Her eyes sparkled, but she made no admission of the kind. “I thought it was customary,” she probed, “to have obtained a lady’s acceptance before one began purchasing household wares for her.”
“Perhaps, when one is not responsible for breaking what was doubtless a precious family heirloom.”
“John! What on earth have you been doing during these calls to the Hale residence?”
“A great deal, it would seem,” he chuckled, then sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I think I must soon have a conversation with Mr Hale. I believe he suspects my intentions. I did not wish to make Margaret uncomfortable, but I will not dishonour her father.”
“How do you intend to explain the tea service? Responsible or not, John, you are apt to compromise the young lady.”
“I have thought of that. No one would think it terribly extraordinary if Higgins were to deliver an unmarked crate to their house, and I believe he would be pleased to do me- or rather, her- this service. I will make it well worth his time. You are correct that I cannot deliver it myself.”
“Mr Hale would not sense the impropriety of such a gift? Think, John, if Fanny were to receive such an extravagant gift from a gentleman!”
“I know,” he fingered his own cup distractedly, imagining it to be another piece of china in another house. “Margaret is prudent, Mother. I believe I can count on her forbearance and my own good relationship with Mr Hale.”
“Do you intend to offer for her again soon, then?” his mother asked quietly.
He was silent a moment. Blinking, he finally met her eyes. “I do, Mother. I think… no, I know she would receive me more favourably. My only cause for delay at present is the mill. I would not ask her to share in my own uncertainties. She deserves better.”
“If she is the kind of woman you claim she is,” Mrs Thornton observed slyly, “she would be glad to share your burdens, John. A girl whose heart is truly given to a man would wish to stand by him. What she deserves, John, is a chance to prove herself.”
He rested his chin in his hand, stroking his upper lip thoughtfully. If he sensed the challenge in his mother’s tones, he chose to ignore it. At last he sighed. “I believe she also would feel that way, Mother, but I think it too soon to ask it of her. We have come to understand one another so much better in such a short time! It cannot be very much longer, I think. I only need to be certain of her feelings, and to know that she is as well.”
“And she will not think this… gift of yours presumptive? Any young lady of sense will be forming certain expectations, John.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Possibly. In any case, it ought to be an interesting conversation the next time I see her.”
~
“Is Miss Marg’et ‘bout?”
Dixon stood, cross-armed, in the doorway of the Hale’s residence looking out into the evening quiet of the street. Her ample form blocked out the view of the house behind her as she frowned down upon their visitor. “She is, Mr Higgins, but she is occupied at present.”
“I am not, Dixon,” came the light voice from behind her. A moment later, the lady in question peeped over Dixon’s shoulder to view her caller. “Nicholas! I am so pleased to see you! Do, come in!”
“Aye, Lass, w’ull be a moment.” Higgins bent to collect a rather large wooden crate at his feet, then, bracing it, squared himself carefully to pass through the doorway.
“Nicholas, what is that?” Margaret ducked out of his way, straining to see over his shoulder as she trailed behind him.
“Some’at for the kitchen, Miss,” his cryptic words returned to her. “I’ll follow yo’, Miss Dixon.”
Dixon sneezed her disapproval, but led the way- grumbling all the while that her kitchen had suddenly become a locale of interest for all manner of folk.
Nicholas carefully lowered his burden to the floor, then procured a short bar from somewhere within his coat. Bending, he began wordlessly to prise the top from the crate.
“Nicholas!” Margaret was laughing. “What is this mysterious thing you have brought?”
“‘T’weren’t for me to know, Miss,” he smirked, straightening. He cast the wooden top aside and stepped away. “I was only asked if I’d bring it to yo’.”
By this time, Margaret had become suspicious. “Indeed. Did the, er, sender have any other instructions for you?”
“Only that yo’ was to unpack it yo’rself, Miss Marg’et.” He cast a guilty glance in Dixon’s direction.
