Brighton, August 1837
"That one, Papa! The black one." John Thornton maneuvered his way through the carousel's colorful menagerie to a horse in the back row. "This is the one. I want to ride him." He reached out to stroke the horse's neck, admiring its sleek black paint, adorned by a shiny golden saddle and bridle.
"Good choice, son." The tall, greying man followed leisurely behind the boy. He stepped up to the other side of the black stallion, placing a hand on the horse's mane.
"Don't you think he's the most impressive horse, Papa? I wish he were real. I'd like to have a horse like this someday." John flushed a little, wondering if perhaps it was a little childish for a young man of nearly fourteen years to dream of such things.
"He is a very fine horse. You have excellent taste, John." The older man's face bore a fond expression as he regarded the son who so resembled him.
John swung a long, gangly leg over the side of the horse and seated himself on the wooden saddle. He smiled over at his father. "Look, Papa!" He sat up to his full height and laughed. "I am even taller than you now!"
"You sure are, son. You are nearly a man." His father's smile seemed strangely wistful.
John's attention was caught by movement on his other side. A boy a few years younger than himself was holding the hands of a very tiny girl, unsteady on her feet as they weaved between the carousel horses.
"Which one do you want, Margaret?" The boy gestured to a horse behind John. "Look at this chestnut! Isn't it pretty? Shall we ride this one?" He let go of her hands for a moment to inspect it more closely.
Taking advantage of her newfound freedom, the girl toddled forward several steps quickly, passing up the suggested mount, and wrapped her arms around the back leg of the grey horse to John's left. "Horsey!" she cried exuberantly, before toppling backwards, flat onto her bottom. An exuberant giggle declared her lack of injury.
The boy quickly came to her rescue. "No, no, Margaret," he chided, and removed the toes she was now trying to place in her mouth. He lifted her under her arms and placed her atop the grey horse, and then climbed up behind her, holding her in place. "There now, are you ready to ride?"
"Wide!" The girl liked this activity, too. "Fed wide! Fed wide!" Chubby little arms waved up and down enthusiastically.
"Yes, Fred will ride too. I've got you." The boy smiled down at his sister affectionately.
As the carousel began to turn, John realized his attention had been caught up in the little girl's amusing antics. He glanced back to smile at his father, and then turned to gaze at the sights all around him.
John had always loved riding on a carousel, and still reveled in the experience, even at his age. He admired the brightly painted carousel horses, parading proudly, caught up in their never ending race. He watched the faces of the people, out enjoying the seaside on the warm summer day, whirling past him, around and around.
John glanced back over at the boy and girl beside him. The boy was now cheerfully waving at all the people on the beach as they passed by.
The little girl, however, was staring at John raptly, her tiny fist in her mouth. When she saw John look at her, she started in surprise, and quickly threw herself backward, hiding her face in her brother's coat.
John chuckled and turned his head away, looking at the horses up ahead. A few moments later, he found his eyes straying back to her.
Still pressed against her brother, the little girl was peeking her head out and once more peering curiously at John. When John caught her eyes… she let out a little giggle and hid her face again.
John grinned. Now quite enjoying this little game, he purposefully bent himself forward, pretending to closely examine his horse's mane. He counted to five in his head… then quickly whipped himself around in her direction.
She was gazing at him wide-eyed, an impish grin on her face. When she caught his eyes she shrieked and threw herself at her brother, laughing merrily. Her brother looked down at her, curious to see what had so amused her.
Laughing, John turned to look back at his father. He was startled by the melancholy expression on the older man's face. John sobered immediately. Did his father think him immature, to be playing so with a baby?
His father's eyes were following the young boy as he resettled his sister on the saddle in front of him.
"John…" His father regarded him directly, placing a hand on John's shoulder. "Promise me. You will be a good brother. You will look after Fanny. You will take care of her."
John was bewildered by his father's sudden somber mood. Naturally, he would always look after his sister. He was a good brother. "Yes, of course, Papa."
