04 |
The house was quiet.
Mrs Thornton had announced that she would be resting. She had been sitting up with her daughter for the remainder of the night until—in the morning—the maternity nurse, recommended by Dr Pryce and hired at exorbitant cost to live with the young family for the following six weeks, had arrived and resolutely taken over command at the nursery and at Mrs Watson's bedroom. Nothing could be heard from either room at present, so it was to be presumed that mother and child were also taking a midday nap. Mr Watson was out, celebrating the birth of his son and heir at the Masters Club.
With the baby's arrival Margaret suddenly felt like an intruder at the Watson household.
She had seen Fanny but shortly earlier in the day; Fanny had been fretful, complaining that trying to feed the baby hurt her, and that she would much rather bottle-feed him—claiming it to be less disgustingly primitive and much more in tune 'with our modern times'. All-in-all she sounded much like the Miss Thornton of old again.
Languidly, Margaret picked up her list of wedding preparations; but at this point most things were either set in motion and ordered, or still a little too far in the future to see to. And so there was a momentary lull in activities. Virtually the only thing to do was address the envelopes of the wedding cards—the cards themselves were still at the print shop—a nice and monotonous occupation which suited her currently slow thought processes. It was only Wednesday, which meant at least another two days before John was expected to return from Liverpool...
... and ere long, writing out addresses was forgotten and, absentmindedly toying with the quill in her hand, Margaret was looking back at their last evening together—on Monday.
—
The earnestness of an entire day spent in dealing with financial matters was giving way to flippancy, and for a time they were confessing their childhood pranks while they were walking back across the hill to Marlborough Mills.
"When I was twelve years old I did a flourishing trade doing Latin homework for my schoolmates," John said.
"What did you trade it for?"
"Sweets, packed lunches—mostly food. Half-pennies, if I was lucky... or magazines we were not supposed to read. Once someone gave me a deck of cards... Just boys' stuff."
"Were you found out?"
"Eventually. I had done translations for four of them, and had made the same stupid mistake in every single one." He smirked. "We all got punished. Slapped with a ruler across the palm. Each of them got beaten, and it was my turn every time in between, so I ended up with four times as many lashes. My skin broke in one place—here—and I couldn't close my hand for an entire week afterwards, it was so swollen... My mother was furious, both with me for being so stupid, and with the teacher for hitting so hard. And thus ended my career in forgery." He gave her a lopsided grin. "And what about yourself?"
"My brother once made me eat a small slug," Margaret said with a deadpan face.
"He didn't!"
"I was four years old. He told me that it was a piece of chocolate—and of course I tried it then."
"And... how was it?" John asked, looking slightly queasy.
"Surprisingly nondescript," Margaret said, and burst out laughing when she saw his disbelieving face. "The worst of it was that it didn't taste of chocolate at all. And of course I felt so stupid when Fred told me what it really had been." She looked introspective for a moment. "I reciprocated by putting two live toads in his bed, at the foot end. He nearly jumped out of his skin when his naked feet touched them, and bawled the house down. Dixon said we'd both get warts where we'd touched them... We kept studying Fred's feet and my hands for days—but no warts ever came. And then we tried it again with more toads, but to no avail... It was something of a disappointment, really."
"The scientific approach," John chuckled. "Very commendable."
"Did you never tease your sister, John?" she said, her mood gradually returning from silliness to her more sober self again.
"We never were on such terms. Fanny's twelve years my junior, and when you are growing up twelve years feel like a lifetime."
"There are eleven years between you and me. Does this bother you?" Margaret quietly asked.
"No. Because I never perceived you as a girl. Despite your youth when we first met, you were always a woman to me... There was something in your whole demeanour that called for taking you serious."
—
A tap at the door brought Margaret back to the reality of her guest bedroom. "Come in, please," she called out.
The door opened. Hannah Thornton stood in the doorway. She looked like a woman utterly beside herself—her eyes wild, her face ashen. The sight of her brought Margaret to her feet with terrible foreboding, but her voice wouldn't obey her; and so she stood in mute apprehension of what she was about to hear.
Hannah Thornton held out a slip of paper. "An express message arrived from Liverpool," she said, her voice shaking. "A man was killed there—and John has been taken into custody."
