Not a Gentleman

by Tintinnabula

Chapter Eleven

The Waiting

Please note this chapter contains some talk about low women, low literature and art, some crude Victorian language, and musing about sexuality. I believe it is nonetheless rated T, but am warning just to be safe. If you fear it may offend, you may wish to stop reading after the second divider,or skip this chapter entirely.

Margaret was burning the candle at both ends.

She stayed up all night with her father, first sitting idle as she contemplated the sleeping man. He did not seem to be in any pain, but perhaps that was due to the sleeping draught Dr. Donaldson had given him before she had arrived home. Margaret smoothed a stray strand of hair from her father's forehead and tucked the covers around him as she considered how central her father was to her life. When she was a child, they were inseparable: she'd accompanied him everywhere. And while it was true that she had gone for many months at a time without seeing him in the years she'd lived in London, during that time he was never really gone. He was always right there, just a few hours away, in Helstone. At any time she could conjure an image of him sitting at his coromandel desk, working on a sermon, or out among his flock, wearing his broad-brimmed hat. Now that image was shaken, although the person lay right before her.

This frail man was not the Papa her imagination drew. This was a vessel of flesh and bone, and one quite possibly too weak to contain its soul.

But he could not die tonight. Life simply could not be that unfair.

Margaret chided herself. How selfish she was being. Life was terribly unfair- look at the Higginses, and the Bouchers, and almost every other family in Princeton, for that matter. When had life ever been fair to any of them? Margaret had three meals a day, two fine parents, a servant, and had experienced an upbringing in a luxurious London house. That was far more than most people could even imagine.

But above all of these things, she had John. She was lucky. She was blessed, and Margaret was thankful for this.

But what a selfish girl she must be, because still she wanted to cry over the potential loss of her father. Margaret bit her lip and clenched her fists in an effort to stop the tears from flowing. She would not allow it. It would not help Papa, or Mama, or even Dixon for her to fall apart. She needed to stay busy, to do something to keep her mind off the present situation. But reading to herself was out of the question. Although it was only half past ten, she was already dead tired. A morning spent doing chores and an afternoon with John had seen to that, to say nothing of the stress of hearing the news about her father. She knew she would fall asleep quickly over a book, when she should be watching over her father. And while reading aloud might keep her awake, it might also waken Papa.

Margaret gathered her skirts and left the room, and hurried to the parlor, as an idea presented itself to her. She scanned through a stack of The Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine until she found the pattern she remembered, then rummaged through a work basket until she found a length of even-weave linen and the other materials necessary for needlepoint. She quickly stretched the fabric within a frame, and returned to her father's side, a small smile on her face. She might as well make a birthday gift for John, as he'd mentioned the date. He might appreciate a pair of petit point-embroidered braces- she could order the leather fittings by mail in the morning, if time permitted. There was an address listed on the pattern. Certainly the blue shades of floss she'd chosen would harmonize with the color of his eyes. And surely braces were not too intimate a gift to receive from a fiancee? Margaret realized with some astonishment that the question was moot, as she and John would be married for weeks by the time the gift was given.

Margaret collected the Argand lamp from her father's study, and set it on the table farthest away from her father's bed, so that the bright light it emitted would not disturb him. She turned her chair so that she would be able to keep one eye on him and spent most of the rest of the night embroidering, considering the two men she loved most on Earth, a fond smile on her face.

It was her father who awakened her, at a little past seven.

"Margaret, I think someone is at the door."

"Oh!" Margaret jumped at her father's voice, then winced, as her head had lolled against her shoulder as she slept, producing the most terrific crick. She rubbed her neck, then rolled her shoulders carefully in an attempt to ease the stiffness away.

"I will see who it is." Margaret straightened her skirts as she stood, and paused in the hallway to tidy her hair as best she could. She looked a fright, but that was to be expected after spending the night in her clothes. She hurried down two flights of stairs to the door to find John standing there, hat in hand. A servant Margaret recognized as Martha stood next to him, basket in hers.

"Good morning," John said, with a look of concern on his face. "You look tired. Were you up with your father the night long?"

Margaret nodded as she welcomed them inside. She immediately directed Martha to kitchen with instructions to black the grate and set the small room in order.

Once she and John were alone Margaret fell into his arms.

"He lives," she said, embracing him tightly. "And he is awake. Would you like to see him? I am sure he would not mind."

She and John tread lightly on the stairs, as it was clear Dixon and Mama were not yet awake. This was not surprising: Mama never woke early, and after the prolonged stress of the previous day, her servant must be exhausted.

"Papa?" Margaret asked quietly as the pair entered his room. "Are you still awake? John is here."

"John." Richard Hale's voice was weak, but the smile on his face suggested he was pleased to see his friend. "I am afraid I have given all of you quite a scare."

"This is true, Mr. Hale. We have been quite concerned."

"I thought we had settled on 'Richard'? Come, son. Pull up a chair." Margaret hastened to hide the embroidery project she'd left on the table.

"Sit here," she offered, patting the chair next to her father's bed. "I will see about breakfast. Papa, are you hungry?"

"A boiled egg might do nicely."

Margaret smiled. An appetite was surely a good sign. She left the room to give directions to Martha, her smile widening further as she heard the low murmur of conversation between her father and John. How good the two were for each other, and how fortunate their friendship.

The young lady returned shortly with a tray set for two, with teapot, egg cups and toast.

"I thought you might be hungry as well, John," she offered.

"No, I ate at five thirty, as I usually do."

"So early?" Margaret raised an eyebrow. Clearly she would need to adjust her schedule once she became John's wife, as she looked forward to starting each day with him.

