This evening the Watson and Carter families would be joining the Thornton's at home for dinner. Edith's friend Miss Price had fallen ill again, and John knew his sister could use the distraction. John supposed he could use a distraction as well; he was increasingly worried about the slander of Reverend Shoemaker against his business. If by some incredible stroke of ignorance the city did force him to close up business it was more than his livelihood at stake.
The gossip had festered in Ilchester for weeks, stirring unease among the brewery's laborers. Some of the German workers, familiar with the temperance movement's reach in other cities, whispered warnings of closures and unemployment. John and Foreman Michaels had spent long hours addressing their concerns, trying to restore calm, but the uncertainty lingered.
By the time John returned home from the office to change for dinner, the day's burdens were wearing heavily on him. He descended the stairs in a freshly pressed coat, preparing to face the evening, when his mother's voice rang out, sharp and unmistakable.
"I won't be attending tonight," Mrs. Thornton declared, stepping into his path with the measured resolve of someone accustomed to having her word heeded.
John paused, observing her with a mixture of exasperation and affection. She wore her usual deep blue, the shade lending an air of stern authority to her slight frame. Her graying curls were arranged neatly atop her head, a subtle indication that she'd already been out earlier—perhaps to the market. Despite her composed appearance, her expression bore a glint of defiance.
"Mother," John began evenly, his voice carrying the practiced patience of a son accustomed to her sharp moods. "It is only our friends. Surely you'd like the company? Even if the conversation proves difficult?"
Mrs. Thornton's gaze hardened, and she squared her shoulders, the familiar glint of determination sparking in her eyes. Her tone, louder than necessary, cut through his reasoning before it could take root.
"John Thornton," she said, using his full name with the kind of force that made even her son—the formidable master of a brewery—stand silent. "I can barely tolerate Society on my best days, and today is far from that. I will not sit at a table with a clutch of doting geese and two preening ganders."
The vividness of her disdain drew an unexpected smile to John's lips, despite himself. Her characterization of Edith, the Watson women, and his friend Mathew Carter as barnyard creatures was unkind but not wholly inaccurate. His mother had little patience for triviality, and her impaired hearing reduced social chatter to an exhausting exercise.
"Geese, is it?" John said, humor flickering in his voice. "I'll make your apologies, then."
She gave a curt nod, her expression softening just slightly as he leaned down to press a light kiss to her cheek. "Thank you," she said briskly, turning to ascend the stairs. "Try to survive the squawking without me."
John watched her retreat with a mix of amusement and resignation. His mother's foul moods were as much a part of the household as the ticking of the clock in the hall. Despite her sharpness, her strength was undeniable—a trait he admired and, at times, begrudged. He adjusted his coat and stepped toward the parlor, preparing himself for an evening of conversation, light or otherwise, without her formidable presence to anchor him.
Margaret was pleased to be visiting a new home, although she was quite apprehensive at the formidable force of Edith Thornton coupled with re-acquaintance with her brother. She wondered if the two would tease her, the way that Edith had at their first meeting. Jude tried to allay her fears and promised that Edith would have learned her lesson from the last time.
"Edith is an agreeable woman," Jude reassured her on the carriage ride to Thornton House. "Once she knows your limits, she will not bait you again."
"She'll stop once you fight back – or cry," Helen added with a teasing tone.
"I'm sure that Margaret is in no danger of tears." Aunt Winnie shushed the teasing with a look. "She is one of the strongest young ladies I've met." Aunt Winnie reached across the carriage and patted Margaret's knee. "And if Miss Thornton does start up again, you can write an editorial about her in the papers." She smiled.
Margaret felt her cheeks flush at the remark. She managed a polite laugh, but the knot in her stomach tightened. Her family knew she had written for the Gazette—they had even supported her endeavor—but none of them truly understood what it meant to her. It wasn't just a diversion or a whim. Writing that article had been her way of asserting herself in a city where she felt out of place, of contributing something meaningful when everything else seemed beyond her grasp.
Aunt Winnie's jest, though lighthearted, carried an unintended sting. Margaret wasn't sure if she could laugh about her secret when its exposure could prove so perilous. The article, published under a pen name, was due to appear this week. Would the Thorntons read it? She imagined Edith's sharp gaze narrowing over her teacup, dissecting every word, while John Thornton's severe countenance turned colder still. The thought made her stomach churn.
"Please, Aunt Winnie," Margaret said quietly, her hands clasping each other in her lap, "I'd rather no one know it was my opinion when it publishes." She glanced out of the carriage window, avoiding her aunt's curious gaze. "I don't want to be seen as... a troublesome newcomer."
"Nonsense, Margaret," Aunt Winnie replied with a fond smile. "You are far too measured to be thought troublesome. Besides, it's good to have convictions. It shows character."
Helen snorted, leaning back against the carriage seat. "I take your meaning, Margaret." Her cousin's voice was empathetic, "Convictions are all well and good, but they do draw attention."
