Not a Gentleman
by Tintinnabula
Chapter Fifteen
The Butterfly's Wings
"You see, John, Plato is suggesting that individuals cannot truly be self-sufficient, and that for this reason, cities inexorably developed." Richard Hale looked up from Book II of The Republic and waited for his student's thoughts to coalesce. John did not disappoint.
"I disagree with his thesis. I believe quite strongly that each man—each true man- must be self-sufficient."
"But you live in a city, do you not? And your business depends on commerce with other entities."
"Perhaps I am conflating self-sufficiency with independence."
"Is there a difference?"
"I think so. Dependence has a negative connotation in my mind. I think of a babe who has not yet learned to walk, who clings to chairs and tables. He must let go and stand alone or he will never be able to run."
"Certainly that child eventually will become independent in the physical realm, but in other areas he will remain dependent. He will need his mother and father for many years to come. For food, and for shelter. And of course, for love. And as he grows older he will depend on teachers and friends, and finally, a wife."
John tapped his chin with his forefinger. "I agree that there is a measure of interaction there. But once a man has reached adulthood, friends are not strictly necessary. A person can survive without them. And the same can be said of a wife."
"But to survive is not the same as to thrive, John. We are talking about a healthy man, about a vital city, not one that is simply subsisting. And I would argue further that a man who was completely alone would not survive long at all."
"I suppose we must agree to disagree, then."
"Perhaps. Although I must say, it is interesting. You are a successful manufacturer and magistrate, and certainly both of these depend on a web of connections- an interrelatedness that would have been inconceivable in Plato's time."
"I have always valued my independence," said John, not willing to concede the point.
"There are degrees of independence. The world is not painted in black and white. There are infinite shades of grey."
The starkly clad mill-master set his mouth in a tight line. "I know this."
"We see this web of connections within the city, as well. We—all of us- interact with farmers, and colliers, and mill-masters. Perhaps not always in the first degree, but certainly through intermediaries. And we pay taxes to keep the roads paved and to dig wells. Unless a man is living on an island alone, I do not think he can be said to be truly self-sufficient. According to Socrates, justice, therefore, should be seated not in the individual man but within the city itself."
"But what is Socrates' definition of justice?" John asked. "We have only heard Adeimantus' defense of injustice, and Glaucon's idea that justice is only practiced out of fear of punishment."
"Ah, yes. We will get to that shortly. Was Margaret planning to join us this evening?"
John frowned. "Perhaps she is with Mrs. Hale. I will look for her." He excused himself as the older man stretched in his chair.
Richard Hale certainly had missed meeting with John. In the first six weeks after he and Maria settled into their new quarters, the former vicar had felt oddly unsettled. This was not for want of keeping busy. Margaret spent a good portion of each day with both him and Maria, and he filled the rest of his day with a study of the dissenters' bibles Mr. Bell had kindly purchased for him. But despite this, he felt the need for intellectual engagement that could only come from discussion with a peer. And now that Mr. Bell had left for South America there was no one for him to talk with. With Richard's illness it had been decided that he should retire from tutoring, so he did not even have the opportunity for discourse with his younger students. And he could hardly imagine broaching the possibility of tutoring once more. He did not think Hannah Thornton would appreciate the tread of student footsteps upon her oriental-carpeted staircase.
But in this past month, he and John had been meeting regularly. And John's return to study was a great blessing. Richard smiled at the understatement. It was John's entry into the Hales' life that had been the greatest blessing. Richard looked around the sitting room, noting the great pains the man had gone to make Maria and himself comfortable- the same duck-egg blue wallpaper that Maria had chosen for Crampton, the furnishings carted over by his own men, the tortoise stove added to make it that much easier to maintain a degree of self-sufficiency once cooler weather arrived. John truly was a considerate man. How fortunate it was that Margaret's feelings for him had changed! Richard still could not pinpoint when this might have taken place. One day she seemed to hate the man, and the next she'd called him John. But women were strange creatures. Maria certainly was, and always had been so.
