Chapter Text
“Mr. Hale? Dead?”
“Aye, in his sleep… Poor fellow. Never recovered from his wife’s death.”
Nicholas watched as Mr. Thornton physically staggered where he stood, his hands grasping at the doorway of the dining hall. “Master?” He called softly. He could see Mr. Thornton’s face blanch with shock, his breath kicked out of him as if he’d been hit by a blow. “Master, come in. Sit down. Have some food.” His Master shook his head, but his body did slowly walk into the room, still faltering at the news.
They quickly found the nearest table and bench; Nicholas saw to it that Mr. Thornton sat to rest. He called to his Mary to bring some food, and within a few minutes two bowls of stew were produced. Nicholas ate, as he had not had a chance to lunch yet that day. He watched as the Master did not partake.
John’s striking blue eyes took in the bowl of food, the hard wood of the table, the bustling of the dining hall, the gloomy light which tried in vain to brighten the hall. Yet his mind could process none of it. He only felt his stomach twist in shock and pain, his heart ache at such a cruel reality, and his lungs struggle to take in more than a shallow breath. How could all these people be moving about, quite alive, when his dear friend was now cold and still? Mr. Thornton had seen many turns of death, but none had hit his heart so deeply since his own father’s death. Mr. Hale was nothing like that man, but in the last year, John had come to take deep pleasure and comfort in the intelligence, the thoughtfulness, and the goodness that was Mr. Richard Hale. He hadn’t the luxury of anything close to a paternal relationship for nearly 15 years. And now that pleasure was lost to him again.
His furrow deepened as his thoughts then turned to another of the Hale household. He rested his elbow on the table, as his large hand came to cover his mouth, eyes downcast. He struggled to keep tears from forming in his eyes, and after a short gasp of breath, managed to turn to his worker, and ask:
“And Margaret? What of her?”
Nicholas felt wretched for the poor lass.
“There’s nothing to keep her here now. Her aunt’s coming to take her home, they say.” He frowned, and noticed that Mr. Thornton had not touched his food, but didn’t dare coddle such a man.
“She’s seen a great deal of sorrow since she’s been here. More than anyone should bear, especially one so young.”
He shook his head, and keeping his voice down he extolled, “Being cast into a strange land like Milton, without a friend in the world. Finding one in my poor Bessy, only to lose her. And then her mother not a ten-day after. Blasted - she’s a strong one. And then to see to so much for her family, getting her brother here, shepherding him away, holding strong for her father. And now ‘im gone, not even a chance to say goodbye. We’ll be sorry to see her go, Mary and I.”
John closed his eyes during Nicholas’ speech, thinking of all those duties and burdens she had carried, and more which Higgins hadn’t the knowledge to share. But then his mind stumbled over those words, and he blinked rapidly and could not stop his mouth from questioning: “What?”
“Hm?!” Nicholas replied, questioningly. “I will miss ‘er, as I think of my sweet Bessie’s laughter every time I see ‘er.”
”No … No you said …her brother? She doesn’t have a brother.” This he said quite firmly, his voice low and angry, as icy as the air outside.
Keeping his voice down, Nicholas replied: “Him that were over, when their mother were dying. Kept it a secret, they did. You can ask my Mary, I’ll call for her if you like.”
“No … no…” Mr. Thornton murmured, his hand now moving to his chin. His other hand clenched tight as his side, his knuckles nearly white. “Why wouldn’t Mr. Hale tell me he had a son?”
“Something to do with the law. Found himself on the wrong side of Navy, in real danger he was. I wonder if Miss Margaret will leave London for Spain.”
Nicholas left the Master be, taking his empty bowl back to the kitchen.
“He was her brother…” John whispered, the smallest whisper of a smile curling at the sides of his lips, and the creases of his weary eyes. The memory of the visitor at Crampton, kept so secret that he wasn’t allowed into the home. The gentleman at Outward Station, and Miss Hale holding the man so dearly, so tightly, as if she might not see him again. How true a fear that was, in fact. And to lie, deny the police and himself the truth, to protect him. All the pain and affront Mr. Thornton had felt, now he could reframe it all in his mind; like the heavy, dreary fog of Milton was being burned off by warm, life-giving sun.
