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Chapter Text

John Thornton's hands shook so hard he could barely make out the printed letters on the page. He must be misreading the names, he thought to himself. She was so much on his mind, his thoughts revolved so much around her, it was no wonder he saw her name everywhere and anywhere, even in poems and newspapers and random bits of advertisements in a milliner's shop window.

He closed his eyes once, then twice, and took in a deep breath of the dining room's air. The low fire in the hearth cast out the scent of burning coal and a wave of warmth at his back. The cup before him steamed with the rich, pungent fragrance of strong coffee. Out in the hall, he could hear the footsteps of the servants carrying the linens out for washing. Their quiet conversations echoed against the walls, intermingled with the ever-presents sounds of Milton that permeated every room of Marlborough House. There was the constant hum of men and machines, horses and wagons, movement and toil. It was all familiar. Opening his eyes, he carefully laid the page of newsprint on the dining room table and clung to the heated sides of his porcelain cup. Slowly, he took a deep draft. He did not mind the way it burned his tongue or the curious, wary eyes his mother now cast in his direction.

"John?" She inquired, setting aside her own page of newsprint in concern.

He shook his head and reached out for a second piece of toast. When she no longer paid him any heed, he let his eyes fall back to the newspaper before him on the table. He glanced over the headlines again. There were protests in London again, some freshly appointed knights, observations on the state of trade with the Americas, and references to the influx of new scholarship inspired by the Great Exhibition. All was very much what he expected to find within the densely printed columns. It was noteworthy from an intellectual perspective, but none impacted him personally, at least not yet.

Then, he came to the one he hoped he had misread.

ARREST OF HALE THE MUTINEER AND PIRATE. At thirty minutes to nine o'clock yesterday morning, London Constable Mr. Smith, received a tip from an informant describing the whereabouts of Mr. Frederick Hale, formerly of Helstone. Hale served as a lieutenant on the H.M.S. Russell during the mutiny which occurred the 15th of June, 1845. Hale will be held in prison in London awaiting a naval court martial on charges of mutiny, piracy, and treason.

The article ended and the next began.

Thornton read through the article two more times before leaning his brow into his hands.

A Frederick Hale of Helstone! Could it be? Was it possible? No, it could not be. It must not be a relative of the Hales! They had never spoken of such a connection. He remembered hearing about a London aunt and cousins. Mrs. Hale had mentioned some Beresford relations. Mr. Hale had mentioned a brother once, long deceased.

Could it be a nephew?

No, his overwrought mind was creating too many assumptions. This must be some coincidence…

And yet… and yet… How many Hales could Helstone claim as their own? At the very least, he must be an acquaintance.

If it were a relative… He permitted his imagination to tumble through the possibilities of such a connection. With a charge of mutiny and a potential hangman's noose in his future, such a relative was not to be advertised incautiously. The Navy lost no expense to track down and arrest those accused of mutiny. If Frederick Hale's location was ever discovered, be it the middle of the Pacific Ocean or the farthest flung edges of India, the British Royal Navy would seek him out and bring him to trial. The Hales would be wise to never speak of such a relative to any uninitiated in the family secret.

"It is another's secret," Miss Hale had meekly said, that day they last met. "I cannot explain without doing him harm."

Her resistance to candor, her refusal to permit him into her trust, her reluctance to fight for her innocence that day were still an affront. He felt the familiar tumult of jealousy and anger boil within him for a moment before he let his eyes fall on the newspaper again.

Would it change anything? If it was true?

Who was Frederick Hale? Mrs. Hale's long illness provided enough impetus to gather relatives around her… but was it enough incentive to face a court martial? For six years, the man had escaped detection, only to be discovered in England the week of Mrs. Hale's death.

His mind wandered back to that night at Outwood Station… and the succeeding confrontation with Leonards. He remembered the man's excited babbling, when John stood by as magistrate. Leonards had spoken of the sea, of his quest for an electric telegraph and a hundred pounds, of captains and lieutenants and railway porters and gin. It was all a jumble, as if the threads of a loom had been tangled together.

Yet, he vaguely remembered a mention from one of Leonard's acquaintances… that he had been a sailor once… and that he came from the south. John wished he had inquired more, that Leonards had maintained his wits about him, that John had lingered longer at Outwood Station and seen the confrontation himself.

Was this man a lover or a relative? The possibility of the latter had never crossed John's mind. Of course, the intimacy of their farewell and the emotion in their parting looked quite different from the perspective of two relations parting for an indeterminant separation. If there was danger and uncertainty surrounding the man, well, so much the better for inspiring such an indiscreet display.

Had Margaret Hale accompanied a relative to Outwood Station, intentionally seeking the darkening, dwindling hours of the day, in order to protect him from detection and recognition? If, as the stories went, they were then accosted by a drunken ruffian who possibly recognized her companion as Frederick Hale, what fears and dangers had Margaret endured! If her companion had been a fugitive, it would be little wonder that she attempted to prevent further investigation into her whereabouts that night! What other burdens had she carried these last weeks, beyond those of her dying mother and her grieving father?

Was it any wonder she had not confided the source of her troubles to him? What manner of help had he been in her hour of greatest need? He thought of sending his mother to warn her against walking in lonely places with a man and his florid imaginings of her in the thralls of an incautious romance…

"I have done wrong, but not as you think," she had said.

He had not believed her.

There were other things- small remembrances and irregularities from the days leading up to Mrs. Hale's death. He remembered his quick dismissal from the Hale's residence, the sound of another man's laughter from the stairwell, and the sudden departure of Martha from the house at the time the family must need her most.

No, no. It must be wishful thinking. He was proving himself fanciful again. Some part of him hoped to find other explanations for Miss Hale's indiscretions, some just and rational cause for her lie. The inclusion of a mutineer in the family certainly solved both counts… and left John wondering if he had ever known the Hales at all.

He needed to know the truth.

In a sudden motion, he closed the newspaper and stood to his feet.

"John?" His mother inquired.

"I am going out, Mother," he said simply. Without another word, he left.

He composed flimsy excuses for his visit that morning on the walk to Crampton. He would give some reason for his sudden appearance and he would use whatever stolen moments he gained to take in their overall state of well-being. If they appeared unconcerned and at ease, he would put his imaginings aside and strive even more to push Margaret Hale from haunting his thoughts each day. What he would do if they were simply ignorant rather than unconnected, he did not wish to dwell upon. Instead, he convinced himself that a single sight of Margaret's face would inform him of the truth of it all.

He came to the house and rang the bell. Then, he waited.

It was still early. He should have waited longer before walking to Crampton.

He could not have waited.

He rang the bell again. No one answered.

He glanced up at the windows of the house, straining for any sign of the inhabitants. Smoke billowed from the chimney. The curtains had been opened for the morning light. He was about to turn away when he determined he would rather prove himself impolite and impertinent than turn away without ensuring the well-being of the inhabitants. He had to know for certain and he could not rest until he discovered if Frederick Hale was, indeed, a relative of the Hales of Crampton.

From a window overhead, he heard heart-wrenching cries and his heart sank.

He knocked this time and then called out.

Still, no one came. While faintly muffled, he could still hear someone weeping.

Growing ever more concerned, he determined to enter the house. He found the door unlatched. Quietly, he entered and shut the door behind him. He called out. No one answered. He took another step into the entryway and gave a wary glance around him. The sight of the capsized tea tray and broken crockery on the floor was not heartening. A second call gained no more acknowledgment than his first and all was silent save the unabated cries from the floor above. Yet, the voice was not that of Miss Hale or her father. It could only be that of Mrs. Dixon, their housekeeper. Her cries reverberated through the thin walls, keeping time with the steady ticking of the clock on the mantle and the sound of hooves from the windows beyond.

No servant could be heard in the kitchen or in the hall beyond. John stepped over the spilled sugar bowl and ventured into the drawing room. The room proved as quiet as a crypt, despite the live inhabitants within. The typically cheery, comfortable space felt nearly suffocated with oppressive stillness. Two figures failed to notice his entrance or respond to the sound of his voice. Both were as white as a bale of cotton and just as thinly wrought. A newspaper lay on the floor between them in a disgraced heap.

John knelt between Mr. Hale and Miss Hale. He reached out to take each of their hands - one withered with age and long years, the other full of the vibrancy of youth and ungrasped potential. Their hands were cold to the touch and twins in their trembling. It was his touch that caused them to stir. Two pairs of eyes, so similar in shape and shade, blinked down at him, full of anguish and nearly drowning in unshed tears.

"Mr. Hale, Miss Hale, forgive my imposition, I simply needed to ensure you are both well."

They turned toward him, but they did not respond.

"Do you require a doctor, a glass of wine, some tea? How may I be of assistance to you?"

He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them, only for his glance to fall upon the newspaper again. There it was. The page that had thrust John onto his path this morning. Open and crumpled and glaringly eloquent, even as the pair alongside him remained silent.

ARREST OF HALE THE MUTINEER AND PIRATE.

However incredulous and unexpected, John had found the answer he sought. John took a deep breath and turned to his companions again, hoping to offer whatever assistance could be had at such a time.

John released their hands and looked around the room for something useful. He found a pitcher of water and poured two small glasses. These he offered to the pair, hoping the feel of the glass, at least, would rouse them and bring some awareness of reality back into their eerily absent faces. In this errand, he was successful. Dazedly, the pair accepted his offering, momentarily bringing their statuesque features back to life.

"John?" Mr. Hale stammered, once the cold glass was clasped in his trembling hand. "John? Is that you? Did I… did we… are lessons today? I believe I have quite lost track of time."

"No lessons today, Mr. Hale. I came to inquire into your well-being."

"That is very kind of you, I am sure," Mr. Hale said. He looked down at his hand, watched as the liquid within jostled and danced with his movement, and then he drank back the entire glass in one swift swig. He coughed and spluttered before staring at his hand again, as if he could not understand if the appendage belonged to him and if so, why it behaved as it did.

"You are not well, sir," Mr. Thornton broached, as gently as he could. "Something has upset you. What must be done?"

Mr. Hale opened his mouth once… then twice… and then both men were interrupted by Margaret collapsing onto the floor.

"Oh my! Oh dear! Oh, my dear!" Mr. Hale exclaimed. The glass in his hand fell and shattered on the nearby hearth but Mr. Hale did not seem to notice. Instead, he knelt on the floor by his daughter, his already pale face turning three shades whiter in anguish.

"She has fainted!" Mr. Thornton said in surprise. He took up her hand to feel for her pulse. He found it, steady and warm and full of rhythmic life, full of her heart, however absent her mind might be at the moment. "Should we send for a doctor?" He asked.

"No, no, no, no. No need. I will call for her mother. Her mother will know what to do," Mr. Hale muttered.

Mr. Thornton's heart fell at this. "Her mother?"

"Yes. Maria always knows what to do. Or Dixon. Where is Dixon?"

"I believe your maid is quite distraught. I could hear her cries when I arrived."

"Yes, yes. Yes, yes. She was quite overwrought. She loved him very much, you see. He was such a lovely babe, her Frederick was. I believe Dixon loved him nearly as much as his mother."

During this speech, Mr. Thornton had been searching the room for smelling salts and hardly attended. Yet, at that name, he paused to look back at his old tutor again.

"Frederick?" He gently inquired.

"Yes, yes. Such a fine boy. So handsome, so brave, so charming. I believe he was most like Maria. He always was. My boy. My poor, poor boy. Oh, what shall become of him? First Maria, now Frederick? I cannot bear it!" Mr. Hale stammered, as if to himself rather than to John. Then, as if a dam had been breached, the aged scholar burst into tears. His shoulders hunched and shook with the weight of his emotion. His motions reminded John of an old oak tree during a storm, his branches all aquiver in the wind and rain.

"My poor boy. My poor Frederick," was all Mr. Hale could say.

John was relieved when Martha arrived, carrying baskets of food from the market. She deposited her burdens in the kitchen. She stopped short in surprise at the shattered tea things in the entryway and her dismay only grew when she met John Thornton there.

"What has happened?" She inquired, her eyes wide and her brow furrowed.

"Ill-tidings of a relative," he answered. "Martha, I need you to go to Marlborough House and tell my mother to send food for the Hales. Tell her to inform Williams I will be out all day. Tell her we will also need an additional servant to tend to the family."

She nodded and hurried to retrieve her shawl. Then, she was gone.

ooooo

Margaret opened her eyes to find herself laying on the settee in the drawing room. It was unusually dark; the drapes had been drawn so she could not tell whether it was night or noon. A cheery fire blazed in the hearth and she felt the weight of a blanket draped over herself. She struggled to sit upright, her entire body feeling as though it were drained of all blood and filled with heavy liquid lead. She blinked again and then yawned.

"Miss Hale," came a deep voice beside her and she startled. "I am relieved to see you wake. I have just prepared some tea."

Her mind was hazy and she could not figure out quite what was happening. A cup of tea was placed on the table before her - a large, masculine hand spooning sugar into the steaming cup. A piece of cake was placed alongside and she eagerly consumed all her offerings before closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath.

"Good, good," the voice spoke again. "Would you like another cup?"

This time, her eyes flew open and her hazy mind slowly began to clear.

"What time is it?"

"Nearly midday," he answered.

"You are… Mr. Thornton?" She surmised, her eyes growing questioning. "Why are you… what has happened… Is Papa…?"

"Your father is asleep, just there," Mr. Thornton said and he motioned to her father's favored chair. Sure enough, there he sat, covered in a blanket, quiet snores emanating from his open mouth. His cravat had been removed, along with his jacket, and his face showed the evidence of deep sorrow and many tears. "He is well, simply heart-sore," Mr. Thornton continued, his tone gentle and meant to reassure her.

"Did he call for you?" She asked, her mind attempting to piece together the missing hours of this terrible day.

"No," he answered.

"Why are you here?"

"I wished to inquire into…," he began, but the old, oft-repeated phrase felt raw and overused. He shook his head and motioned to the discarded newspaper, still on the floor. "I read the paper this morning."

At her quick intake of breath, he was worried she would swoon again, or fly into a temper, or burst into tears. Instead, her face paled. She nodded once, and dropped her eyes.

"Did Papa explain?"

"A little."

She nodded. "I wanted to tell you… I would have but…"

He shook his head. "I should not have asked it of you. You did not owe me such an explanation… and I was wrong to accuse you as I did. You had enough to bear without my assumptions. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," she said with a sigh. "It was I who was in the wrong. I lied… and for what? I proved myself faithless and, in the end, it did not save him. Fred was captured all the same. And it is all my fault."

