09 |
"I'm calling Eric Stephens as witness to the box," the prosecutor announced. For the first time Margaret noticed a reaction in John; a stiffening of the spine and a slight jerk of the head as he adjusted to this unforeseen situation. She wondered if he felt obliged to speak up; she wondered even more if it would be wise for him to speak about an incident still charged with emotion.
After Stephens had been put under oath, the prosecutor continued, "Mr Stephens, you are here to give testimony of Mr John Thornton's character and general conduct—"
"Nigh on two years afore now—I was workin' at Thornton's then—'e came on me an' beat me to a pulp. In th' cardin' room, that was... wi' the wimmin an' children standin' by an' watchin'. Beat me an' kicked me when I was lyin' on th' floor. I thought I'd see my las' moment then! ... an' fo' a trifle, too."
"Was this the only time?"
"No! Jus' a coupla months after, 'e almost beat me up again... I was comin' t' 'im, thought I'd give 'im valuable information, an' 'e kicked me out again! An' that time wi' a lady an' gennleman watchin'—'E has no decency 'bout 'im, that one! A vicious man."
"So, you have experienced him as irascible?"
"What's that?" Stephens looked confused.
"Choleric... easy to anger," the prosecutor explained.
"Oh, aye!" Stephens exclaimed. "Nasty temper, Thornton 'as."
The prosecutor made a dramatic pause to let Stephens's last words seep in, then he said, "No further questions."
Henry rose. "Would you please tell the jury, Mr Stephens, what sort of 'trifle' made Mr Thornton come after you, initially."
Stephens suddenly looked uncomfortable. His answer came in a mumble.
"Would you speak up, please, Mr Stephens. I'm afraid, the jury can't hear you."
"Smokin'."
"Let me clarify... You were—smoking? Inside a cotton mill? But... I've been given to understand that those cotton fibres in the air form an explosive mixture, and one spark is all it takes, and then... boom!" Henry made an expansive gesture. "Wasn't there a mill fire in Lanarkshire only last year?... and one in Yorkshire three years ago? Leaving something like—what?—three hundred workers dead? ... Aren't there strict rules against smoking in a mill?"
Stephens looked down on his feet, nodding reluctantly.
"And you didn't know? You were never warned against it?"
"Got a warning afore—"
"So, in the light of all this, of all the known dangers and possible huge numbers of casualties... don't you think that a little 'irascibility' might have been justified? However, as far as Mr Barlow's case is concerned... I somehow can't imagine that Mr Barlow threatened Mr Thornton with putting fire to the mill's cotton waste—" He returned to his desk. "No further questions."
Margaret breathed a careful sigh of relief. John's anger had been a terrifying sight that day and, if Stephens had given a more credible testimony of John's loss of control, this might have convinced a jury that he was capable of anything. Especially, as there was no positive proof of his innocence as yet.
But she had never seen Henry Lennox in his element, and it seemed that the lawyer was on a roll. Moreover, she suspected that he was actually enjoying himself. That, at core, he took tremendous pleasure from this battle of wits—and, despite her gratefulness for his help, this was a another trait in his character she didn't care for.
The prosecutor declared that, with Eric Stephens having given evidence, they had heard the last of the witnesses for the prosecution. It was now for the defence to call their own witnesses.
Henry looked at his list. "I'm calling, as the first witness for the defence, Mr John Thornton." A surprised murmur went through the audience.
"But... but he's the defendant! I object... He can't even be put under oath," the prosecutor spluttered.
"Uncommon, but not without precedence. Therefore, objection overruled," the judge decided with an impatient gesture. "Mr Thornton, if you please." As the court usher led him from dock to witness box, John flashed a quick ironic glance at his lawyer who, if anything, only looked more solemn in response.
"Will you please tell the jury how the incriminating document came into your possession, Mr Thornton?"
In a few concise sentences John explained how he had brought with him a thin brown cardboard folder containing a drafted business proposal, plus a list of the cotton qualities he required and their respective quantities. He had put the folder upon the—quite cluttered—desk during his discussion with Barlow, but, since the discussion had quickly been going nowhere, he had never referred to it. In leaving he had obviously picked up a wrong folder, as there were some similar ones lying about. He had noticed his mistake about half an hour later and at once returned to Barlow's office. But Barlow hadn't answered to his knocks and Smith had been out. Not wanting to leave a document, marked confidential, with the junior clerks, he had taken it away with him again in order to return it by the end of the day. However, his arrest had thwarted his intentions. He added that he had never read the document.
