The Lace Curtain

By Tintinnabula

Chapter 4—Daybreak

Miss Hale's bedroom was directly above her father's study. This John inferred by the creaking of floorboards above him. The sound was fairly constant, as it seemed Miss Hale was making a circuit of her room. The sounds moved from north to south, then east, and back again.

She should be resting. She would exhaust herself with this constant pacing, and surely find herself much the worse for wear on the morrow. John had been impressed earlier by her behavior, and by the fact that Miss Hale had not given way to the very strong emotions she had been undoubtedly feeling. Her stoicism in the face of great troubles had reminded him of his own mother, and also of himself. He knew from hard experience the difficulty of a time such as this, or at least he had some inkling of it. It must be all the worse for her, as she had lost not just her father, but both parents in close succession. And then there was the friend she had spoken of. She had experienced so much loss since coming to Milton. It was a testament to her strength that she had withstood all of it.

But she must mourn, and exhausting herself before doing so would make the coming storm much more difficult to bear.

John stood and stretched. The burled davenport desk was a lovely, if worn piece of furniture, like all of the furnishings in the Hale household, but it was far too small for his tall frame. John's knees bumped its opened writing surface every time he shifted position, as the chair was also too small for him, and his back groaned its discontent as well. Still, such bodily discomfort was a small price to pay to ensure that Miss Hale spent the night in safety.

During the time John had stood sentinel outside, a constable had passed by. At first the man had given John a wary look, likely because it was not usual for a man to be loitering alone under a streetlamp unless he were up to no good. However, the constable was reassured as he looked more closely. John assumed this was because he did not have the bearing or dress of a common ruffian, nor was such a miscreant likely to make conversation with one in a position of authority. It might have also been his position as magistrate that did the trick. Although he had not met this particular constable before, he seemed to be known by almost all of them. John addressed the constable as soon as he saw him, and the two had talked at length. From this, John learned that for the past few nights, Crampton had not been its usual calm self. There was unrest among the perpetually unemployed, and what's more there were some new faces on the street each night. The conversation left John with the impression that it would be foolish to leave Miss Hale alone, even for the hour or so it would take to return to the mill house and fetch a maid to keep Miss Hale company. And truth be told, the young women in his employ would likely be less effective at fending off an intruder than Miss Hale herself. But any man would likely best any woman in an altercation, even one so well-assured as Miss Hale.

As a result of this concerning conversation, John had immediately accepted Miss Hale's offer that he spend the night in her father's study. It would set certain set tongues wagging should anyone in the neighborhood notice either his entry or his departure, but John was confident that he and Miss Hale had been unseen when he returned to the house, and he would be careful to leave just before daybreak. Miss Hale's reputation would remain intact, and John would be able to rest knowing he had protected her.

Despite this, Miss Hale's words about her reputation concerned John, and he had no doubt of the source of the rumors which she suggested had plagued her in recent months. Miss Hale's behavior at the riot, although well-intentioned and quite innocent, not seen as such by the staff of his household or even by his sister. And then there was the rumor that had spread about Miss Hale being out at night with a lover. Although that rumor had likely not started in his own house, John had no doubt that the people living under his roof had done little, if anything to quell it. His own mother, typically not one to gossip, had mentioned the rumor to him. And Mother most likely had discussed the topic of Miss Hale's virtue with Fanny as well. As his sister was the font of gossip for her circle of friends, it very therefore was very likely that Fan had played a large part in spreading the malicious story throughout Milton. John was the head of his household and ultimately responsible for the poor behavior that had led to Miss Hale's mistreatment on the streets of Crampton. It was therefore his duty to remedy the problem.

Even if he had not cherished Miss Hale above all others he would have asked for her hand once again. He saw now that his visit to Helstone the day before as an attempt to write the final chapter of the book of their relationship was pure folly.

He still loved her. How could he not ask her to marry him again, even if doing so carried with it an implicit threat of rejection? He would gladly risk her displeasure once more, and he would suffer the wounding to his soul that he had experienced once before. He loved her too much not to try.

John returned to the desk, and to crisp white pages of linen rag that were unblemished by writing. As John had quite the mind for numbers, he remembered every price that had been quoted to him in LeHavre, as well as the prior week's prices at Milton's cotton exchange. He should be drawing up a table comparing the figures, so that on Monday he might bid the best price for the raw materials so needed by the mill.

