The Lace Curtain
By Tinntinnabula
Chapter 3-By Lamplight
"Miss Hale! Miss Hale!" John dropped to his knees and attempted to revive the pastor's daughter. However, there was little he could do that would not breech propriety. He dared not leave her side to fetch a dampened towel, and moving her to an area more comfortable than the bare floorboards of the vestibule was out of the question. John settled on the touch he felt would be least offensive to her upon coming to, and briskly rubbed her hands within his own, while continuing to call her name.
"Are you well, Miss Hale?" He continued calling to her and after some moments, she revived.
Miss Hale's eyes fluttered, then widened, as she recognized the form of Mr. Thornton looming over her. She looked at him in confusion for several seconds, and then slowly sat up.
"Why are you…" she began, but her voice trailed off. "I remember now," she said, finally. "Oh, Papa." For a moment it seemed that she was fighting back tears, but she quickly succeeded in regaining her composure.
John offered Miss Hale a hand as he rose, and she accepted, but quickly moved away from him once she was on her feet. She turned away and smoothed the simple wrapper she wore, and attempted to smoothe her riotous hair.
"I must thank you, Mr. Thornton, although I don't understand why it is you who brings me this news." She remained facing away from him, and her voice quavered ever so slightly. She was as proud as ever, John realized, and it was clearly important to her that he not witness her grief.
He understood. He had behaved exactly the same way fifteen years before, when his headmaster had informed him of his own father's death. Rumors had flown throughout the school immediately, no doubt due to the loose lips of the headmaster himself, and John had held his head high for the two days it had taken for his mother to send a carriage to collect him. He had done his best not to show any weakness during the seemingly endless interval between the news and his escape. He now knew that his behavior was a result not only of pride, but also self-preservation. But at the time he had known instinctively that to show weakness would be to invite cruelty from his classmates.
Did Miss Hale expect cruelty from him?
Perhaps she did, after the unfortunate way he'd treated her over the past several months. He'd all but accused her of being a woman of low morals, and had expressed his disgust not only in words, but in his actions toward her. She could not know that those words and actions were mere posturing, and that truly he'd loved her still, even though he'd known that love was unrequited.
But he could make up for that behavior now.
"I saw Mr. Bell on the train," John said by way of explanation. "He told me the news, and thought that you would want to know immediately, despite the late hour. I volunteered." He softened his voice as he said this, as an indication that he was not here to crow, or to twist a newly-lodged knife.
Finally, Miss Hale faced him. "I thank you, Mr. Thornton. After I have had time to put my father's affairs in order, I would be grateful if you would return to our home to select a keepsake." Her brow wrinkled. "Perhaps Papa's Plato? Yes, I think he would be honored for you to have it. You were a very dear friend to him. He thought quite highly of you. But I am sure you know this."
"Miss Hale," John began, but she interrupted.
"But that will be after the funeral. I will need to contact Mr. Bell. Did he say whether he would be arranging it? Will it be in Oxford, or is he planning on bringing Papa—I mean-" her voice caught, and John felt something sharp and metallic twist in his own heart. "his remains back to Milton? Papa would have wanted a service at the Oriel College Chapel. It was where he held his first Mass. I do hope Mr. Bell does not hold it at the cathedral. Papa would not want that. I must talk to Mr. Bell."
"Miss Hale, you should not be thinking of such things. Mr. Bell did say he would be arranging things, but he also indicated that you should not be present. There is no need to compound your grief."
"I attended Mama's funeral. Of course I should be at my own father's." This was not a retort, John realized. It was clear she was thinking aloud, and it was also clear that she was growing more distraught by the minute. She began to pace again, and her path led her to the front door. She stood with her hand on its latch as she spoke next.
"It was good of you to come," she said softly. "You must be tired from your travels, and I am sure you are eager to return to your own home."
"You cannot stay here, Miss Hale!" John cried, incredulously. "Not when such a thing has happened. And even if such a thing had not taken place, you could not remain here with no one to attend to you."
Margaret nodded, but her chin lifted in a familiar display of obstinacy. "Dixon said much the same. About me staying here alone. But no one knows me here. And even if they did, I have no reputation to maintain."
She opened the front door, and John felt as though he were servant being dismissed after a good dressing down.
"I was not suggesting it would be unseemly to stay here, Miss Hale." Her eyes flashed as John spoke, and two spots of color appeared high on her cheeks. Still, he continued. "Rather, it is unsafe. This house is quite close to the train station, and there are vagrants about."
"This door locks," she replied. "And it has a sturdy bolt. I was alone last night, and somehow survived. And Dixon is due back tonight. I have been waiting up for her."
"She will not return tonight," John said in a voice that was considerably more calm than he felt.
"And how would you know that?"
"Did she travel by train?"
"Yes, of course. Rutlandshire is not close to… this place. She went the town where my mother grew up. Dixon grew up there, as well."
