Here we go, the whole of chapter 4! And yes, yes, yes, I know, I am the worst, we have another chapter to go. (Collective sigh). I write too much. But it is definitely just one more, it's partly written already, just the cheesy dialogue for now, but all the in-between bits have to be added, and for those of you enjoying the story, hopefully you will welcome one more instalment to look forward to.
Thank you kindly to all who left kind wishes, baby and I are doing much better now. I am glad you liked the snippet/preview of this chapter, and some of you may have appreciated the chance to see a first and final draft of one of my chapters to see how passages change.
Thanks again, and take care! C x
THE WOOLLEN OLIVE BRANCH
Chapter 4
From Before We Were Us
Despite it being only a few feet between where he stood on the pavement and the Hale's front door, it would not be an overstatement to say that John near enough sprinted that immeasurably short distance, taking strides rather than steps as he hurried towards the house and all the hope that it's four consecrated walls promised.
The fatigue in his legs had miraculously vanished, and instead of feeling emotionally bled, he was alive with an agitated exhilaration that made him as giddy as a schoolboy. When he reached the door, John knocked upon it eagerly, the thump of his fist sounding dubiously thuggish with its booming thud, advertising his whereabouts to the whole of Milton. Nevertheless, his vigour, albeit raucous, did not come from a place of aggression, but of uncontainable excitement.
Standing there, John must have looked like a puppy as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, the new-found and pent-up energy that fizzed inside him proving difficult to restrain. He was in half a mind to take hold of the handle and push the door open of his own initiative, but John quickly took hold of himself instead, reminding himself that love, no matter how passionate it may be, was no excuse for bad manners. However, John did not have to wait long, stewing hotly in his pot of unruly expectation, because only a few moments later, he heard the plod of footsteps on the other side.
John could feel the blood rushing throughout him, directing itself to every nook and cranny of his substantial body, feeding his flexing muscles with the red fuel of vitality, shovelling it like coal into his veins. He was like a greyhound about to be set free from his pen at the races, and he was ready, ready to charge inside the very instant the gate was unlocked, and he was at last at liberty to chase after what he wanted.
Just like that, the door opened, and much to his surprise, it was not a surly Dixon who met him, threatening to turn her enemy away and clobber John with a rolling pin if he dared defy her, but Mr Hale himself. The master of the house wore a vague expression at first as he surveyed his caller, his brain cells dimmed by the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the street on which John stood like a displaced statue. Still, his countenance soon transformed into one of heartfelt greeting as the realisation of who had arrived dawned on him.
'Ah, John, here you are!' he acknowledged merrily, a tad taken aback, as Mr Hale, a man who could not boast the sharpest of memories, had almost forgotten that they were due a visitor at all this evening. 'Welcome, my good man, welcome!' he hailed as he stepped back and threw his arm out in the direction of his hallway, shepherding John inside from the harsh northern air.
John breathed a sigh of relief to have at least been invited in, even if the hard part was yet to come. He had half wondered whether Mr Hale might have overlooked the fact that tonight was their usual day for meeting, and what with it being Christmas and all, the pupil may very well have been sent away with his tail between his legs, wandering home like a lost soul, the very same eager puppy being denied his Yuletide treat, the chance to see his mistress.
'Good evening, Mr Hale,' John replied breathlessly as he marched over the threshold with a brisk step, overtaken by a queer superstition that if he did not cross that marked line swiftly enough, the door would slam closed in his face, and as if by some rotten curse, he would be unable to get in, rendering both the Hale home and the Hale daughter barred to him forever.
'Thank you for having me,' he added with delayed civility as he took off his coat and hat, laying them down on a nearby table, since the thought of handing them to Mr Hale to hang up somehow seemed inappropriate, even if he was not entirely sure why. As he did this, the sight of a pair of out-of-place knitting needles courted his interest, and made John look twice with a curious blink, speculating as to what on earth they were doing there, and even more intriguingly, why they were not employed with any knitting, a single strand of blue wool the only evidence remaining to suggest they had been busy at all.
Mr Hale waved his hand about affably. 'Nonsense!' said he. 'We are merely flattered that you could find the time to come and join us tonight. I know you have only just arrived back from your travels abroad, and you must surely have a great deal to attend to, not to mention wanting to spend time with your family at Christmas.'
John smiled, a small, private smile. 'Believe me, sir, there is nowhere I'd rather be.'
It was at this point that the caller took the convenient opportunity to look about him. Now that he was indoors, he had matters to attend to, and as a man who was not work-shy, John thought it best to get on with his urgent task directly. With single-minded tenacity, and eyes as sharp as flints, John restlessly scanned the lower floor, the study, and the stairs, hoping to detect a movement, an evanescent shadow, a sign that they were not alone. However, much to his frustration, nothing flitted across his elevated eyeline, nothing caught his penetrating scrutiny, not a maid, not a maiden, not a mouse.
Damn!
Growling impatiently, John transferred his attention to the poky passageway that led to the kitchen. He yearned for some tell-tale din to echo from that quarter, such as the beating of dough against a table, the shrill whistling of a kettle boiling on the stove, or sweetest of all, the sound of someone humming or singing a pretty melody. If he strained his lugs, then he could conceivably heed the dainty pitter-patter of light feet and the pacing of slipper shoes from some unspecified corner of the Crampton house, but their presence was both faint and fleeting, leaving John's supposition unsubstantiated. His ears twitched like a rabbit's, trying to distinguish even the feeblest of noises drifting down the corridor or the stairs, but no resonance came his way, not a shuffle, not a sniffle, not a sigh.
Dang it!
He stood stock-still and let his surroundings flood his senses. Surely, he must be able to detect something. A sight, a touch, a sound, a taste, a smell…
Come on! – anything would do! All he had were two knitting needles and a string of wool, and what meaning could they possibly hope to harvest?
But alas, his wits came back with a discouraging report, informing him that there was no ─
'Kind of you to say,' Mr Hale interjected, interrupting his visitor's anxious search, 'but will your mother and sister not be missing you tonight? I do feel terribly responsible for having taken you away from them, particularly when they have been without you for so long.'
He permitted himself a brusque laugh as he thrust his hands into his pockets, his fingers only just waking up from being numbed lifeless by the cold, and the sensation of their reawakening was causing his skin to sting and smart, a burning that was more raw than his masculine pride was ready to admit.