Maria. It was easy to pretend she was not slipping away from him, and even easier to allow Margaret to act as a buffer between them. He knew that he should be the one spending the hours each day by Maria's side, not Dixon or Margaret. But knowing and doing were two very different things.
Richard sighed. This was not the first time he'd pushed Margaret into a role that was not hers to fill. But she'd handled it with aplomb. Of course, she handled everything with aplomb. His daughter demonstrated a resiliency and strength he'd seen in few others in all of his years as a pastor. And although it could not be said that the end result of his decision to quit Helstone and its vicarage was one hundred percent successful, at least Margaret had ended up better off.
But what of Maria? Surely her illness was not due solely to Milton. It must have been festering all along, biding its time within the sunny environs of Helstone. Milton might have expedited its course, but it could not be the cause. Richard could not allow himself to believe the latter, because such a thing simply could not be true. That truth would not fit with the facts of his dissension. In his heart he knew it was right to leave the Church, just as it was right to relocate his family two hundred twenty miles away. And if he had to, Richard knew he would do it again. And if those decisions were right, surely Maria's illness-
"Papa? You look deep in thought." Margaret returned on the arm of her husband, embroidery hoop in her free hand.
"How is your mother tonight?"
"Asleep, finally. It has been a rough evening. We tried lowering her dosage today, as she has not really seemed to be with us, but it was a mistake, Papa." Margaret hung her head.
"I think she would want you to try. I know she would like to talk to you about the fact that she will be a grandmother in a few short months."
Margaret looked up, and Richard noted the light in his daughter's eyes. Her smile perfectly matched his son-in-law's expression. The former vicar smiled in return as he contemplated whom his grandchild would favor. But regardless of eye- or hair color, there was no doubt the child would have a passionate temperament.
"Have you had tea?" She glanced at the corner stove. "It's much too hot to light a fire in here today. I'll go downstairs to heat the kettle."
"No," interrupted John. "You've been too much on your feet today. Please sit, darling. I'll take care of it." He left the room, rather than ringing for a servant.
Richard noted how readily Margaret ignored her husband's request. Instead, she busied herself with removing cups and teapot from a breakfront that formerly stood in the Hale family dining room, and pulled a covered dish of lemon cakes from its lower cabinet.
His daughter and son-in-law were going to considerable effort to make these rooms as much like the Crampton home as possible. And they were succeeding. It was almost as though they were playing house, reducing the cold, grand mill house to a scale that was warm and approachable. The former vicar felt welcome here, and comfortable. And above all, quite happy.
"Margaret?" he asked.
His daughter turned to him, a small smile playing across her lips. "Hmm?"
"Are you happy?"
"Papa! Do you have to ask?" She crossed the room and knelt by his side. "I could not be happier. Sometimes I feel as though I am in a dream."
"Why is that, daughter?"
"Because John- and this place- are so different from what I first imagined. I don't feel that I deserve such good fortune."
Richard chuckled. "It is not luck, Margaret."
Her blue-green eyes captured his grey ones. "No? Then how do you explain it?"
"You are both good people. You deserve each other. And you complement each other."
"Thank you, Papa." She attempted to change the subject. "The weather should be fine tomorrow, and John is taking a half-day from work. We are going to visit the ruins of St. Catherine's Abbey. We've been there once before and it was quite lovely. I thought that with your interest in ecclesiastical architecture you might be interested in joining us. You have been cooped up here for weeks."
Richard looked at her in puzzlement. "I have not heard of this place. My students never brought it up in my Sunday lectures. How old is it?"
"I am not certain. I think John said the original structure was Norman, but I am not sure if that portion is still standing." She smiled. "I guess you will have to see for yourself. You will join us, then?"
"Certainly. Although I assume it is out of the question for Maria to do so."
"Mama is not well enough to travel."
Richard sighed. It did not seem fair to enjoy himself while his wife lay ill in the next room. He should be performing penance instead.
"Margaret, I hope that you will remember what I said. About honesty."
"Yes, Papa."
Richard thought of his own propensity to place his daughter between himself and his wife. "You must not let anyone come between you. Nor place anyone between you. Not even your child."
"Of course not."
