MASTERS, MAGISTRATES, MUTINEERS & MEN

Chapter 14: The Christening

Henry Lennox was in no hurry to finish his breakfast. His train to Oxford would not be for some time yet. He easily accepted the second cup of tea his sister-in-law pressed into his hand and he allowed his thoughts to wander. He paid no heed to the conversation between Edith and Mrs. Shaw… at least, not until he caught the whispered undertone of Edith's musings.

"Is not Margaret the heiress?" She inquired. "The remainder of Mr. Bell's property falls to Margaret, does it not?"

"I would imagine so," Mrs. Shaw replied, airily. "After the amount he settled upon her on her marriage, I would not be surprised. He looked upon her quite as a daughter."

Henry attempted to hide his smile and feign deafness.

"Henry, you must know!" Edith protested, forcing him into the conversation. "Why, you are going to the funeral, after all and you were quite the friend to Mr. Bell, were you not?"

"If by 'quite the friend' you mean I shared with him the role of 'godfather' to young Richard Thornton, then I suppose you are correct," he answered succinctly. "However, as my involvement in his financial affairs are limited to basing them solely off how fine the tin soldiers and rocking horses Richard receives, I cannot count myself an authority on how Mr. Bell determined to dispose of his property after his death."

"But he must have settled something on Margaret… and the boy!"

"He very well may have. I do not argue against the possibility – only against the prudence of making presumptions without more intimate knowledge of the facts," Henry retorted.

"But… you will see Margaret in Oxford, will you not?"

"Why, Edith? Why would Margaret be there?" Mrs. Shaw protested. "Of course, she will send her husband to tend to his affairs, but there is no need for her to attend."

Henry bit back a smile and took another sip of his tea. He predicted, contrary to Mrs. Shaw's assumptions, that nothing save an act of God would prevent Margaret from attending her godfather's funeral that afternoon.

"You must remind her to visit! She must come, Henry!" Edith said, her pretty lips pursed into a pout. "It cannot be good for her or her son to remain trapped in that dirty, smoky city as long as they are. We are to Cromer soon, she must come!"

"As you have already written to urge her to come at least thrice, I doubt I can say anything else to convince her."

"She cannot be so very busy that she cannot be spared!"

"She may have the time, but her husband does not… And, as Mrs. Thornton is far more taken by her husband than she is by the seaside, I do not think there is much that would pry her out of Milton."

"I do not see why," Mrs. Shaw said. "He is such a great, uncouth, rough sort of man."

"Oh, but he is very handsome, Mama. Even you must admit that!"

Mrs. Shaw harumphed loudly. "That man! How does that signify? I do not see why he would prevent her from coming to London or Cromer, handsome or otherwise. Must he refuse her to stir from Milton?"

Henry chuckled to himself at the thought of Mr. Thornton refusing his wife anything she asked. No, he could not argue the point to his current prejudiced company, but he knew enough of the couple in question to suspect it was Margaret, herself, who wished to remain – exactly where she was- and she would not step out of Milton unless her husband was at her side.

The memory of the obvious devotion between Mr. and Mrs. Thornton caused warring expressions of comfort and pain to Henry, even still. In all sincerity, he rejoiced that Margaret was so well-settled and sure in the affections of her new family. He had proved himself one of the greatest supporters of their union, despite the dismay of Mrs. Shaw and Mrs. Lennox. He had genuinely wished the couple well when he attended their wedding in Milton. With Mrs. Shaw attending to Edith in her confinement, he had been the only member of Margaret's family in attendance… well, other than Mr. Bell and Mr. Hale. It had been obvious that Mr. Bell was the more delighted of the pair in the match and he was positively effusive throughout the whole affair and Henry had genuinely shared his joy.

How quickly that contagious delight had transmuted to sadness!

It wasn't fair. After Margaret had lost so much and was only just on the brink of happiness…

"Hale held out as long as he could… for Margaret's sake, I think. The moment he knew she was well-settled and taken care of, he could finally let go," Mr. Bell said, his eyes shining with tears.

Henry and Mr. Bell sat in the same room of the same inn where they had taken meals together just seven months earlier when they had discussed the fate of Frederick Hale. They sat in the same chairs, along the same hearth, with the same servants bringing waiting upon them. Here they were again, attending another funeral service only a matter of weeks after meeting in Milton for Margaret and John's wedding.

