Not a Gentleman
by Tintinnabula
Chapter Sixteen
The Doll
Warning: The events of the last chapter exacerbate. If you are processing any pregnancy-related grief, you may want to skip this chapter.
John had never before heard the sound of keening, but both his body and mind responded to it instinctively. His journey up the stairs to ready for dinner altered immediately from a leisurely climb to a fevered scramble, and his heart pounded as his mind readily formed the worst possible conclusions.
Margaret's voice was loud enough for him to locate her without any trouble. She was crumpled by the side of Mr. Hale's bed, half kneeling, her skirts in a puddle around her. Her torso was draped over her father's body, her hand intertwined in his, her face buried against the man's unbreathing chest.
"Margaret?" John whispered as he approached her slowly.
She did not hear. She continued her half-sobbing, half-moaning sounds and John was struck by their primal nature.
John knelt beside her and lay his hand on her back, rubbing slow, wide circles in an attempt to soothe her. He felt the staccato of her spasmed breaths as her grief flowed forth unabated.
"Margaret?" he asked again. "Margaret!"
She was quite alone, he realized, insensible of her surroundings.
Gently, he pulled her from her embrace, and into his own arms.
"What's all this noise?"
The dragon appeared at the door, and John steeled himself for an eruption of fire and brimstone at the man's impertinence at dying before his wife. But to her credit Dixon kept her peace. And like the good servant she was, deep down inside, she teared up at the loss of her master. But she ruined it. It really was too much to expect she could be on good behavior for more than the time needed to string three or four thoughts together.
"Poor Miss Margaret," she murmured as she began to enter the room.
"I trust you will inform Mrs. Hale," John responded somewhat irritably, his tone effectively stopping her cold. "Please leave us. As you can see, Mrs. Thornton is not herself."
He returned his attentions to his wife. He crooned her name gently, and used his handkerchief to wipe the wetness from her face. She still was not there, however. And the tears continued to flow.
He picked her up, and prepared to carry her down the hall to the master bedroom. It made no sense for Margaret to remain in this room, with the body. Mr. Hale. John allowed himself the briefest moment of anguish, then fastened the shutters against the storm.
"Margaret," he said gently, once they entered their room, in a voice as quiet and gentle as one would use with a fevered child, "I am going to get you ready for bed. Do you understand?"
His wife did not respond, and when John set her down she simply stood where she was placed with a vacant expression that reminded him of the German doll he had bought Fanny many years before.
How old was his sister then? Nine or ten? Fan had seen the doll in the window of the elegant Lewis and Farnett, a store they did not have the means to patronize at the time. But that was his sister's favorite place to window shop and she had been adamant that she needed that doll. She did not get it for her birthday, and was quite disappointed, but by foregoing his mid-day meal for the next six months John was able to buy it for his sister for Christmas. The doll was of wax over papier-mâché, with perfect, tiny teeth, a blond mohair wig in ringlets, and had remarkable paperweight eyes that possessed the trick of being able to follow you across the room. But despite these lifelike eyes, the doll wore an uncanny expression, the same one Margaret wore now. It was an expression that made him look again and again, in an effort to pinpoint exactly what was off.
His wife had stopped weeping, but really, this current state of vacancy did not seem an improvement. John gazed at her with concern, then carefully began unbuttoning her gown. She did not seem aware of what he was doing. She stared unblinkingly at the room's damasked curtains, her reddened eyes wider than they normally appeared. She seemed astonished, and locked into a singular moment of remembrance.
"Can you lift your arm?" John asked. She did not comply, but doll-like, did not fight him when he lifted it for her. He removed her bodice and unfastened her skirt, guiding it to her ankles. Her lace-trimmed petticoat followed the skirt, and then the first of her crinolines. His brow creased as he noticed a shilling-sized spot marring the perfect whiteness of the stiffened fabric. He pulled the garment down and cried out in confusion. Here was another spot, but larger, much larger than the first. It was wet, and crimson, and its iron scent was unmistakable. He pulled the garment away and found her chemise completely soaked through with blood.
