Author's note: Due to a heavy work schedule, I have not written in a very long time. Perhaps you are wondering if I have given up on "Not a Gentleman," and if this new story is evidence of that. The answer is an emphatic "No!" I do plan to return to "Not a Gentleman," and have a rough draft of the next chapter written out. That story means a great deal to me, and I want to bring it to its well-thought-out conclusion. Please consider this first chapter of a new story a warm-up, as writing this chapter required far less research than completing the next chapter of Gentleman. I will be updating the two stories alternately in the coming year. I think you will notice that the theme of this story will be quite different from "Not a Gentleman". I hope you will enjoy them both.

There are some big changes ahead of me in the coming months, that should make continuing these stories much more feasible. Thank you for understanding, and also for any reviews you are kind enough to leave. Your continued encouragement and support have meant a great deal to me, and are the reason I am writing again.

–Tintinnabula 11/28/2021

The Lace Curtain

Chapter 1

Helstone

John Thornton did not typically ship through LeHavre. But given the events of the previous few months, the need to meet payroll, and the low prices of the French vendors, he had reluctantly made the short-term change to his cotton supply, even though this meant a possible disruption in years to come. This wasn't a risk he liked to take, but it was necessary to ensure the mill's immediate survival.

John sighed as the ferry began the well-choreographed docking procedure at Southampton. Tar-soaked pilings were bumped, gulls were riled, ropes were uncoiled by wind-burned deckhands and cleats were elaborately fastened as John watched, but his thoughts focused more on the effects of his recent purchase than on the craft's imminent landing. The reduced cost of the three tons of raw cotton he procured in LeHavre meant at least one month's reprieve from the sleepless nights that had dogged him since the conclusion of the riot. It was tough to make ends meet given the discounts he had applied to mitigate late deliveries and thereby keep his customers. And although most of his better workers had returned in the weeks following the conclusion of the strike, the running of the mill was not as smooth as it had once been. In a well-run enterprise there was a musicality to the sounds of the machines, a song in each shed. The rhythms were soothing in their regularity. But John heard nothing but dissonance these days. And his dreams, though few, were discordant as well.

John disembarked onto English soil and breathed in the pungently fishy dockside air. He then checked his watch before walking the few blocks to the center of the small city and the row of facilities next to the train terminus. There was a good hour before the train north would arrive for its turn at the roundhouse and its reconnection to both passenger and freight cars. Luncheon was in order, perhaps the day's catch and a tankard of ale. That would set him up nicely for a nap on the train, assuming sleep favored him. But the inn and the restaurants next to it were at capacity. It was a slowdown of the trains that had caused this backlog, John heard. Passengers who should have left hours before were stranded. The waiting crowd outside the inn was abuzz both with news and with speculation.

The trains had run to time when John arrived in Southampton just days earlier, but circumstances had changed considerably in the days since. It wasn't a full-blown strike, John learned, but one did threaten. To throw around their weight the porters and engineers were doing their jobs as slowly as possible. Offloading and onloading of luggage and goods took place at a snail's pace, and the typical ten-minute stops to take on the water needed by the engines now took an hour. The time spent on sidings as other trains passed was also considerably longer than necessary. Work was being done, just not very efficiently. That rankled. John wondered who was organizing such an elaborate scheme. Miscreants like the leaders of the all-Milton strike, he assumed.

This was an annoyance. Although the next day was Sunday, John had intended to spend that day at the ledgers. There would be accounts to review and bills to pay, as well as wages to organize. His men, at least, would be unlikely to strike again, so long as they received their pay on time. Now it was likely John would be home quite late in the evening. Everything would therefore be delayed.

The view down the platform confirmed a more immediate annoyance. The station was empty apart from the typical staff, most of whom stood idle. No train stood huffing on its track. The station master confirmed a delay of at least four hours. John checked his valise, and wandered back into the port town. What could he do to kill the next few hours?

A fingerpost at the edge of town pointed the way to a possible diversion. "Helstone, 6 miles," read one sign among the several attached to post. John remembered the name and its connection immediately, and squashed the small amount of trepidation it induced. Here was something to while away the next few hours. There would surely be a quiet place to find lunch in the town, and more importantly, seeing the place might help John close the book on the story of his sorry interaction with Miss Hale.