"Yes. The mill opens at six, weekdays, seven on Saturdays. Except next Saturday, of course." He winked at Margaret and she blushed. "I have something to show you. Don't let me forget."

Margaret fussed over her father, helping him sit up in bed, then cracking the soft-yolked egg for him and arranging the cup and buttered toast on a plate. She perched on the side of his bed as she offered the plate to him. John looked on, a light in his eyes.

"May offer you some tea, at least?" Margaret asked her husband-to-be.

The manufacturer nodded, and smiled as his hand brushed hers as she passed him the teacup. Their eyes met as they both recalled a similar occasion in the recent past. All that was missing was the bracelet.

"Margaret, John," Richard interrupted. "You know, I am perfectly fine eating breakfast on my own. It is not as though it is a great opportunity for conversation. And I feel there is something you two would like to discuss."

Margaret blushed. "Yes, Papa." She and John quickly left the room, the tea disregarded.

"Mama is still asleep, I think. Step close to the edges of the stairs," Margaret instructed in a whisper. "They are much less likely to squeak that way." John obliged, as the pair descended to Mr. Hale's study. Once there, John removed the marriage license from the inside pocket of his frock coat.

"Saturday," he said. "I wish it could be sooner, for your father's sake."

"It does seem a very long time from now. But Papa seems better, does he not? He is weak, but surely he will recover." Margaret took the document from John and read it, noting with a smile how her name appeared so close to his. Soon their names would be linked forever.

"It is out of our hands, darling, but I hope your father will be at your side for a very long time."

Margaret pulled him close, resting her cheek against the starched linen of his shirt front. "I hope so, too."

He bowed his head to hers in hopes of a kiss, but she turned her head away.

"Excuse me. It's just that-" she blushed. "You woke me up. I had not even brushed my teeth. Please give me just a moment." She left the room and entered her own chamber, across the hall.

She hurriedly brushed her teeth and washed her face, embarrassed that she had foregone two such basic aspects of hygiene. Then she spied her disordered hair in the mirror and pulled the pins from it impetuously, allowing the warm brown strands to cascade down in a riotous tumble. She picked up a wide toothed comb to attempt to wrestle her hair back into some semblance of order but was interrupted by a low, but authoritative command.

"Don't. It's beautiful as it is."

Margaret turned around to find John leaning in the doorway, his eyes raking over her hungrily.

"I had no idea your hair was so long. Or so curly." He approached her after quietly closing the door behind him, and her brow lowered momentarily at the breach in propriety at his entering her most private space. Her cares were forgotten in the immediacy of his caresses, however. He led her to the bed, his weight causing the springs to groan and sag, and pulled her onto his knee.

"I dreamed about you last night," John murmured as he coiled a chestnut curl around a finger and released it.

"You did? What did we talk about?"

John laughed quietly. "No words were said."

"Oh." Margaret blushed.

"I've never had a dream so intense," he continued. "It was as though you were in my arms, and I- we-"

Her clear, blue-green eyes locked with his. "What was it like?"

"I hardly think that is a maidenly question, Margaret." She had never noted that wicked smile before.

She lifted her chin defensively. "Is it wrong to be curious?"

"No," John conceded. "Do you dream about such things? About me?"

Margaret's blush deepened and she looked away. "Vaguely," she answered quietly. I am afraid I haven't been provided much information... that is, in Helstone I'd seen animals, of course—"

"Do you think that is what love is like between a man and woman? That it is like animals rutting?"

"The word pleasure has come up at time or two," Margaret whispered in a voice so soft it was almost inaudible. "Mama said the duty of the marriage bed would lead to the pleasures of motherhood, and my cousin Edith did say that marital relations could be quite pleasurable...but she did not elaborate."

"I want to show you, Margaret." He gently turned her face to meet his own and kissed her tenderly.

"We need only wait a week, John."

"Nine days. It may as well be an eternity." John rained kisses over every inch of flesh available to him and groaned. "This is not enough. I want you, Margaret. All of you."

Margaret giggled nervously as she pulled away, then lifted her skirts just enough to display her ankles and the brown silk boots she'd worn since the day before. "All of me?"

"I will admit, I am least interested in your feet, Miss Hale," John whispered. He unbuttoned the cuff of her bodice sleeve and kissed the pulse point of her wrist, then pushed the sleeve back further and slowly worked his way up the tender skin of her inner arm. Margaret shuddered at the sensation he produced in her. It was dizzying, yet electrifying.

A knock at the door brought her back to reality.

"Margaret? Are you awake?"

"I was up all night with Papa. My clothes are wrinkled so I am changing, Dixon. I will be out shortly."

"I saw a hat in the front hall."

"Yes." Margaret looked at John in terror.

He smiled back as he mouthed a single word at her. Margaret nodded, relieved.

"It is Mr. Thornton's. He is visiting with Papa."

"Well, he's not there now."

"He is likely indisposed."

"Indisposed?"

"Visiting the privy, Dixon. Must you be so obtuse?"

Margaret stifled giggles as the servant walked away. After hearing the woman's heavy tread on the stairs and her footsteps in the room above, she addressed John in a whisper. "You must leave, now. She has gone upstairs to Mama. Go down quietly and shut the front door. Then return to Papa. Oh, you are making a terrible liar out of me!" Margaret wrapped her arms around her lover and pulled him close to kiss him once more. "Now leave, before we get into trouble."

John nodded after repaying her in kind, twofold. "I should tell you, I won't be able to visit tomorrow or Saturday. There is too much to do at the mill to get ready for the quarter sessions. And it is doubtful I will see you next week."

