The Evening Before Christmas
By Tintinnabula
Chapter 2.
Wednesday, December 24, 1851, 6 p.m.
Margaret noted the intense shock that Mr. Thornton's face registered upon hearing her request to her father, but that look was quite fleeting. She might have missed it if she'd blinked. The man's countenance almost instantly returned to its customary, neutral expression.
In contrast, Papa's color heightened, and he looked at his daughter in confusion. But Margaret pleaded with him silently and miraculously he understood. Papa then asked his erstwhile student to join him in his study for a quick word. Mr. Thornton demurred, insisting that Margaret must be seen to right way.
The mill owner then exited into the night without another word, shutting the door emphatically behind him.
Margaret wondered idly if he would return, and remonstrated with herself for thinking so. Mr. Thornton clearly despised her, but he was a person of honor. He was not one to say one thing and do another.
Papa worried while his friend was gone. He removed his pocket square several times over the next few minutes, in order to repeatedly clean spectacles that were spotless.
"Margaret," he asked, "what is this about? I do not think John will understand the necessity—or the moral certainty- of your brother's flight. John is a magistrate, after all. He views the world through a similar lens as any other officer. The law is everything to him. As it must be"
Her father shook his head. "I do not understand why you would bring this up now. Frederick is safe and sound. There seems no need to involve John in our personal affairs."
"Yes, Papa, you may be right. But…" Margaret struggled to explain the chaotic assemblage of feelings within her. "He thinks me—"
She tried again after taking a deep breath. "In his eyes I am a liar and a reprobate."
"Those are strong words, Margaret! And so different from the man I know. John reserves judgment. In fact, he generally does not judge at all. And you seem to be the last person who might be accused of immoral behavior. I feel that I am missing something. Is there something you have not told me?"
"He saw us, Papa. Fred and me. When I took him to Outwood Station." Margaret did not care to mention the look of glowering anger she'd witnessed from Mr. Thornton as she'd lifted her head from her brother's shoulder.
"I see. You were out after dark with someone Mr. Thornton thought a stranger, a beau. It seems Milton's mores are not so different from those of Helstone."
It might have been the intense pain of her ankle, but Margaret found herself in tears. Her father patted her hand and offered his pocket square.
"After Mr. Thornton left, there was an altercation. A drunken man that served with Fred years ago recognized him. They got into a scuffle and the man fell onto the tracks." She paused, noting how her father's eyes widened in disbelief. "It's worse than that, Papa. The fall harmed him grievously. The man died later that night."
"Oh, Margaret. You should have told all of this to me. It is not right for you to have taken such a thing upon your shoulders."
"You were mourning Mama. I would not add to that burden."
After taking a deep, shuddering breath she continued the tale of her fall from grace.
"A constable came to the house to interview me the next day. You were in your study and I asked Dixon not to disturb you. It seems that someone had recognized me at the station. I lied to him, to the constable. I had no choice. I did not want Frederick to be caught. I did not know he was already safely out of the country."
"Dear, dear Margaret. You are a very good sister, and an exceptional daughter. But what does your lie to the constable have to do with Mr. Thornton?"
"The constables report to him, Papa."
"Yes. Of course they do." Her father's brow knit as he considered the import of his daughter's words. "John would issue warrants, and the like."
"The constable returned a few evenings later and told me the matter was no more. I could not believe it. Then he said that Mr. Thornton had made it so. The constable showed me a letter as proof."
Margaret exhaled a heavy, uneven breath. "Mr. Thornton knew I lied, yet he protected me."
"And was this due to his feelings for you?"
Margaret half choked, half laughed at her father's relentless optimism. "No, Papa. Mr. Thornton has made his lack of regard for me exceedingly clear. He did it for you. He thought—" She began crying again, more loudly this time.
Mr. Hale spoke next. "He thought he would insulate the father from the misdeeds of the daughter."
"Yes, Papa. So it is my fault that he has not come for lessons for all these months. I know how much his friendship meant to you, and I had hoped that tonight things could be put right for you."
Margaret's father sighed as he removed his glasses. He reached inside his frock coat for his pocket square, before realizing he had relinquished it. Not that it would have done him much good. The handkerchief was fully soaked with salty water.
"You are good to think of me, Margaret. You have always been a selfless person. And you have suffered, I imagine, for protecting your brother. But also, I think, you are hurt that Mr. Thornton would think such things of you, when you have acted out of sisterly love. Margaret, I am proud of you. But I would say you did indeed have a choice. You chose correctly then, and you did well tonight, too. It was cowardly for me to hide this information from Mr. Thornton. He is my friend, and he had the right to know. I worry that I have damaged our friendship irreparably. But I am even more concerned that I unwittingly allowed your reputation to be damaged."