But the pages stayed blank, and his pen undipped. He had more important things to consider, as the pacing upstairs continued unabated. Miss Hale was agitated, no doubt. John had noted her bleak expression when she'd paused to consider his words about her brother. Frederick, as she'd called him, was her closest relative, and therefore the family she should join. But it was also clear Miss Hale did not want to leave Milton. A tiny part of John wished that this feeling might be due to some heretofore unexpressed regard for him.

He laughed aloud at the ludicrous nature of this thought, then quieted abruptly as he looked up at the ceiling. It was clear the construction of this home was as shoddy as those in most of Milton and its suburbs. The fact that he could easily pick out the location of her footfalls attested to this. It would not do for Miss Hale to think he enjoyed himself while she suffered.

John stood again and paced the room himself. It was imperative, he realized, that he secure her acceptance to the proposal he would offer in the morning. It was possible that in the clear light of day Miss Hale would see the benefits of such an arrangement, but then again, she was a headstrong creature, and one who seemed to become even more so in the face of conflict. She might well decide to live as a single woman in Milton. That, of course, was untenable. The damage already done to her reputation would preclude her obtaining work as a tutor or governess, and little other work was available to a woman of her class. But in her grief, and her obstinacy, she might not realize this.

Living alone would also be unsafe. Even if Miss Hale were able to keep her servant, two women living by themselves would be an easy mark in the suburbs of a city as large as Milton. John had no doubt Miss Hale would be accosted either inside her own home, or on a nearby street.

She must accept his offer, if only for her own sake.

But of course, it would not be for only for her sake. The immense happiness such an acceptance would bring him was something John almost refused to contemplate. To do so seemed to invite some cruel fate to intervene. That the lovely Miss Margaret Hale might be his life's companion and the mother of his many children (because yes, their union would produce many children) was something he'd dreamt about many times. But during waking hours only once had he considered it a possibility. And that solitary time, fate had rudely slapped his face.

John crossed the room again and poked at the fire with a brass tool that was well-taken care of but clearly quite old, given the dated curlicues and flourishes engraved into its handle. The coals glowed upon prodding, but the room stubbornly maintained its cool temperature. A polished hopper stood at the left edge of the hearth, and when John inspected it, he noted its relative lack of coal. Miss Hale had lavished a large amount onto the fire before retiring, most likely privileging his needs over those of the household for the coming week.

This, he realized, was of a piece with every prior visit to the Hale household. Every time he had noted small evidences of the family's impoverishment. These were always tiny things, as it was clear the family went to great lengths to maintain face. But as a person whose success depended on noting the tiniest of details, John was not fooled. There were always biscuits served with the tea, but Miss Hale never once partook, nor did she slather butter onto the toast points served alongside. And the furnishings, while clearly of good manufacture, were threadbare but always clean, and adorned with embroidered cloths that covered the worst of their flaws. The lace curtains that hung in the window of the front sitting room were the same. They were always clean—in fact, once or twice he had realized they were actually damp—suggesting there was only one set for the room. And as someone with expertise in fabric, John had immediately recognized that they were finely made but of a pattern that had long ago gone out of fashion. They had likely been a wedding gift to the young Mr. and Mrs. Hale.

Obviously, it had been difficult for the family to maintain in Milton the standard of living they once had. The visit to Helstone had impressed that upon John even more clearly. The Hales had left a large, stone building flooded in light, covered in roses, and adorned with leaded bow windows. They had arrived at a poorly lit, small-windowed house, squeezed in amongst others on a street devoid of even the sickliest of soot-covered trees.

This was why Miss Hale had accused him of trying to take advantage of the large difference in their circumstances. As John thought about it now, he could not blame her for jumping to this conclusion. He had felt the same self-consciousness when his family was forced to leave the lovely home his father had built in the hills that overlooked New Street. It had been strange to watch the majority of one's belongings auctioned off, and to see the rest carted from the city on an open wagon. And although there had been a useful lesson in living in reduced circumstances, it had taken quite some time for John to learn this lesson. At first, he was angry at his father, for his foolish speculation and scandalous behavior. But ultimately, reduced circumstances had been a blessing. They had forced John to work hard, and to recognize that he would be the author of any success that came to him.

Surely Miss Hale had experienced similar in her time in Milton. Even as an outsider John could see that she had taken on the role of parent of her family, much as he had been forced into the role of the head of his family.

But this, he thought, would make her proud, as similar experiences had made him proud. How could she not think, when he asked once again for her hand, that it was act of a tradesman intent on striking a clever bargain?

What would she say to him?