"Miss Hale, surely you cannot take the blame upon yourself!" he protested.

"It was I who wrote and told him to come! Papa never would have done so! But Mama, she wept so and wished to see him and I could not deny her. Yet, it was such a risk! Now, what a price we have paid for our transgression! Oh, Fred! How will you forgive me!" She exclaimed and then burst into tears, her hands covering her face as she finally gave way to sorrow.

Mr. Thornton fumbled for something to say, some means of comforting her, but he could come upon nothing that did not come across as false or trite. It had been a risk. A terrible risk, and yet, what son could deny such a request of his dying mother? What man could live with himself if he failed to come?

John could not tell her it would be well. It very well could end on the gallows.

However, he also could not tell her she had been wrong.

While she wept, he moved to add more coal to the fire. He brought Miss Hale a glass of water and offered her his handkerchief. She took it gratefully, but she did not release the hand which offered it. From the gentle insistence of that conquering hand, he obeyed and sat on the settee alongside her. He did not speak but simply remained nearby.

His mother came herself. John had not expected any less. Martha and another servant trailed along behind her, each carrying baskets of food. He did not bother to hide his relief when she arrived on the Hales' doorstep and he flung open the door for her before she had even rung the bell. She took a step back in surprise and then glowered at him.

"Have you come to keep house for the Hales now, John?" She asked. "You answer their door for them like any common servant!"

He grinned and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "I'm glad you have come." Then, motioning to the entourage behind her, he nodded in approval. "Thank you. For this."

"John, what has happened? What is this? Have the Hales fallen ill?" Mrs. Thornton pressed, her brow furrowed in concern.

"In a way," he said.

He ushered her into the house and brought her aside in the hall. He motioned his head towards the empty drawing room and up the stairs.

"A great ill has befallen Mr. Hale's eldest child. His son will very likely not last the year. They received the news quite suddenly this morning and are all the worse for it."

"A son!" Mrs. Thornton exclaimed, her hand flying to her heart. "Why have we never heard of him till now?"

"Aye. It was he that came when Mrs. Hale died. He ran afoul of the navy some time ago and has been living abroad under another name for some time, I gather."

Mr. Thornton quickly apprised her of all he knew of the situation while his mother listened quietly.

"The man… at the station…?" Mrs. Thornton surmised, when he had finished. When John nodded, Mrs. Thornton gave a great harrumph. "Well, I cannot say that absolves all, but to lose a mother and a brother in so short of time… where is she?"

"Upstairs. I only just convinced Mr. Hale and Miss Hale to take their rest. Their maid has been weeping since I arrived. I take it she tended the boy since his infancy. If you could…"

Mrs. Thornton glanced heavenwards, as if pleading for patience and long-suffering for the task ahead of her, and then tersely nodded.

"I'll look in on her, too."

"Thank you, Mother."

She tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement of his gratitude, the tone of his voice revealing the depth of his anxiety and how much of his own strength he had already given during the long hours spent at the Hales' that day. She took the stairs slowly, not sure what to expect from an overwrought, overly self-important servant or the young woman she had once accused of an improper liaison with her own brother. It was little wonder Margaret had walked out on Mrs. Thornton in a temper or refused all her less than well-meant advice.

Mrs. Thornton shook her head and scoffed.

These Hales. She would never truly understand them.

It was an hour or so later when she rejoined her son in the drawing room. She found him quietly reading next to the fire, though by the expression on his face, she wondered how much he paid heed to what was on the page. He immediately closed his book when he saw her enter and his eager eyes pleaded for any news.

"How are they, Mother?"

"That maid, what is her name?"

"Dixon."

"Aye, that's the one. She would not take anything from me but water and I could not do much but give her a sleeping draft and send her to bed. Went on and on about 'Poor Master Frederick.' When I looked in on Miss Hale, the girl was already asleep so I did not disturb her."

"Thank you, Mother."

She wanted to chide him for taking on the cares of these Hales, when his plate was already over full with is own troubles. She held her tongue. That was simply John. Once he grabbed hold of an idea, there was very little she could do to shake him off of it.

She remembered the day he determined to make his own kite. There had been no wind and still he insisted, he would make it fly. He cut and sewed and remade that kite again and again. Then, he ran up and down the tallest hill he could find until he forced his creation into the air. It tumbled and hardly stayed aloft, but it was enough for him to come home with a self-satisfied air about him. Even if he tore his breeches at the knees and fell asleep at tea time.

That was just his way. Here he was, determined to assist these Hales in their trials even if it required all of his strength and will to do it. Even at the neglect of himself.

Well, Hannah Thornton had to admit they were a sorry lot, sorely in need of John's formidable strength. God knows, none of them seemed to have any of their own at the moment and she just hoped John had enough for all of them.

She ate supper with her son in the Hale's dining room. It was strange. Occupying the home of another family as they were. Yet, what else could be done? John refused to leave and she would see him eat.

She was about to press him to return home and leave the maid to tend to the household needs that night when they heard quiet footsteps on the stairs. The footsteps hesitated outside the door before the door swung open with a gentle creak.

"Miss Hale!" John exclaimed and he quickly rose to his feet.

"Mr. Thornton, Mrs. Thornton," she said and her eyes fell on the dishes of food before them on the table.

"Come, you must eat, child," Mrs. Thornton urged. She stood to take Margaret's hands and lead her to the table. She complied without protest, almost as if a child on leading strings. Then, John handed her a plate of food.

"You must keep up your strength. Eat as much as you can. It'll do you no good to go hungry and will be more likely to make you swoon," Mrs. Thornton chided.

Reluctantly, Margaret began to eat, though Mrs. Thornton doubted she tasted a bite of what she put in her mouth.

She remembered how it was, after George died… how hard it was to simply force herself out of bed and into her clothes. Grief could sometimes paralyze into lethargy and sometimes propel one into a frenzied motion of activity.

"I thank you," Margaret said, once she could manage no more. She pushed away her plate and looked over at her two companions. She forced a wan, weary smile, though her eyes held a genuine warmth. "I thank you for coming and staying with us today. I am afraid we have not borne all with composure."

Mrs. Thornton nodded her head, her lips pursed. "If you told us all before now, we could have been more helpful to you in days past. Yet, you let me come and chide you as a brazen woman rather than admitting the truth of it all. No wonder you were cross! I cannot but think how John would take it… being accused of walking out with Fanny."

A startled laugh burst from Margaret's mouth and she turned wide eyes on Mrs. Thornton. John was warmed by her reaction and he grinned widely.

"My reaction? What of Fanny's?" John said, smiling at the image of his sister's wide-mouthed, disgruntled look of offense. "She would rather cast me to the wolves than sacrifice her reputation for my safety."

Mrs. Thornton harrumphed but she cast a fond glance at her son. "To speak of your sister so! Come now, John!"

"Oh, surely Miss Thornton would do whatever was in her power to see you safe and free from harm!" Miss Hale interjected earnestly.

"Fanny would do whatever was in her power to see to her own interests… and if keeping me from harm assures those interests, then I would be well under her protection," John answered.

"Well, God knows you've done enough for your sister," Mrs. Thornton answered. "Heaven forbid we find out just what Fanny would do in your place."

Mr. Thornton nodded in acquiescence and then turned to Miss Hale again. "Your father continues to rest and Mrs. Dixon finally succumbed to sleep, though she has been sorely taxed this day. Do you know of anyone else we should contact? Other friends or family that should be here alongside you?"

"Oh, I'm sure they will all hear, soon enough," Margaret said, her countenance sinking back into misery after the short reprieve. She sighed. "Mr. Bell would prove useful, especially for Papa. I do not know if his health will permit him to travel, but I would wish for him to come. My Aunt Shaw is still in Italy, but I do not believe she would be of much assistance right now. Edith and her husband are abroad, as well. Henry could be useful, though," Margaret mused, more to herself than to her audience.

"Henry?" Mrs. Thornton inquired, casting a furtive glance at her son.

"My cousin's husband's brother. He is a barrister… we sent Fred to him in London to see if anything could be done, if his case had any hopes… Fred had just met with Mr. Lennox before trying to sail from London. At least, I think he did. I hope he did. I do not know where he was discovered or how. Mr. Lennox will be the most informed of the case and best equipped to offer assistance. He is also the best positioned to visit Fred. I will write to him directly."

"Very good. Is there anyone else?" John asked. "Any other hidden sisters or surprise cousins or neglected nephews we should know about?"

Margaret smiled and shook her head.

"No. There is only Frederick."

It took time for letters to be written and even more time to ensure Mr. Hale ate, once the old man woke. Then, in his state of melancholy, Mr. Hale spent the better part of the evening telling stories about his son. It was as if he had stored decades of memories in an old trunk and kept it locked in an attic. Only now, he broke open the lock and cast all the contents of the trunk out for all to see. They were dusty and tear-stained and chipped around the edges, but they were full of fatherly pride and parental vanity to even rival Mrs. Thornton.

It was Margaret who finally convinced her father to retire for the night. She followed shortly thereafter, despite the early hour.

"John, you must sleep," his mother commanded him as well, when they were out of earshot of the Hales. "Come home and you can return here directly tomorrow morning. What can you accomplish here during the night? They are all of age and can manage for the night on their own. I daresay they could manage well enough tomorrow too, but I can see you are of a mind to come back."

"But what if…"

"No, John. Come home."

She had no doubt John wished to spend the entire night keeping vigil from an arm chair, jumping at the slightest sound, fetching water at the smallest provocation. Yet, he was already sorely taxed and if he did not rest, he would be even more weary by the next day.

"John, they need your strength. Come home, rest, and regain what you can."

Reluctantly, he agreed.

Chapter Text

Despite all his assertions to the contrary, John Thornton fell into a deep sleep that night.  He rose refreshed and with the renewed and single-minded purpose to attend to the Hales again.  Nothing in all creation could prevent him, save for one woman.  His mother’s determination proved just as single-minded as his own, with far more years of experience carrying her point. 

“No, John,” she said, her eyes flashing with fierce stubbornness.  She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, and her head held as high as a general facing down an enemy army on the charge. 

He gave her his myriad of arguments, but she was resolute. 

“I will go, John,” his mother promised.  “I will spend the entire day there if needed. You tend to the mill.”

Reluctantly, he agreed.  He knew his mother would prove far more helpful in matters of women’s tears and tempting frail appetites to eat than he would.  Still, with every ounce of his being, he wanted to be alongside Margaret, offering whatever strength or encouragement she needed. 

His mother’s advice proved correct, as it usually did.  An entire day lost, and an unplanned one at that, was not easily recovered from.  Williams met him in his office with a list of tasks a mile long and John did not cease his frenetic activity until long after sundown.  As soon as he could manage, he made his way to Crampton. 

He was surprised when Dixon answered the door.  Her usual haughty glare was replaced with a nearly absent indifference, though her shoulders sagged and her feet moved slower than honey in January.  She hardly managed a greeting before directing him to the drawing room, where he found his mother waiting for him.  She gave him a terse nod of approval when he entered. 

“You are here, then.”

“I am.”

She tossed her head in the direction of the study, ready to answer his unasked question.  “They slept most of the morning and come afternoon, they have been as busy as mill hands in that study there.  They ate something, though not as much as I would have liked.  Miss Hale is looking more herself, and she was ready to speak a few words here and there to a willing ear.  But, John, I do not like how Mr. Hale is.  I summoned the doctor and he came sometime this afternoon, but there is little he could say that we do not know.  The grief, the shock, it has overtaxed his strength.  He may recover, he may not.  Who can say?  Miss Hale and I made sure he ate and rested, but he hardly spoke all day.”

John inhaled deeply, concerned by the condition of his friend.   He reached out to clasp his mother’s hands.  “Thank you.  Mother, has there been any news?”

“Precious little.  Mr. Bell will attend to them as soon as he is able.  It is more likely than not the trial will commence in Portsmouth by the beginning of next week.  The young man will be taken to Portsmouth the day after next.  Their fine London cousin plans to come to speak about the young Hale’s chances.  It was he the young man sought in London, when he was found out, you know.  Miss Hale believes he will know more of what is to be done, or so she hopes.” 

John nodded.    

His mother nodded.  “I will be off to home now,” she said. By her expression, he heard what she did not speak aloud.

I will wait up for you.  Do not stay longer than you ought. 

John saw his mother out before making his way to Mr. Hale’s study.  Within, he found the Hales busily pouring through books and letters.  The difference in manner and posture of the pair from the previous day’s lethargy was so profound that Thornton momentarily paused before entering.   

“Mr. Thornton, you’ve come!” Margaret cried, when she saw him loitering in the doorway.  Margaret’s greeting made her pause her frenzied motions long enough to look up at him with a genuinely warm, welcoming smile. 

Thornton was transfixed and nearly forgot to breathe or look away.  She stood to curtsy and shook his hand.  Then, just as quickly and far too soon, she released his gaze and returned to her work.  Mr. Hale’s greeting was far less animated and involved only a thin, wan smile, as if such an exertion taxed all his lethargic energy.  His movements were far slower and more labored than Margaret’s and he languidly reached out his hand to his friend.

“John,” was all he said, though that single word was filled with so much emotion, it might as well have been an entire speech.   

“You find us quite occupied this afternoon,” Margaret explained, as John sat in a chair between them.  “We are searching through all of Frederick’s letters for any evidence they might contain, any possible leads we can give to Mr. Lennox when he comes.”

Thornton smiled to himself.  It was so like Margeret to seek to do something useful, to not give up, to keep fighting against all odds.  Margaret quietly made observations as she read.  A paper on an end table was scrawled with notes and symbols, a pile of letters carefully organized underneath. 

The piles of papers on Mr. Hale’s desk and on his lap gave the appearance of exertion, but John wondered how much the man managed to read or comprehend.  While his hands sifted through a pile of unfolded letters, his eyes rarely left the fire in the hearth and John did not once see him look down on the rows of words before him. 

“How can I assist you?” Thornton asked, pulling Mr. Hale’s attention away from the fire.  With an unsteady glance, Mr. Hale assessed Thornton and produced a heavy, deep-throated sigh.  Then, he handed Mr. Thornton the entire stack of letters in his possession.  Mr. Thornton hesitated.  Was it not an intrusion into their privacy for him to read their correspondence? 

Sensing his reluctance, Margaret pressed him to continue.  ““Papa’s eyes are not strong today.  Perhaps, you may read the letters aloud to him?  It would be a great comfort for you to read some of Fred’s earliest letters while I search through his letters from around the time of the mutiny.”

