The first two weeks in Ilchester moved by Margaret with a sort of dreamlike quality. She had committed herself to be happy in this new place, and she did try; but the city moved at such an unfamiliar pace. She was accustomed to spending her time reading, visiting with friends and writing short stories. She had written many while at Alton – one was even published in a local ladies journal. Now she was spending it dodging carriages on the streets of town and being thrust into one fashionable dress after another. She hadn't had a moment to herself since she arrived and although the distraction was welcome at first, she was beginning to feel suffocated.
It was the feeling of being stifled that made her venture into the city on her own. She'd left her Aunt with the intention of finding a pleasant place to walk regularly, something to get her out of the manse. She had a vague idea of her direction, and resolved to count the street corners so to find her way home.
Ilchester was not so big as London, Philadelphia or other grand places, but it was massive compared to Alton. The roads were paved with bricks for the carriages, and the upper class homes were jammed nearly sides touching min the living area of town. The height of the buildings blocked any sort of distant view and gave even the most park-like streets a giant hedge maze quality. Margaret planned on making her way to the nearest city market sector of the maze where Helen had confided there was a book shop among other interesting diversions.
Her intention was to buy some stationary of her own in order to write to Father. She could borrow some from Aunt Winnie, of course, but she liked the idea of finding her own treasure to send back to Alton. The day was warm enough, although Helen and Jude had warned that soon it would get dreadfully cold. Feeling the solid weight of the bricks under her boots, Margaret pondered what sort of stationary she might buy.
Father. Margaret sighed inwardly. There was nothing she could do for him, and she was certain he didn't want her to do anything. Still, she couldn't stop feeling helpless in all of it. Her Aunt pretended that Father was ill in some sort of way that implied he might get better. He would not, Margaret knew. In fact, he would likely get a great deal worse.
It had begun in small bits. Father forgot his way home. He lost things that had never moved from their place. These occurrences became worse until Margaret was obliged to hire a valet for Father to act as his memory at all times. Her father, a scholar and a clergyman, had never employed a valet. The novelty of having someone to assist him suited for a while, over a year, but then Father's demeanor had taken a turn. Frustrated by his own failings, confused beyond his wits with lack of memory, he had begun to exert violence. It was no longer wise to allow him to be seen in the company of other gentleman, as he might do something horrific like smash a teacup, or strike a man with his cane. Margaret felt deeply for her father, and wished that she could comfort him somehow. He had been so wonderful, raising her after he mother had died. He made Margaret feel like a family, even though it was just the two of them. Father never remarried. He told Margaret that no one would ever fill the void that her mother had left, and he'd rather not pretend.
It was only a month ago when Margaret had decided it was time for her Father to be left in more capable care. He had waked very early in the morning with the intense notion that he must get to work for the Parish. She tried to calm him, to remind him that there was no business for him to do, as he was retired.
"Nonsense! How dare you talk to me like I am some old fool!" he bellowed, rushing down the stairs as she was rushing up.
"No papa, it is true. You've not been to work at the Parish house for over four years," She pleaded gently with him, motioning for him to go back up to his room.
"Impudence! I am not your father you – you filthy urchin! I'm your master! And you can bet you will be fired for this display!" He pushed Margaret aside with great force, and she lost footing, tumbling down onto the step below.
Father's valet Elliot arrived, having been roused by the racket. He cleverly addressed Mr. Wilde.
"Ah sir, there you are! I have been looking for you all over, as I've been sent on a matter of urgent business for the Parish," Elliot said, motioning up the stairs with a look that implied his "business" best be conducted alone.
Reluctantly Mr. Wilde acquiesced and let the young man up the stairs.
As he made his way up, Elliot bent low to Margaret and whispered. "Are you alright Miss? Should I send for the doctor?"
Margaret shook her head and gave Elliot a weak smile. Her body was not damaged. She was, however, heartbroken at the scene that had played out.
