10 | In the Aftermath
—
During the night the sprinkling of snow had turned to drizzle, and Christmas Day dawned dull and wet; it was, in fact, a typical northern English winter's day. After church service, and after Charlotte had had her nap, the coach was waiting in the mill yard to take all the Thornton family to York Street for Fanny's grand Christmas dinner.
However, two floors up, inside the Thorntons' home, a domestic crisis was unfolding.
At just five weeks after Richard's birth, Margaret realised that, contrary to what she had hoped for, she didn't fit into her best winter day dress yet. This realisation was accompanied by an outburst of tears of frustration, not made any better by her husband failing to comprehend the severity of the problem.
"I'm fat, I'm still ungainly—and, to make matters worse, I shall look frumpy today because I have nothing to wear!" Margaret cried, rifling through her wardrobe only in her corset and petticoats. Her maid Sarah stood by, trying her best to blend in with the wallpaper. "I was so certain that I would fit into it by now, but I'll burst the seams—unless Sarah laces me so tightly that I'll likely faint already on the coach to York Street!" 'It' was a day dress made from a heavy sage green silk, Margaret's favourite colour, and she had it made only in early spring and worn no more than twice.
"Don't you dare even think about it," Thornton said sternly. "You look lovely as you are." He meant it, too; he had always been partial to her more curvaceous form.
She gave him a scowl, eying his tall trim shape, immaculately dressed in black trousers and frock coat, with grey satin waistcoat and burgundy cravat. The fact that she could find no fault with him, made her feel, if anything, even more exasperated.
"Well, I might as well stay at home," she moped, sinking into the chair in front of her dressing table, and ignoring the rest of them.
"Sarah," Thornton quietly addressed the maid. "Please have another look and see if you'll come up with anything your mistress might have overlooked."
"Aye, master," the girl said, curtsied and hurried into the adjacent dressing room.
He crouched next to Margaret's chair, taking her hand.
"I was so much looking forward to today," she said wiping her eyes with her free hand. "I know it's silly; it's only a family dinner, and more likely than not it will end in utter bedlam with three young children around the table. Probably everyone will be so preoccupied that I could go in sackcloth and ashes, and no-one would notice."
"But?"
"But I was taking so much pleasure in the thought of going out again, even if it was only to the Watsons; and I wanted to look nice and serene—"
"P'haps this one might do?" Sarah diffidently asked from the doorway. She held up a dress bag from which a velvet skirt the colour of claret was peeping out.
"That one never fit," Margaret morosely remarked.
"Tha's why I thought of it, mistress," the girl said. "By th' time it arrived from th' seamstress in early March and yo' found out that it was too wide in the waist, we were almost changing fo' spring clothes, and it was too late t' get it altered."
"B-but the colour—"
"Very festive," Thornton said firmly. "Try it on."
"If you think so—" Margaret gave him a doubting look.
A couple of minutes later she was standing in front of Thornton in head-to-toe velvet.
"Still not a great fit," Margaret groused as she smoothed down the bodice.
"Wait till I've fastened it all th' way up to th' neck," Sarah said.
Margaret regarded herself in the mirror while her maid was busy tucking and closing at the back. A slow smile spread across her lips.
"And it's not too bold a colour?" she asked.
"It's perfect."
"I'll take yo'r coat downstairs," Sarah announced, heading for the door. "I'll be tellin' Mrs Thornton that yo'll be with 'er shortly."
"We shouldn't keep your mother and the children waiting in the hall... I'm sorry that I've been such a bundle of nerves just now," Margaret said.
"Wait... There's something I'd like to give you." He took a small box from inside one of his drawers and opened it. "I saw it a few days ago while out in town. I've meant to give it to you when the weather is warmer and you'll be wearing short sleeves again." It was a broad bangle made from Indian filigree. "The gold has a very low degree of purity, and those stones are just garnets—" He came closer to murmur into her ear. "—but I pictured how it would slip down to your wrist, and how you would push it back up your lovely arm until it tightened around your flesh, and I couldn't resist." He gave her a quick provocative smile, but then he said in his ordinary voice, "However, I think it will fit snugly over the tight long sleeve of the dress you're just wearing."