There was purpose in John's step as he set off down a paved road that soon became a walled country lane. Yes, John thought, this visit was a very good idea, and it was a serendipitous one on today of all days. He smiled as he noted a small cottage and its henhouse. A flock of hens clucked and fussed noisily as drew closer. Hens were not something one typically saw in Milton, at least not the live, unplucked variety. And these were much plumper than those found near the smoky marketplaces of that city, and presumably far healthier. And although the area tread by the birds had little vegetation, further down the road was a riot of yellow. John had not seen a daffodil since his teen years on the outskirts of that overlarge city. Here they were in abundance, and lent a glow to the air. Spring arrived earlier here, it seemed.

It was late March, a full eight months since the day that Miss Hale had cast herself in harm's way and broken the strike. And it was, of course, a full eight months less one day since that woman had cast aside his proposal with a haughtiness that had broken him to the core. Much had happened since then. He'd taken her full measure and found her wanting, as Miss Hale revealed herself to be not quite the lady she claimed to be. Her actions and her words belied a lower sort of person, the type who would take for her own things a good woman would never take, and the type of mean, selfish person who would lie without blushing. Despite his knowledge of these flaws, and despite his words to the contrary, he still loved her. He might have even forgiven her. But as his was a love she was unable to requite, it was also a folly that he must set aside. He had realized this almost immediately, but it had taken time for his will to harden. Still, he did not regret his facilitation of her falsehood. That, he told himself, he had done in honor of the person he had thought her to be, not the person she had proven herself to be.

He had loved her, and in the honest hours of one sleepless night he had realized that his love would continue. He would allow it to abide in one small, defined compartment of his soul. But he would let it grow no further, and he would root it out relentlessly should he find it spreading its tendrils to any other locale. Love was a foolish thing, and a man in his position did not have time for foolishness. He needed a wife, to be sure. But not a lover. He needed someone who might secure his position, through wealth, connections or both. John required a practical, intelligent match, although his mate might not be so intelligent herself. She did not need to be, and in fact, a smart, headstrong wife was the last thing he wanted. No, his wife would be the opposite of Miss Margaret Hale. She would be docile, compliant, and steady. She would be honest, of course, and as pure as every maiden should be. It would be a bonus if she were pretty, but even in that she should differ from Miss Hale. No chestnut-haired goddesses with wide, inevitably kissable mouths were in his future, thankfully. It would be painful to endure the comparisons he would be sure to make if his wife-to-be shared such attributes, even though the object of those comparisons would be solely of his imagination.

His mother was eager to find him a mate. John was thankful for this, he realized. His mother's matchmaking had irritated him in the past, but he saw its utility now. A thirty-year-old mill master should be married. There would be talk otherwise, scuttled from the lips of women who saw themselves as eligible for such a match, and insulted that such a match had not taken place. Hannah Thornton pointed this out, just as she pointed out candidates weekly during church services. The best ones, she felt, occupied the reserved pews at the front of the building. If ones family had enough money to separate themselves from the common folk while worshipping in God's house, a daughter of such a family was good enough for John's house. Such a woman would bring enough money to the marriage to support the mill in lean times. Like these.

Over the past few months there had been several women that met his mother's criteria, and thankfully, none of them were like Miss Hale. Perhaps his mother applied some filter to see to that. To take such a practical, circumspect action would be just like her. He was indeed fortunate to have such a parent.

Long legs and a stride to match meant that it was not long before John arrived at the edge of Helstone. The town was smaller than he had imagined. It was more of a village, really. And it was not much to speak of, as there could not be more than thirty houses in its environs. John did admire the quaintness of the place. The smaller homes on the approach to the village were white washed and thatched, with small windows like friendly eyes. The several businesses gathered around a small square appeared to be more prosperous, and were roofed in slate, although the square itself was not much to speak of. This comprised an old covered well and a wood-roofed area that presumably served as a weekly marketplace. Bordering the square were a carriage maker, a small greengrocer, closed, and a small inn. Also closed.

John's stomach growled. It made sense that a village so small would have very few places to eat, but he had expected to find some place to satisfy his hunger. Well, at least he could quench his thirst. He crossed into the square to find the well's bucket missing. He walked on, resisting the urge to associate the village's lack of hospitality to that of one Miss Hale.

The lane narrowed again, and headed uphill. A small church stood in the distance at the edge of a forest, and near it, he realized, must be Margaret's childhood home.

Miss Hale. It wasn't right to call her Margaret, he knew this. Nonetheless, that was the name he called her in the small hours of each night, when, like her, sleep refused him.

This was a fertile place, he thought as he forced his thoughts back to the present. As on the approach to the village, daffodils abounded, and some plants he thought might be tulips poked new leaves through soil moistened by a recent rain. Other plants he could not name. However, he could easily predict that it would be even lovelier here in a few weeks, as days warmed and plants continued to erupt joyously. It was easy to see why Miss Hale described the place so rapturously.

