Okay, here we are in August, and we're in for another Christmas chapter xD Happy Holidays!
Alterations
The warm days of summer had passed, and gradually the season shifted towards fall.
Since Nicholas Higgins had started working at the mill, Margaret had made it her habit to walk over to the factory during lunch break for a short chat with him.
He sometimes brought young Tommy Boucher with him, who would sit in the courtyard on his own, reading a book, while waiting for Nicholas to pick him up at the end of the shift.
Tommy was merely seven years old, but eager to learn. He was teaching himself to read, and Margaret encouraged him in practising his letters.
Nicholas proved himself to be a skilled and earnest worker, who came sharp to his time and finished his work impeccably. He was determined to not give the mill master a reason to "give him the sack", as he called it.
His work ethic did not go unnoticed by John, who was silently impressed with the man and felt almost glad that Margaret had recommended him.
It was one evening, when John had stayed up long in his office, filling out his accounting books with increasing frustration, that he noticed the little boy, Higgins tended to bring with him, sitting alone in the dark courtyard. He sat on the wooden landing, his legs dangling, and appeared to be reading a book.
Without knowing why, John rose from his chair and slowly, quietly made his way out of his office and across the yard towards the lad.
John did not have much experience with children. It had been years since Fanny had been young enough for him to look after her, but there was something about this boy that touched John in a strange way.
Maybe it was the fact that he had been born into such hopeless circumstances, the son of a working-class rioter, who had taken his own life, and yet, he showed such ambition, appeared so thirsty for knowledge. He could have gone far with the right schooling.
As he moved closer, John could hear the child mutter the words from his book out loud:
"Laugh – at – me. Ca-caaall – me – a – comi – comical – a – a – "
John had reached him. He leaned against the landing next to the boy and threw a glance over his shoulder at the book.
"Animal", he said softly, reading out the last word.
"Animal", the child repeated, and then slowly turned his face towards him, looking a bit taken aback at the fact that the mill master had come over to him, and also slightly intimidated, John could tell.
He gave the child a little smile, hoping to reassure him that he had come in peace.
"What are you doing here? Where's Higgins?", he inquired carefully, to which the child only shrugged, a little unsurely.
"Have you had your supper?", he tried once more. To this Tommy shook his head. "Mary went to the butcher, but she didn't do dinner."
Nicholas had got out of the factory late that night, having finished off some work, when he saw Tommy sitting in the yard with none other than Thornton himself.
The worker stopped dead in his tracks for a moment, slightly stunned at the unusual picture before him, the tall, big mill master in his impeccable black frock coat, next to the little boy, in his ragged clothing and patched-up cap.
As he stepped closer, Thornton looked up at him and then stood, crossing his arms, with a suspicious look.
"Why are you so late? The shift finished an hour ago", he informed him coolly. "What are you up to?"
Nicholas tried to remain calm, unsure of how the master would react to his words, but feeling fully able to defend himself. "Work wasn't finished, we stayed until it was", he answered truthfully.
He saw the other man furrow his brow at that. "Can't pay over your time!"
"See ye working over yer time", Higgins retorted bravely.
Thornton blinked a couple of times at that, apparently at loss for words. Nicholas took this opportunity to settle himself against the landing next to Tommy.
"You go under, no one else'll take me on an' nowt put food in 'is mouth." He motioned towards the boy.
Suddenly he sensed a change in the master. The look on his face transitioned from one of suspicion to one of thoughtfulness, as he slowly uncrossed his arms and put his hands in his pockets, leaning back against the landing in an imitation of Nicholas' stance.
"He's not had his supper tonight, he's been telling me", he said, looking down at Tommy.
"Oh, some days it's good meat, other days nothin' fit for a dog, even if ye got money in yer pocket", the worker stated, resigned, adding: "There's yer market forces in action for ye, master."
His words were followed by a long moment of silence, during which Thornton seemed to ponder something. Then, finally, without looking at Higgins, he said:
"It's a pity you can't get up some scheme. Buy food wholesale, cook for twenty instead of one. Then everybody would be able to afford a good meal a day, and he'd have fit minds to do studying."
He looked at the child once more, who had opened his book again and was silently reading to himself.
Nicholas was unsure how to respond. This statement was so unlike anything he had expected from Thornton, that for a moment he wondered whether he was dreaming.
"Careful!", he murmured, puzzled. "Someone'll report ye to master's union for that kind o' talk."
"If men eat well, they work well", Thornton noted. "And that'll please masters too, unless they're idiots. Which some of them are", he added with a sly smirk.