His father gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I know, John. You are a good boy." He gave John a small smile, but a lingering sadness in his eyes troubled John.
When the ride finally slowed to a stop, John watched the boy next to them gently lift his sister down. The boy patiently held the tiny girl's hand as she waddled off the carousel. She was quickly gathered into the waiting arms of an older man. "Margaret, my dear! How did you like your first carousel ride?"
John hopped down from the carousel platform, followed by his father. "Papa, may we go walk along the shore again before we go home? And look for seashells?"
"Yes, John. Let's walk along the shore one last time." He put an arm around his son as the pair strolled down to the waterfront. John felt a slight chill in the air as clouds passed overhead, dimming the bright sunlight.
Brighton, August 1842
John strode along the sand, staring out at the turbulent waves. The summer storms had kept away most of the crowds that day, but since the rain had stopped a few people had begun to venture outdoors again. John would have preferred to keep the company of thunderstorms.
It had been a foolish decision to make the trip here. The train ticket was an unnecessary expense, and his time would have been better spent in a more productive manner. But some strange urge had compelled John to buy a ticket to Brighton. So here he was, revisiting the place that held his last happy memory of his father.
This did not seem like the Brighton he remembered, however. Everything he laid eyes on seemed faded and washed out. Perhaps it was the weather. In his recollection, Brighton was a shiny, sparkling place, full of vivid color. This dreary place was a sad mockery of his memories.
John walked toward the large carousel that stood prominently a short distance from the shoreline. Like its surroundings, the shiny golden paint appeared tarnished and dull in the misty haze. The formerly proud horses were abandoned, lonely and neglected. No children's laughter rang through the air, only the low howl of the wind.
John advanced closer. More than anything else in Brighton, he had wanted to see the carousel once more. Why was he so drawn to it? It was as though he thought he might encounter some remnant of the past here, some ghost of his father from that last good day.
Following that same perplexing impulse, he purchased a ticket from the forlorn looking seller. He stepped onto the carousel platform, feeling foolish. He did not know why he was indulging in such a childish whim.
As the carousel began to turn, John wandered through the rows of horses, their flamboyantly bright paint shimmering under tiny beads of moisture. He came to a halt in front of one striking horse in the back row. Unlike the garish colors sported by the others, this horse was painted a sleek black, with luminous golden accents. He stepped up to it and regarded it closely.
Yes, this was the right horse. It was smaller than he recalled. He laid a hand on its neck. Memories flooded back into his mind. He gripped the wooden horse to steady himself. His father, standing here next to him. His father, smiling and laughing. His father, gazing at John with a proud look on his face.
John had not let himself cry, not once, not since that terrible day. He had held himself together, for his mother and for his sister. They had relied on him. And he had worked hard all that time, providing for them, making up for his father's failures. He had been strong for them every single day. He was a man now. But one hand on this carousel horse, and suddenly he was that boy again. A boy who desperately missed his father. A boy who needed his guidance and strength.
John could feel the sting of tears gathering. And for the first time since that day, he didn't stop them. He bent his head and closed his eyes, allowing the tears to run down his cheeks.
A soft touch startled his eyes open again. He looked down to see a small hand covering his own. Bringing his gaze up, he spied a pair of bright blue eyes peeking just over the horse's saddle.
"Sir, are you sad?" The clear, high voice held a note of deepest concern.
John was too stunned to speak for a few moments. He was bewildered at being so addressed, especially when he had thought himself quite alone. The child gently patted his hand, evidently trying to comfort him.
Coming to himself, he hastily wiped his eyes with his other hand. "Forgive me. Yes, I am sad. But don't trouble yourself. I'm all right."
"Why are you sad?" She tipped her head up a little higher, and he could now see a small nose and mouth below the compassionate eyes. Chestnut curls framed a forehead puckered in worry.
John blinked at the little girl. She must be about Fanny's age. He was not easy with children; he really did not know what to say to her.
