Not a Gentleman
by Tintinnabula
Chapter 18
The Great Inhibition
"I see your temper got the better of you, once again." John's mother stood at the top of the stairs, arms akimbo. "And once again, you'll have given the servants something to talk about."
"Shall we talk about it in the hallway, Mother?" John asked.
The elder raven smiled wryly and directed her son down the hallway to her bedroom, where she shut the door firmly behind him. "What was that all about?" she asked.
"We will be needing a new family doctor," John began.
His mother barked a laugh. "That much was obvious. I was wondering why we are needing a new doctor."
"He suggested a course of treatment that was completely unacceptable."
The doctor's daughter lifted an eyebrow. "So unacceptable that you came to blows?"
"You do not want to know, Mother." John sighed. "Please do not ask."
Mother placed a careworn hand on son's shoulder. "Did he suggest a sanitarium?"
John's brows raised involuntarily. "No! Nothing like that. It was rather more... sordid. I will not share the details. I cannot."
Hannah frowned. "I see. I can guess."
"You can guess?"
"A woman's intuition. The man had a way of carrying himself that was off-putting. And of course there was that scene when Margaret was fevered. As though he never seen flesh before."
"Do not remind me! I should have dismissed the man then, and saved Margaret the indignity." John sighed again. "She will be worried about her mother's care."
"There are other doctors in Milton, John. We will find one as competent as Dr. Donaldson, and hopefully a good deal more ethical."
John nodded. "She needs a change, Mother."
Hannah nodded. "I agree, completely. And I know what you are thinking. I assume you'll want to take Jane with you?"
"Can you do without her? We really should see about an additional ladies' maid, shouldn't we?"
His mother shook her head and lowered her voice. "Although I'd never say this to either of them, it's clear that Margaret will have Dixon to herself, soon enough. We will make do for as long as you plan to be gone. And how long might that be?"
"Two weeks, I think. Closing ceremonies are on October 15th, and we'll need a day to crate and load the machinery afterwards. We should be home on the 17th, barring any unforeseen circumstances. I have some good news, by the way."
"Oh?" his mother smiled.
"I'll share it with you at dinner. I'm going to check on Margaret, then I must run to Outwood Station to send a telegram to Brown's. I'd like to leave tomorrow, if at all possible."
"I understand, son. But it's raining cats and dogs, and I do think Margaret would like to interview any new physician, don't you?"
"I disagree, Mother. I want her well away from here, as soon as possible." John turned to leave, but a hand on his shoulder restrained him.
"I noticed something odd when I was preparing the payroll last week."
John turned and gazed at his mother with concern. Issues with payroll were not something to brush off.
"There is a lacquered box in the safe. I assume you placed it there?"
John breathed a bit more easily, but only slightly, given the contents of said box. "It was a gift from Mr. Bell. The deed to the mill is within."
"I see." His mother said dryly. "What an odd man."
John made a mental note to remove the envelopes that were also held within the small chest. The lock could easily be defeated by a woman as tenacious as his own mother.
"Is that all, Mother? No other issues with the payroll?"
"No son, of course not."
"Then you'll excuse me." He hurriedly exited the room.
His wife had half-cocooned herself in the master bedroom's yellow damask curtains. She stared out into the downpour, unmoving.
John stood behind her, and pulled her close.
"I heard noises," Margaret said when she recognized his presence. "And Dr. Donaldson left in a very great hurry. He shouted at his driver. Did something happen?"
"I am sorry, Margaret."
"For what?
"I should have listened to you. That man-"
"He was holding a handkerchief to his face." Margaret disengaged herself from the curtains and from her husband's embrace, and turned to face him.
"Some time ago, I told that you had witnessed the first and only beating I had ever administered."
"Stevens."
"Yes." John ran a hand through his hair nervously. "Well, tonight was the second."
Margaret's gaze was searching. "But why?"
"He impugned your virtue."
"How?" His wife blanched.
John glowered. "Do not ask me to explain. I will not." He reigned in his anger immediately, however, when he observed that his wife was trembling. He led her to the bed, and spoke gently.
"He does not understand grief."
Margaret reached for his hand, and was silent for some time. Predictably, when she spoke, it was not about herself. "Mama will need a new physician."
"Mother will find someone, tomorrow." John cleared his throat. "Margaret, it is obvious that you need a change. The Exhibition is ending in two weeks, and I had planned to send Williams to break down our exhibit-"
"Marlborough Mills has an exhibit? You never said so."
"Some of the Milton mill owners collaborated. I was nominated to supervise its installation and removal."
Margaret laugh was low and throaty. "Of course you were. Then you have been to the Crystal Palace?"
"Yes, the week it opened, and just before, of course, to get things set up."
"Is it as lovely as everyone has said?"
"To be honest, I did not have much time to inspect its offerings. After making sure the machinery was in working order, and ensuring the attendant Slickson supplied-"
"Slickson?"
