Chapter 4
Margaret's basket sat on a short and small crate in the center of the room. She opened the tea towel that covered the contents.
"There are oranges and red wine, and I made roasted hazelnuts and chestnuts, sugar cookies, and a small fruit cake." Margaret said, holding an example of each item up. John watched her, a sparkle still in his eyes. Suddenly, an idea struck her. Margaret moved the basket from the crate, and the tea towel from the basket. She sat down on one side of the crate and spread the towel across it, smoothing out the wrinkles. With care, removed two of the oranges, two cookies, the tin that held the nuts, the red wine, and the fruitcake, and placed each on her crate-turned-table.
"Please do be seated, Mr. Thornton. We may have an adequate supper yet."
John smiled at this, all the while marveling at her fortitude. It was as though she were not on a filthy floor in a cramped storage room. She looked as though she was in the grandest parlor in England, with a table set with consideration for him. He stood and moved to the center, sitting across the crate from her, stretching one leg and resting his arm on his other propped up leg.
Margaret removed her gloves and began peeling an orange, her nails digging into the rind and easily pulling the skin from the fruit inside.
"As a child in Helston, I used to hate oranges," Margaret said, her eyes on her orange. John peeled his own without taking his eyes of Margaret.
"I detested the stringy bits. Mother loved oranges, and she made sure Dixon would get some when they were available. I think I would not have disliked them as much if she was not so insistent on us eating them during the summers I was home," Margaret said absently. She was now separating a slice and removing the excess string.
"But then when I was at Harley street, in London, we never had oranges. Aunt Shaw thought they were too unrefined and messy. I found I missed them more than I thought I would. One time, when I was nine, I decided to go outside unattended for a walk," Margaret paused to chew her slice.
"You escaped?" John offered. Margaret smiled.
"You could say that. I wandered around and saw a stand with oranges. I took one. I had no money on me, of course, and when the grocer saw me, he yelled. I turned and ran. I do not think I have ever run so fast in my life, before or since. All the way back to Harley street, clutching my orange. I sat on the steps and ate it before anyone could take it from me. Of course Mrs. Ainsley, our governess, had noticed my absence by then, and you could imagine her surprise when the footman brought me in, sticky with orange juice on my hands, face and dress, and no explanation for the orange peels in my dress pocket."
John laughed, a full laugh. Margaret wondered if she had ever heard him laugh before. The sound pleased her.
"I would never have suspected you to act like a common street urchin, Miss Hale," he said warmly.
"No, and I daresay it as the only time I acted such. Perhaps I should not have confessed to a magistrate. Surely there's a statute of limitations on pilfering oranges?" she joked. And then suddenly, the air seemed to go from the room. Her breath hitched as she realized she had brought them too close to the assistance he had already provided in his capacity as the local magistrate.
Margaret averted her eyes from his, concentrating instead on the pile of orange peel he had made on the table. His silence and stony countenance made her think he was reflecting on the same. Margaret could not bear the silence.
"Mr. Thornton…" she began.
"No, Miss Hale," he stated firmly.
"Your refusal to accept my gratitude will not prevent me from feeling or expressing it," she said, her eyes lifting to his in defiance. How he frustrated her!
"I have told you before, I do not want or need your gratitude. It is enough to know I spared your father of-"
"Of what?" Margaret interrupted, her cheeks growing hot as her anger swelled.
"Of the unpleasantness that would arise from an inquest after you lied to Inspector Mason," John said bitterly.
There it was. Margaret was silent. The thought of her own dishonesty and his displeasure stung her.
"Do you still refuse to explain yourself?" John asked, clearly struggling to keep his tone even and temper in check.
Margaret looked away from him, and John stood up in frustration, walking a step back to the wall to create the little physical distance he could between them. He turned away from her and spoke into the darkness.
"If my mother discovers us, I may be able to spare you from a connection to me. Between the three of us, we could construct a believable story. But if we are not rescued until morning by a hand…there will be no way out for either of us. I know how disappointing this will be for you and your lover, whoever and wherever he is," John said piercingly.