"It is a comfort to Margaret that he will be buried alongside Maria and Frederick, but, that poor child!" Mr. Bell said, his hand covering his face and the firelight's flickering shadows dancing off his weathered fingers. "I had hoped... perhaps it was a fool's hope… but I had hoped Richard would rally again… that this day would not be upon us so soon… but, well, that poor, great heart of his could not go on anymore."

Henry had stayed alongside the old man until late that night. They both had taken far too much brandy, though the words they spoke were few. Mr. Bell fought to hide the strength of his emotion, but he grieved the loss of his oldest and dearest friend. While Henry did not feel the loss so acutely, over the last year, the Hales and Thorntons had slowly taken up residence in his heart and had become as much family as Mrs. Shaw and Edith ever were. He felt the loss of Mr. Hale keenly – on Margaret's behalf. He knew, also, that John would prove just as distraught.

"She had only just begun to rally," Mr. Bell continued. "This will bring her down low again, I fear. Why, the guilt she felt at leaving her father behind was enough I feared she would not marry at all until Hale left us! Now, she will blame herself and that is no good beginning for a marriage."

"She is no more to blame for the death of her father than that of her brother."

"You know that, and I know that, and the good Lord above must argue her case, also, but Margaret is too conscientious. She takes too much upon herself. It will take all the efforts of her husband and mother-in-law to keep up her spirits, I think. However, she is in good hands and for that, I am glad. They will take care of her, and she will rally again," Mr. Bell said, as much to convince himself as his audience.

True to his prediction, despite the turbulent start to the Thornton marriage, tears did not last forever. Henry was a witness to Margaret's improving circumstances when, only ten months later, he met up with Mr. Bell again. They were in the same room at the same inn- and this time spirits flowed out of joy rather than sorrow.

"Here we are together again, dear sir. What a christening! What an affair! I do believe that christening gown was even grander than Margaret's wedding dress," Mr. Bell cried out jovially.

"He looked very well, I will admit."

"Mrs. Thornton… the elder one, of course… she outdid herself this time. What an affair!"

Henry smiled and took a sip from his cup. It had been the largest and grandest christening he had ever seen. He assumed that was due to the sensibilities of Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Thornton rather than Margaret. However, it was the glow of happiness on Margaret's face and the genuine warmth of her manner that had struck him the most. There was a sense of deep peace in her circumstances, a settling into her role and place, which had developed that marked a stark contrast between the woman she now was and the young girl he had met on Harley Street. How she had overflowed with words as she spoke of her many charitable projects and her work among the poor of Milton! How many people had sent cards and gifts to wish her joy! Margaret Thornton of Milton was where she belonged and she was thriving.

"What do you say to that, my boy! We shared a godson now- we are forever forced to endure each other's company and argue incessantly over how far superior we would be as parents and all the ways his parents are inferior to our innate wisdom and, of course, how our little charge is the wisest and most gifted of all children in existence," Mr. Bell said, his eyes twinkling merrily with mirth, his cheeks rosy with drink. He clasped Henry's shoulder firmly and insisted on yet another toast in honor of young Richard George Hale.

"As the boy is not my only godson, I am afraid I will not be able to, in good conscience, declare him the best of all children – unless I wish to face the wrath of my sister-in-law," Henry answered, a genuine grin on his face.

"Oh, pooh! What do you have to fear from that quarter? No, it is Margaret I would fear to cross and would advise you to ensure it is her side you take on all things."

Henry laughed and shook his head. He could not argue otherwise. In all honesty, if he were to compare the characters and habits of the Thorntons with the Lennox's, he had to admit young Richard was far more likely to grow in strength of character and person than his Lennox counterpart.

"I only wish…. I only wish Richard could have been here to meet his namesake," Mr. Bell continued.

"As do we all."

It had been the last time he had seen Adam Bell.

Oh, there had been a handful of letters, which had surprised Henry. Apparently, Mr. Bell had grown to appreciate Henry enough to wish for a sporadic, light-hearted correspondence and Henry had readily complied. He had heard of Mr. Bell, also, through the letters Margaret wrote to Edith over the years that followed. Edith, herself, had even mentioned meeting up with the old man when he accompanied Margaret, John, and young Richard on a quick visit to Helstone that June. The entire party had stopped in London for a few days before continuing on to Helstone. However, Henry had been away and only heard about the affair after it had been completed.

Henry sighed to himself and glanced down at his pocket watch. He let his fingers sweep over the cool, smooth surface of the gold as he counted down the minutes till he should be off. He rather fancied a walk and considered whether he should make his departure sooner than he originally planned.