Margaret didn't respond. It wasn't just the attention she feared; it was the broader implications of standing out in a city that already felt foreign to her. She hadn't shared with her family how deeply her writing was tied to her sense of self-worth, how she had poured her uncertainties and hopes into that article, hoping it might make sense of the bustling, chaotic world around her. In Alton, she had written short stories for pleasure, creating worlds that felt as familiar as home. Here in Ilchester, writing was her lifeline, a way to contribute to a society that often felt closed off and unwelcoming. Margaret didn't express that she felt utterly devoid of purpose here in Ilchester, and that writing the article was the first real thing she'd felt she contributed to since her arrival. She didn't mention that caring for people outside of herself – even just from afar – helped her to feel like she was valuable. She knew that Jude and Helen wouldn't understand empathy, academics and opinion as a contribution. Mathew might, but he would likely hold his tongue so to avoid conflict with his young wife. Margaret smiled at the two of them.
"I'm pleased you've found something to busy with." Aunt Winnie added. 'The devil makes work for idle hands'" She winked conspiratorially.
Margaret smiled faintly, but the reassurance didn't ease her worry. She wasn't idle, true, but she still felt untethered. The article had been a way to make herself heard, but at what cost? She imagined the Thorntons finding it inflammatory, perhaps even insulting. Would John Thornton see her as meddlesome? Would Edith's disdain sharpen further?
The carriage jostled over the brick pavement, and after a short time Margaret could hear a woman's voice ringing above the clatter of hooves and wheels.
"Take back the lively'ood of our city!" She bellowed in a monotone voice. "Sign the march for redemption!"
In the carriage, the passengers stiffened. Mathew studied his hands and Helen bent her head toward Jude and away from the window of the carriage. The discomfort was thick while the vehicle slowed and the groom, Nathan, shooed the crier away. Aunt Winnie stepped out of the coach first and the rest followed.
Margaret was awed by Thornton House. She'd walked here before, of course, on her wandering trips through the city. Still, its grandeur was striking on each occasion. The building struck a confident, subdued balance between outright luxury and quaint matter-of-fact construction. She'd never seen anything like it, and marveled at the solid railing under her fingers as the five guests climbed the steps to the main door.
A servant led them to the parlor where Edith was waiting. Margaret tried not to compare Thornton House with the Manse, but she couldn't help it. While it was true that Aunt Winnie was well situated, the manse had hardly changed in the past twenty years. It was furnished with beautiful but outdated neo-classical furniture, decorated with yellowed oil paintings and embroidered linen.
Thornton House, on the other hand, was not new, but kept with the times. The oil sconces on the walls were gleaming brass and curved glass. The furniture of the parlor was modern and lavish in its fabrics and carvings, but with a stately lack of over-decoration. The rug on the floor was brilliantly woven but with few colors, matching perfectly with the deep hardwood paneling on the walls. There was little decoration in the room, but each piece beautiful and well crafted. Margaret was particularly drawn to several landscape paintings surrounding the fireplace on the far wall of the parlor.
"It is a pleasure to have you," Edith stood and greeted her company while Margaret and the others found places in the beautiful chairs that surrounded the small tea table. "I'm sorry but my mother will not be attending us this evening." Her face clouded and Margaret felt a tug of compassion for her. "She is ill."
"Not fever I hope?" Margaret willed her voice to convey a truce to Edith. In all honesty, she pitied the woman. Kitty was in bed with fever and the rumors around Ilchester gave little hope for recovery. Edith's best friend was on her death bed and now Mrs. Thornton was ill as well?
"Ah, no. Thankfully." Edith collected her emotions and put on a smile. "She will be so sorry to have missed so many friendly faces!"
"I'm sure Edith will convey our every word to her." Mr. Thornton's deep voice interrupted the chorus of ladies as he entered the parlor from the second floor stairwell. "Mother does enjoy the way she retells things." He smiled at his guests and Margaret was startled to notice that he was more handsome than she'd remembered. He was dressed in a tailored suit of dark gray that contrasted beautifully with both his dark hair and his bright blue eyes. The flash of teeth from his smile made her feel warm and welcome.
"John!" Mathew stood from his seat and shook Mr. Thornton's hand. "Thank you so much for inviting us into your home. I'm sure you are very busy." Mr. Thornton returned the handshake and moved to his own chair between Margaret and Mathew.
"Of course," Mr. Thornton smiled again and leaned back in his chair. "Business is always busy, but I've been told I need to find time for leisure as well." He gave Margaret a look and she blushed furiously, remembering what she'd said to Edith about him. "It will do me good." He finished lightly, and she fought to quiet the discomfort she felt in having mocked him.
"All of us, I'm sure." Jude nodded to the group. "I know poor Maggie is just buzzing with restlessness wandering about the manse. She's been to visit every shop, friend or newsstand twice this week."
"Really?" Edith's eyebrows conveyed a look of surprise and more than a little mischief. "I would think that city life would be more eventful than country life by far."