It was easy for John to imagine. She would accuse him, once again, of not being a gentleman, a term that seemed most important to her. He could not disagree—he held no pretensions about his status in society. He was a man, an independent man who had made his own way in the world, and there was much to be proud of in achieving this status. That some accident of birth had not allowed him to stroll through life with soft hands and a cultured voice was no fault of his.

Miss Hale might decide that he was acting out of duty. John noted that this was partially true. He could not ignore what his own family and employees had done to sully her reputation. But the situation went far beyond the obligations of society. His obligation to her was much more personal, and far beyond the bounds of duty. Would that frighten her?

Or were her feelings for him still rooted in disdain?

The two had not spoken a length since the day he had lambasted her with accusations of impropriety. But they had talked briefly once or twice since. One day, she'd thanked him for taking on Higgins, and there had been a certain look about her. Maybe, just maybe, her feelings for him had changed just enough to tolerate him as a future husband. He dearly hoped so. Should she accept, John knew that he would spend the rest of his life ensuring she'd made the right decision. It would be a privilege to do so.

John looked up again at the ceiling and noted that it had gone quiet upstairs. This was a relief. Sleep was the best restorative. It would wash away a small part of the pain Miss Hale felt and make the coming days more bearable.

John returned to the cramped chair and pushed it back from the desk so that he might lay his head on the davenport. He had no delusion that he would sleep well, but even poor sleep counted as some form of rest. He needed to be somewhat fresh when he visited Mr. Bell the next morning, and then there was church and of course, the work that had piled up due to his visit to LeHavre.

He dozed off for a while, still attuned to the foreign sounds around him. The mantel clock in the sitting room ticked loudly, but it was a regular noise that was soothing in its own way. The occasional creak of the house settling was not enough to jolt him out of his shallow slumber, either. But soon came a noise that did.

It was the sound of sobbing.

Her cries were very quiet, and undoubtedly muffled by a thick counterpane and woolen blankets. But John heard them just the same. Worse, they grew in intensity and frequency. It was as though a dam had finally broken.

These were private, intimate sounds, but John had no choice but to listen.

And it hurt to listen. Here was the sound of profound grief. Of loss and isolation. And although there were two in the house, she was quite alone. And that should not be.

John resisted as long as he could, but he had to go to her. He had no choice but to do so. Every deep shuddering breath, and every muffled sob cut him to the core. The thought of the woman he loved suffering so in silence was not something he could abide.

He mounted the stairs, and in moments he was at her door. It was closed, of course, just as she said it would be.

He knocked, but there was no response, as clearly, she did not hear him. She was too deep in her grief to recognize any outside disturbance.

John grasped the door's handle, and to his surprise it turned. He felt the merest quiver of trepidation, but ignored it. He crossed the room quickly, his own footsteps producing similar creaks to those he'd heard earlier, and called her name gently, as one might call to a child experiencing a terrible dream.

"Miss Hale?"

She did not hear him. He sat on the bed and placed his candle nearby. She was buried beneath the blankets, as he had expected. Her body rose and fell irregularly, to match the staccato rhythm of her sobs.

"Miss Hale!"

No response. He did not wait further. Instead, he gathered her into his arms.

She was not entirely sensible, but she did not resist his actions. Instead, she buried her head against his chest and continued to cry.

"Papa," Her moan was muffled by the fabric of his coat but there was no doubt as to whom she was calling for. "Oh, Papa!"

He rubbed her back in small circles and was reassured when her arms encircled him.

Miss Hale continued to sob, and soon John's outer garment was fully dampened, and his vest besides. He removed them, as gently as he could, and allowed her to use his shirt instead.

Her tears did not abate, but her breathing evened somewhat. His presence having an effect on her, it seemed. In time, she calmed a bit, enough to realize where she was, and who was with her.

"Mr. Thornton?" she asked.

He did not reply,

but continued rubbing her back.

"Why?" A jagged breath escaped her.

"Miss Hale? What do you mean?"

"Why did Papa leave me?"

"That is not a question I can answer, Miss Hale."

"I loved him so much. And—" another jagged breath punctuated her response, followed by a fresh flood of tears. "There was so much I needed to tell him."

"It is difficult," John agreed. "But he loved you. I know this much."

"You do?"

John smiled, although her face was hidden from him. "Of course. He made that clear on numerous occasions."

Something resembling a tiny laugh emanated from her. "He thought the world of you, too, Mr. Thornton."

"I am very glad to hear that, as I thought the world of him."

She sighed and nestled closer against him.