Margaret lifted her chin in a defiant pose. "I do not care about such things, Papa."
Her father smiled. "I know it. But still, you are crying." He enfolded her in an embrace and attempted to soothe her, the way he had during childhood summers when she'd skin a knee or stub a toe.
"It hurts. That he would think of me that way. And I do not know why it hurts so." She pulled away and dried her face. This was just in time, as a quick rap on the door preceded Mr. Thornton's entry, accompanied by Dr. Donaldson.
The mill master addressed her father as though she were not there. "I wasn't sure if I should bring the good doctor or a surgeon. We called at the surgeon's as well, but he was not available. We must hope that the damage is not as severe as I fear."
Mr. Thornton was careful to avoid looking at her, Margaret noted. He exited the sitting room entrance well before the doctor began his exam. She did not hear the front door open and close again, and she hoped that Mr. Thornton remained. She hoped not for her own sake—she did not delude herself that Mr. Thornton would ever see her differently. But she hoped if they talked, that her father would be able to renew his friendship with the man.
Her father's spirits had suffered after Mama's passing. He stared emptily into space for extended periods of time, and often did not seem to hear his daughter talking to him. He had grown thinner, and seemed almost frail. It was as though he had grown elderly in a matter of months.
A sharp pain nudged Margaret back into the present. Although the healer was carefully removing the makeshift bandage Mr. Thornton had applied, and then her shoe, her ankle was so swollen that any touch hurt. The doctor clucked his disapproval.
"A waste of fine fabric and not wrapped nearly tightly enough," he muttered. And then more clearly, "Lassie, what did you think you were doing, fetching fruit in a snowstorm?"
Margaret colored, humiliation added to the unhappiness and physical discomfort already afflicting her. Clearly Mr. Thornton had shared unnecessary details with the doctor. But that was not surprising, she decided. Mr. Thornton's disapproval of her easy to discern. And the fact that he had essentially ignored her news of a brother—something which could only be meant to explain her behavior!- served as further evidence of his disregard.
The doctor's exam was painful. Margaret gritted her teeth as the doctor carefully moved her foot back and forth, and slowly palpated the bones of her foot and lower leg.
"Would you remove your stocking, please?" Margaret obliged, and the doctor looked carefully at the swelling of her ankle.
Papa stood to one side of the settee, overseeing the doctor. Doing so was not completely appropriate, Margaret knew, but given that there was currently no other female in the house, it was unavoidable. Worry radiated from her father like the heat from the nearby coal fire. He relaxed, though, when the doctor made his diagnosis.
"'Tis only a sprain, but a severe one. You are fortunate, indeed. With the way that you fell, you might have needed a bone setter."
Margaret allowed herself a satisfied, though silent, "I told you so," and aimed it towards the hallway, where Mr. Thornton presumably waited. Then she willed her father to leave the room to talk to the man. Surely Papa could make things right, or significantly better than they currently stood. But Margaret's vast mental efforts did not appear reach either target.
Her father spoke to Dr. Donaldson, instead. And who knew what Mr. Thornton was doing out in the hall? Probably glowering up a thunder storm.
"What can I do to help?" Papa asked, and Margaret was reminded of his helplessness upon learning of her mother's terminal illness.
"We'll need to cool the ankle before I can wrap it," the doctor stated. "Mr. Hale, would you be willing to step outside and gather some snow?"
Papa nodded his assent, but before he had crossed the room, Margaret heard the front door close. Mr. Thornton appeared a few minutes later, a hill of surprisingly clean snow in his cupped and ungloved hands.
Margaret felt a twinge of guilt as she looked at the table beside the settee. Resting on it were the fur-lined leather gloves that Mr. Thornton should have been wearing. He must not have seen them when he hurried away from her. And his presence had left her nonplussed, as it always did, so that she did not think to return them to him.
Twenty minutes later Margaret's lower leg felt as though it were made of ice. The pain had stopped, however, and that was a fine thing. The doctor swiftly and expertly wrapped her ankle in a cotton bandage. He wrapped it similarly to the way Mr. Thornton did, but with an increase in precision and pressure allowed by the thin, cotton fabric he unrolled around her leg.
Finally, Dr. Donaldson left, but only after reciting some instructions to Margaret and her father.
"I did not have crutches to bring you, so you'll need to remain in bed for the time being. You may not put weight on your foot for at least a week. Understood?"
Margaret and her father nodded in unison.
