MASTERS, MAGISTRATES, MUTINEERS & MEN

Chapter 10: The Watch

Fanny Thornton did all she could to remain still. It was a valiant effort. Ever since she was a small child, her mother had chided her for her inability to maintain a serene posture. The very command to hold still made her nearly itch with a desire to shift in her seat or tap her feet against the floor. She did her best to hold her head high, her eyes fixed on the bouquet of flowers on the table nearby.

It was quiet, too quiet. Not even a clock ticked. It was yet another reminder of how recently death had visited the house, how the affair with Frederick Hale was only one in a series of tragedies facing the Hales. The clock on the mantle of the study was still stopped- presumably on the hour of Mrs. Hale's death. No one had attempted to start the clock anew. The hall mirror remained covered with black crepe. It was said a departing spirit could get stuck in the world beyond the mirror if it had not been covered quickly enough. A black wreath hung on the door outside. Margaret's dress hung in black folds off her tall, elegant frame. It was said black was less visible to the spirits who came to gather the departed to their ranks, to protect the wearer from being called to join them prematurely. There were reminders of death everywhere- as if the dead and dying were forging their own sepulcher for the living.

Fanny hated it. She could not bear the black or the crepe or the drawn faces or the tear-stained eyes. She wished to throw open the windows and cast color back into the house and wash out the taste of it from her tongue. She wished to scrub Margaret's face so she could smile and gain colour back into her cheeks. She wished to pour out buckets full of tea and bonnets and news about ribbons until her mind was emptied of every dark and dismal thought that made her sit so grave and still and somber.

Mr. Hale already communed with ghosts and anyone who gazed upon his face could see his spirit already straddled the thin line between those who had gone before and those who remained. Margaret, though, she still lived and needed to be reminded to live and to tend to the affairs of the living, even if only through such mundane topics as the weather or the colour of fruit.

When Fanny had arrived that morning, she had been surprised to find Margaret barricaded away in her father's study. She watched for a time as Margaret wove a chestnut lock of hair into a delicate floral pattern. Once finished, it would be hung on the wall of the parlor, alongside a portrait of her mother. Fanny had read while Margaret worked, but Margaret stopped her not long after she had begun.

"Forgive me. I am melancholy today and do not believe I can attend to a story."

Fanny reluctantly stopped reading aloud, though continued reading quietly to herself. It was too quiet to remain idle and she longed for some exertion. She began to look about her, hoping to stumble upon some topic of conversation. Half-finished sketches and drawings lay scattered across the room – as if each was fervently started and then just as quickly cast aside and forgotten. Some were of roses and children playing in a garden, others the face of a man – his eyes, his brow, the lines of his smile. His features were reminiscent of Mrs. Hale and Fanny could only assume they were quick sketches of her brother. Still others were the lined eyes of a woman. Fanny could recognize the expression and color as reminiscent of Mrs. Hale. They were not finely drawn nor finished, as if they were evidence of sudden bursts of memories which Margaret feared to lose if she did not impress them immediately onto paper. As fleeting as smoke and candlelight.

She wondered if Miss Hale had slept at all or if she had spent the entire night drawing. Fanny was glad her mother had thought of procuring art supplies. If it was not so terribly improper, Fanny would have forced Margaret out of her dark, dismal house to attend a concert or to listen to the pianoforte or paint flowers in a florist's shop instead of endless copies of faces of the dead. Anything but remain where she sat, garbed in solemn black, eyes fixed on the same walls which held her last memories of both mother and brother.

"I wrote to his betrothed," Margaret said, breaking the silence of the room and drawing Fanny's attention away from the scattered sketches.

"Your brother's?"

"Yes. I sent her the newspaper articles I have saved regarding Fred's affairs… along with a picture I meant to send her."

Fanny bit her bottom lip and nodded once, unsure what else to say. She thought she ought to inquire more into this almost-sister and then she considered inquiring more into Margaret's drawings. Instead, she remained silent for a moment that stretched and carried and felt as heavy as that silent, unticking clock on the mantle.

After a time, Margaret placed down the lock of hair and her work basket. She rose from her chair and stretched her back. She paced the room three times, each time stopping before one unfinished portrait or another. Then she appeared to come to some decision. She carried an easel from a corner into the center of the room. Carefully, she gathered a paper and supplies for drawing. Her eyes flitted around the room before finally resting on Fanny.

"May I draw you?" Margaret asked.

"Of course," Fanny answered.

Margaret nodded and the warmth of her expression was the closest to a smile she had achieved that day.

