A FARCE IN THE FAMILY

Before We Were Us

The thing that you need to know about Miss Thornton, was that she had tried her hand at a great number of things.

That is, she had attempted to become proficient in the art of many diversions, whether that be sewing, piano playing, dancing, poetry, and even reading, but only as a last resort. However, as ill-luck would have it, she had never become truly gifted in any of these accomplishments, in fact, there was a chance that she had left the endeavour in a more sorry state than when she had started. At any rate, this meant that while one could not fault her for her effort, since it was true that Miss Thornton had tried, (really tried), her hand at a great number of things, she had, much to her degradation, failed miserably to become great at even a single one of them.

Nevertheless, fate is never so cruel as to leave a girl entirely without advantage, and while Miss Thornton may have been excruciatingly dire at every art form known to womankind, there was one skill which fortune had favoured her with, and that, was a talent for gossiping.

Call it what you will, blathering, nattering, chinwagging, tattling, but at the end of the day, nobody had a flair for rumour-mongering like she.

Exactly how, why and when Miss Thornton had developed such a skill for spreading scandal, she could not say. Perhaps it had something to do with the rather unfair disadvantages she had been given in life as a member of the underprivileged sex. Yes, yes, her family were affluent and respected amongst their peers, she was well cared for, and she was pretty enough to win the approval of her friends, as well as catch the eye of a worthwhile suitor, but deep down, the young lady knew that somewhere, inside herself, she was lacking. What this furtive deficiency was had forever remained a mystery to Miss Thornton, since she knew it was not something tangible to the touch, making it unduly hard to chase after and secure.

Nevertheless, while she looked about her, Miss Thornton had been discouraged to discover that she was always surrounded by ladies who were more cheerful and contented than she was, or at least, they were on the surface, but as we know, surfaces are shallow. Consequently, because of this jealousy, a weed of resentment had taken seed in her heart from an early age, and now, at nearly eighteen years, Miss Thornton found that she could hardly bear to see other's jovial, and so, opening her mouth, she would let her tongue loose, blobs of acid dripping out and burning anybody who displeased her. Indeed, there was nothing that satisfied her more than to see their embarrassed blushes, their glum mopes, or the way they squirmed in their seats to hear her comments which stung at the very core of their insecurities. She knew it was unkind, and yes, at times Miss Thornton felt contrite, but really, what is a girl to do when she has no other forte to fall back on?

However, there was one person whom Miss Thornton liked to tease more than anybody else, and that, was her brother. He brought it upon himself, he really did, for Mr Thornton was so stern, so humourless, so reserved in every way with his boring books and philosophical principles, that she could hardly stand it, she could hardly stand him!

Miss Thornton and her elder sibling did not get on at the best of times, their relationship fraught with a divergence of character and a discrepancy of values. Still, today, the proverbial straw had broken the camel's back, and matters had become catastrophically worse.

While getting ready to leave the house and admiring her engagement ring as it sparkled in the bright winter sunlight, Miss Thornton had gabbled on, (and on, and on), about how much she intended to spend at the haberdashers this morning as she accumulated all the essential, (not to mention expensive and extravagant), bits and bobs and odds and ends for her trousseau. She had heard her brother grumble and mutter in the background, a noise which did not ruffle her, given that it was commonplace in their home, what with Mr Thornton being perpetually in a foul mood.

However, everything changed a moment later when Miss Thornton casually mentioned Miss Hale. Why she had done so, nobody would ever know, but after seeing the lady the day before and having been obliged to put up with her superior observations about Mr Thornton's distaste for speculation, as if she knew the man better than his own sister did, Miss Thornton had been peeved, to say the least. As a result, Miss Thornton felt compelled to speak out in rebellion against the haughty Miss Hale. This morning, her remark had really been nothing of note, terribly short and simple, since all she had said was:

'I hope I do not run into Miss Hale today! She is always so grave and disapproving! I have never met anybody so dull yet so hoity-toity all at once. She is the strangest creature that ever lived. And what right does she have to look down her nose at me? She is older than I. She is not half as attractive, nor as accomplished, and she has not a shilling to her insignificant name. I doubt very much that she will ever marry, for what man would want her for his wife?!'