"There has been a slowdown of the trains. A strike may be looming. The stationmaster told me no more trains are due in Milton tonight."
"I see." Margaret shrugged. "But it does not signify. I will be fine."
"Tonight you should be with people who care about you. It is not right for you to be alone with your grief."
"Yet you suggest the streets are not safe. I had only one friend in Milton, Mr. Thornton. And like my mother and father, she is gone. Surely you are not suggesting I impose upon my late friend's father?" She laughed, but this was not the delightful sound John had heard previously, on rare occasions. There was no humor behind this emanation. "I dare say Princeton is less safe than Crampton at this time of the night. It's barely lit. So you see, Mr. Thornton, I must remain here."
"You might come home with me. My mother is a more than adequate chaperone. You would not need to worry—"
Margaret shook her head emphatically. "Your mother has made her feelings toward me quite clear. No, Mr. Thornton, I will remain in my own home."
John sighed. They'd conversed so little over the past few months, that he'd forgotten how pig-headed she could be.
"As you wish," he said as he gathered his hat and gloves. The door shut firmly behind him.
Margaret leaned against the shut door as if doing so would ensure her privacy more than an iron lock or heavy wooden bolt. Her body sagged, and she breathed heavily. It had been difficult to maintain her composure during her interaction with Mr. Thornton. And that he should see her faint!
She did not like to display weakness in general, but even less so to a man who had treated her so insultingly, and so unkindly the last time they had conversed at length. Mr. Thornton had made very clear to her then how he felt about her, and he'd indicated that his past feelings for her were mere foolishness on his part. This was a double insult, as it implied that she had been duplicitous, and had somehow tricked him into thinking she might be interested. His words, still stung, she realized, and it made very odd the fact that he'd arrived tonight to tell her of her father's demise.
She did not understand the man. He had not been unkind tonight—in fact, he'd been quite gentle. His actions must have been for her father's sake. For the sake of his memory. This realization stung even more. Once again, it was clear that she had rejected the best of men.
Margaret moved throughout the lower floor of the house, readying the place for the night. She closed the damper on the kitchen stove, and sighed as she realized she should have done so earlier, after bathing. She'd wasted a good amount of coal as a result of her oversight, and with Papa gone, this was not inconsequential. Each penny of her mother's annuity would have to stretch even further than it had before, now that Papa's income was no more.
Papa! How was it that she was thinking of such banal things as coal, money, and even Mr. Thornton, just minutes after learning her father had passed? Did he not deserve better? Margaret closed her eyes, and let her grief fully engulf her for some time.
She'd loved him so. Her father was a gentleman, in the truest sense of the word. He was a gentle man, and a good man, and he'd demonstrated a quiet passion for the intellectual life he'd finally been able to pursue in Milton. It had not been fair for him to take his family to Milton without explaining why first, but it was clear that her father's time in Milton, and his teaching of the classics had been restorative for him. Once again, Margaret was glad for Mr. Thornton's presence in their lives. But she was also disgusted with her own behavior, as her heavy-handed rejection had caused Mr. Thornton to stay away from her father. She was also saddened by the results of the lie she'd had to tell. The story had helped her brother, but had hurt Papa.
How might Papa's last few months have been different if she'd summoned the courage to finally tell the Mr. Thornton the truth? Rather than being estranged from a man who was his intellectual equal, Papa might have had his world illuminated. And the world that had narrowed further after Mama's death, might not have been so narrowly conscribed for him.
Margaret wiped away a hot, angry, tear and willed herself to stay calm. It would not do to break down now. Not when she needed to remain in control of her wits so that she might convince Mr. Bell to allow her to attend the funeral.
Of course, she could journey down to Oxford herself, chaperone be damned. But what of the cost? Even a third-class ticket to Oxford would be prohibitively expensive. What's more, the interest from Mama's small inheritance was paid quarterly, and the next installment not due to arrive for another month. It would be difficult enough to put food on the table for the next few weeks, let alone buy a ticket. Margaret realized there was no way she'd be able to travel to her father's funeral without Mr. Bell's assistance.
She would need to rise early to call on him, as likely he would be travelling back to Oxford immediately. Margaret mounted the stairs, her thoughts focused on the different arguments she might make to convince Mr. Bell. Although he typically played the role of doting godfather in her presence, she knew that he could be quite hardheaded. She wondered how she might best convince him.
Margaret began readying herself for bed as she phrased arguments aloud. She splashed cold water from a flower-painted ewer into a matching, chipped bowl that stood on her washstand, and then onto her face, and did her best to rub away the signs of the distress she'd shown tonight. She brushed her teeth as she peered into a mirror that badly needed resilvering. She looked a fright. Her hair was a tumbled mess, and although she'd barely wept, her face continued to show signs of the imminent demise of the emotional barrier she'd hastily constructed. Her cheeks were red, her eyes pink. But this was as it should be after a loved one's death, and really she should not be looking in the mirror at all. Margaret rummaged through her dresser to find a cloth with which to cover the mirror. Task accomplished, she grabbed a wide-toothed comb from its home on the dresser top. She yanked it though her hair, happy of the pain it provoked.