“I see. In that case, I can do that later. You must join us; we were about to take our evening tea.”
“Nay, Miss,” he grinned. ‘Tho’ I’ll thank yo’. I gots to get ‘ome.”
Dixon had stood silently by, but as Higgins began to start out of the kitchen, she stopped him. “You may as well take it,” she grumbled, extending a small parcel.
He took it, cautiously lifting the cloth wrapped about it. “A tart, Miss Dixon? I’ll thank yo’!”
Margaret tilted a wondering smile to her old serving woman, but Dixon feigned that she had not seen it. “Good night, Nicholas!” she called after his retreating back. Her only answer was a wave of his free hand as he slipped back out the door to the outside.
Greedily she raced back to the kitchen. “What do you suppose it could be, Dixon?” She had a fair idea of who the sender might have been, but why would he be sending her such a large… her breath caught as she tugged away the shredded packing material.
“Dixon! Look!” Gingerly she withdrew an ivory tinted tea pot. Lacy roses trailed tastefully about its shape, while little golden accents tipped the edging.
Dixon drew near, her eyes wide. Reverently she received the pot, cradling it in her worn hands as though her mere breath might shatter it. Margaret was reaching inside again, and piece after lovely piece emerged from the tawny nest. “Why… it’s an entire set!” Margaret breathed.
The next item her questing fingers found was of a very different composition. She paused, as though assuring herself that she had indeed found what she believed it to be. Hungrily, she dove for the item again and drew out a folded and sealed note. “Excuse me, Dixon!” she cried, and raced with it out of the kitchen.
Dixon rolled her eyes and heaved herself up from the floor. What on earth had possessed her to drop down like some common urchin? Never mind that Margaret had also done so! She began the methodical task of unpacking the remainder of the crate’s contents alone.
It was no mystery to her where they had come from. Mr Thornton appeared to have decent taste, after all. Perhaps it was, in a respect, only right that he should try to replace the dear Mistress’ old set. The question was whether her young miss would choose to accept it. Dixon hazarded a guess that she would, and began washing each item with care to put it away- at least, for now.
Margaret clattered up the stairs to her own room, her fingers cracking the seal on the note even as she climbed. Eagerly, she closed her door and dropped to the comfort of her bed as her eyes sought his firm, neat script.
Dear Margaret,
I hope you will forgive my presumption. I wished to set right the events of a few nights ago, if that is at all possible. You were most gracious not to cast blame where it was surely due, but I have cost you something that you must have held very dear. Please accept this humble offering as my apology.
I understand that you may hesitate to do so, or feel it improper. I beg that you would not. I hope it is to your taste, and that you will enjoy it for many years. I wish I could have had the joy of being present to view for myself what your impression was, but I feared that you might be made uncomfortable. I would not wish to offend or trouble you in any way.
Please give your father my assurances. I pray this does not cause him any disturbance of mind. I hope, Margaret, to see you and to speak with you soon.
My very warmest regards,
John
Margaret read and reread the note, searching for the words he had not dared to pen. Th
ere was not a single shred of doubt left that he still cared for her. If his tender adieu of the other evening had not been enough to reveal his heart to her, the pleasure shining in his face at their every encounter of late surely was.
She turned the paper over, as though hoping he had secreted some additional message for her eyes alone, but chided herself for being silly when she found nothing more. She discovered an unconscious smile warming her lips, which she had likely worn since she first suspected the origins of Nicholas’ burden. He loved her! The most honourable, noble man of her acquaintance, the one she found she respected and admired above all others, still held her in his most tender sentiments.
She allowed the note to drift to her lap as she considered the implications of his gift. Surely he would know that he was giving her legitimate cause for expectations- and possibly even public embarrassment, should it become known. Even if she wished to refuse it, however, she could not think of a way to gracefully do so. It would surely hurt him, and that she was unwilling to do. He had already been wounded so deeply in his most vulnerable places, and some of that had been by her own hand.
