Plans were made, and everything collided on the same day. She was set to visit Bessy on the 22nd of December, then Margaret was asked whether the 22nd in the early afternoon was suitable to be guided around in the warehouse by Mrs Thornton herself. As the lady had taken it upon herself to guide her around, whilst it was clear that Mrs Thornton didn't enjoy company all too much, Margaret felt obliged to accept. She had just sent word with a courier that she was available, when her father informed her that Mr Ball, during his session on Seneca, had insisted they came to his pre-Christmas dinner which he threw for his friends, since Christmas was a family affair for Mr Ball. Mrs Hale exclaimed she was still recovering from the previous dinners and was still bothered by a cold. Margaret decided that it would do her mother good if she saw a doctor, if only to confirm whether her mother was feeling rather than being ill.
x.X.x
Bessy had deteriorated in the four days Margaret hadn't seen her. And in the hour she was with her, she talked of nothing but the Bible and heaven. Margaret prayed the girl would stay strong, so that she might see her nineteenth birthday, but Bessy was pessimistic about it. Margaret was gravely worried, but then Mr Higgins came in and asked Bessy to cease talking of heaven. He was already grieving for his daughter, and a life filled with worry about money and the loss of his loved ones, had made the idea of a God laughable.
Margaret, after listening to Mr Higgins talking about some kind of protest, took her leave to prepare for the excursion with Mrs Thornton.
x.X.x.
Mrs Thornton arrived on exactly the hour she'd told Margaret she'd come. Margaret was taken with her in a carriage towards the harbour district. She'd been able to walk freely in Liverpool like she'd always done in Helstone, but she knew better than to visit the harbour district by herself.
The poorest of poor lived there, especially in the south of Liverpool. The closer they got, the darker the population seemed to become. Margaret knew Liverpool had been the biggest slave harbour in all of England until the abolishment in '07, but she'd never though more on it. For some reason, she had expected that everything connected to slavery and the continent of Africa had simply disappeared. She'd heard the names they were called on the street; "dark Jacks". She'd heard Nicholas Higgins complain to Boucher that the lowly women of the city should stop sleeping with these dark men, as they and their children were the cheapest labour one could find, and therefore had an higher employment rate than native Englishmen.
Many worked as domestic servants for sea captains, wealthy merchants and members of British aristocracy. They were often employed in ship building companies like that of Robert Napier. From what Margaret had gathered during dinner parties in London, the growth of Liverpool was due to its prosperity derived from profits gained via the enslavement of Africans. At least 26 of Liverpool's mayors were, or had been, slave merchants or close relatives of them between the start of the previous century and 1820. She wondered if they were really as primitive and odd as people claimed. They couldn't be, for here they walked and interacted amongst the English people, the only thing setting them apart being their skin colour and their height. She'd read De Las Casas, she'd read De Montaigne and she'd read the Bible. Everyone was human, everyone had a soul, everyone had feelings, no matter how different some might look.
The carriage stopped in front of a tall red brick building with limited decoration. Mrs Thornton lead Margaret straight inside, not stopping to let her watch the ships, the ice rocks or the small incoming ships which had gone out fishing earlier that morning. The warehouse was quite calm, since business had been slow for a week due to the weather. Yet Margaret was amazed nonetheless.
The central hall was three stories high and Margaret could see straight up to the ceiling. The middle of the warehouse was quite empty, so that when goods did arrive, they could be brought to the middle and from there distributed to the small stalls on each floor. Ropes with hooks dangled from iron beams attached. Margaret didn't quite know how they got them up there, but she guessed at the way as Mrs Thornton walked towards the first lines of stalls.
'This warehouse caters particularly towards clothing and accessories which are made in town like umbrellas, hats, shoes and so on. Here is where our small Liverpudlians, and tradespeople from nearby towns and cities, buy their base products for their workshops.'
Margaret gazed at the laps of leather – still in their recognizable animal form! – laying on tables and across racks. In front of each little shop was the name of the company from which the products came.
When they reached the end of the left side of the warehouse, Margaret looked back to see whether they had missed a stall.
'Have we missed Mr Thornton's stall?'
'No we haven't. My son doesn't deal in leather or sashes.'
She took Margaret to the other side of the ground floor. Here was China, tea and herbs. This time, Mr Thornton had a stall.
'My son specializes in goods from India and the East. Not the America's, where many cheap men go to, not to say that going there is an easy venture. Did you know, Miss Hale?'
Margaret felt her cheeks burn. It was such a simple thing really, she knew Mr Thornton was a tradesman. They'd discussed trade, yet she both failed to know what he bought and where his ventures took him.