It was as if her mind shut down, preventing Margaret from taking in the information and only allowing for fragments of the outside world to reach her. About the only thing that did register with her was the other woman swaying. On instinct Margaret grabbed her arm, led her towards the bed, and pressed her to sit. Then, taking both of Mrs Thornton's hands, she anxiously watched the pale drawn face and unfocussed eyes—expecting her to faint at any moment.
That Hannah Thornton's unyielding strength should fail her, held a terror all by itself.
"There is no justice," the woman mumbled. "None at all." A tear trickled down her weathered cheek.
Margaret numbly shook her head—Keeping the news at bay. Denying.
"He was brought so low this last year," Mrs Thornton went on. "Like fate had conspired... He failed in all he set his mind upon; he found a woman to love, and she cared no more for his affection than if he had been any common man. He laboured, and his labour came to nought. Nothing left but his good name." She despondently shook her head. "One miserly week of happiness... That's all he had. One week!—and now they come and put his name to shame!"
"This must be some heinous misunderstanding—" Margaret's head bent under the weight of this perverse twist of events and came to rest against Hannah's forehead. Their hands grasped convulsively, and for some time they both gave in to tears of helplessness and shock.
"What did the message say exactly?" Margaret was drying her swollen eyes with her sleeve, and forcibly tried to calm down. Someone—anyone!—had to make sense of this.
Mrs Thornton just shook her head. "Nothing beyond what I told you."
"Then we need to make inquiries at Liverpool!" But who would make inquiries on their behalf? Back in London there would have been Henry—but Henry Lennox was not to return to Milton until the following week. A Milton lawyer, then! "Does John have a lawyer?—In such cases as... let's say... when customers fail to pay their bills?"
"There's Mr Cavendish. He's been our family lawyer for years... But he may be out of his depth in this situation."
"Is he willing to travel to Liverpool today and see the authorities there, do you think?" Margaret persisted.
"I suppose so—"
"Where is his office?—so that we can ask him to come quickly."
The way Margaret had to nudge on the conversation—along with the other woman's inability to be rational—spoke volumes about Mrs Thornton's deep state of shock.
"Upper Mill Lane."
Impelling herself into action, Margaret rose and went over to her dressing table. In a few quick lines she wrote out a missive to the lawyer, then she went to the door. "I'll be back in a moment."
She met the footman in the otherwise deserted hall. "Take this message to Mr Cavendish's law office in Upper Mill Lane and give it to Mr Cavendish the lawyer in person. Tell him Mrs Thornton of Marlborough Mills sends you."
Then she went upstairs to the nursery and softly knocked at the door. The nurse opened at once and regarded her with a disapproving look.
"Will you be so good and tell Mrs Watson, once she's awake, that her mother Mrs Thornton is a little unwell. She seems to have caught a slight fever from the exertions of last night... And so, as not to put Mrs Watson and the baby at risk, I propose to take her to Marlborough Mills now, and I shall stay with her for the time being—"
"A fever, you say?" If anything, the nurse's frown only deepened.
"I'm sure it isn't anything serious," Margaret hastened to reassure her. "Just the exhaustion, and maybe a slight cold... Please, don't alarm Mrs Watson."
Somewhat shaken by the ease with which she lied, Margaret hastily retreated to her own room where Mrs Thornton was still waiting in much the same state of prostration as when she had left her. She hurriedly threw some necessities into a carpet bag—certain to have forgotten half of what she would require in her haste—and then she turned back to the bed, crouching in front of the other woman.
"Come downstairs with me, Mrs Thornton," she softly said. "We are going to return to Marlborough Mills," and, rising again, she made Mrs Thornton get up and come with her.
A hackney brought them back to Marlborough Mills, and Margret breathed more freely again when they finally sat in the dining room, a tea tray in front of them, and the door closing behind the new parlour maid, a quiet girl called Agnes.
Mrs Thornton looked around as if startled by this change of scenery. "Does Mr Cavendish know to come here instead of the Watsons' place?"
"Yes. I told him to meet us here, and meet us as soon as he possibly can... I hope your name holds some sway with him."
"He's a good man—" They dropped into silence again.