"Do you not hate me?" she asked.

"Never, Miss Hale."

Again, she sighed, and he noted that her breath was much more even. She seemed to be coming back to herself.

"I think you must be a much better person than I. You are full of forgiveness."

"I do not think you require forgiveness. I should be the one who asks for that." He gently lifted her face away from the sodden cloth of his coat, so that he might look into her eyes.

She shook her head and attempted to look away.

"Why are you so good to me?"

"Is that not obvious?" he queried her in reply. "I have never stopped loving you, Miss Hale."

She wept again, but he would not let her look away.

"Would you allow me…" he began. As before, it was a struggle to find the words. He treaded lightly. "Would it be offensive to you…" he paused as he gathered his courage. Her ability to disarm him was amazing, he found. "Would you allow me to take care of you?"

She melted into him again, and he almost missed her reply, so enchanted was he by the feel of her warm body against his own.

"Yes, Mr. Thornton. I would like that, indeed."

What happened next was hardly appropriate, but none of his actions this evening had met society's high standard for propriety. John gently pressed his lips against hers and reveled in the softness of her flesh.

She did not pull away. Instead, her hands moved to pull him closer.

The image of her naked form, burned into his brain mere hours ago, was superseded by the reality of her presence. She was soft, and feminine, and everything lovely. His lips moved to her neck, and she shuddered again, but this time in pleasure.

He could not resist, but it seemed she could not either. She anointed him with a scattering of kisses and pushed his cravat aside.

He shuddered in turn. Each touch, each featherlight kiss seemed to set him on fire.

"Miss Hale, we must—" Stop, he wanted to say, but the word escaped him. He, so normally in control of every situation, was completely subordinated by his passions. As she was.

Finally, with an effort that seemed herculean, he pulled away.

"I am sorry, Miss Hale. I should not have darkened your doorstep. I must—" John gathered his cravat, and the frockcoat that had somehow been discarded, but she clung to him.

"No. I would ask you—" she did not finish, as tears had welled up again.

He held her again. How could he not?

"Please do not leave me, Mr. Thornton. John."

"You do not realize what you ask. Margaret—" How good it felt to say her Christian name! Margaret, his Margaret.

"I think I do," she said quietly.

He was lost.


They both awakened a few hours later, and after a quick look at his pocket watch, John rose from the bed, but not before embracing his intended.

"I must be gone before the sky begins to brighten," he said, and Margaret nodded. "And I promised I would call on Mr. Bell before he returned to Oxford."

"Will you ask him if I may attend the funeral?"

"Let me go in your stead. Please."

Margaret nodded. John was right. She would not be able to withstand the distress of a funeral.

"And of course, there is something else Mr. Bell and I must discuss. May I call on you this evening, assuming your Dixon has returned?"

"Yes, of course." Margaret smiled. It was curious that she had ever thought this man odious and uncouth. He was, without a doubt, the most kind and generous man she had ever met. Apart from Papa. Tears welled up again, unbidden, and Margaret hastily wiped them away. "I know it does not seem it, Mr. Thornton—" she blushed. "I mean, John. But you have made me very happy."

"And I will make you happier still. I think that is my new life's mission."

She accompanied him downstairs and unbolted the heavy oak back door. But he did not leave immediately, despite the fact that the sky was brightening. He kissed her again, deeply, and Margaret wondered at her longing. She'd never really considered what it would be like to be married, let alone to him, and now it was the thing she most desired.

She caught her breath once he was gone and attempted to regain the sense of clarity that typified her thoughts.

She returned to the bedroom, but this was no time to sleep. Her mind would suffer no such bodily languor, and there was much to do, besides. Margaret stripped back the bed's several covers, and a blush colored her cheeks as she examined the telltale sign of the night's intimacy. The pinkish stain was one that she must take care of right away, long before Dixon returned.

Margaret carried the laundry to the scullery, and realized she was glad that she had some tasks to fill her time. It made it less likely that she would succumb once again to the tide of sorrow that creeped ever closer. She lit a fire under the huge copper pot that was typically used each Monday and added the sheets after filling the vessel with a large amount of water, lye, and soap. Then she set to work blacking the stove, although this was not a task she had ever done before.

The laundry was clean, and her hands were quite filthy by the time she heard a knock at the door. She wiped her hands carefully but did not bother to remove her apron before answering the door, as she was fairly certain of who would be standing on her doorstep.

