The Lace Curtain

By Tintinnabula

Chapter 2. The Lace Curtain

It was well after nine p.m. when the northbound train chugged into Milton. The journey from Euston to Outwood Station typically took about five and half hours. Of course, this assumed no delays. As the workers had decided to be quite uncooperative this evening, there had been a one-hour visit to a siding just outside Chelford. The train was frustratingly close to Milton, but not close enough for its passengers to disembark and walk the rest of the way into the city. This might have been by design, John thought.

No trains passed by on the main track during the train's resting time, and no man had come alongside the train, lantern in hand, to inspect the vehicle for some mechanical default that would account for its failure to continue on its journey. However, at nine on the dot the train started moving again, and traveled the relatively short distance to John's destination.

Thankfully, Mr. Bell slept through most of the journey. John might have liked to talk with him about Mr. Hale, as he understood the two had attended the same college at Oxford, and had been close friends for years. But John also had no doubt that despite the change in humor brought on by the loss of his friend, Mr. Bell would have been unable to resist needling John with his usual mixture of condescension and class-based humor. Mr. Bell was a gadfly, no doubt about it. But as his tenant, John was unable to swat him away, as he would have done to any other annoyance.

Mr. Bell was shaken awake as the train's brakes screeched and the conveyance came to a shuddering stop. It did not take him long, however, to recognize the late hour.

"Oh! How the time has flown," he said drily. "A new record, I would think." He folded the broadsheet that sat beside him on the plush carriage bench, and tucked it away into his portmanteau. "Thornton, I assume you will be visiting Miss Hale this night?"

John's brow furrowed. "It is much too late for a visit. I thought I would wait until tomorrow."

"I've noticed Miss Hale often stays up late into an evening. She is quite the night owl. And I'm sure she would appreciate news of her father's passing sooner rather than later. He was expected home tonight, and she will be quite worried."

"I did not know this." Although he'd volunteered to deliver the message, tonight's late timing made John quite uncomfortable. To arrive so late after sunset to deliver such news was unseemly. A message so likely to bring prolonged grief should be delivered in the brightness of day, when long shadows and attendant dark thoughts were nowhere to be found.

"Are you reneging on your promise, Thornton?" The fox-like look, which had been missing for the entirety of the journey, had returned to Bell's face.

"No. I will go, if you think it for the best."

"I do, and thank you. I leave town tomorrow at nine, as I must return to Oxford to make arrangements for the service and burial. Can I expect you at seven for an update? You must convince Miss Hale that she is not to journey to Oxford for the funeral. I am sure she would insist upon it if I were to visit her myself. But it would not be good for her health to be present. I am glad you are going in my stead, Thornton." Mr. Bell patted John on the arm, in as avuncular display of affection as John has ever experienced from the man.

He exited from the train, and John followed. But John stopped at the stationmaster's to leave his bags, and Bell was long gone by the time John hurried down the set of stone steps closest to the Hale's Crampton house.

He did not often visit Outwood Station this late into the evening. The last time had been on horseback, when he'd seen Miss Hale with the man he mistook for her lover. Now, as a result of the knowledge shared by the new rector of Helstone, John was certain that this "lover" was actually Miss Hale's brother. From the information shared by the rector and his wife, John inferred that the brother, Frederick, did not live in England nor in any part of Great Britain. He could not do so, and expect to maintain his freedom.

Tonight the station contained significantly more people than few other times John had visited at night. But the people loitering there did not seem to have a reason for being there. There were a few men in the stairwell, supporting the wall, and others lingering outside the station itself. As a group they gave John the sensation that they were up to no good, despite the fact that they were doing nothing. And maybe that was the problem: they should have been doing something. One did not visit a train station for no reason. One was either about to embark or disembark, or one was there to meet or send off passengers.

In contrast, the streets further from the station were desolate, as one would expect so late at night. The remains of the day's activities littered the streets, and the horse troughs John passed were lightly iced. Unlike the South, Milton was still trapped in a very long winter.

It only took a few minutes for John to reach the Hale's home, situated as it was within easy walking distance of the train station. Its location was no accident. Once Mr. Bell had told him of the imminent arrival of his good friend to Milton, John had carefully selected a small number of properties he thought might suit. Although he did not particularly like Mr. Bell, John treated business transactions with the man entirely differently than personal ones. The rent for Marlborough Mills was always paid promptly upon its due date, the facilities were maintained to an impeccable standard, and of course, John always tolerated Bell's impromptu visits to his office or factory floor. So if Mr. Bell wanted him to find a place for Mr. Hale John had every desire to find the best house possible for the funds available. Doing so was good business. The houses John had selected were all within easy access of shops and transportation, and the one the Hales had ultimately chosen had the added attraction of only being attached on either side. Unlike many houses in Crampton, it backed up to a canal, and had a small kitchen garden and private backyard privy.