John ran for the door and roared his mother's name.
Immediately he heard the scrape of chair against wood floor, followed by the clatter of heels.
His mother joined them, breathless, her face pale with worry. "What has happened, John?" But he had no time to answer as Mrs. Thornton immediately took in the scene and then took charge of the situation. "Oh, Margaret. You poor dear. John, don't just stand there. Go to the dressing room and find some towels. Not the best ones, if you can help it. And tell Fanny I need her cloths, as I'll never find Margaret's in time. She'll understand. And then have Stokes fetch the doctor. Margaret, Margaret, can you hear me? John, what is wrong with her?"
John did not hear this last question as he had already left, but he returned immediately to deliver a stack of fine white towels to his waiting mother. Then he left to send Stokes on his way. He found Fanny sitting in the dining room alone, working on dinner.
"What is all the hubbub?" she asked, her mouth half filled with roast capon. "It's quite vulgar to be yelling like that in front of the servants, you know. Such things won't happen in my home, you can be sure of that."
John sighed. "Mr. Hale has passed."
"And that requires you yelling, John? I should have thought it was obvious that the man had not long to live." She bit into a forkful of scalloped potatoes and chewed daintily.
"Must you be so- so-"
"So, what, John? So observant?"
"So cold." He turned away.
"When is the funeral, then? Will it conflict with my wedding?"
"I have no idea, Fanny. I've not thought that far ahead. I have other things on my mind."
"She's ruined it!" His sister stood up suddenly. "My wedding! Margaret won't be able to wear her gown now. In fact, she won't be able to be matron of honor at all if she's in mourning! I will have no one to attend me!"
"Is that all you can think of? Margaret's father is dead, and your thoughts are on that lace monstrosity? And yourself? I'm sure you have plenty of other friends who would be happy to be maid of honor at Milton's wedding of the year."
"Of course you take her side, John. At least she had a father all these years. But you wouldn't even think of that, would you?"
John rubbed the crease between his eyebrows in a futile effort to ward off the headache that had blossomed there like a poisonous flower.
"I take her side because she is my wife" he spat. "Just as Watson will take your side. You will be marrying him- that has not changed despite Mr. Hale's passing."
"No." Fanny pursed her lips, annoyed at the lack of a rejoinder.
John took a deep breath and attempted to calm himself. "Mother said I should ask you for something."
"Oh? And what's that?"
"Your cloths."
"My what?" Fanny's skin turned a vivid shade of cerise, and John wondered exactly what he'd asked for.
He shrugged his shoulders."She said you would understand," he added helpfully.
"You think you're funny, John, don't you?" Fanny's blush did not subside and she crossed her arms across her chest as though she were being called upon to defend her virtue.
Comprehension dawned on him belatedly. This was some woman's product he'd asked for, and his sister was eager to continue the pretense that such things did not exist. For heaven forbid that a man, or a brother be aware of the realities of female physiology.
He'd had enough of Fanny's simpering, of her selfishness, of her ridiculousness.
"If you don't believe me, go up and ask Mother yourself. Or don't. I'm sure my wife and I can make do without you." He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.
His sister ran after him, stopping him at the bottom of the wide staircase.
"What happened? What is wrong, John? Please tell me."
His voice cracked. "Margaret has had a miscarriage."
"A miscarriage?" Fanny's eyes widened in disbelief. "But why did nobody tell me she was with child?"
"We tried," John spat. "At my birthday dinner. You would not listen."
"Oh, John. I am so sorry." She reached out to console him, but he moved past her.
"Yes. So am I." He continued up the stairs.
John's mother tried to shoo him away when he returned to his bedroom. Margaret was installed in the bed, and thankfully she was sleeping. And like the doctor's daughter she was, his mother had the situation well in hand. Margaret was in chemise only, and that hiked up around her hips. His mother pulled up a sheet to cover her but not before John saw that blood had oozed onto the towel below Margaret's pelvis. More blood.