Nicholas' eyebrows shot up. Was Thornton drunk? Had he hit his head on the doorframe when exiting his office?
Or was it rather…"Ye know", Higgins mused aloud, "somehow, when ye' speak like that, master, ye remind me a bit of yer wife."
Thornton turned to him, his gaze unreadable, and Nicholas feared that he had gone too far.
"My wife is a very bright young woman", the master told him, apparently not in the least affronted by his comment. "Many a man could take a leaf out of her book."
Nicholas could not keep the smile off his face at that statement. He did not know what exactly had happened to Thornton, but he would not spoil it by asking too many questions. Instead, he slowly rose from the landing and turned fully towards the other.
"We'd need somewhere t' cook", he said matter-of-factly, referring to their earlier conversation. "There's an old outhouse out the back, not of any use as far as I can tell."
"You did bring your brains with you to work today, didn't you?", Thornton declared, feigning outrage, albeit with a tinge of amusement on his face.
"I try to keep 'em hidden, but I can't do without 'em altogether."
Thornton did, in fact, give a small, almost inaudible, chuckle at that. He raised himself up into a standing position, digging his hands deeper into his pockets, as he slowly started walking away from them.
"You get some figures up and we'll see. Not promising, mind", he threw over his shoulder, before disappearing into his office, leaving Nicholas standing there, utterly perplexed.
'Whatever they do in that marriage bed must be mighty satisfying', he thought to himself with a soft snicker, before taking Tommy by the hand and walking briskly out of the mill yard.
The worker's canteen Nicholas had proposed, turned out to be a viable project. Within three weeks the old outhouse, which was in no use anymore, had been furnished with a cooking stove, and some tables and benches for the workers.
They would have to come in smaller groups, each at their appointed time, to ensure that everyone could be served.
Mary, Nicholas' daughter, had volunteered to cook. In turn, she, as well as the Boucher children, who accompanied her to the mill, received a free meal a day.
Apart from that, there was no further expense for John, who had taken it upon himself to order the food that was needed in bulk.
Margaret had been astonished, to say the least, when she had first heard of the whole idea, especially considering that it had come from John, of all people.
It appeared that he would not cease to surprise her sometimes. Overjoyed and eager to help, she had taken care of the canteen's furnishing herself.
Hannah Thornton had not understood any of it, but after a long and rather intense discussion with her son, had resigned herself to the thought that, even if there was no benefit from it, it would at least not cause too much extra expense.
But, like Higgins, she did have an inkling of who could be responsible for such a notion from her son.
Despite the fact that Margaret did not return his affections, he was still bowing to her every wish, pining for every opportunity to endear himself to her. It was painful to watch.
Sometimes it seemed to her as though he was a shadow of himself. She knew the mill was not doing well, she was aware that he was working long hours, barely getting enough sleep and certainly not eating enough, which she reminded him of almost daily.
But it was clear to her that this was not the reason for that bleak look she sometimes caught in his eyes, when he thought no one was watching, or the longing glances he threw at his wife, whenever she looked the other way.
He loved her still, and the girl seemed perfectly oblivious to it.
Margaret was not a bad person, Hannah had come to acknowledge this fact to herself a while ago. She did not have nearly as many airs and graces as her first appearance had suggested, instead, she seemed genuine and caring – a bit too caring when it came to the concerns of their mill hands.
Hannah was sure that the young woman cared for John too, only not in the way he desired her to, and Hannah highly doubted that she ever would.
At first, she had wanted to hate her for it, but how could she?
It was not the girl's fault that she was not in love with her son. Such sentiments could not be forced, Hannah knew. And still, it pained her to watch them live past each other, one oblivious to the forever unfulfilled yearning of the other.
Since the canteen had opened, Margaret had happily taken the opportunity to get better acquainted with the workers at the mill.
She had always liked talking to them, but now she would sometimes visit Mary in the kitchen and sit with them for a while.
They had been a bit wary of her at first, knowing that she was the master's wife, but her natural friendliness and the fact that she was so well acquainted with Nicholas Higgins, a man they all looked up to, recommended her to them, and soon they started chatting with her, as though she was one of them.
It was one of those things, she found, that increased the appeal of her marriage to John. She would never have had the chance to gain so much insight into those people's lives, had she not lived at the mill.
All of it had also increased her general interest in the factory, and one afternoon, when he had had a little time between two business meetings, John had taken her up on her request to give her a tour.
