Chapter Two
Hearts are Funny Things
It was as Margaret stood by the window, her heart full of an incomprehensible combination of regret and relief, that she detected the thud of familiar footsteps coming up the stairs, their steady plod a sound she had known since childhood. Scurrying away from her lookout post, Margaret snatched up an arbitrary bundle of sewing and went to sit in a chair at the far end of the room, her head bent low as if in deep concentration. Her door then groaned as it opened, its hinges parched and in need of oil, the sound akin to a weary old butler announcing with strained exertion that she had a visitor. A few seconds later, a head appeared around the frame. This same head had tuffs of thinning hair, the strands peppered with white and grey. A little further down was a wrinkled face on which the most noticeable display was a pair of thin-wired spectacles perched upon a nose, circles of glass which enlarged a set of soft, blue eyes. At first, the visitor's absentminded regard trailed around the room, but then, when they eventually saw her, a broad smile graced that familiar face.
'There you are, poppet,' came a gentle voice, as wistful as a whistle on the wind, with just a hint of wisdom to be found there too.
'Good evening, Father,' Margaret replied, her eyes still trained on her needle, the sharp stem of silver flying deftly back and forth through the thin fabric of her handkerchief, her stitches untidy and uneven, her trembling fingers unable to calm themselves.
The smile that had been on Mr Hale's face spread, so much so that it reached the creases of his cheeks and settled within, profound lines which spoke of a man who had lived many a year, tell-tale signs of age, much like the rings in the bark of a tree. Margaret was grateful to see him beam so, since to her mind, her father smiled all too rarely these days. It was true, Mr Hale was downcast in spirit, his heart incapable of joining in with the joy of the season, but despite this melancholy, he was thankful that while he had been forced to say goodbye to his son and wife this year, albeit in different ways and for different reasons, he still had his Margaret, and he prayed daily that she would never be taken from him.
Licking his dry lips, he casually announced: 'We were just talking about you.'
Margaret stilled at once.
An inadequate 'Oh?,' was all that Margaret could manage to pronounce, a prickly flush sprouting on her breast and extending along her arms and neck like a wildfire.
Mr Hale nodded his head sagely as he went to stand by the window, a mutual focal point, it would seem, his hands clasped behind his back as he tapped his shoes together, a peculiar habit his own father had done when addressing his children on matters that made him uncomfortable.
'Yes, yes we were. Mr Thornton noticed your absence…again.'
Margaret shuffled awkwardly in her seat. 'And what did you say?' she asked, trying her best to sound utterly disinterested, her eyes peering up with shy intent to heed what he had to say.
Even although she could not see it, her father creased his brow in confusion, because what people did not know, was that while the Oxford scholar was vastly intelligent, he was also a terribly simple man with a terribly simple way of thinking, and consequently, he could never quite fathom anything vaguely complicated when it came to human interactions.
'Why, the truth,' he said plainly. 'What else would I tell him? It is Mr Thornton, after all. We need never hide anything from John.'
The daughter's head ducked down once more, the very same blush now leaving her face as red as a strawberry. She wanted to tell her father that he was wrong, that sometimes one did have a need to hide things from Mr Thornton, but not out of deception, no, but out of an unselfish desire to protect him, to do right by him. To be sure, because while some would assume that a man of such staunch principle as Mr Thornton, what with all his natural discernment and acumen, would require no safeguarding whatsoever, they would be most wrong indeed, for it is the most noble of men that compel this defence, given that if he were to be sullied by a crisis of conscience, especially on her behalf, then it would be shameful to them both.
'Besides, he is so exceptionally clever, that I doubt anybody could ever hide anything from him,' Mr Hale went on, proud of his favourite pupil and his sharp wits, the likes of which he had never met a match for. In consequence, Mr Hale often felt sorry for Mr Thornton. The young man was remarkably well-informed, his mind fertile and inquisitive, invariably relentless in his hunger for knowledge on every theme. Yet, despite his inherent aptitude, for reasons that were not his fault, he had been unable to attain the education he deserved and sorely wanted, and so, Mr Hale, this man of Christian charity, felt it his privileged duty to do whatever he could to help him achieve his academic aspirations, even if this meant just sitting and talking with Mr Thornton by the fireside once a week.