"He did not want to risk any of his own machinery. He thought it would be cheaper to send the attendant to explain how the machinery works."
"I see."
"Well, after all of this, my only thought during the few days I was there was to look for investors." John nearly growled as the memory played out vividly in his mind. "Much good it did me. The first weeks of the exhibition were not really about the exhibition."
"What do you mean?"
"It was a social event, Margaret. Admission was £3 for men, £2 for ladies, quite steep enough prices to keep out the hoi polloi. There was even valet parking. No one there was actually looking at what was on display. Rather, they were looking at who was on display."
"How disappointing. I think my cousin attended during that time. But of course she would." Margaret smiled sadly.
"Now that admission is only a shilling, things should be different. Although I'm sure the investor class will not deign to be seen in the company of the unwashed."
"I should very much like to go."
John's grinned at his wife's lack of pretension. How like her father she was. "I thought you might. And I thought we might extend the visit into a honeymoon."
"Really?" Margaret's eyes lit up, and John knew he'd stumbled onto the right decision.
"Not a six-week honeymoon, mind you. I don't know what Watson could be thinking. His mill will be a ruin when he returns."
"Two weeks is more than enough for me, John. I know how difficult it is for you to be away."
"You might call on your cousin-"
"Why would I do that? Edith didn't come to the funeral. She didn't even send a letter."
Petulance was a very good sign, John decided. Any emotion was, apart from sadness.
"But, Mama..."
"Dr. Donaldson's last report was that she was stable."
"You just dismissed him."
"That does not mean I found him incompetent."
Margaret shook her head. "Could we wait until we hear what another doctor has to say? I do not think I would be able to bear it, should something happen..."
"Of course, darling. We will leave on Monday, then." John smiled. "Now, I have some very good news I'd like to share."
The ride from Euston station to Brown's Hotel was uneventful. How different London was from Milton! While the streets were busy, they were not clogged with carts and wagons, and the cab made good time. Margaret seemed happy to be back in her old playground, and pointed out landmarks as they passed.
"There is Regent's Park," she cried out as the clarence pulled into Crescent Park, "We're quite close to Harley Street." John was taken aback by the colonnaded townhouses that ringed the semi-circle, and wondered about the type of income needed to be able to live in such imposing grandeur.
"They are beautiful, aren't they? They were built by John Nash. I think that Henry Lennox was thinking of buying one."
That answers that, John thought wryly.
They arrived at Brown's shortly and John helped his wife and her maid down from the cab, before tipping the coachman appropriately. A porter carried their baggage inside and John was pleased to see his wife look around her in wonder. At least there were some things in London that might still impress her.
"You shouldn't have gone to the expense," she whispered in his ear.
"The mill account is paying for it," he whispered back, before directing her to a chair in the richly appointed lobby, to wait while he settled accounts.
"You see," he said after Jane had been directed to the small room adjoining their suite, "in business it is critical to play the part."
"The part?"
"All is reputation. I was telling you about Kirk?"
"The former lead magistrate?" She smiled as she embraced her husband. "Note the emphasis."
"Yes. Well, as I expected, because of his brother's wrong doings his reputation suffers. Hence, his business suffers."
"That is patently unfair."
"Yes, but that is the way of it."
"But what has that got to do with an expensive hotel?"
"If one is seen to be economizing, people will think ones business is trouble."
"They might think you are prudent, instead."
"They might, but they do not. This is not what could be, but what is, Margaret. At the master's dinner, it was clear you disapproved of the excesses that were on display. And I agree with you- they were excesses."
"Children were starving, John." She whispered the next. "It was...immoral."
He held his temper. "There is no room for such contemplation of morality in business. If we had not served such a dinner, my competitors would have thought my business in trouble, strike notwithstanding. And they would have pounced."
"Are they such jackals?"
"I never said they were friends. Your father-" John did not continue, but he did not need to.
"I see. There can be no friends in the business world. It is like a war."
"More like a series of minor skirmishes. Nothing is formally declared."
"Surely you have the upper hand. You said business is thriving."
"It is. We are back on our feet."
"I find that difficult to believe after all of the expenses from a funeral and two weddings."
"Those were personal expenses. Marlborough Mills is a separate entity. It must be, in case of bankruptcy."
"But you own the mill."
"Due to your dowry, and Mr. Bell's generosity. It went a long way towards helping us towards financial solvency."
"But does your owning the mill not co-mingle the two accounts?"
"The mill pays us rent. For the past few months, it was in arrears. But now that orders are flowing in, it can settle up. We are in good shape, I am happy to say. And that is why I was thinking of expanding, and why Kirk's misfortune could be our blessing."
"I see." She looked at him thoughtfully.
"You will need to dress the part, too, Margaret. While we are here, I would like for you to visit a dressmaker, as we never visited to Madame Coleridge's."
"I am in mourning, John, and will be for the next six months. I have no need for finery."
"You have two black gowns from my mother, both hastily made over. They will not do. And you will need half-mourning in just three months. You must be seen as the wife of a successful manufacturer, even during this time."
