The Evening Before Christmas
By Tintinnabula
Chapter 1
Wednesday, December 24, 1851. 5 p.m.
It had been snowing since noon. Flakes the size of shillings were falling steadily, each made up of several smaller, fluffy crystals held together tenuously. Some melted after drifting slowly to the ground, and the horses pulling laden carts had tromped those that remained into a rough, half-iced surface. The rest of Milton's streets were likely the same, as it was business as usual on Christmas Eve, and the mills and surrounding businesses kept the normal working hours. The Sun would be setting quite soon, and the coming night would see the half-melted snow freeze into an icy sheet.
John pulled on his melton overcoat and wrapped his neck with a finely-woven cashmere scarf before heading out into the twilight, a paper-wrapped package tucked under his arm. It had been quite a long time since he had visited Richard Hale, and John had mixed feelings about this evening's reunion.
He missed his twice-weekly lessons with the former vicar. It was rare that John was able to converse with a man with interests as varied as his own, or with a man of such sharp intellect as Richard. So, it was very reluctantly, but regularly over the past five months that John had sent off a message expressing his regrets at not being able to attend his weekly lesson with the vicar. John did send tuition for the series of lessons missed, but frustratingly, Mr. Hale had returned these payments, writing that he could not in good conscience accept a payment for services he had not delivered. This concerned John. He had made an agreement to be tutored, and his word was his bond. It was not Mr. Hale's fault that John stayed away. A part of John wished he could tell the man why he could not join him. But it would be dishonorable, and a bit humiliating to share that he had been rejected by the daughter of the man he so respected.
It would be unfair to Miss Hale, as well. It was not her fault, he had lately realized, that he had so misread the events of that warm July day where she had thrown herself in front of him to protect him from the anger of the gathered mob. What other woman of his acquaintance would have acted in such a way? Miss Hale was so different from any woman he had ever met, most of whom would try any trick to oblige him. She was not a person who dallied in the petty deceits and manipulations so common to those who pursued him. She was entirely something else.
He was utterly shocked when she refused him, and crushed by her look of utter disdain as she accused him of trying to acquire her like some raw goods or equipment. He had been so wrong about her feelings. But that was his fault, not hers.
And so, at first, it was easy to remain in love with her.
Prior to his interaction with Miss Hale, John did not have time for the silly pursuit of wooing a woman. He was busy, exceedingly so, and the game of love, with its arcane rules and foolish pretensions had no appeal to him. His mother disagreed, of course, and a fire was lit under her once John turned one-and-thirty. It was time, she had said, for him to start a family. He had already shown the world that he was an upstanding member of the Milton manufacturing community. Now it was time to take his rightful place in society. A wife and family would enable this transition.
But John had no patience with the young women his mother suggested as wifely candidates. He was polite with these poised young things when they were pushed in his way at the social events hosted by other mill masters. But it was painful to speak with such girls—and they were girls, compared to thirty-year-old! When he spoke of the wonders of the modern age, of Arkwright and the other scientists and engineers who had made Milton's progress possible, the eyes of these girls would inevitably glaze over. Some would nod as he spoke, their expression vacant. The more daring among them would shift the conversation to talk of their finery, or worse, to gossip. John could easily imagine the silences that would grow steadily in length over the course of a marriage to any one of these candidates.
Miss Hale, of course, was completely unlike these girls. Yes, she was young, but she was more open to the world around her. And unlike the diffident, polished girls his mother selected for him, Miss Hale was outspoken and independent, even headstrong. The woman had opinions. Admittedly, some of these opinions were ill-formed, and based more on feelings than facts or experience of the real world, but it was admirable that she was able to express her thoughts cogently and that she was willing to defend the claims she made. These traits were undoubtedly due to Mr. Hale's influence, of course.
John was roused from his thoughts when he slipped on an-ice covered cobblestone. He righted himself before he fell, and chided himself for neglecting to pay attention to his surroundings. Lamp lighters and their assistants were about, as evidenced by the sudden emanations of light that appeared in sequence up and down the street. Snowflakes seemed to be suspended like tiny, ancient fossils in the amber glow cast by the lamps. The size of these flakes was a sure sign that the evening was growing colder. John's other senses agreed. The mill master pulled up his collar and removed his tall, beaver fur hat to brush off the small amount of snow that had already accumulated on its flat, upper surface.
