Despite her best efforts, Margaret was never able to shake her anxiety over Frederick entirely. Her father's stunned reaction when she told him what she had done had not given her much consolation. Although he had recovered from the shock and assured her of his gratitude that she would do so much for her mother, he could not help mentioning the great danger Frederick would be in if discovered.
"All these years since the mutiny?" she grasped at a hope.
"Yes, oh yes. The navy spares no expense to search out mutineers. They send out ships, scour the seas to find those who would challenge their authority, and the length of time since the offense is no deterrent. It is a fresh and vivid crime that may as well have been committed yesterday."
"Oh, papa, it seemed right at the time, and I'm sure Frederick would run the risk."
"So he should. But we will do our best for him when he does come. We will know what to do to keep Frederick safe."
So for the time being, they went on as ever before, and Mrs. Hale grew weaker. But never did she forget each day to ask Margaret how long it had been since she wrote, if Frederick was likely to have received her letter by now, or if he could perhaps be on his way to them. Margaret did her best to temper her mother's frail eagerness for fear it would speed her to the grave. She deliberately misspoke the calculations of time and chance so Mrs. Hale was less likely to be disappointed if Frederick did not appear at the earliest moment. Mrs. Hale's illness was so advanced now, she had not noticed the change in dates Margaret gave her. But still she insisted on being brought to the drawing room; she had begun to hate the walls of her own room and wanted to be able to receive her son properly.
Margaret found very few moments of happiness during the next few weeks, as weighed down by care as she was. Her mother and Bessy deteriorated before her very eyes, her father was himself faint-hearted and was too afraid and sorrowful to give her much comfort, her anxiety for Frederick loomed over her, she was growing weary of the household duties she was forced into overseeing, and she saw Mr. Thornton only rarely.
It was not his fault that he had not much time to spare for them; Marlborough Mills had opened and was running again, and he was kept away from Crampton more often by having to work all hours. But he did his best, she knew, and came as often as he could to visit the Hales in the evenings. His deep and rich voice had a calming effect on Mrs. Hale's fidgets and Mr. Hale was as grateful as ever for his company. Because Mr. Thornton had no time to spare during the day, much of their talk was intellectual, for both missed their lessons together.
And yet, as little as Margaret saw him and participated in the discussions when he did come, it was at those times that she was able to forget her worries over Frederick and truly enjoy herself. Mr. Hale was interested in knowing how the work was going now that the workers had returned, and Margaret was no less curious. One evening the subject had returned to the strike and Mr. Hale inquired if anything had been discovered of the ringleaders of the riot, and what Mr. Thornton would do if they were caught.
"Well," he replied with a glance toward Margaret, who made no bones about how intently she was listening. "Now that the strike is over, I see no point in prosecution against them. They did wrong, but their lives are hard enough without the fear of the law on them. Their names are known, which I'm sure will make it difficult for them to get employment. I can't think of any who would give such men work. That alone will be severe enough punishment. To do more than that would be beyond seeking justice, and I hope I am not so vindictive."
As Mr. Hale spoke his approval of such actions, Mr. Thornton had given her a sidelong glance to see the approval in her smile, which must be admitted to mean more to him than Mr. Hale's words.
But it was not only the conversation to be had when he came that brought her happiness. In fact, it meant very little when compared to the secret smiles they exchanged and the subtle ways he found to show her some attention. One evening she made a game of dropping her sewing simply to see how long he would be in picking it up for her. It was never very long. They hardly touched except for when they shook hands, but another evening, he had offered to help her serve the tea things, and as her hand rested idly on the table, he dropped his warm hand on top of it for a brief moment. Her impish grin at such behavior was enough to occupy his heart for the rest of the evening.
As much as they tried to conceal their unspoken flirtations, Margaret was sure that one day her father would notice. But she need not have concerned herself on such a thought, for even when Mr. Hale caught any poorly hidden hint of his daughter's and pupil's attachment to each other, he would dismiss it in a moment. He was only glad that they had become friends, after a fashion. Anything else beyond that he could not fathom.