It wasn't difficult to find the rectory. It was the largest building in the village, apart from the church, and stood next door to that ornate structure. A stone wall edged the property and the steps leading up to the house passed under an arbor thick with thorny canes and pale green buds. Like the church the house was ornate, with pointed arches, carved stone trim, and quoins bracketing its sturdy brick construction. It was a very large place for only three residents, John thought. He could see the late Mrs. Hale in such an environment, as the place was as refined yet frivolous as that woman had seemed. Mr. Hale was a poorer fit, in John's estimation. A man of the former rector's intellect had most likely been bored by the quietude of the village and the sameness of his duties. As for Miss Hale… John imagined a much younger girl running through the hallways and gardens of the rectory, her long curly hair flowing behind, ribbons trailing. She was laughing, happy and full of life. The image John conjured was substantially different from the sober, chastened woman he had last seen and berated.

"You there!" A voice interrupted his reverie, and to John's embarrassment, he realized that outside the house, under a well-leafed pergola sat the current rector and his wife. John bowed his head, and attempted a retreat. He was unsuccessful.

The rector approached with alacrity and his booming voice—perfect for sermonizing, John realized—welcomed his guest.

"We don't often have visitors to Helstone. It's not the most vital place. Or so my wife would say." The man turned and waved to the woman still sitting under the pergola. She was capped in lace, with lappets draped precisely on her shoulders. She lifted a hand in a semblance of a wave, and returned to the needlework that rested in her lap. She, too, fit this place, John thought.

"I was looking for—" John began.

"Luncheon, I would imagine. You'd think the innkeeper would recognize that we do get the odd visitor every now and again." The man laughed. "He won't be in business much longer, I think."

John nodded, as the rector was right. What was the point of an inn that did not serve food?

"Join us. I am sure you are hungry, and as my job is to tend to my flock, I think I can extend my crook to welcome an errant sheep."

The rector led John through peaked doors into a small reception room that was ornately furnished with goods that seemed out of place in the home of a man of God, and a marked contrast to the worn furniture he had noticed at the Hale's Crampton house. "We have a good luncheon on a Saturday," the rector continued, "as we are quite busy on Sundays. And of course, we expect the servants to keep the sabbath. They cook extra today to tide us over."

The rector's wife nodded. "This is as it should be. They should be at the church tomorrow rather than laboring in the kitchen. Please. Help yourself." She took a seat, and patted the one next to her.

"I appreciate your hospitality."

The rector barked a short laugh. "The church provides for us very well. Of course, one must ask in order to receive. I've noticed very few of my colleagues do so."

The rector's wife nodded. "You should have seen the furniture that remained in this house. Not fit for purpose. I made sure that the bishop understood that it would not do. We have a large household. We have been fruitful, and have multiplied as commanded. The bishop understood that we would need more help, and that certain alterations must be made."

"Alterations?" asked John as he sat down and slid a piece of cold, roast pork onto his plate. The rector and his wife seemed a bit sanctimonious, but that was not so different from most clergy he had encountered, Mr. Hale excepted.

"Well, yes. The previous residents loved to garden. There was a walled garden just out there." She pointed to a grassy part of the garden just visible through the windows. "It had several espaliered trees that might have been perfect for a tiny family. But not ours. We have nine children and they need room that this house simply does not provide!" The rector's wife beamed with pride. "The bishop has kindly approved the removal of the glasshouse so we can build a few more bedrooms."

"And where are your children?"

"The oldest are away at school. And the youngest are upstairs with their nurse."

John wondered if Margaret had a nurse.

The rector coughed and John felt a rustle under the table, followed directly by a lowering of one pair of eyebrows in annoyance. "I think the bishop is very happy to have us," the rector explained as his wife pursed her lips once again.

The conversation was interesting. The rector and his wife were curious about what brought John to Helstone, and were quite attentive as he talked of the mill. But both were surprised when John mentioned he knew Mr. Hale.

"I've never met the man," the rector began, "but I've certainly heard a lot about him." His wife nodded, her lips pursed even more tightly.

"The parishioners do like to compare you both." She glanced at John. "I'm sure Mr. Hale is good sort of man, but his leaving the church was one straw too many, especially after the… well, I think we can only call it a scandal."

"Scandal?" John's heart sank as his brain speedily concocted yet another offense committed by his one-time love. Such was the acceleration of his mind's workings that he almost failed to register the next remark.