'We hadn't really broached that topic yet. We've discussed the ethics of trade and the difficulties of the ventures, but he didn't mention where his ships went to. I never quite knew when to ask.' Or if it mattered that she knew, Margaret added in thought.
'Hmph, a question can always be asked. I think it would have done you a great deal of good. How can you talk of a business when you don't know what it's about?'
'I'm starting to see that now', Margaret said, knowing it was of no use to disagree or defend herself. On this side, Margaret recognized certain shopkeepers sniffing at the herbs and teas, looking for things to buy for their shop, as well as some very well dressed housemaids.
As Mrs Thornton liked sharing her knowledge, and liked being asked questions, Margaret just flung out the thought which was taking shape in her head.
'I see both shopkeepers and servants. Is it not cheaper to buy tea and spices here? And if it is, why doesn't everyone do it?'
'Nicely noticed Miss Hale, you indeed see both. Shopkeepers will sell it with more profit, and may even put additives in the tea and the spices so that they make even more profit while their consumers buy diluted products. But there are a couple of reasons why so few people come and buy it straight from the boat. Firstly, there is the matter of class: lower class women have neither time, nor the social status to enter. As you see, everyone here is well off. You have big people buying bulk for their shops all around the country or spend the whole day in here comparing which fabric is the finest for the royals, a working class woman would stick out like a sore thumb. Secondly there is the matter of distance: the middle and higher classes live quite a distance from the harbour. To get here they would either have to walk a long distance, which is inconvenient when one ventures to buy things. So they would have to come by carriage, which is often times more expensive than simply buying the pricier tea in the shop. It's less convenient than going to the shop around the corner. Besides, people always assume that the shopkeepers they know, are honest shopkeepers and that it's the others that are dishonest. I say you should never trust any shopkeeper on their word and should always test them. So the shopkeepers come here for obvious reasons, and the families who can spare the cost and know the worth come here. They buy their supplies in bulk, so that they can go a longer time without having to return.'
Margaret nodded and followed her upstairs. Here the stalls were filled with many kinds of fabric, on the one side of the warehouse they were rough, and on the other they were coloured, smooth, many times even embroidered or patterned. Here Mr Thornton had a very big stall.
'My son has a deal with the Milton and Manchester mill owners. If he brings them raw materials for some of their fabrics, they give him finished cotton fabric of English quality, same goes with the embroidered fabrics, he sends them raw fabric and they send him a part of their finished collection. That way they can buy their raw materials cheaper, and he can buy finished product cheaper, which makes his prices more interesting for your London shops. Yes Miss Hale, there's a great chance your dresses and skirts are made of fabrics that were bought here. The only thing those seamstresses did was stitch it together.'
Margaret gently touched her Indian shawl, the shape of the flowers and the fabric texture was so different from everything she knew. She was certain it had been imported in its present form. But what Mrs Thornton said could be true for her other clothes, who knew the distance they'd crossed? Who knew how many hands had added to the final fabric?
The next floor held no more stalls. Instead there were tiny offices put up against the four outer walls of the top floor. Mrs Thornton explained that the incredible amount of things Margaret had seen in the stalls, was only a small amount of the total stock and mostly meant for display and sale in small quantities.
Most of the stock was kept in private storage houses. In the offices there were a packer, a principal, a bookkeeper, a traveller to get more from - or bring interested buyers to - the storage house and a clerk who was responsible for all communication.
Such an organisation, Margaret was quite dizzy, how could one man oversee all of this? Mr Thornton had to have at least one hundred men under his service, and in all likelihood even more. Mrs Thornton guided her back to the carriage took her to an insurance company.
Mrs Thornton guided her through this company, despite that Mr Thornton didn't own it. The clerks showed her the papers, and explained how cash transfers happened in trade. Margaret had thought that when English goods were sold, the merchants received cash, put it in their purses, and took it with them to the homeland. Apparently this was a very bad and dangerous idea, and practically everyone brought money to a bank or put the money on so called "papers" they took to their local banks at home or the companies they worked for, and there traded it with money. It was exceedingly difficult and Margaret almost suffered a headache by the time they exited the building.
'There Miss Hale, now you know how our businesses work. Now that you know what we do, you may critique us.'
'Mrs Thornton, today proved to be most educational and I thank you for taking so much time to show me the mechanisms and locations where aspects of trade take place. My understanding has grown immensely. I wouldn't dare to critique any profession without reason. I have no natural love for trade, that much is true. Yet I do not believe I have ever critiqued any aspect of trade except the apparent lack of kindness.'