"We can make up a bed down here, Papa, if you'll fetch the linens. But, Papa—" She nodded to the hallway where Mr. Thornton stood.
"Yes, Margaret. I'll take care of that thing we spoke of. But let me attend to Dr. Donaldson first." Papa turned to that man, who had just finished packing his valise. The two spoke in the front hall, and Margaret heard Mr. Thornton's voice as well. In a minute or two, her father returned, red-faced. Mr. Thornton followed, but again refused to make eye contact with her.
"Margaret," Papa asked, "are you comfortable sitting alone for a while?"
She nodded. Margaret would have liked to be present for the conversation, but Papa's decision to exclude her had merit. It would be likely be difficult for Mr. Thornton to hear he details of her father's lie of omission. It was bad enough that she had lied to him. But to learn that his friend had left him in the dark about a matter of such import? That might be even more painful. Surely it would be easier for Mr. Thornton to digest Papa's words, and forgive his friend in the absence of the person he so disdained.
The pair retreated to the small study just off the vestibule. Margaret heard the pocket doors slide shut with a soft thud and she assumed the two had seated themselves in the twin wing chairs that flanked the room's small fireplace. That was where the two typically had sat for Mr. Thornton's lessons. Margaret listened intently from her improvised bed, but heard only the low rumble of Mr. Thornton's baritone. His words were indistinct, and her father's tenor did not carry. There was no shouting, thankfully, and no hurried exit. The two spoke for a very long time, though, much longer than she expected.
Finally, her father returned to her, with Mr. Thornton again by his side. The handsome man looked exceedingly uncomfortable and Margaret immediately thought the worst. Now, not only was Papa's friendship ended with the man, but Mr. Thornton thought ill of him, as well.
What a horrible evening this had been. All of what had gone wrong was her fault, certainly, but she also blamed that arrogant man. If he had only listened to her, she would have set him straight. And a friendship would have been preserved.
"Let's get you ready for bed, dear. As we have no crutches it will be difficult to get you upstairs. But Mr. Thornton—"
"Papa," Margaret interrupted, suddenly aware of why Mr. Thornton had stayed, despite so clearly wanting to exit, "I will be perfectly comfortable down here!" She patted the settee. "Just fetch me a blanket and pillow, and I will be fine. I can assure you of this."
"You are a good foot taller than the settee is long, Margaret. It will not do for a good night's rest."
Mr. Thornton approached, and stooped to pick her up.
"This is terribly embarrassing," she protested. She squirmed and leaned back in a vain attempt to thwart him, but she knew this was folly. Even without a sprained ankle she would not have escaped him.
Mr. Thornton broke his silence and spoke to her in the same, measured tones he had used earlier that evening. His voice was free of emotion. "You must do as your father asks. You will need to elevate your leg above your head."
"Did Dr. Donaldson tell you this? I do not recall him saying so."
"Fanny broke her ankle a few years ago. I doubt the treatment has changed much in the intervening years."
"Oh." That explained the expert wrapping of her ankle with his expensive scarf.
"If it is gossip you are worried about, you need not worry. I will tell no one."
Margaret believed him. He was a man of his word. But, too, he would be glad to leave this home and wipe the memories of its inmates from his mind. She was certain of this.
It didn't matter, anyway. She'd weathered the sudden silences and the odd noises of disapproval as she visited Crampon's shops in in the months past, as well as the more open looks of contempt from the acquaintances she had in the neighborhood. What did it matter if the gossips had one more tale to weave into their tittle tattle?
She gave up, and nodded her assent to the tall man.
Mr. Thornton stooped and scooped her up as he had before, gently and carefully, but it was different this time. Margaret did not wear her coat, and he wore only his frock coat. She could smell a scent on him, and something else, besides. It was him, she realized. His scent, the smell of machine oil, ink, and sweat. Despite herself, she liked it.
She nearly laughed aloud, despite the pain that had returned to her ankle. Of course she would find herself attracted to the man, after refusing him, and after he had done all but the same to her.
She found herself leaning close against him as he travelled up the stairs. This was much more pleasant than their walk through Crampton. It was equally silent, however.
She could feel his heartbeat, steady strong, and his equally steady breathing put her at ease. The task he had undertaken was clearly no great effort for him.
John again deposited her, this time atop a bed with covers quickly turned down by her father. Mr. Thornton then moved aside to let her father take care of settling her.
"I think you will need to sleep clothed tonight." Margaret blushed at her father's poor choice of words, but Mr. Thornton did not seem to hear.
She noticed him glancing around the room, and wondered what he was thinking.