John nodded in acquiescence.  He cleared his throat and held up the first page to the firelight until he could read clearly the bold, uneven script – slightly stained with salt and yellowed with age.  It was an old letter, one full of a young boy’s longings for fresh peaches and good apple tarts. 

“Maria made apple tarts every day, on his next visit,” Mr. Hale said, his smile fond.  “He ate tarts until he was sick with them.”

For the next hour, John read through the letters of a very young Frederick Hale while Mr. Hale listened with fixed attention.  The boy wrote about the sea, the places he traveled, the people he met.  He wrote warmly of Helstone, reminisced on the summers spent in trees or under hedges or running across fields.  He told of winter nights by the hearth fire and the little carvings he made for his young sister.  They were idyllic domestic scenes, so different from his own childhood in the urban jungles of Milton, and yet, he could remember times with his father, before, with equal nostalgia.  Back when their family was whole, back before all things fell apart. 

Frederick Hale, too, remembered a time when his family was hale and strong and not separated by such vast boundaries as life and death.  Slowly, the letters changed with the growing youth, their contents shifting and evolving with the man.  It was almost as if Frederick’s spirit was conjured up before him, manifesting himself in the study to introduce himself to John, begging his admittance into John’s care along with the rest of the Hales. 

And why not?  He had cared for Mrs. Hale - that elegant, fragile invalid who he had never met except when her strength was already waning.  He cared about Mr. Hale as a father and friend and mentor.  And then, there was Margaret.  Oh, Margaret! 

Between his letters, he glanced up to catch glimpses of her eyes fixed on her reading, brow furrowed in concentration, her dark hair pulled loosely into a bun at the nape of her neck.  He was ever aware of each turn of a page, each shift of her movement in her chair.  Had they ever remained in the same room for so long together?  He did not think so.  Had she ever been this welcoming of his company, this grateful for his presence? 

He tried to tell himself not to thrill at thought or to allow his hopes to bloom in his chest.  However, he couldn’t help it. 

Afterall, it was her brother. 

There was no other lover. 

Maybe, just maybe…

No, he determined to fixate his attention on reading the letter before him and not let himself get distracted by his most prominent and determined distraction. 

By the time tea came, Mr. Hale was asleep.  His head bobbed and nodded against the old sage armchair and not even the sound of a dropping teaspoon roused him.  Upon noticing his snores, Margaret cast her father an expression half of fond affection, half of worry. She carried a blanket over to wrap around his shoulders.  Then, she smiled at Mr. Thornton. 

“Please, do not mind him.  I am afraid he is very careworn. We will not wake him for tea.”

Mr. Thornton nodded.  By the red-rimmed eyes of Miss Hale, he doubted it was only her father so heavy-laden with cares. 

She served the tea.  For a few moments, they ate their cakes silently.  Then, she tapped on the letter on the table next to her.    

“When Fred was here, while mother was so ill, he told me a philosophy he holds to.  He said, ‘Do something my sister, do good if you can; but, at any rate, do something.’  He told me he never allows remorse afterwards but simply blots out misdeeds with good ones as soon as possible.  I remembered his words this morning and decided to follow his example.  Here we are, up to our ears in all those years of Fred’s correspondence, ‘doing something’ with all our might. It may prove a fruitless effort – but, it is the only task I could think of to give us the impression of helping Fred.”

Thornton smiled faintly; his brow furrowed in concern.  “You do not need to explain yourself, Miss Hale.  I find I agree with your brother’s sentiments.  I would rather exert myself on some task, some action, than idle away the day in grief and anxiety.  At least, then, I feel I am doing something, even if my actions have very little impact on successive events.”

She nodded.  “Yes.  I do believe you share that trait with Fred… that, and others.”

There was such an undercurrent of meaning in her tone and John wondered what she meant by comparing him to her brother – and if that was a comparison in his favor.  He did not have time to consider this for long before Margaret motioned to the pile of letters again. 

“It is strange to me – reading through all these letters.  I have so few memories of my brother, but they were all happy ones.  He was as much a part of Helstone as the forests and the winter snow.  He was always with us, so much older and bolder and stronger than anyone else I knew.  He was Mama’s pride and joy, Papa’s delight.  He doted on me so. Then, one day, he was gone. 

“I was four years old when Fred went to sea.  Then I went to live with my aunt only a few years later. I only saw him on shore leave one more time before… and, well, he wrote so much more frequently to my parents.  I believe I am reading many of these letters for the first time.  There is so much I never knew, never thought to ask.  It makes me wonder if I have ever truly understood my brother.”

“I felt that way – after my father…,” John said, uncertain whether it was the appropriate sentiment to share.  He set his tea cup down, considered his next words carefully, and leaned forward. “After my father died, I read through his letters and sorted through his belongings.  I knew him better, after, than I ever had before.  Every few years, I take out his letters again and read through them.  Each time, I find something I did not know before, because I am the one who has grown and changed and I must relate to him differently.”

 “I suppose that is the way of all of us with our families – whether they are living or not.  Returning to Helstone after so many years in London made me see my parents in such a different light.  Even now, after so long in Milton, I do not think I will ever relate to Aunt Shaw and my cousin Edith the same as I did before.”

“Where were you when, well, when the news about your brother came?  Were you with your parents?”

“Oh, no.  I was in London, then, and I only heard the tale in bits and pieces.  Aunt Shaw told me something terrible had happened and I ought not speak about Frederick to anyone again.  Sure enough, Aunt Shaw and Edith never mentioned him again, except in hushed voices when no one was around to hear.  His letters to me stopped and I only ever heard of him from Mama and Papa and only when I returned home to Helstone each summer. 

“When I returned to Helstone next, everything had changed.  Mama was never quite herself again.  Her health became so fragile.  She complained about the air in Helstone, our house, my father.  Nothing would satisfy her.  For all that she complained about Helstone, she refused to go anywhere else.  She would not visit Aunt Shaw or go to London.  She hardly left Helstone.”

Margaret took a deep intake of breath and cast a fond, sad glance at her sleeping father.  “Papa, too, changed.  It was as if a frost had fallen and turned all his hair to grey overnight.  He never spoke about it, but I wonder now if it was then that he first started questioning his faith and struggling with his role in the church.

“Then, it was as if Fred had died, but secretly so, because suddenly no one would speak of him or inquire into his well-being.  No one in Helstone would ask when he would next come to visit or where he last sailed.  I could not understand what could have been so terrible as to cut Fred off so completely from his home and everyone he once knew.

“It wasn’t until recently that I ever heard the story of the mutiny.  Mama told me, during the time she pleaded for me to write to Fred.  Oh, if she had but known what a cost it would require!”

She looked up at John, her grey eyes fervent in their eloquence.  She was silent for a time. 

“Tomorrow or the day after, Henry Lennox will come and he will tell us what our chances are.  Maybe, if he can contact enough witnesses or find anyone who can collaborate Fred’s story, then there are hopes.  Until then, I will pray and intercede with the Almighty that justice will be done and Fred will be spared.”

“Perhaps, that is the greatest action you may undertake on his behalf,” Mr. Thornton said. 

“You are right,” she said.  Then she reached out, and placed her hand on his – so very warm and soft and fragile.  “Thank you, Mr. Thornton.  I know you have sacrificed a great deal to be with us - yesterday and today.  I.. it is just... you are a great comfort to us… both to my father… and to me.  We are very grateful for your friendship, you must know.  And your mother – she has been so kind.”

John felt he ought to say something, acknowledge her gratitude in a way that expressed his own willingness, his own fervent desire to be of assistance, but he stumbled over his own tongue.  Once again, he was reminded of the great, rough fellow he was.  All he could do was nod his head once and force himself to smile.   

Chapter Text

Mrs. Thornton watched her son enter the dining room, freshened up after the day's work and intent on his purpose. Slowly, she set down her sewing in expectation of what she knew was coming.

"I received a note," John said, tapping the pocket of his coat in explanation. "Mr. Bell and Mr. Lennox arrived this afternoon by train and Mr. Lennox will appraise us of young Hale's case this evening. I expect to be out late. Do not wait up for me."

"I have no intention to wait up for you, John," she answered simply. Then she rose, reached for her shawl and gloves, and followed him to the door.

John's eyebrows arched in surprise at her obvious intent and before he could put his question into words, she spoke.

"Just who do you think brought that note of yours back from Crampton?"

He deflated slightly, as if releasing a breath he had been holding and his demeanor softened. "You have been to the Hales, then?"

"A better part of the afternoon was spent with Miss Hale preparing for their visitors."

"She is… I should say… they are well, then? How does Mr. Hale and Miss Hale bear up today?"

Mrs. Thornton scoffed at his poor attempt at polite indifference. "Their incoming visitors bolster their spirits, I think."

"Did you meet them, then?"

She shook her head. "They arrived some time after I returned home."

John nodded his head and then his expression turned curious again. "Yet, you still wish to return with me tonight? I can stand in for both of us and bring you a full account tomorrow. There's no need to over exert yourself this night."

Mrs. Thornton gruffly harumphed and gave her son a knowing, haughty expression, one such as used to make him confess to stealing tarts as a child. "I may not be as learned as this Mr. Lennox but I've lived enough years to hear things. I know unless there's a miracle the likes of what felled Sennacherib's army, young Hale will meet his maker on the end of a gallows' rope. Whatever frippery her fine London cousin may spout out tonight, I won't hold out for hope. More likely than not, Miss Hale will lose her brother by month's end."

At John's quick intake of breath and downcast eyes, she reached out to place a hand on his arm and continued. "I am familiar enough with the young lady to know she cares deeply for her brother. If this Mr. Lennox is honest enough to speak the truth to the Hales, it will come as quite the blow. There Miss Hale is, surrounded by the lot of you men, with none but that spoiled, self-important maid to attend her. Mrs. Dixon's as like to fall into hysterics herself as to make herself useful to her mistress. Then, what will happen? All the efforts to comfort Mr. Hale and tend the guests will fall on Miss Hale. What of Miss Hale? Forgive me if I doubt the combined skills of Mr. Bell, Mr. Lennox, and yourself to give comfort to a young girl in such a time as this. You know no more about the hardships placed upon a grieving woman than you do suckling an infant."

At John's expression, Mrs. Thornton arched one eyebrow, amused defiance in her eyes. "Do not you give me that look John Edward Thornton. I know precisely the manner of comfort you wish to give and it is not in the same manner as you would bestow upon your sister in her grief. God forbid I leave that poor, suffering creature to such great consolation. You're liable to do more harm than good with all your ideas of just how you wish to give comfort.

"Lest you prove not to be alone in your desire to be of particular use to the young woman, it is vital she has a proper guardian present to support her. I intend to stand by Miss Hale tonight and give her what poor consolation I can. I warn you, John Thornton, if the girl is overcome and I take her away for a time, you are not to come searching for us or to inquire into what we spoke of after the matter. No, John, you save all your great sympathy for the father and leave the daughter to me."

He still looked as though he was about to protest, his features torn between embarrassment at her frankness and irritation at her perceptiveness. After a moment's consideration, his expression opened and he offered a conciliatory arm to escort her out the door.

"You are wise, Mother. Miss Hale cannot but benefit by the presence of another woman and I can think of no better to offer comfort in difficult circumstances."

Mrs. Thornton nodded sharply, though she was forced to turn her head to hide the smile she could not keep from creeping across her lips.

"Do you believe there to be some sort of attachment or expectation between Mr. Lennox and Mar… Miss Hale?" He asked.

"I do not know, nor do I find it pertinent," Mrs. Thornton spoke, more harshly than she intended. She waited a moment or two until she felt equal to speaking again. Then, she gently squeezed her son's arm. "John, this cousin may have intentions. He may not. It does not figure into the matter at hand. Miss Hale's mother has died. Her brother is facing the gallows. Her father is doing little better. Possible marriage partners will hardly be her most pressing concern. Give her time, John. Do not crush her with your own wishes. Most of all, do not fly into a jealous temper over this Lennox. He's here to assist the Hales, as are we. Let that be enough."

"But, you will tell me, if you discover that he… that she…"

"John, did you hear a word I said? No, I can see you heard without listening."

"You will tell me, though, Mother?"

"No, John. If I am sworn to secrecy or told in confidence, I will not tell you."

"Mother!" He protested.

She shook her head. She could see the insecurity and painful hope flitting across her son's features and her heart ached for him. However, his own heartbreak was not the most pressing concern and the Hales required the presence of a friend and not the attentions of a lover. If he could do the former, in time, it could make the way for the latter.  John would learn. If only he would learn to apply the same patience to matters of the heart that he did to matters of the mill. In the meantime, she would do her best to keep him from pressing Miss Hale too hard or taking advantage, during this time of emotional vulnerability.  

She had spent the better part of the day considering the Hales and their situation, far longer than she would have ever imagined giving the family only a few days before. During her hours of solitude that morning, long before anyone else was awake, she had stared into the unseeing darkness and lost herself in her thoughts.

She had misjudged Mrs. Hale; she had been forced to admit. For all her fine airs and discomforting delicacy, Mrs. Hale was a woman familiar with sorrows. How much of her illness was borne of grief and a heavy, longsuffering heart? The loss of a son was more than any mother could bear.

Mrs. Thornton could not help but reflect inward- what should she have done if she was forever separated from her son? There had been those long, dark days. John, hardly more than a boy, had taken upon himself the responsibility of a man- the burden his own father had been incapable of bearing. He took the burden willingly, without complaint, as if it was his honor to take up his father's oversized footsteps. He worked himself to the bone, day and night, to provide for his mother and sister. Yet, there came a time when his young body gave way. The fever burned hot and fierce and Mrs. Thornton feared her son would join his father.

How she had prayed! How she had wept! How bleak her future had seemed- one without her beloved son! Those dark imaginings were more than her heart could bear.

Please, take me instead! Do what you may with me, but spare my son! She had cried out into those desperate nights.

Gradually, the boy had mended and been returned to her and how her soul had rejoiced! Not so for poor Mrs. Hale. To be forever separated from her son – how Mrs. Hale must have suffered! Well, God rest her, the poor woman was beyond suffering any longer. And Mrs. Thornton could not even begrudge her the foolhardy deathbed wish that led to Frederick Hale's capture. She understood far too well the longing to be reunited with one's child, whether in this life or the next, and could imagine what peace she had in its fulfillment.

In similar circumstances, would she have wished John to come to her side? Would it be wrong to summon him, knowing it could lead to his death? Yet, to leave this earth without seeing him, one more time! Oh, it was hard! No, she blessed Providence again that she woke each day to see the face of her son, now strong and grown and her own.

