermilion and well-varnished, and lined with a fine stripe of black; the interior was black satin, to match. Its hood, of course, was collapsible, which was what made it so perfect for a summer's journey. It would not be hot and claustrophobic like the brougham, but rather a pleasure to ride in.

John's first urge was to purchase a vehicle similar to Watson's for Margaret's exclusive use. There was a carriage maker just down the road, and they'd likely have something just as fine on display. It was not unheard of for someone of John's status to have two carriages: one for business within town, and one for pleasure in the countryside beyond Milton. Watson did. And how Margaret would look in such a carriage! But John immediately tamped down these feelings of pride and avarice, as he knew that now was not the time to be spending his savings on such frivolous goods. The mill was not yet in trouble, but it would be foolish to continue to diminish his savings, particularly as there was a wedding to be planned. The Hales would not be asked to foot that bill given their financial circumstances.

Still, the barouche beckoned to him.

John found himself walking first to Watson and Co., and then, finding Watson not at his own mill, John journeyed on to the house Watson was currently refurbishing, the same house John had grown up in.

"And what brings you here?" The portly man asked, as he finished rolling up a technical drawing. He gestured at the large, open space where the pair stood, where the traces of several demolished walls could still be found. "What do you think of the changes I've made?"

John hardly recognized the place. Although the exterior shell of the building was unchanged, the interior was completely rearranged from his childhood. In this room, for instance, once parlor plus study and hallway, all finished surfaces were interrupted by niches, ogees and every other form of architectural flourish. It was quite dizzying to the eye, even though at the moment it was all painted a harmonious white. But given Watson's lurid taste in waistcoats, that probably would not stand.

"It is ambitious," John said finally.

"Well," replied Watson as he puffed up his chest with pride, "that can be said of me, as well. Now what can I do for you?"

"A favor. Your barouche-"

"The Gorman? She's a beauty, isn't she? Cost a pretty penny, she did. Eight hundred pounds trimmed out as she was. You'll be wanting to impress some lass, then. Oh, it's that Hale girl was at your dinner, isn't it? I'd heard there was something between you two. So when is the big day?" He elbowed John in the side, and John mustered a friendly grin.

"Yes, Margaret and I are engaged. My mother is planning a dinner to introduce her to our associates- you'll be receiving an invitation soon enough."

"Well, seeing as you broke the strike with your Irish hands, I'd say all of us manufacturers owe you a favor or two. But my Gorman? That's a lot to ask. I haven't even broken in her myself yet, apart from a couple of rides around town. You'd have to owe me, I'd say." Watson eyed John shrewdly. "You know, there has been something I've been wanting to ask you."

"And what's that?"

"Your sister."

"Fan?" John asked incredulously. What could a middle-aged man such as Watson see in a vapid nineteen-year-old such as his sister?

"Is she- well, does Miss Thornton have an intended?"

"She does not. But I must tell you, it is not my place to be bartering my sister's affections in this way."

Watson harrumphed. "I would not ask you to do so. I'm only asking if you would have any objections to me approaching her."

"That would be entirely her decision. But if she were amenable, I would not stand in the way."

"Good man!" Watson thunked John on the back with a clap of an oversized hand. "The Gorman is yours. When did you need it?"

"Wednesday next."

"Take the horses, too. My blacks suit her best. I wouldn't want your bays spoiling her looks." Watson guffawed, and John recalled why he spent so little time in the man's company.

"I am not dressed appropriately," were the first words out of Margaret's mouth on Wednesday.

"Is that your carriage?" were the second. These last were said in a rather accusatory tone, and John was glad he had not acted on the passing fancy of buying a similar carriage to complement Margaret's beauty. He breathed an internal sigh of relief. Apparently, two coaches would have been seen as a sign of nouveau riche ostentation. She was difficult to understand.

"Do not fear- your bower bird brings no gifts today." Margaret smiled at these words, despite herself, and John produced a paper-wrapped package. "Well, not for you at least. These are for your mother. I took the liberty of procuring her some cherries." John handed the package to Dixon, who stood ferociously at the door, like a German guard dog.

"The coach," John continued, "is Watson's. Given the excellent weather, I thought a barouche might give us a nicer journey than a closed up brougham. He was kind enough to offer it. But if you are unhappy, I can have the driver go back to the mews and bring the brougham. It's rather too far to walk."

