THE WOOLLEN OLIVE BRANCH

Chapter 2

From Before We Were Us

It was exactly a week later that Margaret stood beside the front door of her Crampton house, pacing to and fro impatiently, something she had been doing for the last half hour, near enough wearing a hole in the rug, an oriental memento from Aunt Shaw, sourced from the wonders of the Great Exhibition.

Every few minutes, Margaret would stop and move to the mirror, slowly turning left and then right, checking her appearance from every angle to spot any hidden blemishes of cloth or complexion that she might have missed. She had decided to wear her new dress, the one made from the fine muslin Edith had sent from India. The cut was not terribly fashionable, but then again, neither was Margaret, so it would have to do. Besides, it was one of the few garments she owned that had not yet been tarnished by soot from the kitchen fire after helping Dickson bake and cook.

Nodding resolutely, she smoothed her skirts. She tidied her hair. She pinched her cheeks. She – oh! It was no use. Vanity was not Margaret's middle name, it never had been, so there was no point in her indulging in such empty-headed nonsense, not when he would never even notice anyway.

At long last, there was a knock on the door, and with her eyes alight with excitement, Margaret rushed to open it, just about tripping over her own feet in her frenzied haste. Only, when she did, she halted, and all at once, she felt her heart sink like a ship plunging to the bottom of the sea.

'Oh,' she murmured sullenly. 'It is only you.'

Before her, on the doorstep, was none other than her father, his reedy arms laden with a stack of books, the heavy bundle which overtook his hands having caused him to thump on his own door by means of his elbow, hoping there would be somebody nearby on the other side to offer assistance before the whole lot tumbled to the ground and disappeared into the snow.

'My word, Margaret, I have never seen you so animated. You looked quite giddy when you opened the door,' he said jovially as he came in and shook himself, the sleet that had settled on his coat falling and landing on the floor as specks of white that soon dissolved into tiny puddles of water. 'I am pleased to see the colour return to your cheeks, my child, but you certainly gave me a fright.'

Margaret, who had been occupied in staring sulkily at the front step from whence he came, quickly snapped out of her self-indulgent stupor and went to help him with his books. 'I am sorry, Father, it is just…it is just…is Mr Thornton not coming today?' she asked distractedly, reaching up onto her tiptoes to scour the street behind him in search of a familiar face. 'It is his usual day and time.'

Her remark sounded more like a question than a statement, but it was most definitely the latter, because Margaret knew fine well that this was indeed the mill master's customary day and time, his precise day and time, to be exact, and with punctuality being a particular idiosyncrasy of his, it left her wondering where on earth he was.

'Oh no, no, he is away, my dear. Did I not say?' he asked inattentively as he handed her his scarf to hang up, glad to be rid of the stifling loop of yarn wrapped around his neck, causing him to sweat, even if it were bitterly cold outside.

In the seconds that followed, Margaret could have sworn that she shrunk a whole three inches as her spirits plummeted, and she dropped back down onto the soles of her feet with a thud, leaving her pouting glumly. 'No,' she muttered, the single word ringing out suspiciously like an accusation. 'No, you did not.'

'Well, he is. He has gone to France for business,' her father explained matter-of-factly, and Margaret felt a jolt of distress to think that he was travelling at this time of year. The roads would be icy, the darkness would be dismal, and that was saying nothing for the sea, the water being treacherous with the violent waves of Neptune's realm.

The Channel was but a short journey, she knew that, but Fred had told her so many horrible stories of boats being battered by storms, that it was hard not to imagine the worst, and Le Havre was significantly further away than Calais. Margaret could hardly bear to envisage Mr Thornton anywhere else but safe and sound here in Milton, where he belonged. She wanted him home, she wanted him to come home now, if not to her, then at least to the safety of his own study and slippers, as her father would have put it.

'When will he return?' she demanded to know, rather rudely as it happens, her anxiety getting the better of her.

However, Mr Hale did not seem to notice his daughter's impertinence, which was most likely due to the fact that he was preoccupied in wondering what was for lunch, praying that Dickson had not overcooked and charred the beef yet again. After all, his poor old stomach could only take so much gristle.