That evening Margaret had written to Aunt Winnie. She arrived at Watson manse four weeks hence. Father was taken to a special gentleman's hospital with a doctor who was confident that Mr. Wilde would happy. Margaret had relished that thought – that Father might be happier there. Ryedale was shut up, too big for her to mind on her own, too expensive to keep in condition. Their family money would keep for a time, and she had written to her Father's financial adviser in hopes of ascertaining more information on what their future held. It was a precarious dance, since Father was, to look at, well and sound. He could squander all of their wealth if he so chose and there was nothing she could do.
A hand on her arm shook Margaret from her unpleasant memory. In a flurry of skirts she was pulled backwards by two powerful arms and nearly sent falling to the street.
"What in Heaven-" she began, thoroughly intent on giving the rude assailant a tongue-lashing. She was stopped by the deafening rumble of a stock carriage loaded with tens of heavy wine casks and pulled by six great horses that shook the path in front of her. So deeply lost in her own thoughts, she had almost walked directly in front of the oncoming caravan.
"-Oh my!" Margaret exclaimed, changing her attitude instantly and whirling to thank the kind stranger.
The man behind her was a gentleman, that much was clear, although his clothing was of a fashion she didn't recognize. He was tall, at least a head taller than she, with hair as black as coal. His bright blue eyes were piercing under a dangerous looking scowl, although his face was still pleasant to look at – scowl not withstanding.
"You must be more careful Miss-" he nearly shouted.
"Wilde," She finished for him. "Margaret Wilde. I'm so thankful sir, I was terribly busy in my thoughts and I-"
"You must be careful Miss Wilde." He looked at her sternly, finally releasing his grasp from her arm.
Margaret blushed heavily under his disapproving tone and severe look, washed first in embarrassment and then in defiance. "Yes, Thank you mister…"
"Thornton," he replied, and smiled briefly as if to apologize for his gruff reprimand. He glanced off into the distance over her shoulder. "Are you alone Miss Wilde?"
"Why, yes – but I assure you, Mr. Thornton, that I am well. I will be certain not to linger in my mind and pay much more attention to these busy streets," Margaret replied, looking up at the stranger.
She smiled, attempting to act like less out of place than she felt. In truth, she felt suddenly unequal to the task of finding the bookstore, much less navigating her way home down a path that she'd taken no notice of.
With that, Mr. Thornton smiled genuinely. "I do not believe you are from Ilchester Miss Wilde. Am I correct?"
"What ever gave me away?" Margaret asked.
She looked up at Mr. Thornton. His smile transformed his features and he looked far warmer than the previous scowl had conveyed. His features were sharp and rough, shoulders broad and his face marked by the sun. He was an utter opposite of a country gentleman. His striking eyes sparkled with mirth and he nodded in a gesture that took in the street around them.
"This street is not a busy one, Miss Wilde," Mr. Thornton answered. "In fact, it is nearly a back alley. I am surprised to see a lady traveling it alone. Where were you heading?"
She blushed again, this time at her own lack of knowledge and embarrassment. If this were Alton she'd have known every twist and turn blindfolded. As it were, she'd nearly been killed and made a fool of herself in front of gentleman who – she was certain – was part of the fashionable circle that Jude and Helen so adored. Oh how they would be so ashamed! Their new cousin, come to town and already a joke in the circles of society.
"The bookshop," Margaret replied half-hearted. She'd come all this way in an attempt to be alone, to prove she was not helpless only to discover that she was incapable of doing things without help. The sensation was frustrating, and oh too familiar considering her recent circumstances.
"I am on my way to the Boot and Shoe Dealer which happens to be very near the bookshop. Would you allow me to escort you?"
Mr. Thornton's demeanor was still somewhat severe, but Margaret believed that his intentions were true. He was certainly not like the kind country gentlemen she was used to. His suit was entirely black which; paired with his hair and scowl, made him look nearly menacing. His words were well spoken, but in a reserved and cool way, almost clipped. Margaret wondered if her troubles were keeping him from some important business.
"Yes, Thank you Mr. Thornton," She managed and stepped beside him prepared to follow.
Mr. Thornton turned to the street and began to walk, sparing no glance back at Margaret. She too made an effort to keep her eyes in front, lest she be trampled by another carriage cart.