Her fingers tapped the note thoughtfully. He would be at her door again soon; of that she was certain. Nothing would have brought her more joy than to allow her feelings to chart her course, to give him the answer he surely would be hoping to hear. How would his rigid features alter when he found his joy in her acceptance? How tender would be his voice, and how soft his touch? The very deepest parts of her ached to discover the man he kept hidden from the world.
Her father’s words, however, still haunted her. She did not wish for him to feel obliged to her, merely because their relations had lately improved and he held her family secrets in trust. Marriage to her would only injure him professionally- and along with him, every soul dependent upon Marlborough Mills. What resentment could then take root, if she were to cost him everything he had worked for so long?
It was a rather preoccupied young woman who later joined Dixon in the kitchen. The rose spray set was properly admired and set in a place of honour among Dixon’s shelves. Margaret, however, reflected that never would she be able to look upon them without thinking of the man who had given them, and that might, someday, cause her a great deal of pain.
~
He was watching for her. John helped his mother to their family’s customary pew on Sunday morning, but it was a conspicuous moment before he took a seat himself. He leaned very slightly to his left, affording him a clearer view as the remaining parishioners filed through the doors to their seats.
“John!” hissed his mother from the side of her mouth. Mrs Thornton looked placidly forward, her gloved hands folded neatly across her lap, but her elbow twitched at her side.
He grimaced in mild disappointment. Once he turned around and took his seat, he would have no opportunity to meet her eyes to determine her feelings. An entire service struggling not to gaze in her direction, agonizing in suspense, before he could learn whether she had received his offering with pleasure! With an inward sigh, he took his seat beside his mother.
A moment later, his eye caught Mr Hale’s familiar shape as the gentleman proceeded in his slow, reverent fashion to his own pew. Margaret was almost wholly concealed, walking on the far side of her father, and a tendril of worry curled round his heart. Was she so desirous of distancing herself that she would not pass directly by him? He had offended her with his presumption!
His fist clenched involuntarily in castigation. Fool! he thought to himself. It likely meant nothing at all, yet he could not contain his angst as the pair drew to a halt, approaching their seats.
At that moment, as she gathered her skirts, she turned to face her father… and he was directly in her line of vision. He gazed hungrily into her eyes, hoping for the faintest flicker.
“Thank you, Father,” she was murmuring under her breath as Mr Hale assisted her into their pew. Her gaze, however, shifted over her father’s shoulder. Her rosy lips drew into a sweet flash of greeting, but it was her eyes which captivated him. They were warm and eloquent, speaking from her heart and casting him the hope he craved.
She turned away again almost immediately, but she had given him the assurance he had been longing for. He released his breath, realizing only then that he had been holding it. He forced his attention back forward, but from his left he sensed the subtle lift of his mother’s chin. He allowed himself a smile. Hannah Thornton had missed nothing.
The minister rambled on for far too long. Though he typically enjoyed this weekly time of quiet reflection and the opportunity to restore his spirits, on this day his very clothing seemed to stifle. He must speak to her!
His toes restlessly began to fidget within his shoes. Every muscle was strained with the effort of nonchalance, but so successful was he that even his mother could not have told. Valiantly he strove and won against the impulses which demanded that he spring from his seat the second the minister had dismissed the congregation. Forcing himself to behave the civil son, he assisted his mother and sister before planning to- very incidentally, of course- intersect his path with Margaret’s.
The church door was drawing near! In only a moment more, he could catch her as she and her father stopped to visit with the few who would seek their company. He would ask to call upon them that afternoon, and those expressive eyes would give him the answer to quite a different question.
“Good day, Margaret!” His stomach pitted as he recognized Genevieve Hamilton’s voice. From somewhere off to his right, the young woman had intercepted his target before he could.
Margaret turned up ahead of him. “Good morning, Genevieve,” he saw her offer a welcoming smile. “How do you do today?”