See, that was not so very bad at all, was it? A trifling reference with the most innocent of criticisms. But still, not a second after this slur had escaped her mouth, Miss Thornton had jumped out of her skin at the sound of her brother's roar of displeasure, a booming outburst that rumbled throughout the room and even made the chandelier wobble, the tiny dew-drops of crystal trembling.

'Enough!' he had bellowed. 'Don't you dare talk about her like that!' the master thundered, soaring to his feet and fixing his sister with the most sinister of scowls, so sour that it could curdle milk.

Miss Thornton had been muzzled in an instant, her eyes wide with fright and her body quaking as she gawked back at her brother from across the way. To be sure, he had always been an irritable grump, but never – never – had he raised his voice to her like this before. He was like a man possessed, an animal even, as he stalked from the room and slammed his study door shut to afford him some solitude, his own formidable figure shaking with a righteous wrath.

Gulping, Miss Thornton had lifted a hand to her chest and caressed her racing heart to quell its flustered palpitating, and then, holding her head high in a show of dignity, she had snatched up her purse, (not that she would be paying a penny), and marched out of the house, threatening to charge a king's fortune to Marlborough Mills, just to spite her horrid brother.

And that is why, on this day, she had decided to poke the bear like never before.

It was just over three hours later that Miss Thornton returned home from her shopping excursion. Tucking her bills safely away in her coat pocket, she ensured that not one corner of paper peeked out, because even by her lavish standards, the total amount would be enough to make a prosperous banker faint.

Pausing a little way along the corridor, Miss Thornton leaned forwards and peered around the door frame into the parlour, her hat with its voluptuous feather tipping over, the plume nearly touching the floor. With her eyes narrowed, she surveyed the scene, and on seeing her mother sitting at the far end of the table employed with her embroidery, and her brother closer still, his head bent over a series of tedious looking papers, his eyebrows knitted in unease, she nodded to herself.

Excellent, the stage was set.

Standing tall and elongating her elegant figure, Miss Thornton then proceeded to waltz, (for waltz it was), into the room, her nose thrust so high into the air that she could not help but bump into this and that, the corner of a Chippendale dresser bruising her knee.

But flinch, she did not, she refused to, not when she had work to do.

Throwing down her vast collection of boxes and bundles upon the polished table-top, (and these were only the ones she had deemed worthy enough to carry herself, due to their sheer splendour), she let her eyes flit between her kin, eyeing them carefully, cunningly, craftily plotting her next move. Taking up one of her parcels, Miss Thornton put on a display of unwrapping it, the delicate tissue paper scattering down in tufts of shredded material as she tore impatiently at the packaging like an impetuous child. Taking one of her new items, a pair of gloves the colour of prunes and trimmed with grey rabbit fur, she hummed to herself stridently, her head slanting from side-to-side as she admired her new acquisition.

As she did this, Miss Thornton observed her brother squint to the side as his concentration was thieved, and on spying her mound of gaudy trinkets, he sighed wearily and massaged his brow as he felt his head begin to pang at the thought of his sister's overindulgence, and worse, its cost to his already diminishing assets.

Miss Thornton grinned like a Cheshire cat, her pearly teeth glinting.

Good, she had his attention.

Clearing her throat, she let out a breathy, "haaaaah," the decibel gratingly airy.

Sensing that her daughter wished to say something, Mrs Thornton glanced up briefly from her sewing, and after shaking her head to see the quantity of nonsense strewn out over her table, every colour known to man staining it in a billowing ocean of silk and satin, she ventured to ruin the quiet repose that she and her son had thus been enjoying and ask her daughter what was what.

'Well then, what is it?' she invited, guessing that the reply would be some sort of self-indulgent commentary about how many people had cooed over her ring and marvelled at the number of diamonds encrusted in the bed of shiny gold.