"I gave her some laudanum as she was beginning to cramp. You shouldn't be here, John. I don't think Margaret would want you-"
"She is my wife. We have no secrets."
His mother barked a laugh.
"She needs, me mother. Her father is dead."
Mrs. Thornton looked at her son is astonishment. "That is why..." she said.
John nodded. "She is lost."
The elder raven smoothed Margaret's hair. "Did Fanny give you the cloths?"
John glowered. "She did not believe that you had asked for them and picked a fight. I would assume Margaret has some?"
His mother sighed at her daughter's truculence. "Yes, you might rummage through her bureau. If not, I will make do."
John did as his mother asked, and eventually found the stack of white squares of fabric that seemed to be such a secret among the women of the household. They were at the very bottom of the bottom-most drawer, in the very back, under garments he'd never once seen Margaret wear.
His mother accepted the covert cloths, and set them on the bed, then turned to her son with compassion in her eyes. But when she spoke, her voice was firm.
"Now go downstairs and wait for the doctor. I will not allow you to be in the room for his examination, John. It is likely to cause her great discomfort."
"Then I must be here."
"No. I will not allow it, John."
"Mother, I am head of this household."
She did not reply, but her expression, one he had never seen before, was one that brooked no further objection. John had always known his mother was a woman of iron will. But this was something more. She was adamantine.
John sat in the library, an open ledger book before him, red-dipped quill in hand. He had made no progress in the review of the household accounts, however, as his knowledge of basic arithmetic had seemingly vanished. The figures did distract him for a time, however, as the amounts that had been spent on Fanny's wedding were absolutely mind-boggling. He might have been able to buy a partnership at the draper's for all that had been spent there. Twenty-five yards of Honiton lace, the most expensive lace made in England? Clearly Fanny thought he was made of money. Either that or she intended to bankrupt him.
But even Fanny's antics could serve as distraction for only so long. Again and again, John found himself looking up at the ceiling and listening carefully for any sounds that might give him a clue as to what was transpiring in the room above him. In the past hour, he had heard several moans that made him clench his fists in apprehension, but now it was quiet upstairs. Hopefully, that was a good sign.
Finally, he heard a tread on the stairs that could only be the doctor's. John met him at the library doorway and did not stand on the formalities of offering him a drink, or even a seat.
"How is she?" he demanded.
"She will live." Dr. Donaldson slid past him, and sank into the settee that stood below the windows. He sighed, while John's eyes widened as he belatedly registered the man's words.
"I-I did not know there was a question of that."
"There is sometimes a risk of hemorrhage, yes." The doctor removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his forehead wearily. "However, everything is under control. Your mother was a help in this. I was quite surprised by her skills." The doctor frowned. "You must understand that the child could not be saved. So early on, this is rarely a possibility."
That did not matter, although John would never say this aloud. He mourned his child: of that there was no question. But although he knew if was terribly selfish to even think it, to John, Margaret's life outweighed all others.
"I understand," the manufacturer said instead, his face a well-schooled mask.
"She will need to stay in bed the week, of course. This is not much different from a confinement following labor and delivery, you see. The demand on the body is similar."
"But her father's funeral is likely to be midweek."
"That is out of the question." The doctor quirked an eyebrow. "And surely it is no place for such a lady."
"She will want to attend," John mused aloud, and was irritated to see the look on the doctor's face, which communicated clearly that it was his job as husband to control his wife.
John changed the subject. "What caused the miscarriage?" he asked.
The doctor frowned. "It is not completely understood what makes a womb irritable. Did your wife suffer an injury in the past day?"
John's forehead wrinkled as he shook his head.
"Has she been particularly active?"
"No more so than usual. My wife has always enjoyed walking, and surely her body is well-adjusted to it."
"Yes. I've seen her out and about on occasion." The doctor gave him another judgmental stare, one that said proper wives did not gallivant through the streets of Milton, particularly not through the poorer streets. "Was it she who found Mr. Hale, per chance?"
