05 |
"I have one regret—" he said, his voice a low murmur. He didn't look at her as she was seated next to him on the sofa. He studied her hand instead. Her small trim hand and tapering fingers which he cradled between both of his.
"What is it?" she replied. Just like his, her own voice was barely rising above a whisper.
"—that there was never a time to court you properly, Margaret."
The corner of his mouth twitched. But whether in amusement or regret was not for her to determine. Not yet, anyway. She quietly waited for what was to come.
"There never was a time for tentative looks and furtive smiles across the width of a room, for long walks in the park... for the precious moment of a first touch, carefully disguised as being unintentional. I never was your unacknowledged lover, slipping you love letters full of bad poetry." There it was, a smile at last, albeit a rueful one. "There was nothing but at first misunderstandings and then regret between us until, virtually out of the blue, I became your acknowledged lover by kissing you in a public place—" His voice dropped even lower. "—and only a few hours later I became your lover in a very carnal sense." He swallowed.
"You once told me that I was not a gentleman, Margaret; and I believe you are right. I should have given you all these attentions. A proper time of courtship... My life was too busy for love for so many years—and things are still getting in the way as we speak. Something always makes me forget how young you really are, and that you were not brought up to our uncouth northern ways." He raised her hand to his lips. His way of an apology—as much as it had been hers some days previously while sitting on a train station bench.
With her other hand she gently touched his cheek. "Will you look at me, John?" she said. "We shall make our own time for courtship, whenever it pleases us. Anyone can court a pretty young girl in the exuberance of first love. But it will take a deal more for you to court a hassled wife during the chaos of spring-cleaning... just as it will take some determination—and a lot of love—for me to court you when you return from the mill with a scowl and in a temper because someone spoilt a batch of cloth." Her cheeks dimpled. "And I believe you owe me some bad poetry."
"Now?"
"Possibly not just now," she replied, still smiling impishly. "For now let us resort to delicious silence—"
"Why didn't you send for me straightaway?"
As on the week before Henry Lennox must have taken the Sunday evening train from London and spent the night in Milton because, once again, he called at Marlborough Mills quite early in the morning.
Mrs Thornton had to rush off to see her daughter—with a promise to be back at noon to address the workers together with Margaret—after the York Street footman had come with an urgent summons. Apparently, upon hearing the news from her husband first thing in the morning, the young Mrs Watson had become quite hysterical, and to an extent that the baby had started to fuss in earnest which in turn had added to Fanny's anxiety. So, off Mrs Thornton went, in an attempt to coax her daughter back into a modicum of composure—which gave Margaret an opportunity to acquaint Henry with the situation in private.
"Oh, Henry. I wished you would have been near on Wednesday! But we had no information and needed to find out quickly, therefore sending the Thorntons' lawyer seemed like the best solution under the circumstances," Margaret explained. "Mr Cavendish said that he tried whatever was in his power; he requested bail—which wasn't granted... He managed to see John, and to see to it that he was given some comforts. But while the investigation is still in progress, everyone at Liverpool is very tight-lipped."
"He isn't charged yet, is he?" Hendry asked.
"No."
"And what about the man?—The victim?"
"As of yesterday he is still alive—which seems a miracle, apparently—but he appears to be still unconscious."
"Then pray for him to hang on to life because..."
"I'm praying for him already, Henry," Margaret interrupted. "I don't need any additional reasons."
"Because," Henry insisted, "If it comes to the worst, his being alive might make all the difference between a prison sentence and—capital punishment."
Margaret stared at him, appalled. "But... John is innocent!"
"So is your brother... But if they catch him in England, he will hang," Henry bluntly replied. "Sorry, Margaret, I don't mean to give you any further shocks; but it may be best to know what you are up against." He touched her arm. "Do you want me to get involved?"
"I've been thinking about asking you... Is there anything you can do at this point, apart from what has been done already?"
"No, probably not... and with Mr Cavendish appointed as his lawyer already, I may not even be admitted to speak with Mr Thornton."
"What will happen next?" she asked. She dismally looked down at her hands, lying inert in her lap. Henry felt for her; the dread of what might happen—and not to be able to do anything—was visibly costing her.