"Oh." Margaret's face fell.

"But I did take the liberty of sending Mr. Bell a telegram. I had a return one early this morning. He will be arriving on the evening train."

"I am glad of it. He will be a great help in your absence, and Papa will be pleased."

"When he arrives, please ask him to pay me a visit. There is a matter I must discuss with him. And I will see you Sunday?"

"I would very much like that. And I am sure Papa would, as well."

"Then I will pay my regards to your father, and be on my way. A mountain of work awaits me."

John kissed her again, as consolation for the words that must come next. "Margaret, my mother has asked to be involved in the wedding preparations. She will likely visit on Saturday."

"But I only want a small wedding." It concerned Margaret greatly to plan a large wedding while her father lay ill in bed. It seemed to be tempting fate.

"It would mean a great deal to her. And to me. If you are concerned about the cost, don't be. The bride's family does not have to bear all of the cost of the wedding."

Margaret nodded. The man's generosity was simply overwhelming.

"Of course, John. If it is important to you..."

"Thank you." The earnest fullness of his smile made Margaret's misgivings fall away like autumn leaves.

After a night spent entertaining Mr. Bell and a third night spent at her father's side, Margaret was not in the best frame of mind to be making wedding arrangements. It was one thing to be in a room with the formidable Mrs. Thornton, but still another to be with that woman and her daughter Fanny. Margaret's mother, propped in a chair and less drugged than she had been of late, was ostensibly overseeing the formalities, but in practice she deferred to every request made by Mrs. Thornton. And in truth those requests were phrased as recommendations, if not outright commands.

The first order of business was the venue. Mrs. Thornton first offered her home for both service and breakfast, expressing concern for the health of both Mr. and Mrs. Hale. But in her offer she made it clear that a church was the superior location for the actual wedding, and Mrs. Hale readily agreed to the plan. For her part, Margaret had no problem with the service being held in the Presbyterian building. A church building was like any other as far as she was concerned- it was the community within that formed the real church. And Margaret simply felt no connection to the people in the parish church she attended with her family. To be sure, she had planned to discuss with John the idea of converting to his faith, as his beliefs seemed to be very important to him. And given her father's own dissension, Margaret felt it might do her good to reconsider her own beliefs. But the way Mrs. Thornton presented the idea- as though there was no room for discussion—rankled. It irritated like a stone in a shoe, building slowly over time until she wanted to stop and shake the offender away from her. Still, Margaret held her peace, for John's sake. Clearly, it was important to him that his mother plan this occasion. She would let Mrs. Thornton cherish her small victory.

But it was the first of many.

Next came the flowers. Fanny cried out at first for a profusion of colors, but with one reproving glare from her mother, the daughter's mouth closed tight and she went back to the stack of lithographs she'd brought with her, and began sorting them into two piles for Margaret's perusal. Margaret's wish was for roses from Helstone, but of course this was not to be, so she did not even voice this small request. Whatever was in season would be fine, as far as she was concerned. Mama wanted pink roses and orange blossoms, and Mrs. Thornton solely white roses. White roses it was. Margaret regarded her mother, concerned that Mrs. Hale might be offended that her wishes were being so efficiently denied. But Maria Hale was unreadable, apart from the clear signs of tiredness already showing on her person.

The afternoon progressed in the much same way, as Mrs. Thornton had very definite ideas about what constituted an appropriate wedding. A cake with ornate royal icing, much like that served at the Queen's wedding was apparently de rigeur at Milton nuptials: therefore, there was no question that such a cake would be on display during the breakfast, along with the traditional bride's and groom's cakes.

"But how many guests will there be?" Margaret asked. "Surely only one cake will be necessary for such a small gathering?"

"This will be done correctly, Miss Hale. My son's position in society demands it," Hannah Thornton had responded in a voice that brooked no opposition.

Margaret sighed and turned to the younger Thornton, instead. Apparently Fanny had appointed herself haute couturier, and had brought along a collection of all the latest Parisian fashion plates. Margaret noted quickly that every single style was overdone, with an abundance of lace and ruffles. The gowns were almost wider than they were tall, and would look ridiculous on someone as petite as she. She scanned through the stack of plates Fanny suggested as possibilities and bit her lip. Fanny was dreaming if she thought any of these could be sewn in under a month, even with a team of assistants.

Margaret wanted something much more simple, something befitting a parson's daughter.

"The dressmaker, Madame Coleridge, will be here within the hour. You must decide, Margaret. Don't you think this one will do nicely? If I were getting married it is what I would choose!"

Fanny pointed to an atrocity so overdone with lace that its wearer seemed wedged into a gigantic snowball. Margaret tried not to laugh as she examined the drawing. If an idealized sketch looked this bad, how would it look in reality?

Margaret regarded Fanny shrewdly. The young woman seemed bursting to share some information. "Would you care to step my father's study for a minute?" she asked. "I would like to ask your opinion on something."

They walked upstairs to the study, out of earshot of Mrs. Thornton. Margaret picked up her petit point and showed it to Fanny. "I am making John a pair of braces. Do you think they will suit?"

Fanny rolled her eyes. "Oh, I am sure he will love whatever you make him. Truly, he is smitten. You could give him a piece of burlap bag from the sorting room and he'd treasure it, I'm sure, as long as you embroidered your initials on it. But you and John are not the only couple, you know."

"Oh?" Here was the secret.

"Mr. Watson has asked me if he may court me." Fanny smiled archly.

"And you have said yes?"

"Why wouldn't I? He is a bit grey, but he's very well set up. He buys me anything I want and he's very amusing, too. For an old man. You saw his new coach, I know."