John nodded. "She was fully overcome."
"Well, that may well be the cause. Such a shock to the system could be devastating." The physician nodded. "Yes, that is my opinion. You should not be overly concerned, however. Mrs. Thornton is fine specimen of a woman and will bounce back from this. You will have a family, soon enough."
John felt the bile rising in his throat. His wife's pain had just been breezily dismissed by the healer sitting not six feet away from him. And this man had just referred to his wife as an object.
"I am sure my wife mourns the loss of this family, Dr. Donaldson."
"Yes, women are sentimental creatures. Give it two weeks before initiating any congress, my good man."
And now this doctor suggested in one breath his wife was a beast, and in the next described a schedule for intimate relations.
John's fingernails incised crescent-moon-shaped cuts on his palms. He rose and crossed the room to inspect a volume- any volume- on cotton manufacturing. It was a moment before he was calm enough to speak.
"How did Mr. Hale die?"
"His heart was irreparably damaged by the first attack. It was simply his time," the doctor replied, and John nearly laughed aloud. Fanny had made much the same certification only a few hours prior. Perhaps she should go into medicine.
The doctor opened his leather satchel and rummaged in it, producing two flyers. He crossed the room and proffered the documents to the once-and-future father.
"Wilson Brothers are closest to you, but both of these are reputable undertakers."
John examined the topmost document. It was a price list. He wondered idly if these tradesman gave the doctor a small slice of the profits for sending business their way. That would be good business sense, but it also would be ethically corrupt. A surreptitious glance at the doctor told John all he needed to know about the doctor's standards. The man's satisfied half-grin suggested he would readily accept such inducements.
John leaned against the bookcase as he examined the flyer further. "You'll understand if I don't see you out," he said brusquely to the physician. "I have a lot to take care of in the next few days."
It was midnight when Hannah found her son sitting in a room that was completely dark, save the small pool of light emitted by the shaded lamp on his desk.
"I am sorry, John," mother said to son, as she embraced him.
"I never imagined such a thing happening."
Hannah said nothing. She knew her words would have no power to heal, and would likely only get in the way. Her son continued after a time, and the desolation she saw in his eyes was like a stab in her own heart.
"I so wanted to be a father."
Hannah knelt by him and took his hand in her own. She rubbed it between her own, as she did when he was young. Perhaps it brought him some small consolation.
"She was devastated. And mother, she did not know me."
Hannah had to speak. She knew something of what Margaret was going through, after all. "Son, she was in shock. She had just lost her father. And then her body betrayed her."
"I know." John nodded. "Her loss is immense." He sighed. "We need to plan the funeral. The doctor left some information. Would you be willing to look through it now? I know it's late."
Hannah readily agreed. It was clear her son would not be retiring for some time. And if he was to have a sleepless night, she would gladly give up her own.
"It's been some time since I've visited an undertaker," she said as she perused the first flyer. "These prices are excessive. Surely a rank III funeral would be below us. But a rank II funeral is £90.
John sighed. "That is a good amount of money. And after Fanny's wedding..."
"Yet that is the level that is to be expected. When Harkness's mother passed last year, her procession had twenty paid attendants. I counted."
"My father requires no attendants."
Hannah and her son looked up to see Margaret standing in the doorway like a specter in the glow of a low-burning candle. Hannah could forgive her the fact that her hair was down, as all of the house's mirrors were covered, but the girl was dressed only in her thin cotton nightdress, with no robe or slippers. She gave no thought to propriety.
"Why are you out of bed?" Hannah regretted her tone of voice immediately. Clearly Margaret must be confused. A draught of laudanum would do that to anyone, although by now its effects might have worn off, at least partially.
"I am not tired. And I am not feeling so horrible. I wanted something to read." Margaret entered the room, and Hannah noticed how the girl's small hand crept across her belly. She was lying about her condition- Hannah could see the pain in her daughter-in-law's face.