"I am sad because I miss my father. He died." John could hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth. Had he really just confessed such a thing to this little girl?
"That is sad." She nodded solemnly. "My kitten died. I cried. I miss her."
"I am sure you do."
"Fred says when you're sad you need a friend." She continued to pat his hand. "I'll be your friend if you want."
John stared down at the child, so sincere and earnest in her offer. He felt the urge to both laugh and cry. He gave her a small smile. "Thank you. That is very kind of you."
John looked around, seeing no one else nearby. "Is someone else with you?" He wondered that such a small child had been left alone.
"Fred is back there–" She pointed behind them. "He wanted to ride the tiger."
"I see." John was unsure what to do. Should he take her back to her Fred? "Do you want to ride a horse?"
She nodded. The girl began to carefully examine the nearby ponies. Her attention diverted, John removed his handkerchief and wiped his eyes again, making sure there was no trace of tears. Here he was, a practically grown man, crying on a carousel in front of a little girl.
He turned back to see where the girl had gone, just in time to watch her hoist herself onto the grey horse next to him. She threw her leg astride it with a very unladylike motion, then grabbed the brass pole, pulling herself upright. She looked all around proudly, evidently quite pleased at her achievement. John felt his mouth quirk in amusement.
The girl patted her pony's mane. The grey mare's bridle was decorated with brightly painted yellow flowers. "This is my favorite one. She is the prettiest horse. Her name is…" She deliberated for a few moments. "Princess Daffodil."
John glanced down at the wooden flowers her small finger was tracing. "I believe those are roses, not daffodils."
"I like Daffodil."
John's smile widened. "Daffodil it is, then." He turned to mount his own horse.
The girl was now admiring his black stallion. "I like your horse too. He's handsome. His name is… Prince Midnight." She looked at her horse again and giggled. "I think they are sweethearts."
"Are they now?" John felt tempted to laugh himself. "What makes you think that?"
"She's the prettiest one! And the sweetest. He loves her."
"Well, I think you are probably right then."
"But he can't catch her. She's fast. She can beat him in a race."
"Oh can she now?" John glanced down at his own horse, as if considering. "My horse is very fast, too."
"She's faster."
"Are you sure about that? John grinned. "Shall we race?"
She looked at him in surprise, as he pretended to take hold of his horse's reins. Another giggle escaped her and she clutched the brass pole tightly.
"You'd best get ready– get set – go!" John bent his body forward over the horse and pretended to be in a rapid gallop. The girl gave an uproarious laugh and bounced a little on her pony, as if to urge it forward.
"Go, Daffodil, go!" She looked back at John and laughed again.
"Watch out! We're gaining on you!" John was thoroughly engrossed in this silly game now.
"No, no! We are winning!" The girl could barely speak for laughing. "You can't catch us!"
John leaned back, pretending that he and his steed were now falling behind. "Oh no, Midnight! She's getting away from us!"
The girl giggled triumphantly. "Yes! We won! We won!" She jauntily leaned back, tossing her curls. "I told you." She beamed at John.
John laughed. "Yes, you did. I should have believed you." John sighed as though in disappointment. "I'm sorry, Midnight, you have to resign yourself to being second best."
John felt the carousel beginning to slow down. His eyes returned to the little girl, now fondly petting her horse's mane. He wondered at himself. When was the last time he had laughed? Possibly the last time he had been on this very carousel.
When the ride came to a halt, an adolescent boy sauntered from the other side of the carousel. John guessed this must be Fred. "Come on, Margaret, we–" The boy stopped when he saw John, and eyed him suspiciously. John stepped down off of his horse and gave the boy a nod.
With a big jump, the girl plopped herself down as well. She headed towards the boy, but then paused and turned back to John. She gave him a shy little wave goodbye. John returned her greeting with a deep bow. She giggled again and ran back to her brother.
John took his time getting off of the carousel.
His mood felt considerably lighter than when he had stepped onto the ride. It was strange, he reflected. He could not recall the last time he had either laughed or cried, and in the length of one carousel ride he had done both.