It was not only the promise to write to her son that Mrs. Hale extracted from her deathbed. She had extracted a promise from Mrs. Thornton as well and one on behalf of her daughter. How poorly she had fulfilled it! She had inwardly delighted in using such a promise as an excuse to chastise the haughty wench, calling her conduct and character into question and gloating over Miss Hale's inferiority to her son.

She had been wrong. She had been remiss in her duty and she would make it right, now. As far as it depended on her, she would stand by Miss Hale as a mother ought, and properly this time. She had made a promise to a dying woman and she would fulfill it – but not only for the sake of Mrs. Hale.

Margaret Hale had spirit. She was steel and iron under those layers of lace and silk. She was no wilting flower and she would bear up better than likely. Yet, Mrs. Thornton was determined to help hold her hands aloft, when they bore too heavy a weight for her to carry alone.

For most of the afternoon, Miss Hale had regaled her with stories about her brother. She had laughed when she told her about his penchant for stealing apples and she had cried when she spoke of the day he arrived on their doorstep to see their mother. She told Mrs. Thornton everything she knew about the mutiny and all Mrs. Hale had told her. She poured out words as if from a glass pitcher into an empty basin and Mrs. Thornton listened to it all.

Of course, they believed Frederick Hale to be innocent. Mrs. Thornton understood. She was a mother, after all. All potential errors could be explained away as products of the errors of others- but not John, never John. It was the purview of a mother to believe wholeheartedly in the justice of the actions of their son. Of course, Frederick Hale must have done what is right, even if all the world says otherwise. Let all the world eat their words, for as mother, her son could do no wrong.

Was it right or wrong? This staunch, unwavering support - edging precariously close to willful blindness. She did not know. She understood why Mrs. Hale believed her son's innocence- but Mrs. Thornton, from her view as an outside party, was not sure she agreed.

Everyone was gathered in the drawing room when they arrived at the Crampton house sometime later. This night, though, the atmosphere in the drawing room was as quiet as a church yard. Mrs. Thornton had never seen Mr. Bell so somber or grave. For all the years they had been acquainted, the man was hardly ever serious and enjoyed amusing himself at everyone else's expense. This night, Mr. Bell did not so much as complain about the smoke of Milton or the quality of the food at the inn. Instead, he sat alongside his friend, as silent as a sentinel. He managed to greet the Thorntons when they arrived, though under any other circumstances, his manner would have bordered on impolite for its brevity.

Mrs. Thornton should have been surprised by the presence of the maid in the far corner of the room, however, the woman seemed to fancy herself as much of a part of the family as any of them and would only listen from the door if she was sent away. She did not look up when they entered but kept her red-rimmed eyes resolutely fixed on Mr. Lennox.

Mr. Lennox, on the other hand, welcomed the pair with all the cordiality and expensive fashion of the fine London gentleman he was supposed to be. He was not a handsome man, but his face was clever and his eyes intelligent. He appraised them both with a quick sweep of his gaze and then bid them both to sit in the chairs set aside for them. He did not miss the way Miss Hale's eyes brightened when she saw them or the warmth with which she reached out her hands to grasp each of theirs in turn. Mr. Lennox's curiosity was hidden under his professional demeanor as he explained it was time to begin.

After a few more moments of formalities, Mr. Lennox took a chair by the hearth, where all present could see him clearly. He pulled a table beside him and placed a stack of papers on top. These, he shuffled through twice while the room sank into an anxious silence. He cleared his throat and then nodded sharply.

"I saw Mr. Frederick Hale this morning, before he was transported to Portsmouth. Indeed, I have called upon him every day since he was taken into custody and gathered as much of an account of the facts as I can. Mr. Hale was in good health, when I saw him. He begged me to send you all his love and solicitude."

At the slight response he received from the Hales, he continued. "As you know, Mr. Hale came to call upon me at my lodgings on Monday last.  We spoke at length about the particulars of his case and the possible avenues moving forward.  He was to travel to Cadiz on a merchant ship departing from the Port of London that afternoon.  Somewhere between my lodgings and the harbor, he was recognized and turned in.  He has no knowledge of the identity of his betrayer, but he suspects it was an old acquaintance from the navy who crossed paths with him without gaining his attention.  Whatever the methods of exposure, the evils of such recognition are indisputable. We cannot change the past and can only move forward, preparing as best as possible to face trial before the admiralty.

"Upon reviewing his case, I have determined it best to give it over to men with greater knowledge of such cases than myself. As a trusted confidante of the family, it was right for the Hales to avail themselves of our connection. I was honored by your trust and have done all I could in so short a time. However, such secrecy is no longer possible, or even necessary. Thus, I deemed it preferable to transfer Mr. Hale's case into far more capable, experienced hands than myself."

Margaret's cheeks flushed with emotion and she gasped in protest. "But to strangers! Henry, you are family!"

He gave her a reassuring, slightly indulgent smile. "Margaret, I deal with finance, inheritance, and other such legal matters. If your brother is to have any hope of clearing his name, he requires representation from the very best in the profession. It is my family connection which will bias my case and colour my interpretation of the law."

"Yet he sits before a court martial which may prove just as biased against him, coloured not by the law but by their relationship to the captain and their own experiences aboard ship," Margaret protested.

"All the more reason for his defense to be made by one familiar with the complexities of maritime law," Mr. Lennox answered.

"But he is alone!" Margaret protested, tears filling her eyes.

"At the risk of sounding unsympathetic," Mr. Bell interjected, "I have a few questions I would like answered. I believe we would all benefit from a summary of the case and your enlightenment on what Frederick has informed you about his affairs."

Mr. Lennox nodded his head in acquiescence and sent a sympathetic, apologetic glance towards Margaret before turning to gesture to the room-at-large.

"Let us begin."

Chapter Text

Henry Lennox had swelled with pride when he first discovered Margaret had sent her beloved brother to him for assistance. Of all the people in her acquaintance, she thought highly enough of Henry Lennox to seek his aid in such a delicate matter. She put her brother's very life into his hands. He had been determined to justify her faith in him, to somehow make recompense for their last disastrous meeting and make amends on their friendship.

He still felt a rush of mortification when he thought of their last few moments together in Helstone. How full of hopes his heart had been on the journey there! Margaret Hale may not have been the epitome of fashionable beauty like her cousin, but she possessed a more subtle, striking allure that Henry far preferred. In the years he had known her, she proved herself to be loyal and entirely devoted to the well-being of those she cared about. There was nothing in her manner or mind of which to be ashamed and she proved herself a woman of intelligence and grace in whatever society she found herself in. Henry was confident that no matter how high in his profession he was able to elevate himself, she would prove herself an asset and a helpmate to him. It would have been so convenient. They were already such good friends; it would be so easy to include her permanently in his inner circle. If even half the affection and dedication she gave to her cousin was devoted to her husband, a contented man he would be.

Somehow, it had all gone wrong. He had misjudged or misinterpreted or mishandled the whole affair so entirely that he was almost relieved when he heard she would be removing so far away from London. It was unlikely they would cross paths as often as they once did. Over the next year, he only heard of her through letters from Edith and that was enough.

Then, Frederick Hale turned up on his doorstep, seeking his aid. It was strange to meet the elusive brother face-to-face. Of course, Henry had heard stories, whispers really, about the man and the scandal surrounding him. Mrs. Shaw never spoke of him, but Edith might be coaxed into it, after all the servants had been sent away and the doors closed tight.

"Frederick Hale went to sea and was involved in a mutiny. He daren't return to England," was all she would say. "My uncle and aunt were quite put out by the whole affair and we must never speak of him."

Henry's brother, due to his career in the army, could not find any kind wishes for such a connection. Edith, though, said she knew Frederick Hale to be a very good sort of fellow and she was sure he never meant to do any harm. Margaret, herself, had only mentioned her brother once in Henry's hearing, and it was in a low, whispered conversation to Edith over a letter she had received. Other than that, she never even spoke of him, not even when reminiscing about her childhood days in Helstone. It was as if he had never existed. Henry had thought to ask her about her brother once or twice, but he never did. In truth, he could not really be bothered by the man's existence, at least, not until this elusive brother turned up on his door. Then, it was unavoidable.

Henry would never have known Frederick as Margaret's brother. His complexion, his features, his countenance were all so very different from his sister. He resembled the mother so much more than the father and yet, there was something in the glint of his eyes and the spark of his smile that reminded him of Margaret. He had an unrestrained brashness, an impulsive familiarity in his manner which was so opposed to Margaret's customary aloofness that Henry was taken by surprise. Yet, Henry knew that once she was in more intimate settings, Margaret, too, could exhibit more effusive warmth and strength of opinion than she did among those she was unfamiliar with. Perhaps, her manner came to resemble her brother's more in the inner sanctum of their family and the hours spent away from the prying eyes of outsiders.

Henry had once prided himself on being one of those few included among Margaret's most intimate acquaintances. She treated him as she did her closest family and this gave rise to the hope that someday, she would make the arrangement permanent and bring him closer still. Henry Lennox was a patient man. He knew how to wait and how to keep his emotions under strict regulation. Now, with his involvement in the affairs of her brother, he had been invited into even deeper layers of family secrets than even Edith and Mrs. Shaw were included in. He could not help but preen under such a show of trust.

Initially, after speaking with Frederick Hale the first time, Henry had hopes that there might be ways of clearing his name. If Henry could find a way… how pleased Margaret would be! How grateful! He secretly delighted in imaginings of his future opportunity to see the joy on her face when he informed her Fred could return to England. How much must such an accomplishment raise him in her esteem!

Frederick's capture had changed everything. It had taken the better part of the train ride to Milton for Henry Lennox to settle his thoughts and determine how best to explain matters to the Hales. Really, there was no gentle way to go about it.

Sometimes he wished Margaret had not thrust Frederick onto him. Once Henry made contact with the fugitive, he could not plead ignorance or extricate himself from the situation. He was forced to entangle himself in the whole sordid affair, whether he wanted to or not, and no matter what it cost him. If it was discovered he aided a mutineer, what damage could that do to his own affairs?

But, it was Margaret and he would do far more to help her. Afterall, if his wishes came to fruition, Frederick Hale would become his brother and it was in his own interests to see the man cleared.

Now, Henry had failed her and he knew she would be disappointed in him, even if some part of her admitted it was not Henry's doing. The guilt weighed nearly as heavily as his sense of failure, no matter how he tried to argue it was not entirely his fault. There must have been some way to prevent Fred's capture, some other means to protect him from sight. Henry did not know what, but something-anything to keep it from coming to this. However, an anvil of guilt still sat on his shoulders and he tasted keenly his own inadequacy for his tasks. He had wished to prove himself the hero to Margaret. How she would despise him now!

His heart sank even further when he was welcomed into the plain, unremarkable house in Milton. His keen eyes took in the tear-stained cheeks and bright eyes of Margaret- tinged half in sorrow and half in hope. How she still clung to her belief that he could fix all for her! How he wished he could! Then, there was her father. The old man seemed impossibly older than the last time Henry had seen him. He hardly spoke after weakly grasping Henry's hand in greeting and his eyes carried a hollow desperation, a grief beyond all words or understanding.

Henry Lennox had been disappointed to find he was not the only initiate into the inner sanctum of the Hale's troubles. He had known of Mr. Bell from Margaret's letters to Edith and he did not begrudge the old man's presence. He was there to support his old, old friend and such loyalty was admirable. Mr. Bell had known Frederick since infancy and even claimed the boy as his godson. It was understandable he would be included in all the innermost details of the Hales' affairs. The maid, Mrs. Dixon, too, had proved herself a stalwart defendant of the Hales and thus was acquainted with all that had befallen 'Master Frederick.' Thus, he could not argue with Dixon's quiet, mournful presence in the back of the room.

He was surprised, then, when he was informed of the addition of two more outsiders into their discussion of Frederick Hale that night.

"Mr. Thornton has been one of Papa's students and closest friends during our time in Milton," Margaret had explained. "He has been of the utmost assistance during Mama's illness and during our shock over poor Fred."

"You trust this Mr. Thornton, then?" Henry had asked, wary of the answer.

"Completely. Oh! If only you knew all he has done for us! Yes, he should be here tonight."

"And he will bring with him Mrs. Thornton, of course," Mr. Bell added. "She was here already today, tending to Margaret and her father, if I am not mistaken."

"Oh! Yes! She was here! She has been so kind to us! She has come by every day since we received the news of Fred," Margaret said, a warmth of affection in her voice that eased Henry's mind and made him chide himself for his irrational jealousy over Margaret's attention. He could be glad to know the Hales had made trusted friends during their tenure in this strange, northern town. The fact that Mr. and Mrs. Thornton were on such intimate terms with the Hales as to be invited into this meeting could only speak well of their characters. He could be glad that Margaret had a matron she could confide in during such difficult circumstances, even if Henry rather wished he could be the one she sought for comfort instead.

The Thorntons, when they arrived, were not anything like Henry Lennox expected. For one, instead of the middle-aged married couple he had been imagining, it was a stern widow and her even sterner, and much younger, son which burst into the Hale's drawing room that night. Mrs. Thornton was neither genteel nor gentle. She was a large woman – though it was her manner more than her size that filled the room with her presence. She was clothed entirely in black, with a frown on her face that only briefly melted when she made polite greetings and clasped Margaret's hand. Alongside her, the son towered over everyone, his broad shoulders and powerful frame making Henry feel as if he had shrunk half his size simply by being in the same room with the man. Yet, it was the way the man's eyes fixed on Margaret and then remained, as if a carrier pigeon returning to roost, that unsettled Henry Lennox the most.

He recognized the concern, the fixed attentiveness, the obvious attempts at kindness which Mr. Thornton bestowed on Margaret – only because they were mirrored in his own actions. Yet, this man was not a contributing cause to Margaret's suffering and he could not receive the same censure. Of course, there must be other men who would take note of Margaret's admirable qualities and pay homage to her many virtues. However understandable, it did not make the observation of the other man's infatuation any easier for Henry to bear.

He fought back the surge of possessiveness that flooded him and struggled to organize his thoughts into coherence. He was not here to court Miss Hale, but to give the news of her brother. He was not sure which task would prove the most disastrous.

He had practiced. He had even taken notes to remind himself of what to say, the best words to use, the best arguments to make. Yet, none of his preparations were adequate with the task now facing him.

