Chapter Three

It Was Exactly a Week Later


It was exactly a week later that Margaret stood beside the front door of her Crampton house, pacing to and fro impatiently, something she had been doing for the last half hour, near enough wearing a hole in the rug, an oriental design acquired from the wonders of the Great Exhibition, given by Aunt Shaw to her late sister as a memento of a marvellous excursion she had been too ill to attend in person. Every few minutes, Margaret would stop and move to the mirror, slowly turning left and then right, assessing her appearance from every angle to spot any hidden blemishes of cloth or complexion that she might have missed. She had decided to wear her new dress, the one made from the fine muslin Edith had sent from India, with its cream underlay and soft pink petals that decorated the length of her arm, stitched into the gossamer material, like sleeves of silken flowers. The cut was not terribly fashionable, but then again, neither was Margaret, so it would have to do. Besides, it was one of the few garments she owned that had not yet been tarnished by soot from the kitchen fire after helping Dixon bake and cook. Nodding resolutely, she smoothed her skirts. She tidied her hair. She pinched her cheeks. She – oh! It was no use. Vanity was not Margaret's middle name, it never had been, so there was no point in her indulging in such empty-headed nonsense, not when he would never even notice anyway.

At long last, there was a knock at the door, and with her eyes alight with excitement, Margaret rushed to open it, just about tripping over her own feet in her frenzied haste. Only, when she did, she halted, and all at once, she felt her heart sink like a ship plunging to the bottom of the sea.

'Oh,' she murmured sullenly. 'It is only you.'

Before her, on the doorstep, was none other than her father, his reedy arms laden with a stack of books, the heavy bundle which overtook his hands having caused him to thump on his own door by means of his elbow, hoping there would be somebody nearby on the other side to offer assistance before the whole lot tumbled to the ground and disappeared into the snow, the ink of unread pages crying into that same carpet of white and staining it black.

'My word, Margaret, I have never seen you so animated. You looked quite giddy when you opened the door,' Mr Hale said jovially as he came in and shook himself, the sleet that had settled on his coat falling and landing on the floor as specks of white that soon dissolved into tiny puddles of water, Aunt Shaw's rug being insulted once again.

'I am pleased to see the colour return to your cheeks, my child, but you certainly gave me a fright.'

Margaret, who had been occupied in staring resentfully at the front steps from whence he came, quickly snapped out of her self-indulgent stupor, and went to help him with his books.

'I am sorry, Papa, it is just…it is just…is Mr Thornton not coming today?' she asked distractedly, reaching up onto her tiptoes to scour the street behind him in search of a familiar face. 'It is his usual day and time.'

Her remark sounded more like a question than a statement, but it was most definitely the latter, because Margaret knew fine well that this was indeed the mill master's customary day and time, his precise day and time, to be exact, and with punctuality being a particular idiosyncrasy of his, it left her wondering where on earth he was.

'Oh no, no, he is away. Did I not say?' he remarked inattentively, handing her his scarf to hang up, glad to be rid of the stifling loop of yarn wrapped around his neck, even if it were bitterly cold outside.

In the seconds that followed, Margaret could have sworn that she shrunk a whole three inches as her spirits plummeted, and she dropped back down onto the soles of her feet with a thud, a glum pout upon her face.

'No,' she muttered, the single word ringing out suspiciously like an accusation. 'No, you did not.'

'Well, he is. He has gone to France for business,' her father explained matter-of-factly, and Margaret felt a jolt of distress to think that Mr Thornton was travelling at this time of year. He may have been a man who was well-accustomed to braving tempestuous circumstances, but that did not seem to mollify Margaret in the least. The roads would be icy, the darkness would be dismal, and that was saying nothing for the sea, the water treacherous with the volatile waves of Neptune's realm. The Channel was but a short journey, she knew that, but Fred had told her so many frightful stories of boats being battered by storms, that it was hard not to imagine the worst, and Le Havre was significantly further away than the crossing-port of Calais. Margaret could hardly bear to envisage Mr Thornton anywhere else but safe and sound here in Milton, where he belonged. She wanted him home, she wanted him to come home now, if not to her, then at least to the refuge of his own study and slippers, as her father would have put it.

'When will he return?' she demanded to know, rather rudely as it happens, her anxiety getting the better of her.

However, Mr Hale did not seem to notice his daughter's impertinence, which was most likely due to the fact that he was preoccupied in wondering what was for lunch, praying that Dixon had not overcooked and charred the beef yet again. After all, his poor old stomach could only take so much gristle, and while he may no longer be a clergyman, he trusted that the good Lord would be sympathetic and take pity on him.