As he walked out under the overcast skies, a glimmer of sunlight peeked through the clouds.
Brighton, August 1854
The small boy took another step forward, holding tight to his father's hand. The water washed over his feet and he shrieked, then laughed loudly. He bent a hand to touch the wave, just before it rushed back into the sea.
John's eyes followed the little boy as he played in the water. The child turned back to wave at his mother. She sat a short distance away under an umbrella, a baby in her arms.
John did not know how long he had been watching the little family, or why they had so captured his attention. As he observed the father and son playing in the waves, he felt a melancholy pain in his chest.
It had been years since he had ventured all the way to Brighton. There had been no reason to do so, certainly; he did not really have a reason to be here now. But after a business meeting in London, he had decided to make a quick trip for nostalgia's sake. After all, he had enjoyed his last visit so long ago. He had returned home with a brighter spirit and renewed memories of his father.
He had hoped the trip today would be similarly refreshing. So far, however, it had only served to remind him of all he lacked in his life.
John turned away from the happy family and wandered farther along the beach. He spotted the carousel, surrounded by crowds of children. Cheerful music played as the horses paraded around and around, boys and girls laughing and waving.
The ride slowed and came to a stop as John approached. The young riders climbed off their horses and ran to the awaiting arms of their parents. More children waited nearby, eager to take their turn on the carousel.
John watched a few boys and girls climb on for the next ride. He sighed, and was about to turn away, when he spotted a familiar looking horse in the back row. A sudden urge struck him, and he strode up to the ticket counter.
Before he could reconsider his ridiculous notion, he found himself standing in front of the black stallion. Its color was a bit faded; he could see spots where the paint was flaking off, worn down by small hands. But still the beauty of the workmanship shone through; the soft flowing waves of the wooden mane, the leg lifted in a proud stance. It stood solemnly with quiet nobility, unfazed by the passing of the years.
John suddenly felt foolish. Was he really going to do this? Should he sit astride the horse? That seemed rather juvenile for a grown man. Or he could merely stand holding the horse's brass pole, as parents sometimes would do next to their children. But having no child, he would surely appear ridiculous. Maybe he should just depart the ride altogether. What an absurd idea this had been.
Just as he decided to get off the carousel, he noticed a young woman step onto the platform. He glanced quickly at her and then froze.
Her beauty stunned him for a moment. He was immediately reminded of a Renaissance painting; her porcelain skin set off by her deep chestnut curls, faintly flushed cheeks and rosy lips. She could easily pass for some Greek goddess fresh from Mount Olympus.
But it was her eyes that truly arrested him. Wide, blue-grey eyes, as deep as the sea. Eyes that could capture a man's heart with one flutter, he thought idly. Eyes that could ask for the moon and he would give it to her.
Eyes that were on the verge of tears.
Her eyes were wandering, seemingly searching. They landed on the grey horse beside him. She stepped up to the horse and laid her hand on its neck.
With a deep sigh, she pressed her forehead to the brass pole. The threatened tears began falling from the corners of her eyes. What could be wrong? He had the strongest urge to comfort her, somehow. Except he hadn't the faintest idea how to comfort a crying woman.
He took a tentative step toward her. She gasped and pulled her head up, giving him a startled look. "Oh!" She had apparently not seen him there. She hurriedly turned her face away and pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing frantically at her eyes.
"Madam, may I be of some assistance?"
"No, no, I am fine." She finished drying her tears and turned back around, nodding dismissively. "I thank you for your concern."
He did not answer, but stood where he was, unsure what he should do. She did not want his help, but she did not seem fine.
She placed one hand on the horse's neck and one around the pole, and began to pull herself up onto the saddle. Her hand slipped a little, and she fell back down, her feet stumbling a bit on the wooden platform.
"Please, allow me." Without any thought John crossed around her horse and reached out his hands to help her up. He grasped her by the waist and swiftly lifted her onto the horse's back.