"No, no. That will not be necessary." Margaret smiled reassuringly at the driver, who looked a bit put out at the thought of unharnessing the horses and readying another carriage in short order. "I was just surprised, as I had not seen it before. I did not think your household had multiple carriages. If you do not mind how I am dressed, I suppose I am ready to go." Margaret smoothed her skirt, then touched her hair self-consciously.

"You look lovely, Margaret. I do not understand your concern."

Margaret's smile quelled, and John made a mental note to avoid any and all surprises in the future. "I am dressed to do chores, John. In fact, that is what I was doing until you arrived. Really, I am not fit to be seen in public. I do not know why my parents would not have suggested I dress a bit more nicely today, as clearly they knew you were coming." She turned back to frown at her father, who peered out from behind the lace curtains of the front window and waved at her. That immediately turned the frown into a most becoming smile. Apart from the moodiness, she was so much her father's daughter, John mused. The bond between them was as close as between himself and his mother.

John smiled, too as he helped Margaret into the barouche. While it was true that he was smitten, and therefore potentially biased, Margaret was such a beautiful creature that she would look lovely wearing rags. And she was not wearing rags now, just a simple brown gown, of a plainness that showed off her figure to perfection and made the russet highlights in her hair more evident. She looked like a duchess as she took her place in the barouche, as the red played off perfectly against the brown fabric she wore.

She tapped the picnic hamper placed opposite her with a brown clad foot as they got underway. "Another pic-nic? But where are we going?"

"It is a surprise."

"Will you blindfold me, then?" Margaret asked laughingly. It seemed her initial irritation with him had completely worn off. John was glad of it.

"That won't be necessary. This is not a kidnapping," John replied dryly.

"I do not think I have seen many carriages as nice as this, even in London," Margaret pronounced, as she ran her hand over the black satin upholstery. She peered at the silvered name plate fastened just above the door handle. "Gorman? How strange. In Helstone there was a carriage-maker by that name. My mother wanted us to renew our acquaintance with them. I wonder if this is the same concern."

John quirked an eyebrow. "Given your mother's initial welcome to me upon your arrival in Milton, I should not have thought she would have wanted to associate with tradesfolk."

"You are too perceptive." Margaret looked away. "It wasn't for herself that she wanted this acquaintance."

"I see." John felt the faintest trickle of jealousy begin to flow through his veins. "So what was he like, this Gorman? Fred Gorman, was it?"

"I never met him. But why would you think his name was Fred? I think it was Carl, actually. Or Peter?"

Luckily, John had always been a quick thinker, even in gestating a baldfaced lie. "Frederick Gorman is the maker of these carriages. I assumed your introduction was to him."

"I never met anyone. I had no inclination to marry, as I thought myself too young. And..." she blushed crimson, "I'm sorry to say this, but before I knew you, I was a terrible snob."

It took a while to leave Milton, for as usual, the streets were clogged with carts filled with cotton in various stages of preparation. But once they were outside of the city, their destination was only a few miles away. Their driver led the pair of horses slowly up a hillside road as Margaret and John walked beside the carriage. It was such a fine, sunny day that it seemed a shame not do so. A hay meadow spread out before them, its knee-high greenery littered with blooms of blue, pink, yellow, red and white.

"The air is so clear here." Margaret pointed to the pall hanging over the city just to the north of them.

"The wind typically blows from west to east so the land here is free from Milton air," John explained. "It's only during a winter storm that they'd be affected by our soot."

"Look," Margaret said as they walked alongside the ruts made by the carriage. She bent over the verge to examine a plant with small, pea-like leaves. "What a strange flower." She plucked the stem and handed it to John, who examined the unusual orange and red, tusklike blossoms.

"Granny's toenails," he said, handing it back to her.

"We didn't have that in Helstone," Margaret mused aloud. "What is this place?"

"You'll see." John offered her his arm. "Just a bit farther."

They reached the crest of the hill, and John smiled in satisfaction. It was just as he remembered. He glanced at Margaret and noticed that her mouth had opened slightly.

"It's beautiful," she said, after a while.

Just on the other side of the hill stood a partial ruin of a church, its white walls gleaming in the afternoon sun.

"This church is all that is left of St. Catherine's Abbey," John said. As the coachman attended to the horses, John offered his hand to Margaret and they slowly descended the hill to view the building more closely. "The first church on this site was here before the Norman Conquest. "

The pair toured the perimeter of the building, pausing every now and then to gaze at the enormous pointed arches comprising the windows and the gothic scrollwork that resembled the elaborate royal icing decorations on the Queen's wedding cake.

