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Unfelt Celebrations

The banns had been read on three consecutive Sundays. All preparations had been made, the invitations had been sent, the wedding dress had been chosen, as had the cake, the menu, the flowers and decorations.

Most of it had been organized by Mrs Thornton herself, who would leave no small detail up to chance.

Margaret had not seen much of Mr Thornton these past three weeks. He had come by Crampton a few times to call on her, but luckily, she had never been alone with him.

Her parents had always been near, and whenever the two of them had spoken to each other, it had been about nothing of consequence.

They had talked of the weather, the wedding banquet, the new sheet music Fanny had been desperate to get her hands on.

Neither had mentioned their own state of mind, and nothing that lay beyond their wedding had been discussed.

Margaret did not wish to think about it. The ceremony was something she could deal with, but what came after?

The rest of her life, which she would spend in that gloomy house at Marlborough Mills, with a mother-in-law who fully returned any feeling of dislike Margaret felt towards her, a sister-in-law who was neither smart nor subtle in her conduct, and a husband who had made his fortune by exploiting others to the point of starvation.


The day of the wedding dawned brightly, with the first rays of sunlight breaking through the mist of Milton smoke. It promised to be a fine day, but Margaret could not rejoice in it.

As she stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, looking at her beautiful white wedding gown and her hair, which Dixon had braided masterfully and adorned with countless tiny, white pearls, she almost felt like she was about to walk to the gallows.

Here she was, at not yet twenty years of age, and she felt like her life was over.

She succumbed to her fate, and let everything happen in a daze. She pulled the veil down to cover her face, and let Dixon lead her downstairs to the coach, where Fanny Thornton and a young woman by the name of Ann Latimer - a good friend of Fanny's, and daughter of Mr Thornton's banker - were waiting for her.

They had been chosen to be bridesmaids, since Margaret had no sisters or other female relations in Milton whom she could have called upon for this service.

Fanny was wearing an extravagant pastel pink dress, which was so wide that it must have taken ages to be starched, and her hair was adorned with big feathers, making her look a bit like a strange type of bird.

As the bridesmaids were usually expected to dress similarly, Ann Latimer had chosen a dress of the same colour, although much simpler and less conspicuous.

There was another coach for her parents, and Margaret watched briefly as her father and Dixon led her mother down the steps onto the street, each of them holding one of her arms to support her.

Margaret stepped into the carriage with the two young women, and soon they were on their way.

The ride to the church took no more than ten minutes, and it seemed as if all of Milton society had gathered there for the wedding.

Margaret knew next to no one. She recognized a few of the other mill owners whom she had seen at Mrs Thornton's dinner, a month before.

She watched as one after the other made their way into the church.

Then Mrs Thornton was there, hastily checking Margaret's dress - and fortunately finding no fault with it.

A bouquet of yellow roses was handed to to the bride. It was beautiful, but it reminded her of her beloved Helstone, and she had to fight tears, as she looked down at it.

"John chose the bouquet himself", Mrs Thornton informed her quickly.

"He said that you once mentioned your love for these flowers, while he was having tea with your father."

Margaret did not recall that particular conversation, but she had to admit that the choice had been very considerate of him.

Mrs Thornton gave Margaret a curt nod and led the way into the church. Mr Hale took Margaret's arm and they followed the others to the vestry.

As she started walking down the aisle of the church, a few minutes later, Margaret's heart threatened to burst from her chest.

They passed rows and rows of people, few of whom meant anything to her.

'So this is what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life', she thought bitterly.

To be married in a strange town, with people she did not care for, to a man she had not chosen.

Her father led her to the front of the church, while the bridesmaids followed them closely.

When they had reached the altar, Margaret saw Mr Thornton enter from the right, followed by Mr Bell, and a man Margaret believed to be a Mr Slickson, one of Milton's other mill masters.

Mr Thornton was wearing a dark blue coat, light grey trousers, and an elegant golden vest and tie.

He looked stunningly handsome, and her heart skipped a beat when he came to stand before her and carefully took her hand in his, which, she noticed, was trembling slightly.


For what seemed like the hundredth time that morning, John frantically wiped his hands with a handkerchief. It did not help, his palms kept sweating.

The cravat around his neck felt much too tight, making him wonder how he would survive until the evening, without being able to breathe properly.

