Not a Gentleman

by Tintinnabula

Chapter Fourteen

The Smallest Things

It was five a.m., a good hour before sunrise, but a glow already permeated the bedroom. John lay in bed, unwilling to start his day. Margaret lay fast asleep, encircled by his right arm, her hair in a chaotic corona around her. John's arm, too, was fast asleep, fully numbed by her weight. He did not mind, although he knew extracting said arm would be rather problematic. He tried, and she stirred, slightly, her eyes fluttering slightly against the incoming light before she turned her head to burrow against him. He gave up the fight for a few minutes, and settled against her, luxuriating in her presence. Her breasts, clothed in the thinnest white nainsook, pressed familiarly against the skin of his chest. The windows had not been opened wide enough overnight to take advantage of the cooler night air, and as a result her garment clung to her quite appealingly. A fleeting image chalked itself on the tablet of his mind, one of her in the bathtub, clad in a similar garment. The difference was, she was his now, to gaze at as long as he desired. There was no felt square to wipe away the reality of her presence.

Even asleep she raised his ardor, as she did every morning. But this day, John restrained himself. He could tell his wife was tired. He observed the slightest shadows under Margaret's eyes, shadows that should have resolved themselves after a full night's rest. After six weeks together she was still pushing herself far too hard. John was not sure how Margaret filled the long hours he spent at the mill, but taking care of her parents was work enough, and he was fairly certain her day was not limited to that. Slowly she had been taking over the mantle of running the household, and knowing Margaret, she was probably finding ways to improve upon on that formidable and time-consuming job. She had friends to visit with, too: the remaining Higgins girl, and possibly Higgins himself. John frowned. He'd be happier if she were free of that latter association, but it was not something he would ask of her. She was her own person, wife or not.

John had heard that a honeymoon should last six weeks. But these last weeks had included no visit to the Lake District, London or Paris, or anywhere outside of the environs of Milton. And he had been forced to work late almost every day each week save Sundays. Doing so was necessary to get the mill back on its feet, even with the generous gift from Mr. Bell. But Margaret had not complained. No, he'd found her waiting for him, every evening. She held dinner for him, choosing to eat as late as he did, well after the rest of the family. Then they'd retire to the library together, where he would spend another hour, or maybe half, balancing the books or writing letters, until her nearness became to much to bear.

And every night, she gave herself to him with abandon, in a way which surpassed his wildest imaginings. He had thought once that he did not want to possess her, but he found that he did. And he did, and again and again. Just as she possessed him.

So while these weeks could certainly not be called a honeymoon, John was certain that he and Margaret would think back on them as halcyon days.

John carefully extracted his deadened arm, and crept from the bed and the room. Although she might be annoyed to find he'd breakfasted without her, he decided he'd bear her ire. She done enough for him the past six weeks. She deserved a rest, even if she did not realize it. And he deserved a good breakfast, as he was absolutely ravenous.

He was half done with his kippers, when Margaret hurried into the breakfast room.

"Why did you not wake me?" his wife was groggy and petulant, as she so often was in the morning. Clearly she'd hurried downstairs. Her hair was arranged plainly, as though she'd done it herself, and instead of skirt and shirtwaist she wore a simple wrapper. She stared at him indignantly as she waited for a response. He finished his mouthful, chewing thoroughly, and was about to reply when she grimaced and then fled from the room.

"Margaret?" he called after her. She did not reply, and John decided she was was indeed angry that he'd let her sleep in. He decided he'd deal with it later that day, after she'd had a chance to cool off. Her temper was much like his own, he'd come to realize over their short time together: time apart allowed reason to take control of passion and made it much more likely that unkind words would remain unsaid.

John attacked his breakfast with gusto instead. It would be many hours until the noonday meal and it was important to fuel up, after all.

His mother rose from her chair at the other end of the table and picked up the remains of John's breakfast. One full fish was left.

"I was not finished, Mother," he said with some annoyance. Kippers were easily his favorite part of the morning meal.

The elder Thornton chuckled. "Yes, you are. And for some time." The widow rang for the footman, and busied herself with tidying the table and replacing the lid to the offending serving dish until the man arrived. "Tell cook no kippers for at least the next month."

John lifted a brow, utterly confused.