Oh, Margaret. How many funerals must you attend and how many before your heart will break? It is too many, too soon. I wish you could have been spared -at least one or two- but, here we are again. To meet over a gravestone and this time, I do not even have my old friend Bell to cast all in an irreverent light and cheer us all after.

The funeral in Oxford was all that it ought to be, and Margaret performed all the offices of a daughter to her godfather. She had been surprised at his presence but surprise was quickly replaced by joy and sisterly affection,

"It is so good of you to come, Henry," she said, after all was over and Henry sought to return to the train station.

"Well, I have some unresolved arguments with the old man over some derisive remarks he made about barristers and the Scots and those who dwell in London which I wish to have the last word in," he answered. He was rewarded with the laugh Margaret gave him and she had accompanied him through the garden back to the road.

"I have a few unresolved arguments with Mr. Bell myself," she said, her eyes bright and earnest.

"And what might those be? Do you wish to chastise him for leaving all his fortune to you and making you the landlord of your husband's affairs?"

She smiled and shook her head. "No. I cannot chastise him for that – not when his generosity on our marriage saved the mill and kept my husband in his position as master of Marlborough Mills. No, Mr. Bell has been incredibly kind to us and we will miss him dearly… but I must admit I am very angry over his deceitful, underhanded ways."

At Henry's raised eyebrow, she continued, "John and I spent all of yesterday tending to Mr. Bell's affairs… and we found a letter from Frederick stashed away in a folder. He had hidden it from me, these last two years, and I was rather put out when I found it."

"From your brother?" Henry inquired, though he already knew the answer. A gentle swell of guilt bubbled within his chest as he remembered Bell had mentioned the presence of such a letter – and had confessed his reluctance to share it with the Hales.

"He ought not have hidden it away and said nothing. Those were the last words from my brother," she said, her eyes flashing with a burst of irritation. Yet, this was quickly washed away by a sigh. "I know why he did. The letter… would not have raised our spirits, after those terrible days. You remember how cast down we were?"

"Yes."

"I will admit, I eagerly opened the letter, hoping to read something that would grant me comfort or resolution. Instead, I was left feeling angry – both at Fred and at Mr. Bell. It is terribly improper of me to feel such to one who has been so good to me, especially at such a time, but he ought not have hidden the letter… and Fred ought not have written such a letter."

Henry gave her an amused glance, one which she caught and caused her cheeks to flush in embarrassment. "Do not give me that look, Henry Lennox!" She cried. "I know I make no sense and contradict myself, but I cannot help it! I do not like deceit. However, oh, that letter! Fred spent the last lines he ever wrote, the last words to his family, going on and on about his own innocence, disavowing England, decrying the injustice of it all, and wishing curses on Captain Reid. How could he speak so? I cannot approve of that, but then, oh his last words to us!"

Then, she pulled the letter out of a pocket, and she began to read it out loud.

"My greatest regret is the pain I know you and our father must feel. I do not blame you, dear sister, for anything and please know it was worth everything to see our dear mother and you both one last time. Since the day I took my stand against Captain Reid, my life was forfeit and I have been on borrowed time ever since- which has made each of the days more precious. I would tell you not to grieve, but it would be fruitless, because I know your capacity to love and that you must grieve. Instead, I ask you to forgive yourself and to look after each other and to remember me kindly. I would also charge you to live your life now for me as well and allow me live vicariously through you. Go forward, not backward. My life is over, yours is only beginning. Dear sister, do not hold onto the past but walk into your future."

Margaret stopped reading and replaced the letter into her pocket, tears in her eyes. "I am so torn, Henry. How can he continue to claim his innocence- even to the very last? Oh, I have struggled to understand how I ought to feel and some days I have been certain Fred was in the right and then the very next, I must admit to myself that he was not, and then I am tumbled all over again the next day. Yet, it is very hard."

Henry nodded his head in understanding. Frederick Hale had been a complicated man… charming, captivating, and part of Henry had always wished to believe in his innocence. Yet, then there were the facts of the case… and the evidence spoke otherwise... and the barrister in him must also declare his overwhelming guilt.

"I believe Mr. Bell hoped to spare you from more pain when he kept the letter from you," Henry said. "Your grief was so deep and your father so fragile, I do not know how such a letter would have impacted you."

She nodded. "Do you know, I keep thinking of something Fred said during his last visit here. He spoke about the importance of 'doing something. Do good if you can; but, at any rate, do something.' He did not believe in feeling remorse but in doing good to counteract the bad, if possible. As if one's misdeeds could be erased as easily as chalk from a slate."