"And as the wife of a lead magistrate." Margaret smiled, as she leaned her head against her husband's chest. "This was no surprise, you realize."
"No?"
"It is your trajectory."
"I did not realize you had studied physics, my darling."
"I told you I played dread pirate as a child, did I not? How could we predict the cannon's blast without knowing something of Newtonian physics?"
John laughed at the thought of Margaret firing a cannon, even a pretend one.
"I'm sure you know more than I."
"I am sure I do not!" She pushed him away in faux indignation.
We, she said. "You played with the boys?" She'd told him that before, hadn't she?
Margaret nodded. "I was a very poor study at being a girl, I am afraid. It was part of the reason my parents sent me to London."
"I wish I'd known you then. In Helstone."
"We wouldn't have been friends. For one thing you are twelve years older than I. You would have been twenty one when I was nine." Margaret laughed aloud, while John grimaced at the thought of such cradle snatching.
"For another, and I've already told you this, I was a snob back then. You would not have been in my circle of friends."
John's lips tightened into a thin line. "I see."
She looked up at him, through thick lashes. "You've changed me, your worship."
"Your worship?"
Her impish smile told him that she was on the road to recovery. "Stokes told me that in the courthouse this is your new title. Was he incorrect?"
"No, it's that, or 'sir'."
"Would you prefer 'sir'?"
"In the bedroom? Oh, I think "your worship" will do nicely." John scooped up his wife and deposited her on the bed. He rained kisses on her lips and her neck before stopping himself abruptly.
"Dinner is at six. I've reserved a dining suite. Jane should be ready for you. I'll need to call for a valet. He headed quickly for his dressing room. "I'll see you shortly."
The Crystal Palace was everything Margaret expected. Although invited, Jane had decided not to accompany them, much preferring the rare luxury of a day to herself to a day in the company of her mistress. Margaret did not mind. She would rather have John all to herself. Besides, the girl tended to giggle uncontrollably in his presence, which made Margaret distinctly uncomfortable.
Margaret had not realized how much she had wanted a honeymoon until she was actually in the midst of one. Having John by her side- having him all to herself- was something she had experienced only three times prior to their wedding, and not at all since. But now he doted on her, with a smile so warm and caring that she nearly melted each time he bestowed it upon her.
She had been to Hyde Park, the site of the exhibition, many times while living in London with the Shaws. Margaret therefore knew that it was but a short distance from Mayfair, the location of the Brown Hotel. Nonetheless, she could not convince John to walk the scant mile between the two locations. He continued to worry needlessly about her health. They took a hansom cab instead, and pulled up in front of the South entrance, which sparkled in the late morning light.
Margaret had read about the pink glass fountain in the Illustrated Exhibitor. However, the engraving therein did not do it justice. It escalloped tiers shimmered with a full spectrum of refracted light and Margaret stood mesmerized as her husband went off to purchase programs and a map of the attractions.
When he rejoined her she was still staring at the flickering rainbows that lit randomly on all nearby surfaces.
"You seem happy," he noted.
"I am. This is such a beautiful place." She looked around her. "And so busy." She accepted the map from John and perused it. "So where would you like to visit first?
"Well, I must check the machinery, of course. But other than that, it is up to you. Although-"
"Yes?" She smiled brightly at her handsome husband, eager to please him.
"I would like to look at the carriages, if we have time. They are right next to the cotton exhibit, if I recall correctly."
"Of course, John."
"And you?"
"I would like to see everything."
The manufacturer laughed. "That won't be possible in a day. If we visited everything on display we would journey for miles. But we can certainly come back tomorrow and the next, if you are so inclined. Although, in that case I would suggest a systematic plan of attack."
"Attack? We will do no such thing, John. This is not a campaign. I plan to be enchanted."
Her husband removed his hat, and bowed to her, theatrically. "As you wish, my love."
Margaret pointed to a spot on the west side of the map. "'Machines in Action- Milton Cotton.' Shall we?"
The walked the length of the building, and Margaret was impressed to see how busy the place was despite the fact that the exhibition was in its closing days. The space was filled with an assortment of middle-class and working-class families, all eager to learn about the empire's latest technologies. As they moved down the hall, Margaret noticed there was a fair press around the hydraulic machines and marine engines, and a crowd around the cases showing the tools used to mine ores from the depth of the Earth. But the crowds were largest at the very end of the building, where a familiar clanking noised bounced off the cast iron supports of the building. The American display was in full action, as was the display from Manchester. Crowds five deep thronged around each, watching with rapt fascination as gears turned and axles spun.
John's countenance was a storm, and Margaret heard him grind out the word, "Slickson," as though it were the worst profanity one might utter. John removed a velvet rope and entered the Milton display, his brow darkening and his body growing ever more tense. Margaret did not follow. Rarely had she seen her husband so angered. The reason for his ire was obvious. The attendant Slickson had hired was nowhere in sight.
