Loose Leaves from Milton #9
‘Come back,’ he managed in a whisper, ‘come back to J Tea for tea.’ His eyes pleaded, and then watered, but that could be put down to getting snowflakes in his face.
Leaf Nine - The Perfect Blend
It felt to J Tea that with Margaret Hale’s departure, all the pleasure and good fortune in his life was poured away.
Although the strike had collapsed, so had his financial situation, for although he was slowly making up the lost orders, the payments for them were exceedingly tardy and the cash flow was like a spout blocked with leaves and with no mote spoon to hand.
Part of him was bitterly resentful that all his honest hard work had gone for nothing, and he was worried for his mother, though relieved that she had got his sister off their hands to a husband with plenty of money and no interest in unusual interior decoration.
For himself, it mattered little whether he ran a cotton mill or became a bank clerk.
His life was a pot without the boiling water of passion cast upon the tea leaves of love, and meaningless to him.
Mr Bell could find another to run Marlborough Mills, and at least the work force would not become destitute.
It was with some surprise that he found Mr Bell himself in the Master’s Office, one Thursday afternoon. Mr Bell had something to tell him, or at least a partial something.
‘I am moving abroad for what remains of my health, Thornton. I have no ties now, in England, and enjoyed my youth in South America. I shall enjoy my later days there also, and having no blood relations, have resolved to pass all my English business interests to my goddaughter, Miss Hale.’
J Tea nearly dropped his quill pen, and his fingers trembled for a moment. Mr Bell noted it.
‘You need not think she will come and interfere, of course, but you will answer to her, not to me, and the profits, should you manage to make some again, will go to her.’
J Tea grew pale, and it was almost a peremptory farewell that he bade to his now former employer. It was a good thing, he told himself, that he would not be running Marlborough Mills in the near future.
The workforce accepted the news as all news. It was bound to be bad for them because everything was bad for them. Nicholas Higgins, father to the late Bessy, steward to a defeated Union, and chief supporter of the works’ kitchen idea, was not seeking revenge.
After all, Thornton had given him work to feed the orphaned Smouchers, when no other would employ him. After the last shift he came to J Tea and shook his hand, man to man. He also asked after ‘Miss Margaret.’
‘I have not heard of her since she moved south to London,’ said J Tea, with a small sigh, ‘though she is going to be a wealthy woman from now on, and secure.
‘Aye, I ‘eard as that were so, but I wondered if she would go to Spain.’
‘To Spain? Why? They do not drink tea there, as far as I know. Why on earth would she want -’
‘To see ‘er brother as came in dead of night to visit ‘is dying mother.’
‘She has a brother?’
‘Oh yes.’ Higgins nodded his affirmation.
‘Who came here?’
‘Oh yes.’ Higgins nodded again. ‘E ‘ad fallen foul of the Navy in some law and is a wanted man in England.’
‘It was her brother,’ sighed J Tea, and although his heart was still broken, he was eased by the thought that he had not misread her character. What sister would not hug a brother and would not lie to save him?
The two men shook hands, though Higgins dropped the aitch of his.
‘How dare you.’ Margaret slapped boring Henry the Lawyer’s face. ‘Suggesting I have made money over the course of a night is unforgivable.’
‘No, no, Margaret, I meant that your investments have improved drastically overnight, not - not anything unseemly.’
‘Ah.’ She did not actually apologise, because hitting boring Henry round the face was well overdue. He always talked to women as if their brains were made of sugar lumps and would melt if stirred.
‘Yes, and you are several thousand pounds better off, thanks to being involved in Mr Watson’s scheme for importing Australian liquorice for sherbet fountains.
It was speculative but lucrative. A pity for his brother-in-law that he, your Mr Thornton of Marlborough Mills, did not risk a little.
He ceased his running of the mill two days ago. ’
‘He is not “my” Mr Thornton, Henry, and he had good reason not to enter into speculation. His father was caught in the great jelly bean scandal of 1838.’
‘Was he, by Jove! Well, the son ought to have got over the fear of speculation. He is nobody now. He moves out of the mill house next Tuesday.’
‘Henry. I need to go to Milton as soon as possible.’
‘Why?’
‘I have remembered I left Mr Thornton’s gloves under the stairs in Scotland Yard.’
She omitted to say that she had gone under the stairs on a daily basis and slipped on the huge gloves for a moment and sighed a sad sigh.