"Yes, it's quite beautiful. I don't think I ever saw one lovelier in London." Fanny beamed at the compliment.

"I'm very happy for you, Fanny. When do you think you might marry?"

"Well, we've only just begun courting, and I suppose John will have some say in things. But as soon as Watson asks me, I will be ready. I see no point in waiting."

Margaret smiled at Fanny's eagerness to be out from under the thumbs of her mother and brother. Clearly she did not see the benefits of a love match, or realize that in marrying Watson she might well be placing herself beneath a new thumb. It was not for Margaret to interfere, however. She knew enough about the girl to know she would not listen to another's advice, however well-intentioned. So Margaret thought she might as well stick to the immediate problem at hand.

"But in that case, shouldn't we set aside the dress design you showed me earlier, as it is the one you most favor?" Margaret asked instead.

Fanny considered Margaret's words seriously, golden ringlets bouncing as she nodded. "I think you are right," she conceded.

"A dress like that, with so many ruffles really needs someone tall and thin to wear it correctly, don't you think?" Margaret continued.

"Yes," Fanny agreed emphatically.

It was too easy to flatter Fanny, Margaret realized. John's sister would be in trouble if she ever moved to London. People would take advantage of her left and right. Margaret felt a sudden rush of protectiveness for the flighty girl, who until this day had never been the least bit pleasant to her.

"Someone as short as I am really needs a much plainer skirt," Margaret continued. "I think something without ruffles would be much more suitable or I may end up looking like a child. A few bows perhaps, but not much else. Perhaps some lace across the shoulders."

"We will ask Madame Coleridge. I am sure she can work with your figure flaws," replied Fanny magnanimously. "We should be getting back. I don't want Mother to be wondering if something is going on. I haven't told her about Watson yet."

With Fanny now on her side, the rest of the day passed more quickly. Margaret found she did not much care what foods were to be served at the breakfast, or what music was to be played, and found herself commenting only to support her mother, on occasion.

The elderly Madame Coleridge arrived with two assistants, three chests of fabrics and trims, a tape measure and a pin cushion strapped to her wrist. Her Yorkshire accent belied the "Madame," but it was clear the woman knew her fabrics. Margaret quickly learned the reason- her late husband had been a draper, and John's first employer. She'd first worked in his shop, and then had branched out into dressmaking, and had become quite successful over the years, gathering quite a large clientele among Milton's well-to-do. But as John had been quite special to her husband, she was more than willing to push other work aside to make a dress in short order for his bride-to-be. Somehow, these words did not surprise Margaret. Clearly John had not been dissembling when he'd told her most Milton tradesmen owed him a favor. He seemed to have a habit of obliging people.

With a paucity of words, Madame Coleridge directed Margaret to disrobe so that she might get a better look at her figure. Margaret did so, removing her outer garments until she was clad only in corset, chemise, drawers, and hose, blushing all the while. It would have been polite for Mrs. Thornton and Fanny to leave the room, but they stayed. But perhaps that was allowable, Margaret decided: they were almost family now. Madame Coleridge rattled off measurements as her tape measure flew over Margaret's form. Then, still, not allowing her to dress, the woman began holding up silks to her face. Of course, all of them were some shade of white, from ivory to milk. Yet another decree had been issued by Mrs. Thornton, that like the Queen the next Mrs. Thornton would wear white to her wedding.

Madame Coleridge settled on a warm ivory, to Mrs. Hale's approval. "It sets off your hair beautifully, Margaret," she said in a fatigued voice. A single, sharp nod was Mrs. Thornton's signal of agreement.

With Madame Coleridge's continued consultation, it wasn't too difficult to obtain a dress that was somewhat to Margaret's liking. The final design was not as plain as Margaret would have liked, thanks to Hannah's insistence that the skirt have some kind of decoration, but it was much more plain that it would have been had Fanny or Mrs. Thornton had been given full rein. They settled on a bell-shaped ivory taffeta skirt, with pinked ruffles of self fabric running lengthwise up the cloth, so that the skirt somewhat resembled an inverted tulip with frilled petals. The bodice was likewise taffeta, covered across the shoulders in fine Chantilly lace. This was a small victory for Margaret: Mrs. Thornton had argued vigorously that it should be Honiton, just like the Queen's. The dress would button down its back with a myriad of tiny covered buttons. The bridal veil would be of matching lace, with a planned coronet of orange flowers. In all, Margaret was pleased, and she hoped John would be, too.

Both Margaret and Mrs. Hale sighed in relief as the Coleridge entourage, and then the Thornton women left the tiny Crampton home after their marathon visit. Mrs. Thornton would handle the bulk of the invitations, she had decided, as the Hales would only be inviting Edith's family. Apart from that, the immediate wedding preparations were complete.

"That was not quite as bad as I expected," said Mrs. Hale tremulously, as Margaret prepared her a cup of tea. "Margaret, your wedding day seems more and more real, does it not?"

"Yes, Mama, it does." Margaret wondered what it would be like to share a home with the senior raven. As a visitor she was domineering. What would she be like in her own habitat?

Margaret would find out in seven days.

The candle was burning low for John.

He'd put in nineteen-hour days over the past week, first to prepare for his impending absence, then to get some mill work in before and after each day at court. He was at his desk each day by 5:30 a.m., at the bench from 8:00 to 6:00, then back at the mill by 7 p.m. each evening, to work until 12:30 or so. It was only by sticking to this grueling schedule that he was maintaining the books, and keeping up with orders.