With so little information it was useless to speculate, Margaret kept telling herself, but her mind refused to cooperate... Now that the fact of John's arrest had finally registered with her, she was unable to think of anything else but wonder what could have happened; how John could have come to be associated with killing a man. Had it been some common brawl, and he a chance bystander? Or was it someone he knew, like that niggardly broker, or some other trader he was trying to do business with?
I have a temper, John's voice said in her head.
I know, her mind answered him. But you don't have any reason to get at loggerheads with anyone over at Liverpool, do you?
At long last the doorbell announced the arrival of the lawyer.
First impressions were not in favour. Mr Cavendish was a small middle-aged man with a fussy manner who, as the first thing upon greeting them, was giving a long-winded explanation why it had taken him so long to come.
At least, by this time, Mrs Thornton had recovered enough spirit to tell him about the state of affairs, and what little facts they possessed at this point.
"Where is he held in custody?" Mr Cavendish asked, all the while taking notes in a small shabby notepad.
"What do you mean by 'where'? In Liverpool, of course." Mrs Thornton looked at him uncomprehendingly.
"Did the message give you an address of Mr Thornton's place of detention?—the police station, perhaps?... Or maybe I can have a look at the message?"
"Oh. Oh, yes... certainly," Mrs Thornton replied, handing over the slip of paper.
"Says 'Old Hall Street' on the envelope," he slowly remarked after turning it this way and that. "That's central Liverpool. Easy to get to from the station." He checked his pocket watch. "I tell you what I shall do... The next train from Milton should be leaving in about half an hour. I can just about make it to the station in time and, barring delays en route, I should be able to see one of the officials today and be admitted to Mr Thornton's cell." He got up and took his hat. "Don't you worry, Mrs Thornton. Miss Hale. This is probably just a simple misunderstanding... and with any luck Mr Thornton will return with me back to Milton either today or tomorrow."
John Thornton didn't return to Marlborough Mills that night, nor did Mr Cavendish. Nor was there any communication coming their way. Trying to cheer themselves up with the thought that no news was probably good news, both women eventually went to bed, even though prospects of finding actual sleep were slim.
Over breakfast the next morning Margaret and Mrs Thornton agreed that, as John was not expected back at the mill for another day, it was best to keep things under wraps—and with any luck the matter would be resolved by Friday, and with no-one in Milton the wiser. However, the hours grew long with waiting, and the longer they waited without receiving word the more anxious they became. Finally, at half past six—it was getting dark already—the doorbell rang. Not waiting for any of the servants to answer it, both women rushed to the door. It was Mr Cavendish, and he was quite alone. His expression didn't bode well.
They beckoned him to come to the dining room and, once inside, firmly shut the door to the hall behind them.
"What is it?" Mrs Thornton asked apprehensively.
"It's a mixed bag... On the bright side, the victim—a Mr Barlow..."
"Mr Barlow!" Margaret exclaimed, looking at Mrs Thornton. "Isn't that the broker John wanted to see?"
"... is not dead. Therefore, at present, it is just an inquiry into a case of grievous bodily harm. Not manslaughter, or murder." He saw the relief in both women's faces and raised a cautioning hand. "But the man is at the infirmary, and rumour has it that he is not expected to live."
"And Mr Thornton?—what's the matter with him?" Margaret asked at the same moment as Hannah Thornton said, "Why is my son not with you?"
"I'm sorry, Mrs Thornton, but your son is treated as a suspect. As the prime suspect at present, more precisely—"
"But on what evidence?"
"He knew the man, he was with him shortly before Barlow was found unconscious and with a head wound—and then, there is some incriminating document, apparently... but they wouldn't come forward with any details of the case, as the investigation into the matter is still in progress and, as I was told, still likely to take some time."
"So, he is not yet charged with a crime, and there are no eye-witnesses," Margaret clarified.
"There's just some circumstantial evidence as yet... However, I went to see the local magistrate today and I pressed for Mr Thornton to be released on bail until charged. But considering the seriousness of the allegation—and with the victim likely to die—he wouldn't agree to it."
"Dear Lord—" Mrs Thornton slumped into her chair and pressed her hands against her temples in quiet despair.
"Have you seen John... Mr Thornton, I mean?" Margaret asked. "Did you speak with him?—How is he?"
"He is as well as can be expected, under the circumstances."