It was not the best of houses, given the Hales' straitened finances, so John had renewed the place out-of-pocket, replacing its dated, garish wallpapers and over-wrought cornices, and hiring in a fast-working crew to polish or repaint every wood surface. If the Hales thought these were the actions of an overly attentive landlord, that was acceptable to John. In fact, he did not want them to know he was the culprit. The idea of taking up his studies again with a man of letters had lit his imagination, and he wanted to make sure the man and his family felt some measure of comfort in a place so far from their place of origin.

John was even more glad of his actions after he met Miss Hale. It would not have been right for such a woman to live in such a place that suffered from so much deferred maintenance and ill-considered decoration.

Crampton Terrace was as dimly lit as the other streets he'd traveled since leaving the station, but a warm glow emanated from the sitting room windows of the Hale house. Bell was right, John noted. Margaret was still up. Through the lace curtain that provided a very small measure of privacy to the room's occupants, John could easily see Miss Hale.

She sat close to the fireplace, needlework in her lap, and next to her an Argand lamp lit her work enough that she would be able to discern its details. The lamp lit her as well. As dark as it was outside, it was easy for John to see the details of her person. A memory of a long forgotten image suddenly illuminated his mind.

The school John had attended as a boy had not been of the first class, but it emulated its betters. While it had its share of sons of the most respectable landed families, most of the boys in attendance were from much newer fortunes. As such, the school had the resources to spend on large, paneled classrooms, a fine library, a laboratory, and copies of the finest art. A painting that had hung in the dark hallway outside his Greek classroom was the source of the image his mind remembered now.

It was of a painting of a young woman, the Magdalene, illuminated by a single candle and looking away the viewer. Most of the painting was in shadow, and the woman's skin almost glowed with the contrast. Of course, Margaret was no repentant Magdalene, but she was as beautiful as the image John remembered.

An undertaker's shop stood directly across the street from the Hale's home. John stood motionless within its shadow as he gathered the courage he would require to inform Miss Hale of her father's passing. She would be devastated, as she must have been by her mother's death. Perhaps even more so, as it was clear she was her father's daughter. When Miss Hale had poured tea during John's visits to the house, certain looks had passed between father and daughter. Those looks had a playful quality John had never experienced with his own father or mother.

It would be difficult for John to complete the task he had agreed to take on, but it would also be an honor. And he owed it to her after the abysmal way he'd treated her over the past months.

It was this difficulty that caused him to procrastinate. Dallying was very unlike him, but John decided that he should savor the domestic tableau before him, as it would soon be spoiled. Miss Hale picked up a letter, and John witnessed the smile she had often flashed when listening to her father. The letter must be from him.

He watched for a few more minutes, and then decided he had waited long enough. He just crossing the street when she stood, gathered her skirts, and left the room. He returned to his post, and waited.

She returned in just a few minutes.

John should have gone to her front door just then, but he found that he could not. He stood and watched, and in a few more minutes she exited again.

This time she did not return.

Miss Hale had left the sitting room using the door at the rear of the room, rather than the door that faced the hall. John inferred from this that she was visiting the kitchen. Perhaps she was having dinner, a very late one.

When she did not return in five minutes' time, John decided to investigate. He turned down the side street at the far end of the row of houses, and then walked quickly along the canal that ran along the row of houses, counting gabled roofs as he did so.

The seventh house was the Hale residence. A tall wooden fence ran along the back of the property, separating a tiny square of land from anyone who might be wandering along the canal. There was a gate, however, and it was rather foolishly unlocked, allowing John entry. He found a rather plain backyard, with clotheslines strung along one side of a brick path, a privy on the other side, and a tiny, empty garden closest to the house.

There was a solid oaken door that led into the kitchen or possibly the scullery, assuming this house had one. John headed down the path to call on Miss Hale, but did not reach his destination. Through a small window, also covered in lace, John was greeted with another tableau.

John closed his eyes immediately upon seeing it, but doing so really made no difference: the image was instantly burned into his brain. His mind happily provided him with another image from his school days, Venus Rising from the Sea, and impressed upon him the singular beauty of the form he had just observed. The oil painting that had hung inside the headmaster's office paled in comparison to this real life beauty. The sight of Miss Margaret Hale standing naked, her toe dipped into a steaming bath, kettle beside her on a table was not one John would likely ever forget.