'It is no kind business, and it cannot be. Business is ruthless, if you care for everyone your business goes nowhere. If you're too generous when buying and selling, your prices can't compete. If you want to be very kind to your employees and pay them more than what is fair, you will have to ask a lot of money for your products or your business goes bankrupt. There is a balance to everything, but each company needs to decide that balance, some companies may be better in the eye of your ethic compared to others, Miss Hale, yet that is the way of life. Some religions or clothes may be more to our liking than others, yet we don't go telling people these other religions or clothes may not exist… Or well, sensible people – in my eyes – don't.'
It was like her father had told her, that she disliked things no one could help but accept. She struggled against these truths that kept being confirmed, as they were too sad to be true. Her ultimate lesson in adulthood seemed to be that there was no way to keep everyone alive and happy.
'I must ask a final favour of you, Mrs Thornton. Do you have a doctor we can trust? I would look for one myself, but such people are better recommended.'
'Are you ill?'
'No, it's just a precaution', she smiled.
Mrs Thornton was suspicious, but gave the name and address of Dr. Donaldson.
'I thank you, Mrs Thornton. I look forward to seeing you and your family again tonight', Margaret said as she exited the coach when it stopped at Bedford Road.
x.X.x
Margaret broke yet another nail as she did the dishes while Dixon was installing her mother in the drawing room. Almost none of her long almond nails remained, which had been so pretty in London. Their shortness made her hands look small and childish. With defeat she accepted that the transition from her life of leisure to one as an important contributor to the household had officially manifested itself in her looks.
She dragged herself upstairs after finishing the dishes from the afternoon tea. It was time to make herself ready for the dinner party.
Her room was still cold and sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a closet and a dressing table from which she wrote her letters as well. There was little cosiness about it.
She flopped down on the small stool and took out her scissors and nail file. It was better to just accept defeat instead of letting her nails look uneven. She allowed herself a last glance at her six still long nails before she cut them to a sensible length just above her fingertip and filed them until they were round and soft.
She gazed at her reflexion. She'd never been afflicted with uneven blotchy skin, yet it appeared the stress from the past couple of months had created blemishes on her forehead. They'd been so bad she'd been forced to cut herself a fringe, despite that trend having peaked a decade earlier. But Amalie Wolff-Malcolmi, princess Willhelmine and Grand Duchess Elizabeth Alexeievna still wore it, and she guessed she herself would have to stick with it too from now on. Each day she checked her skin after treating it with an ointment, and each day it remained the same. She wetted her hair and put in her curlers. The curls only had a couple of hours to set, but it would have to do.
In the meantime she occupied herself with working on her yellow dress in the drawing room where she sat with her mother. The gores in the skirt were coming along nicely, as were the beret sleeves she was working on. She'd never liked the look of herself in frilly dresses, but now even holding such fine fabric made her feel bad about her own looks. Fancy dresses had a tendency to look silly, like she was pretending to be someone she wasn't. What was such a bright lovely dress doing on such a thin figure with dark circles under her eyes and nails as short as those of a servant? She was glad she could at least hide her complexion underneath her hair.
The curls turned out well, and Dixon did her hair in a very voluminous updo with combs and tresses of hair flowing down from the intricate arrangement on the top of her head. Dixon ushered her into one of her finer gowns, since she had already worn her two simplest ones and wearing them again within the first three outings wouldn't do.
x.X.x
The evening at Mr Ball's was a joyful occasion. The fruit and cheese platters before dinner were constantly topped by the servants in the room the ladies occupied. Crystal decanters with white, rosé and red wine were being passed around most generously and when the time came around for the ladies to go to the dinner table, some were red nosed already.
Mr Ball had cleverly designed it to be thus that Margaret sat next to him so that he could get to know the young woman better. She was pleasant during dinner, exclaiming her love for the lush greenery which had been used as decoration. It was technically too early, as Christmas Eve was still days removed, but this was a Christmas Party after all, so he was allowed to break the rules. They talked about books they enjoyed, and everything seemed to be going well, until the company owners further down the table increased the volume of their voices to include Mr Ball and Mr Thornton, who sat across each other.
Mr Thornton had been most occupied with looking at Miss Hale in her superb white evening dress of figured satin with a festoon flounce caught up with blue rosettes and Marie sleeves made of fine net clasped all the way to the wrist with blue sashes. The blue and green embroidery of trees and flowers on her skirt was equally gorgeous. With her curls piled on top of her head and dancing around her graceful neck, she looked like a perfect china doll.