'I doubt they will mind my absence too much,' he said truthfully as his head tipped backwards at an unnatural angle so that he could inspect the floor above, since he was not so much occupied with those who lived at his own house, but rather, who lived here. The thought of this irked him momentarily, and he frowned crossly, because if John had his way, that person would be living at his house, with him, permitting him to spontaneously see them whenever he liked, morning, noon or night. Nonetheless, as ill-fate would have it, that was not how things were, so he had no alternative other than to spend time with them here, or that is, try to.
John grumbled when no indication of their presence greeted his ears, and he soon turned his fickle focus back to his host. 'They are to dine with the Latimers this evening and attend a party there. I hear they have a great deal of food and games planned, so that will almost certainly regale them both. I should think they will consider it a welcome change from my dull company,' John affixed, all too aware that his sister was overjoyed to have the chance to indulge in the elegance of a festive party, giving her a coveted opportunity to throw on her finest frock and both dance and gossip the night away, the absence of her elder, lacklustre brother being the icing on top of her Christmas cake.
'Oh, dear! Now I really do feel guilty,' Mr Hale wavered, his cheerful features drooping, affecting his wrinkles to defect from being upward creases to downward ones. He reproached himself to think that in his loneliness, he had been selfish and coerced his friend in coming here tonight. The Hales lived modestly, and their simple celebration this evening could never hope to compare with a grand gathering, the kind of event a smart young man about town would surely be eager to attend.
'I fear you shall find us a quiet crowd tonight, dear boy, just the three of us: myself, you, and Margaret,' he confessed quietly, sighing loudly as if in apology. 'I can assure you, as welcome as you are, if you wished to leave, we would not be slighted in the least.' Mr Hale's oration faltered as he said this, for while he meant every word, he would be more sorry than he could say to see his dear friend depart.
Nonetheless, John merely shook his head uncompromisingly and grinned. 'I can assure you, Mr Hale, this is precisely what I want.'
It was true, he would much rather be here, and not just because of whom he might see, but because John absolutely detested parties. He abhorred the effort of getting trussed up and being forced to engage in mindless small-talk with a horde of inebriated men and infatuated women. Somebody would be constantly trying to steal him away, whether it be for a dance or a conversation about trade or the law, and so John found the circus that was socialising to be tiresome. He was a man, after all, not a performing monkey. John had anticipated that if he had gone tonight, then he would have been swarmed by ladies who tried to trap him under a stem of mistletoe, their fathers or husbands equally exasperating as they pressed him for every dull detail of his business dealings when abroad. No, no, peace and quiet is what John longed for, and where better to find it than in the refuge that was the Hale's?
John found himself sniffing sentimentally as he thought on this, on how he had spent the past fifteen years searching wretchedly for a place to call home after he had lost his own. He had thought he would find it in the mill or in the courthouse, realms of permanence and order. But what a fool he had been to look in such taciturn places that cared nothing for him in return. Now John had finally discovered his home. Not his literal home, but his spiritual home, and he would do all he could to stay.
Thinking on this, John added with reassurance: 'Being here, sir, with you, with both of you, it promises to be the perfect Christmas Eve.'
Then, bending his head down to examine his shoes, he softly whispered: 'almost,' since it was true, John could not be happier, or that is, he could, if only she would come to him. Better yet, John wished with all his might that she would run into his tender embrace, quivering as his arms wrapped around her, just like he had dreamt many a lonely night, and there he could hold her, kiss her, tell her he loved her, and better still, better by far, hear her utter those sweet words of faithful affection in return.
While John was indulging in this fanciful vision, Mr Hale was mulling over his own. He had not perceived John's private mutterings, his satisfaction at hearing that his favourite pupil was to stay after all had left him insensible to anything else, and with a tear of joy welling in his mawkish eye, he murmured: 'Well, as I say, we are honoured.'
Veering round and looking towards the stairs, Mr Hale suddenly called out: 'Margaret!' and John felt his heart stir to hear that name mentioned, his three favourite syllables like a melody composed by his very own soul. It had been uttered so unexpectedly, and without any ceremony, that John felt thrown by it, as if its power had whipped a rug out from beneath his feet, knocking him off balance, and he held onto the table for support. Her name was so singular and superior, that it ought to be proclaimed formally every time it was mouthed, almost like royalty being announced before they entered a room.
'Margaret, dearest, look who is here, it is Mr Thornton,' the father heralded.
John shuffled uneasily and dug his nails into the wood of the table, scratching out thin lines in the panelling like the claws of a wild animal, physical proof of the intensity of his hunger for the one he awaited restlessly. Ducking his head in embarrassment, John was plagued by a curdled mood of discontent when he realised that the sound of his own name could never bring her as much joy as hers did him. John was so stark, so uninspired, so short, whereas Margaret, well, it encompassed everything that was good in this worthless world.
Still, his head soon shot up again when he heard the most unexpected thing imaginable, so astonishing that he deemed it high time he cleared out his ears. What came next, was a call from high above, up the stairs, and it was one full of warmth and cheer, both sentiments ringing with the celestial chorus of genuineness.
'Coming, Father, coming!'
Her voice was lyrical in its liveliness, and John's eyes stared in unconcealed awe as he saw Margaret appear before him like a phantom, almost as if he were some madman who was driven so crazed by longing that his delirious mind was concocting things. She was halfway up the stairs, tilting over the banister so that they could see her. Margaret was smiling as she regarded them, her cheeks dimpled and her eyes sparkling, a look of authentic happiness on her face.
It was not surprising that John found himself fighting to breathe, and he seriously worried that if he could not swallow enough oxygen, he might keel over and collapse on the floor at her feet, and what a despicable spectacle that would make. His chest grew tight as his heart swelled at the thought of being close to her again after all these weeks. He could feel his whole body reacting, groaning into life, as if it had been asleep during the interlude of their disaffection. John no longer cared what had transpired, all that mattered was being here and being near her, because despite any anger or jealousy that he might be wrestling with, none of that burdensome pessimism outweighed how much he had missed Margaret.
The hairs on his arms bristled. His fingers jerked. His throat convulsed. He must have looked wild, but he did not give a damn, not when he was about to see his darling girl again.
