Mischances #6
Margaret toyed with the edge of her sleeve. “Mr Hamper is eligible as any other. He is willing to offer his protection—”
“Why don’ yo’ say it, Lass? Yo’ like his fancy house and his purse. Aye, yo’ll be well set up as the mistress. A blood-sucker, Hamper is, claimin’ wha’ he don’ merit.”
“It is not like that,” Margaret insisted—in vain, she could see, for Nicholas grunted and looked away. “I hope we can still be friends.”
“Friends! You’ll n’a be for coming to see us anymore, an’ I won’ darken Hamper’s door. A cur an’ a swine he is.”
“I thought you reserved such vitriol for Mr Thornton,” she said with a weak smile.
“‘Least Thornton’s a man I co’ respect, and none too bad a catch if yo’ take my meanin’. But Hamper—don’ know wha’ yo’d be thinkin’. Where’s my bread, Mary?”
Margaret subsided in humiliation and excused herself only a few moments later.
Nicholas refused to speak with her any further despite the sympathetic looks he was casting her way as she bade a good evening to the children.
She said a word of thanks to Mary for her hospitality and braved the streets.
Everyone seemed to be watching her. She could not quite decide how utterly that sentiment resulted from her own guilty conscience.
Yes! She felt guilty—in guarding Frederick, she had betrayed herself and all who knew her.
How could she not reproach herself? The one mercy was that, so far, Mr Hamper had displayed some delicacy for her state of mourning and had not forced her to acknowledge the engagement openly, but there it was. She must accept him or surrender Fred.
Her respite, it seemed, must come to an end.
Mr Hamper was right—the more time passed before the engagement was known, the more her own reputation was damaged on the streets.
A secret lover, a late-night rendezvous only hours before her mother’s funeral!
A trollop and a fancy piece for some wandering gentleman—that was what everyone thought of her.
Why, even Dixon could confirm the rumours, for the family servant could not go to the market without being assailed by those plying her for gossip.
Margaret blinked uncomfortably away as she passed four young ladies on the street. The way they tipped their heads together and cast sidelong glances at her was enough to persuade her that her name had just been in the air. Her cheeks burning, she hitched her chin higher and walked on.
Safely inside her own door once more, she made straightaway for her father’s room. No one else could counsel her so tenderly! But he was not himself just now and, need him though she might, he needed her still more. Margaret paused with her fingers resting on the door and looked on in pity.
Mr Hale’s head was bent over his desk, his hand outstretched as if he held another’s.
He was speaking in that dream-like way that had been his of late.
“When spring comes, Maria, I will take you out for that picnic. Do you remember the picnics we would have in Helstone? Down by Potter’s Glen—you would have the fresh biscuits and butter packed, and we would sit on that old quilt my mother made.
Do you recall the roses in the hedge? How fine they looked in your hair!
We shall ask Margaret to bring her paints and frame a pretty likeness for your room. ”
Margaret thinned her lips and gently knocked upon the door. Her father’s head jerked up, and he sought his spectacles. “Margaret? You’ve come back.”
She eased into a chair near him. “Yes, Father. I was only out to see Mary Higgins.”
He tilted his head anxiously. “Something troubles you, Margaret. Is there more talk?”
She sighed. “I am afraid it is to be expected. Too many people saw…”
“But…Frederick is safe,” he confirmed. “You said he boarded the train and was not followed.”
She smiled gently and patted her father’s hand. “Yes, Fred is safe.”
His expression dropped, and he regarded her over the rim of his spectacles. “Then we must see to it that he remains so. I do not believe I trust Mr Hamper’s word should he learn all.”
“He never shall,” Margaret declared. Her jaw was fixed, and there was a hardness to her tone that made her father draw back. “We shall never tell him, and there were no others who knew of Frederick.”
“But how could you keep it a secret? You said that Leonards shouted his name, and you were clearly recognised. Any curious man would make inquiries of his wife’s affairs, and I fear that Mr Hamper is more curious than he will say.”
“Which is why I must marry him.” Margaret blinked back the sudden rush of tears that scalded her eyes when she choked on those words. “That way, no matter what he does learn, he will still be obliged to protect his lawful brother rather than to give him up.”
Mr Hale shook his head, his already pale complexion taking on a sickly hue.