"It seems simple, Margaret. But the reality-"
"What is simple?" John asked as he entered the room, steaming kettle in one hand, milk pitcher in the other.
Richard smiled at this paragon of domesticity. "Honesty," he replied. "I was telling my daughter how important it is to speak plainly in a marriage."
John raised an eyebrow. "I would have to agree with that."
"And that I regret having placed her in the uncomfortable position of acting as intermediary."
"Papa! Please don't say such things." Margaret looked at her father searchingly, as a blush crept across her face.
"It is true, Margaret."
"Please. Have some lemon cakes." His daughter stood and offered the laden plate to her father and then to John, then busied herself with the kettle and teapot.
Richard looked on wistfully as Margaret used not her fingers but a pair of silver tongs to add sugar cubes to his tea. Thankfully, John still took his tea with milk only. Nonetheless, it was hard to miss the loving glance that passed between the couple as cup and saucer passed hands. It had been a very long time indeed since he and Maria had exchanged such looks.
He did not begrudge them their happiness, however. Far from it. Margaret's happiness was his own, and Richard could imagine no better mate for her than John. He was relieved to know that she was not only provided for, but loved, and in such a way that few women were. John clearly saw her as his equal. In raising Margaret to be outspoken, to be a lover of justice and of what was right, Richard had not reckoned on the fact that this might make her less marriageable. He had not considered that spinsterhood was her likely lot, nor had he given much thought to the fact that as a spinster, she would not be well-provided for. He shuddered to think what her life might have been if she had not met John.
But then he smiled. The Margaret he knew would have borne such adversity, and ended up a better person for it.
"Margaret," John spoke, between sips of tea, "we have just finished discussing Book II of The Republic. I assume you are familiar with it?"
His wife nodded, and Richard laughed inwardly. Margaret was more than familiar. She could probably teach Plato's Republic, as she'd heard him expound on it numerous times as a child.
But she demurred. "I would much rather hear you and Papa discuss it." She sat back in a wing chair and pulled a lamp closer to her, so that she could focus on her embroidery. A small, content smile played across her lips as she listened to the men.
"Well, then. Justice," Richard began. "If we skip to Book IV, we can find Socrates' definition. Justice is when each member of the city does his job, and does not meddle in the work of others."
"How, then, does that apply to the soul?" John asked.
The pair talked for hours.
Margaret woke just before sunrise. It was early enough that John was not yet awake, and she luxuriated in his warmth. She curled up beside him, pressing herself against his broad back.
He murmured her name in his sleep and she wondered what he might be dreaming about, then wondered if it might be possible to make his reality exceed his dreams.
She rained soft kisses along his neck and collarbone, and allowed her hands to stray where they might until he stirred with a low groan.
"Will you wake me up like this every morning, Mrs. Thornton?" John's voice was heavy with sleep, yet seductive.
"Would you like that?" Margaret's hands continued their journey until they elicited a moan of pleasure.
He rolled onto his back, and in one swift movement captured her so that she lay atop him. "You know that I would."
"Then I think the answer is yes. So long as you do not keep me up too late at night."
"This, my love, I cannot promise." He claimed her lips with his own, then sat up, to make it that much easier to remove her nightgown. She obliged, lifting her arms above her head, but smiled at him mockingly.
"Clearly we are at an impasse." She rose from the bed, eliciting a frown from her mate, at her willingness to leave his side.
He leaned on one elbow as he gazed at her naked form, taking in the subtle changes that had occurred over the ten weeks they had been together. "You look less tired," he said, finally.
"I am. The morning sickness has abated." She stood beside the bed, a goddess unrobed. He marveled at the voluptuous swelling of her breasts, and the subtle veining produced by her condition.
"I am glad of it," he murmured.
"John," Margaret grasped his hand and laid his palm flat against her abdomen, "feel here."
He complied, gently rubbing her belly. He lifted a brow. "What should I notice?"
"You do not feel it?" Margaret asked.
He shook his head. "You seem much the same. Perhaps a bit firmer, but I am not certain. What shouldI feel?"
"Him."
"Him? Our child?"
Margaret nodded, and John smiled.