'Mr Thornton I do believe they are asking for your opinion', Miss Latimer laughed, who was seated next to him. They were considering lowering the wages of their harbour staff since they weren't working as much with the low amount of ships coming in, two even considered firing some. Mr Thornton had them occupied with fixing those still in harbour and repairing sails and other equipment, so his weren't idle, which he told the other masters. Mr Ball equally confirmed he had his men busy with important repairs and tasks he usually delayed.
'I think it is most wise to save money when possible, but how will these workers and their families get through winter, when their wages are cut so suddenly? They need money for food to remain strong, or they might fall ill, die even.'
'The healthy survive, besides, we are not responsible for them. They are free to work in many other places. There are people who work two jobs. And profit for us is favourable for the company, and what's favourable for the company guarantees the survival of the company', Slickson replied to the elderly Mrs Ball.
'Keeping them employed and paying them guarantees that they can pay for food to remain strong, and that they have less time to go to taverns and become drunkards. There is no immediate profit, not that you can count in pounds, chilling or pence. But, my workers are healthier, more focussed and they can work for me for a longer time than yours for you. I don't have to invest in training new workers as often, surely you can see the profit in that.'
'Surely it is the right and moral thing to do also', Mr Hale remarked. Margaret couldn't agree more with her father
'It's sound business sense, Mr Hale. A business cannot function under any moral law. I do not run a charitable institution. I'm an employer, I'm not a father who can command how they should conduct themselves, sorry Mr Hale, but leading a business is not like being a shepherd. My workers expect me to be hard but just, and that is what I give them. They know what they can get from and they either take it, or they can leave. I won't change the terms of my agreements with them, and I in turn, expect them to work as well as they can.'
'Yeah, meanwhile this guy over here tries every trick in the book', Mr Gallagher jokes while kicking Mr Slickson under the table.
'Well, as owners we have got to think about our businesses instead of our workers. Surely it is better to lose some employees in a world filled with men, than to lose an entire business? One man loses his life or some pounds, or hundreds lose their work and income. It's a war. We company owners have to win it, or go under, literally.'
Everyone laughed, but Mr Thornton couldn't help but shake his head.
Mr Slickson of course, had no qualms about lowering the wages, nor did he consider letting them do repairs in the meantime. It was cheaper that way and money had to be made.
Miss Latimer couldn't help but tease Margaret as the conversation continued on the further end of the table between the other merchants and their wives.
'Miss Hale, I'm not sure I'm used to this, you have nothing to say? I'm certain these kinds of ideas elicit a response from a clergyman's daughter, to have the poor treated like this. I'm sure you must have a most interesting view.'
'I have firm beliefs and opinions that much is true. But I do not claim to have an opinion on everything, nor does my opinion always need to be heard, especially on topics which I until today virtually knew nothing about. I'm no expert, nor should I be appointed to judge what is best for business. Just like voting', Margaret said.
It wasn't the answer Miss Latimer had been hoping for.
But it did end the part of Miss Latimer in the conversation.
'Women voting? Virtually no man is allowed to vote, it's unimaginable that women would be able to before all men are entitled to it. And allowing all men to vote is hardly a good thing', Mr Ball laughed.
'Oh, that's not what I meant. I simply meant to illustrate that my voice shouldn't be heard in multiple circumstances, with voting being just one example that my opinion doesn't matter on everything', Margaret explained to Mr Ball who had only paid attention to her last two sentences. But it was of no use, the conversation was taken away from her and escalated.
'But surely, there must be more voters in the future than there are today? A better system is definitely desirable, right now our system supports no one but those who have always been wealthy, excuse me Sir Edward for saying so. But between Leeds, Birmingham and Manchester, all rising industrial cities with a large population and a big economy, there is not a single MP while those poor boroughs like Dunwich can still send two MPs to parliament.'
'Yes, I think we can all agree on that, Mr Gallagher. I, for one, think that fine gentlemen like you with money, big companies and a great understanding of the world should be allowed as much say in politics as a duke who has never left his county. But stuff like the French Revolution is hardly desirable is it? Let us not forget that five years ago, just on our doorstep, the Peterloo Massacre happened. Gentle lobbying can get us there as well. I know that it is, and has been, on the table. Changes are coming within a couple of years. We simply need to be patient. It seems highly unlikely, when looking back on history, that we should stick to the current system for centuries to come. Human kind cannot decide on its form of rule, government or the shape of democracy – and democracy sure is the direction all fashionable countries are heading. There's a rumbling in all civilized modern countries, a storm is stirring. I'm afraid we haven't seen the last of the uprisings, I just hope we English can make change happen as calmly as possible.'
'Yes, some change is needed, but we can hardly let the lower classes vote, why, they haven't even picked up more than ten books in their lives.'