That had left no time to see Margaret this week, although he had seen her Sunday. The Hales were well, thankfully. Mr Hale (he still could not bring himself to call the man "Richard," let alone "Father") seemed less tired, and Dr. Donaldson had sent John quite a positive report on his condition. With rest, he'd written, the older man would recover, although he would need to be continue to be careful not to overexert himself.

John was relieved, both for his own sake and for Margaret's. She had experienced too much grief of late, and too much worry. Her mother's illness still lingered, although it had been eclipsed of late. But Maria Hale seemed to be rallying for her the sake of her husband and daughter.

Maybe it was on account of the wedding.

John smiled as he thought of the day.

"Thornton?"

John's reverie was interrupted by the query from his fellow magistrate.

"I asked, are you in agreement regarding the tax for the Grant Street bridge repair?"

"We need four to vote, do we not?" John lifted his eyebrow at this deviation from policy.

His colleague sighed at John's unwillingness to bend. "Some of us were thinking Davis could add his vote later. But you are correct. We'll need to wait until he rejoins us."

John sighed internally. The week had been much like this day, and had dragged on interminably. Apart from civic matters and the usual cases of spousal abuse, simple assault, robbery, and theft, there had been a rash of pickpocket arrested on Monday to be arraigned. And as his colleague Davis was absent, only three of the normal panel of four justices was seated, which had made it impossible for John to recuse himself when the men involved in the Marlborough Mills riot were brought before the bench. John had felt great discomfort sitting in judgment of these men, particularly as he knew Margaret would expect leniency. But the law was the law, and they had broken it. In the end, he had deferred to his colleagues' assessment. The men got off with time served and a fine. Of course, as each man was impoverished, and therefore unable to pay such a fine, they were remanded into custody for an additional month's time.

Normally, John enjoyed his duties as magistrate. But this month, when the mill required extra attention, and this week, when Margaret needed him close by, it was simply the wrong time for such an additional demand on his time. John was worn out by the unremitting pressure.

The fact that the few hours he spent sleeping were filled with vivid, riotous dreams of Margaret did not make things any easier. Those dreams! He'd never dreamed so brightly before. It seemed that every glimpse of any statue, renaissance painting, or sighting of the female form over the sum of his one and thirty years had somehow lodged themselves in his brain. They now nightly stirred together into an approximation of the beauty that lay hidden beneath the yards and yards of fabric that served as barrier between himself and his love. John's unconscious mind had no problem interpolating the missing data. Margaret was a Titian one night, a Rubens the next, Venus de Milo the third.

John woke up deeply frustrated every morning. He could only count the days.

This day, Thursday, was darkened further, when Watson showed up in the back of the courtroom, waving his hands in a most ridiculous manner.

"Do you know that odd fellow?" Kirk, the lead magistrate asked.

"I'm sorry to say I do."

"Approach," boomed the older man, and Watson hurried forward with a note for John. The younger magistrate read it quickly and frowned. He had no time for a meeting of mill masters that evening, however important. He was simply too tired. John crumpled the note and shoved it into his trouser pocket, and continued on with the day's work.

But at six he found himself walking towards Herald Street and the Manufacturer's Association building, where his colleagues were meeting. John had one day left of quarter sessions, then the wedding. He could spare an evening with his colleagues, he reckoned. Surely there must be some urgent reason to call a meeting on such short notice. Perhaps there was news he had missed as a result of his time spent on the bench this week. John lengthened his stride and wondered if the price of cotton had risen again, and quickly began calculating margins in his head.

He found Watson was waiting for him in the club lobby, his face already ruddy with the signs of drink.

"Good man," he slurred. "I knew you'd join us."

"It must be a meeting of critical importance if they've already broken out the claret," John said sardonically, as he mounted the stairs.

"Bet I know what you've got in your coat pocket," Watson said. "Lemme see." He barreled uncoordinatedly into John's chest, nearly toppling the pair down the stairs.

"Pull yourself together, Watson. How much have you had to drink?"

"It's a momentous occasion, y'see. We're celebratin'!" The man winked. "Got my invitation on Monday."

"Oh. I see." John had not expected this. He braced himself as he entered the dining room, and was immediately assaulted by a tone deaf rendering of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," followed by whistles and cheers.

Apart from Watson, Henderson was there, and Hamper and Harkness, and the odious Slickson. Strangely, too, was Mr. Bell, who got up and seated himself beside the position of honor.

"I couldn't stay away once I heard about this little gathering from Harkness," Mr. Bell said with a sly smile. "And as I own the building, I didn't think there would be a problem admitting me to the club for an evening."

John shook his head at the man's easy ability to tread all over social norms for his own enjoyment.

"I wouldn't think an Oxford scholar such as yourself would find a gathering of boorish cotton manufacturers suitable entertainment," John replied, the start of a scowl gathering on his forehead.

"Don't sell yourself short, Thornton. If my dear God-daughter can find something of interest in you, surely I can, as well." He clapped the younger man on the back and poured him a glass of wine, then pointed out the chafing dishes sitting unopened on the buffet to the side of the table. Dinner had been provided, but was being ignored by most of the room in favor of liquid sustenance. Both men rose from their seats and prepared themselves a plate, then sat back to watch the tom foolery.

Watson led off. He struck his glass with a knife until the revelers came to some semblance of attention.

"Thornton, I say this to you: To Venus and love!"

"Hear, hear!" All drank at once, and faces reddened incrementally.

Henderson called out next. "One wife, one bottle and one friend: the first without a tongue, the second never empty, and the last ever faithful."

"But I think she'd need a tongue!" hooted Slickson, waggling his, earning a glare from John.