She intently watched as his fingers closed the tiny clasps of the bangle, breathing, "In the meantime, I may simply wear it at more private occasions—"
"You mean...?"
"Not quite yet... but, in a week from now, definitely yes."
Fanny had relinquished the three bird roast in favour of a traditional Christmas dinner with a full accoutrement of roast turkey, stuffing, gravy, cranberry sauce, roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and parsnips.
It wasn't for the food, which was in fact perfectly cooked and succulent, that the meal wasn't a particularly relaxing one; it was much rather the novelty of three young children sharing their dinner table that made it a challenging experience. Frank and Charlotte, from keenly feeling the distinction, were both visibly trying to be on their best behaviour, but—as was so often the case when trying too hard—they were miserably failing at it. Food falling from the table, a glass knocked over, and tears because a small mouth was scalded by too hot gravy. Little Walter in his high chair was just staring at everyone until, overcome by the excitement, started to cry and swat at the spoon Fanny was trying to feed him with. At least baby Richard, upstairs in the Watsons' nursery, was sleeping through it all.
Everyone heaved a small sigh of relief when the maids came to collect their charges right after the main course, so that the adults could enjoy their Christmas pudding and brandy sauce in peace.
"I thought it might be such a lovely thing, having the children with us," Fanny said in a tearful voice. "After all, Christmas is all about the children; about the joy they bring to the season."
"It wasn't so very bad," Margaret said quickly and loudly, when she saw that Watson was opening his mouth to voice his opinion, undoubtedly along the lines of 'I told you so'. "Next year it will be better... and, perhaps, we might just have a rehearsal dinner at home beforehand."
"Next year—if you'll give it another try, Fanny—there will be four young children at table, and possibly one or two more up in the nursery," Hannah Thornton remarked. "It may yet get worse before it gets better."
Another one in the nursery... Thornton cast a furtive glance at Margaret. Not that, please!—not within a year.
Eventually the ladies excused themselves to the drawing room, leaving Thornton and Watson to their port and smokes.
"Two weeks from now we'll be in the middle of the next quarter sessions," Watson muttered. "I don't mind so much sitting in the petty sessions, though they tend to drive me to distraction with boredom; but the upcoming assessment of the indictment against Foster is giving me the hives! Who would have thought that I'd see the day when a Grand Jury is approving to try a fellow manufacturer before a jury trial?"
"That's the consequence of perpetrating a felony," Thornton remarked evenly. "Foster should consider himself lucky that, in all probability, he won't be committed to the assizes—unlike his henchmen, who are likely to face capital punishment."
"How can you be so cool about it, John? I thought you liked the man."
"I did; but that was before I found out about Foster's ruthlessness. Exploiting the wrongs of others doesn't make blackmail excusable; and by employing those thugs as henchmen he acted with reckless disregard for Alban's health and safety. In the moral sense, at least, Foster is fully as responsible for Benedict Alban's death as them."
"After the quarter sessions I'm going to resign," Watson announced. "I'm done with the whole thing; I'm going to leave the post up for grabs."
Thornton chafed at Watson's standoffish disregard for a position he himself had held with pride.
"Well, all things considered it may be for the best," Thornton said at last.
"You could apply again with the advisory committee, couldn't you? After all, you were acquitted at your trial."
It had been many months since Thornton had first started to toy with the idea to reapply. Yet he still was in two minds about it. If anything, the Alban case had proved to him that he couldn't leave well alone—that he would always try to get to the bottom of things if he 'smelt a rat'. On the other hand he wondered if his own run-in with the English legal system had left him unfit to remain unbiased, henceforth. And then, there were practical considerations, of course. He had become a magistrate when he was still a single man; but he had a family now. In addition, his business had grown in size and complexity since then.