He suddenly found himself inches from those wide eyes, which were staring back at him in shock. Abruptly he realized what he had just done. Had he really just placed his hands on a woman's waist? A lady who was a complete stranger, and who had given him no leave to do so? And were his hands still resting there now?
John started and suddenly pulled himself back. "Forgive me." He could feel himself blushing. He never blushed. The lady's cheeks were also stained a dark shade of pink. "I should not have taken such a liberty–"
She still did not speak, but looked away, holding the brass pole and turning herself forward. He crossed behind her and back to the black stallion, climbing astride. He felt the carousel begin to turn and heard the voices of children cheering happily.
He kept his face turned away for some time, feeling distinctly ashamed. How had he dared to be so presumptuous with a woman he did not even know? She must be appalled. He tried not to think about what it had felt like to be so close to her, her rosy lips, her faint floral scent…
"I did not thank you–"
John turned his head sharply, realizing the woman was speaking to him. She was regarding him a bit warily, but her tone was sincere. "Forgive me, it was rude of me. I thank you for your assistance."
She gave him a small smile and then turned her head forward. She looked like a queen, he thought, sitting so regally on the carousel horse, as though she were parading before her subjects.
"I was glad to be of service." At his reply she glanced at him again and gave him a small nod. He should just turn away now, he thought. She did not care to talk to him. He was a complete stranger, for goodness sake. But he could not forget how the sight of those tears had shaken him. And, he admitted to himself, he was eager for those eyes to look at him again.
"Is there anything else you require?" John winced, aware of how ridiculous he sounded. Desperate. What was he doing? "It is only, I couldn't help noticing that you appeared distressed. Might I help you in some way?"
She flushed. "You are kind, but there is no need. I am all right." She added quietly. "And there is nothing that you could do."
That settled it. There was nothing for him to do. He turned away. No. He turned back. "Madam, I just wondered–"
What was wrong with him? He never behaved like this. The lady clearly did not wish to engage with him. Why was he pestering her?
"I just wondered if perhaps you might need someone to talk to, if something is troubling you. A friend." Where on earth had that come from? Now John was offering his services as a friend to strange women?
She gave him an odd look. She took a few moments to reply. "Sir, I thank you, but I do not even know you."
There. He was being ridiculous. She wanted nothing to do with him. "That is true. I am a stranger. But perhaps sometimes a stranger can be a friend. To tell your troubles to."
She considered him for several moments, then looked away, watching the crowds outside the carousel. John was certain she would ignore him for the rest of the ride. And well he deserved it. When had he become so forward?
She turned back to him. "My name is Margaret Hale."
John was too surprised to reply for a moment. "John – John Thornton."
She nodded and smiled. "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Thornton." She looked a little shy. "I am a little troubled. I have had some bad news… Perhaps it would be nice to have someone to listen…" She looked at him, her wide eyes peering into his, seeking, hopeful, uncertain.
As her face filled his vision, the world spinning behind her, he felt a strange premonition that from this moment, Margaret Hale would be the axis around which his life would revolve.
"I would be happy to listen to anything you wished to tell me, Miss Hale."
She blinked a few times, and then looked down. "Well, you see, my father left his parish. He is – he was – a minister. He left his position. He feels some break with the church. I do not really understand…" She sighed. "And now we must move. We have left Helstone, our dear village, and we are moving far away, to a place we've never been." Her eyes began to fill with tears again. "Forgive me, I should not be so distressed..."
"Miss Hale–" John found himself climbing off his horse and standing by her side, offering his own handkerchief. "There is nothing to forgive. It is natural to be distressed by such an overwhelming change in your life."
She took the handkerchief and dried her eyes. "I have not had anyone to talk to about it. It would upset Papa and Mama too much, of course. I must be strong for them."
"I understand. That is admirable of you." He began to suspect that this young woman was accustomed to shouldering the burdens for others. "I am so sorry you had to leave your home."