He was hardly aware of Mr Hale talking, the gentleman drivelling on about something or nothing, the master too absorbed with impatiently awaiting Margaret's arrival to concern himself with anything else. He watched as she descended the stairs, her every step as graceful as the gliding of an angel. John only frowned once, and this was when she vanished for a split second from his sight, hidden by a bend in the staircase that impeded his view.
However, while he was inwardly cursing the blind spot for concealing his favourite person in all the world, John was momentarily distracted when he heard Mr Hale say something odd, very odd indeed, and it made John blink, whirl round, and glower at his tutor in blatant bewilderment.
'What did you say?' he checked, unsure of his own state of mind, his ears most definitely playing tricks on him, all those nights being out at sea and exposed to the blustery winds that fought a time-old battle between the shores of England and France having temporarily deafened him.
'I was saying that I am only sorry that you will be denied the company of Miss Latimer,' Mr Hale repeated, a little more stridently this time to ensure that he was heard. 'I understand that she is a fine young lady, and if you forgive my overfamiliarity, I am led to believe that it may not be long before I am to congratulate you,' he tallied with a wonky wink, not that Mr Hale really understood how to wink, not being a winking man himself.
John's face fell. 'Congratulate me?' he repeated, dumbstruck.
Mr Hale chortled. He knew his pupil was a reserved man, but really, there was no need for him to be so reticent amongst friends. 'Why, on your engagement to Miss Latimer.'
It was true that John Thornton was a remarkably clever man, his mind as fast and fertile as any, affording him the useful ability to process information at a quicker rate than most. Nevertheless, this admission from Mr Hale was more than he could fathom. Where on earth had he heard that? John was about to reply, to bark a baffled series of questions and retorts, first demanding to know who had fed his friend this heinous lie, shortly followed by a most explicit denial of the false allegation. However, sadly, he did not have the chance, as before he could open his mouth, Mr Hale beat him to it.
'Oh, excellent! Here you are, my dear!' the scholar announced, clapping his hands jovially with a single smack that echoed. John spun round to see Margaret walking towards them, his gaze tracking her until she stood wonderfully close to him, so close that he could feel the heat radiating from her body, one he tried his best not to stare at, since its generous curves had the ability to turn his mind to mince, rendering him ungentlemanly as he gawked at her with poorly disguised desire.
She looked so delightfully lovely, as always. How was it possible that one woman could be this arresting? It was surely impossible, and one thing was certain, and that was that it was unfair. How could a man be expected to be in control of himself when he was around such a divine creature? John felt sure that Margaret was some sort of enchantress, because that was the only plausible explanation, even if it were not the most rational. The ironic thing was that John had never been truly attracted to any woman before. Yes, he had found the occasional girl handsome enough, but he had barely noticed any women who paraded themselves before him, no matter how relentlessly they tried to grab his attention and claim his affection.
On the other hand, when it came to Margaret, John was spellbound, and he had been, ever since the first day they met. Could it be that years of disinterest in the opposite sex had meant that he now had a reserve of bottled-up lure to release? Meaning that when he finally found himself charmed and tempted by a woman, John could not help but be captivated with every inch of her beautiful being?
However, getting back to the point, it was fair to say that John's joy was soon made uneasy as he detected the patent shift in her comportment. Where she had been spirited a few moments before, Margaret was now apathetic, her happy disposition disquietingly overcast. She stood before him in meek silence, her head hung low, her hands fidgeting before her, all the healthy pigment drained from her previously rosy complexion.
'Look who it is!' Mr Hale declared, gesturing towards John as if his daughter were both blind and stupid, as if she had not seen him a dozen times before. 'And he came, just like you said he would.'
Nevertheless, instead of glancing up to meet his gaze, Margaret's eyes remained fixed upon the floor, her lids heavy, as if weighed down by some unknown sadness.
'Miss Hale,' John ventured, his throat arid and hoarse as he struggled to speak in her presence.
John had never claimed to possess a way with words. He was articulate enough for the likes of Milton folk, a species who were curt and frank with their phrases, their time always harried, never their own, rendering conversation rudimentary and only entered into when strictly necessary, opposed to being an art form that was taught in the south. However, when it came to Margaret, she deserved so much more. John knew that she ought to be showered with poetry, with pretty verses that dripped from her lover's lips with dulcet adoration. But alas, he was not gifted with a silver tongue, what with having a sharp one in its place, so all he could manage were brief snippets of dialogue, each one usually punctuated by a disarray of glowers and grunts. It was a combination that must have made him appear like a boor to her, this refined woman of elegance who could simultaneously soothe and scold his soul with her honey-trap of a mouth that he yearned to plunder with his own.
'It is good to see you again,' he added, his words as honest as honest gets, but neither Mr nor Miss Hale would ever know how sincerely he meant them.
Margaret nodded gently, her small hands clasped before her pathetically, almost as if she were standing before him to be admonished. Her submissive bearing was puzzling to him, not to mention distressing, but for the life of him, John could not work out the cause of her subdued mood.
'Good evening, Mr Thornton,' she whispered back after a while, her typically imperious voice so faint that he would almost believe she had lost it altogether.
And then nothing more was said.
To say that the next two hours that passed were the most tense of John's life, would not be an exaggeration in the least.
John had endured many uncomfortable encounters over the years; such a drawback could not be eluded when he was both a prominent master and magistrate. Nevertheless, despite his experience with the menace that was known as social uneasiness, John could never quite seem to prepare himself for the overwrought awkwardness that arose when he was around Margaret. He was used to being in control of himself, to be measured in his speeches and deeds, allowing him to show those that surrounded him that he had earned his reputation for being both intelligent and authoritative. All the same, whenever he was with Margaret, John found that he was useless, abysmally so, unable to form a coherent sentence, unable to say or do anything other than scowl or sulk, all because he was too damn frustrated that he did not have the same overwhelming effect on her.
Still, even although John could concede that he and Margaret had shared countless tense meetings over the past year, nothing compared to tonight.
After she had met her father and his pupil by the front door, Mr Hale had ushered them all upstairs to enjoy some tea and cake beside the drawing room fire. Margaret had accompanied them dutifully, but while she had descended the stairs with energy and enthusiasm, she ascended them with listless lethargy. It was almost as if she had lost interest in the whole night and would rather not be part of it. John had found himself constantly turning his head slyly to look at her as she trailed behind them, if only to check that she was still there.