He continued his walk at a slower pace, mindful of the ice, and of the lumpen shapes that were undoubtedly snow-blanketed horse droppings, and he zigzagged around sunken areas in the road that were crusted over, but likely filled with frigid water. Still, his thoughts returned to Miss Margaret Hale.
Margaret (John did address her this way in his dreams and waking fantasies) was an enigma to him. She was as strong-willed as he, and certainly as intelligent, and these traits should have made her an excellent wife. But said traits were more than tempered by Margaret's lack of good sense and her questionable morals. What chaste, God-fearing woman would be seen at night, embracing a man? She had made some effort to disguise herself, John thought, remembering the cloak that half-covered her face, but even half-hidden, Margaret's facial features were remarkable and quite easy to recognize. And really, the fact that she would hide made her actions all the more questionable. Surely hiding implied guilt. And guilt implied wrongdoing. As did the lie she told, later.
John had thought her incapable of such things, and news of the lie greatly diminished his respect for her. His thoughts had vacillated wildly as he'd searched for some excuse that might mitigate her actions. It simply didn't compute that the daughter of a vicar, one who dressed so plainly, one who seemed so devoid of vanity would be capable of such a sin. In John's eyes, Margaret had seemed immune to infection by the venal sins so common to mankind. It was unthinkable that she would stoop to involve herself in such a sordid scene. But she had. He'd seen so with his own eyes. Clearly, he'd placed her on a pedestal, and was shocked to discover her feet were clay.
Despite his loss of respect for her, John had quickly come to the realization that he would continue to love the errant Margaret Hale. His heart would not allow his mind to reign, and his mind knew that there must be something to explain her incongruous behavior. There had to be. It was therefore not a difficult decision to take on any burden arising from her lie. But it was because of her lie that he continued to stay away from Crampton and to deny himself the pleasure of meeting with her father. He remained angry at her: angry at her foolishness, at the evidence that suggested that she had a lover, and, if he was truly honest with himself, that she had chosen this stranger over him.
But John's anger had faded in the past five months. He knew that it would still be painful to see her, and that his anger might threaten to rise to the surface, but to continue to punish the father for the sins of the daughter seemed unfair. Besides that, John was stronger now. He would control himself. Apart from all this, he had moved on. He had lately narrowed down his mother's favorites to one candidate that might suffice as a wife. He assumed she would accept, once he eventually asked her. John therefore considered himself inoculated against the numerous attractions of the vicar's daughter.
He was wrong.
He realized this as soon as he spied her.
A woman exited the grocer's shop that stood about ten yards ahead of him. John was fairly certain this person was Miss Hale, despite the distance and darkness between them. When this woman passed under a street lamp John had no doubt. Her clothing was the first piece of evidence.
The silly girls his mother presented to him all dressed at the height of fashion, as soon as word of this fashion trickled in from London. In his stunted conversations with these candidates, he was told (repeatedly) that this year the outerwear of choice was a close-fitting jacket known as a "basquine." Furthermore, it was imperative that this garment be paired with a waistcoat of a different color than the many-flounced skirt that was also fashionable this season. That one's silken skirts might be spotted by rain and ones body chilled by the inadequate jacket was of course of no concern. Looks greatly outweighed practicality, and it was important, after all, that the well-to-do be seen in their newly acquired finery. Didn't he agree? they'd each asked him, as though his ownership of a mill made him an arbiter of all things sartorial.
This woman, in contrast, wore a plain, brown coat identical in cut to the one John noted on the day Margaret first visited the mill. John watched the woman carefully as she walked along the side of the icy street, in and out of the lamplight. She wore a winter bonnet that was quite unlike the straw hat Miss Hale usually favored, and it hid her face from view. But there was a second piece of evidence that suggested this was indeed Miss Hale. No one else in this neighborhood, or perhaps all of Milton, could wear a garment so devoid of trim yet appear so elegant. This woman carried herself like a princess, even weighed down by a basket filled with groceries. It must be Miss Hale.