"Was the window open or shut during your meeting with Mr Barlow?"
"It was wide open... It was an exceptionally warm day for September."
"Didn't the noise from outside disrupt your conversation with Mr Barlow?"
"I didn't notice any passers-by. And there certainly was no traffic outside the window."
"When you came back to return the mixed-up document, you waited in the corridor outside Mr Barlow's office for a couple of minutes. Why so long?"
"I knocked at the door, but there was no answer. I thought that I heard faint noises from within, and that made me believe that there might be someone inside, after all. I knocked again, and again. And eventually I tried the handle. Only then did I find out that the door was, in fact, locked."
"You are certain that it was locked, or bolted? Not just stuck?"
"I am quite positive."
"And yet the door was unlocked when Smith the head clerk found Mr Barlow some ten minutes later... Thank you, Mr Thornton, there are no further questions."
In the interval, while the court usher urged John to return to the dock—the prosecutor had refused to question the 'witness'—the murmurs in the auditorium rose again. Several of the spectators were noisily questioning the logic in highlighting the discrepancies between the defendant's statement and those of the witnesses.
"Why does Lennox do this?" Hannah whispered to Margaret, alienated. "Surely, this can't be in John's best interests!"
Margaret only shrugged her shoulders, helplessly. She was as mystified as the other woman.
"I'm calling Dr Perkins as witness for the defence," Henry Lennox announced. Once the doctor had entered the witness box and had taken the oath, he continued, "Dr Perkins, you have been Mr Barlow's physician for how long?"
The doctor creased his brow for a moment. "Nigh on three years, I should say."
"And in this time, has anything struck you as peculiar in the reasons your patient consulted you?"
"Well... he was prone to having accidents—"
"Such as?"
"Contusions, lacerations, a black eye... sprain of the wrist. Oh, and once a broken arm."
"Were these more numerous than could be expected?"
"Yes, remarkably so."
"Was he suffering from seizures?"
"No, not at all."
"Did Mr Barlow give you a reason for his injuries, then?—as he was not working in a dangerous profession."
"N-not during consultation..." The doctor hesitated, shuffling his feet, then looking at the judge, and eventually back to Henry Lennox.
The latter said, "May I remind you, Dr Perkins, that you are under oath and required to answer truthfully—unless it is a matter of medical confidentiality."
"Well... erm... Shortly after he'd come to me with the broken arm, I met Barlow in the street one evening. He was on his way back from his club and a little in his cups. He did say then—and I found it quite hard to believe—" His eyes found Mrs Barlow on the witnesses bench and fixed on her. "—that his wife had a dreadful temper and, at times, she was like a berserker, throwing things at him. Books, plates, even bottles... And that the broken arm came from when she hit him with a rolling pin."
This was met by an indignant outcry from Mrs Barlow, who had jumped up from her seat, and gasps and sniggers from the audience. Looking at Mrs Barlow tiny form, the accusation felt downright ludicrous...
... as Henry pointed out. "Isn't Mr Barlow a rather tall, big man? Wouldn't he have been able to defend himself?"
"He said that, when her moods took her, his wife was like a madwoman—and that he dared not restrain her for fear that he might break and kill her."
"This is preposterous!" Mrs Barlow screamed. "How dare you?"
"Quiet, please," the judge admonished her, "or I shall have you expelled from this court."
The prosecutor—obviously puzzled at how to deal with this witness and his extraordinary statement—declared that he had no questions.
Henry addressed the clerk of the peace. "I have been informed that a document arrived for the police inspector in charge of the inquiry, and that it was accepted as evidence in this case and has accordingly been handed over to the court. May I ask for this document to be read out?"
The clerk of the peace ponderously rose. "Prior to accepting this affidavit as a piece of evidence in the case against Mr John George Thornton, of Milton, it has been ascertained that commencement, attestation clause, and signatures adhere to the approved form, and that this affidavit was indeed made under an oath administered by a person authorized to do so by law, under penalty of perjury. The affiant of this testimony is one James Ealing, formerly of Liverpool, but resident in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania at the time the document was issued. His statement is as follows..."