He had shown her the steam engine and boilers, the spinning and weaving floor, and the carding room. It had all been quite fascinating, and he had been happy to answer her questions and enlighten her about the manufacturing process in great detail.
At the end of it, Margaret had felt as though she could indeed understand John's passion for his trade a little better, and it made her admire him even more than she had before.
Margaret still visited her father every day. Mr. Hale seemed rather tired as of late, and a bit downcast. She feared that living all on his own, with only Dixon for company, was not doing him any good.
John would come over to read with him whenever he found the time, and every two weeks, they could persuade the older man to join them for dinner at Marlborough Mills.
She wished he would have come more often, but he claimed that he was too tired to leave the house so frequently in addition to his lessons, which were draining enough.
Between the mill, the canteen, Mr Hale, and Margaret's household duties, the days blended into weeks and then into months and suddenly, she looked back to realize that she had been married for over half a year.
John and she never seemed to fight these days. There were no harsh words spoken between them. Some days they did not see much of each other, but when they did, she felt quite comfortable in his company.
Yes, in fact, Margaret had to admit that she liked John much more than she had ever imagined she could. He was a decent man who genuinely cared for her, if only as a member of his household, not a lover.
And Margaret, in turn, had grown increasingly fond of him. She had developed an ability to sense his moods and could adapt accordingly.
Some evenings, when they were sitting together in his study (which had long ago become a daily habit of theirs) he would be in good humour to discuss literature and philosophy with her, other times – when he had had a tiring day at the mill – he would be rather quiet and deep in thought.
She was aware that he was shouldering a lot. The mill was still facing financial troubles, she knew, but she had soon realized that he would not voluntarily speak to her about his struggles, undoubtedly not wanting to worry her, so all she could do was make sure he was comfortable and grant him some peace and quiet.
Sometimes she would try to engage him in a little bit of conversation to take his mind off things, other times she felt it better to just leave him be and sit with him in silence, each engaged in a book or their own thoughts.
The days were getting shorter and the air was gradually growing chillier, and by the middle of November, an icy wind would sting their faces whenever they stepped out of the door.
It seemed that the nearer the year drew towards its close, the faster the time would pass, and suddenly Christmas was upon them.
Fanny had insisted on a Christmas tree and lush decorations. Mrs Thornton had begrudgingly agreed, and soon almost all the rooms of the house were adorned with holly and mistletoe.
On Christmas Eve, the mill closed two hours earlier than usual, giving the workers some time to celebrate with their families.
Margaret spent the afternoon in Princeton, with Mary and the Boucher children. She had brought a basket with little treats, and they sat around the small table for a delightful hour, as the children unwrapped some new dollies, ginger cookies, and a book for Tommy.
Later in the evening, Mr Hale came over to dine with them. It was only the five of them, but still, the cook had outdone herself with a most splendid dinner.
The usual roast beef had been exchanged for roast turkey, since there was a rumour that the Queen herself liked to have turkey for Christmas, and therefore, anyone who could afford it, would strive to emulate her in this matter.
There was also minced pie, boiled potatoes, a variety of vegetables, gravy, fruitcake and plum pudding, all served with an abundance of fine red wine.
The conversation flowed nicely, with the two men having entered into a philosophical discussion on Plato's "Republic", once more.
After they had finished their dessert, the men retreated into John's study for a short while, before joining the women in the sitting room.
Margaret sat on the settee, next to her husband, as they conversed with her father, who had taken a seat in the nearest chair.
They had all indulged in the wine quite a bit, its effects rendering them more talkative and cheerful than usual.
Feeling slightly dazed, Margaret had edged closer to John than she normally would have, and suddenly found her side touching his.
She felt his warmth and the slight rise and fall of his chest with every breath he took, and it sent an odd tingling sensation through her. She knew she should have put some distance between them, but for some strange reason, she found herself unable to move.
After a while, his arm came to rest on the headrest of the settee behind her, his fingers brushing lightly against her shoulder. He seemed merely half aware of it, having relaxed back into the cushions with a little smile.
His eyes appeared slightly unfocused and Margaret suspected that he too was a bit inebriated, having had even a few glasses more than she had had herself. She found that she liked him this way. He smiled more, talked more, and seemed much more at ease than usual.
Against her better judgement, she felt herself relax against him, allowing his hand to come to rest fully on her shoulder, a gesture that went unnoticed by Mr Hale, who was too engrossed in the conversation, however, not so by Mrs Thornton.
