Not a Gentleman
Chapter 26
Epiphany
"Margaret!" Edith swept into the sitting room, her arms outstretched. In a moment she located her target and pulled her cousin close to murmur her regrets. "You poor, poor dear. We would have been there in a heartbeat if only we'd known. But Henry's letter followed us from spa to spa. It was only when we returned that we learned the news. Oh, to lose your dear papa and then—"Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Are you quite recovered?"
Margaret nodded and did her best to keep her features even. Clearly this afternoon would be one for a brave face.
"I lost two, you know." Her cousin bit her lip in surprise as the words tumbled out, seemingly without forethought.
"You did?" Margaret stepped back and her eyes widened, both at the news of the miscarriages and at the fact that her cousin had chosen to keep this information from her.
"It was not easy. But then Sholto came along. He did a lot to soften the pain."
Edith smiled angelically as she removed a grosgrain-trimmed cloak to reveal a blue-grey gown in keeping with the season. What's more, the silk moiré fabric was the exact color of Edith's eyes, Margaret noted, and suited her coloring to perfection. The skirt had the flounces Fanny had stated were de rigeur this season, based on her reading of La Moniteur de la Mode, but the bodice was missing the pagoda sleeves Fanny had banged on about incessantly. However, given the cool weather, it really wouldn't make sense for a garment to have such wide sleeves, Margaret reasoned. Perhaps fashion did bow every now and then to reality.
"Where is Sholto?"
"With Nurse. He is cranky at this time of day, and would not do well among such a large group of adults."
"Yes, of course." Margaret sighed. "Is he much grown? I was hoping to meet him."
"Well, I'm sure that can be arranged, silly. You will be in London for some, will you not?" Edith glanced across the room. "What do you think the men are talking about?
Margaret had been remiss. As the captain was not at the wedding, it was her obligation to introduce him to John. But clearly Henry had seen to that. The three men had installed themselves by the fire and were animatedly talking about something or other. Margaret glanced at her timepiece. Still a half hour until luncheon.
"Would you mind terribly if we visited your dressing room?" Edith asked.
"No, of course not." Again, she was remiss. She should be seeing to her cousin's every comfort. Edith should not need to ask such things. Of course, she might have need of the facilities, even though it was only a short carriage ride between Harley Street and the hotel.
"You really need to let your girl go," Edith giggled once they were alone. She strolled over to the vanity and patted the chair. "Your hair is just—I don't know how to put it without insulting you, Margaret, but I hope you weren't planning on leaving your rooms today. Braids? Really?"
Margaret sat down at the vanity and peered at herself in the small mirror that hung above the table. She patted her coiffure. It seemed perfectly serviceable to her, and not at all ugly.
"I don't think it is so very bad," Margaret began as her cousin quickly dismantled this morning's effort, as well as her pride.
"Have you seen the plates in the latest Bon Ton? There are two hair styles in fashion at the moment. One is the "Mary Stuart", but it wouldn't do for you." Edith shook her head and clucked as she ran a comb through Margaret's thick curls.
"Why is that?" Margaret was almost afraid to ask, as an insult or compliment both seemed equally likely replies, given Edith's current temper.
"Well, the "Mary Stuart" is rather severe, and it requires stick straight hair to pull off. It would take hours to iron yours straight. And even then, the style puffs out over the ears. A perfectly oval face is needed for it to look well."
"I see…" There was the insult, a very oblique one. So oblique that perhaps Edith was unaware that she'd made it.
"It's important to be realistic about ones assets and defects. You, for instance, have wonderfully thick and lustrous hair. We should take advantage of that. We'll dress it in the "Chambord," like mine. Your hair will take well to it, and of course that style hides all manner of facial imperfections."
And another!
They weren't going to talk about Edith's miscarriages, Margaret realized. This onslaught of petty slings and arrows was Edith's attempt to deflect attention from her previous outburst. Margaret smiled ruefully. There had been a time she might have picked up the rope her cousin had offered and entered into an all-out tug-of-war. But now she let it lie there.