"Once the investigations are concluded, Mr Thornton will be charged. If the other man still lives by then, it will most likely be a charge of grievous bodily harm, possibly with intent—depending on their findings. But if the man dies in the meantime, they may sue for manslaughter or, possibly, murder."
Margaret flinched, but she refrained from interrupting him; she was determined to hear him out—to be acquainted with the worst of it.
"His case will then be brought forward at the next quarter sessions," he continued.
"Won't they take place at Michaelmas? That's little more than a week from now!"
"Yes, time is running short for Mr Thornton's case to be heard next week," Henry acknowledged. "Possibly they are still waiting for the man to live or die, so as not to take any chances. And if the man dies, I daresay the quarter sessions will commit this case to the assizes straightaway."
"The assizes? Where are they held?—in Liverpool?"
"For the Northern Circuit it would be either Lancaster or York... and the trial wouldn't be before February. With the summer assizes just over, the next one will be during lent."
"February!" Margaret exclaimed. "And it's only September now—"
"It will be January—Epiphany—for the next quarter sessions as well," he softly reminded her. "Mr Thornton may remain in custody for a good long while yet. However, upon a charge of grievous bodily harm, it is at the magistrate's discretion to bail him."
"And what, if he was charged with and found guilty of... of 'grievous bodily harm' at the trial, Henry?" she doggedly asked. "What would be the punishment?"
"If he's convicted with the crime they may sentence him to up to five years in prison. And we don't even want to begin to contemplate a conviction at the assizes," he replied. There was honest compassion in his voice. "I am so very sorry, Margaret," he said, taking her hands as she fell back into her chair in dismay.
"John is a magistrate... He must be aware of all this," Margaret whispered. She couldn't even cry; she was too stunned by anguish.
"Are you quite certain that you don't want me to get involved?" Henry eventually asked her again.
She looked up at him; the light in her beautiful eyes utterly dimmed. "This is not for me alone to decide, Henry," she said with some hesitation. "I put your name forward already, but Mrs Thornton quizzed me about our shared history, and now she fears that you might be biased against her son—knowing that you once cared for me."
"I still care for you, Margaret!" he fiercely replied. "So much so that I can't bear to see you suffer. But—as I said before—you've made your choice, and I honour this choice. You believe Mr Thornton to be innocent; you want him back—and, if you want me to help him, then I shall do my utmost. Besides—" Indignation crept into his voice. "—does this woman really dare to imply that I should allow jealousy to get the better of me?—even at the cost of my honour as a man of the law?"
"She doesn't know you—and she's afraid." She gave him a wan smile. "Don't judge her harshly."
"Anyway, will you keep me informed what this Mr Cavendish is up to?—so that I might caution you if I think that he slacks in his duties as a lawyer of the defence... Is he already looking for witnesses who can testify in Mr Thornton's defence?"
"Mr Cavendish has returned to Liverpool this very morning. He said that if there are witnesses to be found he must look for them amongst the clerks at Mr Barlow's office. That John was there at the time is undisputed—"
"You may also want to find a person of good standing to give testimony of Mr Thornton's character and good conduct."
"But he's a magistrate!—Shouldn't that be proof of his character?"
"Nevertheless... You never know what the prosecution will come up with—"
Just before Margaret and Mrs Thornton called for a general meeting, they asked Williams the overseer to come to the office, where they told him about their current predicament.
Williams took the news with his usual stoicism. Having had glimpses of the man supervising production with terse efficiency for some time by then, Margaret had hardly expected otherwise.
"Mr Thornton managed to secure one contract with a customer before he left for Liverpool," Mrs Thornton informed him. "Work at Marlborough Mills was always meant to commence as soon as possible." The man nodded; he had known all of that before. The next bit, however, was the crucial one. "Will you be able to run the mill for the time being?—not on a full production, but just to get started again?"
"Aye," Williams answered, but looking uncomfortable. "Th' workings o' th' mill ain't no mystery t' me... Th' problem's dealing fo' new contracts... I can try fo' buyin' raw cotton though I may not get th' same rates as th' master did." He took off his cap to scratch his scalp. "Can't deal wi' th' customers, though. They nevah take me serious! No, ma'am, what yo' need is a manager."
A manager! Where would they get a manager from?—moreover, one they could trust?
"Thank you, Williams. This is a valid point. We will further discuss matters and let you know—probably by the end of this week."