All eyes in the room dwelt on him and he swallowed thickly, searching for courage amidst his pile of papers and hoping to hide his emotions beneath a well-controlled mask of indifference. He looked up, his head held high as he met each eager, waiting face before him. He cleared his throat.

"Let us begin," Henry said. "To begin, let me explain some of the nuances of maritime law so you may better understand the situation at hand. The navy cannot approach crimes and punishments in the same manner as civilians on land. You see, once on board a vessel, the lives of all on board are inextricably linked together and the crew is dependent on each other for survival. The actions of each influence the well-being of all. This is very different from life on land. If a thief in London steals some jewels, there is wrong that is done, but the matron who has been robbed is not then dependent on the thief for her well-being and trapped in a small, confined space with him for months on end. If a sailor robs a fellow sailor, it is a breach of trust and breeds conflict for the entire ship for the duration of the voyage.

"Sailors rely on each other completely. If someone fails to keep watch, it may be the end of them all when they dash to pieces on rocks. If someone fails to keep clean, it may mean sickness for the rest of the ship. If the carpenter is remiss in fixing a leak, the ship will sink. If someone steals rations, the rest will suffer for it. Strict discipline is required so that they all may survive together and morale is upheld.

"To maintain behavior, the navy functions with a balance of rewards and punishments. There are material rewards and elevations in rank, honor, and prestige. An elaborate hierarchy exists on board ship based on one's behavior, skills, and achievements and one's connections to others in the navy. It is not based on the circumstances of birth as much as the achievements during one's career. The opposite of this would be the system of punishments- the first being public shame and then more pecuniary measures such as pain, hard work, loss of rations, etc. A wise captain knows how to wield both in order to secure his crew's loyalty and trust. If he fails to discipline bad behavior, he breaks trust and puts his crew in danger.

"There was an instance where a sailor wished to steal alcohol from his commanding officer's stores. When he found it guarded by a ten-year-old boy, he broke the boy's neck without mercy and threw his corpse into the sea without a second thought. Now, imagine, if the captain failed to reprimand or punish such evil! Imagine sharing one's bunk and rations with such a man! Yet, during battle or during a storm, your life and well-being might very well be held in that man's hands. No, it was imperative to remove such evil from the ship or there would be great danger to all involved.

"We must remember the uncomfortable truth that the navy is not composed of entirely moral, upright individuals. And not all go to sea willingly. Our current laws developed during times when there were more sailors required for wars than our lands willingly produced and thus unwilling participants were pressed into service to fill the gaps. For England to win, we required bodies to fill ships and make our ships go to war. Sometimes, these were regular civilians who were forced into a life on sea and other times, they were known criminals sent to fulfill their sentence onboard ship. Such a situation is like a powder keg, ready to explode at any time. To keep order with such rabble, harsh measures were employed. Most of the time, the threat of death was enough to keep the unwilling sailors from rallying against their captain and enabling the ship to complete its stated purpose. If that threat failed, then the transgressors must be punished or the navy risked chaos. Imagine if every ship was stolen by its crew! They could easily abscond with all cargo and hide in the many ports and crevices of the seven seas and what could be done? No, our naval power relies on trust and loyalty. Without our navy, our nation would dwindle and diminish. Our trade would be vulnerable and our borders unprotected.

"This strict order and discipline can have far-reaching consequences for our nation as well. Failing to heed the directions of a superior officer during a time of battle can mean the loss of a war. Our current prosperity and power as a nation is dependent on our ability to protect our assets and maintain our position.

"Now, this explains why the navy has a different set of laws, punishments, and means of trial than their civilian counterparts. The penalty for stealing on board ship must be greater than on land. Mutiny cannot be tolerated or the lives of the entire ship and the fate of the nation as a whole may be detrimentally impacted.

"For all the strict punishments the navy employs, the navy would much rather avoid capital punishment. Skilled sailors are hard to come by. If an entire crew mutinies, the navy will be hard-pressed to replace them. Even in the most recent mutinies, some of the skilled members of the crew who chose to side with the captain are forced to remain with the mutineers simply because they are needed to keep the ship afloat. While many a man may be declared worthy of death by a court martial, a large number of the condemned are later given mercy and transported or sent to prison instead. However, there are times the navy decides they must use capital punishment in order to send a message and maintain order in the system as a whole. In these times, individuals may become scapegoats and symbols more than accused prisoners guilty of wrong.

"During the Spithead and Nore mutinies, multiple ships mutinied together to request higher pay, an end of impressment, changes to the Articles of War, and other measures. However, at the time England was at war with France and the navy was vital to the war effort. While some of the requests the sailors made were reasonable and were acceded to by the admiralty, the mutiny of an entire fleet during wartime was a precarious position. The navy could not allow any more such united fronts to occur and Richard Parker was tried and hung, despite the fact that he was merely the spokesman and not the primary organizing force behind the Nore mutiny. He was the only one punished and his punishment was meant as a deterrent.

"The admiralty both insists on capital punishment and avoids it as much as possible. Before the 1847 revision of the Articles of War, all mutineers must receive capital punishment. After the revision, captains were given more freedom. They could use capital punishment, if necessary, but they were not required to and they could institute alternative punishments, if they saw fit. Yet, to those outside the admiralty, the method and utilization of various punishments may appear arbitrary. One mutineer may be sent to life in prison, another transported to Australia, and yet another is hung at the yard-arm. The difference in sentencing is entirely at the whim of the admiralty present at the court martial and there is no explanation as to the differing treatment of the accused. This is why parliament and the public wish to see greater accountability and oversight. They wish to see more standardized punishment and limitations on violence. Yet, until parliament agrees on more changes, we must hand the laws as they are.

"Now, Frederick Hale is accused of organizing a mutiny, piracy, and treason. The admiralty already received eyewitness accounts from ten members of the crew who remained loyal to Captain Reid and five from captured mutineers. There are still a dozen or so mutineers who have not been apprehended yet."

Margaret sat up straighter, her hand filled with a pile of papers. "I have all of Fred's letters from around the time of the mutiny," she said. "I made a list of every name he mentioned. Surely, there is one among them which can speak for him! Afterall, Captain Reid was a tyrant – the way he treated his men, why, it was right of Fred to stand up to him."

Henry Lennox sighed and reached to clasp his hand around his pocket watch. The cool metal calmed him slightly and he could feel the gentle whirring of the movement of time under his palm. He knew Margaret. She would not make this easy for him. He knew this, but that did not make the prospect any more palatable.

"It would be a far simpler matter to seek mercy for Lieutenant Hale if his actions only involved the mutiny. Even then, as the highest-ranking officer involved and as a primary organizing force, he would be held responsible merely as an example to deter others from following in his footsteps. The navy, you see, does not have a simple view of justice. Captain Reid may have been wrong in his actions but it was also wrong to organize the mutiny against him. While Captain Reid might be relieved of duty or face demotion, his subordinates face transportation or the gallows. If Lieutenant Hale was simply a cook or a carpenter, he might face lesser punishment, but he was a lieutenant and thus the likelihood of finding mercy decreases."

"You believe it is a lost cause?

"Margaret, even if we managed to clear his name for his part of the mutiny, there are still two more charges against him – both with similar punishments attached," Henry said, as patiently as he could.

"You cannot expect me to believe such obviously false charges! Those were fabricated by the newspapers after the mutiny to cast doubt on the stories the mutineers told," Margaret said, her eyes beginning to tear up with anger and defiance rippled through her posture as she held her head even higher.

Henry sighed. After his initial conversation with Frederick Hale, he found himself caught up in the young man's vehemence, captivated by the justice of his cause. However, there were other pertinent facts that had been conveniently absent from the young Hale's initial story. While the story of the mutiny itself had some elements that Henry could have worked with, with more time, with more connections, it was the successive actions and the decisions of the young man that were harder to rationalize away. The stories he failed to tell held just as much weight on his final outcome as those he willingly elaborated about.

"Margaret, even if absolved of the mutiny, he is just as culpable for his actions that followed," he said.

"What actions?" Margaret pressed.

Henry gave an apologetic glance at the room around him. "Are you certain you wish to know?"

Margaret vehemently nodded her head so Henry continued.

"First of all, you must be aware that to organize a mutiny requires violence. No captain or officers give up their ship willingly and each were soundly beaten before they were placed in the longboat. They were sent with three weeks' rations and hardly survived a storm before the West Indian Steamer found them. One died of exposure during the journey. A second later died of the injuries he sustained during the confrontation with the mutineers.

"The mutineers could not manage the ship without the carpenter and the master and so they forced these men to remain on the ship until they could sail the ship to Rio de Janeiro. Once in Rio, all cargo on board the ship was sold and the profit split between the mutineers. The HMS Russell and all its cargo was in their possession and disposed of at their discretion, thus the charge for piracy.

"Now, as you know, the primary task of the Royal Navy off the coast of Brazil is to prevent the slave trade. Despite the treaties with Spain and the Criminal Act, Spain and Brazil insist on the illegal importation of slaves. Rio remains the primary port of sale. Spain's interests in Cuba are entirely reliant on the importation of slaves to work their sugar plantations. The Americans who sail these waters are sympathetic to the slavers. Thus, it is the British navy alone who seeks to eradicate the scourge of slavery in the Americas. This is the mission that the HMS Russell was dispatched to with its captain and crew to patrol the Atlantic off the coast of South America.

"Understandably, the mutineers knew they would face the gallows if they returned to England and they also required funds to sustain them. Thus, they were forced with a difficult decision: would they scuttle the ship, sell the ship to the Spanish or Brazilians, or keep the ship and use it for their own purposes? It was determined, in light of the conflicted nature of the affairs between Brazil and England, that they could gain the highest profit by maintaining control of the ship, changing the flags, and using the ship for their own gain. Thus, the mutineers, under the leadership of Lieutenant Hale, took on additional crew members - primarily from the itinerant seaman to be found in Rio- and took to running patrols on behalf of the merchants and slavers who paid them highly for their services. They alerted their patrons of incoming ships and created distractions so the slavers could complete their transactions in the bay undisturbed.

"Once the war broke out between the U.S. and Mexico, the mutineers immediately saw another opportunity to make their fortune. They agreed to run contraband through the blockade in Veracruz, at least, until the Battle of Veracruz put an end to it.

"At this point, many of the mutineers had drifted away in search of other opportunities. Those who remained continued to transport cargo between ports, but these waters were well-patrolled. After one too many close calls with the British Royal Navy, the HMS Russell was sailed to Cuba, where the ship and the crew surrendered themselves to the Spanish. The Spanish paid them for the ship. Then they gave the men the choice between hard labor, joining the army, or serving on the HMS Russell under Spanish colors. Lieutenant Hale chose to join the army where he served for some years. Thus, the charge of treason.

"In recent years, after his release from the Spanish army, he has found employment with a merchant in Cadiz. Barbor and Company imports sugar, coffee, and cigars from Cuba and then exports wine and cloth to the United States and to Cuba," Henry continued. "Trade in Cadiz is quite lucrative and he has made an impressive fortune for himself. Unfortunately, the basis of that fortune came from absconding with the HMS Russell and using the vessel for activities contrary to those endorsed by the Royal Navy or British law. I am afraid that even without the mutiny, he still is guilty of very serious charges. The misdeeds of Captain Reid are not enough to blot out the transgressions of Lieutenant Hale."

"It isn't true. It cannot. I do not believe it," Margaret whispered.  

When Miss Hale threatened to give way, three men rose with handkerchiefs in hand, arms outstretched towards her. With a knowing glance at her son, Mrs. Thornton swooped in between them, placed her arm around Miss Hale's shuddering shoulders, and escorted her out of the room. Neither returned to the drawing room that night.

And Henry Lennox returned to his hotel room with his heart even heavier than when he left.

Chapter Text

It was left to Mr. Thornton to carry Mr. Hale up the stairs to his room. The old man, entirely overcome by the revelations that evening, hardly spoke. Nearly motionless, he had remained in his chair, long after his daughter had quit the room. He failed to heed the questions posed to him by Mr. Bell or the tumbler of brandy held out to him by Mr. Lennox. Instead, he remained as silent as a statue. Not a tear interrupted his stoic expression, nor a single word of grief or anger. Instead, he simply stared off at the clock beyond, lost to everything going on around him except his own internal musings.

The remaining three men stared at each other in tense, awkward silence until it was broken by Mr. Bell.

"Hale, you need to sleep," he said. When this failed to conjure a response, he rose and tried to take his friend's hand. Mr. Hale did not move.

"I think he will need to be escorted upstairs," Mr. Bell said, turning towards Mr. Lennox and Mr. Thornton. Before the pair could descend into an argument over which would prove himself stronger and more helpful, Mr. Bell simply nodded at Mr. Thornton. "I wish to have a word with Mr. Lennox. Would you mind helping Richard to his room?"

"Of course not."

At first, John thought his arm would be enough to aid Mr. Hale's journey to the second floor, however, this was proved insufficient. Instead, he was forced to gather up his tutor in his arms, as if a bride, and carry him up the stairs to deposit him in his room. He stayed with his friend for some time, until quiet snores filled the room. Then, he withdrew to join the others.

He found Mr. Bell halfway through a large glass of brandy - and by the slur of his voice, he doubted it was his first round.

"Thornton! There you are! Come and join us! We were just discussing what is to be done. With Richard and Margaret, I mean," he said, spilling a bit of his brandy as he spoke. "Mr. Lennox, here, thinks he should summon her aunt home from whichever expensive, fashionable place she is parading about and then both Hales can return to her in Harley Street. I do not agree. You see, that would do well enough for Margaret but Richard could never abide it. Mrs. Shaw and he never saw eye-to-eye and it would not do anyone any good to throw them together like this. Since I cannot imagine Margaret to leave her father, Harley Street is not to be considered. No, I think that if we cannot rouse Mr. Hale, it would be in the best interest of all for them both to come with me to Oxford. Just for a time, of course. Until Mr. Hale's spirits have improved, and he has regained his strength. I can look after both of them and do my best to raise their spirits. There is nothing quite so sure to improve one's health as a very fine library and ample time to read in peace."

"Perhaps, Oxford would prove best for Mr. Hale, but not for Margaret. Nothing would benefit her as much as time with her relations. She needs the support of her aunt and cousin," Mr. Lennox argued.