John retreated, and as silently as possible pulled the gate closed before him.

He should not have seen her, and reflexively he attempted to assign blame. She should have known that she would be visible to anyone wandering in from the canal.

But the canal and the streets beyond were deserted apart from him. Clearly Miss Hale did not expect strange men to be gazing at her as she bathed.

A bath should take fifteen minutes, he guessed, or at most a half hour. John walked quickly away from the house, propelled by dishonor and shame. After several hasty circuits of the major streets of Crampon, the image of Miss Hale had faded enough for him to return to Crampton Terrace.

He did have a duty to fulfill, after all.

The sitting room lamp cast the same glow, and Miss Hale was seated in the same chair, although she was attired differently. She wore a simple wrapper, the same type of garment his sister wore in the morning, when she was not receiving company. Miss Hale's hair was also different. She'd released it from the coil that usually sat at the back of her head, and a riot of curls brushed the front of her gown. He had not imagined her hair would be so long. Or lovely.

She was making this difficult for him, although she in no way knew it.

John gathered his resolve and approached the front door.

She answered immediately, although given the late hour she didn't open the door.

"Who is there?" she asked. There was the slightest note of trepidation in her voice.

"Miss Hale, it is John Thornton. Might I have a word?"

"Mr. Thornton? It's ten o'clock. Why are you here at such an hour?" The door remained firmly shut.

"I must apologize, Miss Hale. It is quite irregular for me to be calling at so late. I would not do so normally—"

"I do not mean to be rude, but is it possible that it might wait? Your reason for calling, I mean. I am not fit to be seen. I am not dressed for visitors."

John almost laughed. She was certainly fit to be seen. Not that he would ever tell her this, or mention just what he had viewed minutes before.

"That is no concern, Miss Hale. Once again, I must ask you—"

The door cracked open, and Miss Hale's concerned face was half visible through the gap.

"Did something happen at the mill? Is it your mother? Goodness, please come in."

He'd made her anxious, he realized. Still, he stepped inside the house and removed his hat and gloves.

"Please come into the sitting room." She was flustered, too. "I am sorry to greet you in such a way. And it really isn't appropriate for you to be here. My father is not yet back from Oxford, and Dixon is away at her brother's. So, you see, must leave soon, for I am quite alone."

"Miss Hale," John began as she fluttered about the room.

"Shall I bring tea? No, I think that may keep you up all night. I, as well. My father has some sherry in his study. Shall I bring that?"

"Miss Hale, will you sit down, please?"

She would not. She paced the room as looked at him with increasing uncertainty, and grew pale as the reason for his visit began to dawn on her. Her breathing then quickened and her pupils almost blotted out the green-blue of her irises.

"It's Papa," she whispered.

John nodded, and again tried to speak.

"Does he live, Mr. Thornton?" Her voice was pleading.

"Miss Hale—"

She swayed.

"I am sorry I must share this with you, but—"

She fainted dead.


Author's note:

Thank you for reading! I am really happy to be able to share this story with you. It is going to go in a different direction than Not a Gentleman, as there are a few ideas I want to explore. I hope you will enjoy where this story takes you.

I will be updating this story and Not a Gentleman alternately. Look for the next chapter of NaG in two weeks' time.

Historical notes:

I was surprised to learn how slowly trains moved in the 1850s. I knew they would be slower than today, but, wow! In the 1830s, a stage coach moved an average of about 8 miles per hour, so a journey from London to Manchester would take around 20 hours. By contrast a train journey was quicker, but not as quick as a journey by rail or car today. I used two railway timetables to estimate the times it would normally take to travel from London to Manchester, which is thought to be the inspiration of the fictional Milton. In the mid-1840s, there was a boom of train line construction, (and huge investment because the return on investment was quite high. Naturally, this boom was followed by a bust in the late 1840s.) By 1847, several train lines had been consolidated to form the London and Northwestern Railway. I looked for but could not find an 1851 time table, but I did locate Bradshaw's Railway Companion from 1847 and another timetable from 1856. I used these to get a reasonable estimate of how quickly trains would have moved during the time period for this story. In 1847, a person traveling from London would likely have taken one train line to Birmingham and then a branch line to Manchester. Like traveling by air today, there would have been a "layover" of a certain amount of time between trains. The timetable shows that there were 12 trains a day running between London Euston and Birmingham on the London and Northwestern Line. On an express line it would take 3 ½ hours to make the leg of the journey. From Birmingham to Manchester the journey would take an additional 3 hours, with a total time of just under 7 hours. The 1856 times are not too different. The timetable I found showed trains running north from London to Manchester seven times on weekdays and four on Sundays. The fastest time, for the express, was 5 hours and 15 minutes. I imagine that improvement in engine technology accounts for the slightly faster speeds shown in this guide, but it may have been that the connection was now more direct. I decided to choose a time intermediate between these for the story, and of course as John starts his journey in Southampton, his time would be somewhat longer than those described above. So assuming John left Southampton at 1:30 or so, I think he would have arrived in Milton no earlier than 8 p.m., assuming no delays. But of course, he was delayed.

