14 | The First Advent

As a man born and bred in the north, he didn't notice the merciless cold in his office or his empty stomach. Jacket abandoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he worked until his ears and cheeks burned with cold, his fingertips numb, stomach hollow. This morning he'd lit the fire simply to thaw the ink in his desk, but now it lay long neglected. Winter was well under way, and Marlborough Mills still managed to keep her nose above water. But only just. He'd little time to worry over fires or food.

The angelus bell tolled in the distance, soon drowned out by the break whistle sounding for midday. John sat back in his chair and fumbled for his watch. He glanced up when two short knocks sounded on the office door.

"Come."

Margaret peeked in, a covered basket in her hand. Her mild smile contorted into an scolding frown. She glared at him. "Are you trying to freeze yourself to death, sir?"

He chuckled, suddenly aware of his own breath clouding around his face, and inclined his head, "Aye, madam, if it'll excuse me from the Hamper's Christmas ball."

Mrs Matthew Hamper gave a lavish private ball every year for the season, but she'd taken it into her head to host this year's Christmas dance in honour of the new Mrs John Thornton, making it impossible for either of them to decline. The topic of the ball had overtaken Fanny's every waking moment, and thus Margaret's as well.

"Has the dressmaker's caught fire?" He watched her mouth twitch. How he wished his wife would roll her eyes at him, just once, and prove she found the idea of a Christmas ball held in her honour equally distasteful. Thus far, she'd remained implacable and taciturn, everything that was politely interested. But it did not stop him from trying. "Why're you 'ere, if not to talk of parties and petticoats?"

"You've not eaten today." She set the basket on his desk. "And I came to tell you what I want for Christmas." She turned immediately to the grate and crouched, adding coal to the smoldering ashes. "I was going to ask what you would like as well, but since you seem incapable of keeping a healthy fire, I've since determined to knit you fingerless gloves and a new muffler."

"I've no need of that," He frowned and stood, deftly moving the coal scuttle from her reach and taking the poker gently from her fingers. Nothing made him more uncomfortable than watching her tend to a task he'd neglected. "I told you before not to bother with a gift."

"Indeed." She didn't argue or scold any further, but her expression told him she would do as she pleased in this. Just as she continued to bring him luncheon every day, in spite of his protests. The fire soon danced cheerfully.

"So," He returned to his seat, rolling down his sleeves and buttoning his shirt cuffs. The black mourning band lay stark against the white, just above his elbow. He wore it still, for her. She would wear all black until the end of December. He'd never disliked the colour more. "Tell me what it is you want."

"For you to eat." He bit back a sharp reply at her untiring persistence. He held her gaze until she dropped her eyes. "I don't mean to meddle in your affairs, but—"

"You do." She'd taken the death of her friend and her mother hard. Too hard. He understood her grief, but he disliked being fussed over. "If I choose to leave my lunch, it's because I've little time to eat it," he repeated. She looked up through her eyelashes as he pulled the basket across the desk and removed the cheese and bread inside.

Her lips twitched, "Thank you, husband."

"What of your Christmas gift, wife? Out with it."

She took a measured breath, "I want you to give Nicholas Higgins a job."

His brows snapped together. "That union rabble?"

"Please, John, just listen."

He shifted his shoulders, but he held his peace, and nodded.

"I'm not asking for him, but for six orphan children in his care." As a local magistrate, he knew the gruesome details of Thomas Boucher's suicide, but he didn't interrupt. Her face glowed with earnest energy. He was pleased to see her looking so lively once more. When she finished, folding her hands in satisfaction, he blew out a sharp breath and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

"So, you're wantin' this as your gift, are you?"

She nodded. "Please."

"No."

"What?" Her face fell, and then hardened, her eyes sparking with anger. "Why can't you—"

"Wait a moment," he held back a smile, strangely gratified with her spirited response. "Let me speak my own piece afore you run off in a temper, wife."

She blushed slightly, pressed her lips together, and nodded.

"A man like Higgins wouldn't accept a job, even if I offered 'im one. Such an offer would be offensive to a man who's not been askin'."

"But Mary told me he's been looking for work. If no one will hire him, how—"

He raised a finger, "I didn't say I wouldn't take 'im on. I said I won't offer until 'e asks me." He saw a plan form in her eyes before he finished speaking.

She reached across the desk, clasping his hand in hers. "But you will hire him? If he asks you?"

"Aye."