'No, I suppose you are right,' Margaret agreed, thinking on how Mr Thornton had that uncanny ability to work everything and everybody out, no detail being too insignificant to escape his shrewd attention. Margaret judged that, out of all the people in the world, she should know this of him better than most. He could do that to her, work her out, almost like he could see right through her, a skill that was both disconcerting and reassuring all at once.
'At any rate, I told him that you were not well today. I mentioned that you had complained of a headache, and that you were not yourself,' Mr Hale continued, thinking how unfortunate it was that Margaret's ailment had only just come on a mere hour before Mr Thornton's arrival.
She paused. 'And he did not mind?' Margaret checked, guilt gnawing away at her. Her father was entirely correct, she had not been herself of late, but if truth be told, she had been perfectly well, certainly well enough to receive company, but alas, she just could not bring herself to be in the same room as him, not since…not since….
'On the contrary, he minded very much,' Mr Hale asserted adamantly. 'He seemed most anxious to fetch a doctor for you, you know how attentive he is, and he is not one to sit idly by when he can be of service. I believe he stood up more than once, determined to go, but I said there was no need, and he eventually sat back down, but he never quite settled. He had a number of questions about your health, such as why you had been ill for so many weeks, suggesting that you might be sickening for something. He was impatient to help in whatever way he could. He asked if you required someone to nurse you, I said no. He asked if you needed tonics prepared, I said no. He asked if you would benefit from time away from Milton in the countryside or by the sea, but I said no. In short, I said that you were well enough, just a little tired. He then insisted that his mother would send one of their maids or cooks to assist you so that you were not so overtaxed, and I said there was no need, but thank you.'
Margaret unconsciously dropped her head to the side and rubbed her chin against her shoulder with coy reserve. How thoughtful he was. She could not imagine anybody else of her acquaintance taking so much trouble over her welfare, and this thought made her feel dreadfully contrite for causing Mr Thornton so much unease. Of course, it went without saying that he was not anxious for her sake, no, not when he had made it clear that she meant nothing to him. All of Mr Thornton's disquiet would undoubtedly be for her father's sake, she knew that, of course she did, but all the same, the idea that he was thinking of her tenderly at all was enough to give birth to a fragile bud of hope in Margaret's heart.
'To be sure, John noticed your absence as soon as he arrived,' her father wittered on, repeating himself. 'He remarked that Dixon let him in again this week. That she took his hat. And then he mentioned it once more when you were not there to serve us tea.'
Margaret scowled at this. 'I am not a servant!' she snapped.
Mr Hale chuckled good naturedly. 'No, indeed not, my dear. But I must say that Mr Thornton did look sorry when I said you would not be joining us for his lesson.'
'I cannot think why,' she grumbled, still annoyed by the thought that Mr Thornton was expecting her to serve his tea like a maid, but then again, she may have imagined it, but Margaret was sure she had spied him smile to himself once or twice when she poured his cup and handed it over. Actually, now she came to think of it, he had smiled every time she had done this, his attention filched the moment she began the preparations, his body leaning forward expectantly, his eyes transfixed on her hands, his own larger ones extended out in mute entreaty as she approached, that long pinkie stretching out to skim her skin, supposedly by accident.
'It is not as if I contribute anything,' Margaret added hotly, her fingers tingling at the recollection of his touch, something which now felt like a distant memory that faded further and further away with every passing day that they were separated and estranged by their quarrels.
'I am sure that Mr Thornton would hardly notice if I were there or not,' she said miserably, thinking on how she thought of him constantly, always wondering what he was doing, what he was thinking, whether or not his thoughts ever wandered to her, whether it be aimlessly, or with irrepressible intent.