'Oh, nothing,' she answered, and all the air in the room was sucked up as both mother and son took in a liberal breath of relief to think that they would be spared a hedonistic annotation of the young lady's day out, one which would be filled with more sickly compliments and wasteful expenditure than either of them had the patience to stomach, especially after such a meagre lunch, the gravy in a beef roast the ideal means to soak up her gibberish.

However, their celebration at her reticence was in haste, for it had been no more than a baiting ruse.

'That is…,' Miss Thornton continued, her tone suggesting that she had something delicious to herald, but whether that be due to its flavour for shame or sensation, they were yet to find out.

'I heard a rumour,' she revealed, barely glancing up from inspecting the case of jewellery that Watson had bought his fiancée to match her eyes.

Mr Thornton and his mother both shared an askew glance of frustration, but they kept their mouths firmly closed, refusing to encourage her. All they could hope for was that her hearsay did not involve or implicate either of them.

Again, they would be proved wrong.

'You should not listen to tittle-tattle, my dear,' her mother counselled with a sage warning.

'Nor spread it,' her brother muttered tetchily, annoyed by his sibling's flibbertigibbet drivel.

Miss Thornton pouted, but she soon rallied, for she had another ace up her sleeve. 'I know,' she countered crossly. 'But this is different, this is a very curious matter indeed.'

Looking about, the young lady was not at all impressed that the pair before her failed to act the least bit intrigued, the two of them returning to their dreary tasks as if she had said nothing of import at all.

Huffing, Miss Thornton picked up yet another item from her horde of tasteless purchases, this one being a new nightdress of thin lace and taffeta, but the thought of wearing it for Watson on their wedding night was enough to make her insides churn revoltingly, so she discarded it at once, tossing it far away.

Holding back a swell of bile, the woman sniffed theatrically. 'Well, I can tell you are dying to know, so I shall tell you,' she prattled. 'I hear that somebody might be getting married,' she declared, her pitch emphasising that one crucial word.

Much to her delight, her incitement worked a treat, because all at once, she spotted the way that both listeners cockled their temples, their minds trying to work out what this peculiar piece of news was supposed to mean. Finally, after she could no longer deny that her curiosity had been provoked, Mrs Thornton asked, 'And what, pray tell, does that mean?'

Smiling to herself with smug satisfaction, Miss Thornton bobbed up and down on the balls of her feet, as giddy as a child with an audience of adult admirers. 'I was confused myself,' she admitted. 'But as it turns out, a certain someone, somebody we know, has been asked for their hand in marriage, and so, they may or may not be saying yes.'

Tired of her riddle that was going nowhere, Mr Thornton groused, once again stooping over his stack of ominous documents, and with one hand covering the ear nearest her, the other seized up his pen so that he might scribble away and study the alarming state of the mill accounts, the absorption of fixating over this concerning task hopefully allowing him to drown out the sound of his sister's mindless chattering.

Mrs Thornton frowned as she noticed a crooked stitch in the yellow rose she was adorning upon a backdrop of creamy cotton, the very idea of even the slightest mistake in her edging too disgraceful to countenance. 'And I suppose you are going to tell us who this woman is?' she pressed, assuming that it was doubtless one of her daughter's ridiculous friends, the coy girl probably toying with her inane beau and turning him into a wretch of a man as she pretended to delay with her answer and make him sweat while she decided to say yes, something she had intended to do all along.

With a mischievous sneer amusing her lips, Miss Thornton readied to deliver the most thrilling titbit of all, the very thing to change the course of this conversation and give her the attention she so sorely craved. Clicking her teeth, she opened her mouth, allowing her voice to carry far and wide across the expanse of their large parlour.

'Why, Miss Hale, of course.'