By the way he spoke, Mr. Thornton assumed this was not the first round in this particular debate between the pair. He did not like how Mr. Lennox presumed to know what was best for Margaret- or that he was in such a position of intimacy in the family where he could call her by her Christian name. John would much rather argue for Margaret and Mr. Hale to remain in Milton, but his memory of Mr. Hale's absent expression and languid form made him pause. He hated to think of it, but what if the worst should befall them? John interrupted them before they could argue further, voicing the fear they all were considering but not wishing to voice. "If Mr. Hale does not improve…"

"Margaret always has a home with me… or her aunt. She will be well-provided for, in either case," Mr. Bell assured.

John nodded, though his expression remained grim. He was not particularly fond of either course of action as both would inevitably separate him from Margaret.

"In any matter, I will not leave Milton until after…" Mr. Bell said and sighed deeply, his voice choking with emotion. "Oh, poor Fred! How did it ever come to this? Poor, poor Fred! Well, until after the end… if there is to be a funeral, of some kind."

"The court-martial will be complete by the end of the week," Mr. Lennox said. "The navy is remarkably efficient when it comes to things like this. I too will remain - until the end."

"My mother will come as often as she can," Mr. Thornton said. "Miss Hale will have her support for as long as she needs it."

"I can think of no better woman to stay with Miss Hale," Mr. Bell said in approval. "Though, I admit, I would quiver with fear if it was me she was set upon. I suppose that settles the matter for now. We remain in Milton."

Mr. Thornton let out a sigh of relief. The very idea that the Hales could leave Milton- leave him- unsettled him more than he wished to think about. The knowledge they would remain, however temporarily, set him at an imperfect ease. While Mr. Thornton would much rather appoint himself as the sole guardian and comforter of Margaret Hale, he had to admit the wisdom of having more friends and family nearby. He knew his mother would agree. "You must work, John," she would chide. "Besides, when the weight is carried by many, it is lighter for all." He knew she was right, but he felt irrationally jealous over his position as friend of the family.

Thus, Mr. Bell, Mr. Lennox, and Mr. Thornton remained in the drawing room of the Crampton House. Three unlikely allies, forced together over their care for the family in their midst. While they may not like each other, they must respect each other out of a common unity of purpose and intent. Until the end.

Hannah Thornton sat on the edge of a bed; a sobbing woman draped across her lap like a blanket. Dark hair had long since come undone from its pins and tangled against Hannah's black skirt. She held her hand against the girl's back and hummed softly, an old hymn she had learned in her childhood, her voice slightly off-key but hidden by the sound of weeping. For some good amount of time, Mrs. Thornton was alone with her thoughts. Her charge remained far too bereft for speech and hardly even noticed her presence. Thus, Hannah Thornton was at her leisure to search the small room with her eyes, all the while trying to sift through her own thoughts and emotions to resurrect something with a resemblance to composure.

The bedroom was small and simply furnished. An elegant dressing table sat against one wall, a silver comb and mirror upon it, hinting at past exposure to more finery than this small room contained. A nightstand with a candle, nearly burnt out, and a worn Bible, opened to Lamentations. Watercolor paintings hung on the walls - one of a forest framed by cottages and another of yellow roses. They were fine pieces, done by someone trained who knew what they were about. Painted by someone with the leisure to take lessons with a master rather than working in a mill for her bread. Forests and yellow roses were a sight not often seen by those in Milton. She wondered if Margaret stared at the paintings in order to avoid the view from the window between them- the window which looked out over the choking, sputtering chimneys of Milton.

Hannah could not see Margaret's face, only the sweep of her back and the long folds of her brown dress. It had been high quality fabric, back when it was new. Now, though, there were bare patches at the elbows and evidence of mending along the hem. The dress was very much like the woman herself- high quality material worn and battered by the toil of everyday life in Milton. Miss Hale had been raised to paint flowers and wear silk, yet her London education was weighed and measured by the men and machinery of Milton.

Hannah held one of Miss Hale's hands, tracing small circles against her pale skin. Her hands were not the soft, untainted hands of a gentlewoman but hardened by constant use. She recognized the callouses along the palm and forefingers from washing clothes and the slight burns from the heat of the flat iron. She wondered idly if Margaret's hands had been smooth and soft, when she first left her southern home. Perhaps it was unjust of her, to wonder so, but she found the contradiction of the disparate parts of Miss Hale a bit of an enigma. She did not know quite how to understand the haughty airs of the Miss Hale of Helstone with the course hands of Miss Hale of Milton. Were they so very different or had they always been the same?

Now, there was a third Margaret Hale - this tear-stained, desperate creature before her. She wondered how many more iterations and manifestations she would see of the young woman, before she could claim to finally understand her. Her grief, though, was something Hannah could understand. The loss of first her home, then her mother, and next her brother was enough to justify her current loss of composure and it was little wonder the girl looked entirely bereft.

Hannah appreciated the frank, thorough presentation of facts discharged by the young barrister. He did not muddle affairs with vain hopes or idle wishes. Yet, she had watched Miss Hale's face throughout, noting when the truth crystallized and evidence of heartbreak was painted across her face like a signal flag. She saw the twist of torment on her features the moment Margaret realized all was lost. The gallows she stared into was the end of her own hope, her innocence, a part of the world she once thought to be good.

Hannah understood, far too well, what a crushing blow such a revelation could be. Thus, she kept herself still and let the girl cry – in the sanctity and safety of Mrs. Thornton's arms. For a time, Hannah expected Margaret would cry herself to sleep, but when her shuddering slowly eased, she turned her head to face her companion. Her raven hair clung to her tear-stained face like water reeds against the hull of a boat. When Mrs. Thornton moved to untangle her tresses, she caught a glimpse of the tiny scar, just above the hairline. How well she hid it! Yet, for the discerning, it remained.

With a shuddering breath, Margaret wiped the last of her tears and struggled to calm herself. Then, she looked up, her grey eyes searching.

"It's all my fault. I've killed him," she said, finally voicing the words Hannah expected to hear. Hannah sat up a bit straighter and looked down on Margaret, her gaze imperious and defiant.

"Aye, Miss Hale. Did you? Tell me, did you tell him to mutiny?"

In surprise, Margaret shook her head. "Of course not."

"Were you the one to collect the bounty on his head? Will you be the one to tie him up to the yard arms?" At Miss Hale's continued refusal, Mrs. Thornton scoffed. "Then you cannot take the blame."

"But, it was I who summoned him back to England. It was I who wrote to him, pressing him to come! Then, I was foolish enough to suggest he return through London, so he could speak to Henry about clearing his name. If I hadn't…."

"If you hadn't, he might have been caught in a storm in the Atlantic and overturned. He may have met ruffians in Cadiz or choked on a chicken bone. No, Miss Hale, you are not as mighty and powerful as you think. You do not need to be accountable for affairs that belong to the Almighty alone. Your brother, the Lord keep him, made his decisions. I'm not saying he was right. I'm not saying he was wrong. I'm saying he did what he did and it's done. You did what you thought was right. As did he. It is what it is and now we must make the best of it."

"But what if..." Margaret began, sitting up so she could sit at eye-level with Mrs. Thornton, her expression pleading.

Mrs. Thornton interrupted her before she could continue. "Regret won't get you anything but inaction and backwards glances. Maybe you could have changed it. Maybe not. Maybe his fate was inevitable or maybe not. All I know is it's done. You can pray. You can have faith the Hand of Providence will bring good even out of the worst of circumstances. You can move forward and do what needs done, but you can never go back."

Maybe, if it was anyone else, Margaret could have dismissed her. But with the weight of her own tragedy still clinging to the black of her gown, Hannah Thornton spoke with the authority only those who have walked through the shadow of death and survived can speak with.

Margaret looked up at Mrs. Thornton, her eyes deep and soulful. "You know it… the taste of regret?"

It was both an accusation and a question. Mrs. Thornton sighed, her own soul heavy with wounds that would never fully heal, griefs that ran far deeper than all the days of her life and left scars she could never really hide.

She nodded. "I have fought my own battle with regret. Some days, I prove stronger, some days, I fancy there was a way everything could have been different. My husband, George, God rest him, never told me how we stood. He was a proud man, one who had worked hard to make himself into the man he was. I respected him, I held him upright. Mayhap I was too hard on him, held him up too high. Mayhap that was why he dared not tell me how far he had fallen.

"He came home that day far later than I expected him. He took tea with nary a word. I thought he was over weary, worn down from a long day's work. He kissed me on the cheek and told me he would stay up a bit to take care of some accounts. He stayed there, by the fire and I found him there the next morning, unmoved and unmoving.

"I was always glad I woke early, that it was I who found him and not any other. However, what if I had stayed up just a little longer? What if I had asked more questions, pressed him harder, stayed by his side till he slept? If only I had said something, done something, I could have prevented that last rash, foolish act.

"It wasn't until he was good and buried that the creditors came, and I discovered why he had done what he did. He never told me. There was no warning. He escaped and left me to find out by bits and pieces just what it was he would rather die than face and leave me living it, leave me facing the mess he left behind. I was angry. I was disappointed. I was distraught. I felt keenly the weight of guilt. If only I had not pressured him so much, if he had not felt he needed to raise us so high, if he only knew how much we valued his life more than the manner of house he could provide. Maybe if I had been some other manner of wife, if I had shown greater care, maybe he would not have fled like he did.

"Regret has been a heavier chain than even all my husband's creditors. Debts can be paid; regrets cannot be erased. No matter how many nights I have tossed and turned and cried to Heaven, I cannot change the past, only walk into the future with my head held high.

"And what could I tell my children? How could I reveal the shame of their father and still show the honor due him? How could I separate the man from his deeds and find peace between them? No, man is perfect and no man's hands are entirely clean. A man may be the very best of fathers and husbands and yet a perfect scoundrel to his master. A man may be the hardest of workers, the most compassionate of neighbors, and still come home to beat his wife and leave his children to starve while he seeks out a drink. Even the best of men has days where they make blunders and the very worst of men have their moments of grandeur. Which is the aspect of their character that defines them? Which day is it that determines who they are as a man? I do not know. We may think we know them, that we see them as they are, but ultimately, judgement comes from the Lord Almighty and it is He who knows the heart.

"And God knows, I have done my best and that must be enough to silence my regrets."

During her speech, Margaret had lay back down and nestled herself gently against Mrs. Thornton's lap, her expression and posture reminiscent of a small child after a maelstrom of emotion has passed. She was quiet for some time, mulling over what Mrs. Thornton had said.

"Mama would never have believed it. Not even if Fred himself told her. She always believed the reports were wrong, that Fred was innocent."

Mrs. Thornton chuckled and reached out to stroke her fingers through Margaret's hair. "That I can believe. It is a mother's prerogative to guard her son's faults as her own property and proclaim his virtues to the world. Sometimes, it is our love that makes us see the people around us more clearly than everyone else. We see their strengths and we see their weaknesses - both far clearer than any outsider ever could. However, it is that same great love that makes us blind. There are truths we do not wish to see and that makes us blinder still.

"It is not always easy to recognize the potential for evil, for blunders, for mistakes in those we love… and still be able to love them. To recognize the ways they have disappointed us and failed us and still choose to love and honor them. In some ways, it is easier to deny their capacity for ill-deeds than it is to face the truth of it."

"I never knew what a challenge it would be to see my parents or my brother as human beings – capable of misjudgments, ill-tempers, and poor decisions. As a child, I always believed them to be impervious to the failings that afflict humanity in general. Now, as I grow, I find it is not so easy to reconcile myself to all they have done or the motivations undergirding their decisions," Margaret said, as if confessing a great sin rather than simply admitting the truth of her fledgling journey into womanhood.

"And that is a challenge you must face before you can call yourself a woman," Mrs. Thornton said. "It is no easy task, harder still for the circumstances you find yourself in. It will be all the harder when it is your own children who must reconcile themselves with your weaknesses."

The pair fell silent again, each lost in their own thoughts. Mrs. Thornton looked around the room again until she caught on a piece of paper on the dressing table. It was a half-finished charcoal sketch of a young man lay, the eyes looking away, the mouth open in laughter. It was a handsome face -a touch of humor and affection in the expression and a lackadaisical charm about his posture. Reaching for it, Mrs. Thornton held it aloft.

"Is this him?" She asked.

"Yes," Margaret answered, tears pooling in her eyes again. "I meant to send it to his fiancée. I had not finished it, by the time Fred left."

"You are not so very alike," Mrs. Thornton stated.

"No. Not in appearance, perhaps, or even in disposition. However, I suppose that is the way with siblings, sometimes. It is almost worse now -having seen him again, really seen him- now as we are adults. Before, he was only Fred, my older brother I only had the faintest and dimmest of memories of. He was still a young lad in my mind and one which was as likely to cause mischief as play. When he came to see Mama, it was the first time were together fully grown. We experienced that brief, precious taste of knowing each other as people, as adults, and then only to have us permanently parted. Now, I know him as a man and it makes his loss all the more acute. If he would have never come, I would have never known what I was missing and yet, because he came, now he is lost forever.

"Oh, how I wish I had not written to him and made him come! I wish I could go back to how things were- Fred still in Spain, Fred far distant and safe. I did not know him then... I wonder if I truly know him now. But, at least I knew that he lived!"

"I cannot blame you for that. If it were my brother... my son... I would feel the same."

"You are a good mother," Margaret said, a smile on her lips, though her eyes were swollen and closed. "Your children were very fortunate. I wish I had more time with mine."

"Aye. I wish that for you as well. It is the way of things. The more we love a person, the shorter their life seems. Even a hundred years isn't long enough, not for someone we truly value. Eternity itself hardly feels like enough."

"Eternity. It has felt like an eternity since we left Helstone," she said, her voice growing slow and drifting towards sleep.

"Come, Miss Hale. You need to try to rest, as best you can," Hannah said. "Tomorrow is another day which will require all your strength, and you will face it."

Chapter Text

Mr. Thornton was the first to depart the company of the unlikely trio, leaving Mr. Bell solely to the care of Mr. Lennox. While he could hear the faint footsteps of Mrs. Thornton upstairs, the lower levels of the house were reserved for the remaining visitors. Mr. Bell proved himself to be one of the sorts of men who drowned his discomfort with spirits and the events of the night were more than he could manage while sober. Thus, it fell to the lot of Henry Lennox to refill his glass and keep the old gentleman company – at least, until he could persuade the old man to finally retire. Even then, it fell to Henry Lennox to escort the man to his room to ensure he did not tumble over on the way.

While Henry would have much preferred to be the sought-out companion of Margaret Hale, Mr. Bell proved an entertaining, nearly exasperating, conversation partner. Henry was no stranger to arguing points or taking the opposing side of an argument for argument's sake. Mr. Bell, even with his increasingly slurred speech, proved a formidable opponent. It took very little effort to find opinions the pair differed on and, indeed, their personalities proved so disparate that there were very few topics of conversation that did not progress into a debate - of various levels of import.