On one such evening, Mr. Hale had been obliged to leave the drawing room on some private business, leaving Margaret and Mr. Thornton to attend to Mrs. Hale, who was having one of her better days. Mr. Thornton had been wise enough to engage her on the topic of her girlhood, and though she paused for breath fairly often, she clearly reveled in speaking of her glory days as Miss Beresford.
"My sister and I had such times at the assemblies, meeting the best people and dancing as often as we could. We so enjoyed dancing. I'm sure your Aunt Shaw escorted you to such assemblies, didn't she, Margaret?"
"To some, but not many. I was not overfond of how crowded it was, Mama, so hot and little room for dancing. At least not without jostling into everybody around you. It was very easy to be overlooked in such a crowd, so even had I wished to, I did not have much opportunity to dance."
"Indeed? Well, how times change, for I do not recollect any such deficiencies. In any case, you still had more occasion to dance in London than you have here."
Margaret laughed. "Now that is very true."
"Are you fond of dancing, then, Miss Hale?" he asked. Though in his private thoughts she was Margaret to him, he had continued for propriety's sake to call her "Miss Hale" in public.
"Yes, I suppose so. I always enjoyed it when I had the chance. Of course, many times my enjoyment was in direct proportion to how well I was partnered." She spoke with some meaning to her last words and was pleased to see the corners of his mouth deepen.
"When was the last time you danced, Margaret? I never got to see you," Mrs. Hale declared with some regret.
"There was a little dancing at Edith's wedding."
"Oh, I see. Something else I missed that day." She turned to Mr. Thornton, saying, "It is very hard, Mr. Thornton, to not be able to see your children growing up and enjoying themselves. It is very hard to feel you have missed so much." She seemed on the brink of tears, and Margaret was ready to spring to her side should she give way to grief. Mr. Thornton could only sit in compassionate silence. He knew that Mrs. Hale was regretting not only the missed past, but the future she would not behold.
However, Mrs. Hale did not succumb to her tears, but shook herself as a thought struck her. "Margaret, will you fetch the music box? It is on one of the shelves over there, I believe."
Margaret hastened to obey the request but with some confusion, wondering what was in her mother's mind. She retrieved the music box and laid it next to Mrs. Hale, who opened the lid. The box itself was not ornate, but the plain design of the wood glowed in the firelight. "Oh, you will need to wind it, Margaret. It has been too long since it was last used."
As Margaret took the key and wound the box, Mrs. Hale explained, "My sister Shaw gave this to us many years ago. I believe she bought it in Switzerland on one of her many travels. It is one of the few treasures we kept when we left Helstone, but I admit I have given it little thought." Margaret finished her task, and once more Mrs. Hale lifted the lid, and the tinkling sound of a waltz echoed through the room.
She smiled at the music for a moment, but Mrs. Hale's wish was not yet accomplished. "Will you dance for me, Margaret?"
"What?" Margaret asked, shocked and bewildered. "What can you mean, Mama?"
"Precisely what I said. I never was able to see you dance, and I wish to now."
"By myself?" she stuttered.
"Oh, no, of course not. You must dance with Mr. Thornton."
His face immediately went red. Although the idea of being able to hold Margaret in his arms appealed to him, there was not a man in England less suited for the purpose of dancing than he. He protested with some energy. "Mrs. Hale, you do not know my limitations, but dancing, I assure you, is one of them. You said yourself there is no occasion to dance in Milton, and that should give you some idea of how little I know about it."
"That is nonsense, Mr. Thornton. It is not so hard to turn about a room," Mrs. Hale responded kindly.
"But I am such a . . . lumbering fellow, I would be sure to do Miss Hale an injury."