"Was it destroyed during the dissolution of the monasteries?" Margaret asked.

"Yes. The abbot had too much power. He even had a seat in Parliament. The king could not let that stand. The abbey wasn't destroyed, though. The buildings were simply unroofed, as the lead had value, and the abbey's contents were looted. The abbey fell to ruin on its own, and served as a quarry for a while."

"Papa taught me the history of Henry's dissolution. Of course, Papa expressed some ambivalence in his lesson, as it pained him to think of destroying a place of learning. It reminded him too much of the destruction of the library of Alexandria by Aurelian. There was probably a scriptorium on this site and many hand-copied bibles and other ancient texts. One would hope they weren't destroyed during the looting."

"It is like your father to see both sides of an issue. That must be where you have learned the skill, Margaret."

The pair continued walking around the site. Soon they found a mossy location in the shade of the church walls to lay their blanket. Margaret smoothed her skirts in a graceful arc as she tucked her feet under them, and removed her gloves and the unfashionable straw hat she usually wore in place of bonnet. John joined her on the blanket, removing his hat and gloves as well. He leaned back against the church wall as he extended his long legs, relishing the feel of the limestone as it cooled his body through his coat.

Margaret immediately busied herself with unpacking the hamper, passing John napkin, fork, and knife before asking, "How is it that you are not working today, John? I would think that you are terribly busy right now, recovering from the damage done from the strike."

"I am. But I did not want to neglect you." he smiled as he accepted the beaker of ginger beer she offered. "It is true that we are well behind on orders. I have been thinking of offering the hands—the workers- extra hours should they be willing to take them on."

"I would think they would be glad of the extra income. So many of them seem to be struggling, as their families are overlarge."

"Yes. And I would not like to take workers for an extra shift only to let them go when we are on our feet again."

Margaret nodded. "That would hardly be fair. And I suppose there is also the issue of training. It takes a many hours to train up a hand, does it not?"

John nodded, a smile quirking his lips. How fast Margaret caught on.

"But if you have to send these hands packing when business contracts, you have effectively trained them for someone else."

"Precisely." A toothy grin replaced the tentative smile.

"But is it difficult to work in the mill at night? Surely lamps increase the risk of fire given all the fluff in the air?"

"Yes," John replied. "But we already work until seven at night, and in winter this is long after nightfall. With care and covered flames, we will be fine."

Margaret opened a container and found tongs to place salad onto two plates. She passed one to John, along with tiny cruets of oil and vinegar.

"But if they are tired after having already worked a full twelve-hour day, will they not be more likely to make mistakes? Or to knock over the lamps?"

"Yes, that is a concern. The inexperience of the Irish have already set us back substantially, although they are learning. But I have mulled it over and can see no better alternative to the solution as I have laid it out. Can you?"

Margaret shook her head. "I know I have not a fraction of your experience in these matters, nor do I have the expertise."

"Regardless, you have interesting ideas, and your experience outside of Milton is valuable to me. I do not want you to shy away from offering your thoughts, Margaret."

At this, the brown-haired beauty blushed, and busied herself with inspecting the other offerings packed in the hamper: asparagus (how Cook had obtained it in full summer was a wonder), potted ham with mustard, a roast duck, cucumber pickles, chutney, a cheese cake with cherry sauce, the requested blancmange and almond tart. Margaret piled both plates high with the savories and John was happy to see that she appeared to be hungry.

Then she rose and climbed the hill to take one of these plates to the coachman, along with another beaker of ginger-beer. John smiled. It was just like Margaret to worry about a servant, even though the man was required to pack his own lunch, and had been expressly told to leave them alone (although not in Margaret's earshot).

"You could hang the lamps," she said on her return. "The wall-mounted ones would appear to be the greatest hazard."

"But the swinging of the lamps makes dizzying shadows."

"Could you not hang them from a rod rather than a chain?"

"That would make them harder to light, but yes, I think that would be a reasonable alteration." John leaned over and kissed Margaret full on the mouth, quite surprising her.

"What was that for?" she asked.

"For your creativity, darling. And your outspoken nature. I could not imagine a better partner."

Margaret did not answer. Instead she prepared a plate of food for herself, but picked at it.

"You are not hungry?" John asked with concern. "Or do you not like what Cook has prepared?"