Oxford must be superior to London. Scholars were far more invaluable to society than barristers. It was the young and arrogant who must learn from the aged and wise. A plump duck was far preferable to a dish of goose and a raspberry tart must be superior to a plum. For most of their conversation, Henry assumed his companion was inciting arguments simply for his own entertainment and purposefully attempting to ruffle Henry's feathers with his outlandish remarks. That is, until Henry made a comment on the Hale's change of circumstances and then the tone of Mr. Bell's response grew in vehemence and passion. While he could just as well blame the change on yet another emptied glass of brandy, he could also attribute it to stumbling upon a true disagreement between them.

"Is adherence to conscience always correct? Are there not some circumstances where it is, indeed, more selfish and immoral to follow one's conscience than to not?" Henry had posed, in reference to not only young Frederick Hale, but to the elder Hale as well.

Of course, Mr. Bell had tumbled into a soliloquy on the merits of conscience, morals, ethics, and the philosophy of man. Somehow, Plato and Aristotle were named and probably a few other long dead patriarchs of Greco-Roman paganism. Henry assumed it was the wisdom of mind and not the strength of morals of Odysseus and Tacitus that Mr. Bell hoped to invoke with his references, but Henry dared not interrupt his companion to find out. Mr. Bell continued unabated in his praise of the merits of both his friend and godson and made a series of jests at the depravity of London society that were more veiled insults than true jests. Henry Lennox had no intention to argue the merits of London morality or the adherence of his society of peers to their sense of conscience and instead sank further and further into silence.

Long after depositing Mr. Bell in his bed, Henry Lennox still mulled over the substance of their debate. However flippantly he might have initiated the debate, the longer he thought of it, the more the argument sent tenterhooks into his mind. He could not help but contrast the Hales of Helstone with the Hales of Milton. In the same way, he compared what he knew of both father and son. He found them far more similar than initial impressions would imply - and it was not in their appearance or manner that they revealed their relation but in their shared value to conscience and the paths their lives would take.

Frederick and Richard Hale both abandoned their professions and their societies due to the troubles of their indomitable consciences. Each rebelled against authority they saw as overreaching and unjust and they organized their own localized revolts in response. Henry had to wonder, though, if the leadership of either man was less tyrannical than the forbears who they sought to replace. Did they actually further the cause of justice with their actions or was it evidence of a "morbid state of conscience"?

While Richard Hale left the Church of England, it necessarily followed that the women of his family must follow his cause - not out of their own consciences' sake but in their subservient roles as wife and daughter under his protection. Regardless of their own loyalty (or disloyalty) to the Church of England, Mrs. Hale and Margaret would bear the weight of shame and loss from Mr. Hale's decision. Richard Hale rebelled against both his agrarian parish and his old profession, settling his family in the reduced circumstances in Milton, far from every comfort and connection they had known previously. Similarly, Frederick Hale mutinied against the Royal Navy. He, also, overthrew the set order of things, taking the mantle of authority on himself to follow the mandates of his conscience. He organized those who agreed with him (and a few who didn't and had no choice) and led them in a direction that would change the course of the rest of their lives. All of Frederick Hale's caught accomplices were hung, save for the two that were transported to Australia. Did those who followed him know the cost they would pay for their actions? Did young Hale?

Perhaps it was Henry Lennox' profession and his further ambitions for politics. Perhaps it was his frequent intercourse with the great minds and leaders of London society, but he was convinced that justice was served more effectively by efforts to shift laws and leaders and the opinions of those who made decisions for all. Perhaps he, too, was still young and idealistic enough to believe authority could be reasoned with and change could be implemented without violence. Perhaps, more years and experience would teach him otherwise. Until then, better a long-simmering coal that eventually sets a fire than a large burst of flame that all can see and is immediately extinguished, he thought.

If Richard Hale's conscience decried practices and doctrines in the Church of England, then he should throw his efforts into changing what he saw was amiss. Find like-minded men, speak with the bishop and archbishop and other leaders of the Church, write pamphlets and sermons and push forward to see the Church changed. Instead, Mr. Hale simply left it all behind. He retired himself out of a desire to both appease his conscience and cause no conflict in his wake.

Similarly, if Frederick Hale had simply held his peace, if he had completed tenure on the Russell, he could have organized his followers and appealed to the Admiralty. He could have joined with the growing movement of voices decrying the injustices of naval law at a parliamentary level and given his account as evidence. Henry Lennox had heard about the push William Williams of Coventry gave to change the very laws regulating the navy. He spoke out about the need for more regulation, oversight, and the ability to appeal. His efforts succeeded in the 1847 revisions to the Articles of War and he continued to press for even more change- lasting change that would impact all involved. Frederick's actions might have been brave and bold and grand, but ultimately, he did not shift the course of Captain Reid's career nor make changes for future generations of sailors. It was a grand gesture, but ultimately meaningless.

Richard Hale's initial martyrdom could be respected for the strength and courage such an action required. To leave all behind, head held high, for the sake of something so grand as "conscience" was a fine thing indeed- but his actions that followed- those required more justification. There were other cities in England, other villages and towns. There were other possible locations Richard Hale could have found employment as a tutor. His primary argument for Milton, if Henry understood Mr. Bell's explanation properly, was its stark contrast to Helstone. Not the benefit of the place to his family. Not the opportunity therein for his young daughter to thrive and establish herself. Not the rightness of such a move for his wife's well-being. Not the improvements he could implement for society in Milton or a sense of divine calling. It was simply an escape from the old- a jarring rupture from his past and an almost self-flagellating desire to fulfill his stated aim of martyrdom to its bitter end. If his successive move after leaving Helstone was not as self-sacrificing and misery-inducing as possible, then it was not acceptable. In each decision, the locus of import was Richard Hale himself- his conscience, his desires, his fears, and his lacks.

Frederick, too, may have done a grand thing in standing up to the tyrannical captain on behalf of the worn and ragged midshipmen, but then he led them straight into an early grave. Perhaps, if he had packed himself into the longboat and set himself afloat for the cause of justice without stealing an entire ship and its cargo and part of its crew, the grandeur of his scheme could be more easily argued. Perhaps, if he had chosen what cause he wished to fight for, rather than the cause he wished to fight against, it could be more easily understood. To throw all caution and morals in the wind in order to set a course that was as anti-England as possible was harder to justify.

Both men delighted in their small martyrdoms and gloried in the stance they took in opposition to their perceived injustices. Then, both retired into exile -ineffectual and silent. The cost of their martyrdom was paid more heavily by those forced to follow them than by the men themselves... at least, until now. No, on the brink of court-martial, so soon after the death of Mrs. Hale, both father and son were forced to face their deeds done in the name of conscience and it would not be their own sense of right and wrong to determine their fate. Yet, perhaps it was that same adherence which would grant them a more favorable hearing from the Almighty in the judgement to come.

Henry supposed he far preferred debating the merits of different sides of an issue than holding the weight of final judgement at the end.

A long night and even longer intermediary day passed before John spoke with his mother again. He had seen her before he departed from the Hales', of course, but only long enough for her to send him home from Crampton, assured with her promises that she would remain with Margaret as long as required. He did not miss his mother's use of Margaret's Christian name or the look of staunch determination on his mother's face. He could not help the twinge of jealousy he felt knowing that his mother was permitted such liberties, such uninterrupted companionship with the woman he loved and he remained excluded.

It was late the next afternoon when he found his mother waiting for him in the mill office. He could not tell by her expression how long she had waited or the nature of her tidings. She gave a terse nod in welcome when he entered but she did not speak. Her quick eyes had already taken in the pile of papers he carried and she would not venture to speak until he had completed his assessment of each document. He sighed. He had not attended well to his work that morning and his mother's stoic and long-suffering presence would not assist his focus. He quickly signed and read through the first five documents before placing the rest in his desk drawer. With a satisfied click of the lock, he leaned forward on his desk and gave his full attention to his mother.

"You are back, then?" He stated.

"I sent Fanny to Crampton for the evening."

"Fanny?" John asked in surprise.

"Your sister was quite put out that we have failed to include her in our affairs with the Hales. I informed her of what she needed to know and sent her to sit with the Hales in my stead."

John wanted to question her judgement, but it was his mother and he dare not. She must know what she was about, but he could not imagine Fanny being of use in such circumstances. As if reading his mind, Mrs. Thornton arched an eyebrow and frowned disapprovingly.

"Fanny's cheerfulness will prove a balm, I think. After the last few days, the Hales could benefit from some petty small talk and someone entirely unconnected with the whole affair to bring some new air into that drafty old house. She has brought a book to read aloud and says she can sit quiet-like if needed."

"Not the book on Spain, I hope," John said with a slight grimace.

"The Tales of the Alhambra might do them good."

"Or put their thoughts even more on young Hale and his tenure in Spain."

"Have some faith, John. Let Fanny prove herself useful, in her own way. Mr. Bell and Mr. Lennox are taking turns sitting with Mr. Hale and Margaret and it will do everyone good to have another woman about."

John sighed and rubbed at his forehead, the day feeling far longer than it had that morning. "I will come by as soon as I am able."

By his mother's expression, he knew she wished to chide him to remain at home, but she held her tongue. He was glad of it. He had no wish to explain his desire to return to Crampton was more to put his own thoughts at ease than for any assistance he could grant to the occupants. There were enough friends about to tend to their needs and he knew he could offer little more than those present could give. However, if he could but see Margaret for a moment… Ensure her well-being with his own eyes…

No, he chided himself. It was folly and he knew it. A moment would never be enough. An hour would prove only a tantalizing taste and leave him wishing for a day, a month, a year. How he longed for more! To feast his eyes on her upon waking each morning and to rest himself alongside her each night, to be welcomed past the boundaries of drawing rooms and dining rooms and into the inner sanctums of her heart and life.

Yet, it could not be. Not yet.

He was brought out of his reverie by his mother's voice – neither chiding nor sharp. Instead, it was as if she was voicing her own musings – a practice as unfamiliar to her normal habits as wearing any color other than black.

"... Those young ones...I cannot help but think of the family of those sailors - both those who mutinied and those who did not- and how terrible it must have been to receive such news."

"I beg your pardon?"

She gave him a stern, reprimanding stare for his inattention, then she slowly reached out to smooth the ruffles on her black skirt. "I was saying, young Mr. Hale was not so much younger than you were, you know. Why, he must have been but twelve or thirteen at most when he left home and took to sea."

"I suppose we were of similar ages when we felt the weight of responsibility," he answered, unsure how else to reply.

She was silent for a moment or two, her eyes distant. "I wonder what you would have done – what you would have felt was right, if you had been in his place?"

He knew what she was thinking of and she was seeing affairs with the eyes of a mother, as she was wont to do. John and Frederick Hale were both still boys when they were thrust into the world of men and masters, captains and mutineers – forced to prove themselves in a world as unforgiving as unfeeling as the open sea during a storm. They were, both of them, held responsible for the choices they made and the men they had become.

"I do not know," he finally said. "I have asked that question myself, over and over again, since last night. I cannot know what I would have done in young Hale's position anymore than I am certain about the justice of my own actions in the affair."

"What can you mean, John?" His mother asked.

"At first, upon hearing about the circumstances of young Hale, I wished the Hales trusted me enough to speak frankly about Frederick Hale. However, now I must wonder. Had I known… what would I have done? I am not certain. If I chose to willingly harbor a known mutineer and pirate out of loyalty to the Hales, what does that reveal about my principles and justice as a magistrate? If I handed over young Hale, what would that reveal about my friendship for the Hales?

"Miss Hale protected her brother because he was her brother, yet, he had done wrong. I protected Miss Hale from the police inspector, though I knew she lied, out of loyalty to the Hales. We are both guilty- even if we did not know what precisely we were guilty of. I did not know she harbored a wanted fugitive and she did not know the depths of Frederick Hale's crimes- yet, would it have mattered if we knew?"

John turned in his chair and picked up a book from his desk. He opened the cover and let his fingers trail over the words. He did not read what they said, but simply the shape and contrast of the letters against paper calmed him. He looked up at his mother's grave, concerned face, her emotions evident by the furrow on her brow.

His mother reached out, her hand clasping his on top of the open page of the book. "I am glad you did not know – about young Hale, I mean. I am glad you did not have to make such a choice."

"It is those choices that define us and prove a man! I cannot say I am glad to have missed the opportunity to prove myself. Then, also, how affairs might have progressed differently! If I had known… perhaps, young Hale would not have been caught."

"You think too highly of yourself and the influence you hold over such affairs."

He snorted and cast his mother a wry smile. She answered it with a slight smile of her own.

"Isn't this the same arbitrary, impressionable measure of justice that is being decried in parliament about the justice of the admiralty? The voices for change declare that justice ought not be swayed by relational connections or the greyed judgement of those sitting on the court martial. Yet, how can it not? Can justice truly be blinded and unimpressed by human connection?" John mused.

"Perhaps," his mother replied. "I suppose, if young Hale were a relative of the queen, his ill-deeds would matter less."

"He would face a far more forgiving set of judges from the Admiralty if they received a pardon from the queen."

"And Miss Hale benefited from her intimacy with a Milton magistrate. We will take our small mercies and favorable connections where we may, John. You may not be a member of the royal family, but you are one of the leading members of Milton and that is a position you earned yourself. I will continue to hold my head high knowing I have such a son who has such a position in Milton."

"It is you who first informed me I think too highly of myself and now you put such notions of my own importance into my head," he said, offering his mother a smile.

She clicked her tongue in fond chastisement. "It is for a mother to both praise and humble."

"Well, then, we, all of us, can only make the best of the circumstances we find ourselves in," he answered.

"And your position is the Master of Marlborough Mills. I will leave you to your work," she said. She rose and gave him a final nod before departing through the door.

Chapter Text

Despite her many tears and best efforts to toss and turn, sleep evaded Margaret Hale. Her mind and heart were too full, clenched tight with fears and doubts, and she could find no rest no matter how she forced her eyes shut. It was only in the deep grey moments, just before dawn, that she finally drifted off to the blessed reprieve of sleep. Even then, her mind carried on without her permission. Her dreams were many and vibrant. They meandered the cluttered, fraught paths of her youth, as shaded and peregrine as the forest paths in Helstone. Some were conjured memories, other images woven out of the fantastic and whimsical.