What followed was a recapitulation of events taking place inside Barlow's in Mersey Close. It corresponded entirely with what had been heard before in Ealing's statement given to the magistrate, and Margaret grabbed Hannah's hand as she listened with a sinking heart. What good was such a statement?
"... After taking my leave from the clerks, I left the back yard by the lane running the length of the building. In passing the open window of Mr Barlow's office, I heard a scraping and then a thud which appeared to me as if a door had been shut. Out of curiosity I climbed the base of the outside wall which projects underneath the window. I then saw that the room was deserted. There were some bank notes lying about on the desk. On an impulse I found myself climbing through the window and bolting the door from inside. Moments later someone knocked at it from without. I expected the person to raise the alarm—especially after he tried the handle—but the steps retreated, and nothing happened. I then went to the desk, took the bank notes and placed all of them inside a folder which happened to lie on the desk. I was about to exit through the window when I suddenly became aware of Mr Barlow's prone figure on the floor behind his desk. He was unconscious but breathing. Upon closer inspection he was slightly bleeding from a head wound. Not wishing to compromise myself but allowing for Mr Barlow's speedy rescue, I released the door bolt and then left by the window, lowering the sash from outside. The money I had taken amounted to thirty-eight pounds and three shillings. I burnt the folder as soon as I returned to my then place of residence. I left Liverpool by ship destined for Philadelphia on the following week.
"This is the extent of Mr Ealing's testimony," the clerk stated. John Thornton and his defence counsel exchanged a look of quiet triumph.
Slowly, the true implication of the affidavit seemed to register with more and more people. Some of the jurors cast incredulous looks towards the witnesses, and fixed on one particular person there. Amongst the increasing hubbub in the audience it was announced that the closing argument would commence.
"It is common practice," Henry Lennox began, "To assume that—while witnesses are under oath and thus required to speak truth—the defendant would most likely lie at his trial to save his skin. Now let us assume that—for once—the defendant spoke nothing but the truth when he stated that he returned to Mr Barlow's office only to bring back papers from an accidental mix-up, that he never saw Mr Barlow then, and that the door was indeed locked or bolted.
"No witness for the prosecution came forward with an account of actually having seen Mr Thornton in company with the victim on the second occasion—therefore all evidence against Mr Thornton is circumstantial evidence. Whereas, in his defence, we have the account of an eminent physician that cerebral injuries can cause delayed unconsciousness, therefore there is a chance that the victim had been seen conscious even after the injury had been inflicted. Secondly, we have a detailed statement by Mr Ealing who, by the way, admits to the theft of the money in question—and thus invalidates one of the charges against Mr Thornton! Also, Mr Ealing's statement confirms such details as the hitherto unknown whereabouts of Mr Thornton's own folder or the door being bolted at some point, and it solves the mystery of the open, respectively closed, window. But most importantly, Mr Ealing's affidavit gives testimony to the fact that he found Mr Barlow unconscious at the precise time Mr Thornton stood outside the bolted office door!
"What may conceivably have happened? ... We know that Mrs Barlow was with her husband in his office for quite some time after Mr Thornton had left after his appointment—considerably longer than the 'couple of minutes' a person with Mr Barlow's injuries would remain conscious and lucid. Moreover, we know that the argument between Mr and Mrs Barlow was heated—and bearing in mind that there is a history of domestic violence between the spouses with Mrs Barlow as the aggressor!—this leaves the one conclusion that it must have been no other than Mrs Barlow who..."
Leaping up from the witness bench, a livid Mrs Barlow cried out, "I just gave him a slight push. He stumbled! ... It was an accident!" And with more confidence she declared, "Besides, he got up again almost immediately... It must have been Ealing! Ealing knocked him down, so that he could steal the money—"
"Quiet!" the judge thundered. Even so, it took a while for the overall noise and excitement to die down. "Defence counsel, please proceed."
Throughout it all Henry had faced the jury with a quiet smile, judging their reaction. Eventually he resumed his speech. "After Mrs Barlow's timely confession—right now and right in front of this court—very little remains for me to add except that no reasons persist to charge Mr John George Thornton neither with the assault against Mr Arthur Barlow nor with the theft, and therefore I urge the members of the jury to acquit Mr Thornton of both these indictments." He sat down again.