"I am not a picky eater. I just have very little appetite, of late. I am worried about Mama." The look John saw in Margaret's eyes at the funeral returned as she spoke and John cursed himself silently for even bringing up her diet.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

"I do not know what Papa will do without her," she replied. "He loves her so. He was devastated when he found out how ill she truly is. He blamed me at first, for withholding the truth from him. But both Mama and Dr. Donaldson asked me to. They did not think he could bear it."

"It is not right to ask a daughter to take on her parents' worries, Margaret."

"My family is not like yours. Everything is upside-down."

"What do you mean?"

"I know that you and your mother are honest with each other. You tell her everything, do you not?"

"Not everything." Not certain thoughts about Margaret, for instance. He wouldn't share what he was thinking of doing to Margaret's lips right now, or the feeling that gripped him whenever he glanced surreptitiously at the curve of her breasts. His eyes traveled there now, involuntarily.

"No, not your innermost thoughts. But you do not withhold key information from her, do you?"

John lifted his pale gaze to her blue-green eyes. "No. Of course not. A relationship must be built on trust."

Margaret nodded.

"Papa would not tell Mama that we were leaving Helstone. He left that to me. Mama was terribly hurt that he confided in me instead of her. And then Mama would not tell Papa that she was ill. That she was so very seriously ill. She let him believe..."

John took her hand, but she shook it away.

"I am in the way," Margaret continued, as she looked down at her plate, and used her fork to uselessly stir the food in circles. "Yet I am placed in the way. I do not know how they managed when I was in London. Perhaps Dixon was their intermediary."

John nearly barked a laugh, but stopped himself. He could not imagine the fearsome Dixon stooping to play carrier pigeon between the two Hales.

"Our union will not be like that, Margaret. You know this, don't you?"

Margaret raised her head, and slowly nodded.

"I must tell you the other reason I took you on this pic-nic luncheon today. Quarter sessions are next week-"

"What are quarter sessions?"

"Magistrates' duties. We are seated four times a year to hear cases. I will be busy for three to four days, and I must burn the midnight oil to be sure the mill is prepared for my absence."

"You do not need to explain. I understand how busy you are." Noticing his plate was empty, Margaret opened up the containers of dessert and sliced him first a piece of cheese cake, which she covered with several spoonsful of cherries in syrup, and then a large helping of blancmange and a small slice of almond tart. "But tell me, how is it that you became a magistrate?"

"I was appointed," replied John between bites. "It is an honor, of course, and I was the youngest ever appointed in Lancashire."

"When was this?"

"When I was five and twenty."

"So young. I am sure your mother was very proud." Margaret smiled. "As she should be. And what does the work entail?"

"Normally, I am responsible for things like issuing search warrants to the constabulary, and the crimes I punish are petty offenses, things a jury would not decide. But if there is a need for an indictment, that case is referred to the quarter session. Three of us hear the case and if necessary commit it to the Crown Court."

"The lives of men and women hang in the balance." Margaret regarded him gravely.

"They do. But respect for the law is what allows our society to function. If men and women were allowed to take the law into their own hands without consequence, anarchy would prevail."

"But what if the law is unjust?"

"Then we must work within the system to make those laws just."

"I see." The distant look returned to her eyes and John wondered as to its source.

"It is not a perfect system, but England's system of common law has functioned satisfactorily for hundreds of years." John smiled apologetically. "I do not mean to lecture. As you can tell, I take this work very seriously, although I am but a lay man."

"Of course you do. You are a person of integrity."

"I like to think I am. But then again, so are you. We are well-matched in this."

"Yes," said Margaret, as she stood, clearly ready to change the subject. "Is there a brook nearby? I would like to rinse off these plates, if possible."

"If I remember correctly, there is one at the base of the hill." John pointed to a line of shrubbery below them.

"You have been here before, then?"

"Many times, when I was a boy. It was a favorite outing for my parents. I learned all the flowers. I can show you, if you like. I am certain I remember them."

John rose and stomped his feet to dispel the pins and needles that clamored for attention. He picked up the stacked plates, carrying them easily in one hand, while taking the two wicker-wrapped beakers in the other utensils within. The coachman's plate could be left for later, he decided.

"Come. It's this way." He beckoned to Margaret with his head, and strode off through the grassy meadow.

Margaret lagged behind to pick flowers along the way, but ran forward every now and then to consult with John about her latest acquisitions.