Henry Lennox stood with the two women when Mrs Thornton addressed the workers, all-in-all just twelve of them, at current count.
None of the assembled workers asked any questions. There were some murmurs of disbelief when Mrs Thornton told them that Mr Thornton had been arrested and falsely accused at Liverpool—the latter point stretching the truth a bit—but the workings of the law were a mystery to all and sundry, and things had been heard to go awry before, albeit generally more so for the common man.
So, when Mrs Thornton voiced the hope that, regardless of their current impediment, they might be able to hire more workers soon, this announcement was greeted by some sceptical looks. Then the men dispersed again to return to their jobs. Higgins, who had been amongst them, acknowledged Margaret with a nod and a faint smile, but he didn't stop to comment on the announcement.
Afterwards, Hannah Thornton invited Mr Lennox to have lunch with them. She generally set a good table and the meal, though simple weekday fare, was quite a handsome one, and Mr Lennox would have enjoyed it more if it wasn't for seeing both women looking positively exhausted and doing little more than pick at their food. He suggested to postpone talks about business in the light of the new situation until the following day, a proposition Margaret gladly accepted. Then he took his leave.
"Will you join us for dinner tonight, Mr Lennox?" Mrs Thornton asked as he picked up his hat and briefcase.
"I thank you, but I am engaged for tonight already. I am invited to dinner at the Latimers' place."
"Oh. I wasn't aware that you knew Mr Latimer personally," Margaret said.
"Isn't Miss Latimer back in town?" Mrs Thornton said at the same time. "Give our regards to her—and to Mr Latimer, of course."
"I shall... And no, I haven't met him socially as yet. But he was Mr Bell's banker, and is yours as well, Margaret, to some extent. He should be a connection worth the having... Good day to you, Mrs Thornton. Margaret."
Once the front door had closed behind him, Margaret hastened to her room in order to get her coat, announcing that she would go for a walk.
The information she had received from Henry earlier in the morning preyed heavily on her mind, as did the fact that she would have to share it—with all the implications—with John's mother, and rather sooner than later; and yet she stalled... She had enough for one morning without having to see more despair in another person. So, before Hannah Thornton had a chance to intercept her, she hurried upstairs.
Her coat wasn't in the built-in closet. Margaret looked around the room she had chosen for herself upon her return on Wednesday. It wasn't Fanny's former room but a guestroom, barely refurnished and quite impersonal. She had hardly noticed any of this as yet. Eventually she found her coat on a hook on the inside of the door, barred from sight by the latter still standing open. She grabbed it and went downstairs, and out.
For the last few days she had felt as if walking a maze, like Ariadne, and every turn revealed just another small glimpse of the dilemma. But with Henry explaining matters to her, the Minotaur had suddenly reared its ugly head.
Ever since Frederick had been convicted of mutiny, Margaret had been wary of the expression 'the just have nothing to fear from justice'. But not until that morning had she let the thought assail her that John's situation could be quite so desperate.
But now that Henry had impressed upon her the fact that courts overwhelmingly tended to rule in favour of the prosecution and, with the defence's role basically reduced to refute whatever claims and witness statements were thrown at them at an—often very short—trial, she saw that it wouldn't just be enough to cast doubt on John's involvement in the assault on Barlow. No!—they would have to find positive proof of John's innocence, either through witnesses or irrefutable facts.
Because, if they didn't come up with that proof, the alternative would be for John to be sentenced to several years in prison—And that would be the lucky outcome...
Milton didn't have any parks or pleasant walks, so it was generally Cemetery Hill Margaret went to. She walked at a brisk pace, with every intention to tire herself, and she was breathing hard by the time she reached the summit. The wind came from the east, and brought with it the sulphurous tang of coal fires. It was one of those oppressive days when the smoke wouldn't rise straight up but cling to the streets. From up here the valley in which most of Milton lay seemed to be brimming with it, with some of it overflowing and crawling the sides of the hill. These had always been the days in Milton when she most longed for the open country.
The prospect closer at hand didn't do anything to soothe her, either. Quite on the contrary, the rows upon rows of gravestones, many of them neglected and slightly askew, looked positively sinister. Yet, with dogged determination, she took another turn before she gave up and slowly returned to the mill.
