MASTERS, MAGISTRATES, MUTINEERS & MEN
Chapter 5: The Sketch
It was left to Mr. Thornton to carry Mr. Hale up the stairs to his room. The old man, entirely overcome by the revelations that evening, hardly spoke. Nearly motionless, he had remained in his chair, long after his daughter had quit the room. He failed to heed the questions posed to him by Mr. Bell or the tumbler of brandy held out to him by Mr. Lennox. Instead, he remained as silent as a statue. Not a tear interrupted his stoic expression, nor a single word of grief or anger. Instead, he simply stared off at the clock beyond, lost to everything going on around him except his own internal musings.
The remaining three men stared at each other in tense, awkward silence until it was broken by Mr. Bell.
"Hale, you need to sleep," he said. When this failed to conjure a response, he rose and tried to take his friend's hand. Mr. Hale did not move.
"I think he will need to be escorted upstairs," Mr. Bell said, turning towards Mr. Lennox and Mr. Thornton. Before the pair could descend into an argument over which would prove himself stronger and more helpful, Mr. Bell simply nodded at Mr. Thornton. "I wish to have a word with Mr. Lennox. Would you mind helping Richard to his room?"
"Of course not."
At first, John thought his arm would be enough to aid Mr. Hale's journey to the second floor, however, this was proved insufficient. Instead, he was forced to gather up his tutor in his arms, as if a bride, and carry him up the stairs to deposit him in his room. He stayed with his friend for some time, until quiet snores filled the room. Then, he withdrew to join the others.
He found Mr. Bell halfway through a large glass of brandy - and by the slur of his voice, he doubted it was his first round.
"Thornton! There you are! Come and join us! We were just discussing what is to be done. With Richard and Margaret, I mean," he said, spilling a bit of his brandy as he spoke. "Mr. Lennox, here, thinks he should summon her aunt home from whichever expensive, fashionable place she is parading about and then both Hales can return to her in Harley Street. I do not agree. You see, that would do well enough for Margaret but Richard could never abide it. Mrs. Shaw and he never saw eye-to-eye and it would not do anyone any good to throw them together like this. Since I cannot imagine Margaret to leave her father, Harley Street is not to be considered. No, I think that if we cannot rouse Mr. Hale, it would be in the best interest of all for them both to come with me to Oxford. Just for a time, of course. Until Mr. Hale's spirits have improved, and he has regained his strength. I can look after both of them and do my best to raise their spirits. There is nothing quite so sure to improve one's health as a very fine library and ample time to read in peace."
"Perhaps, Oxford would prove best for Mr. Hale, but not for Margaret. Nothing would benefit her as much as time with her relations. She needs the support of her aunt and cousin," Mr. Lennox argued.
By the way he spoke, Mr. Thornton assumed this was not the first round in this particular debate between the pair. He did not like how Mr. Lennox presumed to know what was best for Margaret- or that he was in such a position of intimacy in the family where he could call her by her Christian name. John would much rather argue for Margaret and Mr. Hale to remain in Milton, but his memory of Mr. Hale's absent expression and languid form made him pause. He hated to think of it, but what if the worst should befall them? John interrupted them before they could argue further, voicing the fear they all were considering but not wishing to voice. "If Mr. Hale does not improve…"
"Margaret always has a home with me… or her aunt. She will be well-provided for, in either case," Mr. Bell assured.
John nodded, though his expression remained grim. He was not particularly fond of either course of action as both would inevitably separate him from Margaret.
"In any matter, I will not leave Milton until after…" Mr. Bell said and sighed deeply, his voice choking with emotion. "Oh, poor Fred! How did it ever come to this? Poor, poor Fred! Well, until after the end… if there is to be a funeral, of some kind."
"The court-martial will be complete by the end of the week," Mr. Lennox said. "The navy is remarkably efficient when it comes to things like this. I too will remain - until the end."
"My mother will come as often as she can," Mr. Thornton said. "Miss Hale will have her support for as long as she needs it."
"I can think of no better woman to stay with Miss Hale," Mr. Bell said in approval. "Though, I admit, I would quiver with fear if it was me she was set upon. I suppose that settles the matter for now. We remain in Milton."