About one thing he was certain, however. If he were to reapply, he would only do so if he were confident to see it through. Unlike his brother-in-law he wouldn't resign on a whim... But, first of all, he would consult with Margaret.
Though, perhaps, not for some weeks yet... There were more urgent matters to sort out between them.
It was close to midnight, and they were on the brink of falling asleep. Their infant son had been nursed and swaddled, and presently lay sleeping in his cradle across the room. He would sleep in the master bedroom for as long as he still needed to be fed in the middle of the night; then he would move to the nursery with his sister.
They were almost asleep—though not quite yet. Margaret lay warm and pliant in his arms, her back and thighs pressed into the crook of his long body. His nose burrowed into the nape of her neck, and he breathed in her scent.
Another week, she had told him, and then they might resume marital relations again. It felt like ages since they had last made love; and his senses hungered for her with an urgency that hadn't waned in the two years of their married life. He could not image that there would ever come a time when he would not desire her—and that was his predicament in a nutshell!
"Margaret?" His voice was soft, in case she was already sleeping.
"Mhm?" she mumbled, then, more distinctly, "What is it, my love?"
"Will you be having a final consultation with Mrs Frith next week?"
"I will; but she already told me that, by then, we won't need to abstain any longer."
"About that," he said reluctantly. "Do you think you might ask Mrs Frith if there was any reliable way to prevent further pregnancies?—but without permanently having to... abstain."
"You don't want to have any more children with me?" she asked, taken aback.
"I might eventually, in a few years. Perhaps, another one or two, at most," he said. "What I do not want, is see you burdened by a perpetual string of pregnancies, wearing you down and risking your health and life." He gave a mirthless laugh. "But I also don't see how I could possibly bear not making love to you anymore. Of course, there is—withdrawal... but I was led to believe that it isn't the most dependable of measures—"
"What about my wishes?" Margaret asked with a hint of pique. "Don't they figure in your considerations?"
"Of course, they do. But, tell me, do you think me unreasonable?"
"N-no," she admitted, slowly. "Perhaps not... Were you spooked by Richard's birth?"
"I was... and I still don't comprehend how you could bear the pain and not banish me from your bed henceforth."
"See, that's the funny thing; I truly have no memory of that pain. It was the same after Charlotte. When the labour pains began at Richard's birth I caught myself thinking, 'I remember this from Charlotte', but it was as if I had to remind myself. It is quite unlike the pain from an injury that imprints itself upon the memory. The pain is there, and it is intense in the moment—but then it's gone." She reached out to touch his cheek. "I'm sorry you had to listen—"
"You are sorry?" he asked, incredulous.
"I was present when your sister gave birth to Frank; at the time your mother told me to leave the room. She said that it might be harder to observe the birth pains in others than to experience them for oneself and, having never given birth myself at the time, that I shouldn't witness it. I heard Fanny from afar, and it was awful. Robert couldn't bear it and left the house. In the end I returned to the birthing chamber—It was the easier option."
They were quiet for a moment; then Margaret said, "Actually, Mrs Frith would agree with you—"
"In what matter?" he asked, momentarily wrong-footed.
"To avoid constant pregnancies... She already mentioned to me that there were ways and means; nothing entirely reliable, but good enough to sway the odds. She wouldn't elaborate, however, because these 'ways and means' require cooperation between spouses—and she said that, generally speaking, husbands can't be bothered to observe the restrictions that come with it."
"Swaying the odds would be a good start... Will you quiz her about what needs to be done?"
"Of course, anything rather than risk your never touching me again!"
"Which would kill me for sure," he groaned.
"And we can't risk that, either," she giggled.
"Thank you for coming over from the mill, John," Margaret said as she saw him standing in the drawing room door. She sounded relieved. "We have a visitor."