"Are they off? They smelled perfectly fine to me."

His mother did not answer, and the footman took his plate over his objections. John crossed the room to the buffet and picked up another plate, to which he added scrambled eggs and link sausage, protein sources far inferior to smoked herring.

"Mother, will you tell me, please, what is going on?"

"Stop thinking about your stomach and go to her, John. Silly boy."

He did as he was told. Margaret was in the library, her head half out the window, sucking in long gulps of warm, moist August morning air. John laid a cautious hand on her back and rubbed faint circles. "Are you well, darling?" he asked.

She nodded, but did not move from her place for some minutes. Finally, she turned to him. Her face was ashen.

"Darling, sit." John helped lower her to the settee that sat just below the tall windows. He sat beside her and held her hand, rubbing it between his own. He should have asked his mother to call Dr. Donaldson. Clearly Margaret was gravely ill. How selfish he had been not to notice.

"Do you need to lie down?" he asked solicitously. "I will help you back upstairs."

She shook her head. "No, John. I am well, really." She turned toward the window, and her deep, gulping breath served only to accentuate the lie.

John's concern grew exponentially. What was she not telling him?

"I had wanted this to be a surprise," she said, finally. "For tonight. But as it is already your birthday, I guess I can tell you now. John, I think I am with child."

John's eyes widened with surprise. "With child? Are you certain?"

Margaret shook her head. "No." She laughed. "I have never been so before. But I do have the symptoms. I have been very tired. The nausea is new. Since last week."

John's face fell, and he noticed that Margaret's immediate attempt to mitigate his feelings of guilt.

"It has not been so bad. Not like this morning."

"Those are your only symptoms?"

His wife blushed.

No. There are others. I am sore in... places. But the most important one is that twice I have missed my... my..." she blushed again, even more profusely.

"Your monthly courses?"

Margaret nodded, although she looked away in embarrassment. "You know of such things?"

John rolled his eyes, although his wife did not see. "I have a sister who is not the most discreet."

"I think I am perhaps six weeks along..."

A grin spread across John's face at this proof of his virility. "Our wedding night, then?" He kissed his wife again and again.

"You are pleased?" she asked, a small smile curving her petaled lips.

"More than pleased." John crushed his wife against him and murmured into her ear. "Absolutely delighted. I will be a father, and you will be my child's mother. I cannot imagine a better birthday gift."

For some people the term "morning sickness" was a misnomer, Margaret learned from Dr. Donaldson. Apparently, she was one of these people. There was nothing wrong with her, in fact she was perfectly healthy, and if she was lucky the nausea, which was lasting all morning, all afternoon and well into the evening, would be gone in the next month. Of course, Dr. Donaldson had added, in a minority of cases "morning" sickness lasted the entire course of a pregnancy.

"Oh, joy," Margaret had murmured aloud. Should she wager on the possibility of that coming to pass?Fortunately, Dr. Donaldson's physical examination was quick. Even more luckily, Mrs. Thornton was there in the room with her. John's mother was turning out to be quite the advocate. While Margaret might have preferred to have her own mother at her side, today was not a good day for Mrs. Hale. She was in more pain than usual and had not gotten out of bed until noon. Worse, after seeing the doctor herself Mrs. Hale's spirits had ebbed. And truth be told (although Margaret hated to admit this) the raven was much more likely to stand up to the doctor should be he begin to behave condescendingly, as he had in the past.

Margaret stripped down to chemise, corset and drawers, as instructed, in the privacy of Mrs. Thornton's sitting room, just as she'd done some weeks earlier while recovering from her head injury. But for this examination the doctor knelt beside her, pressing against her still-flat abdomen with one hand while invading her most intimate anatomy with the other. Margaret had blushed furiously, but Mrs. Thornton had nodded her approval. There was nothing untoward here. "Yes, I'd say you are two months pregnant," Dr. Donald said with some authority, his hands lingering on her inner thighs. Regardless of the propriety of this inspection, it made her quite uncomfortable. She stepped backwards in an effort to be rid of him. She was unsuccessful.

Finally the man moved away from her. Margaret stood ramrod straight and lifted her chin into a familiar, haughty pose. She asked, "How can I be two months pregnant when I have only been married six weeks?" How dare he even suggest such a thing of her!