Mr. Thornton let out a sigh of relief. The very idea that the Hales could leave Milton- leave him- unsettled him more than he wished to think about. The knowledge they would remain, however temporarily, set him at an imperfect ease. While Mr. Thornton would much rather appoint himself as the sole guardian and comforter of Margaret Hale, he had to admit the wisdom of having more friends and family nearby. He knew his mother would agree. "You must work, John," she would chide. "Besides, when the weight is carried by many, it is lighter for all." He knew she was right, but he felt irrationally jealous over his position as friend of the family.
Thus, Mr. Bell, Mr. Lennox, and Mr. Thornton remained in the drawing room of the Crampton House. Three unlikely allies, forced together over their care for the family in their midst. While they may not like each other, they must respect each other out of a common unity of purpose and intent. Until the end.
oooooo
Hannah Thornton sat on the edge of a bed; a sobbing woman draped across her lap like a blanket. Dark hair had long since come undone from its pins and tangled against Hannah's black skirt. She held her hand against the girl's back and hummed softly, an old hymn she had learned in her childhood, her voice slightly off-key but hidden by the sound of weeping. For some good amount of time, Mrs. Thornton was alone with her thoughts. Her charge remained far too bereft for speech and hardly even noticed her presence. Thus, Hannah Thornton was at her leisure to search the small room with her eyes, all the while trying to sift through her own thoughts and emotions to resurrect something with a resemblance to composure.
The bedroom was small and simply furnished. An elegant dressing table sat against one wall, a silver comb and mirror upon it, hinting at past exposure to more finery than this small room contained. A nightstand with a candle, nearly burnt out, and a worn Bible, opened to Lamentations. Watercolor paintings hung on the walls - one of a forest framed by cottages and another of yellow roses. They were fine pieces, done by someone trained who knew what they were about. Painted by someone with the leisure to take lessons with a master rather than working in a mill for her bread. Forests and yellow roses were a sight not often seen by those in Milton. She wondered if Margaret stared at the paintings in order to avoid the view from the window between them- the window which looked out over the choking, sputtering chimneys of Milton.
Hannah could not see Margaret's face, only the sweep of her back and the long folds of her brown dress. It had been high quality fabric, back when it was new. Now, though, there were bare patches at the elbows and evidence of mending along the hem. The dress was very much like the woman herself- high quality material worn and battered by the toil of everyday life in Milton. Miss Hale had been raised to paint flowers and wear silk, yet her London education was weighed and measured by the men and machinery of Milton.
Hannah held one of Miss Hale's hands, tracing small circles against her pale skin. Her hands were not the soft, untainted hands of a gentlewoman but hardened by constant use. She recognized the callouses along the palm and forefingers from washing clothes and the slight burns from the heat of the flat iron. She wondered idly if Margaret's hands had been smooth and soft, when she first left her southern home. Perhaps it was unjust of her, to wonder so, but she found the contradiction of the disparate parts of Miss Hale a bit of an enigma. She did not know quite how to understand the haughty airs of the Miss Hale of Helstone with the course hands of Miss Hale of Milton. Were they so very different or had they always been the same?
Now, there was a third Margaret Hale - this tear-stained, desperate creature before her. She wondered how many more iterations and manifestations she would see of the young woman, before she could claim to finally understand her. Her grief, though, was something Hannah could understand. The loss of first her home, then her mother, and next her brother was enough to justify her current loss of composure and it was little wonder the girl looked entirely bereft.
Hannah appreciated the frank, thorough presentation of facts discharged by the young barrister. He did not muddle affairs with vain hopes or idle wishes. Yet, she had watched Miss Hale's face throughout, noting when the truth crystallized and evidence of heartbreak was painted across her face like a signal flag. She saw the twist of torment on her features the moment Margaret realized all was lost. The gallows she stared into was the end of her own hope, her innocence, a part of the world she once thought to be good.
Hannah understood, far too well, what a crushing blow such a revelation could be. Thus, she kept herself still and let the girl cry – in the sanctity and safety of Mrs. Thornton's arms. For a time, Hannah expected Margaret would cry herself to sleep, but when her shuddering slowly eased, she turned her head to face her companion. Her raven hair clung to her tear-stained face like water reeds against the hull of a boat. When Mrs. Thornton moved to untangle her tresses, she caught a glimpse of the tiny scar, just above the hairline. How well she hid it! Yet, for the discerning, it remained.