John examined each machine carefully, picking up a spanner or another tool Margaret could not name to adjust some element of one machine's gearing, then another, before spending the next ten minutes fine tuning the one machine Margaret did recognize, the power loom, finally moving its batten back and forth until he was satisfied its action was as precise as specified.
John threw the switch that engaged the drive belt to the first of the machines and tied on a leather apron. Margaret stood some distance away, well behind the velvet rope. Her mouth remained half-open for the next few minutes, as her husband continued to surprise her. By this time, people had begun to drift toward the exhibit and began to ask questions as John fed raw cotton into the first machine.
"It's an opening and cleaning machine," he announced in a crisp voice, holding up a portion of the continuous sheet of cotton expelled by the machine in a long roll, and tearing off pieces to hand out as souvenirs. These were eagerly accepted by small hands, and oohs and aahs issued from his ever-growing audience as the soft batting was held up to faces and rubbed along skin to test its softness.
"It's not as soft as it will get," the manufacturer pointed out. "The next three machines are responsible for that. The scutcher and lap machine will remove any stray sand from the cotton, and next it will go to the lapping finisher, which will take several of these rolls and combine them into one. The goal is to eventually narrow these rolls into thread." He pointed to the next machine and set it into motion, briefly. "This will take narrow the long roll of cotton into a narrow roll, called sliver." The crowd watched, as a thin cotton rope was expelled from the machine. Again John pulled the sample apart and held the pieces out to the crowd: the white fragments disappeared in moments.
It was embarrassing, Margaret realized, that she, the wife of one of Milton's leading manufacturers, was learning as much about the operation of a mill as any of these visitors to the exhibition. She might have asked her husband for a tour of the mill on any Sunday, she knew. But that was John's only day away from work, and it hadn't seemed fair.
And in watching him now, she was learning about far more than the mill. People were drawn to John. He had a plain way of explaining things that was neither condescending nor overly simplistic. He knew his audience and gave them just the information they needed. That was a rare art, a teacher's art. No wonder he and Papa had gotten along so well. They must have viewed some aspects of the world through a similar prism.
A lank-haired man slipped behind the rope, and John's expression changed immediately. He pulled the man aside, and although his words could not be heard, it was clear to Margaret that this was Slickson's man, and that he was in deep trouble. She could not blame John for being angry. Here was Milton's opportunity to show itself to advantage, and its machines stood idle while its neighbors' hummed. A great deal of expense had been paid to mount the exhibition and for that money to go to waste was unthinkable. Margaret looked at Slickson's man and immediately recognized a few things about him. He was in the uniform jacket worn by many exhibitors at the Palace: it was clearly not his own. But his trousers were, and these showed signs of wear, as did his shoes. He was a working man, probably not so different from Higgins. But for once Margaret found that she did not automatically want to root for the lesser man. This one was was clearly at fault, and what's worse, it did not seem to be one-time error. He allowed the machinery to fall into disarray: that could not have happened all at once.
Slickson's man, red faced, returned to his station, and proceeded with the demonstration. John returned to Margaret's side, still visibly irked, although Margaret could tell he was doing his utmost to hide it.
"Your lecture was very informative," she said with a smile. "I was thinking how remiss I have been not to have asked you for a personal tour of the mill."
"You have been very busy," John replied, catching her hand in his own, and guiding her away from the vibrating machinery. "These first months of our marriage have not been easy on you. I understand this, Margaret. You have not been remiss."
"Shall we look at the carriages?" Margaret asked, changing the subject. Surely such a display would elevate his mood. "Are you thinking of trading in your mother's?"
He shook his head as he led the way. "No. I was thinking you and I need something of our own. And certainly in the future..." his voice trailed off.
"You mean when we have children. Yes, you are right." Margaret kept her voice light. "What do you think of this?" She pointed to a large vehicle that appeared to seat four, plus coachman.
"Middleton's Improved Convertible Carriage?" John inspected the vehicle carefully, kneeling down to examine its springing, then engaging the attendant in a conversation about any difficulties in converting it from barouche to a closed form. Margaret listened for a while, but slowly drifted away from the pair. To be honest, one carriage was as good as another as far as she was concerned. John should choose the one that most pleased him.
Just past the carriages, but well within view was a case marked "Cottons." Margaret sauntered over to it, and found that it contained all manner of cotton fabrics: some plain-woven, but also twills, satins, diaper, and others she could not name. Most were white, some had medals pinned to them, and each was labeled with the name of its manufacturer. Her eyes lit immediately on a familiar name and she smiled. Then she found that name again, and again.
"John," she whispered aloud. "Why does he hide his light under a bushel where I am concerned?"
He was annoyed when he found her.
"Why did you walk away? I looked for you everywhere!"
"But I was right here. I could see you the entire time."
"I am not used to your bonnet and veil. Nor your dress. You are not the only person here dressed in black." John huffed in exasperation. "I miss your hat."