Thus, Fanny Thornton smiled her prettiest smile and held as still as she could. She was no proficient in the art of sitting still and posing for an artist. However, if it inspired Margaret to draw something else, look at something else, see someone who still moved and breathed, she would do it, but with plenty of long-suffering sighs and unconscious movements. She attempted to keep her eyes fixed on the bouquet of flowers. Deep scarlet roses, tulips, carnations, marigolds, and zinnias were arranged carefully in a simple vase. She stared at the flowers, tracing their colours and shapes and imagining them each in the form of a gown. In her mind, she could see each grow and morph into the form of a woman dancing across a finely lit ballroom before turning back into a flower again. This kept her still for a time before her mind stumbled upon a question.

"'Tis a fine bouquet," Fanny observed. "Who sent it?"

"Your brother," Margaret answered.

"Ah, of course," Fanny said, considering the bouquet again more carefully.

She should have known these were from John. The flowers of friendship, loyalty, mourning, memory, grieving, and lasting affection- all the flowery things he wished he could say to Miss Hale but never seemed to have the words for. Here they were, arranged on a table, for all to see. She wondered if Miss Hale could attend to their meaning in the manner the bouquet was sent, or if she simply saw the flowers as a funeral bouquet.

"Why did you not marry John?" Fanny burst out, forsaking all attempts at holding her posture or maintaining propriety. Her ever-simmering curiosity boiled over and she fixed her eyes on the startled face of the artist. She knew she was being impertinent, but she continued anyway. "I cannot understand. He is well-established and a good man. He has a home and excellent prospects. What more is it you hope for in a husband? Is it a London man you are holding out for? I cannot blame you for that, you know. I would rather marry a London man, myself, and leave this dirty, smoky town, but I have never been to London, so it is hard." Fanny realized she was babbling on rather than permitting her companion the opportunity to answer her. She rapidly shut her mouth, but her gaze did not wander from Miss Hale's face. The moments stretched on without a response and then a deep rose crept over Margaret's features.

"I do not know," she finally answered. "I thought I knew, once, but now I am not as sure as I once was- about so many things." Margaret placed her pencil down and she wrung her charcoal-stained hands against her apron. When she looked back at Fanny, her expression was both earnest and pleading, as if begging Fanny to understand. "So much of my life has been in a constant state of transition – and change- and impermanence- and I have not had the opportunity to stop and consider... You see, I spent so many years as the companion of my cousin… And my aunt, well, she had Edith and it was all introductions and gatherings and flirtations for Edith. It was Edith who must be married off. What have I to tempt a suitor? I was but the dependent cousin, the poor daughter of a country parson.

"When not in London, I was the comfort of my parents… with Fred separated from us, they needed me so! Why, the first and only time my mother ever saw me dress for a dinner was that evening at Marlborough House last November. We never spoke of men or marriage or the prospect of me with a home of my own - apart from them. Why, I do not believe Papa has once considered it! I have never expected nor suspected myself to be the object of notice of a man. Nor can I say I have wished for it… at least... not until…," here she paused and broke off with a sigh, "I knew so very little when I first arrived in Milton and have spent the intervening months learning how little I still know."

Fanny opened her mouth as if she were about to speak, but she closed it just as quickly again. She meant to ask more, probe more, protest more, but for once, she kept quiet. She was quiet long enough for Margaret to change the subject, not allowing her to ask any further questions… questions Fanny knew John would be very interested in knowing the answers to.

It was a conversation that must remain unfinished.

Like the sketch of Fanny which, too, could not be completed.

oooooo

Henry Lennox waited until the last dish had been cleared away and the inn servants dismissed. Mr. Bell, his appetite returning as the shock of the week's events slowly settled, had ordered a feast, and descended upon their supper as if it would be the last meal he would see for a week. The old man sighed in contentment after it was over and leaned back in his chair; his eyes half-closed as he luxuriated in his glass of brandy.

Henry could not imitate his companion's ease. He shifted in his seat and rumpled through the pile of letters on the table again. He already knew what each correspondence contained, but still he scanned their contents again, as if a fifth and sixth perusal would reveal any new information. Despite the languor of his posture, Mr. Bell remained alert to Henry's mood and movements. He peeked at Henry through one eye and frowned.

"Anything?" He asked, thus initiating the conversation they both knew must come.

Mr. Lennox shook his head, a frown deepening the dimples in his cheeks and darkening his brow. "Have your contacts proved themselves useful?"

Mr. Bell closed both his eyes and emptied what remained in his glass. With an audible clatter, he placed the unfortunate receptacle on the table and shook his silvered head. "I cannot understand it, Lennox. I have tried every dubious, underhanded means my wealth and properties can grant me and no amount of Midas Touch will open these doors. I must admit a profound sense of disappointment in the sudden morality of our Admiralty and our Members of Parliament. Of all times to grow a conscience and despise bribes! It is most inconvenient to me and my poor godson."

"You believe he should go free?"