Mrs. Thornton patted her on the arm. "Do not take offense. Doctors do not count the days of pregnancy from actual date of conception, but from the first day of your menses. They are a bit backwards in that regard."

"So I was two weeks pregnant before we ever-" Margaret began to giggle.

"Yes," Mrs. Thornton almost smiled. "So was I, and every other mother."

It was Dr. Donaldson's turn to color. He wiped his hands on a monogrammed handkerchief that he then folded carefully away inside his waistcoat pocket. Then he packed his bag quickly, exiting after giving the young wife only the tersest of advice regarding diet and exercise.

"Why was he in such a hurry?" Margaret asked after he left.

Mrs. Thornton's lips narrowed into a tight line. "I don't like that man," she nearly growled. "I'll have cook make you some captain's biscuits. You'll find they help with the nausea. They did me when I was carrying John.

The biscuits did help, and Margaret carried a small cloth-bound parcel of them with her when she stopped by Mary Higgins's house early that afternoon, stopping now and again along her journey to sample its contents. She was overjoyed to see her friend, as was Mary to hear her news. It had been too long since their last visit, and Margaret was surprised to learn that since then Higgins had taken in the Boucher children. That meant Mary now had her hands full with their care and feeding. She certainly needed any help Margaret could spare. Within moments of her arrival, Margaret had a toddler on her hip and an grousing infant in her arms. She was in her element.

But Margaret was back at the mill house in plenty of time to make sure that the preparations were well underway for John's birthday dinner. She hoped he would be pleased. She already knew he was fond of beef, and the dessert she'd described to Cook should also be a success.

A nap was in well in order, she decided. That and the tenth visit of the day to the commode. She chewed yet another biscuit before heading upstairs.

"Watson is here, Mother. I didn't think you'd mind one more for dinner." Fanny steered her beau into the front drawing room and propelled him to a silk-upholstered settee. The master sat with the lack of grace one might expect from a man of his bulk, and the elegant wood frame protested.

Mrs. Thornton sought confirmation from Margaret: this was her dinner, after all. The young wife nodded, pleased that she'd had to foresight to ask Cook to order an extra steak from the butcher, just in case. She rang for Stokes and informed him of the change, then walked with the butler towards the dining room, pausing only briefly in the pantry as he unlocked the plate, and removed another place setting of silverware. She smiled as she surveyed the dining room. She had not yet learned John's favorite flower, so a single vase of yellow roses sat in the center of the table, and after conferring with her mother-in-law about the choices available to her in the well-stocked linen closet, she had decided to use a damask tablecloth and napkins that had been woven in the mill. They were not the most luxurious to be found in that closet, but surely they were the most significant. Margaret refolded a napkin carefully, positioning it just so within the center of the plate. John noticed the smallest things, she'd observed in their short time together. She wanted every detail to be perfect for him.

Although it was Saturday, John was late. But Margaret had expected this, and had purposefully set the dinner hour for seven instead of the usual six. Mama would not be joining them due to the unusually bad day she'd had. But Papa was already in the drawing room, enjoying a glass of claret. His daughter joined him, thrilled to see him looking so robust. Her father smiled broadly when John walked through the door. Due to John's late hours, father- and son-in-law had not spent much time together over the past six weeks. But hopefully that would be changing soon. John had said things were running much more smoothly at the mill and he would soon be able to reduce the time spent there to a less grueling schedule.

But John's attention was immediately diverted. He was surprised to see Watson sitting side by side with Fanny in the settee closest to the windows.

"And to what do we owe this pleasure?" he asked in the coolest of voices. Fanny nudged herself away from Watson, suddenly aware that she was sitting just a bit too close to the man.

Watson smiled, his nose already reddened by his intake of wine. "Fanny and I were walking out this afternoon, and as it was getting late, she suggested I dine here."

John nodded. "You are welcome, of course. And exactly how many department stores did you visit?"

The older man laughed heartily, while Fanny gave her brother an acidulous glare. "Oh, you know your sister well! Three, the number is three. And my pocketbook did feel the pinch!"

"Margaret." John's attention was finally on his wife, but this was interrupted by Stokes's quiet announcement of dinner. And of course the pair were separated at the table, he at its head, she at the foot.