And at any rate, Edith was right. Margaret knew this even before she saw the quick results of her cousin's handiwork. Edith was always correct about matters of clothing and style. Margaret's hair did look nicer, much nicer than before. It rose over the forehead in a slight roll, and was pulled close behind her ears, allowing a mass of slightly-controlled curls to cascade down her neck.
"Thank you," she said instead. "I am sure the men are missing us. Shall we rejoin them?"
Edith looked duly impressed as she walked into the Crystal room. The table held a low arrangement of yellow roses (that was John's doing, Margaret realized with surprise), and was simply set, but with high-quality crystal and silverware that sparkled in the early afternoon light. The bone china place settings were understated, rimmed with a simple, thin band of gold rather than the exuberant flourishes that were all the rage. The overall effect was quite restrained, Margaret thought.
Her cousin nodded in approval as she took her seat and read the one of the hand-lettered menus placed on each salad plate.
"Tomato bisque sounds lovely. Mivart's had suggested it for our wedding banquet, but Mama thought it too risky." She rolled her eyes. "As though we would have a mishap at the table!"
Margaret had decided against turtle soup, although she was certain her cousin would have been thrilled to dine on such an expensive delicacy. John would have had no problem with the selection, but Margaret found she could not justify the expense. She knew her cousin to be a person of rarified tastes, but also one who looked down on arrivistes. Although Edith might exclaim over the novelty of a dish she'd consumed only one or two times previously, Margaret knew her well enough to understand that it would not do to outshine her golden-haired cousin. Serving such a soup would likely cause Edith to infer that Margaret's industrialist husband was aping a class to which he'd never belong.
In contrast, tomato bisque, made of a fruit that was inexpensive in summer, but glasshouse-grown in autumn was just expensive enough at this time of year to appeal to Edith's taste for the hard-to-obtain.
Yes, she'd thought this through. The amount of forethought resembled a game of chess, Margaret thought with a smile. She'd always known her cousin needed to be the queen bee in all situations, but it had never really bothered her until now. Margaret pushed the thought aside, and concentrated on the conversation instead.
"Which London sights have you taken in since you've been in town?" the captain asked. This elicited a blush from both Margaret and John.
Her husband replied. "Just the Exhibition, for the most part. As the mills have a rather active display, I've needed to see to it. Other than that, we've kept to our rooms."
Edith smiled. "Well, you are newlyweds. The proper thing would be for the two of you to stay with us at Harley Street, but I won't ask, because I know you would decline. I am sure the reason you are away from Milton, after all, is to enjoy some privacy."
Margaret felt her color rising, and wished she had a fan.
"We will be touring more of London in the coming days, if Margaret is feeling up to it," John offered.
Edith shot her cousin a look of concern, and Margaret silently prayed that the conversation would not veer towards Green Park and the prior day's events.
Thankfully, someone seemed to be listening.
"You must visit the Horticultural Gardens," Edith said, "Margaret has been there many times, of course, so she can be your guide. It's not quite as nice at this time of year, but some of the trees will have autumn colors."
"That sounds like an excellent—"
Edith did not allow John to finish his thought. "Oh, I know! The Diorama! Darling, don't you think that would be just perfect?"
The captain shrugged. "It's likely to rain. Madame Tussaud's might be just the thing. I hear it's quite historical."
Edith emitted a giggle-snort at the déclassé suggestion. Her expression said, "Can you even imagine, Margaret?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of the Polytechnic Institution," John said. "Or perhaps an offering of the Philharmonic Society."
"Yes, well, both of those are perfectly fine choices," Edith agreed reluctantly.
"And I had also promised Margaret a tour of the silk weavers in Spitalfields's."
Edith made a moue of disdain.
"And I think we would very much like to dine out tomorrow. Somewhere besides Brown's. I fear Margaret is becoming bored by the hotel's offerings."
"That's not true," Margaret replied. "But I would like to dine in a restaurant. That would be a novel experience. But why tomorrow?"