"My what?" Margaret nearly shouted in response.
When John did not respond, Margaret stood up, bringing herself to her full height, even though he still towered over her. She spoke firmly and loudly.
"Sir, you have taken great pains to make clear what you think of me. Of course it would be insupportable for us to be connected in such a way when there is so little respect and trust between us. No, when you do not trust me.Why can you not believe me when I say it is not what you think? I have no lover…I have never and would never…there is no one else...," Margaret was too angry to continue. As was often the case when she was frustrated, and for the second time this evening, her eyes became wet with tears, and she resented her lack of composure around him. She was simply incensed at his insinuation. So incensed, in fact, that she did not notice the else that had inadvertently escaped her lips, and so could not examine its meaning.
John eyed her carefully. His heart ached to believe her, but he could not reconcile her defense with what he had seen with his own eyes at Outwood Station, and what he knew from Inspector Mason. She had lied on behalf of a man, and she was tainted in his eyes for it. It was all he had to cling to in his efforts to forget her.
Margaret wiped the edge of her eyes with the back of her hand, one finger leaving a light smudge of dust on her cheek.
"Mr. Thornton, I know what people are saying. I know what you and your mother think of me. And I bear it all because I must. I will spare you from me if I can. You do not deserve such…such an association. Let us hope we are found by a sympathetic party."
Margaret turned away from him to look at her own side of the room, her hands clasped in front of her. She considered her options. Frederick was now safely in Spain. She wondered if it would do Frederick harm to speak the truth now. She pondered this until he spoke, and she granted him the courtesy of turning to face him.
"I have tried to forget what I saw. I cannot tell you how much this has pained me. It has driven me near mad. I work, and work, and work, to save this mill, but also because if I did not, I would just sit and think of you," John's voice was raised, but Margaret was neither alarmed nor cowed. Not as much as she had been the day after the riot.
He softened before continuing, "And every evening, it takes every ounce of what little self-preservation I have to not walk the two miles to Crampton to replace my solitary suffering with the sweet agony of your company."
Margaret stared, wide-eyed at his blunt vulnerability. She felt her cheeks warm, a welcomed feeling in the coldness of the storage room.
"Mr. Thornton…"
"The coroner found nothing suspect. There was no reason for an inquest. I never told anyone what I saw. I wanted to prevent further stress on your family, so soon after your mother's passing."
"My family," Margaret repeated. "Yes, my family. I thank you for protecting us. Mr. Thornton, surely you can understand that I always act in the best interest of my family," she said, her own harsh tone surprising her.
"I am sure my father has never told you, but I broke the news to my mother that we were leaving Helston when my father could not bear to do so. Dixon and I cared for my mother to spare my father; he could not even understand the severity of her illness or bear to acknowledge the cause. I love my father, and I will always choose those I love above myself. I already have," Margaret's tears were now falling, a year of pent-up anger, frustration, pain and loneliness falling out with them. "I lied to the inspector to protect Frederick."
John listened, rapt with attention, his ice-blue eyes falling intently on her face. Margaret was undaunted. There was no way out now but through.
"Frederick is my brother. He lives in Spain. He was in the Navy." With growing certainty, Margaret recounted Frederick's part in the mutiny against his violent captain, how she wrote to Frederick to beg him to visit their mother, the solace he provided Mrs. Hale in her final days, and how Leonards recognized him.
"When the inspector came to inquire about the incident at Outwood Station, Frederick was still in the country. The night we were at the station, he was taking to the train to London to seek legal counsel from Henry Lennox. I could not risk Frederick being found out. I made the choice to lie about being present. I would do it again, to protect Frederick, but I know what it cost me in your eyes and God's. I have asked for absolution," Margaret's tears had stopped. She wanted to say how much she had wanted absolution from Mr. Thornton but knew in her heart that her desire for his forgiveness so greatly was blasphemous.
"He was your brother?"
"Yes. I fear I will never see him again," Margaret said. She had not spoken so freely with anyone since Bessy's death. "Henry tried to find other men from the ship to make statements to attest to the captain's cruelty, but it is more difficult than we imagined. Other men were tried and found guilty. You must understand, Mr. Thornton, my brother and the others involved did what was just in standing up against the captain's cruelty."