“Oh, my child, I pray you rethink this notion. Surely, Mr Hamper will never suit! I cannot think of you bound to him—why, he is not at all worthy of you! And I think he is the same age as Mari—” Hale faltered, and Margaret squeezed his hand as her father bowed his head.
“Do you know, Margaret,” he managed after a moment, “I believe what I regret the most is all that your mother and I never did.”
She caressed the worn old fingers. “What do you mean?”
His mouth worked as his watery eyes lifted—avoiding her and seeking the thin grey light of the window.
“Everything I never gave her. I have never been a wealthy man but, do you know, Margaret, it was not riches or finery she desired. It was more of us. That was what she really wanted, but she wept over the material things because, after we lost Frederick, she gave up on me and on what might have been.”
His throat bobbed and his chest seemed to quaver but, after some time, he gave a slow, steady nod. “Margaret, I cannot lose another child.”
“But you have not lost me, Father. I am here—even if I marry, I will be near and I will see that you are well-cared for.”
He shook his head vehemently, as a recalcitrant child who cannot make himself understood.
“No, no, Margaret, it will never do. Have you not heard Nicholas speak of Mr Hamper? He is deceitful and hard. I dare not trust him with either of my children but especially not you. You deserve a man who can understand you…who can appreciate his good fortune! I would see you matched in the heart and never discontented or settling for less, as your mother and I did. Is there—there must be some other way! Can you not simply speak with him and ask him to release you from the engagement?”
Margaret gazed sorrowfully at her hands.
“I have tried. I care not for the gossip, but I am afraid of what he could do, and he was most insistent upon it. I believe he finds it to be some advantage that he does not care to lose. Whenever I exhibited the least reluctance, he would deliberately ask me more information about Frederick. I would not tell, but he could see that I was not being truthful and how his interest frightened me. He knew just how to silence me.”
“And so it is!” Mr Hale mourned. “My dearest child to be bound to a monster who would claim her as a thing to be possessed! But surely, Margaret, the man can be worked upon.” Then, as if pricked by a sudden thought, he suggested, “I shall ask John. Yes, that will do. I will send him a note to see if he might stop by. Perhaps he can help.”
Margaret’s inner parts turned to ice. “Oh, no, not Mr Thornton! Please, Father! We ought not to trouble him—”
“But what else would a friend do but offer aid at such a time? We must tell him everything, of course, but I feel certain that he can do what no other can. Yes, I shall speak to John at once,” Mr Hale decided.
He rose quickly, his movements powered by an urgency and a resolve Margaret had only seen once—the day when his conscience had driven him out of his comfortable Helstone and into the unknown.
He sought something to write with, pausing only a moment when he discovered a portrait of his late wife beside his notepaper.
Margaret held her breath, prepared for tears and despair, but her father gently pushed aside her mother’s portrait and touched Frederick’s.
He drew a shaken breath and nodded firmly to himself, then searched for a pen.
Dear John, he wrote, then the pen trembled in the air as he stared at the paper.
“But what shall you tell him?” Margaret protested. “Surely, you cannot tell him about Frederick. What will he say? He is a magistrate, Father. Moreover, he…”
Mr Hale turned round. “He what?”
Margaret’s mouth moved, but the words were reluctant. “He…that is, he and I are…not good friends.”
“No, but you are hardly enemies any longer, are you? He has always spoken highly of you, and you have said yourself that you admire his ethics and cannot fault his honour.”
“But to tell him about Fred! It is madness. Why, how should we trust even him? There must be another way.”
Mr Hale pursed his lips and drew a few unsteady sighs as he regarded her.
“No, Margaret, you are wrong. Apart from Bell, who is too far away at present to be of help, I believe Mr Thornton might be the only man I can trust where the safety of my children is concerned. In fact, I ought to have told him of Frederick sooner, for I think he has heard something of it already and is rather offended that I have said nothing.”
“Heard something?” Margaret stiffened. “Yes, of course, he was the magistrate involved in Leonards’ death. How I wished I could have spared you that knowledge, Father!”
But Mr Hale was waving her off and dipped his pen again.
“No, no, I believe Bell may have spoken. He might have, you know, when he first wrote to John about my coming to Milton. I am sure of it for, since Frederick was here, John has seemed rather distant. Surely I have offended him. I ought to have said…” He stopped again as he fumbled about the desk for something to blot his paper.