John smiled enigmatically.
"Well," Henry said with a cough, "There are a number of places I can recommend that are suitable for ladies. I can give you a list if you'd like. There are a few not so far from Hyde Park. Speaking of which, can you tell us more about your display at the exhibition?" Henry asked. "I did visit it when we did the tour some months ago, but there was quite a crush. I wasn't able to hear everything your man had to say. Is the display meant to show the processes shared among mills or within a single mill?"
"We shared the expense of mounting the display, but each of the mills has the capacity to do each of the tasks demonstrated, from opening cotton, to carding, spinning it and weaving it. A power loom is on display, but some mills, like Marlborough also have a Jacquard shed. And there are certain concerns that dye the thread after it has been spun, or dye or print the fabric after it comes off the looms. I have been thinking…"
John was interrupted by the removal of soup plates and the presentation of the main service. As it was luncheon, the meal Margaret selected was rather light, including only a lobster salad—Edith's favorite—plus chateaubriand with mushrooms, barded pigeon, potatoes au gratin, asparagus, and flageolets.
Edith clapped in delight. "Margaret, you are a first-class hostess! And someone has very good taste in wine," she noted, as a server poured from a bottle of Clos de Vougeot. She raised her glass in John's general direction.
"That would be the sommelier," John said drily.
"I would love to hear your thoughts regarding textile production. Are you thinking about some type of vertical articulation?" Henry asked.
"Yes, that's it exactly. There are economies that can be made when one runs all aspects of a process from beginning to end. At the moment, jacquard fabrics are a small portion of our production, as we do not dye our own yarns. It's difficult to turn a profit given the outlay for raw materials. But if we were to dye our own and scale up, that would change. Several years ago, I did intend to branch out into dyeing and purchased some of the glassware needed to begin experimentation. I'd even reached out to a chemist. But a downturn in the market ended that foray before it began."
"And now that you've rebounded—"
"Henry," Edith asked her brother-in-law after taking a bit of her entree, "have you tried this pigeon? It reminds me a bit of the dish we had at the Campbells last month. Do you remember?"
Henry was nonplussed. John smiled benignly.
Margaret ignored Edith's continued chatter about wildfowl and instead drank in the scene. The captain and Henry were dressed to the height of fashion—not ostentatiously, but it was easy for a trained eye to discern that their tailors were from the Row. Edith, of course, was the epitome of good taste, dressed in fabrics that were clearly expensive, but understated. John was a contrast to these three gentlefolk. There were superficial similarities, of course. He was every bit as good looking as the men, although in a stronger, more masculine way. Likewise, his suit was made of fine worsted wool, the best England had to offer. But what else would one expect from a textile manufacturer? The difference lay in the details. The suit's color was not the vogue for anyone but undertakers and its cut proclaimed that it was made by a tailor from somewhere well-outside London. And his furnishings, from shirt studs to cravat, were several years out of date.
Then there was the room itself. It was lovely and elegant, but not, Margaret knew, quite as lovely and elegant as Mivart's, where Edith had married, or even Clarendon's.
In her second epiphany of the day, Margaret realized that this was by design. John had no desire to proclaim to his so-called "betters" that he was their equal (even though he knew this to be true). Rather, his goal was to show that that his business had met some financial standard that these gentlefolk might recognize as "good enough." Therefore, it was acceptable (perhaps even preferable) to dress differently, or less fashionably, to let the "betters" keep the culture they had built for themselves. Margaret looked at her husband with new understanding. He gazed back at her quizzically as Edith's monologue ended.
"You've said little this afternoon, Margaret. Do you have an opinion about the pigeon you'd like to share?"
She nearly choked on her beef as she tried not to laugh. It was difficult to stay angry at the man.
"It's not often I get to hear you talk business. I have been very interested to hear about this—what did you call it, Henry? Vertical articulation?" This was true, of course. John hadn't talked business much with her since they'd married. That was a contrast from their engagement. Why was that?