She nodded. "I thank you. I do love Helstone, it is so green and peaceful. But I know I shall adjust to a new place. After a time. I should not feel so sorry for myself. So many others have much more severe problems."
The corner of his mouth turned up. "Miss Hale, I think it is permissible to feel just a little sorry for ourselves from time to time."
She gave him a small smile, staring into his eyes for a moment.
John felt the ride started slowing, and he grasped the grey horse's pole to steady himself. Margaret looked away, watching the spinning seaside beside them gradually slow down. John suddenly realized his time with her was about to end. He felt frantic to find a way to extend it.
As the platform came to a stop, he walked around to the other side of her horse. "May I help you down, Miss Hale?" At least this time he had asked her permission. He was not always a complete brute.
"Yes, thank you." Her eyelashes fluttered a little. He once again took hold of her waist and lifted her, setting her down softly in front of him.
For one thrilling moment they did not move. He still held her, and her hands rested on his upper arms. They gazed at one another. It seemed as though some strange current passed between them. He was unable to breathe.
Margaret blinked abruptly and dropped her hands from his arms. He let go of her waist and stepped back. She looked away, and he noticed her cheeks were flushed.
He followed her to the edge of the platform. He quickly stepped past her and hopped to the ground, then turned and offered her his hand to assist her. She quietly nodded her thanks as she stepped down. They passed crowds of children as they moved away from the carousel.
"Thank you, Mr. Thornton. It was very nice meeting you."
John felt a sense of alarm. He could not let her leave, never to see her again. "May I see you to your friends? Who is accompanying you?"
She looked a bit embarrassed. "Oh, well, Papa and Mama were here, but Mama had a headache. Papa took her back to our rooms." She gestured to a large hotel just off the shore. "I told Papa I would join them after I rode the carousel."
"I see. Then please allow me to escort you back. And perhaps… If you are not in a great hurry, we could take a stroll along the shore on the way."
She glanced back at the hotel, considering. He took a small step closer.
"In all honesty, Miss Hale, I would very much like the chance to spend a little more time with you. It is not often, I think, that one meets a friend."
She regarded him for a few moments, then smiled. "A walk along the shore does sound pleasant, Mr. Thornton."
His heart leaped in his chest. He offered her his arm, relishing the delicious feeling of her hand resting there.
They wandered closer to the water, listening to the lapping of the waves, the crowds of people laughing and talking, the calls of seagulls overhead. The warm salty air smelled fresh and clean. Strolling along with this beautiful woman on his arm, John was startled to realize that he felt... happy. When was the last time he could say that?
"So you are here with your parents, Miss Hale?"
"Yes, Brighton is one of Mama's favorite places to visit. She enjoys the sea bathing." Her expression became troubled. "But this year she has not felt well enough to leave the hotel much."
"I am sorry to hear that. I hope her health will improve soon." He hated to see the unhappy look on her face. He desperately wanted to cheer her somehow. "Do you like sea bathing as well?" Was that an inappropriate question to ask a young lady?
"No, not a great deal." She smiled. "I prefer to stay on the shore and look for seashells."
"You prefer the land to the water, then?" He winked at her. "You are not secretly a mermaid?" What was that? Did John Thornton just actually wink at a lady? What was happening to him?
She giggled. He had made her giggle. Oh, he liked that. "No, not a mermaid. They always seemed rather heartless creatures. Luring sailors to their deaths and all." Her smile turned wistful. "Fred used to like stories of mermaids. He used to say he would find one someday."
Fred. A sudden stab of jealousy shot through his chest. Had she a suitor, a sweetheart? Of course she probably did, such a breathtakingly beautiful woman as this. Why had he assumed she would not?
"Who is Fred?" He tried to keep his tone light, nonchalant. He failed miserably.
"Oh, Fred is my brother. He is a sailor. Or – well, he was a sailor." She bit her lip. Her eyes suddenly filled with sorrow.
"Is something wrong, Miss Hale?" She did not answer, looking out at the ocean. It was obvious the subject was painful for her. "Remember, I am your friend, here to listen. You can share your troubles with me."