How wretched had she been, when she received the news? How could one young woman hold such sadness and such responsibility without breaking? His mind went wild with these questions and others like it. And how he longed to turn to her, hold her and comfort her, and wade through the grief together in their shared loss. Barely a whisper, he said it again, as if to spur himself to believe it true- “Her brother.” Blinking away any moisture at his eyelashes, he came to, out of his rumination and back to the reality of the food hall, and his dying business.
He strode quickly to the kitchen, where he found Mary Higgins, and owned: “I cannot stay to eat today. Please see to it, someone else gets the plate.” And with this, his dark demeanor and dark coat left the dining hall, to return to his office.
Margaret Hale had no more tears to shed. Mr. Bell had come yesterday, alone. Margaret knew the moment she laid eyes upon him that something terrible had happened. But when he entered, to confirm the very worst, Miss Hale had collapsed to the ground, and wept. Dixon looked after her with such care and pity that day. The very next, she received a letter from her father. It had been misdirected, and Mr. Bell had come before her father’s last letter. This again produced such sobbing and distress. Leaning against a wall and slipping to the dirty floor in the most unladylike fashion, she hit the wooden floors with an open hand, and wept again. Mr. Bell had told Dixon that he was off to London, to disclose the dreaded news to her Aunt, and hurry her back to Milton to retrieve her niece.
Dressed in black, Margaret sat alone in her father’s study, grey eyes dull and listless. Her mind was sluggish and nearly blank, save the aching pain which hollowed her out till nothing but malaise remained. Occasionally a thread of almost childish despair flared, as she baffled at the unfairness of it all. But then, some distant chiding voice would remind her that many a soul, especially among the denizens of Milton, carried on through far more tragedy and hardship than her. The logical voice was strong enough to quiet the petulant tantrums, but all that remained with an empty void in her chest. She felt lifeless, and stiff, and remained as such for much of the day.
She was too lost in desolation to hear a firm knock at the door. Evening was upon them, the windows and room dark in the winter chill. Dixon had left a cup of tea and had lit a few lights in the quiet library about an hour before. The tea had gone cold and untouched.
Exasperated, the servant opened the main entrance to the sad Crampton home, to find a tall, austere man, face set hard and cold as the night air. “Mr. Thornton - we are not taking visitors.” She said coolly from behind the door.
“You must let me in.” He gruffly responded to the servant.
Dixon frowned deeper, her worry obvious across her face, as she debated which course of action to take.
Mr. Thornton would not be denied; a firm hand took the edge of the door and pulled it toward him, to force it ajar.
With a pique to rival his mother’s Dixon nearly pouted, but allowed the man in. Taking his overcoat, she huffed, “Have you been made aware of this dreadful news?”
”I have. I’ve come to share my deepest regrets with Miss Hale.” Looking around the entrance, listening for his dear friend’s welcoming voice to come up for a lesson, his heart panged with sorrow yet again.
“The Miss is quite overwrought.”
“Where is she?”
“In her father’s study.”
Mr. Thornton could not banish the anguished expression on his face, as his head turned to the stairwell he knew so well.
Dixon sighed, and led the way, as she didn’t want the man surprising her mistress. After the flight of steps, Dixon came to the closed study door and knocked upon it, so softly, as not to frighten Margaret. “Miss Margaret… Miss Margaret,” she called, creaking open the door enough to fit her face. Margaret was turned away from the door, having positioned her father’s armchair toward the fireplace, which only contained a handful of glowing coals within, and two sad candles flickering on either side of the mantle. Pushing the door open wider, and letting herself in, she came to her mistress, resting a hand upon her forearm, in an attempt to guarantee her communication. “Miss Margaret, Master Thornton has come to see you. I will refresh this tray and return in some minutes, Miss.” Collecting the tray in a busy fashion, she left the room and allowed Mr. Thornton his entrance.