John suppressed the irrational urge to call out to her. He'd be at their Crampton home soon enough. There was no need to add more slow-moving minutes to the several he would likely spend in her presence as he waited for Mr. Hale to join them in the sitting room. John sighed. With any luck, she would retire immediately, or he and Mr. Hale would move to the man's study, far from the daughter, for a much-desired chat.
John held back, intending to lengthen the distance between them, lest she turn around suddenly for fear of being followed.
Then the woman slipped and fell.
Her foot skidded, as John's had earlier, but unlike John, she did not right herself immediately. Her slide continued until she tripped over an unevenness in the cobblestoned road. The contents of her basket flew in several directions, her body twisted, and she landed indecorously on her rump just under a streetlamp, with one foot under her and one in the pothole. Her bonnet slid back, revealing finely formed features and wide, surprised eyes.
"Miss Hale!" John cried out as he ran to her. In a moment he was by her side, although he was careful to take a wide berth around the icy patch that had confounded her. "Are you hurt?" He leaned down and offered his hand.
"Mr. Thornton!" The blush that crept across Margaret's cheeks, and her flustered attempt to right herself were both in character for a young woman embarrassed by the knowledge that a man was viewing her petticoats and stockinged legs. This was not the behavior of the type of woman who wantonly offered herself to suitors.
It was only a moment before Margaret pulled down her skirts to cover her ankles, but in that short time, John noted two things, apart from the perfect curve of her calves. First, her stockings were mended in multiple places. John's mind immediately turned to the tuition he had not paid. Clearly he should have pressed the issue. Now it seemed that John's hurt feelings had caused the Hales financial hardship. John's second observation was equally blameworthy: Margaret's shoes were quite worn. And they were thin-soled shoes of the type one would wear in summer, not the sturdy leather boots one would expect to see in inclement winter weather.
John felt rather superfluous, and then annoyed as Margaret ignored his outstretched hand. She reseated her bonnet and retied its dampened ribbons as best she could, and then attempted vainly to brush away the mixture of half-melted snow encrusted on her skirt.
John shrugged as he considered his own reaction. The woman did have a remarkable skill at bringing forth conflicting emotions in him.
He looked on as the haughty Miss Hale attempted to rise under her own steam. She failed miserably, collapsing onto the pavement, and a grimace distorted her handsome features.
"You are hurt. Please. Allow me to assist you." He could not help himself. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the cold, slushy mess that quickly moved through the wool fabric of his trousers.
Margaret's blush deepened, but she did allow him to help her to her feet. But John was not completely successful. She moaned as she pulled her ill-clad foot from the puddle and attempted to place her weight upon it.
"I have sprained it, I think."
"Give me your arm," he suggested, although it might have sounded more like a command. She obliged, and he attempted to lead her to the bench that stood outside a nearby store. She cried out again, and his instinct took over. He scooped her into his arms and easily carried her across the icy road. Then he bade her lean against him as he brushed the snow from the bench with a leather-gloved hand. He helped her to a seat, and then retrieved her basket, and the pears that had scattered across the road.
He sat down next to her, allowing some distance by placing the fruit-filled basket between them. He picked up a pear and turned it in his hands.
"I am afraid it is bruised. And I am afraid you are, too."
"Poor Papa. He was missing the fruit he grew in Helstone."
"I see." John shook his head at the typical, rash behavior. "And you went out into the snow, on an icy evening, to satisfy this craving?" He understood her instinct: she wanted to do whatever she could for her widowed father. But surely she could have chosen to do something more sensical.
Miss Hale looked down at her ungloved hands. "Well, yes, I suppose I did. But it was not dark when I left. And I suppose I can use them to make a tart. Papa might like that."
"Are you cold? Your foot is soaked. And where are your gloves? And why God's Earth would you be wearing such shoes on an icy evening?" He said this almost angrily, and she responded in kind.
"There is no need to blaspheme. I forgot them at the grocer's. My gloves," she amended. "And as for my shoes? Well, my boots are at home, drying out. I had to sweep the snow from the front stairs, and managed to do a terrible job and step in the mucky water at the edge of the road. That's twice today. But, really, none of this is any of your business, Mr. Thornton!"
