It was nearing Christmas and the end of Fanny's second confinement that Nicholas announced he was to wed. To the Thornton's shock and pleasure, he came one blustery night for dinner and as they were discussing Mary's prospects to return to school.
"Aye, I've been alone too long. I'll never get Bess back an' with Mary goin' away I figured, well Nick, you best be getting on."
"Oh Nickolas," Margaret caught his eye sympathetically, "she'd want you to be happy. Your wedding would make her very joyful indeed. Do we know the lucky woman?"
"I reckon not, but mind you my circle has changed quite a bit since I've been associatin' with you tofts," Nicholas grinned to himself and regarded his companions lovingly, "her name is Jinny Ward. Once married an' widowed like myself, she un' her son moved here from Scotland after the father caught sick an' died. Bought the draper's shop, she did."
"Oh her!" Margaret exclaimed, "I take all my dresses to her. She does lovely work!"
"I reckon she does," Nicholas glowed from the praise, "an' with her son Tristan behind her at the University, I think she'll do quite well. He's in London right now, but will come back when we marry."
"Does Mary know?" Margaret asked.
"Do I know what Missus?" Mary came around the corner with a rag and pewter cup in hand. She brought with her the strong, metallic smell of silver polish. When she saw her father, however, she carefully placed the cup and rag on the vestibule and perched on his knee. Both Thornton's smiled warmly at this display. Mary was, after all, not just the staff, but the daughter of a great friend.
"I told them I'm gettin' married," Nicholas beamed.
"Oh yes!" Mary nodded, "I won't be at college yet, so I'm helpin' plan."
"Marvellous!" Margaret said, "Though I do think I will miss you."
"No Missus! I'll be at every shift until the wedding!"
"Heavens, Mary!" Margaret smiled, "don't you worry about that. We will survive if you need to leave."
"Thank you missus," Mary replied, glancing down at her father, "have you told them about Tristan?"
"Aye, little one," Nicholas nodded.
"He's helping pay for the wedding, and promised that we'd all get new dresses! He's so wonderful, Missus. He'll be a good brother, I know it."
"Well I hope so," John said, mock-sternly, "if he isn't, you know where to come."
"Oh John, don't scare her!" Margaret laughed, "I am sure he is lovely, Mary."
"They are both good folk," Nicholas took his daughter's hand, "an' it will be a fine affair."
"Good show," John said appreciatively, "cigar to celebrate, Higgins?"
"Aye, Aye," Nicholas stood up and the men went to the parlor to smoke, saying goodbye to Margaret. Pleased, she went up the stairs and picked up her knitting beside Richard's crib. The youngster was asleep and Owen in his own bed, Dixon reading him a story. She had gone there first and said goodnight to her eldest child, promising to come back in the morning.
Now, sitting in the candlelight, knitting a sweater for Fanny's new baby, she thought about Bessy. It had been so many years since her death now, and though Mary did not much resemble her, she had her eyes. Her square, boyish face had even begun to change, and in its transformation she was becoming beautiful, as Bessy was in her own way. Her mind waned nostalgic, and she thought of the day they sat, exchanging lace and talking about their lives. She had loved Bessy, truly as she would love a sister, and the loss of such a precious soul burdened her own. If she let Mary leave, and Nicholas married, she would no longer have her link to that dear old friend, and it pained her to imagine, though she knew she must let them go.
Just imagining how much Bessy would have loved her father's wedding made tears spring into her eyes, and she put down her knitting, covering her face in her hands. She did not want to make noise and wake the baby, but could not leave. It was a private sort of moment, and in the dark she felt she would not worry John. Nicholas was likely still downstairs, and did not wish to bring up painful old memories.
Still it was good, she reasoned, wiping her face with her handkerchief with a half-smile. She would throw herself into the wedding and help as much as she dared. The boys would dress in their best and she would keep the suit she bought for Owen. He would still fit in, God willing as he grew so fast, and now that he had begun to walk, was almost impossible to catch and make presentable. He was a handsome little boy, and the favorite of his father. Such a little troublemaker, Dixon was forever chasing him and muttering that he was just like his mother, not at all the sainted child dear Fredrick had been.
Robert was also doing well, and he had grown into a healthy, beautiful baby. He was his brother's constant companion, and Owen did his best to drag the almost one year old around in his wagon when he went out with his father or toddled about the house, much to the amusement of his family. They were touched by the closeness, and Margaret suspected it was due to his father's constant reminders that "your little brother is your job, son. You have to look out for him."
John was a good father, just as she had always hoped, and now with Nickolas's marriage, would be able to spend more time with her and the children. Nickolas would be no doubt promoted to manage the old mill, as John still had work to do on the new, and he would have the money to support Mary.
Speaking of Mary, the girl herself knocked lightly on the nursery door, waited a moment, and came in at Margaret's invitation, smiling and twisting her apron excitedly. It was an old habit, one that Dixon constantly lamented and commented on, but it was still sweet.
"Ma'am, there's a dance tonight and I was wondering—if I could—please may I go?"
"Of course!" Margaret stood and put down her knitting, "do you have something nice to wear?"