When they entered the drawing room, it was a reprieve to find that she did indeed join them, that is, eventually. It had been the longest ten seconds of his life, waiting for her to catch up with them, wondering if she would make her excuses and continue up to her bedroom, but to his relief, Margaret did no such thing, but rather, sat down in a chair at the other end of the room, and there, the lady of the house took up her sewing.
Despite his initial gladness, John had decided that he was far from pleased with how the situation was progressing, because he did not like it, not one bit.
For a start, the seat she had chosen was so far away that it may as well have been at the other side of the world, the universe, even. There were plenty of other spots to nestle herself, all much, much closer to him, but she had opted to remove herself from him and erect a barrier of cold indifference known as distance between the pair of them.
What was more, the demonstration of her sewing implied that she had no intention of joining in their conversation tonight, and John was near enough ready to get up and storm off, declaring that if she were not to talk, then it was pointless, since he had no interest in listening to anything that was said unless it came expressly from her.
Nevertheless, John tried to reason with himself. She was here. That was a start, at least. It was a vast improvement on the past weeks, stagnant and suffocating as they had been, even if tonight did not deliver all he wanted, for now, anyway. Still, he would wait. John may have been well-schooled in the skill of self-denial, but the second most practised string to his fiddle was forbearance. Yes, he would let her be, and do his best just to be grateful that Margaret was here at all.
Over the next two hours, Mr Hale talked about this and that, the gentleman far more garrulous than John had known him to be for some time, and while he was delighted to see his tutor's former verve restored after his months of vanquished grief, he felt guilty for not paying him due consideration. John tried to be attentive, he really did, but it was hard when his awareness was constantly devoted towards minding what Margaret was up to.
For the first forty minutes, she did not even glance up from her stitching, not once. She kept her head bent diligently over her sewing, and John was mesmerised by how skilfully her fingers floated back and forth as they pulled the needle through the material of whatever it was she was embroidering. However, as homely as this was for him to watch, it would not do. It was just like it had been on his last visit, and John would not stand for it. She had been like this before, reserved and timid, and John hated to see Margaret thus, not this woman who ought not to be confined to a corner in silence, but one who should be the heart and soul of whatever room she was in, governing it with her wit and wisdom.
He was so accustomed to having her challenge him, to hear her blistering remarks of admonishment or abhorrence channelled his way, that John found he sorely missed her chastisement. Ha! It was ironic, given that he had tried his hardest to win her over for months, craving so much as a morsel of approval, and now, all John wanted was for Margaret to scold him like she used to.
Turning in on himself, John ignored Mr Hale's comments about the latest pamphlets of philosophical discourse that had been published, choosing instead to try and work out the cause of Margaret's altered mood. She had most definitely been jolly enough when he had arrived not four and forty minutes before. She had been singing and laughing in her bedroom, he had seen her with his very own eyes, eyes that had watched her with more attentiveness than was right and proper. After that, she had hurried down the stairs to join them, her voice high in its genuine gusto. But then, what had happened to make her so forlorn?
Allowing his paranoid thoughts to cloud his judgement, John even began to worry that Margaret had not realised it was him that was visiting, that she had assumed it was somebody else, perhaps her lover from the train station. Then, when she finally came face to face with her companion for this evening, she had felt cheated and disenchanted, leaving her miserable with her second-rate master for company.
John's heart sank to think such an unhappy thought, but then he soon pushed it aside as common sense annulled his mistrust. No! No, that was not possible. She had seen him at the window, they had looked at each other for some time, staring each other inside out. Yes, it was conceivable that Margaret had mistaken him for somebody else. A tall man in a hat could be confused for another man of a similar nondescript variety, but that still did not seem credible to his lucid mind. While John appreciated that he knew Margaret's face and figure better than she did his, given that he had made an obsessive study of her every microscopic inch, that is, those that were not unfairly concealed by her clothing, it was still logical to infer that she would recognised the sight of him too.
Surely Margaret knew him well enough to distinguish John from any other man she met. For pity's sake, he had held her in his arms on the day of the riot, her petite body pressed against his solid frame, her nose scraping his own, their hot breaths mingling in the tight space that separated their lips, a marginal gap that grew ever closer as they had spun in circles as one in their dizzy dance of terror, fearing for the safety of one another. She knew him! She damn well knew his face! John refused to accept any contradiction on the matter.
And there was not only that. They had watched each other, their gazes lingering in a suspended daze, and if John were not so doubtful of his own worth in her estimation, he could have sworn an oath in court that he had witnessed a light in Margaret's eyes when she had noticed him standing on the street. She had spotted him. Recognised him. Smiled at him. And then invited him inside. All of that had happened, it most indisputably had, and nobody would ever convince John otherwise. What was more, Mr Hale had called out John's name to her, letting his daughter know that it was the mill master who had come to call upon them this Christmas Eve, and she had heard him, she had replied in acknowledgment.
So what had changed?
Pondering over this, John lifted his porcelain teacup to his mouth and readied to take a sip of liquid to nourish his senses with a jolt of warm inspiration, the fusion of spices always invigorating his wits. But as he did this, he glowered to discover that his cup was empty, and so he lowered his arm in quiet frustration. He was just about to stand up and fetch some tea for himself, what with it being an informal occasion that would allow for such familiarity, but then an idea came to him.
With the edge of his lip curling mischievously, John picked up his spoon, and with a deft flick of his wrist, he threw it across the floor, and there it landed, just a few paces away from her feet.
His trick worked a treat.
All at once, Margaret looked up with a startle, her eyes landing upon the wayward spoon with a quizzical expression. She glanced first at it, then at John, and the cords of his soul thrummed and twitched to at last be able to look into her eyes, those blue orbs that were the most soothing shade of blue, so precise in its perfection that no artist could ever recreate it with his paint palette. She could do that, work him like a puppet on a string, and while John Thornton could never allow himself to ever be conquered by another man, he willingly submitted himself to her mercy.