At the judge's request the jury huddled to confer, and within seconds they reached a verdict.
"Not guilty!" the speaker of the jury pronounced, amidst the cheering of the audience. Margaret was on her feet before the last syllable was spoken, tears of relief spilling from her eyes.
As the judge dismissed the case, John slowly turned around... Throughout the trial he had not once glanced towards the auditorium, but now his eyes found Margaret's with utter and instant certainty—as if he had been conscious of where to find her all along. They kept looking at each other across the crowded room until Henry Lennox, after clearing formalities with the clerk of the peace, approached John and touched his arm.
He was free. Free to leave the dock, and to go home.
In the coach back to Milton—Henry had hired a means of transport rather than expose them to a lengthy train journey after the ordeals of the day—the lawyer was the only one who attempted at some conversation, and most of what he said was aimed at Mrs Thornton. The latter, except for thanking him in uncommonly warm words, seemed to struggle with her composure and had very little to add in order to keep the conversation flowing. And as for Margaret and John—they had nothing to add at all. Holding one of his hands in her lap, Margaret leant against John's shoulder, while his other hand rested against the small of her back... He had roamed the length of her spine for a moment, evidently puzzled by a failure to encounter sturdy whalebone, but all thoughts were soon lost in the bliss of holding each other again after all this time.
Once they had reached Milton, Henry asked to get dropped off in the centre of town before the coach would continue on its way to Marlborough Mills.
"I don't have the words to thank you, Mr Lennox, for your willingness and your... generosity in coming to my aid," John said quietly when the coach had stopped to allow Henry to alight. "I am very much in your debt—" He held out his hand.
"It has been my pleasure entirely," Henry replied, his spirits high, as he took the proffered hand and shook it vigorously. "And, now that there seems to be a happy ending, I shall count on being made godfather to your first child in due course." Both Margaret and Hannah looked up sharply, but for once the lawyer seemed quite guileless.
John laughed. "I may in fact request your services a little earlier than that... Will you remain in town for another few days, or are you bound for London?"
"I've been planning to remain in Milton until Sunday... some social obligations with... friends. But I can extend my stay for a few days longer, if need be—"
"I shall call on you, then. Tomorrow afternoon... The Crown hotel, is it?"
"I'll be at your service," Henry replied as he reached for the door handle. But then he thought better of it and sat back again. Once again addressing John he said, "You may want to keep your eyes open here in Milton, Mr Thornton. We talked about it before—and Stephens being at the trial to give testimony proves it. Someone must have exerted influence in this case—and I am sure that it was an interference originating in Milton." John nodded, looking unsurprised. "Lots of people in this town would gain by your ruin; you may never find out who it was—so, stay careful about whom to trust." He tipped the rim of his hat and alighted.
Once they reached the house and entered the drawing room, Margaret dropped the warm, hooded cape that covered her from head to toe. Then she turned to John. Hannah, who had followed them to the doorway, stepped back into the hall and softly closed the door from the outside.
John smiled at her face, hesitantly, struggling with those first moments of reconnecting—those initial moments together alone at last. It took an instant until his gaze wandered across her entire person to take her all in. When he reached her waist he started, his eyes quickly returning to hers.
"Margaret!" he gasped.
At her quiet, "Are you angry with me?" he staggered and then, as if the strings of a puppet had been cut, he fell on his knees in front of her, leaning his forehead into her chest as his arms encircled her waist. She felt him tremble, whether from shock or sobs she couldn't tell.
Margaret stooped to embrace him, and eventually she ended kneeling with him on the hard drawing room floor—a little awkwardly—as they clung to each other, with tears streaking both their faces and obscuring their sight.
His fingers tentatively reacquainted themselves with her features as he covered her brow, her temples, and hair with feathery kisses. It was all he felt himself capable of; he was still too overcome for words.
Eventually Margaret drew away slightly, and he saw her crinkle her nose. "What is it?" he whispered hoarsely.
"You smell of that terrible place." Then she added, apologetically, "Heightened sense of smell—It comes with the condition."