But he seemed to like the meal.

"Is this your doing, Margaret?" John asked, after he tasted the consomme of fowl with quenelles.

Margaret nodded. She was glad it pleased him, as she found it much too salty. And far too fowl-ish.

"It's very good," Papa said. "Is it something you had on Harley Street?"

Again Margaret nodded. "I thought that John might like it," she explained, "as I always have."

"It's just chicken soup with odd-shaped dumplings, isn't it?" Watson asked, and Fanny rolled her eyes at his boorishness, then patted him on his hand. John looked at the pair in irritation.

Margaret nearly laughed aloud as she wondered what the couple would be like five years hence.

Then she imagined the same for herself and John. Of course there was a child five years in their future, one a year or so from starting school. And a son, she was sure of it. She'd already chosen his name. She was sure John would agree-

A rather strong smell brought her back to reality. The fish course, char à la parisienne was being served.

"Mother, did you mention my fondness for this dish?" John asked. The elder raven shook her head. "Did you have a hard time finding it?" he asked Margaret. "I've not had this fish in years."

"You would have to ask Cook," Margaret smiled. She wanted her crackers. The fish smelled much too oily.

"It tastes a lot like trout, I'd say," pronounced Watson. "What say you, Fanny?"

"I hate fish." Fanny seemed to be goading her brother. "Slimy, slithery things."

"But an excellent source of protein, by all accounts," Mr. Hale added helpfully.

"Yes," John agreed with a frown. "Like kippers. Are you fond of them? Unfortunately, they've been embargoed in this household." He glared pointedly at his mother, while Mr. Hale regarded him quizzically. Margaret's stomach turned.

Finally it was time for the main entree, and once again, John was pleased. "Steak and potatoes. Lovely."

"To be more precise, steak de boeuf avec pommes frites," Margaret said in perfect French.

"Some might say it's a bit pretentious to pronounce everything in a foreign language," Fanny sniffed.

"Fanny!" her mother chided.

Fanny was in fine form tonight. Something must be bothering her, Margaret realized. She chose to ignore the insult. "Yours is medium rare, as you like it," she pointed out to John. She did not mention that its redness—something she normally would find appetizing- presently made her stomach flip. She also realized she had no idea how she would get through another month of strong smells and gut-wrenching flavors.

"This is perfect." John smiled as he helped himself to the side dish of creamed spinach. "You seemed to have read my mind, Margaret, down to the smallest details. I could not have asked for a more perfect dinner."

Margaret beamed. Despite her nausea, despite the tiredness, pleasing John felt so right, so wifely. It was really quite silly how happy it made her to make him happy.

"Do you speak French?" Watson asked. "Or do you just read menus? That was quite lovely, just now."

"I studied while I lived with my cousin. She went to Paris with my aunt every winter, while I went back to Helstone to be with my mother and father." She patted her father on the arm as she spoke. "I cannot say that I could hold a conversation, because I have not had much practice, but I can read tolerably well."

"Margaret is too modest," her father pointed out. "She reads quite well."

"Do you speak French, Fanny?" Watson asked.

"No," Fanny replied as twin spots of color appeared on her cheeks. "But of course, I play piano. I am quite accomplished. You shall be my audience after dinner."

"Do you speak any other?" Watson asked.

"Me?" Margaret asked, not noticing the icy blue glare that focused itself on her partner in conversation. "Well, yes, I also read German. And for much the same reason. My Aunt Shaw is very concerned about her health and travels to Baden-Baden in the Black Forest every summer to take the waters. My cousin always traveled with her so there was a need for her to learn the language. And as I was Edith's companion, I learned it too. I've never been to any of these places, of course. I've never left England."

Dessert arrived, and Margaret smiled broadly as she explained its significance. "It's a gâteau Saint-Honore. The last time Edith was in Paris, she stopped by the Chiboust bakery where it was invented, and she showed the cook at Harley Street how to make it. John, would you like to cut it?"

John had just finished speaking to Stokes, however, who was now in the process of uncorking the bottle of champagne that had stood at the ready in an ice bucket on the buffet. Glasses were quickly poured, and John moved to stand behind Margaret, resting one hand possessively on her shoulder.

"I would like to make an announcement," he began, in his warm, authoritative voice, holding his champagne coupe aloft.