"I think so ma'am," Mary grinned, "I'm taking Bessy's old dress, the green one with the ruffles."
"Oh Mary, come with me," Margaret sighed, "You forgot the rip in the sleeve. Have you mended it?"
"I can't remember," Mary shrugged, "my stitching isn't very good."
"I know," Margaret chuckled, "you'll be the death of Dixon. I was never very good at that either." Margaret led the girl down the hall and brought her to the attic where a large leather-bound trunk sat in the corner.
"Take this," she said, pulling a modest linen cream and white gown from the trunk. "I wore it before I married, back when my waist was as tiny as yours." Mary took the gown, and Margaret grinned at the incredulous look on her face.
"Oh, try it on!" Margaret said, shooing Mary down the stairs and to her room. Mary ducked behind her changing screen, and when she came out Margaret gasped. The awkward young girl had become an attractive young lady, the dress fitting almost perfectly, but upon noticing the sag in the chest, Margaret came over and adjusted the arms, finding that once she had the gown hung in the right places.
"What do you think?" she asked, gauging Mary's reaction as she stared into the full length mirror near the bed.
"Oh Missus, you're my fairy godmother!" giggled Mary, "I promise not to damage it!"
"It's a gift," Margaret laughed, "just make sure it lasts till you go away, you'll need it when you go out with your new friends!"
"I will! And it will!" Mary nodded. Margaret fixed her hair, and the young lady went to the dance, passing a surprised John and a dazzled Nickolas in the parlor.
"Is that you, Mary?" Nickolas stood and took his daughters hands.
"She's going to the dance tonight," Margaret smiled, "doesn't she look lovely?"
"Aye," both men agreed at the same time. Mary blushed scarlet, and Margaret helped her into her coat, patting her cheek as she shooed her out the door.
"Have fun tonight," she said, "but remember, work starts at eight tomorrow." With a mock-stern look Margaret closed the door, and was surprised by a hug from Nickolas, who when they separated, said,
"You're a good lass. You've made her very happy."
"Well," Margaret shrugged, "I think she has more than earned it. You have a sweet daughter, Nickolas. If I have a girl, I hope she'll be as kind." With this, she went to pat John's hand, and he looked down at her from his great height, a fond look on his face. Together they all shared another glass of wine, and when Nicholas's eyelids began to droop and the conversation waned, he excused himself and they called for the coachman to take him home. He insisted against it, claiming that it was a nice enough night for a walk, but Margaret would hear none of it, assuring him that it was easy enough to rouse the horses and that their driver, a Mr. Welcher, was up late every night anyways working on his hobby carving fanciful figurines from scrap wood.
Eventually Nicholas agreed, and with his departure Margaret, checking to see no one was looking took a scandalous seat on the arm of her husband's chair. With excited fingers she smoothed the hair away from his eyes and he took her hand, kissing her wrist.
"Oh won't this be wonderful!" Margaret exclaimed, "a wedding will be so nice, especially now, when it's so bleak out."
"Aye," John agreed, "and it will serve me well too. As a man settled, he will take over the old mill, and I will be able to focus on our new venture."
"And Mary will have more than enough money for school," Margaret said, "and even extra to spare, with her scholarship."
"True," John replied, "though, to be honest, I never took her to be very bright. Hard working, aye, but no scholar."
"She's going to be a teacher, John. She only needs to know how to manage little ones. I daresay that will be very difficult. Besides, she'll make some man very happy—she cooks like an angel."
"You mean Cook does, and she gives Mary the credit," John chuckled with a sideways glance at his little wife. She laughed, and settled closer.
"You know she means well," Margaret sighed, "but the house will be so empty once she is gone. I'm sure the boys will miss her as well."
"The boys will be fine," John assured her, "they have us, and that's good enough. Don't worry dear, things will work out for the best."
"I know," Margaret looked down at her lap, playing with her ring.
John shifted slightly and stood up, yawning behind his hand. "Right, well Maggie, I'm off to bed," and to her inquiring look, "It's been a long trying day, I'll tell you about it tomorrow."
"But nothing fatal?" Margaret replied, half-teasing.
"No, of course not," John shook his head, "Just hiccups. It always takes some working-out when you start anew."
"Oh," Margaret shrugged. "Well then, I have some reading I'd like to do. I'll be up shortly."
"Suit yourself," John kissed her cheek and departed up the stairs.
Taking an old copy of Homer's Odyssey, Margaret leafed through the pages, finding her father's neat, linear handwriting and underlined lines. In truth she read it because it reminded her of him, and in the story she felt a certain warm familiarity that did not keep her from her imagination, but improved it greatly.
More than an hour passed, and when she was just about to mark her page, she heard Mary come in the servant's door, shuffling and fumbling with her boots. Curious, Margaret opened the pantry door and peered in. Mary appeared, her head bent, hair falling out of pins, and red faced, as if she had been crying.
"Mary, are you well?" Margaret asked, rushing to the girl's side.
"Yes, yes, ma'am." She would not meet Margaret's eye.
"You're lying to me," Margaret admonished gently, "what happened tonight? Did you enjoy yourself?" At this Mary abandoned her half-laced boots and covered her face in her hands, sobbing.