"The only constant in business in change. Therefore, one must continue to consider how the marketplace will react to even the smallest alterations in technology. The Exhibition has been a valuable asset in making these predictions."
"How so?" the captain asked, just as an array of desserts was served. After a barrage of delighted exclamations by Edith, the conversation continued.
"Were you able to spend any time looking at the smaller inventions in the hall?" John asked. Both men nodded.
"There were an overwhelming variety of ideas. British—and to a lesser degree, European—creativity is astounding," the captain ventured.
"Yes, but what did you see? If you were going to predict how life is likely to change in the next five or ten years, what would you say?"
"I would say that rail travel is likely to become more luxurious," said Henry.
"And carriage travel," the captain added. "The springs on the carriages I saw were amazing!"
"I agree," John said. "Now, how would that likely affect the marketplace?"
"People may be more likely to travel, which means more rail lines," the captain began.
"And more products related to travel, from portmanteaus to overcoats," Henry finished.
"Exactly," said John. "Now, what about textiles?"
The brothers thought, and were silent. Finally, Henry spoke.
"There was a large display of designs for some type of printing blocks. Do you remember, Edith? You thought they were for wallpaper, but on closer inspection it seemed they were for printing cotton."
"Yes," Edith said as she helped herself to another serving of semifreddo. "There were quite a lot of those."
"So that suggests that printed fabrics—cotton fabrics—may be coming into vogue?" Henry suggested.
John nodded. "I am not at liberty to give names at this point, but I am in talks to buy a dyeing concern in Milton. The company dyes yarn, which would mesh nicely into Marlborough Mills current jacquard production. They also dye finished fabric, which would extend our production another step. And just before their recent difficulty, they purchased the machinery to print via brass rollers."
"Why are they selling?" Henry asked.
"Embezzlement by one of the partners. I can't say much more at this time, as they are hoping to keep it quiet. But I have reviewed the books and agree with the findings of the other partner. Key suppliers were not paid for many months. Their only option is to sell up."
"I see," Henry said. "You would not be taking on their debt?"
"That is something I would not do. To be clear, they are liquidating to clear these debts. The other partner is an honorable man. I have had dealings with him in the past."
The captain spoke up. "My brother and I have been thinking about this for some time. Our capital is sitting in the three percents and we feel we could do much better. We are eager to dabble in the cotton industry."
Margaret felt something in the air change. Across from her, Edith's eyes widened, and to Margaret's left, John stiffened.
"I would not call what I do 'dabbling.'"
"My brother only meant that we would not actually be involved in the day-to-day running—" Henry glared at his brother.
"Dabbling implies a very casual, lackadaisical approach to investing. I am not interested in investors who are likely to liquidate at the first bump in the market."
"I assure you, we would be in it for the long haul." It was clear to Margaret, at least, that Henry keenly wanted to be a part of this business venture.
"Marlborough Mills has seen tremendous growth over the past few years, but in the short term of any business cycle there can be downturns. As you know, we and the other mills in Milton have just weathered a strike. It was difficult, but after a great deal of hard work, we bounced back over the last few months. Not all of Milton's mills did. An investor must be aware of the short-term risks. The three percents exist for a very good reason and are a legitimate choice for some. The dabblers, I'd call them." John didn't glower. He didn't need to.
"I would love to talk more," Henry said. "Perhaps over brandy and cigars?"
"Edith," the captain asked, "don't you have an appointment this afternoon?"
Margaret couldn't help but smile. What an abrupt dismissal!
But Edith nodded. "Yes, to the modiste." She smiled. "I am in need of a new winter wardrobe."
"That's a coincidence," Margaret said. "I have an appointment with Miss Sloane this afternoon myself. John, you had the concierge send a message, didn't you?"
"Yes, but—" John began.
Edith interrupted. "Not Miss Sloane! Oh, you hadn't heard! Well, I can't tell you the details in mixed company."
"There was a house of ill repute above her store," the captain pointed out helpfully. "In the Burlington Arcade of all places. It's possible she was connected."