Fanny interrupted, her voice a trumpet to his baritone. "There's something I have to say first. I've been holding it in all day. Watson and I- We're engaged! We're getting married in three weeks!"

Champagne splashed as John angrily set his glass back on the table.

"Congratulations, Fanny," he said. "I hope you won't mind if I leave you to your dessert. I have a mountain of work awaiting me." He turned abruptly and left the room, before Margaret could even call his name.

She looked from Fanny, to Watson, to Papa, to Mrs. Thornton. Papa looked as though he wanted to sink through the floor, while Mrs. Thornton looked as though she might flay Fanny alive. Watson seemed confused, and Fanny seemed... pleased.

"That was for his birthday," Margaret said vexedly as she pointed to the elegant composition of profiteroles, caramel and cream. "He didn't even cut it." She stood, and sliced off a large portion of the dessert, and placed it on a dessert plate. "You must excuse me." She hurriedly left the room.

"His birthday?" Margaret heard as she was leaving. "Fanny, why didn't you say something? We might have bought a gift."

A light tap on the library door interrupted John's study of the accounts receivable ledger. "Come," he said with some annoyance.

His wife entered, dessert plate in one hand, fork in the other. The crossed the room and deposited the articles in front of him, and without warning climbed into his lap. "You left so suddenly, John."

He did his best to remove the scowl from his face. He was not successful. "Fanny has a knack of bringing out the worst in me."

"I think she feels left out."

John was not ready to hear his wife come to his sister's defense. "What would you know?" he asked churlishly. "You do not have a sibling. You don't know how these things work."

"I-" Margaret began, then stopped abruptly.

"Three weeks until she weds," John said morosely. "She is probably with child. There will be talk."

Margaret looked him squarely in the eyes. "We waited only two. And I am with child. What will the gossips say about us?"

He was abashed, but she continued. "It is wrong for you to doubt your sister's virtue, John. Before we married Fanny told me how eager she was to leave this house. She feels... bereft. I do not think you understand what is like for her."

"For her? I have given her everything. I scrimped and saved and did without so that she might not suffer the indignities of poverty."

Margaret placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "But perhaps this is the problem. You did so much for her that she does not know whether to view you as brother or father. As a result she resents you. And she acts out as a child would. Please forgive her, John. Our secret will keep a little longer."

John sighed. Margaret was right. He was angry that Fanny had stolen the limelight from him, and interrupted his day, and his announcement.

"Besides" Margaret added as she cut into a profiterole and lifted a morsel to his lips, "this evening, right now, is not about Fanny." She wiped chiboust cream from above his lip with a taper finger and offered it to him. He licked it eagerly, then regarded the dessert.

"You won't join me?"

"I cannot. I do not think it would sit well at the moment."

"I am sorry, Margaret. I have given no thought to your indisposition."

His wife smiled ruefully as she offered him another forkful of dessert. "It will pass. Or so Dr. Donaldson says. In a majority of cases, anyway."

"What do you think of him, Margaret?" John gauged her response carefully.

"Oh, he is a strange man. So learned, but, really he is quite odd."

"Well, sometimes the two go hand in hand."

"Yes..." Margaret's brow knit. "He left so quickly today. I mentioned it to your mother."

"Mother was there?" John felt unacknowledged tension suddenly abate.

"Yes, of course. She said she doesn't like him. He must rub her the wrong way."

To John's dismay, she rose from her comfortable perch. "Will you be working for long? If so, I will fetch a book, so that I can keep you company."

She was gone for longer than he expected, returning with not only the book, but with a small parcel, which she deposited on his desk.

"Many happy returns of the day," she said with a shy smile. "You may open that once you have completed your work. She installed herself at the writing desk recently added to the room, and began to peruse a tattered volume. John gave it no mind, as the bookcase in the Hale's upstairs sitting room was filled with such examples. He went back to the tedium of checking figures, pulling the Argand lamp closer to him and loosening his cravat against the oppressive evening heat.

In the distance he heard the plunking of the piano and a caterwauling that could only be his sister's quite accomplished talent. He smiled at his own inability to let the matter drop. Yes, he was still irked.

"John," his wife's sweet voice was far more pleasant to the ear, he noted, "would it be possible for me to purchase a dictionary?"