"I do not believe it works quite that way in the eyes of the law," Henry said.

"Nor in the eyes of God. However, that was just Fred… and I still loved him, despite everything. He was my brother, regardless of what he did. This calls to mind all that Scripture says of the enduring, steadfast love of God for us poor sinners and how God loves us, despite our guilt. Who am I to deserve such unconditional love? How can any of my deeds blot out the misdeeds of my past? Yet, we are promised it is so."

Henry did not wish to argue against her or interrupt her in her sermonizing. Yet, he was reminded again that she was the daughter of a parson and she was, every inch, her father's daughter. He remained silent, letting her gather her thoughts. She looked up at him again, her grey eyes earnest.

"Do you remember the Higgins family… my friends in Milton who took in all the Boucher children after the death of their parents?"

"I remember," he answered.

"Mrs. Boucher was entirely undone by the death of her husband. She loved her husband dearly, though, Nicholas claims Mr. Boucher had lacked any redeeming qualities and been nothing but a coward. Yet, Mrs. Boucher and their children loved him. Her love for her husband reminds me of that for my brother. I must wonder: is it that love makes us blind or helps us see what no one else may see?"

Henry smiled to himself as he remembered Mrs. Shaw's complaints about Margaret's husband, just that morning. "A little of both, I expect."

She gave him a warm smile and then clasp his hand in farewell as they reached the bend in the road.

"Again, thank you for coming, Henry. You have been so kind and so very dear."

Henry gave her one last parting look and returned to London, a well of emotion in his chest he could not fully understand or wish to pry apart to find its meaning. In London, he could be fully himself, well, the version of himself he chose to be when in such company.

It was only a matter of months before he saw the Thorntons again. Henry was surprised when Edith carried her point and the Thornton family willingly joined them in Cromer. While John only managed to stay a handful of days, he was there long enough to chase his young son and Henry's elder nephew along the beach and to spend afternoons watching the waves alongside his wife. Margaret did her best to participate, but she was not well and spent long hours each day resting. At first, Henry was concerned… at least until he caught Edith's subtle whispers about it one afternoon.

"If I am not wrong, there will be another young Thornton by early spring," she said. "Prepare yourself for another christening, Henry."

Henry's brother and sister-in-law did their best to be polite to their guests, but they did not know how to manage John Thornton for any extended period of time. They could speak about commonplace topics and pleasantries, but they did not know how to engage the man in any meaningful conversation beyond those that would be sought in other members of their social set… and Aunt Shaw did not even try. Henry was rather mortified by this. He exerted himself to make the man feel welcomed into their family party. Indeed, in some ways, he rather enjoyed the company of the Thorntons more than the Lennoxes. Their frankness and sincerity were as discomposing as they were refreshing. He was forced to dwell on topics he often avoided or which would not be considered acceptable among his London companions.

It was during just one such conversation, one evening after tea, when the topic of Frederick Hale came up again. It was little wonder they all three found themselves wishing to speak about it. Afterall, it was the very eve of the second anniversary of the capture of Frederick Hale. It was a conversation that the rest of the family could not… would not… understand. Yet, it was a topic which bound Henry to John and Margaret and which they could not speak of disinterestedly.

"I read only a few weeks ago that Captain Reid was called before a court martial again," Henry had observed. "He has been demoted from the rank of captain."

"I was not sorry when I read that," Margaret responded. "I do not believe it was punishment enough."

"It is something though, some manner of justice," Henry said. "I hope there is comfort to be found in it."

"I am glad to know he will not hold as much authority over the lives of other men anymore," Margaret said. "I wish he had faced more consequences after the mutiny on the Russell, though. I cannot believe they simply gave him another ship to command, another crew to tyrannize, and then looked the other way for years as he mistreated those he was meant to protect."

"Ah, but finally, it was the constant petitioning of the very men he wronged in subsequent crews that led to his demotion. Rather than mutiny, they fought the admiralty to listen to their case and they were finally heard," Henry said. "If only…," he began and then stopped himself.

"If only Fred had done likewise?" Margaret finished for him, her sigh resonating throughout her entire posture. "I have held similar thoughts; similar wishes. He was so rash, so impulsive, and yet he wished to right a wrong. Captain Reid was a violent, awful man, but I cannot fully acquit the mutineers of their actions, either. Can two wrongs make a right? Surely, it cannot be right to stand by and do nothing in the face of such gross injustice and yet so many more men died in the mutiny than would have otherwise."