"Margaret," she said more softly, "These are Dr. Donaldson's orders. It is not good for you to be up and about. You may-" she glanced at John before continuing, "disturb things. Please. Let me take you back up to bed."
The stubborn girl shook her head. "No. You were talking about Papa's funeral. Certainly my opinion counts in this matter."
"It does, my love." The intensity of the look between son and wife was almost embarrassing. "Mother, surely Margaret can lie down on the settee? She is right, she should be a part of this conversation."
Hannah's headstrong son did not wait for a reply. He settled his wife on the small couch with tender movements, and knelt beside her as he began to speak to her about the funeral plans. His wife, full of opinions as usual, spoke up right away.
"As I said, I do not see the purpose of paid attendants. You are talking about those men who stand silent, are you not? Those mutes? I will admit I know little of funerals, as Bessy's was my first. In Helstone, there was no undertaker and funerals were a simple affair. Of course I had seen processions in London, but I did not realize the participants were paid. Why would one want strangers at such a private occasion, let alone pay them?"
"Because that is how it is done," both mother and son said simultaneously.
"Show me the paper you are looking at," Margaret said somewhat imperiously, and in her condition, Hannah did not feel she could refuse. She obliged, bringing candle, as well.
"The scarves the mutes wear cost a pound each?" her daughter-in-law noted as he examined the flyer. "That is a week's wages for a spinner. And the scarves are just for hire, are they not? Surely they do not cost more than one pound each for the fabric, do they? And here it is the same for the feathers and velvets worn by the horses." Margaret looked up the prices. "Three pounds, three shillings to outfit just the horses for the hearse. What a fortune these undertakers are making, hiring out the very same items over and again. But why does the horse even need to wear feathers? Why do the carriages need to be draped in velvet? Why must a man we have never met before carry a plume of feathers? And why an oaken coffin lined in lead, when an elm one will do just as well?" Margaret shook her head. "No, I do not think Papa would want such a production made of his burial. I cannot allow this." Her eyes ran down the page to glance at the total, and she paled as she took in the figure. She tried to sit up, but John persuaded her otherwise. Still, she made her thoughts known. The girl always did. But now her aspect was increasingly anxious, her voice almost shrill. "£90? Mama and I cannot afford such a funeral, anyway. Even with Mama's annuity we do not have the income. That is an obscene amount of money to spend on something so immaterial."
"Margaret," John said gently, "you are part of this family now, as are your mother and father. We have been over this. We will take on the cost as a family."
Tears welled in the girl's eyes, and Hannah grew alarmed. It was not good for her to be feeling such strong emotions at such a time.
"John, please take her upstairs. It is imperative that Margaret return to bed. We will resolve this at another time."
John gathered his wife into his arms. "Can you take the candlestick?" he asked his mother. She claimed two.
His mother accompanied them upstairs, stopping just outside the green room. "I had Jane make up the room for you, son. Margaret will be more comfortable on her own," she said, handing him one of the two candles before continuing down the hall.
John ignored her suggestion.
He pushed open the door to the master bedroom with his foot and and carefully settled Margaret in the bed. Clearly she had been lying about being tired, as she fell asleep almost instantly.
John surveyed the room by the light of the single candle as he considered his mother's words. It didn't matter to him that the bed was stripped to remove the elegant damask furnishings, or that a stack of clean towels stood at the ready on the beside table. He would rather be in a sick room with Margaret than in the most elegant room without her. And he refused to believe she would not want him by her side.
He dressed for bed, and settled in next to his wife, draping his arm across her possessively. She sighed as he nestled against her, taking his hand in her own and kissing it, then tucking it against her breast.
"Margaret?" he asked. There was no reply. She was still asleep.
He allowed himself a small liberty, then, one he'd foregone the entire evening.
He thought of the man his father was, of the father Mr. Hale had been to him, and of the father he had hoped to become.
And, silently, he allowed himself to cry.