All at once, everything went still and everyone went silent. With her curiosity shrewdly skimming down the table towards her brother under the veil of her eyelashes, Miss Thornton saw his hand halt in mid-air, the pen quivering with inactivity as its holder froze. His expression was hard to read, it was inexpressive in its impassiveness, but behind the mask of unresponsive numbness, Miss Thornton could see the muscles of his strong jaw twitch, and as for his eyes, those fierce slits of transfixing blue, they were awake with horror.

Mrs Thornton dropped her sewing, and as her needle fell, she pricked her finger, a globule of blood oozing and then dripping onto the cold hues of her black dress, a vivid stain of red besmirching her mourning and giving life to her emotions. She had managed to rescue her needlework, the act had been distinctive as she moved it aside and prevented it from being tarnished by this startling drama.

Swallowing, Mrs Thornton tried to regain her composure. 'Miss Hale?' she repeated in incredulity, her voice perturbed.

Miss Thornton nodded confidently. 'Yes! So it would seem. And who would have thought? Just after I had said that no man in his right mind would want her!' she laughed sarcastically.

Her mother's eyes swiftly darted to the left to check on her son, but there he remained, unmoving, his mind almost certainly hurtling at a hundred miles an hour as he tried to process the consequences of this most unwelcome news.

'You had better explain,' Mrs Thornton advised, determined that the facts of the matter should be verified as swiftly as possible, because, if she were honest, her daughter was not the most reliable of sources, so it could all very well turn out to be no more than utter poppycock.

Sitting down, Miss Thornton clasped her hands and lingered theatrically, as if she were about to begin a ceremonial speech. 'Well, it goes like this,' she started. 'It turns out that in the past few weeks, her father has taken on a new pupil. And, much to everyone's disbelief, the young gentleman has, quite inexplicably, fallen madly in love with his tutor's only daughter. Smitten, he has apparently proposed, and in turn, Miss Hale has said that she will think on it. So there, she might be getting engaged, but then again, she might not,' Miss Thornton concluded, surprising herself with her concise and impressively level-headed explanation.

Even so, the people in the room said nothing, not a peep, all eyes on the only man there, his head still huddled over his papers, his shoulders hunched, his eyes scrunched as the clever brain behind it whirled in chaos, spinning around and around in a devastating hurricane of despair.

Ah, so he had been right!

Damn!

Mr Thornton had been worried of late, very worried. One would be forgiven for presuming that his concerns were limited to the affairs of trade and the gradual decline of his mill's profitability following the damaging effects of that despicable strike. But, no, one would be mistaken.

The issue that was troubling him more than anything, plaguing him by day and robbing him of his rest by night, was the knowledge that Mr Hale had taken on a new pupil not four weeks previous. This itself was no bad thing, given that the scholar was an excellent teacher, and what was more, he could do with both the company and the financial advantages.

Mr Thornton had scarcely bothered to wonder about Mr Hale receiving another student, it was not his business after all, and besides, he had plenty of cares of his own to occupy his harassed time and focus. Nonetheless, it was a week later, that the Oxford academic had disclosed that he would not be able to invite Mr Thornton for dinner the following Thursday, as per their established routine. The reason was that he was busy that night, his new guest now requesting five lessons a week, although, he did promise to produce a more fair schedule moving forward for the both of them.

Five!

Good Lord! How or why a man should require such excessive instruction was beyond reckoning!

Mr Thornton had been dumbstruck by this puzzling report, and after he had walked home, obsessing over it, his mind analysing every conceivable reason for such extreme attendance upon that obscure Crampton house, he had stopped dead in his tracks, right in the middle of the street, and he had groaned. As a horrifying realisation washed over him, Mr Thornton had quite literarily gagged in distress, the boisterous and most boorish noise affecting any onlookers to jolt and stare at him with both shock and disgust. He had done this because he had reached an unnerving awareness, an unsettling deduction, an upsetting assumption, and the understanding of it had felt like a punch to his gut and groin all at once.

The man was there to see Margaret.

Of course he was, it was obvious, he must be besotted with her, for what mortal man could not be?