"We're going to have a child—" he stammered.
"It will take another four months. Plenty of time for you to get used to the idea," she said, smiling at him through her tears.
"We'll get married at once!"
"Plenty of time for that as well," she soothed. "For now you'll get a bath, and a change of clothes... and then some proper food—"
He scrutinised her, and he became aware of her paleness, and the dark circles underneath her eyes. "You are exhausted, love," he said, appalled. "You need to rest yourself."
"And so I shall—while you go and make yourself decent..."
He stood, and raised her to her feet. "We're going to have a child," he slowly repeated, his face stricken, "And you had to bear the burden of circumstances all alone these last months... I am so very sorry, Margaret."
"Don't be," she quietly replied. "And we shall talk later—"
"Where is Margaret?" John asked his mother the moment he entered the dining room. He had bathed and shaved, and with a change of clothes he felt like a human being again—outwardly, at least. Inside, he was restless—and he knew he would not be at peace for as long as Margaret was out of his sight.
"Sleeping," Hannah Thornton replied. "And she will continue to sleep for a good long while, I should hope. Let her rest; she has need of it... Let me keep you company while you eat and talk to me, and afterwards you can go and sit with her. She's staying in the guestroom."
"I should have taken better care of her," John said dejectedly.
"I'll leave some of that between you and your conscience, John. But believe me one thing; you are not omnipotent—and for the last months you were caught up in events entirely outside your control... You may have committed an initial act of folly. But it is now up to you to look at the present situation as a disaster—or as a happy ending. Don't you think that your admirable spouse deserves the latter?"
"She's not my wife yet..." He stopped abruptly. "You approve of Margaret, mother?—Despite..."
"With all my heart." She warmly smiled at her son. "Not so much in the beginning, mind. But since then I have known her to single-handedly hold everything together these last four months. If it wasn't for her, you might not be back here now, and there would have been no mill to return to."
"What has she done?" He stared at her, astounded.
"It is for her to tell. In due time. For now, let her recover—and then do your best to make her happy." She regarded him with motherly indulgence. "Oh, come now! Stop fidgeting, take that plate with you, and go to her! Watch over her while she sleeps. And if you dare wake her, you'll meet with a mother's wrath. My wrath." As he rose and kissed her on the forehead, she blinked away her tears; and then, with a wobbly smile, she watched him—plate in hand—hurry up the stairs and towards Margaret's room.
Yes, there were definitely worse fates than not being the first in her son's affections any longer.
She woke slowly, taking her time to make the long ascent back to consciousness. In this undetermined state between sleeping and waking she was dimly aware of things; she knew that darkness had fallen and that the room was sparingly lit by candlelight—and she knew that John was there in the room with her. She heard him softly approach and felt the edge of the mattress sag as he sat down beside her. At last she opened her eyes.
"How are you?" John's eyes scrutinised her face.
"I'm well," Margaret smiled. "Better than well. You are here." She tried to sit up.
"Lie back. There's no rush to get up," John stopped her. His fingertips traced the side of her temple and cheek. "There will be a late supper; but until then we can talk—"
She arrested his hand against her cheek, then she pressed a kiss upon his palm. "Have you been sitting with me long?" She still felt a little disoriented from sleeping during the day and past nightfall.
"The better part of three hours, I'd say."
"You should have woken me!"
"I cherished every minute of it... to watch you sleep—and to see how you smiled in your sleep."
Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the white shape of her wedding gown, still on display in the corner. "You were not supposed to see that dress—not before the wedding service, that is... Not that there would be any chance for me to fit into it at present, or anytime soon."
"I've been thinking about getting a new licence tomorrow, and speak with the parson. Would you be willing to marry me as early as at the beginning of next week? ... No wedding breakfast, no cards, no special clothes—just you and me, and some family and friends."
"Of course. I shall marry you tomorrow if this is your wish."
"I thought that you might also prefer an early date—"
"Why? To make people believe that our baby was conceived in wedlock?" She chuckled. "We'll never get away with that now!" More seriously she added, "I joyfully marry you so that both me and our child will bear your name. But I've always considered myself your wife... I told you so once before, and I meant it. And it wasn't for fear of disgrace in the eyes of the world that I had nightmares. It was the thought that you might not be there to see our child grow in me, not be there when it is born, not be a father to it for many years to come."