With every passing moment, Margaret grew increasingly aware of his closeness, and it sent a very unfamiliar, odd sensation through her which she could not place. She did not pull back, instead, she sat very still, her breathing shallow, as if afraid of breaking whatever spell she was under, or cause him to withdraw from her.
It was after midnight, when Mr Hale declared that it was time for him to take his leave, as it was long past his usual bedtime, and he would not be able to keep his eyes open much longer.
Margaret accompanied him out onto the wooden landing and watched him step up into the carriage John had called for him, to take him safely home to Crampton.
With a last wave, her father closed the door of the carriage behind him, and soon it had passed through the green gates and out of sight.
Margaret stood for a moment longer, her arms wrapped tightly around her body to protect herself against the cold.
All was silent.
She watched fine snowflakes float down from the blackened skies and took a few deep breaths, feeling the cool breeze slowly clear her head a little from the wine.
It all seemed so peaceful.
"Margaret?"
She turned around to find her husband, standing in the entrance of the house, in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, gazing at her intently.
"Are you alright?"
She nodded slowly. "I was just catching some air."
She stepped back from the landing. "Thank you for inviting papa. I think he had a wonderful time tonight", she told him.
"It was a matter of course", he replied in an earnest voice.
She was about to step past him, into the house, when his hand gently came up to her arm, halting her in her tracks and making her look up at him.
"What is it?"
"Do you realize where we are standing, Margaret?", he said in a low voice.
She stared at him a bit cluelessly, until he tilted his head up slightly, and when her gaze followed his, her breath caught in her throat.
It was a spring of mistletoe.
Margaret swallowed hard, as her eyes darted back down to his face.
"Will you let me steal a kiss for Christmas?".
His voice, barely above a whisper, sent a peculiar shiver down her spine.
Oh dear God! What was she to reply?
She could not possibly deny him, and then, with a pang, Margaret realized that she did not want to.
That she was suddenly filled with nervous anticipation at the mere thought of having him so close.
What on earth had come over her? It had to be the wine. She could not think clearly anymore.
Unable to utter a single word, she felt herself nod slowly, as her feet, seemingly of their own accord, took a tentative little step towards him, and she raised her face to his.
Their bodies were mere inches apart, she could feel the heat radiating off him, as he slowly bowed his head towards her. She held her breath, trying hard to keep herself from trembling.
And then, in the gentlest way, he touched his lips to her forehead, and the world stopped.
Her eyes drifted closed, as a shudder she could not control, ran through her body.
His lips were warm and soft against her skin, and involuntarily she leaned towards him, not quite touching, but enough to increase the pressure of his mouth against her skin.
It lasted only for a moment. Then, he drew back.
'Don't stop!'
For a second, they stood, unmoving, her eyes still closed.
"Good night, Margaret." It was merely a whisper, and she could feel the warmth of his breath against her face.
She felt him move away from her, and when she finally managed to open her eyes, he was already halfway up the stairs.
'Stay with me!'
She heard the door to his bedroom close behind him, and then, there was only silence.
Margaret stood in utter shock, rooted to the spot, entirely unable to move as much as a finger, as her heart threatened to jump out of her chest.
It took her a few seconds to realize that she had stopped breathing, and she quickly drew a shaky breath.
What on earth had just happened? Even though he had only kissed her forehead, it had been the most intimate gesture they had ever shared.
What was shocking was not the fact that he had touched her in such a way, it was her own reaction to it. It was so unlike anything she had ever felt before – and so unexpected.
It almost felt like the touch of his lips on her skin had ignited something inside her – a longing for – she did not even know.
It was as though her body suddenly ached for him. She had not wanted it to end, she realized. She had wanted him to be closer, to hold her, to keep kissing her.
This could not be happening!
First, that strange feeling of sitting close to him tonight, and now this.
This was John, she reminded herself. Yes, he was her husband, but most definitely not in the classical sense of the term. They had managed to establish an honest friendship she felt comfortable with. She could not risk it by allowing some peculiar feeling she could not even name, to complicate things.
Margaret drew another deep breath and slowly released it, straightening her shoulders with determination.
She was a grown woman. Whatever this was, she could handle it. She would not give it any more thought, she decided. It was probably only the wine that was making her feel so woozy. Tomorrow, everything would be back to normal.
Having come to this decision, Margaret strode over to the staircase with purpose, making her way up to her own bedroom, to hopefully get some much-needed sleep and forget about this whole affair.
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NOTES:
The fact about Queen Victoria having turkey for Christmas and everyone trying to imitate it, is actually true.