Margaret continued to inspect the spoon upon the floor, but she made no move to stand and retrieve it, and John admired her for this. While many women would be deferential, servitude was not in her nature, her character far too stately to permit her to stoop so low as to oblige John by picking up after him like a mother does for her child. Margaret was a caring person, and while she would gladly bend and scrape to help a needy soul, John knew that it would take a great deal to convince her that a mill master required, or rather, deserved, her consideration. Instead, she folded her hands on her lap regally and raised her eyebrow to him in defiance, daring him to get up and fetch it himself.
Needless to say that John sprang out of his chair like he had just been booted from it, his over eagerness painfully plain for all to see. Kneeling, he picked it up and held it out to her. It was a peculiar act. John had no need to bend, his sprightly limbs were well-oiled enough for him to be able to crouch to collect this mislaid artefact, this prop in his theatrical performance, but for some reason, he wanted to do more than that, he wanted to make a greater show of himself. Bowing before her on bended knee was, to John, a man of chivalry, like a knight lowering himself before his lady, and as absurd as he may appear, lessened in both body and dignity in the Hale's drawing room holding a silver spoon, it felt absolutely right.
As she studied him with an air of discreet astonishment, Margaret could not help but smirk, a slight snort escaping her nose as she giggled. It was the most charming sound he had ever heard, even if he knew it had not been consciously intended for his amusement. However, she soon regained her composure, and standing, Margaret took the spoon from him, and much to John's regret, their fingers did not brush when she did so, for she was careful to ensure that the tip of her dainty digits remained several inches away from his in modest separation, lest they accidentally encounter one another, sending intoxicating ripples throughout them both.
With him still kneeling before her, Margaret walked around their visitor like he were an inconsequential obstacle in her path, and she continued to the small table upon which the tea things were laid. Left alone and neglected, not to mention feeling very much like a court jester, John rose to his feet, straightened his jacket, and returned to his chair, pretending that he had not just behaved like an abominable twit in front of the woman he loved.
Nevertheless, thankfully for John, the tea table was in fact situated deliciously near to his armchair, so without having to make a mockery of himself twice, he was afforded a top-ticket seat in the fascinating demonstration that was Margaret's tea pouring. He watched in carefully disciplined awe as Margaret picked up and put down first a teapot, then a cup, then a saucer, and then a set of tongs. Letting his eyes rake over her, John could not refrain from admiring her like a portrait, a liberty he took rather too often, much to his niggling shame.
Her dress really was exquisite to behold. He was so used to seeing Margaret in muted colours of browns and creams, but this cloth, this cut, they could not have been more different. While John had always respected her unassuming garments, approving of their unadorned simplicity, it was novel to be able to admire her in something bolder, more befitting of her character. It was red, a deep, wine red with a hint of cherry-hue blended in to give it a lightsome sheen. The sleeves were tight and tapered to her shoulders and arms, creating a structured poise, with material that moved down and fitted snugly around her waist, elongating it until the skirts fanned out at her hips, the design conceiving a most pleasing shape.
Around her middle, was tied a thick, green ribbon, its ends coiling teasingly as they hung about her impishly. When Margaret twisted to manage her task, John grinned as these same tails swayed and swished, and it took every ounce of self-discipline he possessed not to reach out and grab them, allowing him to tug at her sash and pull Margaret towards him playfully. John often thought about the ways in which he and Margaret would flirt if they could, the pair of them descending into invigorating childishness as these two serious-minded people gave way to their mischievous sides.
Yes, as John eyed her thoroughly, he could not help but approve.
As he did this, he found himself smiling in peaceful relief. Ah, so she was not with child, then. Or that is, she could be, theoretically, especially if she had met with her man from the station since that night, but the contour of her slender figure said otherwise, the lack of a swelling bump testament to her intact virginity. Well, that was something, he supposed. John had never truly believed it to be to the contrary, of course, not in his heart of hearts that still trusted Margaret's honour implicitly, but all the same, it was a weight off his troubled mind.
John continued to stare at her midriff indelicately for goodness knows how long, as his judicious eyes confirmed his theory. It was only when he sensed her gaze upon him that he peered up, and there he saw Margaret watching him, a furious blush to her cheeks to see the way he gawked at her and grinned to himself with satisfaction. Heartily ashamed, John removed his attention from her at once and chose instead to pick at an invisible thread on the sleeve of his jacket, waiting patiently like a respectable human being until she handed him his cup of tea.
However, such a happy event was not to be, and John was deprived of the chance to revel in this simple yet sacred ritual between them when he heard Margaret sigh.
'There is no more tea,' she told her father without so much as batting an eyelash in John's direction to acknowledge the problem this posed to his thirst. 'I shall away and fetch more,' she decreed, and with that, she turned and left, her skirts rustling behind her as she went.
John's shoulders crumpled as he collapsed back into his chair. He was devastated to see her go. What if she did not return?
From his glum position, he tracked her every move, and John's brow furrowed as he spied Margaret halting in the hallway. She dawdled there for a trice, unsure of herself, but then she put down the tray on a sideboard with one decisive motion before swiftly scurrying upstairs. John lurched forwards and nearly shouted out in churlish dissent. No! Where the devil did she think she was going? The kitchen was downstairs, not up, so she had better not be planning to retreat to her bedroom and forsake him for the rest of the night.
John sat there sweating, beads of anxiety trickling down his neck and wetting his shirt. Twiddling his thumbs at a dizzying speed, he could feel the dryness in his throat worsening as his dehydration increased, and he could sense his glands closing in as they thickened. For what must have been no more than a couple of minutes, minutes that were no longer or shorter than any other, since I have been expertly informed that such a thing is impossible, John was nothing more than a bag of nerves, overtaken by a fear that he had somehow insulted or upset Margaret, and that she was now making a show of refusing to see him. It may have been that he had offended her with the spoon. She could have seen it as an act of ridicule on his part, insinuating that it was her role to oblige him by tending to his every need.
Nonetheless, hardly any time passed before John heard the sound of somebody coming down the stairs, and there Margaret appeared again in the frame of the doorway. The master let out an audible sigh of reprieve, grateful beyond words that she was at least once again on the same floor as he. She now had something in her hands, a brown package wrapped with a blue ribbon. John wondered whether this might be the same parcel he had seen her wrestling with earlier when he stood outside, but he did not have time to inspect it further, because Margaret hastily tucked it under her elbow, collected up the tea tray, and then vanished down the next flight of stairs. John clicked his teeth. Well, it certainly looked as if she planned to come back, and that was better than nowt.