Beauty was the key, John realized. Margaret must be surrounded with beauty. It had a transformative effect on her, releasing her from the unhappy dream that had clung to her of late. John watched as she moved, childlike, through the field, exclaiming over every new flower, happy- so happy!- for a change.

The fringed, thistle-like ones were saw wort, John remembered, while the clustered purple flowers were milk wort. Margaret announced her favorite was pepper saxifrage, was it was soon replaced by the profusion of bell flowers that met them halfway down the slope.

She set the flowers down as the pair approached the brook. They made quick work of the dishes, as the rapidly flowing brook was quite efficient at scouring away the remains of their meal.

Margaret used a napkin to dry the dishes, then set them on a mossy hummock to dry.

"What is that plant over there?" Margaret asked, pointing to an area shaded by one of the few trees remaining in the area, this one a willow. Grass covered most of the ground, but a few rosettes of leaves poked up here and there, with spikes of flowers at their centers. She wandered away to inspect these plants.

"I know this flower!" Margaret said, as she dropped to her knees to inspect the insignificant pink blossoms. John joined her, curious. He'd never noticed it before.

"It's a bee orchid. We had these in Helstone! Do you see how the flower has a special part that resembles the insect?"

"So it does," John said. "But they must be somewhat rare here. I've not seen this flower before."

"But look, here are twenty more of them!" Margaret beamed as she pointed to similar rosettes. "Thank you, John."

"I would like to take credit, but I did not know they were here."

"Not just for showing me that something I remember so fondly from Helstone grows so close to Milton. Thank you for this day. For your company." She kissed him lightly on the lips.

His kiss was not so light.

He could not help but enfold her in his arms, and he could not do anything but deepen the kiss. His lips pressed against hers with poorly concealed urgency, and he was surprised to find that she returned his passion. How perfectly ripe her lips were. How perfectly ripe all of her was.

First they were kneeling, but in moments, they'd lowered themselves to the ground. Margaret arched her neck in offering, and John greedily accepted, peppering her alabaster flesh with an abundance of kisses, but found he wanted more. Her earlobes were his, as were her temples, including the still-red scar that spoke of her accident. Still, he needed more. Her collar was too high, her sleeves too long. He kissed each finger tip, her palms, her wrists. He groaned in frustration.

"Margaret, I do not think you know what you do to me."

"Do you know what you do to me?" she asked in response.

John leaned over her, resting one forearm on either side of her face and kissed her insistently, again and again. When her lips parted, he tentatively ran his tongue along their softer, inner flesh, eliciting a heady sigh for his efforts. But she did not pull away, and so, encouraged, he deepened the kiss and earned the softest of moans as his reward.

He pulled back, only to find her hands running through his hair, insistently pulling him towards her again.

"We must stop," John said.

"Why?" Margaret asked.

"Because...I am at my limit, Margaret. I do not think you fully understand how difficult this is." He sat up and ran his hands through his hair in a vague effort at straightening the errant locks. "The things I want to do to you."

"Tell me."

John hesitated as all manner of improper images flashed through his mind. These were not scenes he was ready to share, although he was certain he would show her, eventually.

"I would you make you my wife," he said, instead. "I would love you fully and completely, Margaret."

"Our parents want us to set a date."

John nodded.

"I think they would want it sooner rather than later. Mama, especially. She wants to see me wed."

"Would that be acceptable to you, Margaret? To wed quickly?" John looked at her hopefully, yet tried to hide this expectation from her.

His love nodded. "I think so."

John reached inside his frock coat and pulled out a small velvet bag. Inside was a filigreed platinum ring with a solitaire of a cushion-cut diamond with a small, triangular carnelian placed to either side.

"John, this is too much!" How her eyes shone.

"It is not enough, my love."

Margaret looked at the ring, then at John again, tears in her eyes.

"You have said you will be my wife," John said quietly. "Will you tell the world of this commitment?"

"Yes," Margaret whispered. She held out her hand, trembling, and John slipped the ring on easily.

Then they kissed again, as a couple truly betrothed. He felt himself on the verge of losing control once again. How he wanted her, all of her. Now.

But he held back and kissed her, slowly and tenderly.

"What is the significance of the stones?" Margaret asked when they finally parted.

"The diamond is for you. Your father was happy to tell me your birthday is in April. The carnelians are for me."

"August?"

"The twenty second."

"It's beautiful."