"Darling! Don't say such things!" Edith reproached her husband, but turned to Margaret with the sparkling eyes and flushed skin of someone with a juicy tale to tell. "It's true, though. They say that some of her girls were girls of another kind. Anyway, she's no longer there. So, she must be guilty." Edith shook her head and the her golden singlets bounced in happy discord. "Mademoiselle DuMaurier is now London's most fashionable modiste. That's whom I'll be visiting, and you are certainly welcome to tag along. Since it looks like we may be doing business together we can just put anything you order on my account and we can settle up later."
"John?" Margaret looked at her husband questioningly.
"Where is Mademoiselle DuMaurier's atelier?" he asked.
"Oh, it's not far at all," Edith said breezily. "At her house on Grosvenor Square. She sees very few people, you see. It's not at all a commercial venture."
"Nonetheless, I'm not comfortable with the two of you walking there unaccompanied."
"Walk?" Edith laughed. "Why would we walk when our carriage is outside? We can bring Margaret's maid, as we'll need her to carry anything we happen to purchase. And if you're worried about protection, our driver is a burly fellow. He'll keep us safe."
John sighed. "Go."
"But I don't have a bon-"
"Oh, but you do!" Edith seemed ever more merry, seemingly at Margaret's expense. "When your husband stopped by yesterday, he mentioned that it was crushed. I gave him the address of a milliner straightaway."
John nodded, color rising to his cheeks, and Margaret remembered he'd returned to the hotel the previous evening with a paper-wrapped parcel under his arm.
"You'll find it in the armoire," he murmured.
Margaret rose. "We'll leave you, then. When would you like me to return?"
"Let's say five?" John smiled before turning back to his guests.
It would have been quicker to walk to Grosvenor Square Margaret realized as the brougham pulled into traffic. It was a distance of only ten short blocks between the hotel and their destination, but traffic was horrific at this time of day.
Margaret leaned back against the cushions of the plushly appointed carriage and listed to her cousin carry on. As always, Edith had a lot to say.
"We'll stop at duMaurier's and then back to our house. I know how much you want to see Sholto!"
"I do. I'm sure he's everything you've described."
"You know, your Mr. Thornton is growing on me, Margaret."
Margaret smiled, although her patience had already been worn thin by her cousin's need to sidetrack the conversation over luncheon. "Is that so?"
"I was shocked when he came by yesterday! Why in heaven's name didn't he send a servant? But then," she reached across the carriage to clasp her cousin's hand, "the look in his eyes as he talked about what had happened to you—why it very nearly brought me to tears! He loves you so much!"
"Yes, he does. But I told you that months ago."
"It was just so hard to believe at the time, after those letters you sent describing him as such an odious man, with odious northern ways."
"I was mistaken. I told you that in a letter, as well."
"I'm not so sure you were."
Margaret's eyes widened at the slight, and Edith hastened to explain. "What I mean to say is that your dear Mr. Thornton, while a charming, ruggedly handsome man is not the type of man you would have been expected to fall in love with. He is not of our circle."
Traffic was at a standstill, Margaret noticed. She could easily open the door and exit this conversation. But that would just make things worse with John. She took a deep breath and maintained her temper.
"No, he is not of your circle. But I am of his circle. Do you disapprove, Edith?" she asked coolly.
"No, I find I do not. It seems that all of us may be better of from the connection. But you will need to train him."
"Train him?"
"All men need training, Margaret. Surely your mother told you that. It's just that some men need training more sorely than others."
And my Mr. Thornton, with his northern ways falls into that latter category, I gather?"
Edith smiled. "Pish posh, Margaret. You are being much too serious! You heard the ridiculous suggestion my own husband made this evening. Madame Tussaud's. As if any one of the quality would be seen dead in such a place. And this from a man of breeding!"
She continued, incognizant of the effect of her words. "Now, Henry will provide a most adequate list of places for your evening out tomorrow. Have you figured out the occasion yet?"
Margaret shook her head in response and Edith smiled smugly. "You will. Don't let him take you to The Symposium. It's ghastly."