She was not wrong. It was Dixon, and the woman was in a very foul mood.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Miss Margaret. I've been traveling since four this morning. You'd think the trains would be empty at such a time. Well, you'd be wrong. We were waiting on the platform, my cousin and I, since nine the night before, and in a fine state too. But not just he and I. A crowd of people and all had missed their train. Or rather," she said as she bustled inside, "the train had left them."

In a reversal of their typical roles, Margaret took Dixon's coat and led her to a chair near the fireplace. Then she set to work building a small fire, as the previous one had been out for hours.

"We were cheek by jowl in the carriage. They packed us in like cattle. Look at my ankles!" Above the tight leather of her boots, the lower portions of Dixon's legs were swollen.

"Let me get you a basin of hot water. And something to eat. I will wait on you for once."

"I have some sad news for you," Dixon said, but Margaret had already left the room.

She busied herself in the kitchen boiling water and finding something in the near empty larder that would serve as a ready breakfast. While the water boiled, she went outside and hung the sheets on the line extended lengthwise across the small backyard. She returned indoors to find the kettle boiling and Dixon attending to her own foot bath.

"You've been quite busy while I've been gone, Miss Margaret." Dixon's head cocked at an angle that suggested surprise as well as the customary cynicism with which she viewed the world.

"Oh," Margaret said without blushing, "I've gotten quite used to my role as Peggy the washer woman. I don't seem to be able to sleep past six anymore. And I wanted to keep busy. You see-"

Dixon did not let her finish. "Well, it is much appreciated, Miss." She took a seat at a kitchen table worn smooth by many years of usage and sighed as she stuck her feet into the basin of hot water. "I have some news for you and your father. He is usually up at this hour. Is he not returned, then?"

Margaret tried not to succumb to a sudden upwelling of emotion but failed, miserably. The night had been too much for her.

"Oh, Dixon."

"What is it?" The longtime servant looked at her curiously. "It can't be worse than my own news, can it? My brother has died."

Margaret's lip quivered but she did not allow a tear to fall. "So has Papa."

The two were quiet for a while, Dixon uncharacteristically so. When she spoke, it was with a gentleness Margaret had rarely experienced from her.

"I have said many unkind things about your father in the past, but he was a good man, in his own way. I cannot say I respected his decision to bring us to this god-forsaken place, but I know he had his reasons. Although those will not matter anymore."

Margaret stared at the servant. "What do you mean?"

"Oakham has much changed. I know you visited Beresford Court only once, and as a young girl, so you may not remember it as it once was. But the town surrounding it has grown quite successful. My own brother's butcher shop has done quite well. He put away enough to buy that building and the one next door."

Margaret nodded, despite not understanding the import of Dixon's words.

"Well, as I am his only immediate relation, he has left them to me."

"You will be leaving Milton then? And returning to Oakham?" Too much had changed in the past day. Margaret's mind was awash in confusion.

"I was considering it. There was plenty of time to think on the train, even with others encroaching upon me. And I talked with my cousin on the platform. He would like to continue running the butcher's. He suggested I be his landlord. Can you even imagine? Me as a landlord? Almost a lady?"

"No. I—"

"But this all changes now your father is gone. Surely, I will need to stay in Milton until you are settled. But where will you go? Will your Aunt Shaw take you in?"

"Dixon-" Margaret stopped midsentence and shook her head at her own foolishness. It was too early to share her own good news. It must wait until Mr. Thornton—John—visited formally that evening, with Dixon as chaperone. "I do not yet know," she said finally. It was only the tiniest of lies.

"Well, if you don't mind, I'll be off to bed. I never spent a more restless evening than I did this night. We were even stuck at Outwood Station for a good hour before they let us disembark."

Margaret almost didn't hear her, as she was so deep in her own thoughts. But finally, the servant's words registered, and Margaret wondered at such an unusual occurrence. "But why would that be? Was there some trouble at the station?"

"Yes, a man was found on the tracks. They carried him off on a stretcher. It was probably some drunk who fell from the platform. Milton has too many of those." Dixon rolled her eyes. Then she rose from her chair after wiping her feet dry with a checkered towel Margaret supplied. "I cannot say I will miss this place, Miss Margaret."

"No, Dixon. Rest well."

Margaret sat down at the kitchen table and held her head in her hands. She wondered how she would get through the day. It would be hours until Mr. Thornton returned, hours that would likely be spent wishing for her father. She wept again, but alone as she was, did not attempt to hide her tears.