Margaret was distracted from her own surprise at Mrs. Hale's request by her amusement at his discomfiture. She had seen Mr. Thornton in many states, even embarrassment, but nothing could compare to this. He was positively squirming and seemed ready to flee. In fact, she was sure she noticed his eyes dart to the doorway more than once during his protestations. But her humor was short-lived when she heard her mother's reply.
"Mr. Thornton, please do this courtesy for a dying woman. I will not ever see my daughter dance in an assembly as I once wished to, but I would very much like to see her dance even a little before I leave this world."
His words died in his throat, sobered as he was at her frank reference to her frailty. No, he would not deny her wish, no matter what mortification he brought upon himself. "Of course, ma'am. Just as you wish." As he stood, he pushed his chair closer to the wall, and Margaret, having no desire to argue further with her mother, did the same. The music box had continued its soft and sparkling music all through the exchange.
Taking her hand in his, he spoke quietly. "I hardly know at all how to do this."
His admission brought a smile to her somber face. "Then I will have to teach you." Without another word, she guided his free hand to her waist and then placed her own on his shoulder. "Now, listen. Do you hear the one-two-three, one-two-three? Just begin with your left foot and I will follow you. We don't have much room, so you do not have to worry about any grand turns. Just step in time to the music."
The hand at her waist gripped tighter, and she felt instinctively the gesture was borne out of nerves. She smiled again, which made him roll his eyes at himself. What a fool he felt, no matter how happy he was for the excuse to be near her. But she tapped the beat softly on his shoulder and bobbed her head with a patient air. And he could not forget that Mrs. Hale was waiting upon them. Margaret's voice came again, gently. "And . . . step-two-three." He followed her ordered time and fortunately did not blunder onto her toes as he had feared he would. Her counting subsided as they continued, and some of his confidence returned. She was right that the restricted space lessened any expectations of his prowess, and he relaxed as he began to enjoy the feel of her in his arms again. He even ventured to bring his eyes up from his feet to her face. She smiled at him, not any longer with amused pity, but with happy delight.
"Yes, that looks very well," Mrs. Hale said, prompting them to break their gaze and look at her. She sat back on the cushions with a mixture of contentment and regret. She had finally witnessed her daughter dancing, but she would never do so again. The thought brought the familiar tears to her eyes, but she did not want to give way to them just yet. She wanted Margaret to keep dancing, and she motioned quickly for them to stop paying her so much attention.
Dixon, curious by the sound of music, took herself to the drawing-room entryway and stood rooted to the spot. Before her was an unexpected tableau, the mistress sitting and watching the young miss dance with that tradesman! What had precipitated such conduct? She would only grudgingly admit how well the pair looked together, her easy grace complemented by his tall and handsome figure. But what could the smiles they bestowed on each other mean? There was more than met the eye in such a scene, and Dixon was not sure she liked it.
Margaret and John gave Dixon no thought at all, unconscious as they were of her arrival. Their smiles were only for each other and when the music box had run its course, they were only recalled to earth by Mrs. Hale making comment on the box needing to be wound again. They separated and he took his turn to wind the box, but they did not dance again, merely returning to their chairs. As the music played on, however, it served as a gentle reminder of their quiet moment of shared pleasure.
It was becoming harder for him to go several days without seeing Margaret. The work day passed more quickly than ever with the resumption of business, so much so that he was many times surprised by the full-dark around him when he finally allowed himself to rest. He had precious few minutes for himself, busy as he was, and he could hardly justify leaving in the middle of the day for his lessons. But ever since they had danced together and she was in his arms again, he was impatient, and he cast his mind about for any excuse to escape to Crampton.
He did not know what was different about this day, but while each day without seeing her was difficult, this morning had simply been unbearable. He could not concentrate on the matters before him, and his abstracted thoughts turned to her more often than usual. The result of this was that he was running himself mad. He must see her. And he would not even bother with a fabricated excuse as he abruptly stood and made his way out of the office.