"My horribly outmoded hat?" Margaret laughed. "What would your sister say?"
"Why should I care what my sister says?" He calmed himself with difficulty, and Margaret tamed her own smile.
"Don't be angry, John. I am sorry that I walked away. I was bored. And then I saw here that my own John Thornton of Marlborough Mills has won the council prize not once but twice! Why did you not tell me this?"
"I was planning to. Eventually. It did not seem of immediate importance."
Margaret returned to the case and scanned its contents.
"Plus two gold medals." She added. "One for twill, one for damask. When did you find out?"
"It was announced at the start of the exhibition."
"I see. Did any other mill from Milton win?"
"Er, not that I'm aware of."
"Not that you're aware of," she scoffed. "You meet with these men monthly. I would think they would have told you. Crowed it. Hooted it."
John sighed.
"So you've known all this time and never told me?"
"How would I have told you without seeming a braggart?"
"Are not your successes my successes?" She could not hide the hurt in her voice.
"I should have told you." He pointed to a refreshment court that was in close proximity. "I think we are both in need of food. Shall we sit down and have some lunch?"
"I am not finished, John."
"I know." He guided her to table some distance from the others, and walked off to purchase a light meal of meat pies and lemonade for both of them.
"I would never think you a braggart, John," Margaret said quietly, once he had returned. "I am proud of you, and all you have accomplished. You know that, surely."
Her husband smiled. "I do, Margaret. I should have told you. It's just that I felt cowed on my return from this place the first time. I was standing not far from here, meeting with men of the ton. They remarked on the medals Marlborough Mills had won, and still they would not deign to invest. It was... crushing. And then the strike followed, and the loss of income from that."
Margaret laid her hand atop her husband's.
"So in the end, those medals did not seem so great a reward," John finished.
"That is entirely the wrong way to look at it, John. Were you able to demonstrate the machines for these men?"
"No, that fell to Albright, Slickson's man." He rolled his eyes, and added, "Idiot. Although I was not fully aware of it at the time."
"Perhaps that was the mistake, then. The people today were enthralled. I cannot imagine an audience of investors would not be the same were you to demonstrate rather than he."
"Perhaps the difference today was that I had you by my side."
Margaret shook her head as a blush crept to her cheeks. "I don't think you need a muse."
"It's too late. I have one." John flashed a toothy smile and his cerulean eyes lit his face.
They were both quiet for a while as they consumed their luncheon. John broke the silence, however after polishing off the remains of his meal.
"Are you still angry?" he asked with the grin of a boy caught with his hand in the biscuit jar.
"I wasn't angry. And even if I was, I couldn't stay angry at you."
"Good. What's next?"
Margaret smiled uncomfortably. "I am indisposed."
Her husband chuckled and pointed to the sign just behind her. "You are in luck." He fished in his pocketbook for a penny and handed it to her ostentatiously. "Don't be long. I'll be waiting for you at the carriages."
"Well?" He asked when she returned to him. "Where to?"
Margaret consulted the map John offered to her and said a single word. "Spain."
"Spain? Oh, yes, because of Fanny, and all of her talk of the Alhambra. What do you think it will be like listening to her, once she's seen the real thing?"
"That's exactly why we must see the exhibit- to have something, anything to add to the conversation."
But that wasn't all of it. Margaret wanted to see any artifact of the culture in which her brother lived. This was especially true now that she had come to a decision. She would write to her brother, certainly, as he must be told of Papa's demise, but she would implore him not to visit. It would be too dangerous. And apart from that, it could only be harmful to John. Reputation was everything in business, her husband had said. And as Kirk's example proved, a family member's misconduct could cause irreparable damage if uncovered. It was best to keep Fred far, far away. As a fellow tradesman, he would be sure to understand.
But the Spain exhibit was thoroughly disappointing. Perhaps this was a consequence of her gloomy thoughts, for John had found much to admire in the collection of swords from Toledo. Yet Margaret found little of interest. Most of the articles on display were minerals, and those were in the form of ores of lead and silver. Only the quicksilver was worth a second look, in Margaret's opinion. The idea of metal being liquid was quite curious. But even mercury could hold her attention for only so long. Margaret found herself composing a small speech to her husband as she waited for him to finish his inspection of enameled shields. She sat on a heavy oak bench at the entrance to the exhibit and silently tried the words.
John, I should have told you this long ago, and surely Papa meant to as well, but I have a brother. He is wanted by the law. No, that was all wrong. Surely Fred's alleged criminality wasn't the first thing her husband should learn about her brother.
John, do you remember how I told you I had a friend living abroad? His name is Frederick, and he's my brother. Oh, that was worse.
Darling, I must tell you something. And you must promise you will not be angry, for it was done with the best of intentions. Some years ago I lost a member of my family. My parents never spoke of him and required me to do the same. It was very much a family secret. You see, I had a brother-
"Margaret, you look so disappointed." John joined her on the bench and assessed her with piercing eyes. "Not what you expected?"