"What a question! What a question! Do I believe him innocent? No. He is guilty of many a crime which our laws deem punishable by death. However, he is also my godson and thus I wish for him to go free, to hell with legalities and guilt and laws and punishments. Perhaps I prove myself a very poor upholder of justice and all the world may rejoice I am a scholar not a judge, but there it is."

Henry shook his head. He ran his fingers along the smooth, cool edge of his pocket watch and felt the gentle ticking of the hands. Time was running out.

"He is not helping himself along," Henry observed. "Lieutenant Hale still holds firm to his stance that all his wrongdoing is the fault of Captain Reid and he has even publicly decried and disowned England herself for not seeing things his way. Public praise of Spain may not be the best method to prove one is not a traitor."

"If he admitted to his wrongdoing, would it change things?" Mr. Bell asked.

"No, but he would gain more sympathy. His bursts of self-righteous passion hardly gain support among either the populace or the Admiralty."

"I wonder – is it better to admit one's guilt and accept punishment or to go to the grave decrying one's innocence, even when false? I cannot say which stance would prove more efficacious to the equanimity of a convict's last days, but there it is."

Henry had gained enough wisdom to refrain from engaging in another philosophical joust with the old man. Instead, he remained silent as Mr. Bell poured himself a second glass of brandy, all the while muttering to himself about "politicians these days" and "the foolishness of youth." Henry Lennox gave a wry half-smile and let his eyes dwell on the flames of the hearth fire. It sprang up merrily and cast warmth across his feet.

Henry looked down at the most recent batch of letters posted from Portsmouth, each in the rough hand of the subject of their discussion. There were letters to Mr. Richard Hale and Miss Margaret Hale as well- all in the care of Mr. Henry Lennox. He was given strict instructions not to deliver his letters until… until all hope of future letters was over. These were his last words, his farewell, his final account, and the sailor knew it. It was to Henry that a series of directions were given regarding the dispersal of property in Frederick Hale's possession. Bank accounts and properties in Cadiz were to be placed under the care of the Hales along with a not insignificant sum of money.

Henry wondered how Margaret would react. Could she eagerly accept this parting gift from her brother- despite the rather morally questionable sources of his funds? Mr. Bell determined it would be better to intermix her brother's gift with Mr. Hale's fortune without informing Margaret of the addition. It would be as if the money had always belonged to the Hales. Mr. Hale was in no position to bother about finances or totals or funds. Mr. Bell argued it would be best to simply wire the inheritance into Hale's London account and not say a word about it to either remaining Hale.

"I do not think either Richard or Margaret would feel easy about the inheritance," Mr. Bell admitted. "Let Fred give his final gift to his family. Goodness knows they've been through enough on his account… and Hale's been sending far more than he could really afford to support his son- who apparently was not quite as desperately in need of funds as he claimed to be."

Henry did not quite agree with Bell's summation, but he would not argue the point. This was yet another decision he would surrender to Mr. Bell's judgement and better knowledge of the family.

The men had covertly met together every day since their first meeting. Once they were sure the Hales were in the company of their other friends, the two men met to discuss the case of Frederick Hale and pull together all their connections and influences in the cause of Frederick Hale. It unsettled Henry- leaving the care of Margaret to such people as the Thorntons, but it could not be helped. Her aunt and cousin were too far to come to her side so quickly and there were few enough other people to depend on. Thus, he had very little choice but to depend on the brusque, strange Miltonian family and tend to his affairs with Mr. Bell.

It was Mr. Bell's turn to glance at his pocket watch. The man rose with all the laborious slowness of a man whose limbs were made of oak rather than flesh. He gave a regretful, conspiratorial glance at his companion and reached out to shake his hand.

"I'm afraid that is all, then," Mr. Bell said. "We have done what we could and must admit our defeat. The decision has been made."

"Will you tell them?" Henry asked.

"No."

"The verdict will be in the papers by tomorrow."

"Ensure no one reads the papers, then."

"They are sure to find out."

"I will read the papers to them myself – after. Give them this. Give them one more day. Days of tears will be plenty. I would give them one more day of hope and one less of tears."

Reluctantly, Henry nodded.

"You will stay with Margaret tomorrow?"

"Of course."

oooo

Henry Lennox had hoped this would be a short visit.

It was not.

"You are in mourning! Why are you making calls?" He had asked the next morning, when he saw her intent to leave the house with a basket on her arm.

"I am overdue a visit to the Higgins family. They have been very kind to me and Mary told me the children were inquiring after me," she said, as if that would explain her sudden desire to make calls.