He could scarcely keep from growling aloud when Miss Hamilton drew close to Margaret’s side, monopolizing all of her attention and effectively isolating her. Her parents followed close after her, and though they did not stop to speak to either his own family or to Margaret, Hamilton acknowledged him with a terse dip of his head as he passed by. Clearly the gentleman still respected him, but had no intentions of renewing his interest in further relations.
Scowling just a little, he gave his arm to his mother and traced a wide path around the young ladies. He risked a brief glance at Margaret. Some sixth sense apparently caused her to blink in his direction, and he was sure he detected a flicker of remorse in her expression. She could not escape her eager companion, however, any more than he could loiter aimlessly about until they had finished their conversation.
There was Watson nearby. Perhaps, had he been less single-minded, he could have managed an intelligent discourse with one of his associates, but Fanny was already lengthening her strides in hopes of avoiding that very gentleman. Clenching his jaw, he acceded to her wishes to escape from her sudden admirer. The Thornton family, stately and everything proper, walked together back to Marlborough Mills.
~
Margaret’s heart sank. All she could see of him now was the top of his hat and his broad, black shoulders as he disappeared up the street with his family. She had so hoped to speak with him! Of course she could not openly thank him for his thoughtfulness, but he was certainly perceptive enough to sense her gratitude. She would have given a great deal to know the full measure of what he might have expressed to her ears alone. Even in public, however, she had come to know his ways so well that a mere few seconds could have conveyed to her volumes of his thoughts and feelings.
To see his disagreeable mask back in place and his back turned once more made her wish she could retreat to the privacy of her own room to soak in self-pity. With all of her determination, she forced herself to attend Genevieve’s words. That John Thornton was disappointed could not be just enough cause for her to forget her own manners! Indeed, there might yet come a day where she would be forced to disappoint him. She would have to become intimately acquainted with her feelings of regret.
“Margaret,” Genevieve was imploring, “do walk with us this af
ternoon! Rupert and I were going to take in the Square, and we would so wish for your company.”
“Oh, I do not know if I…” she searched out her father’s face, trying to decide if she could neatly excuse herself. Walking might have been pleasant, but at the moment, time spent with the woman John ought rightly to marry was a bitter pill to her.
“Surely,” Genevieve followed her gaze, “your father is quite well enough to do without you, is he not? He looks very well today!”
Margaret tamped down a sigh of resignation. “He is better, yes.” She glanced quickly at the skies, searching for and finding the excuse she needed. “I fear, however, that it will rain rather heavily this afternoon, and I do not wish to leave him to return home alone.”
“Oh, why I have just had the perfect idea. Let us walk you to your door!”
“Are you quite sure you wish to walk so far out of your way?” Margaret glanced upward uncertainly. “The weather looks rather unpromising for your return.”
“Oh, we can hail a cab if need be,” the other woman returned airily. “There are more Sunday cabs now, so we shall have no trouble securing one if the need arises.”
“Of course, and you must stay to tea,” Margaret smiled her acceptance. Genevieve had been kind to her, after all, and she had no right to avoid her friend simply to nurse her own bruised feelings. John would be only right to choose Miss Hamilton, and Margaret would not degrade her own dignity or destroy any hope of remaining friendship by spiteful behaviour.
Genevieve clapped giddily, pleased to have gained the point in effectively isolating Margaret from John Thornton for the remainder of the Sunday. “Rupert! Rupert, come! We are to see Margaret and her father home!”
The foursome set out, Rupert offering his arm to Margaret. Mr Hale gallantly escorted Genevieve, smiling gently all the while. Margaret accepted Rupert’s arm with only the barest flicker of reluctance discernable. At the fore of her thoughts was that agonized gaze from John, months ago when he had seen her walking with Frederick at the station. She cringed, resting her fingers only very lightly on Rupert Hamilton’s arm. Self-consciously she glanced about, glad now that he was not at hand to be made unhappy.
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