"We have one here." He pointed to the foot thick volume that sat on its own stand in the corner.

"I mean one for translation. For this book."

"That's not your father's?"

Margaret looked up from her reading. "Nicholas gave it to me."

"Did he?" John closed his ledger, interest fully captured. "I did not realize he was a man of letters."

"He is an intelligent man, but the book is not his. It belonged to Boucher. His wife has passed away and Nicholas has taken in their eight children."

"Eight?" John lifted an eyebrow in astonishment.

"Yes. I am not certain how he is able to put enough food on the table. He has been doing manual labor, and Mary says the work is not steady."

"When did you visit Higgins?"

"This afternoon. Mary was quite overwhelmed. The baby has colic-"

"You are with child, Margaret. I will not have you exposing yourself to disease-"

"But colic is not-"

"Princeton is a cesspool. It is filled with disease. It is a wonder it has not succumbed to cholera."

"But, John, Mary needs my help and the children are well."

"I won't stand for it." John breathed heavily as he tried to control his burgeoning temper. He lowered his voice. "What is this book?"

"Die Lage der arbeitenden Klasse in England," Margaret replied.

John glowered as he crossed the room to collect the volume. The scruffy volume was printed in a heavy and indecipherable German font. "What does it mean?" he asked.

"On the conditions of the working class in England," translated Margaret quietly. "I have not read much yet, as I am not as good a reader as Papa might have you believe, but it appears to be a book about poverty in Manchester."

John noted the cover was water-stained. The title page- he could read the date, at least- said 1845, so the book was fairly recent. He wondered why the volume was so well worn. Surely that rabble-rouser Boucher had not been an intellectual.

"Are you sure this was Boucher's?"

"Higgins said he lived in Manchester for a while and that he boasted that the author gave it to him. They drank at the same inn, he said." She rose and perused the section of the library where he shelved non-fiction books that had nothing to do with manufacturing. Finally she found the volume she sought. "I believe the book is not so dissimilar from the book de Tocqueville wrote about America." She began to climb the ladder to retrieve the volume, but he jumped up to stop her.

This was almost as bad as Edith giving him the set of faux books. Did Margaret really think he filled his library with books he hadn't read? "You mean Democracy in America? Yes, I'm familiar with it, Margaret," he said with as much patience as he could muster. "But that book is not an indictment of an industry. Somehow I am certain this book is." John returned to his desk, picked up the tattered volume and let it fall back to the desk with a satisfying thunk. Of my industry, he did not add.

She perched on the edge of his desk, inadvertently pushing her gift off the polished surface. It fell soundlessly to the carpeted floor. "What I mean is that they are both an outsider's view. De Tocqueville is a Frenchman. He sees the world through a particular prism. Likewise, Engels is German."

"Engels? Of Manchester?" John opened the book again and looked at the cramped, angular text of the title page more closely. He found the author line. It read "Friedrich Engels." John paged backwards until he found the frontispiece. Due to water damage it was stuck to a fly leaf. He carefully prised the two apart and examined the illustration he uncovered.

"I know this man." The visage was unmistakeable.

"Do you?" Margaret looked at him in surprise.

"He is the head of Victoria Mills. He is a dilettante and degenerate. The rumors have been circulating about him for years. How he has installed two spinners, and sisters at that, as his mistresses. And with this" John pointed to the book as his eyes narrowed, "I now know him to be a hypocrite. He attacks the very hand that feeds him."

John opened a desk drawer and swept the book into it. His next words were harsh, and loud.

"I won't have you polluting your mind with this trash. Find something else to read." He waved his hand around the well-furnished room. "There is plenty here to choose from."

"I only want to find out what he has to say."

John said nothing. He opened his ledger instead, and dipped quill in ink.

"Surely there is no harm in broadening one's mind."

"I will not have you turned against me."

"You do not trust me." It was not a question, but rather a statement of wounded astonishment.

He looked up and saw tears in her eyes, but she was gone before he could do anything about it. She rushed out of the room with quick words about needing to see to her parents.

He was alone again.

John held his head in his hands. This is not how he had wanted his day to be. It seemed that everything he had done today had been in error. But all had been done with good intentions.