Mr. Bell chuckled. "Now, now, John. They're just getting started."

"To love's slavery!" cried out Watson. All glasses emptied, and the claret was passed round again.

"Is he in love?" Asked Mr. Bell quietly. John lifted an eyebrow.

Harkness stood next, his voice more strident than his colleagues, his words more crude. "May woman's bosom be pleasure's couch!"

"You dog!" Glasses lifted again, and were emptied in short order.

"I'd like to milk those dairies! She's a fine article you've got, Thornton!"

That was Slickson's idea of a toast. John's fists clenched.

"Serious- seriously, Thornton, I'd like to make a real toast now," Watson slurred. He struck his glass again. "Is everybody lisning? I have reason to think that someday- someday you 'n I will be brothers-"

"Heaven help me." John rested his head in his hands.

"-and although that day may be far, far away, as a brother I want to give you some, some brotherly advice." Watson paused.

"Yes?" John asked after some time, afraid of the reply.

Watson sat down abruptly. "I forgot. What were we talking 'bout?"

"If you'd given us more warning we would have taken you to London," Harkness interjected. "To Covent Garden, on a junket." He pulled out a well worn copy of the New Swell's Night Guide to Bowers of Venus. "You would not have regretted a night at the Town Tavern, Thornton. Your Margaret may be fair, but think about what you are giving up."

"I'll thank you not to compare my future wife with the lowest of women, Harkness."

"Cyprians, Thornton. These are no dirty girls."

It took all of John's will not to leap up and strike the jackass. He pressed a hand to his forehead instead, and rubbed insistently at the headache he felt beginning to form there.

"Thornton's not interested in buying what he can get for free," pointed out Henderson. The men around him hooted like howler monkeys in heat.

"I'm not interested in purchasing something that shouldn't be sold," John growled.

"It's not worth arguing," Mr. Bell said in a voice so quiet only John could hear him. "They would never understand. But," he continued with a smile, "for Margaret's sake I am happy to hear you say those words."

"Would you honestly think otherwise of me?" John looked around the room in disgust at the men who were continuing to carry on about their Covent Garden escapades.

"No, Thornton. I've always figured you to be a rare bird. You've only confirmed it."

When the men pulled out cigars and began to discuss Margaret's physical attributes John thought it best left the room for a time, as he preferred the cleaner air of the room overlooking Herald Street to the likelihood of fisticuffs. If he looked out the room's leaded-glass window he could imagine Margaret standing on the nearby Lyceum stairs. She'd felt his gaze upon him, even then. He wished he were with her now. Or anywhere else.

John returned to the dining room to find it was time for the bestowing of highly inappropriate gifts. He took his seat reluctantly and opened the first paper- and string-wrapped parcel. John's only consolation was the knowledge that these gifts were usually an insight into the giver. Henderson's gift was a case in point.

John remembered The Bagnio Miscellany from his days at school. An classmate had filched the book from an older brother while home on holiday and the book had quickly made the rounds of the dormitory. It contained two stories, but the main attraction was the one that told of students at a school for girls with a headmistress who had a penchant for whipping her beaux with bundles of birch twigs. It was so poorly written and its actors so insipid that even as a fourteen-year-old, John had set it aside as too ridiculous to contemplate.

John thanked Henderson as politely as he could, but blanched at the reply.

"Well, we all know you've not had much experience with the ladies, so hopefully this will make some difference!" There was laughter all around.

"You're right," John replied. "I've not birched a woman, nor have I any desire to do so. But perhaps you'll share your expertise with these fine men someday."

"Don't be such a stick in the mud, Thornton! We're all just having fun," Watson muttered before issuing forth a prodigious belch. Apparently Fan had shared with Watson her favorite appellation for her brother, while he, in turn, had just shared it with Milton's foremost cotton manufacturers. What a fine, fine brother-in-law Watson would make.

Hamper's gift was just as telling as Henderson's. It was truly an insight into the workings of the man's soul. The Lustful Turk was another story that had made the rounds at school. This one was a series of letters between a young English woman and her friend. She had been captured at sea- by a Lustful Turk, no less- and recounted the loss of her virginity and that of her harem-mates. Oddly, their stories were almost identical. All involved horrific assault by a mighty "engine," although somehow the women grew to love the adulterous owner of said engine.

Harkness slid his copy of The Swell's Guide over to John. The skinflint.

Slickson's gift was the most disturbing of the lot. It was set of playing cards with filthy images taking the places of the normal suits. Worse still was the leer on the man's face as John opened the gift.

"You'll probably want to hide those from the missus," the giver offered helpfully.

"Oh, I'll do that," John agreed. "Thank you all, most heartily." The husband-to-be bundled the gifts into a tidy pile and considered the most efficient way to rid himself of them. He stretched, and yawned, and once again thanked the men for the gifts and Watson for organizing the event.

Mr. Bell caught him on his way out.

"Not so fast, Thornton." He held out a small key, embellished with a yellow silk tassel. "I tried you at your office today. I'd forgotten about quarter sessions. You'll find a gift from me on your desk." He smiled that sly smile once again. "I didn't think it was something these men would appreciate, but as you've been studying the classics, I think you might."

John tilted his head warily.

"Oh, and you received my reply to your earlier message, did you not? I trust the work is going well."

"It is," John nodded. "But it is intended to be a surprise."

"I will say nothing, then. You have my word of honor."

The pair said goodnight, and John made his way home, glad of the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. He dropped the night's gifts—apart from the key- on the first refuse pile he encountered, and felt his step lighten.