‘Can you not arrange for a minion to -’
‘No, I owe this to Mr Thornton.’
‘Very well, I shall accompany you to protect you.’
Margaret’s look spoke volumes. She was going to take a long hat pin in her depressing brown hat, just in case he tried to get too close in the railway compartment.
J Tea sat in the confined compartment of the railway carriage, tealess and heart-weary.
He had gone to Helstone because he could not imagine being within three shires of Her Origins, and not seeing them, feeling the very roots of her.
It had been a bitter-sweet day, like darjeeling with too large a slice of lemon.
He had found the rectory easily enough, since there were helpful yokels who pointed the way, and a large sign on the gate which said ‘THE RECTORY - keep to the path (of righteousness)’.
He could see the sprawling house beyond a hedge of yellow tea roses, alas badly pruned, and had parted a few branches, much to the cost of his gloves, to peer at the house.
As J Tea passed the wicket gate that led up to the vicarage, he heard the sound of infant voices, many of them, engaged in some energetic game somewhere behind the sprawling brick building.
To the front of it was a small terrace where one might take tea of an afternoon.
J Tea shut his eyes after that first glance, and lengthened his naturally long stride, his cheeks suffused.
Whilst the clergy were not monastic, he could not but think that vicar’s wives ought to be rather more chaste than chased, let alone caught.
At which point he stopped suddenly and uttered a mild oath, having walked into a tree.
He really ought to have opened his eyes earlier.
So now he was heading back to Milton and Mother, and a mill as empty as a caddy with a rattling spoon in it, heading back to Mother and yet to a solitude.
He sighed. The train drew in to a small station and halted.
A Woman in Brown passed by, and her brown hat reminded him of Her brown hat.
He stretched tired limbs and heard the announcement that the train would depart in five minutes.
He looked out of the window onto the platform and saw an apparition.
He wanted to see Her so much he was doing so!
He shook his head, but She was still there, staring at him.
His throat tightened. Breathlessly, he reached for the door handle, stepped onto the platform, and found himself looking down at Her.
‘Mr Thornton!’ cried Margaret, clasping her ungloved hands at her bosom. ‘I have been to Milton, upon business, but you were not there.’ She made it sound as if she had searched quite diligently, possibly even under stones.
‘You’ll never guess where I have been,’ murmured J Tea huskily, withdrawing from his pocket a small packet emblazoned with ‘Miggins’ Fine Teas’ and the image of a yellow rose.
‘Mrs Miggins’ Tea Shop!’ Margaret Hale’s voice was full of wonder. ‘And you have a packet of her Boudoir Blend. I had thought that discontinued.’ She blushed, having used the word ‘boudoir.’
‘I bought the last one. She had to look ‘ard’ to find it in ‘er drawers - of tea.’ The brown packet lay in his palm.
The Woman in Brown passed again and covered her ears at the words ‘boudoir’ and ‘drawers’ being enunciated on a railway station platform.
Margaret gazed at the packet, or rather at the hand holding it.
Such a beautiful hand, she thought, imagining him holding a teaspoon and stirring his tea, stirring her, stirring, stirring . . . .
‘I - I had a business matter to discuss with you, Mr Thornton. We would have discussed it over tea, and perhaps langue de chat biscuits.’
It was his turn to blush. French was a foreign language to him, but he had mastered a little and she had just mentioned tongues. His own tied itself into a neat bow.
‘I . . .oh I ought to fetch Henry,’ declared Margaret, distractedly.
‘Nooooo,’ almost boomed J Tea. ‘Three for tea is wrong. We do not need Henry. It must be tea for two.’
He grasped her hand, and led her into a tiny tea room, where a medical practitioner was removing a mote of engine-soot from the eye of a well dressed lady who somehow had the air of one wishing it was not just the mote.
J Tea selected a table in the corner and drew back a seat for Margaret before taking his own.
His knees touched her skirts, and that alone gave a frisson.
She gazed at him, trying to form the words whilst her head was filled with ‘Oh my goodness, how much I have missed that brow, those eyes, that commanding nose,’ and her heart fluttered.
‘As I said, Mr Thornton, I have a business . . .’ She was interrupted by a thickset waiter who loomed beside her and looked at Mr Thornton.
‘Tea, sir? For two, sir?’
‘Yes, please, two for tea.’