Mistakes and Remedies #3
It was decided they would take Fanny to Margaret’s home to recover.
If they went directly to Marlborough Mills, the servants would talk and, before long, the whole of the town of Milton would know how foolish his sister had been.
At the Hales’, there were only Dixon and Mr. Hale, and John had confidence they’d keep silent.
Once at the Hales’, with the help of Dixon, John and Margaret were able to get Fanny comfortably settled in Margaret’s bed.
Margaret asked the maid to bring a fresh pot of tea and then excused her for the night.
Little had been said between him and Margaret since they’d rescued Fanny—and that was exactly how John viewed their removal of his sister from the midwife’s house: a rescue.
“I sent the carriage home with a message to my mother. I said only that Fanny was ill, here at your home, but that Mother would not be needed until the morning,” John told Margaret once they were alone.
Margaret had brought in another chair. He accepted the offered seat as well as the hot tea, fixed just as he preferred. It would likely be a long vigil, watching over his sister.
“You may retire, Margaret. I would not have you lose even more sleep over my sister’s foolishness.”
“I will stay,” she said. “She may awaken and need help. I know you are quite capable, but I doubt I would sleep, anyway.”
They sat quietly for some time, sipping tea.
The only sound in the room was the tick of the clock on the mantle.
Of course, he had never been in Margaret’s bedchamber, and he was quite keen to look about to discover hidden treasures and trinkets she kept nearby.
To do so would certainly draw her attention, invade her privacy more than he already had. Instead, he stared into his cup.
“Margaret…” he started. “As of late, I feel as if there has been a shift of…familiarity…between us.” He would not look up, fearful of what expression he might find on her lovely face.
“Yes,” she whispered but said no more.
After a moment, he continued, buoyed by her admission. “I would like to know, that is, I have had a question for quite some time that I would like to put to you, if I may?” He did look up then, and was pleased that her face showed curiosity, not censure.
“I will answer your question, if I am able.”
He found that to be an odd response. What could she not answer? Then it occurred to him that perhaps she would not like to answer the question he had once posed about the man at the train station. Had she not said at that time she could not tell him who the fellow was?
“Since our first introduction at the hotel when you and your father arrived in Milton, I understood you to be raised as a gentlelady, a woman of means, part of London’s wealthy society.
Your father said living with your aunt for much of the year gave you opportunities to learn about things most in Milton, including myself, could only dream of. ”
“Yes, that is all true.” She nodded. “Is that your question?”
“Not quite.” He smiled at her. “I’m getting to it.
” He set his teacup on the table next to him and glanced briefly at his sister, who was sleeping with her mouth hanging open.
“Because you were accustomed to associating with only London’s finest families, I would have expected you would wish the same for yourself here.
Yet I quickly realized you seemed to despise those of the higher society of Milton —namely manufacturers and their families.
I suppose, then, my question would be, why?
If we were in London, I could understand, because manufacturer such as myself and other mill men are hardly respected as gentlemen, but here in Milton…
” He shrugged. “There are few above our stature in society.”
A small smile crossed her face. “I tried to explain it to my mother once, as she posed a similar question.” Margaret stood and reached for his cup to refill it from the pot.
“When my cousin Edith married, I was given the choice to remain at Harley Street or go home to my parents. As you know, I chose my parents. I was tired.” She handed him his cup and went to refill her own.
“So very tired of the pretense of London Society, the whirl of it all, the expectations, the gossip.” She shook her head and sat back across from him.
“I wanted to be a part of the world of common, normal people, not above them.”
“And by associating with the poor, you felt…a part of that community?”
“Not as I had hoped,” she admitted. “They treated me as an outsider. They were not as accepting as I had wished or expected.” She looked down at her cup and shook her head.
“At times, I find myself quite lost. I could not understand your theories and the way you conduct business, but neither can I understand why people are unwilling to work to better themselves.”
“So you believe what I said about rising above your circumstances?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “You are a fine example of how that is possible in the world of business. My father told me you rose from a draper’s assistant to a mill master. That would hardly be possible in London for, if you were not born a gentleman, you could never become one.”