The man communicated nothing further, apart from a courteous good-bye to her father, and a slight bow in her direction.
Margaret was beside herself with curiosity as she waited for her father to escort Mr. Thornton to the front door, and to secure the lower rooms before returning to her. In the meantime, she struggled out of her clothes one footed, and managed to knock her foot against the bedstead once. She bit her lip hard to stifle the cry of pain she that surged forth.
Still, she was in bed by the time her father returned. In the dim light shed by the candle at her bedside and by the taper he carried the wrinkles in his face were thrown into deep relief. He was so tired.
"I wish I had some crutches," she said to herself, but her father heard her. She continued in a louder, more cheery voice. "Like a Northerner, I seem to value my independence. And I need to visit the commode." That was one luxury they'd purchased for Mama's use, as visiting a privy had been out of the question during her long illness.
"I will bring it in at once. And, do not worry, my independent one. Mr. Thornton said he'd send crutches over in the morning as there will be no way to purchase some over the holiday. Apparently his sister had need of them in the past, so he has some to spare."
"That is good of him." Margaret looked up at her father.
Her father carried in the unwieldy commode and managed to help his daughter to the wood and porcelain device while somehow maintaining her dignity. He turned away once she was situated. He moved to the window to gaze at the snow falling steadily outside, but stood close enough nearby in case so that he could offer the assistance she would need to return to the bed.
"It's times like this I wish Dixon was still with us," Papa said. "It has been hard on you, I think, to be without a maid servant. It is not a father's role to play nursemaid. I am sorry, my dear."
Margaret snorted derisively. "She made her decision. And truly, we could no longer afford her." She carefully lifted herself to an upright position, while keeping her injured ankle straight out in front of her. With a single hop, she reached the bed, and fell into it. It only hurt a little to do so.
"Dear Margaret!" Her father rushed to her side. "Why must you be so stubborn? You must allow people to help you!"
"Will you sit with me for a while?"
Her father obliged, and settled himself in the small slipper chair that stood on the far side of the bed.
"How did he react? When you told him?"
"I am not certain, Margaret. John can be a very difficult man to read. We both have seen him quite angry at times, but there are other times when I have no idea what he might be thinking. I think his feelings were likely hurt that I did not confide in him. But honestly I could not tell. He said little."
"But you talked for so long!"
"Not about that. I did explain the particulars of Frederick's situation, and the reason we kept things quiet. He did not seem angry. Perplexed, perhaps. And sad, I think."
Margaret nodded. Of course he was sad. It was obvious how much Mr. Thornton had admired and respected Papa. He could only feel betrayed and disappointed.
"I think he did understand my motivation for not telling him about Fred. Knowing about his presence in England would have placed Mr. Thornton in a very difficult position. As a magistrate, his first loyalty must be to the state."
"Yes, of course."
Her father rose, and drew shut the heavy draperies of the room's small window. Then he returned to her side and tucked the blankets around her, after placing several pillows under her leg and ankle. He did not notice she had shed most of her clothing, but he had seemed to live in a state of perpetual distraction since Mama had died.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
Margaret nodded. "But what else did you discuss? You were closeted for so long."
"Dr. Donaldson's bill, among other subjects. John had insisted on paying it over my strenuous objections. I attempted to convince him that it was my responsibility alone, and that I must repay him."
"And were you successful?"
"Not at all. I suppose he can afford it, but it makes me feel… I don't quite know how to describe it."
"He is a good man, Papa."
"He is indeed, Margaret." Her father gave her a light kiss on the forehead.
Her father blew the candle by her bedside. Soon she was left her alone with her dark thoughts.
She could not sleep. Every hour, the distant chime of the mantelpiece clock confirmed that this would be a restless night. Her ankle hurt, but that was not the only source of her sleeplessness.
She reviewed the evening's events again and again, her mind replaying them in excruciating detail.
She cared what Mr. Thornton though. She cared deeply.
And that was a problem she could not solve.
It took a good forty minutes for Mr. Thornton to return home to Marlborough Mills. He decided to take the backstreets, as they were lit well enough, but far less icy. Still he was careful not to let his thoughts drift off as he crunched through the snow. It would be painfully ironic if he too suffered an injury, due to a mind that could not weather the thoughts blizzarding through it.
When he did arrive home, he allowed himself the luxury of reflection, as well as the luxury of a very hot bath. His valet might be a bit annoyed, but it was his job, no matter the hour. And as he'd be receiving a bonus the day after next, the man would surely would not show anything but the utmost solicitude towards his employer. That would not be good business.
John leaned back against the towel-lined copper tub and closed his eyes as he thought through the evening's events.