"How do you know our child is a him?"
"I simply do."
"And what does he feel like?" her husband asked in wonder as he caressed her flesh with tender strokes.
"Well... it is hard to describe. I almost do not feel it. It is as though a butterfly is inside me and I feel his wings beating against me. It's that delicate."
John kissed her, then, on her still-flat abdomen, his lips almost as light as the wings she described. "Do you think our son can feel that?"
"I do not know. But surely he knows that he is loved."
"Yes, Margaret. He is that. As you are." He pulled her back into bed and showed her.
It was some time later, although still early when Margaret made her way down the hall to her parents' rooms. Her mother was stirring, and Dixon was with her, as usual. A good report was forthcoming. Mrs. Hale had experienced a better night than expected. Margaret kissed her mother and noted she seemed quite alert.
"Margaret," Maria Hale asked querulously, "I hear you have some good news for me?"
"Yes, Mama," Margaret said with a smile. "I will tell you over breakfast."
Her father, she found, was already awake, and in the sitting room.
"Papa," she asked, "will you be taking breakfast with Mama today?"
"Ah, Margaret," her father said as he looked up from a cloth-bound book. "I have been looking for information about this St. Catherine's Abbey." He pointed to a stack of several books Margaret recognized as belonging to his architecture collection. "So far I have been unsuccessful, but the hunt continues! Would you mind terribly if I had breakfast in here this morning? I'd so like to be prepared for our visit this afternoon."
"Of course, Papa. Just ring for a servant. They will bring you whatever you need."
Margaret left silently and returned to her mother's room, her brow furrowed.
She found that breakfast had already been served. Maria Hale sat propped in bed as Dixon fed her thin gruel as one might feed a child. Her mother was not even responsible for wiping her own face, it seemed.
"Perhaps I should return after you have finished," Margaret began.
Dixon sniffed. "Yes. I'd think that would be best. You'll only be in the way. This room is quite small, as you can see." In truth the room was a good deal larger than Mama's room in Crampton, but convincing Dixon of that would not be worth the lost breath.
Margaret quit the room and went downstairs. Surprisingly, she found both Mrs. Thornton and Fanny at the breakfast room table.
"You haven't forgotten that my final fitting is today, have you?" Fanny cried, as Margaret sat down. "Madame Coleridge will be here at half ten, and as my maid of honor it is important that you are here to give your opinion."
"I have not forgotten. But John and I will be leaving at noon, so I hope you will be finished by then."
"I should think not! We have a list of things to accomplish in the coming week, as you well know. I hardly know how you and Mother were able to pull off your own wedding in such a short time. Of course, your wedding was quite small, so that would have made things easier. But I am glad Charles and I decided to wait a bit longer. There is just so much to do!"
Mrs. Thornton harrumphed. "Fanny, there is no need for Margaret to tag along this afternoon. You and I are fully capable of visiting Lewis and Farnett ourselves.
Fanny pouted.
"And we both know you will ignore any sensible advice you are given and choose the most expensive items presented to you, at any rate," Mrs. Thornton added just loudly enough for Margaret to hear. Her daughter in law stifled a throaty laugh.
"Is my gown ready for its final fitting, as well?" asked Margaret, once she composed herself. She hoped not. In fact, she hoped some precipitous calamity had befallen the garment. It was easily the most hideous assemblage of high-priced textiles she had ever laid eyes upon.
Fanny fairly danced around the room in excitement. "Yes, yes! Madame C. sent a message that both are ready. I am sure we will both look stunning!"
Stunning was definitely the appropriate word, Margaret realized when Madame Coleridge arrived, and removed the two gowns from the chest her assistants carried into the house.
Margaret had no doubt that Fanny's gown would graze both rows of pews as she moved down the center aisle. And although her own gown would not (that would hardly be fitting for a bridesmaid), it made up for this with its five abundant tiers of ruffled Brussels lace, comprising at least fifty yards of goods.
Like the Queen's, Fanny's gown was made of precious Honiton-covered silk. Clearly no price was too high, as far as Fanny was concerned, especially when the payer of said price was her brother. But as there was only time in a girl's life when she might fulfill the dream of becoming a walking snowball for a day, Margaret kept her peace.