She closed her eyes once more and felt a wave of sadness crash over her. It was indeed like the ocean. Some waves were direct, and easy to predict, while others crept up and surprised with their intensity. Those eroded, too, at least as much as the direct ones. She already felt hollowed out, despite the fact that she had only begun to grieve.
It had just begun raining, and given the cold evening would likely to turn to sleet. She heard the pelting of heavy raindrops against the window and crossed the room to close the draperies.
But first she looked out into the night through the rain-streaked glass. Across the street, under the faint glow cast by the gas lamp, a man stood. He wore the typical, tall beaver hat usually observed on the wealthier men of Milton, and his coat collar was turned up against the rain. Still, he was being battered by the rain, and there was no reason for him to be standing just outside the basket makers at this time of night. Margaret crossed the room once more, and placed her candle on the dresser at the other end of the room. Then she returned to the window and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark. It did not take long to confirm her suspicion. Even through the waviness of the rain-streaked window, Margaret could tell that the man standing sentinel was Mr. Thornton.
Margaret hurried downstairs, and pulled on her coat and boots as quickly as possible, given the many buttons of one, and hooks of the latter.
"Mr. Thornton!" she whispered as loudly as she dared, lest she wake the neighbors.
He turned at her voice, but did not move from his post. He gave her a slight smile and the briefest of waves instead, and then crossed his arms across his chest.
She grabbed an umbrella from its stand and hastened down the stairs.
"You will catch cold," Margaret chided as soon as she reached him. She stood on her tiptoes, arm extended, to shield him from the rain with an umbrella that had lived a very long life.
"Your umbrella will prevent that. Thank you, Miss Hale," Mr. Thornton replied. He crossed the street, and she attempted to keep up with his long stride, while still maintaining cover.
She entered the house, but he stood outside, his hand outstretched.
"Miss Hale? Your umbrella. May I?"
"Please come inside, Mr. Thornton. You must be chilled." Thankfully, he obeyed.
She took his coat and hat, and shook each out before carrying them over to the fire. Then she pointed to the large, comfortable chair next that stood next to the fireplace. Papa's chair. She quickly rekindled the fire by scooping a substantial shovelful of coal onto its dying embers
"I will make tea." She pulled the blanket Mama had knitted from the back of the sofa and draped it over his knees. Then she leaned once more over the fire to remove a shovelful of embers.
It took a while to make the tea, as the stove's fire also needed to be rebuilt, but in due time Margaret carried out a tray of tea and the few biscuits that remained from the week's baking. She was half surprised that Mr. Thornton remained in front of the fire. Given his stubbornness it had seemed equally likely that would he return to his station under the gas lamp. But there he was, and apparently warmed, as Mama's blanket no longer rested on his lamp, but in a neatly folder square on the sofa behind him.
She took the seat next to him—Mama's chair—and poured the tea. As she passed him a cup, their hands brushed, as they had once before. She felt a familiar tingle at the inadvertent touch. But worse was the coldness of his hand. His time outside had thoroughly chilled him.
"Mr. Thornton," she began, "I think we must agree that it is completely unnecessary for you to stand watch outside my home."
"We will have to disagree," the master of Marlborough Mills said calmly. "Thank you for the tea. It's quite warming. And for the biscuits. My meal on the train was not substantial."
"Let me find you something to eat. There is a joint in the larder. I will be just a minute." Margaret rose from her chair, but stopped as she spoke.
"There's no need, Miss Hale. Although I do appreciate the suggestion." He, too, rose from his seat.
"You are not planning on going back out into the rain, are you? I do not know what I would do if—" Margaret bit her lip and whispered the next words. "I cannot lose another person tonight."
"There is a ready solution, Miss Hale. Come to Marlborough Mills. There is a stable not so far from here. I can run for a cab, so you will not have to walk the long distance to Milton."
Margaret shook her head. "I cannot."
"If it is my mother you are afraid of, I can tell you—"
"I am not afraid of your mother!" Margaret retorted. "I simply have no desire to impose upon her hospitality."
"It is my hospitality."
She turned away. "Your hospitality, then. Besides, I must stay here. Dixon will surely return soon."
"Then our path is set," Mr. Thornton replied. He crossed the room and she hurried after him.
"No. Please sit down. You are not warmed yet. And I think—"
He gazed at her, and his cerulean eyes seemed to plumb the depths of her soul.
"Yes?" he asked.