"I had thought I would see lace mantillas," Margaret explained. This wasn't a fiction: she had assumed that surely such accessories would be somewhere to be found in the display.
"Then we must go upstairs. That is where most of the fine fabrics and lace goods are, if I recall correctly. Perhaps Spain has contributed some."
They climbed one of a pair of graceful, helical staircases, and at its landing John looked at his wife with the same speculative glance as before.
"You are winded."
"It is only that I have lain in bed for two weeks, John."
"We must not push you."
John insisted that she rest for a good five minutes before exploring the upper level of the palace, where a vast space filled with fabric awaited them. Of course, this fabric took many forms. There were cases filled with taffetas, lacis and whitework, and scores of women strolled around the room ogling the contents of each. Because of the great number of visitors, it was hard to view the contents of every case, but eventually the pair discerned that there were no mantillas in sight. It seemed Spain was not represented, although France and Switzerland surely were. John noted that any draper would kill to have the stock spread throughout the large space.
But the wares displayed were not limited to fabrics. There were shoes of silk and leather, and corsets of the latest fashion. There were also mantles, and shawls of all descriptions. The most fascinating were those woven of a single color but with a multitude of textures. This made them appear as though they had been hand-knit by someone with tremendous expertise, although clearly they had been machine-produced in a fraction of the time. And the texture made a single color take on a multitude of shades.
"Could you make these?" Margaret asked, as she ran her hand over a particularly lovely example.
John looked carefully at the shawl. "It is of cashmere, so no, not exactly. But it would be interesting to adapt the pattern to cotton manufacture." He lowered his brows as he contemplated the possibilities.
In the center of the room were several mannequins, each wearing a gown more elegant than the next. Margaret was drawn, mothlike, to a bell-skirted example in a shade of madder she would not be able to wear for at least six months, if not longer. It was easily the most beautiful garment she had even seen, although the fabric undoubtedly had something to do with it.
"Is it a damask?" she asked John, when he drew close.
He nodded. "Yes, and it's of exactly the type I've been contemplating lately. Do you see how the figures are of a slightly darker color than the background?"
Margaret nodded.
"That's what gives such depth and interest to the fabric." The manufacturer looked around him before continuing. "It would require dying the thread before the weaving process rather than after."
"I see!" Margaret responded. "That's why you are so eager to purchase-"
He placed a finger on her lips.
"We will talk later. I will only say now that you have the most excellent taste, my dear. This is a Gagelin-Opigez & Cie design. They purchase the best fabrics." John bent to look more closely at the tag. "It's a pity they don't list the manufacturer. There's a lot I could learn from them." He jumped up spryly and surprised her with his eagerness. "There's something I want to show you, downstairs."
He offered her his arm, and then gazed at her with concern.
"You are tired."
"Only a little." Margaret smiled reassuringly, but the crease between John's brows did not diminish.
"Come." He led her to a bench in the a quiet area of the floor, where the steady ticking of watches and clocks drowned out the drone of voices. "I am sorry. I forgot-"
"I am well, John. Please do not treat me as though I am made of glass. I am not broken, nor will I break."
He did not seem to hear.
"Wait here. I will see about hiring a cab to take us back to the hotel. I think I saw a stand outside."
Margaret released a long breath once her husband left the area. His concern was touching, but it was also infantilizing. Could he not see this? But she did not want to argue.
She was rested, she decided after some minutes. She crossed the room, as a strange device had caught her eye. It was part of the exhibit labeled "Philosophical Instruments." It was easily the oddest contraption she'd seen all day. It looked a bit like a dobby that children might ride at a fair, except instead of wooden horses arranged around a center pole, there were twelve small jars each partially filled with water. And unlike the former, this device did not revolve, nor was it quite so festively decorated.
"That is the Tempest Prognosticator, I believe." John rejoined her, and pointed to the small, worm-like creatures inside each container. "I was told about this during my first visit but did not have time to see for myself. Those leeches have a remarkable ability."
Margaret crinkled her nose with distaste as she recognized the same vile creatures that doctors used to draw blood. Each jar contained a single leech, and attached to each jar was a wire. On one end of this wire was a tiny piece of whale bone that hung inside the jar. The other end, outside the jar, was attached to a small hammer. And each hammer was poised to strike a metal ball that hung at the center of the device.
John found a small placard to the right of the device and read aloud. "The Tempest Prognosticator is an atmosphere electromagnetic telegraph, conducted by animal instinct. After having arranged this mousetrap contrivance, into each bottle was poured rain water, to the height of an inch and a half, and a leech placed in every bottle, which was to be its future residence; and when influenced by the electromagnetic state of the atmosphere a number of leeches ascended into the tubes; in doing which they dislodged the whalebone and caused the bell to ring."
"It is cruel," Margaret said. "They may be hideous creatures, but surely even a leech should live as nature intended. I don't know what I would do if someone attempted to take away my freedom in such a manner."