Besides, Fanny was happy. No, the girl was overjoyed. And it wasn't simply the trappings of the upcoming wedding that were making Margaret's sister-in-law smile. She truly seemed to like and respect Charles Watson. The pair would get on together.
A knock on Mrs. Thornton's sitting room door interrupted the fitting. After checking that all concerned were decent, Margaret slid back the pocket door to find her husband eyeing her costume as he attempted to control a laugh.
"I see our haute couturier has laid her grubby mitts on you," he whispered, before bestowing a quick kiss on Margaret's cheek. "You should see the fashion plates she drew as a child. Well, to be fair, some of them were better than this."
"Take that back!" Margaret hissed. "I have to wear this next week!"
John entered the room and nodded to Mrs. Coleridge, who smiled brightly at him.
"John! It has been so long since we've seen you at the draper's. You never stop by."
"I apologize, Mrs. Coleridge. The mill keeps me busy."
"Well, with Mr. Coleridge gone these years, I suppose there is less call for you to visit."
"But it has always been a pleasure to talk with you, even in the absence of your husband." John glanced at Margaret. "As my wife has not yet had time to order her trousseau, perhaps I might accompany her one day, and spend some time in both your company."
The elderly woman blushed. "I'd like that, John. You are a very lucky young lady, Mrs. Thornton."
"Is your father ready?" John asked, as he turned to his wife.
"He is very excited, to be sure," Margaret replied. "I have not seen him so engaged in weeks. I think this outing will do him good."
"I will collect him, if you will check with Cook about the hamper."
The pair excused themselves and their group was soon on its way.
Although they did not have the luxury of Watson's Gorman for this trip, the brougham sufficed and it did not take long to reach the ruin. It was just as Margaret remembered, apart from the flowers. As it was late September, the meadow was mostly bloomed out, and the grass was no longer bright green but faded to warm shades of yellow. Still, the scene was lovely, and the day unseasonably warm for early autumn, quite warm enough for a pic-nic.
John and the driver alighted from the brougham, and Richard prepared to do so, as well, but Margaret urged him to stay.
"Papa," she asked, "would you ride to the crest of the hill with me? John insists I not walk, and I would rather not ride alone. But it is not fair to the horses to carry all three of us up such a steep incline."
"Certainly, Margaret." Mr. Hale patted his daughter on the knee, and looked out the window at the view of Milton that presented itself as the carriage slowly ascended the rise. Then, as Margaret had, he caught his breath as the abbey presented itself to him.
"Ah, this is not quite as Parker described it. I was expecting the cloister to be standing, but I believe what we are seeing here is the nave." The trio walked inside the large space bounded on two sides by thirty-foot walls. Mr. Hale rushed to one wall, nearly tripping on a tussock of moss in his haste.
He smiled in recognition as he ran his hands over the elaborate geometric tracery of the lowest arcade of blind arches. "Here are trefoil arches, and above them are the plain-pointed arches Bloxam described," he called out with some enthusiasm.
Margaret laughed as she walked toward her father, arm in arm with John.
"With the roof missing, it is as though the arches are pointing to heaven, would you not agree?" The former vicar looked upward into a sky unsullied by clouds.
The trio wandered the site for a while, until Mr. Hale had his fill of the limestone structure. Then John suggested they journey father down the meadow to the stream he and Margaret had visited once before. After a quick, whispered conversation with his wife, it was decided that all would take the brougham to the site.
But Richard Hale would not comply. He wanted to enjoy the hay meadow, he said, and would not take no for an answer, so the trio walked the distance instead, and the brougham met them at the stream.
Margaret hoped the bee orchids she'd seen months earlier would still be in bloom. She thought her father might recognize them from their former home. But only their rosetted leaves were still visible- the flowers had long gone to seed. But the site did not disappoint, although it was Mr. Hale who cried out in surprise at the site of a Helstone resident.
"This is devil's bit scabious!" he exclaimed.