"I have wondered," John interjected, leaning forward in his chair as he spoke, his face flushed with the intensity such a topic evoked. "I have wondered what Frederick Hale would have done in the captain's place. What would he have done, if made captain, if faced with a possible mutiny?" He glanced over at his wife, as if conjuring up an older conversation, and he continued, "sometimes men believe themselves on the cause of justice because they cannot understand the plight of those on the opposing side of themselves. If they were to truly listen to the arguments made by the other side, perhaps a better solution could be found."

Margaret's smile was brilliant as she listened to him speak. She reached over and clasped his hand quickly before returning to her tea again. "Sometimes, we are too slow to listen to the justice of another's cause… and too quick to argue our own innocence and the guilt of another."

John smiled back at his wife. "I have been just as guilty. I wonder if it is sometimes our own adherence to principle that is our undoing. It has been two years since the strike and all Milton still feels the effects. I can now admit that the strikers had justice to their cause, even if they did not understand everything about the situation…. And yet, I cannot acquit them of their actions. They caused more harm than good, despite their intentions. However, I cannot argue the justice of my own cause anymore than I can theirs. I responded in defense of my own position and willingly risked everything based on principle. The Irish hands I brought in were expensive and unskilled. They did not keep up with orders nor fully justify their cost. In the cause of Marlborough Mills, they were not helpful in easing the effects of the strike. And yet, I must admit that they did impact the affairs of all the mills in Milton. Their presence broke the strike and sent the millhands back to work. Based purely on principle, the Irish proved their worth in support of my cause. If I had not brought in the Irish, what must have happened next? I cannot say. However, I personally paid the cost to break the strike for all and it was a cost I would not recover. Without you, I would have had to give up Marlborough Mills and find work elsewhere."

"Yet, I wonder which side you would have taken if you had been one of the millhands rather than a master?" Margaret mused. She cast a wary glance at her husband to see his response. He appeared pensive.

"Perhaps, then, you would have proved more willing to see the justice of my cause?" He retorted, a wry half-smile on his face. "You immediately pleaded the case of the rioters and responded to them with compassion. You saw only their desperation and the nature of their circumstances – not their potential for violence and ill deeds. On the other hand, you immediately determined my capacity for tyranny and it took a far longer time to convince you that even a rough mill master could do good."

She blushed and shook her head. "It took me a long time to overcome my prejudices and admit that both sides of the strike were composed of men… and one was not made right purely by being in a position as a worker and the other wrong purely for being the master. It was far more complicated than all that."

"We cannot assume that someone is guilty or innocent by their position alone. Is a magistrate more just solely for the authority of the position that he holds? Is a captain less culpable to error due to the weight of responsibility on his shoulders? The poor are not made righteous by their reduced circumstances any more than a mill owner is made just by the power he wields," John said. "Not all in positions of authority use their positions well and not all who seek to relieve them of their authority are superior to their predecessors. If every millhand was made a master and every sailor made captain, does it follow they would use such authority well?"

"It is a good question," Henry mused. "In all the debates over the influence of birth and family and education in the character of a man, I must wonder. Does one's position in life reveal a man as he is or create him into who he is?"

"I do not believe it is so simple to separate the two," John responded, after a few moments thought. "The opportunities a man is given throughout his life both reveal his character and build his character. To differentiate where innate character ends and developed capacity begins is like attempting to separate the dough of the bread from the heat of the oven. Once they have been joined together, they are forever intertwined to create the final loaf of bread."

"So, you would argue that the greatest danger in the overthrow of tyrants is that it is we, ourselves, who will replace them. It is not our own innate goodness which leads to the proper application of authority, but the knowledge of our own evil, our own propensity to tyranny, that permits the possibility of justice."

"Yes!" Margaret answered emphatically. "I do believe you have captured it exactly, Henry!"

Henry sat back in his chair and took up his tea again with a smile on his face. He had no doubt that if Margaret Thornton was involved, she must find a way to bridge the gap between master and men and find both their humanity and their goodness. He knew she would have done the same for a sea captain and riotous group of mutineers, if she had been present. She would have kept the ship and all its crew from floundering as surely as she had helped save John Thornton from the strike.

She was a force to contend with, that Margaret Thornton. She was proof that one good woman could shape the fate of any of the masters, magistrates, mutineers, or men who were fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to cross her path. She would catalyze change and prove the mettle of those around her for all her days.

The End