He would be married today – married to the woman of his dreams – under the most miserable circumstances.

As he was pacing up and down in the entrance hall of the mill house, he tried to tell himself that there were some benefits to the situation.

He would be able to see her every day. She would be right there, in his house.

She would not truly belong to him, not with her heart, but at least she would not belong to anyone else. He would not have to watch her marry another man one day.

It was barely a consolation, but he would take anything at the moment, to ease his mind.

Mr Bell and Slickson arrived, and they embarked on the carriage together, passing rows of brick buildings on their way to the church.

Everything was a blur. The men were talking to him and he gave curt answers without paying much attention to the topic of their conversation.

By the time they entered the church he felt dizzy and weak in the knees. Trying to compose his features into a look of calm determination, he made his way down the right aisle.

And then he saw her, and for a moment the world stood still.

She was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. Like an angelic being, straight out of a dream, she floated towards him in her white wedding gown, which perfectly accented all the curves of her body.

He could scarcely make out her features through her veil and it gave her an air of mystery.

He took her hand in his, unaware of anything or anyone else around them. All he could see were her eyes, so beautiful, yet with a strange sadness in them. It reminded him briefly that this was not what she wanted – that he was not what she wanted, but the thought vanished, as he felt himself drown helplessly in her beauty.

He barely heard the words of the vicar and had to shake himself out of his stupor to hoarsely utter his vows, his voice cracking slightly halfway through.

He heard her speak hers, then his hand fumbled nervously, as he withdrew the wedding band from his breast pocket to put it on her finger, he felt her arm in his, as they made their way back down the aisle together, into the vestry.

He shakily signed his name on the wedding certificate and watched her sign hers: Margaret Hale.

It was the last time she would use her maiden name. She would be Margaret Thornton from now on, and the thought almost made him faint.


As they were about to exit the church, Margaret caught a familiar face, out of the corner of her eye, and quickly turned her head to make sure she had not been mistaken.

There, in the very last row of the church sat Nicholas Higgins with both his daughters, Mary and Margaret's best friend Bessy.

All of them were dressed in their Sunday best (which was still shabby and patched in a few places). Bessy looked very pale as she was leaning against her father, but when her eyes caught Margaret's, her face broke into a friendly smile.

Nicholas nodded his head at her, his face a mixture of solemnity and compassion. She knew that the union leader was just as consternated about her connection with the mill master, as Margaret was herself.

A week before, she had finally summoned up all her courage and made her way to Francis Street, to call on Bessy and inform her friend of her pending fate. As everyone else in town, the Higgins' had been aware of the events at Marlborough Mills, but still, they had been quite shaken.

Bessy had not been able to stop talking, torn between horror at her friend having to marry the gloomy mill master whom, she well knew, Margaret did not like one bit, and at the same time, excitement at the fact that Margaret's husband-to-be was so handsome and wealthy.

Nicholas had not said a single word. He had sat in his chair and stared straight ahead with an unreadable expression for a long time. Then, he had jumped up suddenly, and without as much as another glance at the young women, had stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

They had known he would go to the pub to try and calm his nerves after the blow of this news.

Margaret's thoughts were torn back to the present, as Mr Thornton led her out through the church door, and she blinked as they stepped into the bright sunlight.

They were hit by a wall of claps and cheers from all the people who had gathered outside in the yard. Margaret clung to Mr Thornton's arm, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by all of it.

They stood there for a moment, then he turned to her and carefully raised both his hands to her veil.

She held her breath as he lifted it from her face, his eyes gazing into hers with an unfamiliar warmth she had never seen in him before. A rare smile tugged at his lips. He looked happy.

"You look-" he hesitated, "very nice", he then stammered, as the colour of his cheeks deepened a little.

"Thank you", she replied, trying to force her lips into a polite smile. "You look very elegant yourself."

They made their way through the cheerful crowd and he helped her into the carriage, then followed closely behind, and settled himself on the bench across from her. Neither of them said a word as the carriage made its way to Marlborough Mills, where the wedding breakfast was to be held.

It was usually the custom that the bride's family would host the breakfast, but as the house in Crampton would scarcely provide enough space so many people and was - according to Mrs Thornton - generally not fit for such a reception, the older woman had taken it upon herself to take care of this matter.