'I understand that Mr Thornton is to be away for quite some time, longer than usual. He said that he shall not return until Christmas Eve,' was the simple answer. 'Oddly enough, that happens to be his next scheduled day with us, as it falls on a Thursday this year, and I have invited him, naturally, out of courtesy, and goodness knows that we would welcome his company. However, I very much doubt he shall come, he shall want to be with his family, I should think.'

On hearing this, Margaret shuddered. At first, she thought it was because of the cold, the door not yet closed in the wake of her disorientation, a biting breeze blowing in to chill her. But in truth, her tremor was all down to perceiving her father refer to Mr Thornton's family, and to know that she was not counted as one, even although she could have been by now, because he had asked Margaret to become one of them, a Thornton, as close a family member as it gets.

Oh, but she had not said yes, she had chosen to say no, there was that to remember.

'No, Father!' Margaret argued suddenly, her tone so sharp that he stopped, startled, and stared at her in bewilderment. Still, this did not deter Margaret from speaking her mind. 'He will be here; I truly believe he will be. Mr Thornton, he will not let us down,' she assured him. 'You will see your friend on Christmas Eve, I just know you will,' she promised.

Margaret wished with all her heart that she could call Mr Thornton her friend, but she held back, uncertain of whether he would consider her a friend or not. In truth, she was not convinced he ever had, but there was one thing for certain, and that was he never would now, not unless she could find a way of winning his respect and rebuilding their broken relationship.

But how? It felt impossible.

Not after what he saw. Not after what she did. Not after what he said.

Mr Hale laughed, a hoarse cough tickling his throat, and then he kissed his daughter on the cheek. 'Bless you, my pet, bless you,' he commended before walking away to his study. 'You know, Margaret, I sometimes think you are growing rather fond of our Mr Thornton,' he said in jest, utterly unaware of how true his words were. 'You must not let him cotton on, Heavens no, for I think it would shock him to the core, and he may never recover,' he quipped, his laugh drifting into the corridor as he closed the door behind him.

Left alone once more, Margaret found herself slumping down onto the bottom step of their staircase and folding her arms unhappily. What was she supposed to do now? She had been looking forward to his visit all day, all week, even. It had been the sole focus of her interest, so now that Mr Thornton was not to come after all, her time felt meaningless. It was most unsettling.

Glancing up listlessly, she saw a posy of winter flowers hanging from the ceiling, a collection that Mary Higgins had assembled for them and strung up about the house in way of commemorating the newcomer's first Christmas in Milton. Margaret had liked them at first, they were cheery and colourful, just what the Hales needed, but today, she spied some Mistletoe berries peeking out between the bunches, and this was too much for the disappointed girl to condone. Bounding to her feet, she reached up high and snatched down one of the arrangements, catching the thorny bundle in her hands and screwing it up, not caring that it stung as the barbs scratched her.

Muttering to herself, Margaret trudged along the passageway and towards the kitchen in hopes of finding something to distract her, because if a childhood in church had taught her anything, it was that idle hands never led to anything good. As she did so, she spotted the Christmas tree that stood tall and proud in the parlour. Margaret paused and leaned against the frame as she admired it, a tender smile pursing her lips, for she was resolved to give their green-cloaked guest the attention and admiration it deserved.

The Hale's had not played host to a tree in a good few years, so it still filled Margaret with joy every time her eyes fell upon this most welcome visitor to their humble home. Richard and Maria Hale had first taken up the tradition when the children were small, starting when their Aunt Shaw heard of the festive fad set out by the German consort, Prince Albert, a fashion she had been swift to imitate. From then on, the Helstone parsonage had erected and adorned a tree every December without fail, that is, until the year Fred had been forced to flee England, and after that painful event, their home had forever interred a solemn shadow of despair, the likes of which no tree had the magic to overcome.

However, five days ago, when Margaret had returned from visiting the Higgins and Boucher family, she had come back to find a Christmas tree standing in their parlour, completely bare, almost as if it was always meant to be there, somehow having grown out of the floor or walls overnight, either that, or she had simply never noticed it before.