"Ghastly?"
"No one from our circle would ever be seen there, Margaret. It's a pedestrian attempt by that showman chef—what's his name?"
"I have no idea who you are talking about."
"That chef who is in the papers all the time. He is trying to profit off the exhibition. And failing miserably from what I hear."
"You feel very strongly about this, Edith."
"He's opened up Gore house to… anyone!"
There was the crux of the matter.
The carriage started moving, and Margaret took the opportunity to change the subject.
"I was very surprised to hear the captain and Henry suggest investing in Marlborough Mills. I would not have thought Londoners to be interested in northern industry. You seemed to be surprised as well."
Edith shook her head. "No, not at all. Henry broached the idea to me at your wedding, actually."
"So you knew he was going to bring it up?"
She nodded. "We've talked about it at length on several occasions."
"May I ask— how went this discussion with your husband? Do you often talk about such things?"
Edith giggled. "Lord, no! Cousin, haven't you learned how marriage works? We are not equals."
Margaret frowned. These were not the words she had hoped to hear.
Edith continued. "I am the one who brought the money to the marriage, remember? And more of it is tied up in a future inheritance. But it is important for any man to feel that he is in charge. So, of course I would not discuss such things as investments with my husband. Those are his decisions. In fact, I make it seem as though I couldn't care less about such things. But Henry understands. He's known since the outset that I think investing in your mill is a good thing. So, it will happen. Henry will manage it."
"I see."
It seemed Edith was playing chess, too.
Margaret never enjoyed visiting the modiste. Undressing in front of others made her feel like a prize turkey on display, ready to be poked and prodded. But even before the plucking commenced, tape measures would be wrapped around her bust and waist, like a farmer choosing the best specimen to send to the county fair.
It was some consolation that Mademoiselle duMaurier was quite kind, and more genuine than Margaret had expected. For one thing, she was actually French, unlike most of the Gallic-named modistes found in the better streets of London. For another she was older, and unmarried, but did not hide this fact behind the title "Madame," or dress in garments meant for someone half her age. Margaret found this most refreshing.
It was a greater consolation that Edith was served first. Margaret sat in a plush arm chair with half an eye on her cousin, and half on the fashion plates in Le Bon Ton. It was a bit exhausting to watch her cousin. Edith enjoyed the attention, and had no qualms about disrobing for a relative stranger. She knew exactly what she did and did not want in her winter's wardrobe, and Margaret nodded in recognition as she saw the modiste's eyebrows raise in amusement.
She was surprisingly straightforward when it was finally Margaret's turn.
"You are here for new mourning clothes, I gather."
Margaret nodded and was surprised to find tears stinging her eyes.
Edith rescued her.
"Her father passed away a little over three weeks ago. As you can see, her clothes were made over in a hurry. They belonged to her mother in law, who is a widow."
The modiste examined the fabric of the bodice closely as she took Margaret's measurements over the garment. "It is very well-made. This is very high-quality silk. Not French, but almost as good. Will you take off the garment, please?"
Jane helped Margaret out of her bodice, skirt, and petticoats, laying each garment on a nearby chair. The modiste quickly took her measurements, then took up a sketch book to draw a quick likeness of her form. Margaret was surprised when the modiste did not enquire about the bruise on her arm, although it was clear the woman noticed it. Instead the dressmaker engaged her in a discussion of her likes and dislikes, nodding as she developed a clear picture of her client's taste.
Then, surprisingly, she picked up the abandoned bodice and inspected it closely, walking towards a window as she did so.
"Did you know that every garment tells us its history?" The modiste smiled as she ran her fingers over the garments seams. "Madame Lennox, you said this garment was made over in a hurry, but this is not the case. In fact, it was made over twice. And both times, with great care and consideration."
"You can tell that by looking at the fabric?" Edith asked.
"No, by looking at the quality of the stitches. The first person who sewed this garment did so ten years ago. Of course, I guess this by the cut of the bodice. It is a little bit dated, no? It was not sewn by a modiste. The stiches are lovely and even, but there are certain time-saving tricks even the lowliest dressmaker knows. This seamstress did not follow them."