"I am so sorry, Margaret," he murmured, his expression a picture of remorse. "Drat my lack of self-control at the time!" Margaret averted her eyes, withdrawing from him. "What is it?" he said, startled.
"You told me then—the morning after—that you didn't regret... It saddens me to hear you say differently now."
"I regret that I never considered the consequences... In spite of what I said at the time, it didn't truly occur to me that there could be consequences because I was so certain that we would be married within a couple of weeks. It is my utter lack of care for your welfare I regret."
"John, I am not a possession," she said quietly. "I am a woman of independent means; loss of 'honour' wouldn't see me out in the streets. I have a will of my own, and I am old enough to know what I'm doing, even if I decide to be reckless... I gave my consent—and therefore there is no blame."
He took hold of both her hands, and then bent to kiss first one then the other. "You are too good—"
"John?" He looked at her questioningly. "Will you kiss me?" she said in a soft voice.
Very tenderly he took her in his arms, and he whispered against her lips, "I love you."
Margaret's arms tightened round his neck and, pulling him down to her, she murmured, "Kiss me properly, was what I meant—"
And so he did—unreservedly—until passion was answered by passion... Eventually they drew apart, reluctant and breathless, and lay nose to nose. Seeing each other in blurry detail at such close distance.
"Good," Margaret whispered.
"Good?" he repeated, bemused.
"You had me worried... You were so mild and meek. I feared that you wouldn't any longer—" She stopped.
"Any longer... what?"
"—desire me," she finished bashfully.
"Not desire you?" He laughed out, incredulous. "You know... for all my recent breast-beating, I've just caught myself thinking, 'Even if we were to proceed right now, there would be no further consequences'."
"You will find that pregnant women are a mass of urges and desires." At his raising an eyebrow she added, "They desire domestic comforts, food—lots of it!—and right now I feel the urge to go... somewhere else. Will you pass me my robe, please."
Shortly afterwards she returned and asked him to help her get dressed so that they might go downstairs and join Hannah for supper.
"You're not asking me to tighten your corset, surely?" he said, alarmed.
"No. I'm quite done with corsets for the time being. But I need someone to close my dress at the back."
She shed her dressing gown and stood in front of him only in her chemise and drawers. The consciousness of having shared greater intimacy—highlighted by her pregnancy—made her quite unconcerned to be seen by him only in her underwear. She sat on the edge of the bed, next to him, to put on her stockings and then picked up a quilted petticoat. "It's also just the one underskirt; with no corset to support layers upon layers of petticoats and crinolines, dressing has become a lot more simple."
She stood with her back towards him while he tied the bow of her petticoat. When he was finished his hands rested against her hips. She turned in his arms and guided his hand to her abdomen. Tentatively he touched the taut curve of her belly, skin separated from skin only by a thin layer of batiste.
"I'm feeling it move, now and again. Soon enough you will, too, from the outside." She cupped his cheek with her hand. "We won't have much time as a couple before we will be parents... How do you feel about it?"
"Shocked," he said quietly. "Awed. Scared out of my wits—" He stooped to breathe a kiss on her belly. "—and very, very happy."
"These are no contracts!—They are a disgrace," Margaret heard John exclaim when she passed through the hall after coming in from a short walk. He was sitting at the dining table, surrounded by ledgers...
For all his gentle consideration with Margaret on the day before, four months in prison had left their mark on John Thornton, and he was prone to sudden changes in his moods.
Early that morning, while the rest of the house had still been asleep, John had gone to the mill at the start of the shift. Williams had introduced him to the younger Mr Makinson—the elder gentleman had left Milton again after spending a month showing his grandson 'the ropes'—whom Thornton hadn't yet met in person as they had previously only corresponded by letter. Makinson had shown him round the mill, had explained the orders currently in production and the general setup. At one point Higgins had joined them. John had stalked through the working sheds like a stranger, had asked very little and commented even less until, eventually, he had told them to carry on as before, and had asked for the books. Then he had left without another word.
Williams had been dumbfounded by the master's aloof conduct, Makinson upset, and Higgins had to bite his tongue... as he told Margaret later in the morning when he intercepted her as she was crossing the yard in her thick winter cloak to have a chat with Mary in the canteen.