With his mind clear from the oppression of doubt, and now being certain that his night was out of immediate danger from being entirely ruined, John returned his disgracefully fleeting attention back to his host. Poor Mr Hale had been speaking all this time, but about what, John could not even pretend to offer a plausible guess. Still, he was thankful to find that his tutor had not seemed to notice his discourtesy, and had himself filled in the gaps, most likely assuming his friend's lack of responsiveness was down to nothing more than his lethargy after weeks of travel.
Nevertheless, despite John reproaching himself for his rudeness, and reminding himself that he should try harder to be more civilised, he found himself yet again breaking the rules of politeness when he recalled something Mr Hale had said earlier this evening.
'Mr Hale,' he interjected without so much as a tinge of tact. 'From whom did you hear that I was to be engaged?'
Mr Hale stopped and blinked at the question, unanticipated as it was, particularly given that he had been talking about Aristotle, the name, Ann, never once leaving his lips. The ageing man took off his spectacles and rubbed at the bridge of his nose as he trawled through his memory, unreliable archive that it was, full of dust, shoddy shelves, and disorganised cataloguing.
'Why, from Mr Bell, I should think,' he said at last.
The master blustered, and his eyes flashed with the incensed blaze of annoyance. 'Of course,' he repeated tersely, not the least bit surprised to discover the source of this vile rumour. Mr Bell had always been too wily for his own good, his love of mockery and mischief well known in Milton. That is what happened when a man was indolent and did not have a trade to occupy his idle hands, he took up a sport, and that diversion was very often the hunting and killing of other men's good name for fun.
Sensing his pupil's dissatisfaction, Mr Hale felt it only right to offer a further explanation. 'He told me that you were having a great deal to do with the Latimers of late, and that Miss Latimer had been spending a considerable amount of time at Marlborough House,' he began.
John was more frustrated than ever by this report, mainly because he could not argue with any of it. It was all true. For a start, he had been seeing a lot of Mr Latimer in recent months, more than he would have liked to, but that was all to do with business, given that he was a banker and John a customer in need of financial relief. As for Miss Latimer calling at his house, that was also correct, even if Mr Hale had been mistaken as to the reason for her attendance. Miss Latimer had never once been asked there as his guest, no, for she was always invited as his sister's friend, nothing more. If it were not impolite to say so, John would have noted how far from enjoying her presence, he found her artful sycophancy disconcerting, and he did whatever he could to avoid her whenever she came by. For all that John was a man, and all men appreciate flattery, their ego thriving on it, he was a shy person, and so he did not welcome toadyism in the way that others did. That is perhaps why he valued Margaret's company so much. She just let him be himself, even if she disliked what himself signified, her lack of applause a refreshing change.
'I believe he inferred that the young lady comes from a very good family and was considered an excellent match for a Thornton. You are, after all, both prominent families in Milton, or so I am told. Then what with the two of you being well-suited, it was suggested that it would not be long until we were to hear the banns read in church,' Mr Hale concluded, his eyes wary as he cautiously watched the young man who sat hunched over before him, afraid that he had overstepped the mark. He hoped that he had made it clear that this analysis was not his own, but Mr Bell's.
John nodded, even if his jaw was taught and his lips tight. 'He told you this?' he muttered. 'Just you?' he checked, an impatient insistence to his last enquiry.
Mr Hale was yet again dumbfounded by the irregularity of it all. 'Indeed. It was just the two of us, if I recall,' he confirmed, unsure of who John thought might also have been privy to their conversation. The retired minister was a sheltered soul, he hardly saw anybody, so he was not one to impart gossip, either by nature, or by opportunity. 'And I hope you know that I would never breathe a word of your private affairs to anybody else, you have my solemn oath.'
The young man sniffed irritably in acknowledgement as his eyes fell upon the fire, a mournful shadow dimming their penetrating clarity.
This left Mr Hale feeling terribly uneasy, and he clasped his hands together as he deliberated over what to say next. 'If I may, dear boy, I…'
John grumbled. 'Go on.'
'I think you know, John, that I am not the most observant of men,' he confessed. 'It is all good and well when it comes to books, but when it comes to studying people, I fear I am ill-qualified.'
'As am I,' John countered, thinking on how badly he had misjudged Margaret.
He tried not to reflect on what a mess he had made over the past year. It still struck him as profoundly ludicrous, that for such a careful and calculated sort of man, he had somehow allowed himself to make so many obvious mistakes when it came to his first real experience of love. John had known that Margaret did not harbour any degree of marked fondness for him when he proposed, or at the very least, he had appreciated that she did not admire him in the way that a woman ought to admire a prospective husband. It was plain to him that she did not adore him with the same passion that he cherished in his heart on her behalf, that would be an unattainable dream, even John had been able to see that through the mist of his infatuation.
Yet, all the same, when he thought of the way Margaret had rushed down from her sanctuary to aid him in his hour of need, a flicker of hope, obstinate blighter as it was, still burnt fiercely in his breast. There was no denying the way she had nobly shielded him from harm as she barricaded herself between him and the rioters, not to mention throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him for dear life, just so that he would not be harmed. As John closed his eyes and let the delectable memory of her hands sliding along his skin flood him with a heady fever of desire, he dared to let himself hope, even for the briefest of moments, that she had at least cared for him in some small way.
In fact, he still held onto this hope, stubbornly refusing to let it go, and so it would be, a pitiful, lonely man clutching onto this illusive glimmer of optimism throughout the chapters of his life, treasuring it until the bitter end.
'But I…forgive me, I am not one to talk so unreservedly, nor, do I think, are you the sort of man to have his affairs discussed so openly,' Mr Hale stuttered, soldiering on with his clumsy speech, rousing John from his remote ruminations, somewhere far away, lost in the recesses of his troubled mind. 'I just wanted to say that I think I understand.'
John's expression must have been one of palpable confusion, because Mr Hale proceeded to shake his head at his own incompetence before he resumed. 'I may not have known you long, John, but I hope I know you well enough that I may talk freely. And I believe that you have not been yourself of late. Your mood, it has been distracted, disillusioned. I thought it first to be the mill that was the cause of your unhappiness, – Mr Bell told me a little of your plight since the strike.'