Despite having a thousand and one matters to attend to, Mr Thornton had turned on his heel and made his way to his gentleman's club, hoping that it would be filled with his fellow masters, and if he were in luck, they would not yet be so drunk that they could not be squeezed for some critical information.

With the magistrate in him taking over, Mr Thornton had cross-examined Hamper, Slickson and Watson, requesting to know – no, ─ demanding to know who this snake in the grass was, this fiend who had wormed his way into the master's world and was getting close, too close, to the person whom he loved more than life itself.

After an hour of questioning the men to the point of interrogation, Mr Thornton had left in a fit of wretchedness, and retreating into a quiet alley, he had slumped against the wall, closed his eyes, and cursed God for his heartache.

As it turned out, the situation had been far more serious than he had first imagined. For a start, he was definitely not the rogue from the station, so whoever he was, he was a new contender for Margaret's heart, and if he had managed to win her over so quickly and easily, then by God, he must be exceptional.

The man was twenty-five, younger than he, healthy, good-looking, wealthy, and he was a politician of all things, with not a mention of trade in the family to smear his good name, the jammy beggar. Living in a smart part of town, and with a substantial property nearby in the country with plentiful grounds and gardens (just the sort of home she would adore), it appeared that the scoundrel was no scoundrel at all, but a thoroughly good and generous sort of fellow whom everybody spoke highly of. And what really irked Mr Thornton, what really got under his skin, was that the villain, in his role as a public figure, used his influence to champion the needs of the poor and disadvantaged, doing everything in his power to campaign for their interests, even going so far as to donate large quantities of his own fortune, vast as it was.

Hell!

The man was perfect. He was the perfect gentleman. He was perfectly decent. And what hurt the most, cutting him to pieces, was the knowledge that he was perfect for Margaret.

He was the husband she deserved.

Lost in a sea of misery, drowning in his own hopeless sorrows, Mr Thornton's legs had given way, and sinking to the ground, he had buried his head in his hands and wailed like a babe. After picking himself up and dusting off the grime of the streets and the grief of his soul, he had made his way home and tried his best not to think about it any more, struggling with every broken beat of his heart to banish her from his mind, not that he could ever hope to do such a thing, because there she lived and always would, his conscience, his darling, his everything and more.

Taking a deep breath, Mr Thornton reared his head, his eyes gradually lifting to meet his sister's, and the woman had to do everything she could not to shudder at the sight of those soulful orbs screaming out in anguish behind the mist of his splintering indifference.

'You say…might,' he checked, his tenor rasping. 'That is…she might say no?' he asked, the slither of frail hope in his voice too pitiful to depict.

Miss Thornton nodded firmly. 'Yes, it would seem she was unsure.'

The courage of optimism flickered in his masculine breast, and even if the light burnt too dimly for the naked eye to see, it was still there, all the same, for hope is hope, no matter how feeble it may be.

Was there a chance for him yet? Was there a chance she could still be his?

Please, God! Do not say that all was lost, because while John could endure losing his mill, devastate him as it might, he knew he would die if he were ever to lose Margaret entirely, being deprived of the wonder of her sunshine for all the days of the rest of his miserable life.

Miss Thornton rearranged herself in her seat so that she might recount another aspect of her tale, her postponement agitating her brother to growl like an angry wolf who was starving, only this time, it was not for food, but for a morsel of possibility.

'They say that Miss Hale told the gentleman that while she was fond of him…,' Miss Thornton faltered when she heard her brother groan in protest. Glowering at him, she continued. 'While she liked him very much, and enjoyed his company, and thought well of him as a friend, she was not sure that she could give herself to him as a wife.'

'And why is that?' Mr Thornton urged before he had a chance to think twice of his reckless demonstration of blatant interest.

Miss Thornton simpered and leaned in towards him as if she were just about to tell her brother a most tantalising secret. 'Because,' she whispered. 'She loves another.'

Mr Thornton, who had also been inclined forwards in eager expectation, found himself reeling backwards in his chair in disbelief, nearly falling off it as he thudded against the wood.