'I understand that Mr Thornton is to be away for quite some time, longer than usual. He said that he shall not return until Christmas Eve,' was the simple answer. 'Oddly enough, that happens to be his next day with us, if we go by his usual attendance, that is, as it falls on a Thursday this year, and I have invited him, naturally, out of courtesy, and goodness knows that we would welcome his company. All the same, I very much doubt he shall come, he shall want to be with his family, I should think.'

On hearing this, Margaret shuddered. At first she thought it was because of the cold, the door not yet closed in the wake of her disorientation, a biting breeze blowing in and snaking around her ankles. But in truth, her tremor was all down to perceiving her father refer to Mr Thornton's family, and to know that she was not counted as one of them, even although she could have been by now, because he had asked Margaret to become one of them, a Thornton, living and existing by his side, as his wife, as close a family member as one can get.

Oh, but she had not said yes, she had chosen to say no, there was that to remember.

'No, Papa!' Margaret argued, her tone so sharp that he stopped, startled, and stared at her in bewilderment. Still, this did not deter Margaret from speaking her mind.

'He will be here; I truly believe he will. Mr Thornton, he will not let us down,' she assured him. 'You will see your friend on Christmas Eve, I just know you will,' she promised.

Margaret wished with all her heart that she could call Mr Thornton her friend, but she held back, uncertain of whether he would consider her a friend or not. In reality, she was not convinced he ever had, but there was one thing for certain, and that was he never would now, not unless she could find a way of winning his respect and repairing their broken relationship.

But how? It felt impossible.

Not after what he saw. Not after what she did. Not after what he said.

Mr Hale laughed, a hoarse cough tickling his throat, and then he kissed his daughter on the cheek.

'Bless you, my pet, bless you,' he commended before walking away to his study.

'You know, Margaret, I sometimes think you are growing rather fond of our Mr Thornton,' he said in jest, utterly unaware of how true his words were. 'You must not let him cotton on, Heavens no, for I think it would shock him to the core, and the poor man may never recover,' he quipped, his laugh drifting into the corridor as he closed the door behind him.

Left alone once more, Margaret found herself slumping down onto the bottom step of the staircase and folding her arms. What was she supposed to do now? She had been looking forward to his visit all day, all week, even. It had been the sole focus of her interest, so now that Mr Thornton was not to come after all, everything suddenly felt insipid and meaningless. It was most unsettling. Glancing up listlessly, she saw a posy of winter flowers hanging from the ceiling, a collection that Mary Higgins had assembled for them and strung up about the house in way of commemorating the newcomer's first Christmas in Milton. Margaret had liked them to begin with, they were cheery and colourful, just what the Hales needed. Be that as it may, today she spied some Mistletoe berries peeking out between the bunches, and this was too much for the disappointed girl to condone, so bounding to her feet, she reached up high and snatched down one of the arrangements, catching the thorn-barbed bundle in her hands and screwing it up, not caring that it stung as the green spines scratched her.

Grumbling under her breath, Margaret trudged along the passageway and towards the kitchen in hopes of finding something to distract her, because if a childhood spent in church had taught her anything, it was that idle hands never led to any good. As she did so, she spotted the Christmas tree that stood tall and proud in the parlour. She paused and leaned against the frame as she admired it, a tender smile pursing her lips, for she was resolved to give their green-cloaked guest the attention and admiration it deserved. The Hale's had not played host to a tree in a good few years, so it still filled Margaret with joy every time her eyes fell upon this most welcome addition to their humble home. Richard and Maria Hale had first taken up the tradition when the children were small, starting when their Aunt Shaw heard of the festive fad set out by the German consort, Prince Albert, a fashion she had been swift to imitate. From then on, the Helstone parsonage had erected and adorned a tree every December without fail, that is, until the year Fred had been forced to flee England, and after that painful misfortune had struck, their home had forever interred a solemn shadow of despair, the likes of which no tree possessed the enchantment to overcome. However, five days ago, when Margaret had returned from visiting the Higgins and Boucher family, she had come back to find a tree standing in their parlour, completely bare, almost as if it was always meant to be there, somehow having grown out of the floor or walls overnight, either that, or she had simply never noticed it before. She had stared at it for some time, mystified, and more than a little awe-struck. Nevertheless, when she had asked her father, he had casually announced that it was a gift from Mr Thornton. Margaret had been taken aback by this, but he soon clarified that it was true, that Mr Thornton had thought it might cheer them up, what with this year being one of such inestimable grief. He had apparently mentioned Margaret by name, even reservedly suggesting that the loss of first her home, and then her mother, would be a considerable burden for one so young, and so, he hoped that this would help put a smile on her face.