Within a few minutes, he was beyond the mill gate, a book tucked in his arm. He had given his impulsive exit that much thought at least, in that if he was unsuccessful in seeing her right away, he could at least prolong his stay and increase any chance of seeing her if he was armed and ready to visit her father. He would not even feel terribly guilty about using Mr. Hale in such a ploy; his eagerness to see her was far too great to give much thought to anything else.
He walked so quickly that he was fairly out of breath when he knocked at the Hales' door. It was only when he heard Dixon's footsteps coming on the other side that he began to think he was perhaps foolish for coming so hastily. What if she should be away for a long while? What if he should not see her? He would have wasted a great deal of valuable time all on a foolhardy whim. But it was too late to change his mind, now Dixon had answered the door and was looking at him askance.
"Is Mr. Hale in?" he asked haltingly, hoping the book he carried would serve as proof of his innocent inquiry.
She only nodded and held the door wider for him to enter. The silent hall did nothing to relieve his awkward state, and he felt constrained under Dixon's watchful eye.
"You'll find Master in his study," she finally said, pointing to the familiar door that stood a little ajar. "I would inform him of your arrival, but I must attend to the mistress."
"Thank you, Dixon, I can manage it myself." He did not dare a friendly look to soften her cold tone, as sure as he was she would only sneer. As it was, she gave him a stiff nod and made her way back up the stairs. This did not bode well for him if Dixon's behavior was anything to judge the rest of his visit by.
He then realized voices were coming from the study. As he walked toward the door, he wondered that Dixon would not inform him of that.
" . . . And then there's Hamper, who first tells me of the fool I am, boxes me on the ear, and then hands me some book as though it'll make up for it all – he's lucky I don't spit in his face." The voice was unknown to him, but the tenor of his conversation quickly informed Mr. Thornton of the kind of man sitting with Mr. Hale.
"No doubt Mr. Hamper's way of speaking to you was wrong, but it is unfortunate that you insist on speaking of your difficulties as a war that cannot be gotten over," Mr. Hale's placating voice filtered through the door. "I'm sure that sitting down and talking with one another would be the best way to overcome your differences and be for the mutual interest of both masters and men." Mr. Thornton could not repress a smile at the familiar philosophy and hope he was hearing expressed. "Don't you think a man like Thornton would be open to new ideas and discussion?"
"Thornton!" The stranger's way of spitting out his name let Mr. Thornton know very well what this man thought of that idea. "He's the one who brought in the Irish, which led to the riot that finished the strike! And it's Thornton who hasn't followed up the chase on Boucher, just when we would have thanked him for it. But he steps up, cool as you please, and says he won't press charges on the rioters and those who betrayed us. Just when we committee men wanted him to be hard. I thought he'd have more pluck."
The disgust in the man's tone was clear, and Mr. Thornton began to move away, sure now that his presence would be unwelcome when a new and quiet voice replied.
"Mr. Thornton was right. You are angry at Boucher, Nicholas, and that makes it difficult for you to see that, but he was right. For Mr. Thornton to take further action would not have been justice, but revenge. He knows already how much they will suffer, and he is not so devoid of humanity as you would wish him to be."
His heart swelled at her defense. It could not have been easy for her to do so against someone who must be a friend, judging from the frank way they spoke. But that she would speak up for him made him proud; proud to know he had her commendation and good opinion. She, who had been so opposed to him on the matter of masters and men. But now she was coming to understand and know him; he rejoiced inwardly at such progress. If this gulf between them was being crossed, surely he would not be kept waiting too much longer.
He was startled out of these thoughts by the study door opening wider and Margaret herself suddenly appearing before him. She halted mid-step in her own surprise at seeing him, her jaw dropping a little, but she made no sound. He gave her a self-conscious smile at being caught, and she blushed as she closed the door behind her.
"What are you doing here?" she asked softly, a smile escaping from her surprised face.