There was no certainty someone of better stock actually learned something from the books they'd been forced to read by their tutors, Margaret thought as the conversation of the gentlemen took off.
'At least they're men, I love my ladies, all ladies even, but women are children and mothers. For all of their life they have been taught nothing but to care for others. The country cannot be ruled with emotion and motherly love', said Mr Hamper
Though it would surely be to everyone's benefit if the country helped its people? Why be upset if people become healthier, wealthier and more educated? England is a religious country where care for the poor is encouraged, why couldn't the country help its own people? Margaret was growing increasingly agitated.
'They are not taught only that', said Mr Reeves as Mr Hamper shouted that he meant that women were raised with the idea that love should lead the way. 'We even require women to know of history, geography, culture and languages before we consider them accomplished. Why, the mathematical and bookkeeping skills of most women far supersedes mine, if anything we should give them control over the banks and the treasury.'
'But there is always a danger to consider, too much knowledge isn't a good thing.'
Oh such a thing could only be said about women! Margaret had struggled through at least three educational books which warned parents about the dangers of teaching girls too much. They had been given to her by her aunt, after she had been spotted reading books with way too many 'complicated words'. Women could go mad, bad and be stricken by a lot of afflictions if they absorbed too much knowledge. Some doctors reported that too much knowledge had a damaging effect on the ovaries, turning attractive young women into dried-up prunes. She wondered, if women were supposed to be these naturally nurturing beings with a natural sweetness and a natural desire for womanly activities like playing with children, painting and singing, why there were so many books which told them what to do and what to think.
Mr Thornton had seen Miss Hale's face move with everything that came out of the mouths of the other men. Her usually calm face was an open book today and he wondered whether that was because her sex was being insulted, or because she'd drank too many glasses of wine. Miss Hale was a lover of justice. She'd been raised on a steady diet of scripture and philosophy. This conversation must hit close to home for her as it both insulted her mind and her upbringing. It was only natural for her to care.
'I much prefer the way your father spends his evenings', Mr Thornton confided to Margaret. She looked up, astonished.
'In lecture and debate?' Margaret asked for clarity.
'Yes, I must admit I much admire his approach. The way in which he studies the matter at hand, and then has a debate about it, listening to everyone and then forming a conclusion about the topic which everyone can approve. I've heard him mention the interpretations and thoughts of certain individuals. I thought these ideas were very smart from time to time, everyone can grow from hearing new perspectives.'
Margaret smiled, getting what Mr Thornton was hinting at. Was this the way Mr Thornton ruled in his own home? It was not unlikely. Mrs Thornton wasn't an educated woman, but she had plenty of common sense. It was equally clear that Mr Thornton had a great love and admiration for her and took her opinion to heart. She was short-sighted in her opinions, lacking the nuance and the understanding of a schooled mind but she was more than capable. It was most likely that he listened to her when she had an idea.
But with this statement, he was also telling her that he disagreed with Mr Slickson, who had been advocating less education for women. Her father had always allowed her to partake in discussions and had always encouraged her studious mind. Her father had blessed and cursed her by satisfying her thirst for knowledge by teaching her many things. She couldn't be satisfied with a husband who had no taste for intellectual conversation, or one who didn't appreciate her intellectual prowess.
She knew Mr Thornton was not a progressive. He probably didn't think giving a vote to people of the third stance or women was a good idea. But Margaret didn't need that, she didn't need a very progressive stance, she had no mind for strong political reform, but she did wish her own sex and the poor were heard and listened to instead of being mocked.
She wanted to thank him for supporting her, but knew that she couldn't do so without breaking the tone of their conversation.
'I agree. I too have learned greatly from people with different backgrounds. I am glad his classes are able to offer you such pleasure and knowledge.'
'Yes, a pleasure it certainly is, I've never seen him so eager as when he has a meeting with your father. I don't understand how knowledge of Plato will help him, but discussing him sure brings him joy', Mrs Thornton, seated on the other side of Mr Thornton, remarked.
'It has no direct use, but that doesn't mean it is useless. It is important to exercise the mind, to keep it sharp. I'm not a man of many fancies, indeed, I never indulge or partake in things just for pleasure. I've been too focussed on work, but now I'm in the privileged position to spend a bit of my time on reading and thinking.'
Margaret nodded in understanding.
'You are certainly right. Reading and philosophising keep the mind sharp. And learning of the past may help us to understand our current world, human nature, and so much more. If-' She looked at Mrs Thornton, and swallowed her words. 'No, I agree. Not everyone has the luxury to spend their time thinking about the world, and having knowledge of Latin is no direct necessity. Yet I do believe that if only people understood themselves and the world better, we would be all the better for it.'