I love thinking about the mid-Victorian era and comparing it today's world. There are so many technologies that are transparent to us today, but which must have made people gasp with wonder when they were introduced. These technologies must also have changed the way people understood the world around them. For instance, our current world is filled with imagery, and it is accessible to anyone with a laptop or cell phone. The imagery is bright, crisp, and detailed, and brings together a multitude of cultures. In the 1830s, when John would have been in school, the world was a bit different. There were masterful oil painting in the very wealthiest of homes, and those young men wealthy enough to take a year off to tour the continent before settling into their family's estate would have been able to see the art on display in the estates of Europe, as well as in new museums such as the Louvre or Uffizi. For the English, there was the British Museum. Its collections were restricted to the very wealthy and well-connected until the 1830s, and it seems unlikely to me that they would have allowed roaming groups of schoolboys to wander their halls. I also think that John, although from a family that appeared to be moderately well-off would have been able to afford to go to a school with museum-quality original oil paintings. Another way to learn about "important" art was to have copies made, either by repainting in the original type of medium, or by using a new medium. In 1837, an inventor named George Baxter patented a process similar to the ones used today to print in multiple colors. He produced a book of images he had repainted, called "Pictorial Album, or, Cabinet of Paintings" to display this technique. The images are beautiful and colorful, and I would think they were a revelation to a society used to seeing prints with limited amounts of color. I am sure it was a very expensive book, but possibly one a school for wealthy boys might have placed into their library or shared in class. However, If John is approximately 31 in 1851, he would have left school before this book was published. I think, therefore that his knowledge of fine art would have been from viewing any copies of the masters his school had collected.

The first painting that John thinks of is The Magdalen with the Smoking Flame by Georges de La Tour from around 1635, which has a lovely contrast between the shadows of the room and the Magdalene lit by the light of a candle. John's thoughts of Margaret not being a repentant Magdalene have two meanings. First, he thought her a sinner of the flesh who was not willing to reform, and second, after his visit to Helstone he realizes she is not guilty of anything, and has no need to repent.

The second painting is Titian's, "Venus Rising from the Sea," full frontal nudity from about 1520.

Another technology we take for granted today is the plumbing that allows us to wash as often as we desire. Bathing was a bit of an effort in the mid-1800s. Some of the very wealthy had shower stalls as by the very early 1800s, but these required a servant to haul hot water to the device and to pump it up to the shower head. Most people bathed using a tub smaller in size to those we use today. For the wealthy this tub would be made of polished copper. For their lessers, a tub might be made of painted tin, possibly with wooden legs. Both types of tub required a someone to fill the tub with many buckets of water boiled on the kitchen's stove. This obviously required a lot of labor. I would imagine that for most people, the tub would not be filled as high as we would prefer today. My mom grew up in a part of Europe that had no electricity and no running water. As a child, I was lucky enough to spend a vacation there. Her family's house had electricity at that time, but still no running water. The baths we took were therefore in a small, portable tub of the type I described above, and we had to haul water from a spring to the stove. It was a huge effort!

In the 1840s and 1850s, there were other types of bath tubs that used less water. The hat tub looks like a broad-brimmed hat set upside down. A person would either sit on the "brim" of this tub and put his/her feet in the center, or sit on a nearby chair, again with feet in the center. This style seems best suited for a sponge bath. Another type of tub was the sitz bath or hip bath, which was a small, upright tubs that allowed a person to clean his or her intimate parts.

A domestic guide from this era suggests that tubs be lined so that a person would not be burned by the heat retained by the metal of the tub. The author also suggests that the tubs should be lined in linen fabric, as cotton was not genteel. Because as, Margaret and Edith state "no one" wore cotton back then (or apparently used it as toweling!)

And finally, a wrapper was a front-closing gown that was easier to take on and off than the typical bodice and skirt worn during this period. A woman would often wear this more simple outfit to breakfast, and then dress in a more complicated gown when going out to run errands, visit friends, or to receive guests at her house.