"Thankfully, that will never happen."
Margaret turned away. Somehow, that horrible device had removed the color from the day.
Margaret allowed her husband to escort her down the gently spiraling staircase and through the transepts that led to the entrance.
"We will come back again tomorrow, if you wish," John said.
"No, I think I am done here."
Their hansom ride home was in silence.
Margaret did not argue when John suggested they rest before dinner. There was no place she would rather be than in his arms, after all. She desperately craved the comfort of his embrace. And more than that, she desired him.
"I've missed you," she said, as he held her close. "I've missed this."
John kissed his wife gently, and looked deeply in her eyes. "Indeed. As have I. But you should rest."
He crossed through the sitting room to knock on an unobtrusive door. When Jane answered, he gave her quick instructions to ready Margaret for bed.
"I will have dinner sent up," John explained. "We can dine on the town tomorrow. Your choice. I have an errand to run. I'll be back within the hour." He left the room to find the concierge and Margaret left herself in the capable hands of her ladies' maid.
He was gone the full hour, arriving just before dinner, a paper-wrapped package under one arm.
"For you. But after dinner," he said.
The repast was lovely. Of course it was: as this was one of London's finest hotels, how could it be otherwise? But her food might have been made of cardboard, for all Margaret's interest in it. She was tired of dining in her nightdress in her bedroom, even if this particular bedroom was different from the usual, and even if John was with her on this particular occasion.
Margaret tried to be more positive. John was doing his best. But then again, wasn't she? She smiled her broadest smile as her husband looked up from his beef a la Windsor.
"Tell me, what was your favorite sight today?" he asked.
"You do not know?" his wife asked.
"Well, I am certain about your least favorite," John replied dryly.
"It was you, of course." This time Margaret's smile was real. "Your enthusiasm is infectious. Everyone around wanted to move to Milton and put themselves in your employ, I am sure of it."
John grinned. "And your second?"
"It is not fit to mention over dinner, I am afraid."
"Then I shall just have to finish!" John cleaned his plate with alacrity and pushed it aside. "Do tell."
"I will not."
"Let me guess. By any chance did it cost a penny?"
Margaret blushed, and John laughed.
"I am certain you are not the only visitor the Crystal Palace to find the retiring rooms a great attraction."
"Can you imagine how improved Milton would be by such facilities?"
"I can imagine the expense. Although only last week a scheme came before the magistrates. There is an idea to lay fifty miles of sewers throughout the city. Now would be the time to install such facilities, if the city were so inclined."
"It would be a great boon to the health of the community. Particularly to the poorer classes."
John nodded, and lifted his glass.
"And what was your favorite attraction today, John?"
"Apart from you?" he smiled. "Without question, the Spanish swords."
"Really?"
"I envy Fanny the opportunity to visit a country so closely bound to the middle ages."
"You would like to visit Spain." Margaret took a deep breath. "John, I-"
John picked up the package next the the table and passed it to her. But the moment had also passed and she lost her courage. Frustrated with herself, Margaret tore at the wrapping and was was surprised to find a charcoal grey shawl worked with a paisley design in lighter shades of grey. She recognized the pattern: it was one she had studied for a good five minutes earlier that afternoon. The lighter colors were a result of the clever illusion of the weaving she had discussed with John.
"You seemed cold, earlier," John explained. "I am sorry that it is not in black, but there was not that great of a selection from which to choose."
"I will wear it tomorrow. Papa would understand, and no one here will know. Thank you, John." She rose from her seat to kiss him.
How very thoughtful he was.
"I think I will retire. Will you join me?" She could not hide the hopefulness from her voice, nor the passion.
"I thought I might read for a while. The lobby had copies of The Economist. I missed last week's edition with all that was going on."
"I see." Margaret bit her lip. "Good night, then."
She retired to her bed, and did her best to sleep, while he sat in the next room, reading his analyses of the stock market and its bulls and bears. But sleep would not come. She was still awake, hours later when John retired, although he assumed she slept. She waited until his breathing was light and even, then crept from the bed.
Her travel case just where she left it, on the inlaid writing table in the sitting room adjacent. She removed a quill, a bottle of ink and the several black-rimmed pages she needed. After several false starts, she was happy with her effort. She folded the mistakes into tight squares and threw them into the fire. The final product she folded once, then carefully addressed its envelope in the way she'd watched her father do. "Messrs. Barbour, Cadiz, Spain," was written large across its front, while in the upper corner, were the very small initials, "F. D." Margaret rummaged in the case for the container of stamps that should be there, but found it missing. That was of no consequence, however, as John was certain to have some. His Gladstone bag was just by the wing chair. She sat down next to it and unlatched the bag, unfolding its two halves.
While John was a highly organized sort, a Gladstone bag was not. Margaret needed to unpack its contents to find what she was after, a small silver box. She removed the needed postage and returned the container to the bag, then carefully began to repack its other belongings.