'More!' he ordered, no longer caring how transparently engrossed he sounded.

Miss Thornton sniggered. 'I have it on good authority that Miss Hale has already given her heart away,' she confided, amazed to think that such a sullen creature could even feel a single romantic sentiment. 'The story has it that she has already been asked by somebody else. He offered to wed her, out of nowhere, taking her by surprise, and declaring most ardently that he was in love with her. However, it appears she said no, but not because she did not care for him, and not because she could not see herself as his wife, but because Miss Hale had been unconvinced of the sincerity of his affections, all because it had been so unexpected.'

Mr Thornton's mouth was agape as he gawped at his sister.

Swallowing, he insisted hoarsely: 'More!' the man hardly able to spit out the word, the appeal coming out as a guttural grunt.

'Well, I hear that she did not believe in the earnestness of his proposal, all because he had never mentioned any regard for her before, he had never paid her so much as a compliment. However, something had happened, I do not know what, that had prompted him to call upon her, and I think she was indignant, wishing that he would ask her out of genuine love and not out of a sense of duty.'

Mr Thornton could hardly draw breath, his heart beating so fast it would surely exhaust itself and cease to pump, the man dropping dead on the spot from an over-stimulation of anxious excitement. 'More!' he whispered softly.

Miss Thornton pursed her lips, baffled by his disproportionate interest, but never mind that, not when she had him writhing in the palm of her hand, and besides, silly she may be, but stupid she was not, and the sister was well aware of how fascinated her brother was with Miss Hale.

'The only other thing I was told, was that she had since changed her mind and regretted her refusal, her heart now well and truly his and his alone,' Miss Thornton described, detecting the gleam of exhilaration in his alert eyes. 'But there is just one problem, you see,' she said, a curious sadness shrivelling her words.

'And what is that?' he asked, almost standing as he raised himself out of his seat in a state of nervous anticipation.

There was a period of unbearable silence while she thought on this, and everybody present held their breath.

'He no longer loves her,' came a woeful mutter.

Mr Thornton collapsed back down into his chair. 'What?!'

'It is true,' she contended with uncharacteristic solemnity. 'He took it all back. He said that his…his…what was it?' she mused, trawling through her memory. 'Ah, yes, his foolish passion for her was well and truly over, and that he wanted her no more −'

'Where are you going?!' she shrieked, astounded as her brother leapt out of his chair and flew out of the room, his retreating footsteps echoing down the hallway thud after restless thud.

Astonished, both women sprang from their seats and went to stand by the window, and there, they watched as the figure of a man bounded across the mill yard and into the street, his agitated form turning south, before he once again sped away.

There was a moment of understandable intermission while the two ladies recaptured their senses, and then, with a synchronised twisting of their heads, they looked at each other and smirked.

'Well done!' Mrs Thornton applauded, patting her daughter on the arm fondly. 'You were magnificent!'

Miss Thornton chuckled and then reddened. 'Really?' she solicited, desperate for approval. 'Did I really do well, Mamma?' she had to know.

Linking arms with her daughter, Mrs Thornton led her back to the settee, and there, she picked up her sewing and resumed her stitching of the yellow rose, an intentional illustration, a gift for the young woman her son was no doubt sprinting across town to see.

And about time, too.

'I could not have done it better myself,' she praised.

Now then, you would be forgiven, dear reader, for finding yourself bewildered at this point, and I daresay that is my fault, for you see, I misled you in this little story of mine, because quite intentionally, I left out a scene.

Many pages ago, when Mr Thornton had first quitted the room in response to his sister's condemnation of the woman he cherished, Miss Thornton had been about to depart herself, full of bitterness for his unreasonable eruption of bizarre emotion. However, she had not got very far before her mother had halted her, and bidding her daughter come sit awhile, Mrs Thornton had disclosed a secret.

