Her Father’s Last Wish #4
Misery and shame assaulted her as soon as her eyes flickered open.
How could she think on yesterday with any sort of pleasure?
How often had she hoped in the hidden depths of her heart that she might receive another offer from Mr. Thornton?
Too late she had realized his value and—oh!
—how pride went before the fall! He could not love her.
She had shown an unpardonable trait. Not only must he believe her in love with another man, but all she had ever heard about Mr. Thornton was of how highly he valued honesty.
The lie of Frederick’s appearance at the Outwood train station stood between them as wide as any chasm.
He would hate her forever after being trapped in a marriage he did not want.
To find even a fraction of gladness, even to rejoice in the situation she was now in showed more of her wickedness than she ever knew she had.
She had sometimes longed for a respite, for a chance to sit and think without caring for a parent.
Now, she had such the opportunity but at the highest cost!
However, she could not regret all of yesterday.
Pain and joy, misery and hopefulness mingled until she could contain the flood no longer.
Bitter tears fell down her cheeks. Margaret thought she could fill an ocean for each regret she had.
In this state of anguish, with her knees drawn up to her chin and her hands covering her face as sobs wracked her body, she sat until Dixon entered the room.
“Mrs. Thornton is in the sitting room. I told her you were not up to visitors, but she insisted it was not a social call and to let her pass. I do not know where these Thorntons get their—”
Margaret wiped her eyes with the handkerchief her loyal servant provided. “Please do not let me hear you abuse them, especially Mr. Thornton. He has been incredibly kind to me, and he was so good to Father.”
Dixon opened her mouth ready for a retort, but soon closed it and nodded. “We best get you dressed then.”
She may not have wanted Mrs. Thornton’s presence in the house, but Dixon primped Margaret until she looked fit for the drawing rooms of Harley Street. Margaret stared at herself in the mirror, wondering when her eyes had taken on such a lifeless look.
Steadily, she went down the stairs and greeted her guest. Mrs. Thornton had been standing in the room, looking as though she were critiquing every article her eyes landed upon.
Her expression did not change with Margaret’s entrance.
“Please, do be seated,” Margaret said as she made herself comfortable in a chair. “I apologize for the wait.”
“I suppose you keep Southern hours.”
“I am far more accustomed to Milton than that by now. You will allow me the indulgence this morning.”
Mrs. Thornton stared at Margaret, scrutinizing her face.
“Keeping to a schedule is for the best, even in your situation. I am not so heartless to criticize you for being so affected by the death of your father, but I have now vowed to two people to see that you are on the path of health and safety.”
“You promised my father you would look after me?”
“Of course not; my son.”
“Oh.” Margaret sat back, stunned for a moment. Then, gathering her courage and hoping to appear indifferent, asked, “And how is Mr. Thornton this morning? I regret that I troubled him so much yesterday.”
“He is not ill if that is your worry. He often keeps later hours than he did last night—at the Mill, mind you, not on social practices. I suppose you will want to change that, but I tell you to think better of it.”
She was referencing the marriage to which Mr. Thornton had alluded as well.
Could Margaret really go through with that?
To be the wife of Mr. Thornton—oh!—but to trap him in such a way.
He could not love her anymore. Even if he did, she did not deserve him and had not earned the blessing of matrimony.
He offered for her now only out of duty to her father.
Unsure what to say, Margaret avoided a reply entirely. “Dixon said you did not come on a social call. How may I assist you?”
“You assist me!” Mrs. Thornton looked her up and down. “I will say this for you, child, you have the gumption needed in the North. No, Miss Hale, there is nothing you can do for me. My son wanted me to come and be of service to you. I understand there are household matters to see to.”
“I am sorry for the trouble you took to come, but things are well in hand. I do not know why Mr. Thornton believed I would need your presence.”
“I knew you would be too stubborn to allow this. I tried to tell John, but he would not listen.”
Despite the insult from Mrs. Thornton, Margaret smiled. He knew her well enough for that. Perhaps all was not so hopeless. Mrs. Thornton stood.
“Well, I will not be made to leave.” She glanced around the room. “I suppose we could start with the books. You surely have no need for them now.”