He listened to the day's conversations in his head, searching for the flaw in each. He therefore did not hear his mother enter the room.

"You know better than to argue, John, especially when we have company. Although it his bad enough in front of the servants."

"I have a temper, Mother. It is oppressively hot today, and I am human. And frankly, Fanny drives me crazy." He did not raise his head to look at her.

"Is that what this is about?" his mother asked, as she lay a weathered hand on his back.

"Yes, of course."

"I know you, son. And I do not think this is the case."

John looked up abruptly. "Enlighten me," he said with some sarcasm. He regretted his words immediately, although they seemed to roll off the older woman.

His mother shrugged. "That is not my place. But let me ask you this, what did you argue about with Margaret?"

"She wants to read books that paint this industry- my industry- in a most unappealing light."

The elder Thornton crowed. "And how is this any different from the Miss Hale we already know, the girl who would urge you to reason with a mob of slavering rioters?"

John considered her words. His mother was right. Margaret's behavior was no different than normal. So why had he become so angry?

"It's not just that. Today she went to Princeton and exposed herself to colic, Mother. She is with child!"

"You had it yourself and drove me to distraction with it." Hannah shook her head as a crooked smile lit her features. "Silly boy. Colic is not infectious. It's just gas, and hour upon hour of wailing."

John glowered at his mother's mockery.

"That's twice you've called me a boy today, Mother. And twice you've called me silly. Today I am two and thirty yet you persist in treating me like a child."

His mother did her best to straighten her smile. "Yet twice today you've acted foolishly, John. You are sadly mistaken if you think I will leave off telling you the truth just because you have grown a year older. Today your wife exhausted herself to make the evening special for you. Yet your repaid her by shouting at her. Apart from the message you sent the servants, what message did you send to the mother of your child?"

John held his head in his hands again. "I do not know, Mother. I do not know what I am thinking."

"You knew who Margaret was when you married her. She is a free-spirited, troublesome girl. You will not rein her in. And I did not think you wanted to."

"No. I did not. But now..."

His mother lifted her eyebrows.

"Now I will be a father."

The elder Thornton smiled. Finally her son had gotten to the crux of it. She rose, then bowed to retrieve a small package lying next to the desk.

"You dropped this," she said before exiting the room.

John turned the package over in his hands slowly before opening it. Margaret had used a scrap of wallpaper from the Hales' upstairs sitting room to wrap the package. He found the gesture oddly comforting, as it put him in mind of the homely Crampton quarters where he had fallen in love with Margaret.

How many hours had she spent working on these? John wondered, as he slid a pair of petit-point embroidered braces out of the parcel. There were thousands of stitches here, all perfectly even, each expressing her love for him. And the braces themselves were quite beautiful, their blue paisley motifs well-balanced and pleasing to the eye.

He needed to apologize. He gathered the braces and lit a candle, and made his way upstairs.

She was asleep, of course. He should not have assumed otherwise.

It was almost a new moon, leaving the room quite dark at this late hour, but with the candle's light John saw Margaret's hair was tied back into a single plait, as protection against the sweltering heat. And she'd pulled the bed's single sheet clear to her chin. Perhaps that was to protect against him.

John sighed. He did not blame her after the way he'd treated her tonight. He undressed quietly, and in deference to her obvious wishes, left his own shirt and drawers on. She probably had wished for her own bed tonight. Although he could not oblige, he would make sure she understood he had no desire to molest her.

He climbed into bed, blew out the candle and left a decent margin of space, but still he felt her even breathing. Then his wife sighed heavily and rolled onto her side, half flinging herself across him.

She was so warm against him, her breasts so soft. He gingerly attempted to move her away, peeling back her arm. He felt something slide down her lithe arm, and recognized it as the bangle bracelet he'd given her as wedding gift. How strange that she should wear it to bed. His brow wrinkled. He felt certain she had not been wearing at dinner: he would have noticed its faint glimmer in the candlelight. When it came to Margaret, he could not help but notice such details.

His hand slid up her arm, and to her back. He startled in surprise, then continued running his hand down her back.

She was naked.

John kissed his wife chastely on the forehead and attempted to rearrange her on her own pillows. He would not impose.

"John." Her voice was a sigh. "I missed you this morning."