The servants took away their dessert plates and that was the end of the discussion.
x.X.x
Everyone was lead to a spacious living room. The room smelled of greenery and woodfire. The smell made Margaret instantly forget the heavy discussions at the dining table. She was ushered towards the piano and gladly accepted the place in front of the shiny keys. The other young ladies gathered around with song books to showcase their lovely voices. It wasn't that they considered her the best player, but they simply preferred singing to playing. Margaret felt no need to join in between their high soprano voices. She rather focussed on playing the melodies right while observing the room.
She was glad the piano was placed in a way that the player faced the room. The older ladies were playing cards, two men were playing chess, four of the elderly gentlemen had started a card game of their own and the others were gone. Until suddenly in came the young men with a shallow bowl filled with an amber liquid.
'What's that?' Margaret asked as Mr Ball told a servant to dim the chandelier. The servant scurried to bring more candles to the chess and cards table of the men, and the women relocated their card game closer to the fireplace.
'Oh, they're going to play Snap-dragon, my brother's been looking out for it the whole year. It's a holiday game. Don't they play it in London?'
'Not that I have seen, thank you Miss Gallagher.'
Margaret quickly came to understand why the game Mr Kearney, Mr Ball, Sir Aldridge and Mr Gallagher jr. partook in wasn't played in her London circles.
The bowl was lit by a flame and blue lights erupted. Unprepared, Margaret pulled her hands back in shock, leading to an awkward pause in the music as she forced herself to start playing again. Her cheeks burned as she felt the eyes of everyone in the room on her.
'Get Thornton out of that smoking room! He is on the wrong side of five-and-thirty to hide in there with the old men', laughed Sir Aldridge. The men discarded their coats, and the singing women regularly snuck glances at the men, most of whom appeared significantly slimmer without their padded coats which accentuated their shoulders and chest region.
Then Thornton was dragged in, and Margaret immediately felt the shift in Miss Latimer, whose voice suddenly turned higher and louder. When he divested his coat his figure didn't seem less imposing in the slightest. He looked uncomfortable, he was dragged here indeed, a glass of brandy he carried from the other room was still in his hands. The threw it back without blinking, and went to stand near the table. He never looked at the ladies once, but Miss Latimer kept singing like a trained songbird.
Margaret stared into the hypnotizing blue flame, which was suddenly broken by a quick male hand delving towards the bowl and then quickly retreating amongst laughter. Mr Ball shook his hand and head.
Then it was Mr Kearney's turn, whose hand flew towards the bowl, made some of the liquid spill on top of the table, and then retreated.
Now it was Mr Thornton's turn. He stared at the fire as intently as he stared at everything he encountered and then, like a viper, he straightened, his shoulders hunching over the table as he prepared for his move. With a speed and precision she hadn't expected, his hand shot out and stole something from the bowl. The cheering of the men disrupted the ladies' singing. A small smile chased over his face before he brought the brown wrinkled treat to his mouth and swallowed it. A raisin.
They were marinating them in liquor and eating them hot. Margaret imagined the ladies doing it, and was immediately haunted with images of transparent fabric and billowy sleeves getting splashes of the burning liquid on them and catching fire. She'd heard of ladies in London whose dresses had caught fire by standing too close to the hearth. But the shirt sleeves of the men seemed save and tight enough, and Sir Aldridge, the only one sporting looser sleeves, simply slid them up to his elbow.
'Oh how darling, Snap-dragon. Are those Málaga raisins?' asked Miss Latimer as she walked away from the piano. Mr Thornton now did divert his eyes from his male company towards her, and then looked past her to Margaret who inadvertently caught his gaze.
The memories of the previous dinner suddenly flooded her memory and she simply had to look away again as she played Deck the Halls.
The circle went round again and again, until Miss Latimer, finally unsatisfied with looking on, took off her gloves and decided to partake. Her sleeves were short and puffy and therefore ideal for the game.
Mrs Latimer rolled her eyes but loved her coquettish child too much to forbid her anything.
'Oh,' cried Fanny upon seeing Miss Latimer gleefully put a grape in her mouth, 'Mr Watson, you must aid me in achieving one.'
Mr Watson, by all accounts on the wrong side of five-and-thirty to partake in the boyish game, decided to humour his twenty year old fiancée and excused himself to Mr Hale as he left the chess table.
'One.' He decided. 'I'm sorry I'm imposing on your game lads, but we must humour the lovely ladies, don't we? After all, they deserve to get everything in this world, where would we be without them?'