His headache was almost gone by the time he entered the mill office and lit a lamp. He found Mr. Bell's gift prominently displayed on the center of his desk. It was an ebony box polished to a high shine. A gold plate was secured to the lid, engraved with the word "Liebe," with a scrawled signature just below. John pulled the tasseled key from his waistcoat pocket and engaged it in the lock. He found three thick envelopes inside the box, and one thin one.

John sat down and opened the first, removing sixteen sepia and white lithographs. His eyes widened as he examined the prints and his face reddened abruptly, from chin to hairline. Apparently this was Mr. Bell's idea of a joke at his expense, some mockery of his attempt to educate himself by studying the classics with Mr. Hale. The images, each labeled as "postures," showed gods and goddesses engaged in carnal acts. Very athletic acts, John noted, as he turned one card ninety degrees to examine it more closely. He wouldn't have thought the contortions of Bacchus and Ariadne depicted were physically possible.

The cards seemed to be a primer of sorts. They were devoid of passion, and focused more on the cold, classical perfection of the bodies involved than any spiritual connection between the souls within. In that regard, they were much like the books he'd read clandestinely in the school dormitory, a disappointment for one wondering what love was really all about.

After a night of mortification, here was one more.

Perhaps Bell meant these cards as some kind of instruction- or even remediation- in recognition that John had lost his father at a young age. John quickly dismissed the thought. That was not Bell's modus operandi. The man was a trouble-maker by nature, a genteel trouble-maker, but a gadfly nonetheless.

John ran his hands through his hair in frustration, then took up the cards again. Despite their coldness, he seemed inexorably drawn to them.

How was it possible to be so repulsed and mesmerized at the same time? John found himself examining every card in detail, noting how their artist had done his best to elevate a scandalous subject by including classical references wherever possible. These prints were meant for an audience far more erudite than the typical customers of Dugdale or Ascham. And they had probably cost Bell a pretty penny, too. It was curious that the man had time to plan such an elaborate and expensive joke. Surely this type of material was not available at Oxford. He would have had to approach some type of specialist to procure it. But when had he had the time? Presumably he'd been busy with Margaret for most of his stay in Milton this past week.

A sinking realization crept upon John. Clearly these were from the man's personal cache, no doubt collected from the study of his seldom-used house in Milton. A shudder of revulsion chilled John's spine at the forced intimacy of the situation. He was not surprised at the behavior of his manufacturing associates, in hindsight. They were crass, boorish men. But Bell? This behavior went far beyond the man's usual pot stirring. It was downright tasteless, and far beneath a gentleman of his status.

John carefully replaced the prints in their envelope. There was no question he'd be returning the small casket to Bell in the morning. He'd demand an apology, as well.

John sighed before removing the second packet from the small ebony chest. The joke was in four parts, he realized. It had only just begun.

This envelope was engraved with the same signature as found on the chest's gold plate. Below it was printed, "Mihály von Zichy. Liebe. Magyarország, 1847." Inside were twelve lithographed drawings, tinted in pastel shades, as completely inappropriate as the previous set. But these were much different from the classical "postures" in the previous envelope. They were intimate drawings of people in love, unaware of their illustrator. These were real people, not gods. And this was passion John was viewing. The curve of this woman's neck as she threw it back with abandon said so, as did the arch of her back as her lover covered her front in kisses, and oh, the place he was kissing her in this next print. And the caress of her mouth in the third!

Yes, John realized, this was Mr. Bell's attempt to educate him. But John had not known he'd needed edification.

John stared at the prints for a while and imagined Margaret, his Margaret, in their marriage bed. He wanted her more than ever. Would she respond to his touch this way? Would his caresses bring her to such ecstasy? He fervently hoped so. He thought back to the prior Thursday morning and his aborted attempt to explore the delights of her flesh. Dixon, damned Dixon. If only she had not interrupted. Margaret had been so eager until they were interrupted. But it would have been wrong to continue, and truly, if that servant had not knocked at the door, he was not certain he would have been able to control himself. Perhaps Providence had intervened, for Margaret's sake.

John could wait another day. He was a man of discipline, after all. This hunger was nothing compared to the real hunger he'd borne in his adolescence.

He replaced the second set of prints in their elegant envelope, but reconsidered his earlier thought of returning the chest to Mr. Bell. He would need to study Zichy's work some more, he knew.

John opened the third envelope and again his eyes widened. This time it was not due to anything he would want to hide from his future wife or mother, however. As he unfolded the document he recognized its meaning immediately: clearly, it was legal due to the fine roundhand writing and many flourishes. A cursory glance informed him that this was the deed to Marlborough Mills. And there, on the third page, was his name, with Mr. Bell's beside, the man's signature below that. The man had signed the mill and its environs over to him.

John tore open the last envelope in search of an explanation.

The letter he read aloud was much as he might have expected from a man who loved the sound of his own words:

"My Dear John,

If you have opened these envelopes in the order in which I intended, you may have been annoyed, if not outright angered by my presumption in seeking to further educate you in the classics. Clearly Mr. Hale has done an inestimable job at that in his own right. However, he cannot provide you with everything, and as I have some means at my disposal, I thought it only right that I step in, as well as take you into the modern era.

It is clear that my God-daughter and you are well-matched in spirit, wit, and person. However, there are other realities to consider, and with the enclosed gifts I have attempted to address these. It is for this reason, too, that I have endowed Margaret with the property you hold most dear, and, as she is not yet of age, I have deeded it to you. I trust that this mitigates the difference in circumstance between you and puts you on a more equal footing.