"Did you?" He nuzzled against her neck. "I am sorry."

"You don't need to be afraid, John."

Afraid? How did she know?

"It's my job to protect you, Margaret," he said huskily. "To protect my family."

"We will not come to harm. You will never lose us."

"Promise me."

"I already have."

He kissed her again, not so chastely this time, and relished the salty flavor of her skin. He cherished her, loving her with the abandon she offered to him daily. He anointed every part of her, eliciting sighs, then moans, then full-throated cries of pleasure that exhorted him to abandon his mission of pleasing only her this evening. But he would not be dissuaded.

Finally, as she lay panting in his arms, he directed her again.

"Promise me."

"I promise. You will never lose us."

Author notes:

Thank you again for reading, and for sticking with this story. :)

You may notice no one says "Happy Birthday" to John. "Many happy returns of the day," was used instead on special occasions to convey a hope that the day's happiness would repeat over and over throughout the years. You'll also notice there is no birthday cake at the dinner. Birthday celebrations with cakes and candles were occasionally done in Germany in the 19th century but did not become a big thing in England until the 20th century. So no cake for John. :(

During Margaret's obstetric exam Mrs. Thornton refers obliquely to Naegele's Rule, which is still used by many obstetricians to calculate the estimated due date for a pregnancy. It was devised by German obstetrician Franz Karl Naegele in 1812, and it is based on the date of woman's last menstrual period, which means that a woman is considered two weeks pregnant on the day she conceives. As Mrs. Thornton's father was a physician, she would have been familiar with this method of calculation.

The captain's biscuits are from Eliza Acton's Modern Cookery In All Its Branches: reduced to a system of easy practice for the use of private families (1846). The dinner menu is from The Modern Cook: Recipes by Queen Victoria's Chef (1846) by Charles Francatelli. Note that although this may seem like a fancy menu for us, this is a pretty plain family dinner for an upper middle class household. The gâteau Saint-Honore was invented in 1847 at the Chiboust Bakery in the 1st arrondissement of Paris, France, near the Louvre and Tuileries Gardens. It is likely Edith would have visited during her many winter visits to the city.

Colic is periods of three or more hours of crying in babies that are usually under three months of age, and the cause is still unknown- there are several possible contenders- lactose intolerance or other allergies, or possibly an immature digestive system. Victorians like Mrs. Thornton thought gas was the cause of colic, and a giant burp, the relief. Modern medicine has ruled out gas as a cause. Victorians treated colic starting in 1851 with something called "gripe water," which was a mixture of dill oil, baking soda (to produce a burp) and alcohol. The alcohol probably made it pretty effective at calming the baby (but harmful, obviously!). You can still buy gripe water today for colic, but it's alcohol-free nowadays.

Friedrich Engels was Karl Marx's lesser known compatriot, and everything I've written here about him is accurate. He was the son of a wealthy Prussian industrialist. His father set up Victoria Mills, a thread spinning concern, in Salford, a borough of Manchester, and installed his son as the head of it, as he was concerned about his son's revolutionary leanings. Unbeknownst to his father, Engels led a double life. He took up with a woman named Mary Burns, who most likely was a mill worker. (He lived with Mary (and her sister!) for many years, but only married the sister on her deathbed, years later.) Between 1842 and 1844 at night, in disguise, Mary showed him the underside of Manchester. Engels compiled his findings into a book that exposed the poverty that went hand-in-hand with industrialization. This book was published in German in 1845, but an English translation was not published in London until 1891. Therefore seeing this book and Engels's picture as its frontispiece would be a shock to John. Although Engels disagreed with industrialization, he was willing to use his earnings from the mill, to support the work of his friend, Karl Marx. (It was these earnings that allowed Marx to write the Communist Manifesto, for instance, in 1848.) Although John would be unaware of these details, given this new information John certainly would have picked up on the hypocrisy of the man living a double life, as there are many stories of Engels spending time in working class bars in the Salford area, and talk of his affair with Mary Burns.

Wrapping paper was not sold commercially until 1917 (by two brothers who formed that company that became Hallmark), but Victorians sometimes wrapped gifts in wallpaper, assuming they has scraps lying around. It was not the best choice for wrapping gifts, as the paper was quite heavy, but it was certainly prettier than plain paper.