Chapter 8

"Emma, I have been thinking," Margaret said the next day, as they sat in the teaching room together.

The girl, who had just finished her reading assignment, raised her blue eyes with a questioning look.

"Remember how you told me yesterday that you miss your Papa, because he rarely has time to speak with you?"

Emma nodded in confirmation, observing her governess carefully, as Margaret carried on:

"I thought that, even though he is so busy, he may have time to read something you have written to him. If you composed a little letter to tell him about your day, maybe even drew a picture for him, he could read it in his own time when he is finished with his work. This way you could share your thoughts with him, and he would have something of yours to treasure after a long day at the mill."

Emma stared at her for a long moment. Then, a wide smile spread across her face.

"Oh, Miss Margaret!" she exclaimed, jumping up from her chair excitedly and rushing over to the writing desk where they kept pieces of paper and writing materials.

"This is a brilliant idea! I shall write to him immediately."

Without another moment's hesitation, she dipped her quill into the ink and began composing a letter.

She took her time, writing in her finest hand, occasionally pausing to think or ask Margaret about the spelling of a word.

When she was finished, she reached for her colourful crayons and began adorning the letter with tiny green vines and flowers.

Margaret sat quietly, feeling a mixture of joy and pain, as she watched the child pour all of her little heart into the letter. Would it be enough to break through a shell even as hard as Mr Thornton's?

She prayed it would, for she did not know whether she would be able to bear the girl's disappointment if this was not received in the way she hoped.

Eventually, Emma carefully folded the letter and sealed it before placing it on the desk in front of her to look at it in nervous anticipation.

"When will I give it to him, Miss Margaret? Oh, I wish I could give it right away!"

"I think it best to wait for the right moment," Margaret told her gently. "As tempting as it may be to run over to the mill now, I think the best time would be after dinner. He will be finished with his work of the day and will have time to read it without interruption."

Emma pondered this for a moment, notably disappointed at having to wait for so many hours; but finally, she decided that it would be for the best.

For the rest of the day, the girl seemed preoccupied, barely able to concentrate and during her studies, her eyes kept darting to the letter on the desk repeatedly.

Margaret, who could well imagine the child's predicament, did not comment on her lack of enthusiasm for geography and arithmetic.

Eventually, after too many hours, it was time for dinner, and as Emma followed her Aunt Fanny downstairs into the dining room, her little hands nervously clutched the letter to her chest.

John Thornton had had a long day. He had barely slept the night before and thus had been overtired and irritable, repeatedly lashing out at his mill hands, only to catch himself a moment too late and quietly regret having let his temper get the better of him.

The mill was thriving with new investors showing interest and the demand for its products rising at a speed that made it challenging to meet all orders. He was thinking of expanding the factory, but all of this meant a lot of work, requiring him to put in extra hours.

During dinner, his mind was still preoccupied with a business meeting he had attended that afternoon, and he only half-listened to Fanny talking about the flower arrangements for her pending wedding.

Emma remained mostly silent, as was required of her; but, had anyone chanced a closer look at her, they would have noticed how uncommonly restless she appeared, anxiously swinging her legs under the table and shooting her father more than one flustered look.

Finally, their last plates were cleared away, and Fanny rose to retire to the drawing room, indicating to Emma to come with her. The girl practically jumped up from her seat, but did not follow her aunt to the door right away.

Instead – to Fanny's astonishment – she quickly dashed along the dining table to where her father was sitting, looking at a letter that Hanson, their butler, had just handed to him on a silver plate.

"Papa?"

He raised his eyes to her, a bit taken aback at her unusual approach. "Yes?"

For a moment, he dared look into her face, something he rarely did, at least not at such close proximity.

She had grown, he realised, her face a spitting image of himself as a boy. She appeared to be on edge, looking almost afraid as she held out something to him with a trembling little hand.

He looked down to see a piece of paper, folded and sealed. "What's this?" he asked, as he took it from her carefully.

"It's a letter I wrote for you," she told him shyly. "Will you read it? P-please?"

He turned it around in his hand before looking up at her again in surprise, unsure of his reply. Why would she write him a letter, he wondered. It seemed a bit odd.

But he saw the apprehension on her face and could not bring himself to disappoint her. "Yes, I shall read it. Thank you."

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Emma's face split into the happiest smile he could ever remember having seen on her.

"Oh, thank you, Papa!" she exclaimed, excitedly jumping up and down, and her small hands reached out to grasp his lower arm for a moment. Her eyes were so full of joy that it rendered him momentarily speechless.

"Come now, dear," Fanny's voice interrupted the scene. "Miss Margaret will be waiting for us in the drawing room, and your Papa still needs some time to read his letters."

Emma's face fell a bit, but she sought his eyes with hers once more. There was a warm glow in them. "Goodnight, Papa. Thank you for reading my letter!"

"Goodnight," he murmured. Then the door fell closed behind them, and he sat there, alone.

With slightly trembling hands, he broke the seal – she had taken such care with it – and unfolded it to find two sheets of paper.

One held some child-like handwriting, neat and tidy, but still a bit unsteady, giving away the fact that she had only recently learned to write.

The letter was framed with leafy tendrils, lovingly drawn, with much attention to detail. It must have taken her some time to do it.

The other sheet was a drawn picture of a colourful, flowery meadow.

On it stood three people: a man, in a dark coat, with black hair; a woman in a green dress, with brown curls around her head; and between them, a little girl in a bright yellow dress, with a little hat and flowers in her hand.

They were surrounded by half a dozen small figures with wings, some hovering in the air, some apparently dancing across the meadow.

Fairies, he realised, letting his gaze rest on the drawing for a moment before putting it down on the table and picking up the letter, to read:

Dear Papa,

I am writing to tell you about my day.

I had toast with marmalade for breakfast. It was quite delicious. Then I practised my reading with Miss Margaret. My favourite book is about fairies.

I think where Miss Margaret grew up, there must be many fairies, because there is a big forest and many fields with flowers.

I wish we could go there to see it. I drew a picture for you. It shows you and me and Miss Margaret enjoying a day out in the sun. It took me almost an hour to draw it. I hope you will like it.

In the afternoon, we will go for a walk. We often go to the park. Sometimes we also go down to the river. There are ducks there, and Miss Margaret brings some bread, so we can feed them. The little ones always come to us to be fed.

I hope you have a nice day.

I love you, Papa.

Yours truly,

Emma

There was a strange pressure on John's chest, as his eyes moved along the few lines once more, and then a third time, unable to stop himself.

He could not quite place the emotion he was experiencing. It was foreign to him.

Finally he tore his gaze away, folded both the letter and the drawing carefully, and put them into the breast pocket of his coat. Then, he sat in silence, as the minutes slowly ticked by.

It had been her doing – Miss Hale's.

He did not know how he knew, but he was sure of it. What had been her intention behind it, he could not say. If it had been to throw him off balance once more, she had most certainly succeeded.

John did not join the women in the drawing room that night. He retired to his bedroom at an hour that was uncommonly early for him.

Sitting in a chair by the window, he reached for Emma's letter once more.

He sat and held it until the candle on the bedside table had burned down, until his eyes drifted closed, and his chin slowly sank toward his chest.

And even in his sleep, he did not let go.