Closing the door behind him, three deafening footsteps, his shoes clicking and echoing throughout the room, harkened his entry. She did not turn to look upon him. He could only see her hair swept up in a simple chignon, the creamy white skin of the back of her neck, and the black fabric which cloaked her shoulders in the heavy mantle of mourning. How dreadful, to be in a room once so revered, now transformed by loss. He marveled at her sitting there; how long had she remained in such torture?
Garnering his courage, he walked fully into the room, until he stood beside the chair and her petite frame, still staring blankly forward at the embers.
“Miss Hale,” he began, looking down upon her. She did not turn to him. John slowly sank to one knee, lowering himself so as to not tower over her. He willed his voice into a soft gentle rumble. “My condolences …” he began. But as his eyes took in her barren face, the strictures of formality no longer interested him, and he dared to share a fraction of his genuine feelings. “Oh Miss Hale … what a terrible loss.”
Here, Margaret was stirred from the flickering dying coals, to turn only her eyes to land upon the Master, stooping down as if a servant. His voice quivered with emotion, and as Margaret truly looked to his expression, she found his mask of cool indifference she had witnessed so frequently was thrown aside. And in its place, her eyes mapped his face and found a deep and affecting remorse. His despair awoke within her chest another fit of anguish, such that her head turned, soft lips parting and quivering. Her eyebrows furrowed, and her eyes looked down upon the rug and his black shining shoes, as she focused her energy to withhold the new tears which sprang from a place she didn’t know existed. She had thought she had rid her body of all the sobs she could hold.
Daring to look at him quickly, she began: “Mr. Thornton. Oh, bless you Mr. Thornton, for being such a … such a friend to my dearest father.” Her voice quaked and struggled, cracking with emotions, as tears pooled and threatened to yet again spill over her wide round eyes. “But now he is gone,” and then the dam broke once more, and she turned away from him, resting her elbows on the other side of the chair, hands covering her face and holding her head as a sob wracked her body again. “I’m sorry, I am not … I am not fit for visitors yet,” she forced out, as she tried to breath deeply and contain her grief.
“No - Miss Hale, do not apologize,” he pleaded, leaning in closer to her person, daring to grasp a white knuckled hand upon the armrest. His arms felt heavy like lead, and he desperately wished he had the right to hold her shaking body in his arms, but he dared not touch her. “It is I who should atone, I did not come to invoke any feelings of guilt. But I could not bear the thought of you alone in this house for another night, without some friend to console you.”
The quiet, dark words were expressed with such feeling and remorse. Margaret could feel his presence and his will nearly suffocating her (or was it simply enveloping her) in the dark room. She could not deny that his solicitude for her was the first emotion beyond fear, anguish, or bereavement she had felt in two days. What that emotion was, she yet again struggled to name. Her heart stammered in her chest, the hairs on the back of her neck tingled, and she felt her empty stomach roil. Desperate for some distraction, she wiped her tears and her eyes landed upon the book upon the side table. It was her father’s Plato.
“Here,” She grabbed it and offered it to the man beside her. “Father’s Plato. You should have it.” Her hands shook slightly as she grasped the red leather bound book, binding well worn. His forehead wrinkled, his eyebrows raised as his eyes rested upon her white small hands. Slowly he raised his hands, as if reaching toward a wild hurt animal. His great, worn hands reached for the gift, but received it by resting his upon her own clutching hands. They sat in that manner for a moment, Maraget’s eyes trained to the book, and then to his hands cradling hers and her father’s tome. The heat of his manly body was so different from her own cold delicate hands. She dared not reach his gaze, though she could feel his focus affixed upon her person. The air felt charged like lightning in a way she had never felt before.
“Miss Hale. Take care - if you do not speak and send me away -“
At such shocking words, she could not help her eyes rise from his hands to look upon his face. But then, before he could continue his plea (or was it a prayer), the sound of Dixon’s heavy footsteps coming up the steps and the clinking of china shattered the moment they shared. She lightly pushed the book toward him, silently asking him to release her hands. He did as she suggested, taking the book reverently, but eyes darting across her face, questioning whether this was a response to his previous words.