What followed was a boisterous huff. Good grief! Was he all Mr Bell ever talked about?!
'However, I have given it a great deal of thought since your last visit, and after what Margaret said, (John jolted), I have reached the conclusion that it has nothing to do with that. I do not think you are perturbed by matters at the mill, or not as much as all that. You are a shrewd fellow, an industrious one, and you have survived challenges before,' Mr Hale contended, reddening at the forthright mention of John's past.
'To be sure, I think you shall take such strife in your stride and weather it better than just about any man I can think of.' Although Mr Hale did not let it show, he did allow himself a brief interval of personal reflection and self-pity at this point in his sermon. It pained him to think that while John was a man of indisputable strength of conviction and courage, Mr Hale was sorry to say that he could not claim such a merit for himself.
'Thank you,' John allowed, still unsure of where all this was going.
'No, I think your problem is love.'
'Love?!' John blurted out. Oh, Lord! What had Margaret told her father? John had assumed that everything that had passed between them had remained just so, between them, but could it be that she had confessed all to one or both of her parents?
'Yes, love,' Mr Hale reiterated through a nervous cough. He had said it now, so there was no going back, no matter how uncomfortable he may feel. 'The thing is, I do know something of love, believe it or not. In truth, I loved my wife more than she ever knew,' he said sadly, the empty space in his heart where she had left a void crying like an abandoned babe as it wailed for her loss.
'I cannot talk of love with much eloquence. I could never write poems about it, I could hardly speak of it, I was always too afraid, much to my eternal regret. But I know what love is, I have experienced it first-hand, and it is a fine thing. And all I shall say to you now is this...true love is rare, it is beautiful, and it is worth striving for. You are a good man, John. An honest man. A kind man. A principled man. Any woman would be lucky to share your name and share in your life. Miss Latimer could not ask for a better husband. Be brave, John, be brave, and she will love you for it.'
John stared at him in silence.
He was lost for words.
One half of him wanted to get up and hurl himself at Mr Hale, to fall to the ground and embrace him or shake his hand forcefully, the child locked away inside of him craving a father figure and all the guidance and encouragement that brought. He had sorely missed his own father over the past fourteen years, and to hear Mr Hale talk to him thus, by offering him advice and faith in his character, John could have wept.
On the other hand, John's main concern was that Mr Hale should be immediately informed that while his sentiments were appreciated, his assumptions were false, fouler than the lies spat out by the Devil himself. It was imperative that Mr Hale knew that he did not, could not, ever want Miss Latimer to be his wife. While there was one person in the world whom John wished to know this unshakable fact above all else, it would not do for her father, the man he yearned to be his father-in-law, to think him capable of loving another, that the mill master's heart could be unfaithful to his beloved Margaret.
Leaning forward, John was ready to denounce this claim, this allegation, once and for all. With a voice that was solemn and sober, he opened with: 'Mr Hale, I can assure you that you are gravely mistaken. It is not tru −'
However, John was cut short by his tutor, and not for the first time that night. 'Ah, here you are, my dear,' the man declared as Margaret re-entered the room carrying a tray that boasted a fresh pot of tea and some scrumptious looking biscuits.
John was conflicted. There was nothing he had wanted more than Margaret's speedy return, yet confounded and ironic as it was, he would have quite readily delayed her arrival by a mere minute, if only it meant he had been able to finish his sentence and tell Mr Hale that he was, and never would be, engaged to Miss Latimer. But no matter, it was perhaps best that Margaret was here, for now he would have the chance to apprise her of the fact too. Two birds with one stone, and all that. Nonetheless, when John went to open his mouth to utter his revelation, nothing came out, and he sat there like a cod fish as Margaret poured him his tea and handed it over, a bemused look on her face to see the even more bemusing one overhauling his.
He would have tried again, he really would, but Mr Hale, being more talkative than ever tonight, once again broke the interlude of silence. 'Now then, John, where was I?' he asked. 'Oh, yes, I wanted to know what you thought on the subject.'
John's mien was as blank as an unblemished sheet of paper. 'I beg your pardon?' he mumbled, reluctant to disclose that he had not been paying the least bit of attention to what his tutor had been saying the whole evening.
'About Aristotle's writings on relations between men and women,' Mr Hale reminded him, and John noticed the way Margaret blinked in surprise at the vulgar phrasing used by her father. 'His question as to whether men and women can truly be friends, given their fundamental differences.'
A meditative hush fell upon the room as all three people present contemplated this, each of them thinking their personal thoughts. Rotating his head just a fraction to the side to regard Margaret, John saw that she too was reflecting on the matter. She had given up her sewing, and with her teaspoon sluggishly looping round and round the rim of her cup, she stared at an unmarked spot upon the floor, her right eyebrow hitched as she considered her response.
'Yes,' John said at last, and he spied the way she twitched in her seat to hear him once again speak, her mind obviously elsewhere. Although, John could tell that she was listening to him intently, so he vowed to himself not to waste this rare opportunity to say what he must.
'I think that men and women are not so different as people would have us suppose. It is true that they are anatomically distinct, and as such, there are things that one can do that the other cannot, such as childbirth. And again, there are some things which one is better at doing than the other, such as carrying a heavy physical load. But these discrepancies are few and far between. I believe that there is more that makes us similar than dissimilar,' John advocated.
'Explain,' Mr Hale pressed, placing the tips of his fingers together as he lounged back in his chair and crooked one leg on top of the other, even if his joints did grumble.
The pupil paused as he considered where to begin. He was not a man for speeches, he never had been, always preferring instead to keep his opinions to himself. However, when it was something he was passionate about, John could match any orator who had ever lived.
'For a start, I do not think that women are lesser than men in any way. Indeed, I think the opposite, and I often find myself wondering whether they are in fact greater.' John paused as he saw Margaret shift once again.
'Women are depicted as weaker by nature, but I do not think a man can begin to imagine the strength it takes to bear and birth a child, not to mention providing it with love throughout its life. That takes a kind of determined willpower that is inspiring,' he insisted, thinking on the women he had seen in his mill who worked their fingers to the bone to provide for their family, all the while ignoring their aching backs as they carried a baby. He had seen more than one child born on his factory floor, and the screams of those mothers sent shivers through his very bones.