"I—," Mary stuttered, "we—we went there, but our chaperone didn't come. I thought of coming straight home, but I wanted to dance so—so I stayed and after—after—," Mary broke down again and Margaret took her shaking shoulders to steady the child.
"What happened then?" Margaret began to feel rather ill, and was sure she would not like the answer to this query.
"Some—some of our friends from school, Eddy and them, told us to come to the pub. They said we were going to play a game."
"Oh dear," Margaret said more to herself than the trembling Mary.
"It wasn't a fun game Missus," Mary squeezed her eyes shut, "and I said I didn't want to play, but everyone wanted to and I told my friend I was leaving. They wouldn't let me."
"Who were your friends?" Margaret asked, anger rising in her belly, "John will see to them."
"No!" Mary cried, "Please no. No one can know. Papa won't let me leave, and he'll never trust me again."
"What happened wasn't your fault," Margaret tried to assure her, "you weren't to blame."
"But that's the thing!" Mary wailed, large, terrified eyes on her mistress, "I played the game, and now—now he's dead!" Out of her pocket, Mary slipped a small penknife, covered to the hilt with blood.
Margaret had never sworn in her life, but at that moment she did. "Sweet Mother Mary! What did you do!?"
"He tried to—he was—he wanted me and I was so scared. I didn't know what to do, so I told him to leave me alone or he'd get it. He didn't listen and they held me down, and I screamed and when I had a hand free found Papa's knife; he said to use it if I needed—a-an' I stabbed him with it!"
"What did the others do?" Margaret went white with fear.
"They got scared a-an' ran! They said to leave him."
"What did you do?" Margaret asked, eyes large.
"I ran! I ran back here. Oh missus I'm so frightened!"
"Are you sure the boy is dead?" Margaret asked, standing and hastily taking Dixon's bonnet from her peg.
"He has to be," Mary sobbed, "else he'll find me. He can't find me! I thought he liked me, and that it was odd he came up to me in public, but he did and…" Mary went silent and clutched her cloak tight to her shoulders.
"Who was this boy?" Margaret asked.
"James Slickson!" Mary bawled.
"Oh my God. Mary, are you sure?"
"Yes! He said he loved me at first, but we couldn't tell you. I trusted him, but tonight he got drunk and said you took his family's money, so he would have me to—to compensate."
"Oh my God," Margaret repeated, dazed. "I have to tell John."
"No!" Mary clutched Margaret's wrist so hard with her pale fingers that her nails dug into skin.
"He'll find out eventually," Margaret sighed. "Perhaps he'll know what to do."
Mary's fingers relaxed slightly, and Margaret gave her a stern look. "Stay here, I'll be back soon."
With that she took to the stairs, went to her room and told John what had happened. He had a similar reaction to his wife, and with rushed fingers, donned his coat, shoes and a hat.
"We need to get a constable to find the boy," John barked at Dixon, who had come, groggy-faced and unpleasant, from her room. "He might still be saved."
Dixon half-bowed and fled, her heeled footsteps echoing like dropped pennies on the cobbles. Next John went to Mary and questioned her with Margaret close at hand. He did not accuse or admonish her, but offered the terrified girl a cup of tea.
"You need to remember, Mary, that if he dies, you'll be charged with his murder. I am not trying to frighten you, but rather inform. I know you defended yourself, but no jury will blame him."
"He attacked me!" Wailed Mary, balling her fists in anger.
"I know, but this is the way of the world," John sighed. "I need witnesses. Perhaps they will substantiate your claim."
"Eddy Burns," Mary began, "and Vera Lawson and James and Kal Painter."
"Where can I find them? Good girl, breathe." Mary gave John the addresses, and John paused.
"Where is the weapon?" Mary handed him the knife and he pocketed it carefully in a handkerchief.
"What will happen to me?" Mary asked, looking five years younger and much more vulnerable than her seventeen years in the flickering gaslight.
"I don't know," John replied truthfully, "but we will settle this. Dixon will call your father, but we won't tell him what happened to you, is that understood? We don't need him chasing those boys down himself." Mary nodded rapidly, John continued, "We will tell him you were in a situation tonight, and you defended yourself. There is no need to inflame this worse. Margaret, care for Mary. I will meet the constables at the courthouse. When they summon Mary, I will call for you and you will bring her."
"Yes, of course," Margaret said, her heart wound like a spring about her lungs. John left then, and it was in the hours of terrified stillness that followed that Margaret and Mary sat, silent and horrified in that little kitchen, their lives riding on the word of the constable.
Margaret jumped when Dixon came rushing back, puffing and out of breath.
"He'll live, Missus!" The spring bounced out in a sigh and Margaret took Mary in her arms, clutching the youth as she cried in relief. Just behind her entered Nicholas, and he took over for Margaret in one smooth movement, gathering his daughter up in a tender, wordless embrace.
There was several minutes, and the question hung, unsaid, on everyone's lips.
What next?
AN: Sorry for the beastly delay, I just couldn't make up my mind on how I wanted this to go. Now I've decided. What do you think? Should Mary be convicted, or her charges dropped? Justice for Mary? R&R!