“Hot Tea, for Mr. Thornton and yourself, Miss Margaret. And if you are feeling up to it, a small dish of warm broth would do you well.” The silver tray was placed upon a nearby table, and Dixon poured a glass for both Mr. Thornton and her mistress, not bothering the poor girl with the menial task.
Mr. Thornton had stood, and stepped some paces away to provide some respectful distance between the two. “Thank you,” he nodded lightly to the servant, and followed her toward the door as she prepared to leave. “Dixon, Has Miss Hale had no sustenance since the news?” He murmured. Dixon bristled at the familiarity of such a question, narrowing her eyes at him. But then with a pout, looking back at the young lady in black, she gave a curt nod, mumbling “Stubborn thing…”
Mr. Thornton nodded and thanked her again, though he was not convinced which person the servant described as stubborn, her mistress or himself... A shared characteristic, for certain.
Closing the door again, he returned to her side, this time grabbing a light chair and placing it near her father’s favorite. “Tea, or broth first?” He asked in a tone which brooked no dissent. Marageret’s heart was still aflutter at his previous words. Now that Dixon had gone, would he not take up such a subject again? Did she want him to continue?
Opening her mouth, licking her lips in an attempt to get her words working again, she whispered, “the tea.”
Mr. Thornton did not look particularly pleased with her selection, but brought the teacup and saucer to her, nonetheless. Their fingers glanced, like they had nearly a year ago in this very office; though the distributor had changed. The feel of her cold soft skin sent daggers up his fingers. Now seated beside her, with his own cup in his hand, he took a deep breath.
“Miss Hale - Higgins has told me you are expecting your aunt. So, you’re going? To London?” In an attempt to control his body and his flinching heart, he forced his hand to steady and to take a sip of hot tea. Best lead by example.
“I … I’m not sure I have much choice in the matter,” she replied. A small sip of tea, just enough to be certain the liquid actually graced her lips.
“But you could.”
The intensity from his stare could have burned a hole through her skin.
He continued: “Have a choice…”
“Oh,” she inhaled sharply, her voice high, the teacup suddenly trembling in her hands. She sat for a moment, listening to the rattling. Fearful she might chip the china, and suddenly feeling as if her body might implode if she did not move, she stood and walked to the table, and quickly deposited the cup. She had turned away from the man in the chair, as her eye rested again on the dimming coals.
“What do you want, Miss Hale.”
Such a simple question. She felt wholeheartedly incapable of responding to it. It had been so long since she had even thought about what she wanted. All her time in Milton had been spent completing the things she must do, and the burdens she must bear. What did she want? Her lip quivered as her heart cried out that she wanted her family back. And then something deeper, crawling under her skin and deep in her chest, she wanted to be held by Mr. Thornton.
“I hardly know,” she whispered in a high pitched whisper.
John Thornton did not have the same dilemma. He knew his own mind quite well.
“So you are going.” His head lowered, as his eyes rested upon his calloused hands upon the fine china. Margaret turned slowly, as she had noticed the shift in his tone. She could hear the simple sadness of the dawning reality stretching before them. Dark shadows hid his expression from Margaret’s view.
She felt her heart nearly erupt from her chest, panic rising inside her as she watched him retract into himself. “I - I do not care for London society.” She struggled to say. “I did spend much of my childhood with my Aunt Shaw, and I am thankful to have some family around to care for me. Even if I don’t want to move, what else am I to do?”
How he longed to speak from his heart: Stay with me - Come home with me! But he grit his teeth hard, containing his ardor. She was weak and alone, he would not behave ungentlemanly. The arrow of that insult still burned deep in him. His own cup of tea was now also removed from his hands, as he prepared for the second time this evening to communicate his offer.
Then his head raised again, eyes resting upon the woman who was so dear to him.
“Miss Hale, if you were set against returning with your Aunt to London, you do have it within your power to stay in Milton. You might remain … at Marlborough Mills … with me.”