The table decorations were stunning, the wedding cake was elaborately decorated, and the six-course meal was delicious. The guests ate and drank, talked and laughed for what seemed like an eternity.

Margaret sat next to Mr Thornton, but they barely exchanged a word, each occupied with the many people who came to express their good wishes.

Margaret occasionally glanced over at her parents. They both looked so happy. Her mother appeared a bit tired and pale, but she was more lively than usual, as she proudly smiled over at her daughter repeatedly.

It was hours later, and the sun was almost about to set, when the last guests left. Mrs Thornton and Fanny both soon retired to their rooms, to let the newlyweds share some moments alone.

Margaret stood by the window of the entrance hall and watched the last carriage exit the courtyard through the mill gates. It was the one carrying her parents.

Then they were gone.

This was it.

With a pang, Margaret realized that there was no turning back now - not ever again - and she was suddenly overcome by a sense of loneliness that was so strong, it almost gave her physical pain.

The feeling quickly mingled with fear of what was to come next.

It was something she had tried very hard to push into the back of her mind during those past three weeks, and especially today, during the wedding ceremony and reception.

She was aware that with her marriage, there came certain wifely duties. She did not know the exact particulars, but she knew enough for the mere thought to terrify her.

Her cousin Edith had written about them rather cryptically in a letter she had sent, after her own marriage to Captain Lennox, and only a week ago, Margaret's own mother had asked her to sit down with her, to enlighten her on the topic. Mrs Hale had not given away much, too embarrassed herself for her information to be of any real use.

All Margaret knew was that it was all about some intimate act the husband would perform, that it involved both husband and wife stripping bare before each other, that it could be uncomfortable, even painful at times, and that its sole purpose was to bear him children.

Having grown up in Helstone, where their country parish had been surrounded by farms, she had seen the mating ritual of animals on more than one occasion, and if this act between a man and a woman was anything like that – she could not even bear to think about it.

She could not imagine doing anything like that – not with any man, but especially not with Mr Thornton. His nearness made her uncomfortable. All she wanted to do was to put as much distance between them as possible.

"Margaret?"

She spun around. He stood only a couple of feet away, looking at her. Her eyes sought his face nervously.

He looked calm, a bit tired maybe, and there was something in his gaze that almost resembled concern, although she could have been mistaken there. She was not exactly an expert in reading his countenance.

"Come, sit with me for a little while. I'll ring for tea."

He held out his arm to her and she took it, letting him lead her upstairs into the sitting room. She had vowed before God today that she would honour and obey her husband, and she would do her best to keep that vow. There was no use in struggling against him, she knew. She could not escape him now, and every attempt would only increase her misery.

She let him lead her to one of the cushioned chairs. He slipped out of his frock coat and placed it on the backrest of the settee, before sitting down. Margaret estimated that the distance between them was less than six feet. She watched as he leaned back against the cushions of the settee with a tired little sigh.

His hand reached up to his cravat and absent-mindedly started untying it, dropping the garment onto the small table next to him. He opened the top button of his shirt and Margaret swallowed hard as she watched his collar fall open a little, to expose the naked skin of his neck. She felt a wave of heat rise in her cheeks and quickly tore her eyes away.

She had never seen any man in such a state of undress, and it reminded her of what was to come in only a few hours time.

Mr Thornton seemed oblivious to his young wife's dismay, as he passed a hand over his face wearily.

"It has been a long day, has it not?", he then asked, trying for some light conversation, but unsure where to start.

"I am glad the wedding is over", she confessed, deciding that she might as well try to talk to him. "The past few weeks have been tiresome, with all the preparations."

He nodded. "I can imagine it must have been a lot. I'm sorry if my mother demanded too much from you. She wanted everything to be perfect."

"I know", she replied. "I cannot blame her. I think every mother desires a festive wedding for her son."

The door opened and a young servant walked in with a tray of tea. Margaret got up and took it from her, then busied herself with pouring them each a cup. She needed something to do, to keep her mind occupied. She remembered that he liked his tea without milk and just a tinge of sugar.

When she handed him his cup, his fingers brushed against hers for the fraction of a second, making her stiffen. Hastily she strode back to her own chair, grabbed her cup and held on to it for dear life.