Choosing her words carefully, she had delicately related to her child the story of her brother falling in love with Miss Hale, and the events which had led to her rejecting his proposal of marriage, causing the mother to think of her with venomous contempt. With her eyes wide and her jaw nearly on the floor, Miss Thornton had listened in raptured delight as her mother recounted the obliterated destruction of Mr Thornton's dreams, his desperate longing for marital contentment being denied most cruelly. This had then been followed by a discussion regarding the unexplained incident at Outwood, and then, to add some additional spice to the narrative, Mrs Thornton told her daughter about her own visit to Crampton to confront the young madam who had been brazen enough to snub the most worthy man who had ever lived.

At this juncture, Mrs Thornton had hesitated, and then she explained with pensive unease that after the awkward interview, something had changed. She had seen something in Miss Hale, a deference, a remorse, a genuine disappointment that she was, in fact, herself not named Mrs Thornton, all because of her own senseless misunderstanding of the man who had laid his faithful heart at her feet. The mother had not understood it then, but on returning home, it had hit her! She loved him, truly loved him. And if she loved him, then perhaps, just possibly, there was hope for her son's happiness yet.

Taking this all in, Miss Thornton could not help but feel guilty. Her poor brother! While she believed that she would never understand him, the woman could at least appreciate that he was a good man. He was honest, honourable, and hard-working, and after years of sacrifice for the sake of his loved ones, her brother had earned the right to be happy, and even more so, to be rewarded with somebody who would love him and share his life by his side.

Speaking in whispers so as not to alert the master in his study, the two women collaborated to bring some much-needed joy to the Thornton family. Colluding, they had both already known about the gentleman who had taken up his lessons with zeal at the Hale's, and it had not taken either of them long to work out why.

Now, here they had decided to tell a white lie, a fabrication of the truth, for while it was very likely that the man did in fact wish Miss Hale to join him in matrimony, neither of them had any evidence of if and when this question would be proffered.

But one thing was for sure, and that was that Mr Thornton had to stop it from happening.

But how?

What could they conceivably do to help?

After a short discussion, the two ladies had put their scruples aside and their clever heads together, deciding that it was for the best that they would fib to their son and brother, not out of malice, of course, but out of necessity, and hopefully, one day, God would forgive them when he saw the master a merry man, surrounded by his devoted wife and darling children.

It was then that they had hatched a scheme, and that plan in action, you have already witnessed, for it included Miss Thornton going shopping after all, and when she reappeared, she would play the part of a gossip, coolly stirring the feelings of fiery passion in her brother's heart, motivating him to go to his sweetheart, beg her to be his, and in the end, if it was as they had prayed, Mr Thornton would be engaged by the end of the day.

It was a miracle that he had not seen through their charade, for when and where was Miss Thornton meant to have found out all of this? And in such detail? And who was supposed to have told her? If Mr Thornton had taken the time to really mull it over, he would have realised, the only person who could have divulged his deepest and darkest secrets to his sister, was, in shocking reality, his own mother, and if he had uncovered this betrayal of his privacy, well, Heaven help them both.

Now that their part in this farce was over and done with, both mother and daughter had no choice other than to sit and linger, wondering what would become of their well-intentioned meddling. Nevertheless, thankfully, they did not have long to wait and stew in supposition. Startled by the sound of somebody approaching, they glanced up to see Mr Thornton renter the fold. All at once, they could tell he was different. He was taller, broader, stronger, the frailty that the last few months had inflicted upon him vanquished.

He did not say anything at first, but smiled, a small, confidential, untroubled smile. Then, at last, with his lips curling upwards, and his hands thrust in his pockets like a carefree schoolboy, he cast his eyes to the floor shyly.

Blinking, his eyes brimming with tears, Mr Thornton quietly proclaimed: 'She is not to marry him after all.'

The two women peeked at each other. 'Oh?' they chirped in chorus. 'And why is that?'

Looking up, he grinned, his face shining with pride and pleasure alike. 'Because she is marrying me!' the master announced, his heart full and fit to burst with unadulterated joy to know that he and his beloved Margaret would be man and wife, together, forever.