Where was the maid? John wondered. Had they released the harridan from service? The situation was bad, indeed, if Mr. Hale was pressing his daughter into doing the household chores.
John took off his gloves and handed them to her, and was pleased when she put them on, although her hands fairly swam in them. He then spoke calmly. "Forgive me, Miss Hale. I have no intention of transgressing your boundaries. Such as they are."
She stiffened for a moment, stung by the impact of the barb. She quickly collected herself, but her voice quavered, just slightly, as she replied. "I must apologize, Mr. Thornton. I have done you wrong. I lied to you."
He nodded. "We have already spoken of this."
"No, we haven't." Her hauteur slipped away as quickly as it has arisen. It was replaced with something he had not observed in her before. There was an urgency, a plaintiveness to her voice. "I wanted to explain the events that took place the night after my mother died, and a few days before her passing, the day I turned you away."
"Let us not speak of this. Miss Hale—" He could not bear to hear about her lover. But she continued, and he clenched his jaw, as if to brace for the impact of her words.
"You thought me a liar that day. And I'm sure you thought even worse of me when you saw me at the station, and when you heard what I told the constable. But it's important that you know the truth."
"And you are so remarkable for truth?" He did his best not to sneer the words.
She flinched. "I understand. You hate me."
He regarded her incredulously and his voice broke when he spoke next. "I don't hate you. No, not hate."
She nodded. "I was foolish—petulant and childish—to refuse you. I realize that, you know."
He didn't know. He hadn't known. But it didn't matter anymore.
"Enough of this talk. What's done is done, and mere words do not mitigate past actions." John knelt before her and unwound the scarf from his neck. "Let me see your ankle."
With another blush she extended her leg. John carefully lifted her skirts, just enough to expose an ankle that was already swelling. He wrapped it tightly with the fine fabric, winding under the arch of her shoe and around her ankle several times before securing the makeshift bandage with a knot.
"See if you can stand," he said gruffly, as he rose to his feet.
She did as he asked, and gingerly attempted a step forward. He caught her before she fell, and regretted the words he'd spoken only minutes before.
"Miss Hale, I think it may be broken. You must allow me—"
She averted her face, but despite this, it was evident that she was crying. "To what? To carry me? It's clear you want nothing to do with me! Why in heaven would you burden yourself in such a way?"
He allowed her to collect herself before replying.
"For your father. I would do this for your father."
"Oh." Her voice softened. "I see. Of course. And I have kept your from him. I am most heartily sorry, Mr. Thornton. I wish you would only allow me to tell you-"
He would not let her finish. "Allow me to carry you home," he said sharply. "There is no other way. The shops are closed and the street is deserted. I do not think that you will need to worry about idle gossip." He smiled, but bitterly.
"I do not worry about gossip, Mr. Thornton."
"Yes, I know."
She blushed a deeper shade of scarlet. "You think you know everything about me."
"No, I was not afforded that luxury."
She reacted as though she'd been slapped. She pulled away from him and attempted to walk. Tears of anger and frustration flowed down her face as once again she failed.
He picked up her basket and added his own parcel to it.
"Take this, and bend your other arm around my neck."
"Is that for Papa?" she asked, pointing to the parcel. John nodded.
"You have been a good friend to him, Mr. Thornton. He has missed you terribly." She took the basket and did as he asked. They travelled the five remaining blocks to the Hale home in silence.
She was as light as he remembered. With Margaret in his arms, John could not help but think back to the fateful day when he first realized he loved her, and when the tiny seed of hope that she might love him in return was planted in his heart. That day he'd carried her over the threshold of his home, like a husband with his bride. And in moments he would be carrying her over another threshold. John allowed himself to revel in the closeness of her body, in the feel of her arm encircling her neck, knowing fully that this would be the last time he would visit the Hales. It was clear that he could not remain in this woman's presence for any extended amount of time. He doubted he could even remain in the same building with her.
Still, he would allow himself the small luxury of holding her close one last time, in a one-sided embrace. In doing so, he would relive the treasured memory of their first such embrace. And like last time, she would remain utterly unaware of her effect on him.
His thoughts were interrupted by a rather imperious demand. But it was colored by worry, he realized as noticed her expression.