"You look tired", he told her, as his eyes found hers for a moment. "I told my mother that you should not be woken tomorrow morning. You may take your time to rest and settle in. I will be working tomorrow, so we will not see much of each other."

He feared that she did not want to spend much time with him, and as much as that thought pained him, he wanted her to be able to rest assured that she could keep to herself, if she so desired.

They could not avoid each other forever, but he was sure that, at the moment, it was overwhelming enough for her to settle into her new home.

"You may go and see your parents whenever you wish", he continued. "I will resume my lessons with your father, and if you like, you can also join me in visiting them."

For a tiny moment, he thought that he saw something like a small smile cross her face. "I would like that", she told him in a quiet voice.

"I am glad your mother could come to the wedding today. She seemed to be enjoying herself."

Another smile. "She did", Margaret confirmed. "I have not seen her this animated in months. Not since we left Helstone."

"It must have been quite a drastic change to move to Milton from the south", he mused aloud.

She looked up at that, and for a moment it seemed to him that she was actually looking at him, instead of through him, as she had done in the past few weeks.

Margaret was not sure how she felt about this conversation. Since his proposal, they had barely spoken more than a few words with each other, and even before that dreadful day, they had not talked much.

Whenever Mr Thornton had visited her father, the two men had been engrossed in conversations of their own, with Margaret only inserting short comments whenever they seemed fitting.

The only time they had really spoken for more than two minutes, had been when she had quarreled with him about his prejudice against the south, to which he had answered by laying before her some of the circumstances of his past.

She realized that, sitting here with him now, this was the first time they had been alone with each other, and exchanged more than a few words.

"Helstone is very different from Milton", she told him.

"Do you miss it?"

"I miss it very much."

She had not planned on talking much at all, but suddenly, the words just tumbled out of her mouth, as she started speaking of her childhood home:

The idyllically situated parish with its beautiful garden, surrounded by yellow roses, the birdhouse her father had made for the little robin that would visit him during the winter months, the vast, open fields and tiny cottages – the homes of all those people Margaret had grown to know so well, and care for.

She spoke of old Isaak who might be dead by now, his house probably demolished to make way for new homes, of the way the woods would change colours in fall, how they would glow in every shade of yellow, orange and red imaginable, and how she would head out with her sketching book and try to capture some of its beauty.

Losing herself in her memories and desperately grasping for any thought to keep her mind off the present situation, and her own anxiety, it was a long while later that she realized how much she had said.

She threw a self-conscious glance at him, to find him watching her attentively. He appeared to be a good listener.

"Helstone sounds like a wonderful place", he said eventually. "Maybe we can go there sometime. You could show me."

"Would you really care to see it?", she asked uncertainly, before she could stop herself.

"I think I would", he told her with a small smile. "I would like to see the place where you grew up."

She felt herself blush at his words, without knowing why.

"Have you always lived in Milton?", she asked, trying to keep the conversation flowing, for fear of what would happen, if it was ever to end.

"Aye, I was born here, in one of the houses on Plymouth Grove, I don't know if you know it?" She thought for a moment, but then shook her head. "I don't think I do."

"It's a nice area, near St. Clemens church", he explained. "Our house even had a small back garden, which is a rare occurrence in Milton. After my father's death, we moved to Sherborne Street, where the rent was cheaper. We stayed there for quite a few years, until I took over Marlborough Mills, seven years ago."

They went on to talk about the different areas of Milton. Margaret had ventured into some of them on her extensive walks, but she was far from knowing all of the city.

He told her of some nice parks she had never been to, and he even proposed that they should go there sometime. She told him of her walks to the graveyard up on the hill, which she particularly enjoyed for the views it provided over the city.

Eventually, they had finished their tea and he rose from his seat to hold his hand out to her.

"It is quite late", he told her in a low voice. "You must be exhausted. I think we should retire for the night."

She wanted to turn and run.

Run out of the house and far, far away, where he could not follow her or find her.

For just a few moments, as they had talked just now, Margaret had felt a bit better about all of this. It had almost come as a relief to her that they seemed to be able to find a few things to converse on – a fact that would, she hoped, make her life with him a bit easier to endure.

But now, that it was over, she felt panic rise like bile in her throat.

She could not go through with it. She could not.

She barely felt comfortable touching his hand or having him stand closer to her than eight feet. Margaret felt like crying. She wanted to curl herself up into a ball of misery, and sob.