He picked a stem of the pin-cushion-like flower and offered it to his daughter. She examined the blue-purple flower and a memory of a butterfly-filled, boggy field presented itself to her.
"Were these by Heron Pond?" she asked her father.
"Yes," he nodded. "Not so far from the cottages that were about to be torn down."
Margaret laughed. "Papa, do you remember the crowns we-I- used to make as a child?" She smiled at her father, then at John. "I will make one for each of you." She ran off to collect the raw materials, as her husband gazed after her.
"I forget how young she is," she heard John say just before she was out of earshot. "She's left me to do the women's work, I see. Will you help me with the blanket?"
Margaret returned with an armful of blue flowers, but set them aside to serve her companions a filling luncheon of steak and kidney pie (her father's favorite), Suffolk salad, windsor beans, pickled peaches and walnuts, queen cakes, and a gooseberry fool, with claret and ginger beer as potables.
She did not forget the coachman, of course, who was happy to finish off the leftovers. She returned to the blanket to find her husband and father stretched out and dozing in the warm afternoon sun. She sat beside them quietly, and fashioned a crown for each. Carefully, she propped them across the forehead of each man, and sat back, wishing she had a sketch pad to capture the image.
Margaret contemplated the two most important men in her life. They each had brought her immeasurable happiness, although in different ways. Mama had once said that daughters married men like their fathers. But Papa was nothing like John. They were as different as day and night. Perhaps it could be said that both were thinkers, but surely that was the only thing they had in common. Papa was gentle- almost feminine- while John was rough. And while it could not be said that her husband was brutish, or coarse, as once she had feared, for Margaret John very much remained the holotype for man. He defined the word "masculine."
Margaret glanced at the two men lying sleeping in the sun, and suppressed a giggle as she noticed a fluttering of wings about them. The fragrant wreath each wore had attracted a good number of marsh fritillaries, and the orange-brown butterflies flitted back and forth between the two men as if the yellow blanket were a tiny meadow of its own. John awoke with a start when one kissed him on the lips. He sat up and looked at the wreath questioningly as it slid into his lap, then placed the blue and green annulus on Margaret's head. She smiled as a portion of the fritillaries flew immediately in her direction. Despite John's movement, Papa continued to sleep, much to Margaret's relief. Her father seemed so peaceful with his coronet of flowers, not so far different from the laurel-wreathed heroes of his beloved classical era.
The clear sky had changed to a cloudy one by the time the former vicar awakened, and the warmth of the day had dissipated by the time the blanket was folded and the hamper packed up. The sky was spitting by the time they reached the crest of the hill, and a steady rain greeted them when they entered the mill courtyard.
Regardless, the day had been a success.
"There is an hour until dinner," Margaret pointed out, after checking the time on John's pocket watch. "Papa, will you be joining us at the table tonight?"
"Yes, I think so. I will need to check with Maria, of course." Father kissed daughter before ascending the wide staircase.
"Margaret?" John asked. "Will you join me in the library?" He beckoned for her to follow him, the smallest of smiles upon his face.
A paper-wrapped bundle sat on her writing table, and Margaret gazed at her husband quizzically.
"Open it," he said. "It will make sense to you, once you do."
She removed paper and string and found three books: a German-English dictionary, a French-English dictionary, and a thin volume entitled, "Mémoire sur le paupérisme." She did not understand until John placed the tattered copy of Boucher's book beside the volumes.
"I should not have taken this away from you," John said apologetically. "And surely I should have returned it to you long before now." He ran his hands through his hair in a gesture of frustration Margaret recognized. "It's just that I wanted you to have both sides of the story. A long time ago, back when I was working for Mr. Coleridge, I had aspirations."
Margaret laughed. "Surely you did not lose them!"
"No," John smiled. "I did not. I mean to say I was as driven then as I am now. I read the Guardian and any other paper available to me, because I wanted to continue my education as best I could, even though a formal opportunity had been taken from me."
Margaret nodded.
"A book came out during that time, and for some reason, when we argued last month and you mentioned de Tocqueville, I remembered it. It took me some time to track it down. I had to find the title first, and that took a bit of digging. But the Exchange has a good library with back issues-"
"You looked through years of newspapers for me?"