Margaret sighed inwardly. It had been only minutes and she was once again perched on the edge of a sparring match with Edith Thornton. Was there nothing she could do to escape the constant comparison between her old life and new? Yes, things were different in the country. Yes, the city held more people with more events and more gossip. Neither was inherently better. The thought struck Margaret. For the first time since she'd moved to Ilchester she found herself weighing it on par with Alton. She wondered if writing for the gazette had really given her so much satisfaction, if the past two months had made her familiar, or if Helen, Jude and Aunt Winnie were to credit for her comfort here. More likely it was that writing was the first real action she'd taken since arriving in Ilchester. In Alton, she had been powerless, watching her father's health decline with no way to help or change their circumstances. Her early days in Ilchester had felt much the same—adrift, with no role to fill, no meaningful contribution to make. Writing the article had been her first attempt at doing something, and that small act had tethered her in a way she hadn't expected.
"Edith. Any person is likely to miss their home when transplanted." Mr. Thornton interrupted Margaret's thoughts with his remarks toward his sister. "Consider all of the friends you have here. Likely Miss Wilde had just as many in her home – Alton was it Miss Wilde? – and the loss of them no doubt saddens her."
Margaret wasn't sure how she felt about Mr. Thornton coming to her aid again. Did he think her incapable of defending herself? Surely he must realize that her helpless state during their first encounter was only a temporary affliction. She had quite regained her footing—so to speak—since then.
Still, his words lingered in the air, and she felt the weight of everyone's attention pressing on her. A spark of defiance flared.
"Thank you, Mr. Thornton," she said, her tone measured but firm, "though I'd prefer to speak for myself. I assure you, I am quite capable of expressing the state of my own emotions."
Her voice carried a quiet conviction, though her heart raced as the words left her. She knew she risked sounding ungrateful or defensive, but she couldn't let herself appear weak. Not here, not now. She glanced around the room, catching Aunt Winnie's approving smile and Edith's raised brow. She forced herself to meet Mr. Thornton's gaze, her chin tilted ever so slightly upward.
John's expression didn't waver, but something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or amusement. He inclined his head slightly. "Of course, Miss Wilde. I meant no offense."
Margaret nodded, satisfied with her composure, but the knot in her stomach tightened further. Had she been too bold? Too proud? She reminded herself that her place in this city was not yet secure, and moments like this could either solidify or shatter her standing.
John was caught off guard by Miss Wilde's response. Her quiet yet firm assertion left him unsure of how to proceed. For years, he had lived with the impression that ladies appreciated kindness and defense from hardship. Surely, she would understand his intent—to protect her from Edith's sharp tongue, which he knew could cut deeper than intended. Instead, she had met his words with an assertion of independence that felt like a rejection of his efforts. Had he overstepped?
The five other guests seemed to hold their breath, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them. Though it lasted only seconds, John felt the weight of it like hours. "Ah—of course, Miss Wilde," he said at last, his voice quieter than he intended. "I meant no offense." He forced a small smile, hoping she might return it. Yet, the sinking feeling in his chest lingered. How had the moment unraveled so quickly?
Margaret hesitated, her expression softening slightly as though recognizing the unintended tension. "No, it is I who should apologize," she said after a pause. Her voice was gentler now, but there was a trace of uncertainty as she continued. "Sometimes my words do not..." She trailed off, her brow furrowing in thought.
John's eyes flickered briefly over her features—the blush coloring her cheeks, the faint sheen of rosewater lingering in the air—before he forced himself to focus on her eyes again. The room suddenly felt warmer. "Sometimes I can be less than eloquent," she finished, her voice quieter now.
"It happens to everyone," Mathew interjected, his easy tone breaking the tension. John exhaled quietly, grateful for his friend's intervention.
"Indeed," John replied, nodding toward Mathew before glancing back at Margaret. She returned his gaze briefly, her expression unreadable, before shifting her focus back to the group.
"To answer the original question," Margaret began, addressing Edith's earlier remark with a measured tone, "Ilchester is certainly more energetic, I suppose. But it's a feeling I haven't yet grown into." She shifted her weight slightly, her gaze flicking briefly toward the window before returning to the group. "It is all workers, tradesmen, Masters, and merchants. I'm afraid I have little to do in those areas."
John wanted to reply, to offer some reassurance or connection, but Mrs. Carter's voice cut in before he could speak.
"Yes," she said, her tone almost dismissive, "it is true that powerful and important Masters like Mr. Thornton must spend their time making decisions and ensuring the running of their esteemed businesses. The rest of us, however, are not content to be idle." She gestured toward herself, Edith, and Helen. "You could attend the concert I mentioned, Maggie, or come with me to a music lesson? Or read? You loved reading at Alton, did you not? Many of your letters mentioned it."
The shift in conversation allowed the group to settle into a more comfortable rhythm. John, though still acutely aware of Margaret's earlier words, let the flow of idle chatter carry the moment forward. He found little interest in such discussions, but they provided a reprieve from the earlier tension. As the group eventually moved to the dining room, John resolved to better understand Miss Wilde's complexities, her independence, and the emotions she so carefully guarded.