He could sense something in her change at his proposal to retire. Within a few seconds, all the colour had drained from her face and her eyes had glassed over, as if she was desperately holding back her tears.

'Oh God, what has all of this done to her?'

As she had talked to him about her childhood home, John had felt wonderful. It had seemed as though, after all, they had found a tiny bit of common ground. It was not much yet, but it was a start.

Now, he felt terrible. He knew himself to be the cause of her torment and wished more than anything that he could relieve her of her pain.

Her hand was shaking, as she hesitantly placed it on his arm, to let him lead her out of the sitting room, and down the hallway.

He stopped in front of a door to their right and opened it, stepping back to let her enter. Holding her breath, she took a tentative step into the room.

The candles had been lit, and the room seemed less gloomy than the other parts of the house she had been in thus far. The wallpapers were a light shade of pastel yellow with subtle but elegant tendril designs. She saw some beautiful little drawings of country landscapes on the walls and a vase with a pretty bouquet of yellow roses on a nearby side table.

A big bed stood against the far wall, near it was a washing table and a mirror, a writing desk by the window, a wardrobe and a cupboard. On the bedside table, she saw a beautiful white jewellery box, adorned also, with tiny floral designs. A door on the left side of the room was ajar, and she suspected that it led to a dressing room.

"This is your bedroom", he told her, as he took one careful step into the room behind her.

"I tried to have them add a few little things here and there which I thought you might like", he muttered a bit nervously. "But you are free to change and add anything you wish."

She could not help but look up at him in surprise for a moment, taken aback by his unexpected attentiveness. "It looks very nice", she told him honestly, and saw his mouth curl up into a shy little smile.

"My room is next door", he said then.

Immediately any small pleasant feeling inside her was extinguished, to be replaced by trepidation.

"I will not come into this room without your consent", he went on. "But you may come into mine, should you ever feel the need to. I am at your service."

With that, he stepped back from her.

"I shall retire now. I will not make any demands of you, Margaret", he told her softly. "Do not fear that, ever. I am aware that you did not enter into this marriage willingly, and I will not make your life more miserable than it already is, by forcing myself on you, when you will not have me of your own accord."

The words took a moment to sink in.

Then, all of a sudden, Margaret's vision blurred, as she could not keep her tears down any longer.

He could not mean it, could he?

The look in his eyes was all it took, for her to recognize that he was, indeed, in earnest.

After all the strain she had felt in these past weeks, after all the fear, that had threatened to choke her only a minute ago, it was the realization, that the very thing she had dreaded most, would not happen, that finally made her come undone.

She looked up into the face of this man she had never liked – still did not like much – and at that moment, she felt such an intense wave of gratitude towards him, that she could barely breathe.

His hands came up to her shoulders in the gentlest way, not daring to hold her too tightly.

"Margaret, please don't cry", he breathed, desperate to end her misery. "Oh, dear girl, please know that I could never hurt you."

She could barely grasp his words. They were so unlike anything she would have expected from him, as if he had suddenly turned into another man, so different from the one, she had come to know. It was all too much.

Without knowing what she was doing, she felt herself fall forward and collapse against him, as violent sobs shook her body.

Instantly his arms came around her, while her own firmly remained at her sides, not daring to touch him, as she wept against his chest.

He held her, very softly, as if he was afraid to break her, his grip on her feeble enough, so she could free herself from him at any moment.

The intensity of her pain threatened to choke him, and he wished that there was something – anything – he could do to help her. He had never wanted this. Had never wanted to be the cause of her suffering.

He stood completely still, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of startling her and making her pull away, because even though he knew that at this moment, it was utterly wrong of him to think of her in such a way, even though her grief almost made him want to weep alongside her, it felt so good to have her body pressed against his.

Margaret did not know what had come over her. She had never been this close to any man, let alone this one, and the thought alone filled her with shame, but she was too weak to pull back from him.

She had felt so lonely in the weeks leading up to her wedding, left alone with her fears and her sadness, as everyone around her had been so busy with preparations, and looking forward to the ceremony.

And now, it seemed as if all of her pent-up emotions were bursting out of her at once. It did not even matter anymore that it was Mr Thornton, of all people, who was holding her. All she felt at that moment was the warmth of some human contact. It was comforting in a strange way.