'And I do not believe for a minute that they are any less intelligent than men, despite what folk say. It is just that women are denied the chance to prove themselves like we can. If they were given equal opportunities to be educated and enter into the world of commerce, politics or the law, they would soon show us their worth, giving us a run for our money. And what is more, men are liable to be quick to anger, as well as being prone to arrogance and selfishness, a flaw that I think has led to many a disaster, whether it be mindless wars that kills us dead abroad, or senseless laws that rob us of life at home. But women, while they can be as selfish as anyone, they know how to nurture, they spend their lives caring for others, and so, they are the ones best placed to decide what is to be done for the better, for the greater good.'
'And do you think women have a threshold?' Mr Hale asked. 'Do you think there is a limit to how far they can be the equal of a man?'
As a man who had been outnumbered three to one by women for many years, Mr Hale did not hold these blinkered sentiments, for he knew how capable womenfolk were. But all the same, he wanted to hear what his pupil had to say, particularly since Margaret was present and would doubtless have a persuasive opinion of her own. Mr Hale was amazed that she had not spoken up more tonight. Margaret was never one to hold her tongue, but then again, perhaps she was still feeling a trifle poorly, shame, when she had been in such jolly spirits just before John's arrival.
'We have a Queen, do we not, who sits on our throne? So if she can rule a nation, nay, an Empire, that is larger than any we have retained before, whilst also being a wife and mother, then why can't all women rule their towns, their homes, and their own lives?' John advocated, thinking of the most majestic woman he knew, and how he longed for her to be the supreme monarch of his small world.
'No, women are not lesser than men, they are greater, and because of this, I think not only are they entitled to be our friends, but that they should be encouraged to be so, not so much for their sakes, but for ours, for without women in the world, we are lost souls, adrift without their saving grace. I, for one, pray that I can one day find a good woman to be my friend, for I know that with her humanity and guidance, she could make me a better man,' John finished with a deep sigh.
'I am glad to hear it, Mr Thornton,' came a quiet yet confident voice from across the room. 'Or else we could never hope to be friends.'
John sat up straight. She had spoken? Had she finally spoken to him?!
He tried his best to tame his tone when he addressed her next. He was all too aware that the last time they had conversed in this room had been when he had insulted her and interrogated her trustworthiness, so it was essential that tonight, he did not sound anything but gentle and gentlemanly.
'And are we friends, Miss Hale?' he asked softly, his tone low, inviting Margaret to come out of her shell and open up to him.
Margaret wrinkled her nose at this, as if his suggestion had been illogical. 'That is not up to me,' she told him, returning her eyes to her cup, her pretty lips pouting dolefully.
John was unsure of what she meant, but ventured a further question. 'So what, then, do you consider to be important qualities for someone who wishes to be your friend?'
Margaret laughed. 'Why, friendship, of course,' she replied plainly. 'But I think my idea of friendship is perhaps very different to everybody else's,' she added thoughtfully.
'And what do you think it is, my dear?' her father probed, and both John and Margaret flinched in fright, since they had half forgotten that he was there at all.
'I know one thing, and that is that friendship is not always easy,' said Margaret straight away. 'Most people think that to be friends, two people must get along all the time. That they must always agree. That they must be similar in every way. But I do not think it so. Friendship can be hard to define, but it is definitely not all about smiles and laughter, nor is it grounded in the superficial art of congenial affability. Anybody can be friendly if they want to be, that is not difficult. No, friendship, the word, the bond, it is about constancy and companionship.'
With a hand unconsciously rising to rub at the scar upon her temple, Margaret distractedly muttered: 'It is about knowing that you have somebody who cares about you, who cares whether you are well or ill, happy or sad, alive or dead. They will care that you are here, that you are in their life, that you exist at all,' she explained, her eyes glassy as she nibbled her lip.
'Sometimes people can grow angry with each other. Their feelings can become fragile. Hurtful things can be said. Mistakes can be made. But friendship, true friendship, sees beyond such petty things. It is stronger, resilient, and far more understanding than anything that might seek to break it. It recognises that people are human, and that they are imperfect, but it is about wanting to be there for another person, accepting them for who and what they are, with all their virtues and all their faults laid bare without criticism. For you see, without all this, they are not whole, they are not themselves, and how can we claim to love somebody if we do not accept all of them?'
Letting her fingers skim her skirt, Margaret felt something in her pocket, and touching it, she realised that it was a string of solitary wool, and this strange relic gave her the assurance she needed to say her piece.
'Friendship…it is about caring for a person unreservedly. It is about showing them respect, offering them encouragement, and minding how they feel and what they think. It is being there for them, no matter what may happen, and showing them day in and day out that you are not unconcerned by them, but that they matter to you, that you think of them, always.'
All this time, Margaret had been looking down, but as she finished, she peered up, and she was disconcerted to see both her father and Mr Thornton staring at her. While her father smiled and nodded, Mr Thornton did not move a muscle. His eyes, which she tried her best not to meet, lest she become lost in them, were unemotional, his features and body language rigid, refusing to betray his thoughts or feelings. It was clear to her that he had not liked what she said, that he completely disagreed, and even though it hurt to think so, Margaret was still glad she had said what she did, and to him, of all people.
Blushing, Margaret picked up her sewing once more, and with a tremble to her voice, she concluded with: 'There, that is what friendship means…to me, anyway.'
Several minutes passed without another word being uttered, until, at last, the clock chimed the hour, and the three of them realised that it was getting frightfully late, that it was eleven o'clock.
'I had best go,' John murmured half-heartedly, remembering that he had promised his mother and sister that he would see in the bells with them at midnight when they arrived back from their party. He had upset his mother enough by not staying home tonight, so returning now was the least he could do.
'Of course! Of course!' Mr Hale agreed, standing up and stretching out his arms, his old bones more than ready for an express trip to Bedfordshire. 'Please, let me show you out,' he offered, aware that Dixon had been busy of late preparing for Christmas Day, and so would greatly appreciate not being roused from her bed at this sleepy hour.
However, it was John who would have the final word, and on swiftly rising to his feet in one purposeful movement, he retorted with a brusque and commanding: 'No!' before he decreed:
'Miss Hale will show me out.'