His mother and Margaret, the latter holding Richard in her lap, were both sitting on the sofa—and, yes, they were looking slightly anxious. Not enough to give him alarm, but plenty to stir his curiosity about their guest, of whom he only saw the back of a well-coiffed head and perky hat. A middle-aged lady.
When he stepped into the room and approached her, he saw that it was Mrs Brown—Lady Brown-Smythe.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," he said, as she held out a hand for him. At least, the woman hadn't become so fine as to forego the Northern Handshake.
He accepted a cup of tea from his mother and then sat on the chaise longue. An uneasy silence ensued, eventually broken by their guest.
"As I've just been saying to your mother and wife, Mr Thornton, I feel that I've become a negligent friend to all my Milton acquaintances in more recent years."
Thornton had his reservations about the term 'friends' in connection with himself and his family; even at the best of times he wouldn't have counted the Browns amongst his party of friends
"However," Lady Brown continued, "in the current upheaval of local society one feels that one has to make an effort to pull together—or where would we be left if the centre fell apart? We, the remaining families, must exert ourselves and build back what has recently been lost." She hesitated for the briefest of moments before adding in a more subdued tone of voice, "and, perhaps, build back better."
Hannah Thornton remained resolutely silent. She had never felt much like a part of Milton society, and she had never fully embraced their rules and niceties. Nor had she made a habit of attending charities, or even ladies' sewing circles; and what entertaining she had felt obliged to undertake, had mostly consisted of dinner parties—her own annual one invariably taking place in the middle of August—and the occasional morning calls.
Margaret, on the other hand, and from her time at Harley Street, was well enough versed in the habits of Polite Society to pick up the thread.
"This is a noble sentiment, Lady Brown, and I daresay that, ere long, Milton society will be all the better for the efforts you are making on their behalf. Yet I fail to see our part in it." Margaret gave their visitor a polite smile, that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Well, Mrs Thornton," their visitor said, addressing Margaret, "with three prominent families gone from Milton, there are bound to be newcomers. You, as a relative newcomer yourself and used to London society, besides being the wife of the owner of the largest mill in Milton, may be in a unique situation to become a mediator and friend to them."
"I believe the Milton ladies had no difficulties accepting Mrs Latimer into their midst last spring, so I don't quite see why my talents should be required. Besides, you do realise that Milton society doesn't approve of me, don't you?"
Thornton cast her an admiring glance; Margaret might be playing by the rules of society, but this didn't mean that she was playing nice.
Lady Brown wasn't actually wriggling for an answer; but she was put off her stride by Margaret's blunt approach.
"I see," she said quietly. "Well, if you must have an answer to that... For obvious reasons we could not accept you into our midst when you were first married. Yet, and under the present circumstances, we would be hypocrites if we were more Catholic than the Pope... and being shunned by society for two years is a long time... I spoke with Mrs Hamper, Mrs Henderson, and Mrs Latimer, and we all agreed that it may be expedient to let bygones be bygones. We should be looking to the future—"
"So, I will be accepted in society on sufferance... and may be exposed and vilified again at any turn? I thank you very much, but under these circumstances I'd rather decline!" Margaret brusquely rose to leave the room.
"Hear me out, Mrs Thornton," Lady Brown said, her voice brooking no opposition. "Your status won't be questioned henceforth, not if you're under my patronage." She gave the younger woman a piercing look. "Sit, please... I have a proposition to make—"
For a moment, Margaret remained standing, giving her husband a questioning look. He nodded ever so slightly. Eventually, she returned to the sofa and sat down, albeit with bad grace.
"As far as I am aware, your son—" She glanced at Richard who, miraculously, was sleeping through their increasingly heated discussion. "—hasn't been christened to date. Is there any particular reason for it?—and have you decided on a godparent yet?" When Thornton replied in the negative, she said, "Then I propose to be his godmother... What is his name, by the way?"
As Margaret seemed momentarily speechless, Hannah answered in her stead. "Richard John, after his maternal grandfather." And she added with a touch of malice, "He was a dissenter."