It transpired that Mr Cavendish had made arrangements, of a financial nature and on behalf of Mrs Thornton—respectively Miss Hale—that Mr Thornton was given a clean cell all by himself, along with decent food and a proper bed.
"This is as much as I can do for him at present, I'm afraid. No visitors or letters allowed for the time being, not while investigations continue," he ended.
"But... what did Mr Thornton himself tell you about this whole matter?" Margaret said impatiently.
"He admits to having been at Mr Barlow's office—having been there twice on Tuesday, in fact. First by appointment and for negotiations which hadn't been altogether amiable—as Mr Thornton told me himself—and then again later when he realised that he had mixed up folders accidentally, and had taken one of Mr Barlow's away with him. He said that he couldn't return the folder that second time round because Mr Barlow didn't answer his knock at the office door. As the document inside was marked confidential, he didn't wish to leave it with the junior clerks. So he kept it in order to return it at some later date... This folder must be the incriminating document. Unfortunately, Mr Thornton—being a man of honour—never read it, and so he doesn't know what it contains."
"So, what will happen now?"
"We'll have to wait. First we need to know what he's going to be charged with, and then get details about the precise allegations and proof thereof."
"You mean, we'll have to sit around and just wait," Margaret asked, her voice rising with irritation, "all the while Mr Thornton is held prisoner in a cell?"
"I shall return to Liverpool on Monday, to talk to people and—if possible—find witnesses. But under the circumstances it may be difficult to establish a line of defence... I know this is not the answer you wanted to hear, Miss Hale. I'm sorry."
Once Mr Cavendish had left, after repeatedly offering his condolences to Mrs Thornton on the undesirability of the current situation, Margaret turned towards the other woman. "I don't trust this man to do his utmost," she bluntly stated. "You said he might be out of his depth, and I think you are right."
"He's the only Milton lawyer I've had any dealings with in recent years... How could we find another one—and a good one—at short notice?"
"I shall write to Mr Lennox tonight by express," Margaret said determinedly.
"Your London financial advisor? What good will he do?"
"He's not only my financial advisor. He is a barrister, and well versed in criminal law... He's also currently looking into an old case for my brother, concerning the Navy."
"Tell me, Margaret—" Mrs Thornton gave her an unexpectedly shrewd look. "—what is the exact nature of your relationship with this Mr Lennox?"
"He is my London cousin's brother-in-law, and I consider him a friend—"
"And he?—does he also consider you just a friend?" Hannah softly asked. Margaret had the grace to look uncomfortable. "I don't doubt that this young man is very capable. But as the case stands now, and when push comes to shove, he might be inclined to seek his own advantages... I cannot risk my son's future on the chance of a former admirer of yours to cooperate—or not! No, in this case I rather abide by Mr Cavendish."
Friday came and went; and when by Saturday morning the master still hadn't returned from Liverpool, the maintenance workers at the mill were getting restless, and rumours started to spread. Eventually Williams came to see Mrs Thornton.
"Beggin' yo'r pardon, ma'am, but 'as Mr Thornton sent word from Liverpool yet?—Only, I was s'posed t' start 'irin' come Monday, soon as th' new contracts 'bout delivery of raw cotton are in place—"
"Mr Thornton is held up in Liverpool," Hannah Thornton curtly replied. "We may have to postpone hiring new workers for another week."
"Very well, ma'am," Williams replied with a frown. Several questions begged for answers, but noticing Mrs Thornton's forbidding expression he wisely refrained from voicing them.
By Sunday morning Margaret couldn't bear the strain any longer; she needed someone to talk to besides Mrs Thornton whose barely suppressed anxiety only heightened her own. So, she went to church first thing in the morning, where she sat on her own at the rear of the pews, well away from prying eyes, and silently prayed for John's safe and speedy release; and then she went to Princeton—to see a friend.
Everything about the Higginses home was uncommonly quiet when Margaret arrived at the small yard behind the Golden Dragon shortly before noon. She knocked at the grey door, still neat and shiny from having recently been given a fresh coat of paint. She almost expected not to find admittance; yet the door was thrown open immediately, and Nicholas Higgins stood in the doorway and greeted her with a broad smile. But one look at his visitor, and his face sobered up considerably.