"I . . ." he hesitated, unsure if he should admit to eavesdropping. "I came to . . . see your father." He winced at the fabrication, but he had been so surprised at her abrupt appearance that he had forgotten to be bold.
"Oh." She looked back at the door awkwardly. "I'm afraid Father has company, and I'm not –"
"I would not be welcome in such a conversation," he finished for her, confirming that he had been listening for some time already. She ducked her head ashamedly, not pleased that he heard such language used against him, but he was quick to say, "I understand. I would not wish to agitate your guest further."
She nodded in some relief. "I was just going to get the tea tray. Would you care to follow me?" At his nod, she turned away and led him down the hall into the kitchen. She did not speak as they entered and she set the kettle on the stove still silently, embarrassed as she was that he heard anything of what Nicholas said about him. But finally he spoke, feeling it safe to speak above a murmur.
"Does your father often have union leaders for company?" He hoped he did not sound disapproving.
"No, Father has never met Nicholas. But . . ." she bit her lip, "he was in need of some counsel and comfort. His daughter . . . my friend . . ." here she faltered, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Bessy Higgins."
She did not need to say any more for him to understand. Her face was suddenly filled with pain and her hands trembled. He took a step toward her. "Margaret, I'm . . . I'm so sorry." What else could he say? She had lost one of her only friends, and yet it seemed she was the one called upon to offer care and consolation to that friend's father. Who would do so for her? He wanted to be the one to comfort her, but he felt ill-prepared and awkward, no matter his concern.
She blinked in an attempt to clear her eyes of the rapid tears that came in response to his words. They nearly pained her in their efforts to break forth, but she did not want to be weak. "It is better for her now. She is at peace; there is no more pain."
"That does not diminish your own loss," he spoke quietly.
"My loss is nothing to Nicholas and Mary's. They both depended on her so. She was . . ." The tears refused to be hindered and began to spill down her cheeks.
It no longer mattered that he didn't know what to say. In an instant, he was at her side, wrapping his arms around her, the book tossed and forgotten on the table. He could not bear to see her cry, but if she must, he would do his best to comfort her in her grief. Her body shook against him as she gave way to the cries she had not yet uttered. She barely comprehended the kiss he planted on her hair; she was only aware of her need for his strength as she wept into his chest.
"She was such a dear and kind friend to me," she whispered as the racking sobs subsided into quiet tears. "And she suffered so much. I never thought I would not see her again." He still remained silent, but he held her closer, feeling her body calm and hearing her breath steady. He could only hope it was enough as she clung to him. "I will miss her," she said simply. "She was someone I needed here."
Her cries spent, she began to push herself away from him, but he was reluctant to completely detach from her. His hands loosened their grip to allow her to move back, but they were soon cupping her face, his thumbs wiping away the remaining tears. Long after they had been cleared away, he stood like this, holding her face tenderly, his fingers lightly grazing her cheeks and jaw.
Her face softened into a small smile, and she brought a hand to his wrist, holding it in place. "Thank you," she said, a simple enough phrase, but he heard all the feeling and gratitude she was capable of expressing. This was too much for him to resist, and he quickly turned his hand to clasp hers, bringing it to his lips. As he kissed her fingers, he marveled at the privilege of beholding her in her weakness. She was always so strong and sure; the idea that she could trust to him her times of sorrow and pain was overwhelming. He only hoped he was worthy of such responsibility.
"Father will probably be wondering what's become of me . . . and the tea," she ventured. He only nodded, still afraid of speaking and fumbling his way through awkward words of consolation. He did, however, release her hand, leaving her free to finish what preparations she needed to.
Before she picked up the tray, he finally spoke. "I should go. It would not be very fitting for me to stay. I do not wish to aggravate Mr. Higgins any more on such a day."
She walked to him in some concern. "I am sorry you were unable to talk to Father. Did you not hope to see him?"
"On the contrary," he reached out for her hand again, squeezing it gently. "I saw precisely the person I came to see."