"It you are so intent upon protecting my virtue, I suggest you do it from within the relative comfort of Papa's study. You will be quite warm if I build a fire, and I will lock my bedroom door. And you can shut the study door, as well. If it is so unlikely that Dixon return tonight, then this would seem to be the only way." She shook her head. "I will not have your health upon my conscience."
"It would be far simpler if you came to Marlborough Mills. But if you insist, and are not concerned—"
"About what should I be concerned? My reputation? I assure you, it is quite in tatters. Although," she laughed bitterly, "It is not as though I were a social butterfly beforehand. My outspokenness tends to alienate people, I find."
"I don't think that's true, Miss Hale."
"Isn't it? I have alienated you, for one."
"You have not. I understand the reasons for your actions, finally."
Margaret looked at Mr. Thornton in shock. "What do you mean?" she asked slowly.
He did not answer her directly. "Will you go to live with your brother?" he asked instead.
"Frederick," she breathed. "Yes, I must write to him. He will be quite distraught. But no, I do not think… he is recently married, and his wife is with child. They would not want the burden, and I do not think I want to go to Spain. This is my home."
"England?"
"Yes. And Milton."
"But you said you have no friends here. And from where I stand, this place has brought you nothing but unkindness. My own, included."
Margaret looked at her hands. "Still, it has grown on me." She was relieved when Mr. Thornton changed the subject.
"May I borrow some paper and a pen?" he asked. "If I am to spend the next hours in your father's study, there is some work I can do."
"Of course." Margaret smiled, and led him to the small room where her father and his student had spent many productive hours. "But what will you work on?" she asked once he was seated at her father's davenport desk. It was much too small for Mr. Thornton, and the chair was nowhere tall enough to fit his frame comfortably.
"I visited LeHavre yesterday, and need to work up some estimates. I wouldn't normally purchase from them, as I prefer a steady supplier. But they are much cheaper and the cotton appears to be of higher quality."
"I see. Then you will need a good light."
Margaret left to fetch the Argand lamp from the sitting room, and sited it at the edge of the desk. "You'll need this, then. I borrowed it tonight, but it is Papa's. Was Papa's."
"Do not worry about the fire. I can build one. And I am perfectly capable of finding the food in the larder. Please rest, Miss Hale. This has been a difficult evening for you."
Margaret nodded, and closed the door behind her. She dampened the fires in the kitchen and sitting room, and went upstairs once more. She knew, however, that sleep would elude her this night. She would keep a quiet vigil for her father instead.
Author's notes:
Thank you for reading! Next chapter should be a big one, and will be written by and posted on 2/6/2022. Note that February will be a VERY busy month for me, as my husband and I are preparing for a cross-country move. I will do my best to have a further update in mid-February, however, hopefully on February 20.
Historical Notes:
Not a lot to share this time.
In her book, Elizabeth Gaskell indicates that Mr. Bell is currently a fellow at Plymouth College, but does not specifically state which college either he or Mr. Hale attended. She does state that Mr. Bell was Mr. Hale's tutor when the latter attended college. However, a professor does not necessarily stay with the college they came up in. As Oriel College was known in the mid-1800s as the premier intellectual college at Oxford, I decided to have this be the college Mr. Hale attended. Oriel College also had a major influence on certain changes in the Anglican Church during the mid-1800s, so I thought that this, too, might make it the right alma mater for Mr. Hale, even if he might have later disagreed with some of the changes that were enacted.
Regarding inheritance: In the mid-Victorian era married women were not allowed to control their own finances (the Women's Property of Act of 1882 began to change this), although unmarried women could do so. This was also true of widows, if they did not have sons. After marriage, a husband took control of any property or money a woman might have had before the marriage, and he would also take control of any money she might inherit after the marriage. A small amount of money was bequeathed to Maria Hale by her guardian, and it was that interest that sustained the Hales in Milton, with small additions from Mr. Hale's intermittent tutoring. If Mr. Hale left a will, that inheritance could have been bequeathed solely to Margaret, but if he did not, I am not (yet) certain if the entirety of his estate would have been left to Frederick. Also, the fact that Frederick had fled the country makes the matter of Mr. Hale's estate even more problematic. Can a man wanted by the Navy inherit? Could they trace the money to him? I think it would probably be easier to leave the whole of it to Margaret and have her somehow give half of it to Frederick. However, if anyone has expertise in mid-19th century English law, please let me know. Otherwise I will research it soon. It will become important in a later chapter!
Regarding outerwear: For several hundred years, hats made of beaver felt were all the rage in Europe, so much so that they Eurasian and North American beavers were both threatened with extinction. By the 1840s silk hats were more fashionable than beaver (and much less expensive) but I see John as the type who buys once, ignore fashion, and make his purchase last. Henry, on the other hand, probably had a new silk hat each season. John's hat looks pretty worn in the BBC version of N&S, and to me it looks like beaver.