He had been right, it had.

Not only had Mr Thornton presented them with a tree, but he had provided them with decorations, each beautiful ornament seemingly hand-picked with such considerate care, just like with the fruit he had brought in his baskets for Margaret's mother when she had been ill. Bless him, he thought of everything. He somehow knew what they needed even before they did. As for Margaret, who may have once felt her pride piqued by such a familiar and forward gesture from Mr Thornton, a mere pupil of her father's, she had not thought twice about accepting his offering with immense gratitude. And so, over the past five days, she had spent many a jolly hour sprucing it, and now, all she could hope was that he too would like it when he saw it, that it would likewise put a smile on his stern face, one she had rarely seen etched with any expression other than a scowl, his smiles rare, especially these days. Margaret liked this smile; it was the first thing she had admired in this new friend of her father's; and the opposition of character, shown in all these details of appearance she had just been noticing, seemed to explain the attraction they evidently felt towards each other. Or that is, an attraction he had once felt for her, not that he did anymore, even if she found the thought of him more attractive with every passing day that they were divided by their mistakes and misunderstandings.

Continuing along to the kitchen in a state of apathy, the kind that is typical of those who are disheartened, Margaret came to sit on the long wooden bench by the table, even if her mind was somewhere else entirely. At first, she paid no heed to Dixon sitting opposite her, peeling carrots and eyeing the young mistress with a critical eye. With a low grumble, the maid did not approve of all this moping about that Miss Margaret was doing these days. It was most unlike her, and it was a pointless pursuit, since sulking never got anyone anywhere. And what was she doing all trussed up in her best day dress, one might ask? It was not as if there was anything extraordinary happening today, there was no anticipation of company, nor indeed any plans for celebrations or commemorations to warrant her wearing something special. She knew one thing for sure, and it was that a fancy frock like that had no place in a kitchen. Huffing, Dixon half fretted that the girl was taking after her mother with all this pining, but she doubted it, given that Mrs Hale, God rest her soul, had been a fragile creature, whereas her daughter, by contrast, huh, that hoity-toity madam was made of sterner stuff, so she would soon perk up, mark her words. Unable to abide the silence, not to mention being unnerved by the way that Margaret was staring off into the distance with a wistful expression, Dixon ventured a comment, one which she had assumed would be acceptable.

'I am relieved that man will not be coming today,' she said after a while, in that off-hand way of hers.

Margaret, who had been playing absentmindedly with some scraps of cabbage and kale, froze and glared at the maid, her eyes glinting with icy ire.

'I sincerely hope you are not referring to Mr Thornton, Dixon,' she replied, a prickly warning to her words.

'I most certainly am, Miss,' the servant retorted without so much as a blush to show for her insolence. 'I cannot imagine what the master was thinking of, having the likes of him traipsing in here. I do not care how wealthy he is, nor how fine his clothes or house may be, no amount of artificial politeness or sipping tea in our drawing room will ever take away the fact that he is a dirty, lowly tradesman. And to think he is treating the likes of you as his equal −'

'That is enough!'

By now, Margaret had leapt to her feet, and she was glowering at Dixon, her face red with a righteous anger that raged so hotly, it would surely ignite her, burning her to a cinder like a match. Dixon got such a fright that she flinched, the kitchen knife flying out of her hand and clattering on the paved floor.

'I never, – never, want to hear you speak of Mr Thornton in that way again! Do you hear?!' Margaret ordered. 'He has been so very kind to us since we came here, even though he has no need to, and even though we can offer him no advantage in return.'

'No advantage?!' Dixon scoffed. 'What? To mingle with a genteel family of birth and breeding? He being no more than a common hawker in a smart Wellesley.'

Margaret could feel her blood boiling. 'I do not know which accusation to dispute first. To begin with, Mr Thornton is not just a common hawker, and even if he were, that is no crime. I will remind you that he is an educated man, a man who is intelligent and proficient in what he does.'

'Bah!' the servant jeered, her fists kneading a mound of dough on the table before her.

'He has had no education that I know of. And what has he to show for himself, hmm? A mill? Nasty, filthy place,' Dixon sneered.