“No, I cannot part with Father’s books!”
“And you spend much time with Plato, do you?” Mrs. Thornton picked up a volume and then put it down in disgust.
How could Margaret hope to explain it to this woman who was so hopelessly unsentimental? The books made her feel closer to her father. “Might Mr. Thornton have use of them?”
Her soon to be mother-in-law’s lip curled.
“Aye. Perhaps he might, but I do not know that he will have reason to continue his studies. I do not know of any other gentlemen tutors in Milton.” Something softened in Mrs. Thornton then.
“I regret it keenly. Your father was a good man and a good friend to my son. He has not had many. He cannot befriend the workers, and he cannot trust the other masters.”
“My father, too, greatly enjoyed Mr. Thornton’s friendship.”
“Very well. We will allow John to choose the books he wishes to keep. Where shall I begin, Miss Hale?”
For a moment, Margaret considered refusing again. Her sense of independence did begin to rally, but in the end, fatigue won out. “I have no attachment to anything in this room, save the desire to keep some of Papa’s books.”
“Now that I have my instruction, there is no need for you to wait upon me. Please, go and rest for the remainder of the day.”
Margaret wondered at the suggestion given her earlier words, but she did not question it. Once in the quiet confines of her room, Mr. Hale’s Plato in her hands, she leafed through the familiar pages.
“I wish you were here, Father,” she murmured to herself. “Why did you tell Mr. Thornton to take care of me? Did you really mean for him to marry me?”
She may have always been the dutiful daughter, but she would not violate her principles on marriage to please her father.
It also was not enough that she loved Mr. Thornton.
She was now sensible to the differences in their stations in different ways—ways that mattered more in the North.
More than this, she did not want a man to feel honour-bound to her.
It was even more repugnant to her now than it had been the day after the riot at Marlborough Mills.
Casting her eye about her small room, she wondered what she would take with her when she left this house.
If she chose not to marry Mr. Thornton, she must go somewhere.
Edith was still in Corfu, and Mr. Bell was on the Continent as well.
She could find a home with Frederick in Cadiz, but did she wish to leave her Mother and Father behind?
Could she start life anew in an even more foreign land? Could she leave Mr. Thornton behind?
She had almost resolved that she would when a new consideration made her change her mind.
She could refuse Mr. Thornton and trust that one day they might be on more even ground.
However, how could she trust that he would ever extend his hand a third time?
How would time bridge the rift between them due to her dishonesty?
Leaving her chamber, Margaret crept into her father’s room. He kept a few books in there, and she may as well go over his more private things without the peering eyes of Mrs. Thornton or Dixon. The matron was correct. She could not wallow in pain and misery indefinitely. She longed for industry.
Pulling her father’s long-held favourites off the shelves, she carried them back to her room.
Next, she found his personal letters. They would need going through.
Margaret rummaged through them, looking for letters of business and set aside his private correspondence. They would be consigned to the fire.
Suddenly, her eyes alighted on her name. In her father’s neat, familiar hand was a letter dedicated to her. Nay, it was not a letter, more like a benediction, proof that the clergyman remained in him even in his days of doubt.
My Margaret,
May the Lord grant you peace and comfort during this trying time in your life.
I see you as a woman of faith, as an Abraham sojourning in a strange land and among strange people.
You do not question why we are here, although I am sure you must wonder at it.
You do not grumble and complain as we are left in darkness, unlike the Children of Israel.
Can I suppose you are willing to sacrifice everything you hold dear and your most beloved to prove your faithfulness?
You have lost your mother already, and your father is sure to soon follow.
I pray thee, my child, do not sacrifice more for the sake of duty.
You have proved your devotion to Frederick and us.
As our Heavenly Father sees the smallest sparrow, I have seen how you wrestle with it.
You have attempted to hide it from me, but I have learned enough from Dixon to piece together the facts.
If I do not summon enough courage to ask you face to face, then I will do so now.
Why do you not tell Mr. Thornton the truth of Frederick?
He is too honourable to use his position as magistrate against us. He loves you most devotedly.