Author's notes: This is chapter is about an uncomfortable real-life topic, and is probably depressing as a result, so I will point out that this story is meant to reflect the reality of life, not fantasy. (If you've read this far, you've probably already realized this, though... I am trying to write John and Margaret as real people with real joys and concerns.) I do promise a happy-at-the-end-of-the-story for our dear couple, but be warned that in getting there they will encounter some additional bumps in the road. Things will get better for them, however, and hopefully they will both grow as a result of their struggles. Thank you for sticking with it!
Note that Margaret's point of view is not represented in this chapter. That will be upcoming, as she recovers.
Thank you to everyone who continues to read and review. I appreciate your support! This story is a bit of a safety valve for me- the time I spend on research and writing helps me to cope with a very stressful real-life job. So the fact that people are enjoying what I write makes me very, very happy, indeed. I really appreciate your kind words. It balances out the nonsense I am currently dealing with.
And now for the historical notes, which keep getting longer and longer (I apologize...) Please skip if you are squeamish.
About Margaret's miscarriage: About ten to twenty percent of known pregnancies miscarry. That is a very large number. And if you are among those of us who have experienced one, you probably already know that eighty percent occur within the first twelve weeks of pregnancy. Given the timing of this story, Margaret is right on the borderline: one week more and she might have been safe. Frustratingly, modern medicine still does not know the source of most miscarriages. (Dr. Donaldson's explanation is the Victorian one, and is based on what is written in the book, Obstetrics: The Science and the Art, by Charles D. Meigs, 1852. It is not at all scientific, and rather mother-blaming.) We do know today that a subset are caused by chromosomal and developmental defects in the fetus. For a very long time, maternal stress was dismissed as a cause of miscarriage. The thing that is funny about part of Dr. Donaldson's explanation is that recent studies have shown that extreme stress is indeed a possible cause for some early miscarriages. This is not low-level stress, but catastrophic levels of stress that cause the body to release two chemicals. One tags the fetus as foreign (similar to the way the body tags an allergen as foreign, which the body will then attack) and the other, the same chemical produced during labor, begins the process of contracting the uterus, as in labor. Scientists hypothesize that the body is deciding it can't support the pregnancy under such stressful conditions. Could Margaret's body have been going into this shock-like process over her father's death on top of the stress of dealing with her mother's illness? Maybe. An explanation is always more comforting than uncertainty.
Victorian treatment for a miscarriage was typically to let it take its course, which would take variable amounts of time and would involve variable amount of cramping and bleeding. Doctors would often use home made tampons to staunch blood flow, but the key directive given patients was to lie flat to avoid hemorrhage. Margaret is ignoring the doctor's instructions, which is why Hannah begins to become alarmed.
About the cloths: I spend way too much time wondering about weird details from the past- the small things that we take for granted today, like bathrooms, dental hygiene, and yes, menstruation. Because information about the latter was typically not written down by women (out of shame) there currently is a lot of misinformation floating around out there about this topic. One big misconception is that women simply bled into their clothing. But this would be not only unhygienic, it would be a nightmare to deal with come wash day. (One form of bleach powder had been invented by 1851, but was not commonly in use at this time. Lye soap would have been used instead, which is highly damaging to clothes. I can't imagine Margaret or any other woman taking lye soap and a scrub brush to an expensive petticoat when she could be washing a scrap of fabric instead.)
Despite the misinformation, there is information out there about what women did use during their "courses." The device used was called a perineal cravat, and information about it can be found in medical books of the era (such as Obstetrics: The Science and the Art, as described above.) Note that the author of this book even mentions that he has been told by his patients that unless a woman's "catamenial occasion" was unusually light, she would definitely notbe bleeding into her petticoat. Rather, she would be using 12 to 20 "guard-napkins" each month. To make the device, she would tie a ribbon or strip of cloth around her waist like a belt. An absorbent cloth, which became the guard-napkin, was folded lengthwise, like a cravat, and went between the legs, and was pinned on each end to the belt. In that regard the device was like the belts used by women from the 1900s through the mid-1970s, except that those contraptions used disposable pads (which were still called "napkins," back then, at least in the U.S.). At any rate, these guard-napkins cannot have been very comfortable, but they certainly would have beat staining ones lovely white petticoats and drawers.