'Yes, it is true that a mill may not be what you and I are used to,' Margaret conceded, rather reluctantly. 'And I speak for myself when I say that a factory floor feels worlds away from Helstone with its beautiful fields, or London with its grand architecture, but that does not mean it is not a place to be valued in its own right. I must profess, when I first saw it, when I first laid my eyes on Marlborough Mills, I was mesmerised by it,' she confessed, thinking how she had been fascinated by this world of swirling white. It had assaulted her senses, this strange beast that roared with its noisy machines and spinning looms. Going there that day, it had been a rude awakening for her, and now Margaret could not put it out of her mind, she could never forget it, for it had left such an impression upon her, and oddly enough, she did not resent it, but felt a strange sort of reassurance to think that it was now part of her, even if she never stepped foot in there again. Then, of course, there he had been, standing on the scaffold, high above it all, a powerful presence, a striking and rather stirring image to behold. Still, little had she known then what he would come to mean to her, this man, this master, this Mr Thornton, of whom she had cast off and cared nothing for, all because of her senseless pride and prejudice. Supressing a clogging lump in her throat, Margaret continued with her defence of the accused.

'You must remember that he is not merely a tradesman, but a master. From what I am told, Mr Thornton is hailed as the most successful businessman in Milton, if not the county. I know the other masters look up to him, even envy him, and he is considerably younger than them all. He is evidently accomplished in everything he puts his mind to, his achievements applauded by all who know him. He is respectable, and he is respected. Does that in itself not attest to his abilities?'

'I do not know about this northern lot, but their standards are not the same as ours,' Dixon asserted, thrusting her nose into the air. 'As the mistress said herself, they're only interested in money, that is what they eat, and that is what they breathe, along with their vile smoke. They are a dissimilar kind of people, distinct from us in every sense. They care nothing for morals or manners hereabouts. Why, to think that they would be so bold as to revolt and go on strike, saying nothing for rioting and throwing stones at a woman!' she puffed, her face turning a shade of burgundy and coming out in blotches at the indignation of it all.

As she heard her speak, Margaret lifted a quaking hand to her head and gently grazed the spot where her scar still lurked, a mark of mortification that would never go away, a foreshadowing emblem of her own reckless errors and all the trouble that it had provoked from that day forth.

'No, you'd do well to listen to me, young Miss, he will be more than pleased to have his feet under the table here, mixing with the likes of Mr Hale, a true gentleman who has never dirtied his hands by a day's manual labour in his life, a man who can introduce him to some proper men of refinement.'

'Mr Thornton is a true gentleman, Dixon, the truest that ever lived.'

'Is he now?' she said with a raised eyebrow. 'From what I understand, he is a man with a scandalous past,' Dixon interjected, her eyes narrowed with a grim soberness that left Margaret in no doubt as to what she meant, that she had dared to touch upon a most grave subject indeed.

Margaret felt a shiver creep up her spine and drag its claws down her back, like the ghostly talons of death itself.

'Dixon,' she whispered, her words thick with tension, 'that is hardly his fault.'

The maid leaned her head to the side. 'Perhaps not,' she accepted, 'but it is still a disgrace and a sin.'

At this, Margaret stood up and began to stride back and forth, beset by an aching disquiet. She was about to remind Dixon that the Hales had themselves known the humiliation of scandal. What about Fred? His actions, albeit honourable ones with good intentions, had led him to be branded as a mutineer and a traitor, condemned to live in exile for the rest of his life unless he wanted to end that very same life on the gallows. But no, there was no point, because there was no arguing with Dixon when it came to her beloved Frederick, the golden boy who could do no wrong in her eyes, unlike Margaret, the girl she had always scolded for being too obstinate and opinionated when she should have sat quietly and acted like a docile creature, a biddable doll with no mind of her own. In any case, they were not talking about Fred, but about Joh ─ Mr Thornton.