"What's th' matter wi' th' master, Miss Ma'gret? Not one kind word t' Makinson, an' th' lad doin' 'is level best t' keep things afloat—"
"Give Mr Thornton time to find his bearings, Nicholas... He is not generally inconsiderate with others, as you are well aware. But—maybe—he fears that things might have run all too smoothly in his absence, and that he is not really needed."
"Not needed? Blimey! 'E'll be thinkin' differently once 'e's 'ad a good look at th' books."
... Margaret entered the dining room. "We kept things going, and we kept some one hundred and twenty people in wages, John. No-one claimed that we were particularly good at it."
"Your losses would only have been marginally greater if you had given the money straight to the workers and not bothered with keeping the mill running." He snapped shut the ledger he had been looking at. "What has Makinson been thinking?"
"He—and everyone else along with him—has been thinking, 'Let Thornton come back in January, or we will be going down the drain'." She gave him an apologetic smile. "I am sorry the place is such a mess, John, and so is everyone else—you'll have your work cut out for some time to come." She stepped behind him and rested both her hands on his shoulders. "But I imagine Makinson will make a good assistant... He has a lot to learn, but he is willing enough. Give him a chance, please."
"Sorry, love," he said, twisting his head to kiss her fingers. "Who am I to complain? ... And, all things considered, nothing will get markedly worse if the mill continues like this until a few days after the wedding. We won't have a proper honeymoon, but I want to have you to myself for some days—" He rose and kissed her cheek. "—and now I shall go and see to our wedding arrangements... I'll be a while. Don't wait for me with lunch."
John returned from town in the middle of the afternoon, his mood quite restored. He had obtained the new licence—issued on the spot—and had been to see the parson who had consented to perform their wedding service as early as Monday at eleven o'clock. Then he had called on Henry Lennox, to thank him again, and to ask him for one more service—
"I know that you don't hold with decorum, Margaret, but I thought that you might like someone from your side of the family to give you away at church—and so I asked Henry if he..."
"You asked Henry?" Margaret exclaimed, blushing deeply. "But... I... Henry... Oh my goodness."
"Is there anything wrong with this?" John inquired, perfectly aware of her discomfiture.
"Well... y-yes. Yes, there is," she stammered, and then, drawing a deep breath, she told him. "Just before we left Helstone in order to move to Milton, Henry came to visit me, and he asked me if I would be willing to make a very special walk to church with him—and I rejected him!"
"I thought he looked at me strangely, and he said something akin to, 'Now, that's a walk I haven't anticipated'... but he has accepted and told me that he'd be honoured—and I believe that he quite meant it."
Margaret just shrugged her shoulders, a little helplessly, and laughed, "It looks like this wedding will break with every possible convention."
A/N:
Re some recent reviews...
It speaks for you, dear readers, that you are so protective of those beloved characters—and probably way more protective than I'll ever be. However, both Margaret and John are fictional characters. Can you commit slander against a fictional character?—moreover, in a case concerning events that have never been covered by the source material? I think not; and it's not as if I'm altering the original... neither the novel nor the miniseries. They still—and always will—exist in their own right.
Writing a piece of fanfiction even of such modest length as the present one takes up an insane amount of time! Depending on whether or not I chuck in a week of annual leave, this takes between 4 and 6 weeks of writing continuously in every free hour I've got; and I never post a single chapter before the entire story is completely written. For me writing is, basically, a matter of 'getting it out of my system'. It is immensely satisfying, but also quite exhausting.
This is to explain that, in order to write, you must love what you're doing and really wish to create a particular story with a particular plot. Something you just write to please an audience won't do that for you, not if you're writing an entire story before you even get the first feedback. So, while I love to share my stories and truly appreciate your comments, the prospect of getting reviews is not what sees me through; it's the actual act of writing. And for me that includes exploring new storylines, experimenting with non-linear storytelling, challenging myself with new genres, and taking risks with the odd no-no.
As the late Terry Pratchett once said: "Writing is the most fun anyone can have by themselves." Yep, I totally dig that!
So, if a story of mine is not quite to your taste, why not go ahead and write your own? No-one's going to stop you—and, who knows, you may actually surprise yourselves. :)