Rushing home through the mud proved messy work, and in their haste, the Thornton's did not wait for a coach. John was content to stay, and thought it would be more sensible to do so, as a strong pounding of rain had begun, but Margaret thought it better to walk—after all, they were not made of sugar, and there might be something suspicious at home; Dixon would require an explanation. Perhaps it was their mutual curiosity at this strange thing, or that they worried for the children that made them dash so, like two magpies through the murky soup that had become the Milton high street. They knew that Slickson would never touch the boys, and that Dixon would sooner defend them with her life than risk kidnap, but all rational thought seems to flee in a moment of parental concern, and by the time the couple reached home, basket still under John's arm the pair were soaking. The downpour had gotten worse as they fled, and it only hastened their tread, the spring shower leaving its dribbles and drips on lips, noses, foreheads and hats.
At the door Margaret paused, protected by the upstairs balcony, and wiped her face, brushing water from her coat and bonnet. John did similarly, and they entered the house carefully, as if expecting booby traps or some such unpleasantness. Instead, as the two moved noisily into the house and wandered into the parlor, they found a piano forte, placed in the center of the room, its ivory keys glistening in the shifting light, as if some invisible hand was playing scales unevenly across its beautiful face. Black and white, black and white they danced, and the top, dark mahogany, was inlaid with a large rose arrangement, exotic woods standing in relief against their partners.
It was truly a thing of beauty, and something to behold, but as she gazed at it, her mind grew angry, and the injustice leveled against them seemed to deepen and become even more ridiculous. A girl, nay, two, had been victimized by James Slickson, and now, in the midst of a brewing scandal, they thought gifts would erase the sins of the son and the shame of the father.
It wouldn't work, but Margaret still felt herself horrified, as she found the gift not as repugnant as mesmerizing. John laughed when he saw it, and turned away, unlacing his muddy boots. He never cared much for the arts, other than to read and listen to music and did not appreciate the glorious machine as Margaret did, but she supposed his attraction to cog wheels and industrial fans would have had the same effect had they been presented to him. Of course they would not; John was still and ever would be, the enemy, and therefore no business advantage could be afforded.
With trembling fingers Margaret pretended to ignore the new detail, and went upstairs where she found Dixon cooing the boys to sleep. They did not see their mother, and she smiled warmly at her maid before descending the stairs where she found John still sitting on the entryway bench, peering at her with a wry expression. It was half amused, half mischievous.
"Come now," he smirked, standing and placing two hands on her shoulders, "I saw the way you looked at it. Should I be jealous? You have not looked at me so since we first married."
"Oh!" Margaret exclaimed lowly, so it would not wake the children. "It is just so lovely, don't you think so?"
"Aye," John shrugged, "but you know as well as I that is to pay for blood."
"Of course we could never keep it," Margaret stared, "but…do you think…perhaps I might play it, just once—to hear it I mean? It seems a real shame to just let it sit there…all forlorn…"
John sighed and let go of her, retiring to a seat by the fire.
"Well, go ahead Maggie, and make it a good one." Margaret smiled back, and sat on the bench, her fingers grazing the keyboards, caressing them lovingly, as one would do to something they knew they shouldn't have, and must return.
She began a few tentative bars, but soon launched into Scarborough Fair with eyes half closed, entranced by the sound.
John watched her as she played; she could feel his eyes on her back, and slowly, he hummed the chorus. She loved the sound of his voice, and somehow this simple thing had made her fall for him all over again, a man after her own heart.
When she finished, she stood and pushed herself away, mentally rejecting the instrument before her. With a sheepish look at John, she sat down beside him, her head on his shoulder, away from the piano. One hand came up and stroked her hair, and she closed her eyes.
"Look at all this trouble, eh?" John said, more to himself than her.
"Yes, I suppose there has been a lot," Margaret replied.
"I still want to catch James, you know that Maggie?" John asked, "I knew men like him as a lad and I never wanted to see what they did happen to anyone. Those rich boys know nothing, and believe they can hide behind their fathers… They make damn fools and worse parents." There was an edge of bitterness in his voice and he whispered the last part, as if ashamed.
"You never told me about your father," Margaret said quietly, eyes on the fireplace which stood dormant, even in the cold.
"You thought that was about him?" John asked, but continued quickly, "well I suppose you never heard the whole story. Not from my mother or Fanny at any rate. You know our circumstances have changed many times, but once we were very wealthy, more so than now even. We grew up in such luxury, you would not know we were the children of young money; the chits of a second generation wool merchant, brought up in the world by his father. He had airs, aye, and the habit of making more of himself than he ever had the right to. Seeing him you would have believed him to be the Queen's nephew or some relation to a great house. Mother, who was the sensible one, kept him in line but even her good humor and fortitude could not save us from him. She met him when she was the daughter of a doctor, and since their social climbing had been accepted, she was permitted to see him. They fell in love, and he I believe he used her.
She was not always so hard, Maggie. She once was beautiful and sweet, and she worshipped him. Perhaps that is what hurts. She loved him so and then, against her wishes he entered a speculation with disreputable banker and lost it all. He went mad, and Mother did her best to keep us from him—he wasn't Bedlam mad, but depressed. When they came to take the house, he left, not saying a word to me or Fanny and the next morning while we stayed with my Aunt we received the news. They found him lying on the floor of an opium den, wrists slit with the penknife I gave him for Christmas."
"Oh Lands, John, that's dreadful!" Margaret cried, looked up into his face, which was stone. "You cannot be serious."
"Is it not ironic?" John laughed humorlessly, shaking his head, "I never thought he would do such a thing, and with something that I gave him. I thought he did it as a statement of hate against me, but I see now, with my own sons that he did it imagining it was for the betterment of his children, and used the knife as a reminder of us—so he could make himself do it."
"John," Margaret sat up and threw her arms around his neck, "I am sorry, I wish I could say something."
"You listened to the story," John cupped her face, his fingers warm on her cheeks, "and you married me, despite my imperfections. We have two beautiful children… that is enough."
Margaret's eyes welled with tears and she kissed him gently, letting him know she understood.
When they pulled apart he gave her a little lopsided smile, and smoothed a stray strand of hair from her eyes.
"Now, you must understand me," John said slowly, "and know why I want this justice. Men like him only cause trouble, and if it is not curbed quickly, they become the worst type of creature. Someone should have shaken my father, and told him to be sensible, but no one ever did, and now we have the chance to rein in Slickson and his wicked boy."
"I hope you are right," Margaret replied, "but the constables have had no luck in convincing Mary to testify, and everyone's stories are so contradictory."
"Then you must convince her," John said, "she needn't fear you, and with her going to school so soon she would never need to confront her old chums again."
"I suppose…" Margaret paused, "but can I say anything, legally I mean?"
"Yes," John nodded, "and you should. Chances will be that you will have to testify to the bribes given you by Slickson and then to Mary's words when you met her in the kitchen."
"So we will manage the bribes by handing them over to the constabulary," Margaret replied, "that will be good. Do you think he got to Slater too?"
"It is a crime to bribe an officer of the court, but I suppose we can never be too sure with that man. I pray to Jesus he did not, or that Slater did not choose to take it."
Margaret nodded, mulling over Slater's character. Would he, or wouldn't he?
AN: We just broke 80 reviews! Yeah! Love you all! More to come soon, I think I have an idea of how I want this to go!