'Whatever actions his father took, we should not judge. We do not understand fully what happened, and more importantly, we ought to pity him for feeling so hopeless as to do such a thing. To leave his wife and children like that, to say goodbye from this world, the wretched man must have been so lost and alone – so afraid! And as for his son,' Margaret persisted, her voice growing stronger and more resilient, 'he deserves our praise. I cannot begin to imagine it. A child, on the brink of manhood, with his whole future ahead of him, having it snatched away most cruelly, and then to be hurled into the abyss of poverty and obscurity. It must have been a heavy burden for a boy to carry, and as a young man, I believe he worked tirelessly to provide for his family, to protect their welfare, and to reclaim their rightful place in society. Not only that, but he was dedicated to paying off his father's debts, even when those persons owed had no hope of recompense. He gave up everything, and without complaint, he denied his own wants, and he did what was right by others. He suffered his own Hell, I think, and he is a better man for it. A more dependable, careful, thoughtful, empathetic man. And for that, Dixon, I think he is perhaps the most endearing person I have ever known. Moreover, I cannot think of anyone of my acquaintance who could have endured such trials with half the nobility of character as Mr Thornton has done, and still continues to do to this day,' Margaret championed, her eyes shining with pride.

'And now, I wish him well. He deserves to be happy, he has earnt that right, even if the right to happiness is not something that ought to be earned.'

However, Dixon was not convinced.

'That might be the case,' she acknowledged, 'but it only serves to prove my point. He is tarnished by his past and all he lost as a consequence, so he comes here because he wants to learn how to become a man of significance, and Mr Hale, even if he were only a country clergyman, is as much a man of consequence as that tradesman will likely ever meet in this heathen backwater.'

'You are wrong to call it a backwater,' Margaret challenged, 'From what I understand, towns like Milton are at the heart of our nation, driving it forward with astounding energy and enterprise, guiding us into a modern age, one of ideals and industry. The people here are hardworking, independent and rightly proud of their self-determination, and for that, I admire them.'

'That may be true, Miss,' Dixon allowed, 'but that does not mean they do not wish to be better, and how are they to learn to be better? From their betters, that's how,' she went on, nodding across the table to Margaret. 'They can be as vigorous as they like up here, with all their new-fangled, polluted wealth, but they will always lack the inherent respectability of the south.'

'Those things do not matter here, Dixon, as well you know. Milton is a different place, with different people, who have different ideals. They care little for the tenets of the south, and what is more, I commend them for it. Besides, I am quite sure that even if they did value such petty trivialities, Mr Thornton would still not mind them himself. No, he has no interest in a person's personage, so long as they are conscientious and earnest, rendering them worthy of his good opinion,' Margaret upheld.

The young lady then cast her eyes to the floor demurely, a paleness bleaching her countenance. Who was she to speak so vehemently of honesty when she herself had been so shamefully dishonest? It was true, Mr Thornton did prize the merits of sincerity and integrity, discounting those without such qualities, but what was correspondingly true, was that Margaret herself could not claim to be so virtuous in her character. Therefore, it went without saying that Mr Thornton could never respect her, and nor, it would seem, forgive her.

'And I will remind you that we are not so high and mighty as you might imagine. Do you think Milton sees us as impressive or influential? I assure you that they do not. For are we not in reduced circumstances?' she asked, pointing a finger at their confined living quarters.

'We are hardly the most rich or esteemed people here. We do not hold grand dinner parties or balls. We do not have gentry banging down our door to call upon us, and we never did before. Good gracious, Dixon, we can hardly afford a servant to help you, so I must do it myself, the daughter of one of your precious Beresfords,' Margaret reminded her, throwing her hands up in the air at the ridiculousness of it all.

Dixon herself was knocked for six. Well she never! To be spoken to like that, and in her own kitchen! Oh, she knew that Miss Margaret had a temper, she always had, even as a little girl, but by Jove, she had never made a scene like this before. And all because of her charitable and wholly misdirected interest in a worthless cotton merchant. There was one thing for sure, and that was that this dreadful place was going to her head, and the sooner she was sent off to marry a London gent, such as that nice Mr Lennox, the better.

Thinking on this thread, Dixon carelessly added, 'I will tell you one thing, though, I cannot imagine anyone wanting to be his wife.'

If Dixon had been paying attention, she would have seen the woman opposite her holding back tears which welled behind her eyes and glazed them in a glistening mist. Sitting back down, Margaret laid a hand over her face and repressed a whimper, her shoulders shuddering with the weight of the emotions that unsettled her awakened heart. Taking care to hide behind her palm, Margaret scoured it across her face to wipe away the rivers of water that trickled down and stained her cheeks. With her hand sneaking into the right pocket of her dress, Margaret caressed something that lay concealed within, a pair of somethings, to be exact. Something black. Something leather. Something that was not hers to possess, but she kept them close, all the same.

'Oh, I do not know,' she breathed into the fingers which muffled her mouth, her lips kissing the creases of her joints. Her oration was so soft, that Dixon could not hear her, her words a private soliloquy, a monologue of tortured thoughts as the full magnitude of her puerility dawned on her. She now appreciated what she had been offered for the first time, really appreciated it, and what was more, she realised what she had lost, probably forever.