She had stared at it for some time, mystified, not to mention a little awe-struck. Nevertheless, when she had asked her father, he had said that it was a gift from Mr Thornton. Margaret had been taken aback by this, but her father had soon clarified that it was true, that Mr Thornton had thought it might cheer up their home, what with this year being one of such inestimable grief. Apparently, he had mentioned Margaret by name, even reservedly suggesting that the loss of first her home and then her mother, would be a considerable burden for one so young, and so, he hoped that this would help put a smile on her face.

He had been right, it had.

Not only had Mr Thornton gifted them a tree, but he had provided them with decorations, each one evidently hand-picked with such considerate care, just like with the fruit he had brought in his baskets for Margaret's mother when she had been ill. Bless him, he thought of everything. He somehow knew what they needed even before they did. Margaret, who may have once felt her pride piqued by such a familiar and forward gesture from Mr Thornton, a mere pupil of her father's, had not thought twice about accepting his offering with immense gratitude. And so, over the past five days, she had spent many a jolly hour fashioning it, and now, all she could hope was that he too would like it when he saw it, that it would likewise put a smile on his stern face, one she had rarely seen etched with any expression other than a scowl.

Continuing along to the kitchen in a state of apathy, the kind that is typical of those who are disheartened, Margaret came to sit on the long wooden bench by the table, even if her mind was somewhere else entirely, far, far away. At first, she paid no heed to Dixon sitting opposite her, peeling potatoes and eyeing the young mistress with a critical eye.

With a low grumble, the maid did not approve of all this moping about that Miss Margaret was doing these days. It was most unlike her, and it was a pointless pursuit, since sulking never got anyone anywhere. And what was she doing all trussed up in her best day dress, one might ask? It was not as if today was anything special.

Huffing, Dixon half fretted that the girl was taking after her mother with all this pining, but no, she doubted it, given that Mrs Hale, God rest her soul, had been a fragile creature, whereas her daughter, by contrast, huh, that hoity-toity madam was made of sterner stuff, so she would soon perk up, mark her words.

Unable to abide the depressing silence, not to mention being unnerved by the way that Margaret was staring off into the distance with a wistful look on her face, Dixon ventured a comment, one which she had assumed would be acceptable. 'I am relieved that man is not coming today,' she said after a while, in that off-hand way of hers.

Margaret, who had been playing lazily with a piece of potato peel, froze and glared at the maid, her eyes glinting, the cold blue of her iris appearing like a pool of ice. 'I sincerely hope you are not referring to Mr Thornton, Dixon,' she replied, a prickly warning to her words.

'I most certainly am, Miss,' the servant retorted without so much as a blush to show for her insolence. 'I can't imagine what the master was thinking of, having the likes of him traipsing in here. I don't care how wealthy he is, nor how fine his clothes or house may be, no amount of artificial manners will ever take away the fact that he is a dirty, lowly tradesman. And to think he is treating the likes of you as an equal −'

'That is enough!'

By now, Margaret had leapt to her feet and was glowering at the servant, her face red with a righteous anger that raged so hotly it would surely ignite her, burning her to a cinder like a match. Dixon got such a fright that she flinched, the kitchen knife flying out of her hand and clattering on the paved floor.

'I never, – never, want to hear you speak of Mr Thornton in that way again! Do you hear?!' Margaret ordered. 'He is a good man. He is a true gentleman, the truest that ever lived, and he has been so very kind to us since we came here, even although he has no need to be, and even although we can offer him no advantage in return.'

'No advantage?!' Dixon scoffed. 'What? To mingle with a genteel family of birth and breeding? He being no more than a common hawker in a smart suit.'

Margaret could feel her blood boiling. 'I do not know which accusation to dispute first. To begin with, Mr Thornton is not just a common hawker, and even if he were, that is no crime. I will remind you that he is an educated man, a man who is intelligent and skilled. He is evidently accomplished in everything he puts his mind to, his achievements applauded by all who know him. He is respectable, and he is respected.'

'He has had no education that I know of,' Dixon snorted. 'And what has he to show for himself, hmm? A mill? Nasty place. No, you'd do well to listen to me, young Miss, he will be more than pleased to have his feet under the table here, mixing with the likes of Mr Hale, a true gentleman who has never dirtied his hands by a day's manual labour in his life, a man who can introduce him to some proper gentlemen.'