She let herself in by the latch key Mrs Thornton had given her. Within the house a hushed silence prevailed; no servants were to be seen anywhere. Mrs Thornton likewise seemed to be out, and Margaret was glad of it. For now it was a choice of the drawing room—and possibly company shortly—or further postponement by retreating to her own bedroom.
Lost in thought she went upstairs... and with a start she recognised the door she found herself eventually standing in front of. Not her own. John's.
Of course she had never been inside his bedroom. Her hand reached up to touch the painted wood of the door panelling, then, on an impulse, she tried the handle. The door was unlocked. She didn't know why she had expected it to be otherwise—maybe because John was out of reach she had thought that his room would be equally inaccessible to her. Not feeling as if she was doing anything wrong, but with a distinct sense of entering the unknown, she went inside and softly closed the door behind her.
His room was almost as bare as the one she occupied at present, and almost as impersonal. This was not a room he lived in, but a room he came to just to find sleep. With a wan smile she acknowledged that he was a man who left an impression on people rather than places.
The colouring was starkly monochrome; white wainscoting and ceiling, pearl grey walls and curtains, and dark stained floorboards and furniture. And very little furniture, as to that. A wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a washstand, and the bed, flanked by two side tables. That was all.
There were so few traces of him! The washstand held nothing but his shaving gear and toothbrush, and a hairbrush, neatly aligned next to a small stack of towels; and she was sure that if she opened his wardrobe she would find nothing but a row of dark suits and a selection of waistcoats, a few fancy ones, but most of them black and utilitarian.
She realised that what had led her to enter his room had been a desire to refresh his image in her mind—because those few memories of their all too short time together were rapidly fading and growing unreal under the onslaught of misery. And yet, she could not find him here...
Forlornly she turned towards the bed and sat on the edge. Some books lay on one of the bedside tables, and upon drawing near Margaret saw that one of them was her father's Plato. All the others were classics, too, and she wondered if this was his idea of a little light reading. But except for the Plato the others looked untouched, and when she picked up one of them she saw that the pages were still uncut. Maybe they were a reminder of the things he wanted to do, once life gave him a chance and the time.
Her hand smoothed the pillow. This was where he had rested his head after a far too long day at the mill—and hadn't Nicholas Higgins mentioned more than once that the master had been burning the midnight oil again? Her own head sank against it—and she breathed in his distinctive scent still clinging to it. It hit her like a club, and a terrible yearning overcame her; winding her, making her gulp for breath in tearless agony.
Prostrate on his bed, her face pressed into his pillow—into the scent of him—she eventually slipped into a heavy, bottomless sleep.
Excited voices from outside the door roused her again. She had slept like the dead, and she woke disoriented and with her throat parched. Daylight had faded and the room was almost dark. Nothing but two grey rectangles from the windows could be distinguished, and a faint bright outline around the door from the lights on the landing.
Mrs Thornton's voice echoed up from the hall, "Haven't you found her yet? ... Where is she?—She should have returned hours ago—"
And, closer, Agnes's answering voice, "She hasn't been in to change, ma'am... and her coat isn't in her room."
Dazedly, Margaret touched a rough woollen sleeve and found that she was still wearing it; she had been sleeping in her coat and with her shoed feet dangling from the bed. No wonder she felt like a corpse. She staggered to her feet and to the door.
"I'm here," she said, making Agnes, who stood but a yard away, jump and nearly drop the lamp.
"Oh, miss! Yo' gave me such a fright!" the maid exclaimed.
Meanwhile, Mrs Thornton came upstairs, and one look at Margaret's dishevelled appearance and heavy-lidded eyes—besides noticing what doorway she stood in—made her take the younger woman's arm and lead her to the guestroom while saying over her shoulder, "Agnes, be so good and set the table in the dining room. We'll be down directly."
Back in Margaret's own room Mrs Thornton quickly stripped her off her coat and pressed her to sit down in front of the dressing table. With practiced movements the elder women rearranged Margaret's hair; and upon seeing both their reflections in the mirror, Margaret realised for the first time how similarly they wore it.
"There'll be tea waiting for us downstairs," Mrs Thornton said. Despite the abruptness of the sentence, her tone was soft for once, and her hands gentle. "You will feel better after a cup, and some food... And maybe you can tell me the rest of it then?"