"Well, Miss Margaret," cajoled Dixon, "It's nice to see you've finally come to your senses."
"Oh?" John replied, questioningly.
"You know I've always said that Miss Beresford's daughter should have the service of a proper lady's maid and without one of your own, I would certainly do," Dixon tutted as she fussed with Margaret's hair, "It's not right for you to always be dressin' yourself and doin' your own hair. It's just not proper for a lady of your breeding."
"Hmph," John snorted. 'Airs and graces,' his mother had accused Margaret of having. Margaret has no airs. Everyone else tries to give them to her though. John felt he knew Margaret better than her maid. 'She would never wish to trouble her mother's maid,' he thought to himself, 'or anyone for that matter, when she could do it herself.' Unfortunately, John couldn't perform a lady's toilet and he wouldn't trust himself to touch Margaret's body even if he could.
John sat still and emotionless in front of the mirror with his eyes closed. He patiently and penitently endured the poking and prodding of the maid as she tugged and yanked on Margaret's hair. Appalled at himself for his behavior in bed that morning, the only excuse he had was that he had forgotten who he was. Now John had admitted to himself it was as good an excuse as any, but he still refused to forgive his egregious blunder.
Used, as he was every morning, to a good stretch and then running his hands down the length of his body and scratching his, well…, he was rather pleasantly surprised with what he found this morning when performing his wake-up ritual. The soft swell of Margaret's breasts, the hard points of her nipples, and the tantalizing feel and sensations he encountered a few moments later when his hands traveled further - south, so to speak.
John's eyes shot open at this recollection, and he reached for the ewer to splash cold water on his face.
"Miss Margaret!" chided Dixon, "That's the third time you've done that this morning. Stop it! You're getting me wet."
"Sorry, Dixon," John replied, "I'm, uh, just trying to keep myself awake."
"Didn't sleep well last night, did you, Miss Margaret?" the kindly maid asked her words dripping with concern for her mistress's daughter.
"No," he replied. He had known he wouldn't be able to sleep, lying in Margaret's maidenly bed chamber and inhabiting her lightly clad body. He did finally drift off to sleep only to awaken with a start when he realized he was groping her. He must truly be depraved.
"I know we have been under a great deal of stress lately," commiserated Dixon, "but you'll be happy to know that your mother slept quite comfortably last night on the water mattress. Dr. Donaldson was right. It did wonders for her."
"Oh, I am so relieved," John replied sincerely. He was happy that his family could provide such a source of comfort for Margaret's ailing mother.
"In fact," Dixon went on, "she is sitting up in her room this morning and would like you join her when you are dressed. There," she declared after installing the last hair pin in Margaret's up do.
John finally raised his eyes to see Margaret's heavenly face in the mirror. Yes, she looked tired, but she was still the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He sighed knowing that she would never be his and rose resignedly to go spend the morning with her mother.
John entered Mrs. Hale's room as gracefully as he could manage and wished her a good morning. He approached the elderly woman and bent to place a kiss on her cheek. Taking the seat across from her, he reached into the embroidery basket and tentatively pulled out a hoop of linen. It looked to be a handkerchief with the beginnings of a yellow rose embroidered in the corner. Now, he did know how to stitch from all his years working in the draper's shop, but he did not know if his calloused fingers were up to the task. Heaving a heavy sigh, he deigned to begin. However, before he had even pricked the fabric with the needle, Margaret's mother saved him.
"Oh, Margaret," the lady exclaimed,"Did Dixon tell you, I slept so well on the water mattress last night."
"Yes, Mama," replied John with a broad smile, "I am so pleased."
She was full of praises for the water mattress. It had been more like the beds at Sir John Beresford's than anything she had slept on since. She did not know how it was, but people seemed to have lost the art of making the same kind of beds as they used to do in her youth. One would think it was easy enough; there was the same kind of feathers to be had, and yet somehow, till this last night she did not know when she had had a good sound resting sleep.
"Margaret, you must visit Marlborough Mills and ask after Mrs. Thornton and thank Mr. Thornton for the most gracious loan of the mattress," Mrs. Hale enjoined.