Author's Note:

I hope you have enjoyed this chapter. You may note is a bit early! My plan was to update Not a Gentleman and The Lace Curtain alternately, every two weeks, but I made an error in the last posting and promised it for next Sunday. It does take me a day or two to write each chapter and I realized there was no way I'd be able to accomplish them both next weekend. So, here is a surprise for you. 3

As I am moving in the beginning of March and there is still a lot of packing and cleaning to do, I am a little scattered. I will be writing and posting Not a Gentleman next weekend, and I will do my best to post the next chapter of this story toward the end of the month, but please don't hold me to it. However, I will do my best not to keep you hanging!

I mentioned in an earlier author's note that I am planning to take this story in a different direction than my others. This chapter is the first hard evidence of that. I will tell you that a happy ending is planned, but it will take a while to get there. I have quite a few things I want to explore about social mores of the 1850s, while keeping the characters as true as I can to how I understand them (and also, hopefully true to how you understand them). For me, the point of writing is to think about how a character would react to a given situation, and hopefully to have the character grow as the story develops. With this in mind, I am thinking this story will between twenty and twenty-five chapters by the time it is complete.

I hope you have not been offended by the intimacy I described in this chapter, or by the fact that it is taking place between two so obviously virtuous people. But virtuous people sometimes act foolishly, react to stress, or make decisions that society looks down upon. (And note that in comparison to today, during this era premarital relations would have very much been looked down upon, at least for a woman from Margaret's level of society. So, without giving away the plot, note that repercussions may follow from this act of passion!).

I am also wondering if this story is appropriate for fanfiction dot net due to the changes that have taken place on the site to make it more appropriate for teenagers. I also post on archive of our own also as tintinnabula and I am wondering if the story would be a better fit there (alone). Also, the ads I see when I use my phone to log in on ff dot net are a little disruptive (and sometimes a little gross). It seems to have changed in the years I was not writing.

Let me know what you think! I value your feedback.

Historical notes:

In the current era (at least in the US), a davenport usually describes a type of couch. But it is also a small desk often made of lovely, figured wood, with carved, curved legs, and a writing surface that folds up so that the desk will fit in a small area. Gaskell mentions Mr. Hale using one in the book. I saw one in an antique shop not so long ago and really wanted it, but sadly it was not in our budget, and really would not have fit the style of either our current house or the one we just bought. I also saw a really cool lap desk that we also could not afford! However, I did find several framed fashion plates from magazines of the 1850s. Those are going on the wall of my new office, for inspiration.

Gas lamps greatly improved the safety of cities upon their installation. Prior to this, for hundreds of years, safety was maintained by watchmen that patrolled the street after dark. Their effectiveness may not have been so great, however. There are lots of stories about them sleeping on the job in the little huts set aside for them. However, in the 1820s in London and by the 1830s in other parts of the country police departments were established. Constables patrolled areas at night and would likely question any person who was out without a good reason. It is likely one would have approached John and would have been aware of anyone else out on the streets.

While not compiling the figures he said would be keeping him busy over the night, John thinks about the cotton exchange. The Royal Exchange building still exists in Manchester today, but it has been a theatre in recent years. My understanding is that when it functioned as an exchange it worked somewhat like the way the various stock exchanges around the world functioned before computerization. Brokers of raw material, imported in from Liverpool, would sell their goods to the highest bidders, and manufacturers of thread and finished cotton fabric would also sell their goods. It imagine it was a busy, noisy place as people competed to get the best price for the finest goods they could afford. The Royal Exchange has changed over time, due to war, bombings, and in its earlier years, due to the growth of the cotton enterprise. It was founded in 1809, and 400 members contributed to buy the land and build a magnificent, classically inspired building. It had a very large library on the ground floor, a large trading area, and upstairs, a large dining room for members. In 1849, just before the time period of this story, the building was expanded due to the phenomenal growth of the cotton industry. And then in 1867, the building was removed to put in an even bigger, more modern building. For a long time it was the largest exchange in the world. This is a testament to the power of cotton during the 1800s. Members of the exchange ran the place, so at some time a manufacturer as wealthy as John might have sat at its helm. That is something interesting to consider.

Rutlandshire is the old name for a specific portion of Leicestershire, and a place that has been renamed several times over its history. Gaskell mentions Rutlandshire as the location of Beresford Court, the home of Sir John Beresford, who took in Maria (Hale) and her sister as wards. The major town in Rutland is Oakham. That town has a lovely Norman manor house (Oakham Castle) that would have been in use during this time period. I am imagining that this location might have had a less prestigious house for Sir John to live in as well, that would have suited his station in life.