'I think any woman who would not want him must be a very silly girl!' Margaret observed with a sorrowful laugh as she sniffed, the maid still too distracted to take any notice of her.

Then, turning back to face the stove where Dixon stood, tipping over a plate of turnips and watching as they fell into a simmering pot, Margaret waited for her to come back. When she did, Margaret smiled at her with quiet forgiveness.

'Dixon,' she started, reaching across the table and taking the maid's hand in her own and patting it fondly, 'it is of no matter if you and I cannot agree to like Mr Thornton. It is not possible for everyone to approve of everyone else and see their merits. However, there is one stubborn fact which you are overlooking, one which is unshakable, no matter what you and I may think,' Margaret insisted, and Dixon put down her rolling pin to lean forwards in anticipation, the fervency in the lass' face too compelling to disregard.

'Mr Thornton was, without question, wonderfully generous to mother, you know he was,' she championed, her voice calm once more, and the maid looked shamefaced to have forgotten it. The new mistress of the house was well aware of how much her mother had loved Dixon. She had been more like a friend than a servant, a devoted companion who had been with her since before her marriage, steadfast in her loyalty throughout every new chapter of their parallel lives. Nevertheless, even if Mrs Hale had never, and probably would never, have come to entirely understand or appreciate Mr Thornton and all he stood for, Margaret knew that it would have pained her mother to hear him disparaged in this house, particularly after he himself had been such a faithful friend to them all.

'What is more, all this talk of gentlemen. What is a gentleman, anyway? Who is to say? You and I may both be right, and we may both be wrong. But I think it is of no consequence, because, after all, it does not matter whether Mr Thornton is a gentleman or not, for I believe that he is something far more important besides.'

'And what might that be, then?' Dixon asked, her nose scrunched up in doubt.

Margaret smiled once more, a tender, knowing smile.

'He is, by very definition, a good man,' she said. 'And, at the end of the day, that is all that matters. So, please, Dixon, do not speak of Mr Thornton in that way again. I cannot bear for him to come here and not to be shown every civility and consideration he so justly deserves. It is hurtful. Not only to him, but to m −,' Margaret bit down on her tongue. 'Just…please.'

Once she had finished her speech, Margaret resumed playing with her vegetable husks, her demeanour now one of gentle mildness once again. As Dixon watched her, she saw the young miss shiftlessly pick up her father's scarf and run it between her fingers, the girl so befuddled by her let-down this evening, that she had forgotten to return it to its peg.

'I will say one thing for him,' began Dixon, rubbing her flour-coated hands on her apron, 'he will need to get himself a scarf soon. Either that, or he will freeze to death.'

Margaret glanced up in confusion. 'Father?'

'No, Mr Thornton,' the maid corrected. 'He has been without one these past four weeks or more. I heard him say so to the master. He gave it to a child, or so he said, one of the children in his factory who hardly had a stitch on his body and was walking home in the snow. He has not yet got round to acquiring a new one. And as for his gloves −'

'His gloves?!' Margaret repeated, nearly jumping out of her seat.

'Yes, he lost those too, some time ago, from what I understand. I tell you this, for a man who is supposed to be so careful with everything, he has a funny way of mislaying all his clothes,' Dixon remarked, once again braving a criticism.

'But it is a shame for him, poor soul. He may be a northerner, and from what I should think, he will have thicker skin than you and I, but to go out in this fearsome cold with no scarf and gloves, it is unthinkable!' she tutted, her maternal side never failing to win her over.

'I heard him say that he shall get a new one by and by, but he wants a blue one. And not just any blue, mind you, it has to be a cloudy blue, a sort of pale grey. It is his favourite colour, apparently. Odd, is it not, for a man to be so exact about such a thing?' she mused to herself.

Margaret nodded, but as she noted her reflection in a copper pot, she paused, the colour of her eyes catching the light and causing her to squint before quickly looking away.

Could it be…? No, no, a coincidence, surely.

Nibbling her lip, Margaret began to drum her fingers on the table as Dixon ambled off to stir the stew. It was at this moment that an idea came to her, and Margaret snapped her fingers.

Yes!

She knew what she would do to show Mr Thornton that she cared about him, to prove to him that his friendship meant the world to her, and with two weeks to go until Christmas Eve, she would have plenty of time to see her plan through.