John was about to protest that this was not necessary, having heard her thanks himself, but stopped short and replied, "I promise, mother, the next chance I get," instead.
"The other night, however," Margaret's mother went on, "it was so windy! It came howling down the chimney in our room! I could not sleep. I never can when there is such a terrible wind. I got into a wakeful habit when poor Frederick was at sea…"
'Frederick!?' thought John, 'Who was Frederick?'
"And now," she continued, "even if I don't waken all at once, I dream of him in some stormy sea, with great, clear, glass-green walls of waves on either side his ship, but far higher than her very masts, curling over her with that cruel, terrible white foam, like some gigantic crested serpent. It is an old dream, but it always comes back on windy nights, till I am thankful to waken, sitting straight and stiff up in bed with my terror. Poor Frederick! He is on land now, so wind can do him no harm. Though I did think it might shake down some of those tall chimneys."
John's mind was whirling – who? What? Where? He had not realized that the last word came out audibly until he heard Mrs. Hale answering. Thankfully his question didn't seem out of place for Margaret to ask her mother.
"I can't remember the name of the place, but he is not called Hale; you must remember that, Margaret. Notice the F. D. in every corner of the letters." Here she lifted a letter and indicated said corner. "He has taken the name of Dickenson. I wanted him to have been called Beresford, to which he had a kind of right, but your father thought he had better not. He might be recognised, you know, if he were called by my name."
"What?" John couldn't help yet another question pouring forth from his mouth.
"Yes," said Mrs. Hale, "I suppose you were at Aunt Shaw's when it all happened; and not old enough to be told plainly about it. But you should know now. It does not give me too much pain to speak about it."
"Pain!?" questioned John with confusion, but he thought it best to just play along.
Mrs. Hale continued, her cheek flushing. "Yet it is pain to think that perhaps I may never see my darling boy again. Or else he did right, Margaret. They may say what they like, but I have his own letters to show, and I'll believe him, though he is my son, sooner than any court-martial on earth. Go to my little japan cabinet, dear, and in the second left-hand drawer you will find a packet of letters."
John went. He looked closely at the cabinet. It was not absolutely ebony and gold; but it was japan, black and yellow japan of the handsomest kind. In it he found the drawer and there were the yellow, sea-stained letters, with the peculiar fragrance which ocean letters have: He carried them back to Margaret's mother, who untied the silken string with trembling fingers, and, examining their dates, she gave them to her daughter to read, making her hurried, anxious remarks on their contents.
John slowly read the letters, half illegible through the fading of the ink.
He was surprised to find that the Hale's indeed had a son, Margaret's brother, that he had known nothing about, not even Bell had mentioned anything to him about a son. But as he read it all became clear. Frederick was a fugitive, charged with mutiny against a tyrannical captain. Of course, Captain Reid's imperiousness might be exaggerated by the narrator, but John could easily find the facts of the matter through his magisterial connections. No wonder the Hale's did not speak of their son. No matter how beloved, he would be a social embarrassment.
"I wish I could see Frederick once more-just once. He was my first baby, Margaret." Mrs. Hale spoke wistfully.
John took her hand to comfort her. He began to think of Margaret and how her mother's desire could be fulfilled. Maybe there was something he could do.
"And now he is in Spain, Margaret," Margaret's mother began to sob. "At Cadiz, or somewhere near it. If he comes to England he will be hung. I shall never see his face again-for if he comes to England he will be hung." The woman began to dab her eyes with her handkerchief, but it didn't stop the flow.
There was no comfort to be given. Mrs. Hale turned her face to the wall, and sat perfectly still in her mother's despair. Nothing could be said to console her. She took her hand out of Margaret's with a little impatient movement, as if she would fain be left alone with the recollection of her son. When Mr. Hale came in, John went out and began to formulate plans. If only he could get his own body back, then he might be able to execute them and do what he could to reunite this family with their long-lost son.
A/N: Gaskell's mention of a Japan cabinet made me think of Austen's Northanger Abbey. Therefore, I just had to include a little quote from that book.