'Those things do not matter here, Dixon, as well you know. Milton is a different place, with different people, who have different ideals. They care little for the tenets of the south, and what is more, I commend them for it. And I am quite sure that even if they did value such petty concerns, Mr Thornton would still not mind them himself. No, he has no interest in a person's personage, so long as they are honest and good,' Margaret defended.

The young lady then cast her eyes to the floor demurely, a paleness bleaching her countenance. Who was she to speak so vehemently of honesty when she herself had been so shamefully dishonest? It was true, Mr Thornton did prize the merits of sincerity and integrity, discounting those without such qualities, but what was correspondingly true, was that Margaret herself could not claim to be so vitreous in her character. Therefore, it went without saying that Mr Thornton could never respect her, and nor, it would seem, forgive her.

'And I will remind you that we are not so high and mighty as you might imagine. Are we not in reduced circumstances?' she asked, gesturing to their confined living quarters. 'We are hardly the most rich or esteemed people here. We do not hold grand dinner parties or balls. We do not have gentry banging down our door to call upon us. Good grief, we can hardly afford a servant to help you, so I must, the daughter of one of your precious Beresfords,' Margaret reminded Dixon.

Dixon herself was knocked for six. Well she never! To be spoken to like that, and in her own kitchen! Oh, she knew that Miss Margaret had a temper, she always had, even as a little girl, but by Jove, she had never made a scene like this before! And all because of her charitable and wholly misdirected interest in a worthless cotton merchant. There was one thing for sure, and that was that this heathen place was going to her head, and the better she was sent off to marry a London gent, the better.

Sitting back down, Margaret laid a hand over her face and sighed. 'He was wonderfully generous to mother, you know he was,' she championed, her voice calm once more, and the maid looked shamefaced to have forgotten it. 'So, please, Dixon, do not speak of Mr Thornton in that way again. I cannot bear for him to come here and not to be shown every civility and consideration he so justly deserves. It is hurtful. Not only to him, but to m −,'

Margaret bit down on her tongue. 'Just…please.'

Once she had finished her speech, Margaret resumed playing with her potato peel, her demeanour now all mildness and meekness once again. As Dixon watched her, she saw the young miss shiftlessly pick up her father's scarf and run it between her fingers, the girl so befuddled by her let-down this evening that she had forgotten to return it to its peg.

'I will say one thing for him,' began Dixon as she kneaded a mound of dough, 'he will need to get himself a scarf soon. Either that, or he will freeze to death.'

Margaret glanced up in confusion. 'Father?'

'No, Mr Thornton,' the maid corrected. 'He has been without one these past four weeks or more. I heard him say so to the master. He gave it to a child, or so he said, one of the children in his factory who hardly had a stitch on his body and was walking home in the snow. He has not yet got round to buying a new one. And as for his gloves −'

'His gloves?!' Margaret startled, nearly jumping out of her seat.

'Yes, he lost those too, some time ago, from what I understand. I tell you this, for a man who is supposed to be so careful with everything, he has a funny way of mislaying all his clothes,' she remarked, once again braving a criticism.

'But it is a shame for him, poor soul. He may be a northerner, and from what I should think, they will have thicker skin than the likes of you and I, but to go out in this dreadful cold with no scarf and gloves, it is unthinkable!' she tutted, her maternal side never failing to win her over.

'I heard him say that he shall get a new one by and by, but he wants a blue one. And not just any blue, mind you, it has to be a cloudy blue, a sort of pale grey. It is his favourite colour, apparently. Odd, is it not, for a man to be so exact about such a thing?' she mused to herself.

Margaret nodded, but as she noticed her reflection in a copper pot, she paused, the colour of her eyes catching the light and causing her to squint before quickly looking away.

Could it be…? No, no, a coincidence, surely.

Nibbling her lip, Margaret began to drum her fingers on the table as Dickson ambled off to stir the stew. It was at this moment that an idea came to her, and Margaret snapped her fingers.

Yes!

She knew what she would do to show Mr Thornton that she cared about him, that his friendship meant the world to her, and with two weeks to go until Christmas Eve, she would have plenty of time to see her plan through.