"Put me down. Papa will be upset if he sees me like this."
John shook his head. "You will not be able to manage." Whether or not this was true was immaterial. He selfishly wanted one or two more minutes of ersatz intimacy.
John carefully mounted the poorly swept stairs, noting the ice that coated the stair treads. Margaret was right—she was no housemaid. She struggled in his arms as he reached for the door knocker. He did not release her.
The door opened, and Mr. Hales eyes widened behind his wire-rimmed glasses as he gazed upon the pair.
"Margaret? John? My word, what has happened?"
"It is nothing Papa. I merely slipped and Mr. Thornton happened by. He thinks my ankle is broken. I think he overreacts. It is merely a sprain."
"Come in, John! Margaret, my poor dear!" He fussed over her the way a father should.
They made their way into the sitting room and John deposited his cargo on the threadbare settee that sat opposite the fire. As Miss Hale struggled out of her coat—which was no small feat given the skirts she wore and her inability to stand—John grabbed the paper-wrapped parcel from the basket sitting next to her. He handed the present to a still-surprised Mr. Hale.
"I thought you might enjoy this, Mr. Hale. You will excuse me my intrusion, I trust. I must be on my way. I will call on Dr. Donaldson on my way home, and tell him he is needed."
"Mr. Thornton! Stop, please!" Miss Hale's words had their intended effect. He turned on his heel to face her, and stuffed down the pain he was feeling.
"Papa has something to tell you. Papa, please. Tell Mr. Thornton about my brother."
Author's note:
This is my Christmas gift to you, dear reader! I hope you enjoy it, and that you find it as cheering as a warm cup of cocoa on a chilly evening.
The next chapter will be published Christmas Eve, and the third and final chapter on Christmas. Merry Christmas!
Please note that the next chapter of The Lace Curtain will be posted the evening of December 26, and the next chapter of Not A Gentleman two weeks later, on January 9.
Historical notes:
Gas lights were installed in London in 1807 on Pall Mall. Some of those lamps are still there. By 1811, they reached Preston, Lancashire, where Richard Arkwright had developed the water frame that John praises. And by the 1820s, 30 years before the time period of North and South, they were found in most major cities and towns of England. You can still find working gas lights in London, at Pall Mall, for instance. However, the light that these lamps cast today is different in intensity and color than that cast by the lamps of the mid-century. This is because there were later innovations in gas lamp technology. The gas lamps that are still around today have a chemical-soaked mantle surrounding the flame that causes it to burn intensely with a cool, green color. The lamps of the 1850s did not have a mantle and therefore burned a dimmer, warm yellow. However, the introduction of even these dim lamps on city streets greatly decreased the crime rate in locations that installed them.
In the 1850s, workers would get Christmas Day as a vacation, but worked through Christmas Eve. We are much more spoiled today! Our five-day, 40-hour week does not compare to their 66- to 72-hour one.
The autumn 1851 edition of Le Moniteur de la Mode describes the basquine as the fashionable garment to wear when out walking. It was often made of velvet, and trimmed all over in braid. It was cut a lot like a riding habit, except it had the very wide, pagoda sleeves that were fashionable during this time period. In the N&S movie, Margaret's brown coat has a nod to these sleeves. They are somewhat bell-shaped but not nearly as wide as one would see in high fashion. Because such wide sleeves would be quite drafty in cold weather, a wearer of a basquine also wore undersleeves of fine cotton that were gathered at the wrist and extended halfway up the arm. Mittens of silk net were also worn, and covered any other exposed flesh of the hand and arm. Of course, silk net mittens are not terribly appropriate for cold weather, but fashion above all, am I right? A skirt with a mismatched vest or bodice was also worn as part of this ensemble. During this time period, the number of flounces on a skirt grew quite excessive., as I alluded to a while back in my story, Not a Gentleman. As many as ten flounces might appear on a skirt, in contrast to Margaret's very plain wool skirt.
You may note that John has some opinions about women that might not stand up to scrutiny today. My goal is to make him, Margaret, and their surroundings as true to the period as I can. I also wanted to explore a version of John that differs somewhat from what I have written in my other stories. I appreciate your feedback and comments, as always.