Margaret glanced back at him, giving him a half-hearted smile. She sighed. "Frederick was in the navy, but… he was part of a mutiny. I believe it was justified. I do not truly know. But – he can never return to England." He could see her eyes were filling with tears.
John was struck with admiration for this woman. How much she had endured, for someone so young. What burdens had been laid on her by those closest to her. Was life ever fair? It seemed the innocent always suffered for the mistakes of others. She did not deserve so much pain. He wanted to shelter her, to keep her from any more sadness.
"I am very sorry. It sounds as though you have had much to bear." He covered her hand on his arm with his. He wished he could offer more than paltry words to comfort her.
She gave a small smile, wiping away her tears. "I thank you. Fred was the person I could always talk to." She gazed up at him. "I have missed that."
Again, John felt something unseen pass between them. They stared at each other for a long moment, before she blinked and turned away, her cheeks flushing.
"So, what about you, Mr. Thornton? Do you like the water?"
He turned to contemplate the waves washing along the shore. "I find the ocean calming. I would perhaps like to take a journey on a ship someday. But I do not think I would have wanted to be a sailor by profession." He gave her a small smile. "Like you, I think I prefer to observe the water from the shore, with my feet on the ground."
She smiled. "Not a sailor, then." She glanced curiously at him. "What is your profession, Mr. Thornton?"
"I am the master of Marlborough Mills cotton mill." John spoke with pride, reflecting on how far he had come in his career.
"Cotton mill?" Margaret gave him a startled look. "You are a manufacturer?"
"I am." He realized that she was not pleased. Of course not. He should have known. She was the daughter of a gentleman, she would not be impressed by a manufacturer, no matter how successful. He felt a sharp pang of disappointment.
Her brow furrowed. "Oh, I had assumed… You do not seem like a manufacturer."
"Do I not? Have you known many manufacturers, Miss Hale?" His eyebrows lifted as he regarded her.
Her mouth opened for a moment, then closed again. She gave a small laugh. "No, I own that I have not."
"Well, now you have. I hope–" He looked away. "I hope you do not regret making friends with a manufacturer." He tried to make his tone light, though his chest tightened in anticipation of her reply.
She did not speak immediately. Warily, he glanced down at her. She was regarding him with a serious expression. "No." She tightened her hand on his arm. "No, I do not regret it."
The tightness in his chest suddenly unfurled into a warmth that filled his whole body. He covered her hand with his. "I am glad, Miss Hale," he whispered.
Her cheeks flushed and she looked away after a moment. They walked in silence for a short time, occasionally exchanging shy glances and smiles.
A bright reflection in the sand nearby caught John's attention. He paused to bend down and picked something up. "Look at this." He held up a pink and white cockle shell. He strode down to the water's edge to wash the sand off the shell. He returned to Margaret and held it out to her.
"Oh, it's beautiful." She stroked its shiny surface. "Such a pretty color. And it's rare to find them so unblemished."
"For you." He placed it in her hand, holding his fingers there. "For you to remember me by." His throat tightened. Suddenly he was reminded that he must soon say goodbye to this woman, perhaps forever.
She placed her other hand over his. "I shall not forget you, Mr. Thornton."
She gazed up at him with a soft, yearning look. Surely he could not be imagining these feelings, this connection between them. He wondered if she was feeling it, too. Her face, her lips were so close… He desperately wanted to lean in, just a little…
With a slight intake of breath, he pulled himself back. What was he doing? He was being entirely improper. Surely John Thornton had not become the sort of man who went around kissing ladies he had just met.
Margaret blinked and looked away. He may have imagined it, but he thought he detected a flicker of disappointment in her eyes.
"I suppose I should get back to my parents." She glanced over at the hotel they were nearing. "They will be expecting me."
As they walked the short distance to the hotel entrance, John felt a rising sense of panic. He could not allow this woman to pass out of his life, never to see her again. It was becoming more and more difficult to breathe.