I also trust that you will do everything in your power to make sure my God-daughter lives the life she deserves- one filled with beauty, passion, kindness and love. Truly, she is one of the finest creatures I know. Please take care of her.

Sincerely,

Adam Bell"

Apparently he and Adam were now on a first name basis, John noted as he returned the deed to its envelope, and that to the chest. He locked it, pocketed the tasseled key, and placed the small box in the fire safe for safekeeping.

Then John readied the office for the evening and returned to the mill house for another restless sleep. He was certain this night's dreams would be even more vivid, thanks to the night's education. Until tonight, he would not have thought that possible. But there was only one day left until the wedding. He would survive.

Author's Note: The title has dual meaning- thank you to everyone for waiting an extra week for this chapter as I got over the flu. And thank you for all the well-wishes, too! I am feeling better, and I hope this double chapter makes up for the wait. :)

I am posting this with a fair amount of trepidation. For many reasons, my plan has been for this story to be rated T. But at the same time I have wanted it to remain true to the reality of early-Victorian sexuality. John and Margaret are both passionate people, and I see John, in particular, grappling with the inconsistencies presented to him by Victorian culture. But as I intend this to be a love story, not erotic fiction, I want to present their story in a way that leaves a great deal to the imagination. I have written both rated T and M stories before and I think I have a pretty firm grasp of the differences between them. To me, the trick to a rated T story is getting the idea across using only allusion and suggestion (a lot like a classic movie). As the parent of a teenager, I have a pretty clear idea of what T entails, so I think I what I have written here is not overstepping. Obviously, sex happens, as it is a part of life. Therefore, I don't pretend sex doesn't exist when talking with my child- I just don't talk about it in intimate detail. That is the standard I have attempted to apply here. Please let me know if you feel differently, after reading this chapter. If most people feel this chapter has bumped the story over to an M I will adjust the rating. However, the scene I am planning for that chapter will most likely still remain a T. :)

I have been contemplating Victorian sexuality quite a bit recently, both for this chapter and for the upcoming ones and thinking quite a bit about the duality of the Victorians when it came to thinking about sex. The book The Other Victorians provided me with a lot of information about the Victorian underworld during this time, and Henry Spencer Ashbee's detailed bibliographies of the books available at the time gave even more info. Prostitution and pornography were rampant in Victorian England, and utilized by some men within all levels of society, but at the same time medical literature and household texts suggested that sex was something that should be participated in only rarely, and could actually harm both men and women if participated in too frequently. Additionally, these texts suggested that unlike men, women were not interested in sex, but also that men also should do their best to limit their interest in sex- that even to have sexual dreams indicated a defect of character. But at the same time, young women were thought to get a disease called "green sickness" if they delayed marriage (and sex) for too long. Very contradictory. Additionally, household texts of the time like Aristotle's Masterpiece (not written by Aristotle, and not a masterpiece by any means) contained a great deal of misinformation: for instance, women were thought to have the same sex organs as men (but only on the inside), and sexual practices beyond the most ordinary, or even thinking about certain subjects during sex were thought to result in birth defects.

It is interesting to think about how a person (in this case John, but also Margaret) would reconcile the conflicting messages sent by society with his or her own instinct.

Regarding the gifts received by John: In 1851, stereo-daguerrotypes (that would be show a 3-D image when examined with a special viewer) were available, but were likely too expensive for all but connoisseurs. I didn't include them for that reason. However, lithographs of pornographic images could be found in stores like Ascham's and Dugdale's in London, along with books, of course (since the 1700s!). The most famous erotic images of the era are rather crude and rude images made by Achille Deveria. I imagine the deck of playing cards covered with his images. If you Google publicdomainreview dot org and Holywell Street you can find an interesting M-rated article about these topics, and you will also see that I chose the book titles I included carefully. Some of those titles are completely inappropriate for a rated-T story! (Be warned...)

The New Swell's Night Guide to Bowers of Venus, Curious Account of the Cyprian Beauties and Their Little Love Affairs was published in 1847, and was a guide showing men where to go in London to find women of the evening.

The Lustful Turk was published in 1828, and The Bagnio Miscellany in 1830. Both, therefore, would have been around when John was away at school, and might have been passed around the dormitory. If you are interested in a (somewhat warped and NOT T-rated) peek inside the early Victorian mind, they are available online.

The lithographs given to John by Mr. Bell are meant to be erotic, not pornographic. (But where is that dividing line, exactly? The first set don't make the cut, in my opinion. I think John agreed.) The original version of the first set, called The Sixteen Pleasures, was created in 1524 by Marcantonio Raimondi, but all but a few fragments were destroyed by the Catholic Church (and Raimondi was imprisoned for creating them). A copy was created later, most likely by Agostino Caracci, in 1798. Because these images showed married gods in a classical setting they were deemed to be more respectable than ordinary images. Hence Mr. Bell joking to John that he is giving him this gift because John is interested in the classics. I think it is reasonable that John would be shocked and mortified by this gift.

The second set of lithographs, entitled Liebe, or Love, are by Hungarian artist Mihály von Zichy, who lived from 1827-1909. When I first saw his prints I hoped that he had done some around the time frame of this story, because they are not crude like most of the other "art" of this era. I was happy to find out that his Liebe series was printed as early as 1847. They would have been scandalous in their time, and hard to get a hold of, and also subject to the Obscene Publications Act of 1857 (just after the time frame of this story).

I pulled the toasts used by John's associates from The Social and Convivial Toast-Master; and Compendium of Sentiment (1841). Slang used by the more crude masters (Slickson, mostly) is from several Victorian dictionaries.

You can see I did a lot of research while I was sick! Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think in general, and of the rating.