"Well, allow me to accompany you, then," he said, noting that Mr. Bell sat with Mr. Hale- leaving him at his leisure to assist Margaret. He had hoped to spend the morning with her and, indeed, Mr. Bell had charged him with her care (and her distraction) - but he had not anticipated this would involve following her through progressively more densely populated areas of Milton and into the very bowels of the habitations of the mill hands. He could not believe that Mr. Hale had permitted Margaret excursions into such places and entirely on her own. Mrs. Shaw never would have permitted it.

"Margaret- why, precisely are we calling on these friends of yours?" Henry inquired, the longer they walked through ever more dilapidated sides of the city.

"They understand," Margaret answered. "Bessy- she was my first friend in Milton, you see, and she died, not three months ago. Mary came to help in the house when Fred was here. Then, these children lost their father and their mother is very ill. Papa and I have done all we can to assist, but it is very hard, and grief is…," she trailed off, her expression growing somber. "Grief is easier to carry when it is shared with others who understand."

Margaret tried to explain her relationship with this family of mill hands. She spoke of strikes and unions and masters and men. She spoke of cotton and trade, mills and Irish workers, and then there were soldiers and stones.

"Nicholas Higgins helped organize the strike... the strike which put Thornton's mill at risk... and Boucher helped end the strike by instigating a riot... now, Higgins takes care of Boucher's children while Thornton has hired on Higgins?" Henry surmised, at the end of her tale.

Margaret nodded. Henry frowned and rubbed at his temples. "Yet, if the mill flounders from the effects of the strike, Thornton, Higgins and Boucher's children will all suffer."

"Yes. Yet, each side thought themselves in the right and they would not speak with the other or note the justice of the other's cause," Margaret explained.

"I see," Henry said.

In truth, he did not actually see. He was more confused than he had been when they started, but he continued to accompany Margaret anyway. Margaret easily made her way through the dirty, crowded streets with all the ease and confidence of a well-practiced dance- giving evidence this was a route she regularly took. Then she ushered him into the small home inhabited by a gaggle of children. A woman- hardly more than a girl- with a great stout frame and hesitant movements bustled around the kitchen. She spoke little- only answering questions posed by Miss Hale and hardly meeting his eye or noting his existence at all- other than to blush brightly and chide the child nearby him from pestering him with impertinence.

"Father's at th' mill," Mary Higgins whispered to Margaret, her eyes bright with emotion.

Margaret's answering smile was warm and wide. "I am glad."

It was Margaret who begged him to sit down beside the fire in a chair. Then she placed a small child in his arms; a glorious smile gracing her beautiful face in response to his acquiescence. "There, now, Henry. You have enough experience as an uncle now to hold Johnny while I help his sister with her letters," she said, humor in her voice.

Reluctantly, he held the grubby, squirrelly child on his lap, inwardly lamenting the dust now coating his freshly pressed trousers. Margaret assisted a young girl with her book of letters, helping her sound out the words and teaching her a rhyme to help her remember. Two other girls watched and mimicked her – at least until a riot of young boys tumbled through the door and fell in a heap upon the floor, disrupting the chants of their sisters. Noting Margaret, they immediately quieted, stood up straight, and greeted her. With a toss of her head, she directed them to the basket of bread, cheese, cold meat, and jam on the table. They fell upon this bounty as if it had fallen from heaven itself and soon their cheeks were orange with marmalade and their fingers smudged.

She introduced each to Henry, but he could not keep track of so many names at once. Soon, a brash, bold lad of around four came to question him about his pocket watch and his cravat and whether he had ever eaten marmalade before. It took Margaret's assistance for him to understand the thick Darkshire accent of the boy. Henry could hardly understand the boy, yet Margaret easily comprehended all he said. Margaret Hale moved with the ease and familiarity of a frequent visitor in the house. She came often enough for the children to know her and treat her as something other than an interloper.

At one point, Margaret made her way to where Mary tended to a boiling stew and they began to talk in hushed voices. Over the din of the children, it was hard to hear all they said, but Henry could just make out bits and pieces of their conversation.

"O', wench, is it true?" Mary asked, casting a furtive glance to where Henry sat, and then back to Margaret. "It were th' tittle-tattle o' th' mill- th' master missing his days o' work this week fo' business other than th' mill. Then, there's talk o' th' arrest o' th' mutineer called 'Hale'…Were it your brother they caught?"

Margaret could only nod once, her eyes downcast, and then she burst into tears. Mary reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. She did not say another word, but remained with Margaret's head on her shoulder, anxiously wringing her hands in her soiled apron while Margaret wept.

Why these people, of all the people in Milton? Henry wondered to himself.

Henry Lennox was no prophet but, in that moment, as he watched Mary Higgins comfort the weeping Margaret Hale, he had a vision of the future he knew with absolute clarity would come to pass. Margaret Hale was the bridge, the patchwork square that once sewn on would hold the rest of the seams together.