The last words she heard him speak instantly came back to her. 'Our ladies deserve a little bit of experience.' She thought she had been over it. Mr Watson managed to acquire a raisin and offered it to Miss Thornton before retreating to the chess table again.
The flame had gone out for the third time and they decided not to relight it.
The men were discussing whether they would join the carolling ladies or retreat elsewhere when Miss Latimer exclaimed: 'Mr Thornton, are you in voice tonight?'
'I don't believe myself to be not-in-voice, that is', Mr Thornton said guardedly.
Miss Latimer smiled as she walked around the room.
'Then, signior, I lay upon your sovereign behest to furbish up your lungs and other vocal organs, as they will be wanted. I think I speak for everyone in this room when I say we still remember you vocal talents from last Yule Tide.'
'You flatter me too much, I have no need of this praise.'
But she had managed to get the rest of the room in on it as well.
'I would like to hear the men sing tonight. I've loved the songs 'till now, but surely the merging of both female and male voices sounds much more pleasant and warm', said Mrs Latimer.
Mrs Gallagher agreed, and even Lady Aldridge now insisted on the men singing. The men, being quite unwilling, lovingly pushed Mr Thornton forward as the superior singer so that they could avoid their fates just a while longer.
Margaret had stopped playing when Fanny ran away, but hadn't vacated the bench in front of the piano yet.
Miss Latimer stopped moving, only now remembering Margaret. Margaret was blessedly looking at Mr Thornton who was approaching the piano, and took no notice of the daggers Miss Latimer's eyes threw in her direction.
x.X.x
Margaret was yet again in the position to receive attention from Mr Thornton, attention she had set up to receive herself. Anne had planned it even the night before, how she was going to encourage Mr Thornton to sing while she let herself fall down on the small bench in front of the piano. She had even prepared some more dialogue, but now it was cut short.
Now instead of she, Miss Hale sat upon the bench in her pristine white dress with her skirts spreading out in queenly amplitude, looking like an insecure demure angel with her face hidden behind those glossy curls. Everyone had remarked upon Miss Hale's knowledge of songs. Miss Latimer knew she was the better pianist, if only she got a chance to show off! There had been no use to playing before, she rather enjoyed demonstrating her voice by singing, but to accompany Mr Thornton's voice she was prepared to lend her hands. Miss Hale had even heard Mr Thornton was reserved for her!
The other girls in the room seemed in no hurry to encourage Anne to sing. No praises were given to her vocal talent, which would give her occasion to take Miss Hale's place at the piano. No, instead songs were shouted for the two of them to sing. And worst of all, the choice seemed to become The 12 Days of Christmas. Oh, it simply had to be about a man and his wife, didn't it? But at least this song was a game for everyone in the room. It was a memory game, nothing too intimate.
'Do you like a challenge, Miss Hale?' asked Mr Thornton suddenly.
'What kind of challenge, Mr Thornton?'
'I cannot defeat your knowledge on Roman philosophers, but maybe I can redeem myself by showing my strength of memory. Let us sing this one without papers, except the sheet music. The first one who slips up has to admit defeat.'
'Do you believe my memory to be inferior to yours on the short term?'
'Not at all, let us simply see whether we are matched. We shall each look at the song for a total of 2 minutes before we start.'
'Yet I am disadvantaged, as I need to think about the keys as well', said she.
Mr Thornton looked around the room.
No, Anne decided. She would not help those two. She refused to be reduced to a tool with which the two could grow closer. But Fanny was more than willing, damned be the silly goose.
x.X.x
The two looked at their text. Mr Thornton feared he had been too bold by challenging Miss Hale, but the gathering only saw it as exciting entertainment. He made more of it in his head than it actually was, since his feelings for Miss Hale were different from those he felt for others. This game was often played, mostly between more people, but sometimes between two to amp up the competitive spirit.
'The two minutes are over', remarked Miss Latimer. Mr Thornton looked as Miss Hale for confirmation that it was alright to begin. She couldn't hide a small smile while she agreed. Ah, so she could still smile! And at him!
Fanny started playing with many embellishments and artistic air.
"On the first day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the third day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Four colley birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Five gold rings.
Four colley birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree."
The elder people and the other young people joined in during each five rings phrase. Margaret and Mr Thornton's smiles grew with each verse they successfully finished. They weren't going to give up. Margaret's determination to show female brightness against Mr Thornton's long supressed feelings of intellectual and social inferiority to the gentle class was a battle that went beyond song.
"On the sixth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Six geese a laying,
Five gold rings.