"Of course. And then the book had to be special ordered, as most Milton book sellers do not stock books in French."
"A Memoir on Pauperism?" Margaret translated the title.
"I think you will find it a balanced viewpoint to that of Mr. Engels," John said with a frown. "I was hoping you might write out your thoughts of each, so that we could discuss them."
"I would be happy to. Are you thinking of a translation?"
"No, not anything as detailed as that. Simply a synopsis and your thoughts. Enough information so that I am on an equal footing when we ultimately argue about this." Her husband smiled ruefully.
Margaret rested her hand against her husband's chest and smiled placatingly. "I do not want to argue."
"Nor do I. But I realize we will not always agree, and furthermore that I cannot forbid you to read things that might cause you to arrive at a different point of view. You are your own person, Margaret. Much as I might want us to agree, I know that I cannot force it."
"Thank you, John." She rested her head against his chest. He kissed her crown and then released her.
"You should check on your father. Mother will want a firm number for dinner."
Margaret nodded and left the room. She looked in on Mama first. She hadn't dressed, although at some point during the day Dixon had styled her hair. The two were dozing now, Mama propped up against several pillows, Dixon slumped in a wing chair. Margaret crept away silently.
Next she looked in on Papa.
He was sleeping, too, although he hadn't undressed. The day must have tired him, Margaret realized: he'd lain down atop the counterpane without even removing his shoes. She approached her father and whispered his name softly.
"Papa?"
Perhaps she should just let him sleep. Cook could certainly send up a cold plate later, or a special meal, just as she would do for Mama. Margaret collected an afghan from the foot board of the bed, and unfolded it as she moved closer to her father. He looked so peaceful as he slept, just as he had this afternoon at the pic-nic.
She laid the blanket across his supine figure, and leaned over him to tuck the blanket against him. He was so still, almost statue-like.
"Papa?" she asked again.
He was too still.
"Papa!"
Thank you again to everyone who continues to read this story, and especially to those of you who take the time to leave reviews. They keep me going. This week was particularly difficult for me. My work had a bit of a crisis to deal with, and I ended up doing unpaid overtime over the holiday weekend, which of course, delayed my finishing this chapter. Ugh. I'm tired.
This chapter, by the way, is dedicated to fis, who mentioned she was wondering about Richard Hale's character. I hope this eludicates it for you. :D
Now for the historical notes: The tortoise stove was a small cylindrical stove that was invented in 1830 by Charles Portway and used throughout the Victorian era. It was lined in ceramic, and burned anthracite coal slowly and efficiently, like a tortoise. The Portway company still makes highly efficient stoves.
When they visit the abbey ruin, Richard Hale refers to two authors. John Henry Parker wrote numerous books on ecclesiastical architecture during the Victorian period. An Introduction to the Study of Gothic Architecture (1849) might have been in Hale's collection. Likewise, Matthew Bloxam was author of Principles of Gothic Ecclesiastical Architecture (1844).
The pic-nic dishes mentioned are from Eliza Acton's Modern Cookery In All Its Branches(1846), as mentioned in previous chapters.
The butterfly mentioned, the marsh fritillary, is a threatened species in the United Kingdom today, but it is still found in the New Forest and (rarely) in the Manchester area. However in the Victoria era it was abundant all over. Its host plant is devil's bit scabious a blue-flowered plant which is in the honeysuckle family. It is food source for both marsh fritillary butterflies and caterpillars. These plants are rare nowadays, which is why the butterfly is also rare.
In the previous chapter Margaret mentioned Alexis de Tocqueville, who had visited the US and written the seminal work Democracy in America. This book's point of view would fit with John's worldview. De Tocqueville also published a lesser-known work in 1835, Memoir on Pauperism: Does Public Charity Produce an Idle And Dependent Class of Society?, which looked at the causes of the high rate of pauperism in industrialized nations, using England as a model. It is a contrast to Engel's point of view. However, this book was not translated into English until 1968, so it would have been necessary for Margaret to read the original in French.