Her face lit up, a smile blossoming around the corners of her mouth. She rose quickly, stepped around the desk, and pressed a soft smiling kiss to his lips. "Thank you, John." And then she was gone, in a whirl of black skirts.

He sat for half a beat and stared after her. Then he tugged off his cravat and unbuttoned his collar. Perhaps it was the fire, the food, or her lingering kiss, but he was now far too warm.

Higgins turned up three days later, hat doffed, eyes lowered, but with a surly fire in his countenance. John wondered what his wife had told the man to convince him to set aside such fierce northern pride. He held back a smile at the thought. "What do you want?" He demanded without preamble. "Be quick about it. I've little time to spare."

"I've come ta ask fo' work," Higgins raised his head, almost defiant. "If you'll take me."

"Why should I do that?"

"I've six 'ungry bellies at 'ome and nothin' ta put in 'em. I need work," his face tightened, as if the words were painful, "and I'll take whatever you think is fair."

"Would you?" John challenged. "And what 'appens when you decide my wages are no longer fair?" He stood to his full height and folded his arms. "Your strike almost burned my mill to the ground. As it stands, I might still go under, and I've a family of my own to keep, not to mention the 'undreds of workers relyin' on me for jobs, and their families too. I need hard workers who'll not sabotage me at every turn." Higgins considered this, his jaw clenched. John suspected the man was clever, cleverer than most hands he dealt with. "I've never been less than honest and plain with my 'ands. I don't trust you. I don't like you."

"But?"

"But, I'll give a man a chance to prove 'imself, if 'e asks for it." He turned and seated himself. "You only get one, mind." He trimmed his pen and began to mark a ledger. "Go find Williams and 'e'll settle you." When Higgins didn't move, he looked up.

"Did your wife put you up ta this?" Higgins demanded, his face contorted with a mixture of anger, relief, and indecision. "Since you're a mind to be 'onest. Tell me plainly."

"Supposin' she did," he set his pen aside, "would it change your mind?"

"It takes a man's pride," Higgins hissed. "Takes it and makes 'im feel 'e's worth nothin' on 'is own merit."

"I promise I'll not keep you if you're worth nothin'. I'm offerin' you a chance, not charity."

"But would you even offer if she 'adn't a begged you?"

"She didn't beg," John growled, his voice a low rumble. "I care very much for my wife's 'appiness. She asked, and for 'er sake, and the sake o' the season, I'll give you work. Take it or not, just as you please."

They stared at each other, both tense and suspicious. John couldn't imagine taking on another man's children, especially not one like Boucher. But this man had and he grudgingly admired him for it. He understood why his wife took an interest in the union man. At last, Higgins sighed, "I suppose I'll be seein' Williams then. I'll even thank you," he tugged on his cap, "for 'er sake and the sake o' the season."

John extended his hand, holding back another wry smile, when the other man gave it a rough if reluctant shake.

He wasn't surprised to see the bright sliver of light under their door that night. She waited for him, propped up against the back of the bed, a book resting open in her lap. She looked up, expectant. He sat, picked up the book, and glanced down the page. Dickens.

"Mankind was my business," he read, his voice a low rumble, "The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business." He raised his eyes.

"It was my mother's favourite novel. I was eleven the first time we read it for Advent." She folded her hands tightly in her lap. "Well?"

"I 'ad a visit today." His lips quirked. He spoke slowly, drawing out his pleasure at her suspense. "I hope you like your gift, Mrs Thornton, seein' as I'm the one who'll be linvin' with it."

"He came?"

"Aye. Meddlesome woman."

"Very meddlesome." She pressed her lips together, but she couldn't hide her giggle of pleasure. "Surely you regret marrying me now, Mr Thornton?" It was meant as a jest, accompanied by a small laugh and a smile, but something in her eyes made him pause. A hint of something hidden, unspoken.

"No," he took her hands in his, pulling her closer, and kissed them. "I do not." She shivered and he smiled, his mouth still pressed against her knuckles. She gasped when she felt his tongue on her skin. "You're my wife," he turned her hands over and nudged them open with his nose, pressing a wet kiss to her palms. "And I'm content."

"Husband," she breathed against his ear as he moved his attention from her hands to her neck and shoulders, exploring her with his lips, teeth, and tongue. "It's late. We should..." His fingers dragged across cloth, finding heated skin underneath, "...sleep." He sucked in a rough breath. Her fingers pulled, untucked, and unbuttoned. "The ball..." She straddled his lap, strong and soft. "It's tomorrow..." she broke off, sighing as their bodies slid together.

"Devil take the damned ball."