With a shuddering breath, Margaret wiped the last of her tears and struggled to calm herself. Then, she looked up, her grey eyes searching.
"It's all my fault. I've killed him," she said, finally voicing the words Hannah expected to hear. Hannah sat up a bit straighter and looked down on Margaret, her gaze imperious and defiant.
"Aye, Miss Hale. Did you? Tell me, did you tell him to mutiny?"
In surprise, Margaret shook her head. "Of course not."
"Were you the one to collect the bounty on his head? Will you be the one to tie him up to the yard arms?" At Miss Hale's continued refusal, Mrs. Thornton scoffed. "Then you cannot take the blame."
"But, it was I who summoned him back to England. It was I who wrote to him, pressing him to come! Then, I was foolish enough to suggest he return through London, so he could speak to Henry about clearing his name. If I hadn't…."
"If you hadn't, he might have been caught in a storm in the Atlantic and overturned. He may have met ruffians in Cadiz or choked on a chicken bone. No, Miss Hale, you are not as mighty and powerful as you think. You do not need to be accountable for affairs that belong to the Almighty alone. Your brother, the Lord keep him, made his decisions. I'm not saying he was right. I'm not saying he was wrong. I'm saying he did what he did and it's done. You did what you thought was right. As did he. It is what it is and now we must make the best of it."
"But what if..." Margaret began, sitting up so she could sit at eye-level with Mrs. Thornton, her expression pleading.
Mrs. Thornton interrupted her before she could continue. "Regret won't get you anything but inaction and backwards glances. Maybe you could have changed it. Maybe not. Maybe his fate was inevitable or maybe not. All I know is it's done. You can pray. You can have faith the Hand of Providence will bring good even out of the worst of circumstances. You can move forward and do what needs done, but you can never go back."
Maybe, if it was anyone else, Margaret could have dismissed her. But with the weight of her own tragedy still clinging to the black of her gown, Hannah Thornton spoke with the authority only those who have walked through the shadow of death and survived can speak with.
Margaret looked up at Mrs. Thornton, her eyes deep and soulful. "You know it… the taste of regret?"
It was both an accusation and a question. Mrs. Thornton sighed, her own soul heavy with wounds that would never fully heal, griefs that ran far deeper than all the days of her life and left scars she could never really hide.
She nodded. "I have fought my own battle with regret. Some days, I prove stronger, some days, I fancy there was a way everything could have been different. My husband, George, God rest him, never told me how we stood. He was a proud man, one who had worked hard to make himself into the man he was. I respected him, I held him upright. Mayhap I was too hard on him, held him up too high. Mayhap that was why he dared not tell me how far he had fallen.
"He came home that day far later than I expected him. He took tea with nary a word. I thought he was over weary, worn down from a long day's work. He kissed me on the cheek and told me he would stay up a bit to take care of some accounts. He stayed there, by the fire and I found him there the next morning, unmoved and unmoving.
"I was always glad I woke early, that it was I who found him and not any other. However, what if I had stayed up just a little longer? What if I had asked more questions, pressed him harder, stayed by his side till he slept? If only I had said something, done something, I could have prevented that last rash, foolish act.
"It wasn't until he was good and buried that the creditors came, and I discovered why he had done what he did. He never told me. There was no warning. He escaped and left me to find out by bits and pieces just what it was he would rather die than face and leave me living it, leave me facing the mess he left behind. I was angry. I was disappointed. I was distraught. I felt keenly the weight of guilt. If only I had not pressured him so much, if he had not felt he needed to raise us so high, if he only knew how much we valued his life more than the manner of house he could provide. Maybe if I had been some other manner of wife, if I had shown greater care, maybe he would not have fled like he did.
"Regret has been a heavier chain than even all my husband's creditors. Debts can be paid; regrets cannot be erased. No matter how many nights I have tossed and turned and cried to Heaven, I cannot change the past, only walk into the future with my head held high.