"Their son. Frederick, I think is his name? He disgraced himself as a mutineer, and has not been back to English soil since. If he did, well…"

The rector coughed in embarrassment. John coughed as well, but for an entirely different reason. His face reddened as he attempted to dislodge the piece of meat that had caught in his throat as he'd gasped in disbelief. After some minutes and a firm whollop on the back, he was finally able to speak.

"I was not aware—" John began, but the rector's wife did not appear to be listening. Nor had she noticed his distress.

"I think it's shameful for a man of the cloth to allow a family member to behave so poorly. Can you imagine the confusion among the people of Helstone if young Hale had been hanged? What moral authority would the father retain?" The lace lappets framing the wife's face swung dangerously.

"Surely Mr. Hale is not responsible for his son's behavior. I should think—" John began, his mind reeling. Why would Mr. Hale not tell him about his son?

"He had influence. I daresay Mr. Hale encouraged such foolhardy behavior. Look at the man himself. Leaving his parish on a whim and turning his back on his vows. Questioning authority. What type of person does such a thing?"

"Let us not judge," the rector intervened. "My dear wife, given my experiences with the parishioners, your words are likely the truth, but it is not our role to find fault. We leave that to another, and I sleep well knowing that Providence will judge as we ourselves are unable."

But not unwilling, John thought. He realized he was no longer hungry, and excused himself as soon as it was politely possible to do so.

She has a brother. The revelation set his senses alight.

What was it Margaret had said the first time he had berated her? One phrase came to John immediately. The secret is another person's.

John hurried back to Southampton, barely registering the surrounding scenery. The train was waiting, and seeing the crowd gathered on the platform, John made the hurried decision to purchase a first-class ticket. It was a luxury he normally would not have granted himself, but he needed a space to think. The first-class carriages would be far less crowded than second, and he doubted he would have the patience to withstand the jostling of a crowd or the plaintive cries of travel-weary infants.

John settled into an empty compartment and closed his eyes.

I am aware of what I must appear to you… He'd misunderstood so horribly. Yet she'd withstood his verbal assault.

What she must think of him.

With eyes clenched shut he willed himself to think back to the afternoon where he'd all but accused her of wanton behavior. He imagined himself in the Hale's drawing room, and saw himself towering over Margaret, intimidating her with his physical presence and with a voice that was filled with undisguised contempt. Her words, voiced in a low, trembling tone, came flowing back to him.

I am aware of what I must appear to you, but the secret is another person's, and I cannot explain it without doing him harm.

She wasn't what he thought. In fact, she was the very opposite.

John ruminated for a while in the solitary space he'd paid handsomely for. But the train came to a stop after some minutes and the carriage door opened. John didn't open his eyes. Instead, he continued his self-imposed penance. It was a painfully luxury to imagine Margaret's voice.

I am aware of what I must appear to you…

"Thornton? Are you with us? It seems fortune brings us together this afternoon." A familiar, well-educated voice rang throughout the compartment.

John opened his eyes to see garish plaid trousers, of a very expensive sort. Attached to them was someone he never relished encountering.

"Mr. Bell." John tried to hide his displeasure, but as usual when around his landlord John was wildly unsuccessful. But he quickly noted that Bell was not himself. The usual smirk was missing and the man's eyes were devoid of their usual glint. Something serious was afoot. Surely he was not going to tell John of some harebrained plan he had to sell off the mill buildings. That would be ironic given John's recent efforts to stave off bankruptcy. The industrialist decided to head off any bad news. "You're headed up to Milton, I take it?" he queried. "Hopefully not to check in on the mill. I can assure you we are meeting our obligations and will continue to do so."

There was no witty and immediate rejoinder. Bell was uncharacteristically quiet for some time, then spoke. "I'm afraid I come to Milton quite reluctantly. I've spent the better part of the last fortnight in Oxford with the dearest of friends. But sadly…" his voice broke, and John realized this was the first time he'd ever seen the man behave soberly, "Mr. Hale passed last night."

"Mr. Hale." Margaret. "I don't… I don't know what to say. He was a good man. To be honest, he was like a father to me."

"Yes." Bell nodded. "I have the sad duty of informing Miss Margaret." The property owner frowned and looked away, toward the pasture moving past at a rate that was much slower than usual for the Southampton to London line. "For once in my life I am at a loss for words. I honestly do not know what I will say. She's already lost so much."

"Let me."

"You?" A chortle almost escaped Bell's throat. "But you are nothing to each other. Aren't you?" The briefest flicker of amusement crossed the man's face.

Color rose to John's face as he replied, "Miss Hale knows how much I valued her father's friendship. And I have lost a parent myself. Please let me do this."

Mr. Bell leaned back against the compartment's plush cushions and nodded. "As you wish."