She did not know how long she had cried. When the sobs finally abated, she found herself leaning against him, her cheek resting against his chest. She became aware of his scent, a mixture of soap, clean cotton and something woody, she could not quite place.

The next thing she noticed was a rapid thrumming sound against the side of her face. His heart was racing.

It was enough to finally tear her out of her daze. She recoiled, and immediately his arms dropped from around her. She could not meet his eyes as hot embarrassment flooded her. What on earth had she done, throwing herself at him like this once more? As if that one time, on the day of the riot, had not been enough to get her in trouble!

What must he think of her? What if her unbridled behaviour had given him the wrong impression? She did not want his touch. What if he thought her willing now?

"I-", she stammered in panic. "I'm sorry, Mr Thornton, I don't know what came over me."

"Please, call me John."

She swallowed hard, but made no reply.

"I will go now", he told her in a quiet voice.

"It has been a very long and tiring day, and you should get some rest. I will send Jane up to help you undress. If you like, she can draw you a bath as well. If you need anything else, don't hesitate to ring the bell."

With that, he turned to leave, when suddenly, a question burst out of her.

"Will the servants not talk, if – " She was unsure of how to go on. "If I stay here alone? On our – on – the wedding night?", she forced out, painfully.

"You don't need to concern yourself with the tittle-tattle of servants", he said in an earnest tone.

The thought crossed her mind that this sort of "tittle-tattle", as he called it, was what had gotten them both into this whole situation in the first place. They would think her an unwilling bride, and it certainly would reflect badly on both of them. Did he not care about that?

"It – it is your right to – ", she started bravely, but found that she could not go on.

He turned and reached for the handle of the door.

"Good night, Margaret."

His voice was calm, not giving away any sort of emotion. And then, he was gone, and the door fell shut behind him.


After Jane had helped her out of her dress and corset, and Margaret had untangled her hair, she lay in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, her eyes wide open, as she stared into the dark.

She barely dared to breathe, knowing that he was right there, in the next room, only separated from her by a wall. It felt far too intimate.

Was he asleep?

She could not imagine him in such a relaxed state as sleep. He always seemed so tightly wound, as if he was constantly on edge about something.

She forced her eyes closed with a small, shaky sigh, longing for a few hours of sleep that would enable her to shut off her mind and sink into oblivion, if only until morning.

But sleep would not come easily.

Here she was, on her wedding night, alone.

Mr Thornton could not possibly know the magnitude of relief and gratitude she had felt, when he had spared her from her wifely duties.

As she pondered this now, she realized that it was the first time in their acquaintance that she thought kindly of him.

And yet, it reminded her, that hers was not a marriage of love. That she would never experience this feeling everyone spoke of, of that unique connection between two people, who were willing to share their lives, out of a deep and sincere fondness between them.

It was another dream that had died. The realization filled Margaret with the deepest grief, and she pressed her face into her pillow and let her tears fall once more.


John lay in his bed, with his eyes closed, as he tried not to listen to the muffled sobs, coming from the next room.

It took all his willpower, to not jump out of bed and rush over to her, to gather her in his arms and tell her that everything was going to be alright. He could not do that, of course. He would never be able to do that.

Was this how things were going to be? Did he have to watch her suffer every day from now on, knowing that he had been the cause of it? John felt certain that even hell could not have been worse.

He pressed his hands to his face, as he felt the pressure build behind his own eyes.

He had not felt this helpless since his father had died, leaving him alone, to suddenly take care of his family, at only fourteen years of age.

It took over an hour for her sobs to finally subside. He supposed she had cried herself to sleep, when he himself was unable to.

He just lay there, feeling numb, praying that this was all a nightmare he would wake from, come morning.

TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

Notes:

Yeah, I know some of y'all are sad about the separate bedrooms xD I'm trying to keep this realistic, and I highly doubt that John, being as caring and considerate as he is, would have forced Margaret to share a room with him (even though he surely wanted to, lol).

Plymouth Grove, which John mentions as having been the place of his childhood home, is actually the place where Elisabeth Gaskell lived with her family in Manchester. It was a rather nice area at the edge of the city, and the family lived there for 15 years. Today, the house is restored lovingly and open to visitors, and if you're ever in the area, I highly recommend going to see it.