"And the second person?" Margaret asked.
"In contrast, this person is a professional. Do you see this stitch? Look, how perfect." The modiste walked over to Margaret and pointed to tiny, even stiches running along the margin of one of the new pieces of fabric on the bodice. "I have not seen this stitch since I was an apprentice. It is called "point à rabattre sous le main."
"A professional?" Margaret repeated. She looked at Jane, who blushed.
"Yes. I can see that this bodice was damaged in several places and ingeniously mended. What I would not give to have someone of such talent on my staff!"
"Jane, this is quite a compliment Mademoiselle duMaurier has paid you." The girl turned an even deeper shade of crimson.
"Mrs. Thornton, may I speak with you in private?"
"Yes, Jane. Is something the matter?" The pair left the room, but Margaret returned with alacrity.
"I am sorry, Edith, but I need to take Jane back to the hotel straight away."
Margaret expected to find him in his shirtsleeves, sans cravat and even waistcoat, behind the desk in the sitting room. She was not disappointed. He came to her as she entered the room but wrapped his arms around her only after she buried her face within the wrinkled folds of his linen shirt.
"What's wrong, my love?" He asked quietly.
"Nothing." She shook her head and sighed.
"There must be something."
"I learned a few things today."
"Do you care to elaborate?"
"Some things about you."
"Oh." He was deflated.
"No. Good things. Some parts of your worldview, for one thing. I think I begin to understand."
"Do you?"
She felt his lips graze her forehead, and she shuddered. "Yes. And I think I agree."
He stepped back, and lifted her chin so that he could gaze into her eyes. "Do you?"
"Yes. I was troubled by your use of... wealth. Why you had such a lavish dinner during the strike. Why we took such expensive rooms at Brown's, why you said I needed to dress as the wife of a manufacturer. But after today I understand."
He took her hand and kissed her fingertips, then led her toward the bedroom.
She stopped him. "But that's not everything."
"No?" He chuckled. "What else did you learn today?"
"That I appreciate your patience with my cousin."
"She did behave very strangely today."
"I learned something from her, too. Didn't it seem like she was completely uninterested in what you were discussing over luncheon? Yet she and Henry have been talking about investing in the mill since the wedding. Or so she said. She just didn't want her husband to know it was her idea."
"Why not?"
"She said he needs think it was his idea."
"Ah. I see." He frowned.
"Then she said I did not understand how marriage works."
"Oh, Margaret." John ran his hands through his hair in a familiar gesture of frustration.
"John?"
"I owe you an apology."
She offered him her hand and he led her to the bed, seating her on its edge. He knelt by her side and carefully folded back her skirts, smoothing each with a carefulness that was tantalizing in its slowness. He removed her boots, and unclipped each garter, pausing to smooth the indentation left in its absence. His lips then anointed a line of newly-uncovered flesh as he slowly rolled her stockings down her legs. He then reversed the journey, moving higher still until she gasped at the pleasure his mouth was able to produce.
John's voice was hoarse with desire and regret when he finally spoke.
"I shouldn't have said those words. That there is only one head to a family."
"Is it a hydra, then?" She half laughed for fear of crying.
"No, just some two-headed beast. The one with two backs."
She laughed freely this time, at her northern brute's casual reference to Shakespeare.
"We are partners, Margaret, in our wedded life."
"You truly mean this?"
He rested his head on one knee as he caressed the other.
"I do think it would be fair for me to claim senior partner, as I have significantly more experience. And that means at times I will have stronger opinions—"
"I've noticed that."
"And might even overrule you. Occasionally."
"For example?"
"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it."
She would not argue. Not now.
"Will you undress me?" she asked instead. She rose and exposed her back to him. Slowly he unfastened the hooks that ran the length of her bodice and she shrugged herself out of the garment.
She turned to face him as she folded the garment back on itself, so that the finely-stitched square of fabric was exposed.