“Precisely. But I have never wished to be a gentleman, not in the sense of your idea of one, anyway. I must stay busy, play a role in some sort of occupation that gives me a return—not only on my monetary investment, but also on my time. The London gentlemen I have been acquainted with spend time idling away at their clubs and strolling in the parks. Even just sitting here makes me feel anxious, as if I should be involved in something more industrious.”
She chuckled but not unkindly. “Sleeping, perhaps?”
Her laugh was infectious, and he could not help but answer in kind. It was almost two o’clock in the morning.
“We are much alike in that, Mr. Thornton. I had hoped to be useful to the people of Princeton, to occupy myself doing good deeds for others, but I quickly realized most were too independent to need anything from me except money, which I could not provide. When my father was a clergyman, we had an alms box for the poor, but no longer.”
“You have returned to calling me Mr. Thornton? I much preferred hearing John come from your mouth.”
She flushed. “I spoke without thinking earlier.”
“I wish you would continue to address me as John.”
“If you wish.” A small smile curved her lips and, although it wasn’t bright in the room, John would swear her cheeks flushed darker as she looked away from him.
“Fanny has made a very poor decision, and now we must deal with her ruin.” He wanted to kill the man who did this to her. John was not a violent man, but this was a situation he had never in his whole life anticipated. How would his mother react?
“Have you family away from Milton, somewhere you could send her?” Margaret asked.
“No.” He shook his head. “My mother’s only brother died in Burma during the war. My father’s family cut ties with us when he…died.” He was not certain Margaret knew how his father had passed, so he decided it was best to be vague.
“How awful. My father had no siblings, and my mother had only her sister, Aunt Shaw.” She shifted on her chair. “Have you no friends who would marry her despite her condition?”
He had been considering that, but what did he have in his position to entice a man to marry a girl carrying another man’s child? “Perhaps,” he finally said. “Mother and I have many details to attend to.”
“Forgive me for intruding.”
“You misunderstand. I am pleased with your advice, so overwhelmed with thankfulness that you have undertaken this…troubling time with me.” He shook his head.
“This is the difficulty you and I have always had, is it not? This misunderstanding between us. I believe you think one way when, in reality, you think another.”
“Yes. That is true.” She took a long sip of tea before continuing.
“However, now that I understand you better, your ideas of manufacturing and economic prosperity, I realize you are nothing like the coarse ruffian I expected all manufacturers and mill men to be.” She stopped and refilled her cup again.
She stood for a moment, looking into the fire before continuing.
“I never doubted you cared for Fanny and your mother. In fact, your mother takes great pride in how well you have provided for them. I cannot but think you are a very fine man, despite our early differences and misunderstandings of one another.”
If she did have a favorable opinion of him, he wanted to ask her why she had rejected him. He wanted so badly to press the issue and try again, but now was hardly the place for such a declaration. Until he had Fanny settled, he could not think of anything else.
“I am pleased your opinion of me has altered,” he said.
“And yours?” she asked. “You told me your foolish passion for me was gone.”
He opened his mouth to answer that he loved her more now than ever, but the door suddenly opened, cutting him off. Mr. Hale came inside, wearing his dressing robe and carrying a candle.
“Hello,” he said. Mr. Hale always provided a calming effect on John. “I thought I would relieve one of you. Mr. Thornton, would you care to go to sleep for a while?”
“Ah, no. Miss Hale should go if she chooses.”
“Yes, I think I shall,” she said. She glanced at him and then walked toward the bed, adjusting Fanny’s pillows and blanket before lifting the candle her father had set on the nightstand. “Papa, wake me in an hour or so. Mr. Thornton could use some sleep, also.”
She started toward the door but stopped abruptly and turned. “Papa, Mr. Thornton and I were discussing some misunderstandings between us. I was hoping you… that is, I think we must tell him about Frederick.”
“Frederick?” Mr. Hale had begun to settle into the chair Margaret had vacated but stopped in a half-crouched position. “But why?”
“Mr. Thornton was at the train station the night Mama died…when Frederick left.”
Mr. Hale’s eyes widened, and he sat completely. “Oh. I had no idea. Yes.” He nodded his gray head. “Yes, I shall tell him.”