"It suits you." He offered her his hand. "We should be going. It is getting late." John chuckled as he noticed the peat moss clinging to Margaret's hair and offered a helping hand. She brushed her dress herself vigorously, not stopping until John had assured her that every green fragment was removed.

"You have not gotten off easy, yourself," Margaret noted, flicking away tiny green plantlets from his shoulders and back.

They were interrupted by a loud caw and thrumming wing beat.

"Oh, look," laughed Margaret. "It's a Thornton." The bird perched in the nearby willow, and turned its head as it regarded them with dark, glassy eyes.

"I thought you had decided I was a bower bird."

"No, no. Well, yes, but just for today." Margaret wiggled her the fingers of her left hand as she giggled. The ring sparkled in the golden afternoon light.

The raven cawed again and flew away, but placed them within its flight path. A feather dropped at Margaret's feet and she stopped to pick it up, adding it to the bouquet she'd set aside earlier.

The couple climbed the hill hand in hand, and packed up the hamper quickly. They were back in Crampton within the hour.

John accompanied Margaret up the front steps to her home and knocked briskly on the door. Her parents would be pleased to hear that they were ready to set a date: they would share the news straight away.

However, Margaret and John were unready for the news that greeted them, as they did not notice the carriage standing nearby.

A florid Dixon opened the door, tears in her eyes.

"Mama?" cried Margaret with trepidation. John saw her begin to sway.

"No, Miss," said Dixon, her voice cracking. "It's Mr. Hale."

Margaret fainted in his arms.

Author notes: Thanks again to everyone is reading and especially to those of you who continue to review! You make my day! Someone asked me how long this story is likely to be. Right now I think it will be at least 30 chapters, maybe 40. Yikes! But we'll see. At least 25?

I hope I have conveyed Margaret's despondency and moodiness in this chapter. As someone who has recently been through mourning myself (my dad) I know that moods can change really quickly and can be trying for others. Grief is not 100% sadness all the time. There are highs and lows, with the highs colored and often interrupted rudely by the lows. And some people, like Margaret intellectualize as a way to try to get around their grief for a time (although it usually doesn't work for long). However, I think the grieving process would be much worse for a nineteen-year-old who has lost a best friend and is in the process of losing her mother than for most modern people who have a lot more support. John has his work cut out for him.

About the barouche: A barouche is different from the carriage you might have seen in the BBC mini series, as unlike that carriage, a full-size barouche seated four (vis a vis, so that the two benches faced each other) plus the driver, and had a collapsible hood over the rear half. The book Hints to Horse-keepers, published a bit after this era (1859), gives details of the types, prices and paint jobs of carriages, as well as all sorts of other interesting details about the harnesses, and horses needed for each type. I cross referenced with Carriage Terminology: An Illustrated Dictionary, and the History of Coaches (1877) to make sure that a half-top barouche would have been driven in about 1851 or so, and would have been seen as a desirable purchase.

About the church: I based St. Catherine's Abbey on the real St. Mary's Abbey in Yorkshire, a Benedictine abbey that was dissolved by Henry VIII in the 1530s. Its ruin is gorgeous, gothic limestone and dates from the 11th to 15th century, although most of what is still standing is 15th century construction.

I based the flowers found in the location on those found in a Lancashire hay meadow and blooming in July, as described by the Lancashire Wildlife Trust. The bee orchid Margaret notices is also found in the New Forest, where Helstone is (fictionally) located. It is somewhat rare in Lancashire.

The additional picnic foods are from Beeton (and, as mentioned earlier, plagiarized from Acton and Francatelli).

About the quarter sessions: In the mid 1800s, there were two types of magistrates: lay and stipendiary. Lay were drawn from the upper classes, but were not trained in the law. They were unpaid. John would have been drawn from this group. Stipendiary were paid, and were typically barristers. All magistrates were appointed through the crown, and it was a great honor to be selected. Normally, an individual magistrate could hear a petty case, as John describes, but for indictment, groups of three magistrates per city (usually lay, but sometimes with the assistance of a stipendiary) met quarterly to review cases. During the 1850s cases would include misdemeanors- things like spousal abuse, petty theft and burglary, etc. The dates set for were originally based on key quarterly events of the year: Epiphany, Easter, Midsummer, and Michaelmas. However, based on the records I have examined the dates were typically pretty flexible: several days in January, April, July and September. The length of the session depended on the docket. The more cases to review, the longer the session.