"I learned something else today."
"What's that?" he murmured as reached behind her, slipping his fingers into the gap of her corset in search of the tails of her laces.
"That you are a better seamstress than I." She showed him the evidence and smiled.
"Tailor. But yes, definitely your better."
They collapsed onto the bed in a fit of laughter.
"You will pay for that remark."
"Gladly. For as long as you desire."
Author notes:
Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and review. As always, I value your comments. I takes me a good amount of time to do the research and writing for each chapter, so I appreciate it when people let me know their thoughts.
Historical Notes
When devising the menu for the luncheon and dinner, I did a search for Victorian menus from 1851 as of course, I wanted to be accurate. 😊 I did not find many menus from England from that time period, so I widened my search by time and by location. The New York Public Library's Buttolph collection was a great help. In 1889, Mrs. Buttolph donated over 25,000 menus to the library, continuing to add to the collection until her death in 1924. In this collection I found menus from American hotels from 1851-1853 and Manchester and London hotels from the 1860s. I think it is likely that in 1851, American cuisine would have lagged behind the cuisine of London a bit, as London and Paris were the international leaders at that time. So, I reasoned that something on an autumn American menu in 1852 may have been in fashion in 1851 in London the previous autumn.
Turtle soup was fashionable throughout the 1800s, but as sea turtles grew more endangered, the soup became more expensive. As a result, turtle soup appeared on fewer menus. However, it remained part of the culinary scene as evidenced by the rise of mock turtle soup. This was a substitute for turtle soup made out of organ meat. It is on many middle-class menus from the 1850s in the US and England. As it was on the menu for Abraham Lincoln's inauguration in 1861, I think is safe to say that both turtle and mock turtle soup stayed in fashion for a good amount of time.
I chose the other items for the luncheon from the Tremont hotel menu and the wine from the daily menu for the Irving House Hotel in New York City, as it gave me an idea of what vintages were available at the time.
La Moniteur de la Mode was a bilingual magazine published monthly in French and English. It described what was being produced at the finest Paris ateliers and made pronouncements of what should and should not be worn at different times of day in any given season. It also contained patterns and instructions for small articles of clothing. The Autumn, 1851, issue describes the cape and gown Edith wears, and there is a fashion plate of the ensemble, as well. Additionally, this issue describes the two new hair styles Edith describes to Margaret. Le Bon Ton was another fashion magazine of the time. It was published under various names from 1851 through 1927.
I referred to Tallis's Illustrated London for descriptions of the locations Edith suggests John and Margaret visit. This two-volume set was published to coincide with the Great Exhibition and gives details of each neighborhood in London, as well as many of the hotels and entertainments available at the time. Edith refers to Mivart's hotel. Mivart's was established in 1815, and was sold to the Claridges in 1854. Tallis describes the Mivart as being the hotel where visiting royalty stayed (and therefore presumably a cut above Brown's.) I would therefore see it as the hotel where a socially conscious person such as Edith would very much want to have been married.
Tallis and other sources also discuss the lack of restaurants in London in 1851. At this time there were many clubs where upper class men could dine, but few places for ladies to dine apart from confectionaries. If a woman was to dine out (with her husband, father, or guardian, of course) it would typically be in a hired room within a hotel, or in one of very few restaurants. I will have more to say about this and the chef Edith bad-mouthed in the next chapter. 😊
The three percents were a conservative way to invest, based on government annuities. They had a low rate of return was much lower than the average of 8% return on railway investments. However, until 1856, business investments (such as industry and railways) were risky because investors and their estates were liable for losses. John is therefore quite serious when he asks Henry and John about their willingness to invest.
I will be posting plates from La Moniteur de la Mode and engravings from Tallis of some of the places Edith suggests on my Pinterest page. You can find it by googling "tintinnabula1" and "Pinterest" and then scrolling down to "North and South" once you land on my Pinterest page. Alternatively, type in httpsCOLON/wwwDOTpinterestDOTcom/Tintinnabula1/north-and-south