Four colley birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Seven swans a swimming,
Six geese a laying,
Five gold rings.
Four colley birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Eight maids a milking,
Seven swans a swimming,
Six geese a laying,
Five gold rings.
Four colley birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Nine drummers drumming,2
Eight maids a milking,
Seven swans a swimming,
Six geese a laying,
Five gold rings.
Four colley birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Ten pipers piping,
Nine drummers drumming,
Eight maids a milking,
Seven swans a swimming,
Six geese a laying,
Five gold rings.
Four colley birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Eleven ladies dancing,
Ten pipers piping,
Nine drummers drumming,
Eight maids a milking,
Seven swans a swimming,
Six geese a laying,
Five gold rings.
Four colley birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Twelve lords a leaping,
Eleven ladies dancing,
Ten pipers piping,
Nine drummers drumming,
Eight maids a milking,
Seven swans a swimming,
Six geese a laying,
Five gold rings.
Four colley birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree."
No one had slipped up. Both Margaret and Mr Thornton looked at each other, both not daring to remark, or even think, on the implications of finishing the song successfully.
They were equally matched.
Notes:
If you want to be able to copy paste a link: simply go to the mobile version of my story. Then you are able to copy-paste. So s/13289955/1/Pride-and-Power becomes s/13289955/1/Pride-and-Power. Voila.
So, what did you think about the sneak peak into the head of Miss Latimer?
Also, I've just written a four page outline for this story and I'm really please with it, little sneak peak: this story will include mazes, one more death than in the book, an extra guest appearance of Frederick and an awful lot of karma. Excited?
- An image of a big warehouse: .
- How I imagine Thornton's stall to look: .
- On dress between 1815-1830 check out: /romantic_ #Romantic%20Era%201825-1835
- So smoking rooms only became a thing around 1850 but since I already included it in a previous chapter I decided to just let it slide. My apologies.
- Who spotted the little part of dialogue I included from Jane Eyre? I do see Anne Latimer as quite similar to Blanche Ingram for some reason.
- Christmas Carol songs: not even Silent Night was invented yet. The songtext of that one was written in 1816, the music was composed in 1818, and though it managed to reach New York by 1839, it was only published in 1833. Until then the Rainers had sung it since 1819 but without sheet music it wouldn't be that well known, not even in London. Oh Christmas tree was only written in Germany in 1824, the year of this fic, even though it was based on a 16th-century Silesian song.
-This version of 12 days of Christmas stems from 1780, it has undergone many changes since then.
_
More serious matters:
Irish women without fixed employment often became prostitutes for so called "dark jacks"(definitely not my term). All strangers did indeed end up living in the "south end" of Liverpool. More on the topic here stable/10.1086/424984?Search=yes&resultItemClick=true&searchText=liverpool&searchText=society&searchUri=%2Faction%2FdoBasicSearch%3Ffc%3Doff%26amp%3Bgroup%3Dnone%26amp%3Bwc%3Don%26amp%3BsearchType%3DfacetSearch%26amp%3Bdisc_britstud-discipline_facet%3DYnJpdHN0dWQtZGlzY2lwbGluZQ%253D%253D%26amp%3Bed%3D%26amp%3Bsd%3D%26amp%3Bacc%3Don%26amp%3BQuery%3Dliverpool%2Bsociety&ab_segments=0%2Fdefault-2%2Fcontrol&seq=7#metadata_info_tab_contents
- Black people in Britain in colonial times were either used as slaves, or became domestic servants to sea captains, wealthy merchants and members of british aristocracy. Other black settlers, such as the sons of african dignitaries or offspring of white masters from Caribbean plantations came to be educated. Since the abolition of slavery in 1807 their presence was of a different shape. They were often employed in companies like Elder Dempster shipping firm. But this company only came into existence after my story, so the name of the company I mentioned was an earlier one, which later lead to the creation of Elder Dempster. Liverpool had indeed been a strategical place during the British slave trade era. They had 90% of the slavetrade of all of Britain. At least 26 of Liverpool's mayors were or have been slave merchants or close relatives of them between 1700-1820. stable/2784734?Search=yes&resultItemClick=true&searchText=liverpool&searchText=during&searchText=the&searchText=early&searchText=19th&searchText=century&searchUri=%2Faction%2FdoBasicSearch%3FQuery%3Dliverpool%2Bduring%2Bthe%2Bearly%2B19th%2Bcentury&ab_segments=0%2Fdefault-2%2Fcontrol&refreqid=search%3A0754eddf295b5bf6b83a6ea2519e30e0&seq=12#metadata_info_tab_contents