'That is not true,' her father countered, intrigued by a cart of vegetables that trundled along the street, a rickety wheel making it wobble precariously from side to side, spilling the contents onto the muddy road, the vendor scurrying like a mouse to pick them up, rub them on his filthy smock, and then place them back upon the pile, all before looking about to see who had observed him, grinning to think his secret safe, and then repeating the farce all over again, without learning his lesson. Mr Hale mused on how he had never been very good at discovering secrets, so he was thankful that his daughter was not one to harbour any. She told him everything that was on her mind, whether it brought her joy or woe. She always had, ever since she was a little girl, and as far as he knew, she always would.
'You have a lot to offer, Margaret, you often share your opinions and thoughts on our texts and topics.'
A sarcastic laugh erupted about the room. 'And Mr Thornton disagrees with me at every turn.'
Her father simpered to hear his daughter speak with the naivety of youth. Long may it last, thought he.
'But he enjoys it, I know he does,' he insisted. 'You can disagree with somebody, my dear, and still appreciate their point of view and feel stimulated by their conversation,' he explained, knowing all too well that his daughter always assumed that discord meant disharmony, when in fact, it was often the basis for a healthy discussion, and if one nurtured it properly, it was also the foundation of a sincere friendship.
'I have noted that Mr Thornton is always so much brighter and engaged when you are there.' What followed was a strained hiatus, after which Mr Hale quietly added, 'But in the past few weeks, he has seemed…distracted…almost disinterested, and it is not like him, not like him at all.'
Margaret looked up as she heard her father trail off, a forlorn withering to his words as the end of his sentence sagged with unmistakable sadness.
'You sound worried, Papa,' she ventured cautiously.
Mr Hale sniffed glumly, his own head bowed in solemn contemplation.
'I am afraid to say that I am. I am worried about him, very.'
Margaret stopped at once and frowned. Putting down her sewing, she rose from her seat and came to stand beside her father, a man who had aged considerably over the past few months alone, more so than she had seen in all her nineteen years, but then again, that was no surprise. Placing her hand on his arm, Margaret's fingers lightly curled around his sleeve and squeezed there in loving reassurance.
'Papa?' she pressed, her voice gentle and encouraging.
Mr Hale sighed. 'I may not be the most observant person, Margaret, you know I am not,' he said honestly, and she bit her lip, unable to argue, 'but I cannot help but feel there is something bothering Mr Thornton. He is…changed,' he concluded, inept to think of a more precise word.
The daughter nodded. 'People change,' she reminded him. 'I have, I think…I hope,' she affixed, thinking on how her perceptions and prejudices had been challenged since coming to Milton almost a year ago. When once she was impetuous, inflexible in her views, and too ready to argue, Margaret found that these traits within her had been softened by maturity. Still, if only she had been more steady, more willing to listen and less eager to judge, she could have seen the worth in him, in a man who was honest and honourable to a fault, and it pained her to acknowledge how bitterly she had let him down by way of pitiful thanks.
Bobbing his head from side to side in deliberation, Mr Hale knitted his eyebrows pensively. 'Yes, people do change, that is true enough, but not like this, no. And even if they do, one would hope it is for the better, but as for Mr Thornton, he seems to have altered for the worse,' her father described regrettably. 'I fear, my dear, that all the light has gone out of him.'
Without even realising it, Margaret found herself tightening her grip on her father's arm, her grasp tensing as her apprehension grew.
'Tell me,' she urged, unable to bear being kept in the dark when it came to the wellbeing of a man who had become inexplicably important to her.
He shook his head, unsure of where to start. 'He is restless, that is for sure. When he enters the house, he is always looking about him, into rooms, as if he is searching for something he is missing,' Mr Hale began, scratching his head, incapable of comprehending such peculiar behaviour, which, if he had taken the time to assiduously consider, would have become perfectly obvious.