She didn't mean to pry. The envelope was not sealed and its contents spilled out on their own. And such images she'd never seen before! Margaret was certain the first would be forever etched into her brain. She picked up the small lithograph and held it by its edges, as though the image itself might burn her. She examined it carefully, turning it one way and then another, as it was impossible to tell which way was right side up.
A blush crept steadily from her breasts upwards, but still Margaret kept looking, at one print, and then another. And still another. She could not help herself. She was dispassionate as any scientist, lighting a candle and pulling it close to her so that she could view each images' tiniest details.
The bright pool of light blinded her to all but the prints before her. Therefore she was startled to hear John's cry of vexation.
"Margaret!"
But she did not look up. Instead, she gathered the lithographs, and slowly, carefully returned them to their envelope. Then she stood ramrod straight, and chin lifted, returned the packet to her John.
Quietly she asked, "Is this really what you prefer to me?"
Margaret did not wait for an answer. She swept past her husband with the hauteur of a high-born princess, pulled the door closed behind her, and turned the key until the lock engaged.
Author's notes:
Thank you again to everyone is reading, and especially to those of you who are reviewing! Thanks especially to those of you who lent support about work. Another colleague resigned today (two in the past month) which makes it harder for the rest of us. Hopefully things will improve soon, or HR will put a stop to the problem. Fingers crossed!
I will get straight to the historical references, as there are quite a few of them this go round. I have never been to London, so my locations are from modern and historical maps. So if I get any of my geography wrong (or anything else!), please feel free to correct me.
The Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations opened in Hyde Park May 1, 1851 and closed to the public at 5 p.m. on October 11, 1851. Closing ceremonies were a few days later, on October 15, 1851. Mills from Manchester and Oldham (part of greater Manchester), and the U.S. sent working displays of machinery. These were displayed alongside each other in an exhibit called "Machines in Motion," right next to the carriages exhibit. In the exhibits the machines accounting for all eleven stages of cotton production, from raw wool to thread, to cloth were displayed. Based on what I have read in the magazine, The Illustrated Exhibitor, many of the machines were functional with attendants to demonstrate and explain the process, as in modern science museums.
Right next to this exhibit was one of several of the first public restrooms ("retiring rooms") to be installed in England. They were designed by George Jennings and cost a penny to use. For that penny, a person would get a shoe shine, a towel and of course, the use of a flush toilet. During the exhibition, they were used 827,280 times, drumming up a lot of excitement. Ten years later, building codes suggest that new middle-class homes were being built with toilets and sewer systems were being built to keep up with demand.
Close to Hyde Park, in Mayfair, is Brown's Hotel. It was opened in 1837 by Lord Byron's butler. Because this hotel is the epitome of luxury and John was showing off by taking rooms there, I very, very much wanted to give Margaret and John a working bathroom in their suite. But flush toilets were just getting started in London 1851 and the city did not have the infrastructure to support them (which led directly to the "Big Stink" in 1856, as people began installing toilets without considering that the insufficient/non-existent sewage system couldn't handle the additional burden). In reality, Brown's did not introduce bathrooms in all rooms until 1884, and when they did so it was advertised as a novelty, meaning no other hotel in London was doing it. (The hotel may have been restrooms for guests before then, but they would have been shared, perhaps one per floor, the way some very old-fashioned hotels still do.) Note also that the hotel restaurant was invented by Brown's, but not until 1880. Until then, guests rented private dining suites if they wanted to eat in the hotel (but outside of their room).
For this chapter I referred to a variety of sources related to the Great Exhibition. Among them were a floor plan of the Great Exhibition from the Museum of Science and Industry, Dickinsons' Comprehensive Pictures of the Great Exhibition of 1851; The Illustrated Exhibitor, which describes Middleton's Convertible Carriage, and gives details about almost every other item on display in the Palace, Recollections of the Great Exhibition, 1851, which shows the carriage display in color. Reports by the Juries on the subjects in the thirty classes into which the exhibition was divided (1851) lists the prizes awarded at the exhibition. There were 2 main classes of prizes. A council medal was somewhat analogous to a grand prize, but it not given in every category, only if they thought a particular entry had distinguished itself enough to deserve it. Prize medals seem analogous to the blue ribbons given at state fairs in the US, and were given to multiple entrants in every category. For cotton, a council medal was not actually given, so I've made up John's two council medals out of whole cloth. :) Not only fabrics but embroidery, laces and actual clothing, including gowns, shoes and corsets were displayed at the exhibition. The worlds first couturier, Frederick Worth, got his start at the exhibition. He was working at French design house Gagelin-Opigez & Cie at the time, and contributed several designs to the exhibition. The gown Margaret admires is his. As I could not find any records of the actual designs he contributed, I based the description on a gown in the Paris-based Journal des Demoiselles from 1851.
"Dobby" is the 1850s word for carousel or merry-go round, and the Tempest Prognosticator was real, and displayed at the Exhibition, but never put into production. I do not think animal rights activists today would approve.