"Miss Hale–" He knew his voice sounded desperate. "Would you allow me to write to you? No, I know that would not be proper. Or may I write to your father? Miss Hale–" He took a step closer. "I very much want to see you again."
The color heightened in her cheeks, and her eyes cast down. After a moment she braved a look at him again, her lashes fluttering. "I should like that, Mr. Thornton." She gave him a rather flustered smile.
Air filled his lungs in a rush. He could write to her! "So would I, Miss Hale."
Her brow furrowed. "But I do not know where you would write. We have left Helstone, and we do not yet have a new home. I have no address to give you. We will be finding a house when we arrive in Milton–"
"Milton?" He stared at her, stunned. "You are moving to Milton?"
"Yes, my father's friend, Mr. Bell, has found my father some students to teach there."
"Mr. Bell…" He could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Miss Hale, I live in Milton."
"You – you live in Milton?"
"Yes." He laughed, unable to contain the joy that suddenly bubbled inside him. "Mr. Bell is my landlord."
She smiled, and started laughing as well. "I can't believe it. What an amazing coincidence."
"Perhaps so. Or perhaps…" He leaned closer, taking her hand. "When two people are brought together, through such unlikely circumstances… perhaps it is the hand of fate."
She wrapped her fingers around his, and replied softly, "Perhaps it is." Her eyes shone up at him, open, inviting, full of hope, full of promise. The promise of a brand new path opening up before him, one they would walk together.
"Are you taking the train to Milton in the morning, Miss Hale?" She nodded. "Then perhaps I might accompany you? Would you introduce me to your parents?"
"I would be happy to, Mr. Thornton."
"Very well." He smiled. "Until tomorrow, then, Miss Hale." He squeezed her hand gently and then released it.
She began to go in, but then paused. She bit her lip for a moment, then turned back to him. Grasping his hand, she leaned up on her toes and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.
"Thank you for today, Mr. Thornton." She turned back quickly to walk inside. "Until tomorrow."
John gently touched his cheek as he strode back along the beach. He felt his mouth widening into a grin, his spirits soaring into the brightening sunlight, as the clouds overhead blew swiftly away.
Brighton, August 1862
"Papa! Papa!" The little girl ran ahead, jumping with excitement. "There it is! There's the carousel!"
Her father followed behind her, a very small boy sleeping on his shoulder. "Yes, Sarah. Will you ride the same horse as last time?"
"Of course I will!" She sighed at her silly Papa. "I always ride him. He's the best one."
"Shall I hold him, John?" The woman at his side gestured to the tiny boy in his arms. "I can keep him while you ride with Sarah. I do not think he will wake soon."
"No need, love." He smiled and winked at his wife. "I am more than capable of handling both of my children. And my Margaret deserves a ride on the carousel as well."
She laughed and shook her head at him, but acquiesced agreeably.
Holding his sleeping son in one arm, John deftly assisted his daughter and wife onto the carousel platform with the other. Sarah immediately made a run for her favorite horse.
"Here he is! He's the most handsome horse." She stroked the black stallion's neck fondly. "Do you think he remembers me?"
"I am sure he could not forget you, princess." After handing the sleeping toddler to Margaret, John lifted the little girl onto the back of the horse. She happily stroked its wooden mane and pretended to gallop.
Turning back to Margaret, he grasped her waist and boosted her onto the grey mare's back, before gathering his son back to his own arms. He stood his tall form next to his wife and she leaned into him.
As the carousel began to turn, John gazed out at the seaside as it began to spin around them. The sun shone brightly down, scattering shadows away to nothing but distant memories.
This story was written for the Weavers and Spinners Midsummer Meeting collection.
*Historical Note: I took some liberties with historical accuracy for the purposes of this story. The carousel on the Brighton seafront (the "Golden Gallopers") was not constructed until 1888. Additionally, while carousels in some form have been in existence for centuries, they were not steam powered until 1861, and would have instead relied on human or animal power.