"And what could I tell my children? How could I reveal the shame of their father and still show the honor due him? How could I separate the man from his deeds and find peace between them? No, man is perfect and no man's hands are entirely clean. A man may be the very best of fathers and husbands and yet a perfect scoundrel to his master. A man may be the hardest of workers, the most compassionate of neighbors, and still come home to beat his wife and leave his children to starve while he seeks out a drink. Even the best of men has days where they make blunders and the very worst of men have their moments of grandeur. Which is the aspect of their character that defines them? Which day is it that determines who they are as a man? I do not know. We may think we know them, that we see them as they are, but ultimately, judgement comes from the Lord Almighty and it is He who knows the heart.
"And God knows, I have done my best and that must be enough to silence my regrets."
During her speech, Margaret had lay back down and nestled herself gently against Mrs. Thornton's lap, her expression and posture reminiscent of a small child after a maelstrom of emotion has passed. She was quiet for some time, mulling over what Mrs. Thornton had said.
"Mama would never have believed it. Not even if Fred himself told her. She always believed the reports were wrong, that Fred was innocent."
Mrs. Thornton chuckled and reached out to stroke her fingers through Margaret's hair. "That I can believe. It is a mother's prerogative to guard her son's faults as her own property and proclaim his virtues to the world. Sometimes, it is our love that makes us see the people around us more clearly than everyone else. We see their strengths and we see their weaknesses - both far clearer than any outsider ever could. However, it is that same great love that makes us blind. There are truths we do not wish to see and that makes us blinder still.
"It is not always easy to recognize the potential for evil, for blunders, for mistakes in those we love… and still be able to love them. To recognize the ways they have disappointed us and failed us and still choose to love and honor them. In some ways, it is easier to deny their capacity for ill-deeds than it is to face the truth of it."
"I never knew what a challenge it would be to see my parents or my brother as human beings – capable of misjudgments, ill-tempers, and poor decisions. As a child, I always believed them to be impervious to the failings that afflict humanity in general. Now, as I grow, I find it is not so easy to reconcile myself to all they have done or the motivations undergirding their decisions," Margaret said, as if confessing a great sin rather than simply admitting the truth of her fledgling journey into womanhood.
"And that is a challenge you must face before you can call yourself a woman," Mrs. Thornton said. "It is no easy task, harder still for the circumstances you find yourself in. It will be all the harder when it is your own children who must reconcile themselves with your weaknesses."
The pair fell silent again, each lost in their own thoughts. Mrs. Thornton looked around the room again until she caught on a piece of paper on the dressing table. It was a half-finished charcoal sketch of a young man lay, the eyes looking away, the mouth open in laughter. It was a handsome face -a touch of humor and affection in the expression and a lackadaisical charm about his posture. Reaching for it, Mrs. Thornton held it aloft.
"Is this him?" She asked.
"Yes," Margaret answered, tears pooling in her eyes again. "I meant to send it to his fiancée. I had not finished it, by the time Fred left."
"You are not so very alike," Mrs. Thornton stated.
"No. Not in appearance, perhaps, or even in disposition. However, I suppose that is the way with siblings, sometimes. It is almost worse now -having seen him again, really seen him- now as we are adults. Before, he was only Fred, my older brother I only had the faintest and dimmest of memories of. He was still a young lad in my mind and one which was as likely to cause mischief as play. When he came to see Mama, it was the first time were together fully grown. We experienced that brief, precious taste of knowing each other as people, as adults, and then only to have us permanently parted. Now, I know him as a man and it makes his loss all the more acute. If he would have never come, I would have never known what I was missing and yet, because he came, now he is lost forever.
"Oh, how I wish I had not written to him and made him come! I wish I could go back to how things were- Fred still in Spain, Fred far distant and safe. I did not know him then... I wonder if I truly know him now. But, at least I knew that he lived!"
"I cannot blame you for that. If it were my brother... my son... I would feel the same."
"You are a good mother," Margaret said, a smile on her lips, though her eyes were swollen and closed. "Your children were very fortunate. I wish I had more time with mine."
"Aye. I wish that for you as well. It is the way of things. The more we love a person, the shorter their life seems. Even a hundred years isn't long enough, not for someone we truly value. Eternity itself hardly feels like enough."
"Eternity. It has felt like an eternity since we left Helstone," she said, her voice growing slow and drifting towards sleep.
"Come, Miss Hale. You need to try to rest, as best you can," Hannah said. "Tomorrow is another day which will require all your strength, and you will face it."