Lady Brown-Smythe valiantly suppressed a wince, but her smile, never hearty in the first place, was turning rigid.
"Very well, then," the lady said, rising from her seat in stately fashion. "Name the date of the christening, and I shall be there. Your local parish church, I presume?" In the doorway she hesitated and looked back at them. "I shall be expecting you all at dinner. Thursday next."—and, just as abrupt as her announcement had been made, she turned again and left.
A full minute of stunned silence followed her exit.
"How did this happen?" Hannah Thornton said at last, in a wondering tone. "That woman is more fastidious about choosing her godchildren than Her Majesty herself; I'd be surprised if she had above two—"
"This is insufferable!" Margaret fumed, entirely ignoring her mother-in-law. "How dare she? There is no way that this... this dragon will become the godmother of my sweet little boy."
"Think, Margaret," Thornton said quietly. "Remember what Mother said about godparents being a 'deliberate' choice? Lady Brown did not visit us out of the goodness of her heart; she has not been offering her friendship. She has, however, and for reasons entirely of her own, offered an alliance—and one that won't primarily benefit Richard, but you and Charlotte." He softly scoffed. "Say what you will, but this woman is the arbiter elegantiarum of Milton society—"
"John's right," Hannah chimed in. "With her support no-one will question your position any longer; and, growing up, Charlotte will never know that hers had been in doubt at one time."
"How can I refuse when it comes to Charlotte," Margaret acknowledged, but with her lips pressed tight. "But I don't think I will ever like that woman!"
"You don't have to," Thornton said reasonably. "As long as you don't offend her to her face, you can choose your friends as you have always done; with loyalty and discretion."
"Even if they are amongst the workers?"
"Your 'socialist tendencies' are not news at Milton; not since you trumpeted them at our first dinner party you attended... You might, however, think about me—" He gave her a lopsided grin. "—before you'll next befriend a ringleader and firebrand."
"That ringleader, in due time, became your best foreman," Margaret laughingly reminded him. "So, all's well that ends well?"
"Surprisingly, yes, it does appear so."
"Well, best of husbands, when it comes right down to it, I think I entirely owe you for this turnabout."
"How so?" Hannah asked curiously.
"Oh, it's a long story," both Margaret and Thornton replied in the same breath.
Thornton came into their bedroom to fetch a new handkerchief, just as his wife was standing in front of the full-length mirror in a new dress of severe cut but the exact colour of her aquamarine eyes.
"Here, will that do for my first charity meeting?" Margaret asked over her shoulder. "I must admit that I am a little nervous—"
"Possunt quia posse videntur," he murmured. "'They can because they think they can'."
"What do you mean by that?" She turned around, looking at him quizzically.
"Go forth and conquer," he said, looking at her with pride in his eyes. Pride in her. "You can do it. Win them over, both to yourself and to your concept of charity; Milton is in great need of your common sense and your kindness."
"For all my previous claims of fighting my own battles, I rather wished you'd come with me as my champion now—"
"I don't think you'll need a champion henceforth; but you will have a partner and confidant in me—always."
She stood on tiptoe to claim his lips. "And so much more besides... I consider myself a lucky woman indeed," she whispered, just before she kissed him.
—
The End
A/N:
Famous last words...
Thank you, everyone, for reading! I hope that you consider it a worthy conclusion to what I started with Before the Dawn. It was great fun to delve one more time into Victorian Milton after a hiatus of more than a year (all my other stories were not brand-new at the time I posted them here).
More specifically, my thanks go out to those amongst you who have left a comment / review! It is lovely to hear that you liked this story. Actually, I take 'original and refreshing' (and other comments in this vein) very much as a compliment. I'm not a great writer of romance, but I delight in entertaining in other ways, namely by always trying to come up with an unexpected plot twist...
... and as for all new readers: I'm still around and take an active interest even in my 'older' stories. So, if you enjoyed this one, please don't hesitate to show it some love!
Take care, everyone—and thanks again for reading. :-*