'When he sits, I can see him looking at the door constantly, and if not there, then his head jerks up at every flutter from above. He is inattentive, his attention is always preoccupied, and he cannot seem to focus on anything. I am sorry to say that he has lost all enthusiasm for his learning, strange, since he is a natural scholar, and always found such contentment in it before. Indeed, as I was leaving the dinner party at Marlborough House, the same one you attended, Mr Thornton asked me whether he might increase the number of his lessons and come twice a week instead of once. He was most keen, I remember it clearly. But now…,' yet Mr Hale could not finish the sentence, his voice dwindling.
She waited, trying her best to be patient. 'Now?'
There was a lengthy interval while Mr Hale thought, then, finally, he sighed again, his shoulders slumping as he settled on his conclusion.
'I think that John is sad.'
Margaret flinched, her eyes widening in distress. 'Sad?!' she echoed.
'Yes, that is the only way I can describe it. He is…unhappy.'
She could not explain it, but she felt a surge of unrest stirring inside her, leaving her incapable of feeling anything else, Margaret's only care now being the here and now, wondering and worrying what her father meant.
'And what do you think the cause might be?' she reflected aloud, afraid of his answer, but she had to hear it, she had to.
'I do not know, I honestly do not know,' Mr Hale responded truthfully, a hint of frustration to his reply to know that he was incompetent when it came to working people out.
'I wish I could ask him, but I am not adept to making such enquiries, and as for Mr Thornton, he is so very private, that I fear he would take offence and think me meddlesome. These northern men, they value their independence, and I should so hate to interfere with his. No, all I can think is that it is to do with the mill.'
'What is the matter with the mill?' she asked, a little too abruptly, trepidation taking over her manners.
'I believe it is struggling, that he is struggling,' Mr Hale revealed.
Margaret could hardly believe her ears. 'But how so? Mr Thornton is so very clever, so very capable, so why on earth should he be struggling? No!' she rebelled, unable to accept such a inference. 'I imagine that he is merely busy. He may be overwhelmed with orders at the mill and finds his time in high demand, both there and at the court. He is an important man, after all. Yes, it is most likely a matter of stress and not distress,' she went on, more to herself than anything else, trying as best as she could to pacify her own reservations about his welfare.
Her father nodded blithely to hear his daughter defend Mr Thornton so fiercely.
'Perhaps, my dear, perhaps.'
Margaret was about to return to her sewing, but before she did, she suddenly took her father by his hands and held them close.
'I hope…I hope you have told him that we are always at his service, Papa?' she intreated. 'Mr Thornton has been so very kind to us, all of us, and I should hate him to think that we are ungrateful, that we do not care for him in return. I hope he considers us his friends, and therefore understands that we will always be here to offer him a helping hand, no matter how modest it may be, no matter…no matter what happens.'
Mr Hale lifted a hand and cupped his daughter's cheek. Staring into her eyes, ones which were wonderfully earnest, he bent down to leave a kiss on her forehead.
'What a lovely young lady you are, my darling dove,' he praised, using his late wife's endearment for her, thinking on how proud her mother would be to see their Margaret now, so grown up, a woman in her own right, one who was astute, rational, assured, and above all else, beneath her sometimes defiant bravado, she had a heart of gold, a caring, compassionate and courageous heart. All the same, his serious demeanour soon returned.
'However, I am sorry to say that there is probably very little we can do. If his troubles are related to business or finance, then we neither have the expertise nor the means to assist. And if it is an affair of the heart…well,' said Mr Hale, trailing off, his attention once again absorbed by the cart that lumbered along with its unsteady swaying.
'After all, hearts, as we know, are funny things. They can be passionate. Reserved. Loyal. Vulnerable. All of these. None of these. And above all, they can be a lonely and mournful place to dwell, if one lives with a broken heart.'
Margaret swallowed thickly. Oh, yes, perhaps Mr Thornton's sadness was down to a broken heart after all, she had not thought of that. Nevertheless, if that were the case, there was nothing she could do to help, not when he had told her that his heart was none of her concern. While it hurt Margaret to think that Mr Thornton may care for another, she knew that he deserved to know contentment, to have a home filled with love, especially at Christmas, and so, in her heart of hearts, all she wanted was for him to be happy, even if that meant she could never be.