"I do understand. Unfortunately, for many, the law has little to do with justice. The Navy does not take kindly to mutineers. It was a risk for him to be in the country at all," John said.
"Mother wanted to see him. When I wrote to him, I only had some idea of the risk. It was not until he was here, and we had to work so hard to conceal his presence, and then seeing you at the station…it cost me many a sleepless night. But it brought mother comfort in her final days, and for that I am glad," Margaret said. She struggled to wipe the tears from her face, feeling the grime from her hands on her cheeks. John reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief. He took a few steps closer to her as he held it out.
"Thank you," Margaret said quietly as she took it. She dabbed her eyes, and they were silent a long while. Margaret held onto his handkerchief firmly. She stared wistfully at an expertly embroidered JGT in the corner, surrounded by carefully stitched red roses. There was a growing sense of relief of finally having explained her actions to him. His deep, reassuring voice, brought her back into the room.
"Why did you not tell me? I could have been of some assistance."
Margaret laughed lightly through her tears, surprising herself and John. "Of your willingness to help I have no doubt, Mr. Thornton. But you are a magistrate. I did not want to put you in a difficult situation. Moreover, my problems are my own."
"You take too much onto yourself, Miss Hale," he said carefully. Margaret shook her head.
"I do what any daughter and sister would," she said dismissively.
"Why do you never acknowledge how extraordinary you are?" John replied. "You bear all of this, alone, with grace and calm."
"Have you not done as much and more for your family? You have worked hard to provide for your mother and sister. They are lucky to have you," Margaret said. John smiled but shook his head.
"I do what any son and brother would," he echoed. Margaret gave him a half-smile.
"And I would do it all again for them. You and I are much more alike than I had considered before," John said.
"Perhaps. That may well be why we cannot go half an hour without quarrelling," Margaret said, her eyes fluttering up as she smiled at him.
"I am sorry for judging you harshly, Miss Hale. Your brother had nothing to do with Leonards' death, and you were right to protect him," John said. Their eyes met. Margaret could not read his expression, though it looked softer than she had seen it in a long while.
His words, look, and manner together lifted a weight from Margaret's heart. She took a fortifying yet shaky breath and smiled.
"Let us speak no more of it," she said. John nodded, though he was still distracted by his thoughts.
Margaret sat on the floor again, and John followed suit across from her. For a moment she fidgeted with his handkerchief before placing it on the table for him to take back. A pang of hunger struck her then, and she remembered their food.
Margaret opened the tin of roasted nuts and offered it to John. He took two silently.
She fastidiously picked at the nuts, holding the tin close to the lamp.
"What is it?" John asked.
"I do not care for chestnuts, so I am trying to see which are hazelnuts and which are chestnuts," Margaret answered, lifting a nut up to the light before eating it.
"Why did you make roasted chestnuts then?"
"Two reasons. The first, Mr. Dickens mentions them in his tale, so I think of them at Christmas now."
"I remember. And the second?"
"I watched you eat chestnuts at your dinner party. Quite a bit of them, actually," Margaret replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. John stared at her.
She picked out another nut and was about to return it to the tin when John stuck out his hand. She placed the chestnut in his palm. Thus they ate, with Margaret handing over each nut she did not want, each only eating what they preferred. After some time, he spoke.
"We can," John said quietly, returning to their previous conversation.
"Pardon?"
"We can go half an hour without quarrelling. We have tonight," John explained.
"I suppose that's likely true. I have lost track of time," Margaret said thoughtfully.
John wiped his fingers on the cloth before pulling out his pocket watch from his vest. It was a quarter to nine. He reached across the crate to place it in her hand, closing her fingers around it and enclosing her hand in his. The light of the lamp cast an ethereal glow on her face, and John basked in it.
"You can keep time and see," he said.
"Starting now?"
"Starting now."
Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews; I so enjoy reading them and look forward to your reactions to this chapter!