It had been a remarkable few hours, and it had taken tremendous effort to hide his fulminating emotions. John exhaled heavily as he allowed the tension stored in mind and muscle to dissipate.
John was quick-witted, so much so that as a student he had he had always been the boy who solved the maths problems first, and he had often puzzled out problems that were beyond the teacher's skills. It had been like that tonight, too. He'd immediately recognized the import of Margaret's words, what "my brother" meant. Those words were her salvation, and his.
John recalled a demonstration he'd witnessed long ago at school. His teacher had heated a beaker of water and stirred in a large quantity of a salt he'd prepared from purified vinegar. After the vessel and its contents cooled, the teacher had asked his best student to come to the bench. He'd instructed John to drop in a single, small crystal of the salt. Within seconds of doing so, a snowflake-like crystal appeared in the beaker. It grew exponentially until the contents of the beaker became one solid mass.
A similar precipitation had taken place tonight. In a moment John had realized multiple things, near simultaneously. That Margaret was guiltless. That she'd acted to protect a loved one, and risked her precious reputation in the process. That she'd endured slings and arrows from her neighbors, from his mother and sister, and worst of all from him.
He had felt humiliation on her behalf. And he had become angry once again, but at the right person this time.
He had wanted to shout as soon as this epiphany came to him. He had wanted to tell her he knew. But he could not trust himself. Instead, he looked away, as he knew that should he look in her eyes, he would be lost.
It was with great effort that he controlled himself when Mr. Hale told him the details of the mutiny, and of the short visit his son made to his mother's bedside on the eve of her death.
It was with an even greater effort that he returned to Margaret's side and carried her upstairs. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to breathe deeply to smell the fragrance of her hair, of her skin. He wanted to beg her forgiveness.
But the thinking part of him told him to resist these easy temptations.
He would make things right between Margaret and himself. He just needed to devise a plan.
Author's notes:
I hope you have enjoyed this second installment. I am currently writing the next chapter. My plan is to post it early Christmas Day, but I will certainly post it earlier, depending on the response to this chapter. So I hope you will leave a review!
The next chapter of The Lace Curtain will be posted on Sunday, and the next chapter of Not a Gentleman in two weeks' time. I have ten whole days off from work which has allowed me to write to my heart's content. As you may be able to tell, I am very much enjoying writing again, and wish I had gotten back to it sooner.
John and Margaret make me very happy. That is a very simple thing to say, but it's true. I hope my writing conveys my deep appreciation of Elizabeth Gaskell's characters.
Historical notes:
Not too many notes this time. I did do a little research on the early Victorian approach to broken bones and sprains, and decided NOT to have Margaret suffer a broken bone. The outcomes of that were often negative, and in the early 1850s, not much could be done for a person's pain apart from willow bark or laudanum or liquor. A surgeon or bone setter would be called in, and depending on the break it might take more than one person to extend contracted leg muscles enough to pull the bones back into the correct position. The leg would then be splinted, and tightly wrapped, and its owner warned not to place weight on it, but rather to stay in bed for weeks. A leg might end up shorter than before the break took place, and if the fracture was of the compound type where the bone poked through the skin, infection would likely set in (as happened so often during the American Civil War, starting ten years later). The limb would then likely be amputated, again with very little pain relief. At the time of this story even the simple technology of a plaster cast was a year or so from being invented. Instead a simple fracture would be treated with a splint and bandages soaked in either a starch solution or an egg white and clay mixture. Either of these took many hours to dry. A sprain would be treated much as I described. The area would be cooled—with ice, should a family be able to afford it- and then tightly wrapped in a figure 8 motion around the arch of the foot and ankle, as John initially wrapped Margaret's ankle.
The commode mentioned in this chapter is a device that the well off sometimes had, before the introduction of flush toilets a few years after the time of this story. One type of commode was a polished wooden box, that opened to reveal a porcelain basin. Upon pushing a button, water would be released from a small holding tank, and waste would drain from the bottom of the basin into a holding tank. This would be much more pleasant than either a backyard privy or the chamber pot found under the bed. I decided to allow Margaret this small comfort, although it would have been a huge expense. I can see Mr. Hale deciding Maria needed it, as well. It would be a small thing he could do to procure her comfort when feeling so helpless, otherwise.
The precipitation demonstration that John recalls is one that uses a solution of sodium acetate trihydrate, which can be made by heating vinegar and baking soda for quite a while. It is used in some types of handwarmers, as the chemical releases a tremendous amount of heat when it crystallizes. It is a seriously awesome thing to behold, and I thought it would appeal to John's technical mind.