About the funeral preparations: I relied on a document from the 1840s, and two books: The Victorian Celebration of Death, by James S. Curl, and Death in the Victorian Family by Patricia Jalland. I found that upper middle-class funerals had similarities but also key differences from the impoverished/working-class funeral I described earlier. For instance, the hoods worn by lower class people did not appear to be worn by middle and upper class people as they are only listed in undertakers' bills for the lowest level funerals. However, for all levels of society funerals grew in ostentation starting in the mid- to late 1700s, and by the early 1800s, it was imperative to outlay ridiculous amounts of money on the funerals of family members.
In 1843, Edwin Chadwick was asked by Parliament to research funeral practices as there was a concern about both the health issues caused by burial in church yards and the exorbitant cost of funerals. As part of his study Chadwick detailed the amounts spent on funerals by different classes of society. Although it was done eight years before the time of this story, I found his study was nonetheless helpful in getting an idea of what would be purchased and how much would be spent on a funeral that someone like Hannah might be planning.
Chadwick's report states that the cost of the very cheapest funeral for a working-class family, like the Higginses, would be about £8. This would include use of hoods and gloves for the female family members, 4 crape bands for the male family members, an elm coffin, use of a pall to cover the coffin, and a gin allowance for the men digging the grave. According to John Benson's The Working Class in Britain 1850-1939, in 1850, spinners, the best paid cotton mill workers, made 23 shillings a week, or about 60 pounds per year. Therefore, a funeral would have eaten up about a seventh of the Higginses' yearly budget.
For the middle and upper classes, funeral costs were much more substantial, as the frills were greater, and the number of men, horses and carriages included in the procession many more. For a curate (assistant pastor), the average cost of a funeral was £60 and necessitated the hiring of 14 men. For a well-to-do tradesman like John, the average funeral cost would be £70 to £100, whereas for a gentleman the normal range was £200 to £1000. And if a person had a title, the cost was in the range of £500 to £1500.
To put all of this in perspective, note that Hales were paying £30 a year in rent for their four bedroom Crampton house. The inexpensive curate's funeral cost twice that. For fun (assuming you are like me, ha-ha!), you might want to consider how much is paid in rent per year in your area for a four bedroom, middle-class house and compare that to the average cost of a funeral nowadays. In the UK, average funeral cost is currently £4,100. In the US, $7,000 to $10,000.
In 1852, a year after this story takes place, the Duke of Wellington died. Although he was not royalty, he was a hero, and he had a state funeral that cost an amazing£11,000. It was an incredibly ostentatious affair. (If you are interested in seeing a book containing a 66-foot-long panoramic drawing of his procession, Google "Wellington's Funeral, A Damned Serious Business." It is over the top.) An estimated £80,000 was spent on seats for the event, and additionally there was a huge business selling souvenirs (who knew he had so much hair?). As a result of these excesses, a backlash began to build among the higher levels of society. From the mid-1850s on, the upper classes began to scale back on funerals, but in contrast, the lower and middle classes actually increased their spending. Curl's book shows a photo of a funeral in an impoverished section of London in 1895 and it is a truly impressive sight, replete with wand-bearing mutes, horses with ostrich plumes, and a hearse with a lid of ostrich feathers. It is hard to imagine how the poor were able to afford such displays.
In 1851, Margaret would have been a bit ahead of the curve in demanding a small funeral for her father. However, after the 1843 study I mentioned earlier, there were already a number of voices crying out for reform, and several well-known figures had already made sure they were buried in less than excessive style. As Margaret was reform-minded and very concerned about the useless spending of money when so many were going hungry I think this is an issue she would have cared about. Additionally, I think a former parson such as Richard would not have wanted such a display. He would have been uncomfortable with the nouveau-richness of it all, particularly when there were so many in Milton who were hungry and out of work.