How had she managed to make her way to a back alley? She wondered, looking about in sparing glances so to keep watch of Mr. Thornton and the road. There were several doors, but none of them marked. Clearly they were rear entrances to businesses and houses. Kegs and crates were being unpacked and hauled in and out of the buildings. The sound was that of workmen grunting, scraping, rolling products, not that of society chattering and shopping. How had she not noticed?
Thinking of workmen, Margaret asked abruptly, "Do you work Mr. Thornton?"
Mr. Thornton hesitated in his step at her question, and then continued as normal.
"I am a Brewery and Distillery Master. Does that surprise you Miss Wilde?" He asked, noticing the interest on Margaret's face.
"I – no," She replied. Not wanting to come off as rude, she paused to collect her thoughts. "I'm from the south country. I'm afraid I have little practice with gentlemen of commerce."
She looked straight ahead, hoping that she was appropriate in her wording. The gentlemen in the country dealt mostly in land. They were paid on annuity or by trust and did little more than educate themselves and socialize. She knew that in a bustling city like Ilchester most gentlemen would be merchants. These were different in that they worked daily, usually minding some large operation or business, which paid for their manner of living. Margaret found it quite fascinating that a man might rise into this sort of social rank, rather than be born to it, as she was familiar.
"I am sure you will grow accustomed to our unsettling nature," Mr. Thornton replied, his scowl returning. "I myself have little experience with country ladies. I do own several fields in the south country, although I've not been personally to visit them. Perhaps that softens your shock?"
"Oh you do?" Margaret was pleased that somehow the conversation had found a topic that she didn't feel absolutely estranged from. "Are your fields anywhere near Alton?"
She looked up at Mr. Thornton hoping to judge his reaction and managed at the same instant to catch her boot heel in a broken brick underfoot. She lurched into Mr. Thornton as she lost her balance. He caught her easily, pulling her to her feet.
"You must be careful Miss Wilde!" he scolded, "Are you well?" He asked, looking at her feet.
"Yes, thank you." Margaret resigned. Her blush was furious, but not as fiery as the intense disdain she felt for her own clumsy self. "I'm terribly sorry to be such a fool Mr. Thornton. Perhaps I should send someone for my Aunt's carriage and leave you to your business." It was her turn to scowl, this time at the ground beneath her, in hopes of avoiding Mr. Thornton's piercing eyes.
"No need, Miss Wilde." Mr. Thornton motioned to a building a few paces away. "There is the bookshop."
Margaret looked up and was delighted to see Aunt Winnie's groom Nathan waiting with a carriage by the entrance.
"Oh! And they've sent the carriage! How thoughtful!" Margaret didn't attempt to hide her relief at having a way to get home without troubling Mr. Thornton further.
She turned to thank him, "I am in your debt, sir, for all of your assistance this morning. It appears my Aunt has foreseen my impossible attempt and sent a carriage. I'm certain I can make my way now."
"I'm glad to help Miss Wilde. Enjoy your reading." He smiled briefly and turned to a storefront on the other side of the street.
Margaret made her way into the bookshop with a sense of relief, all embarrassment and foolishness forgotten.
John Thornton stepped across the street to the Boot and Shoe Dealer. He stood in the empty lobby awaiting the clerk and staring out of the front shop window at the carriage Miss Wilde had entered. He knew it as one from Watson Manse. He made a mental note to inquire after Miss Wilde to his sister, she was sure to be privy to all of the latest details from the Manse.
Miss Wilde puzzled him. She looked so woefully out of place in Ilchester's dirty streets, and yet she had ventured out into them alone. He smirked, thinking of Miss Price, his sister's favorite match for him. Miss Price wouldn't dare look out the coach window at an alleyway, much less step foot in one. There was something very refreshing about seeing a lady unafraid of the grittier side of the city. It would suit her better, he thought, if Miss Wilde were more careful.
"G'day Mr. Thornton," The shopkeeper exclaimed while rounding the corner into the lobby.
With that John left any thought of the Misses Wilde and Price.