"Yo' better come in, miss. Take a seat by th' range an' 'ave some tea." He held the door open to let her pass through.
"Where's Mary—and the children?"
"Church, an' then up to th' cemetery—t' visit th' Bouchers' graves... Now, warm yo'rsel' by th' fire. Yo' look as if yo' 'ave need of it."
Holding the cup with both her hands for the comforting warmth it offered, Margaret slowly began to tell her friend about events of the last few days. When she ended they both stared at the flickering light of the burning coals for a while.
"So, that's why master nevah came back to th' mill on Friday," Nicholas eventually said. "A right mess 'e got 'imsel' into." His hand compassionately touched her wrist, and more silence ensued. At long last he ventured, "An' what 'bout th' mill?"
"Well, that's the big question," Margaret sighed. "Hiring new workers is postponed for another week, and tomorrow I shall see my financial advisor. Maybe, after that, I will see clearer on how to proceed in the light of this new development... I'm so sorry, Nicholas. I know how much you all have been relying on a speedy resumption of production at Marlborough Mills."
"Don't yo' worry, Miss Ma'gret. We'll manage fo' another short while yet." He looked up. "Mind yo', yo'll 'ave t' tell t' workers up at th' mill on Monday. An' Williams, afore all others... if 'is face is anything t' go by, 'e's been smellin' a rat fo' some days now. Yo' need t' keep 'im in yo'r good books, whatever's t' come."
"Mr Cavendish called while you were away, Margaret," Mrs Thornton informed her upon her return to Marlborough Mills. "He gave me to understand that, except on the off-chance that someone will come forward with a confession, or that a witness can give positive proof of facts, there is no hope that John will be released in the next few days... We need to cancel the wedding; and we'll better do it soon."
Margaret quailed at the thought. "Can't we leave it until the middle of the week?" she asked in a small voice. To cancel the wedding felt like giving up on John even before he was formally charged with anything.
"The longer we wait the more the expenses will mount—And even if John is going to be released anytime soon, word of his arrest will spread shortly... and so it may be better to postpone in any case. You would not want to have your actual wedding day closely associated with a scandal."
"I shouldn't care about that," Margaret said defiantly. "John is innocent!"
"People will talk—and wonder," Mrs Thornton said gloomily. "Don't underestimate the taint of association and the power of malicious gossip."
Over dinner Mrs Thornton informed her that she had sent a notice to her son-in-law to come and see them later in the evening.
Margaret looked up sharply. So, the plan to cancel the wedding was already a fait accompli. "Don't you think that you should have spoken with me about it before you sent for Mr Watson?"
"John is my son; and I am the only person in a position to act on his behalf. For as long as he is away I am in charge of this household."
"He is the man I'm going to marry—and, besides, I still own this mill. Don't you think that I should have a say in any decisions?" More calmly Margaret added, "Don't you think that it would be better for John if we were to join forces?"
Mrs Thornton compressed her lips, but then she nodded mutely.
"What is it exactly you want to discuss with Mr Watson?"
"My son-in-law has to learn about John's arrest. It is late to inform him as it is—he will be angry about having been left in the dark." She shrugged. Obviously, Mr Watson's anger was the least of her concerns. "And then, it will be for him to speak with the parson and the clerk at church and tell them that the wedding is cancelled... It would be too awkward for either of us to do so." Hannah Thornton hesitated. "And I wonder if we should ask for his advice about the mill—"
"I agree that he has to know about John's situation, and I shall welcome his help in dealing with the parson... But I should ask you to keep quiet about the mill for the present."
"Why?"
"Mr Watson is one of the Milton mill masters—And which group of persons, do you think, would profit the most if the prospects of Marlborough Mills were to be damaged for good by the current situation?"
"You have a suspicious mind, Margaret," Mrs Thornton said. But there was a hint of admiration in her voice.
"John said he wouldn't trust any of them... and he didn't exempt his own brother-in-law."
A/N:
So, not a straightforward romance after all. But, coming from me, you didn't really expect one, did you? ;)
Re the birth scene in the previous chapter: The thing about the doctor using a cape to cover the woman's lower body for reasons of modesty, and delivering the baby only by touch, is actually not a product of my imagination... I picked that one up from Bill Bryson's excellent book 'At Home - A Short History of Private Life'.