It was there, in that hallowed space of the unconscious, that she saw her mother's face again. At first, it was the smiling face of the mother of her childhood, there taking tea in the garden and watching Margaret play in the grass. Margaret chased patches of sunlight dancing across the ground from the trees waving in the wind. She listened to her mother's laughter as she tumbled onto a crop of daisies. Slowly, the patches of sunlight faded into greater and greater expanses of shadow. The sun vanished away, leaving her in the grey twilight of Helstone than it was her mother's tears, rather than laughter, than rent the air and echoed through the forest. Her mother pleaded for Frederick, called for her son, cried for him to come to her. Margaret longed to comfort her mother, to bring reprieve to her sorrow, and to mend all that was broken.

Just when Margaret thought she could not bear it, that her heart would break, Frederick came. Dashing in his uniform, grinning broadly as he swept his mother up in his embrace. Her father was there, too, standing tall and straight and proud. There was a grace to his step and a confidence in his manner that Margaret had never seen before. He came to shake his son's hand and place his arm around his wife's shoulders. Then, all three turned to face Margaret, their arms outstretched, begging her to come home to them.

And there were roses. So many roses. Growing up the sides of the house, through the forest, over the sides of the garden table and even pouring over onto the road beyond, growing in places they ought not be. It was this which reminded her she was in a dream.

For a moment, the briefest of stolen glimpses, her family was whole and her heart overflowed.

When she woke, it was as if she had plunged headlong into the frozen Thames. This was not her beloved room in Helstone. There was no forest outside her window and the morning air did not waft with the fragrance of roses. She blinked into the grey, chalky expanse of Milton beyond her curtains, the walls of the Crampton house all around, as sturdy and unmovable as a prison cell, and the shock of it made her gasp for breath.

Her mother was not here. Neither was Frederick. It had been a dream. A terrible, wonderful dream. A fabrication of her own imaginings – all the more deceptive for its sense of realness. Yet, the Hales had never been in Helstone together. Not like that. Nor would they ever be. It was as much a lie as her belief in Fred's innocence or her reliance on her own judgement had been.

She struggled to calm the beating of her heart and regain a sense of her own feet beneath her, rooting her, on the wooden floorboards of the Crampton house. The chime of a clock told her she had slept far longer than was her wont. She needed to rise, to face the day, but she felt paralyzed. Every limb of her body was sapped of strength, as only a soul wearied with heavy grief can be. She needed exertion, more for the fortitude of her mind than strength of limb, but her feet refused her. With a great, determined gasp, she forced herself to stand.

There waited her black dress – as somber an stark as a churchyard- and she waited another moment before she forced herself to don the garment -as if her swollen eyes and languid movements were not enough of an expression of her grief- she must also wear her sadness in every fold and ruffle of her velvet dress.

It was a terrible thing- the waiting. She longed to do something, do anything. Yet what was there to be done? Any day could be the last for her brother, the final end to his life and Margaret would not know until it was over. What were his thoughts, his feelings on this dawn? What would they be on the morrow? Was he, at this moment, taking his last breath or did he have another day to wake?

Sometimes death is quick and violent- a sudden, jarring departure from the land of the living. Sometimes death is slow and laborious. Bits and pieces of a person's old life vanish, as slow as melting snow, until one cannot be sure when the end began or finished.

Her mother, and Bessy Higgins as well, had died slowly, piece by piece, already long diminished by the moment of their final breaths. By the time of their end, the final stroke of death was far nearer a mercy than a punishment and they had long since ceased to really live.

Similarly, Fred's death had been in pieces. His first death occurred when he went to sea and Helstone lost the presence, the laughter, of its son and brother. Distance and time could reap as much earthly separation as any illness. Yet, there was still the looming promise of reunion to bolster their hope and keep them buoyant. Then there was the mutiny and he was forever cut off, separated from their physical presence. The gentle tenterhooks of his letters were all they could hope for. Now, this. The last and final stroke.

Would she have preferred the quick and jarring? A shipwreck, a battle wound, a bout of typhoid? Then her brother could die in glory. She read of mutineers who, once captured, tied a noose around their own necks long before they faced the court martial. She could not say which manner of end, which opportunity for parting, which manifestation of death would be easier to bear.

It seemed wrong to mourn a man still living. As long as he woke another day, there must be hope, or so her deceptive heart cried. Yet, what a foolish hope! Bessy had reminded her again and again of the promise of future resurrection and reunion and that ought to give her hope, but in this moment, she struggled to feel it. It was too much loss, too quickly, and she was too overwhelmed with the weight of it to see the glimmer of silver of eternity through the oppressive grey clouds of mortality. She waited the end, the final stroke, and then she knew she would grieve his loss all over again.

Until then, she must wait. She despised waiting. These terrible hours perched delicately on the edge of a guillotine. She could see the sunrise glint off the sharpened edge, know well the blade would come for them, but she did not know when. How could she carry on, as if all was normal, as if all was commonplace, when she knew it was not. Yet, what other choice did she have? She could not remain in her bed from morning till night and abandon her father to carry his grief alone. Even Mr. Bell and Dixon needed her, in their own ways. She must force herself into a composure she did not feel and make herself available to those who needed her.

She forced herself to finish dressing and tentatively made her way downstairs.

Quiet voices met her in the drawing room. These halted as soon as she pushed the door open. Mr. Bell sat with Henry Lennox, though both rose when they saw her appear. With stilted, well-intentioned overtures, they both inquired after her, bade her to sit, and stumbled over each other to see food brought before her. By the redness of her eyes and the late hour of the morning, they must know how ill she spent her night. Rather than comment on her appearance, they showed their concern by insisting on meeting whatever momentary needs they could manage. Their previous conversation remained abandoned, interrupted by her presence, and neither gentleman felt compelled to notice the other man while Margaret remained in the room. She appreciated their attentiveness, their attempts at kindness, but she would have much rather been a third party to their company, not required to speak or direct or request, but only to listen from the quietude of her own silence. Their conversation would have proved more welcome than their attempts to draw her out, but they insisted on answering each of her weary, short replies with further attention.

"How is Papa?" She inquired, once she had finished her meal.

Mr. Bell sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "He slept well, but he has hardly left his room today. I sat with him a better part of the morning, but he did not speak more than three sentences together."

"I will go to him," she said, standing to her feet and casting each man an apologetic, grateful smile in farewell. She knew they would far prefer to dote upon her longer, make themselves of use to her, but she could not bear it. She would rather throw herself into the exertions of caring for another than endure any more sympathies cast upon her.

True to his word, Margaret found her father much as Mr. Bell described. While his eyes were open, he did not seem to notice much of what passed around him. For all the time she sat beside him, his hand in hers, reading aloud from the Psalms, Mr. Hale hardly spoke – other than to greet her and let her know he was glad for her presence. His words were few, but they were enough to warm Margaret's heart with a deep, stabbing affection.

It was all the more cruel- comparing this reticent, careworn man with the father in her dreams the night before. They could hardly be called the same man, yet which was the shade and which the incarnate man was a point she did not wish to dwell upon.

As she watched her father drift off to sleep late that afternoon, her own heart clenched with a new fear, a new dread. His face looked so wan, so pale. He had aged decades in a matter of weeks and she prayed with all her strength he would rally. What if this next blow proved too much? How could Margaret carry on without him? The very idea that her father would wish to join her mother and brother and leave her behind nearly stunned her with foreboding.

For a moment, the pain in her heart was more than she could bear and she lay her heavy head against her father's chest, listening to the rise and fall of his breath, the steady beating of his heart.

Thud, thump. Thud, thump.

It was a beautiful sound. Today, her father remained with her. They were together and that must be enough. She could do very little for the morrow.

How precious, how fragile each day had become! If she had known how few days were left… before… well, she thought of the Bard's words:

"For it falls out

That what we have we prize not to the worth

Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost,

Why, then we rack the value, then we find

The virtue that possession would not show us

While it was ours."

How true those words rang to her now! As far as she was from Helstone and those she held dear, she treasured them more now in their loss than she ever had in their possession. For today, she would cherish another precious moment by her father's side.

Margaret was roused from her place by a quiet knock on the door and Dixon's tear-stained face in the doorway.

"Miss, there's a visitor for you," she sniffed, as if it had been a great condescension to bring such a message to her mistress.

Curious, Margaret quietly released her sleeping father's hand and followed Dixon down the stairs. It could not be Mr. Bell nor Mr. Lennox, for they were guests of the house and would not require such ceremony. She thought it could be either of the Higginses and this gave her cheer. Then, she remembered it could just as easily be one of the Thorntons. This thought, too, gave her greater comfort than she would have imagined only a few days before. Mrs. Thornton, she found, had layers of down beneath her rigid exterior of steel and the matron had been an invaluable source of support and true comfort in the preceding days. Margaret found she far preferred Mrs. Thornton to offer a crutch than a rod of discipline, though she was equally adept wielding both. In her time of need, Margaret was grateful to count Mrs. Thornton as a friend.

But what if it was Mr. Thornton, come to call? Her rebellious heart whispered and then turned unladylike somersaults within her breast. The thought of his emotive, expressive eyes, the warmth of his voice, the grandeur of his presence in the armchair nearby her – even if all he spoke of was the weather or the colour of fruit- was enough to make her forget to breathe.

What was it of grief that made everything so much more acute? A single day might as well have been a year and each twist and turn of emotion she felt more keenly, as if the pencil sketch of her life had suddenly been splashed with vibrant oil paints, casting each expression in colour stronger than she had ever seen. In a single instant, she was moved from heart-rending sorrow to a sense of nearly overpowering… What? How could she characterize such an influx of emotion? Anticipation… hope… joy… delicious fear… terrible longing… all from merely the thought that Mr. Thornton might soon be in the same room as her, breathe the same air, choose to notice her existence. Was it not the height of impropriety to have such a response or permit such ill-timed hopes? No, it was not proper.

Yet, what acute delight she felt each time she felt his presence nearby, as if suddenly conscious of his every movement, every shift of shadow across his face… and had he always been so handsome? Or was her notice of his appearance, even now, heightened by the increase in perception such a week's events thrust upon her? In the same way she heard the chimes of a clock with heightened dread and listened to the song of a robin with an appreciation she had never quite taken before, so she noted the features of his face as if to imprint a mold in the plaster of her mind, to keep with her always in memory. As if, he, too, was temporary and would soon be gone. As if taking in the last of a pleasure that she could not keep as her own and would soon be denied.

Was it not only a few days ago that he had cast her off, informed her of his relinquishment of affection…and even friendship… for her. She had mourned him, then, feeling the value she had not fully placed on him before. Then, the news of Frederick had changed everything- as if turning back the hands of time, he had returned to her. No, not her, to her father, she tried to remind herself, tried to keep herself from further sorrow, further vain hopes.

Yet, the memories of his constant presence during this trying week kindled a flame of hope in her heart, as sore and tried as it was, that she was incapable of stifling. Surely, he was more than an indifferent acquaintance. Who that had ever seen the weight of his gaze fixed upon her could call him unfeeling? Had he not spent as much time at her side as her father's? Oh, she dared not bolster her fragile heart with such notions! But, she could not deny that only the thought of him coming to call made her fly down the stairs with a sudden spring in her step.

Only to face disappointment when it was not Mr. Thornton waiting her in the drawing room. Her guess was proved partially accurate for it was a member of the Thornton family waiting to call on her. However, it was the sole member of said family she least expected- or wished- to see.

Miss Thornton sat upright, delicately balanced against the oversized chair, her billowing folds of pink and yellow silk burying the chair like a froth of foam from an overfilled milk bucket. Next to her, Miss Thornton presided over two baskets: one filled with fruit, a side of ham, and bottles of wine, by the looks of it, and the second with piles of books and fashion plates. Miss Thornton was speaking in animated conversation with Mr. Bell and Mr. Lennox, her eyes bright as she inquired into the affairs in Oxford and London and whether they had seen any great theatrical productions or musical concerts lately. The men answered her in polite, nearly patronizing, tones and they eagerly welcomed Margaret's entrance into the room.

"Miss Hale!" Miss Thornton proclaimed, when she caught sight of Margaret. She rose to her feet in a noisy swish and slide of layers of skirts clambering against each other.

"Miss Thornton, so good of you to call," Margaret said, not quite sure whether she spoke truthfully or politely. Miss Thornton held out her hand and eagerly grasped Margaret's in her own before settling back into her chosen chair. Margaret sat beside her on the nearby settee and looked inquiringly at her guest.

"Mama sent me to sit with you this afternoon. She must tend to some affairs at the house and, besides, a companion your own age to converse with is far better, anyhow. Now, I have a basket of goods Mama sent for the benefit of your father, for she said he needs something to strengthen him. Then, I have stopped by the booksellers on my way," she said and she motioned to the baskets on the floors with all the beneficence as if they were full of the crown jewels rather than novels and grapes and sides of ham.

Margaret Hale bit back a smile and tried to thank her guest as genuinely as she could muster. She passed the basket of foodstuff to Dixon before inquiring into the affairs of Marlborough House and Miss Thornton's progress practicing her music. Miss Thornton chatted amiably, going so far as to discuss the possibility of rain that morning and a house party at the Watsons the night before.

After some time, Mr. Bell rose and gave the room-at-large an ostentatious bow. "I am afraid I must beg you both to excuse me. It will do no one any good to deprive Mr. Hale of a companion simply so I may indulge myself in the companionship of two such models of feminine charm," he said, his eyes twinkling with far too much mirth for him to be taken entirely seriously. Henry, too, bid the ladies a good afternoon and declared his intention to take care of some business affairs before returning that evening.

The sudden absence of the men made the drawing room feel empty, forcing an uncomfortable, novel intimacy between Margaret and her guest. Margaret had never spent so many minutes in conversation with Fanny Thornton and certainly not alone. She was unsure what to expect, how best to keep her guest entertained, or how long she planned to stay. She was about to open her mouth to inquire into some trifling bit of news or another when Miss Thornton leaned back in her chair in an easy, familiar way and cast a glance about the room.

"I told him these would suit better," she said, quite smugly, in a tone that assumed Margaret knew precisely what Miss Thornton was referring to.

"I beg your pardon?" Margaret asked, her eyes following Miss Thornton's sweep of the room.

"The papers on the wall. The previous ones were well enough for a stodgy old widow but I told John these would do far better."

"I do not understand."

"Oh, never you mind," Miss Thornton said, her hand flitting across her face as if to brush away her previous thought like cobwebs in a doorway. She reached forward into her remaining basket and pulled out a large stack of books. Then, she turned to Margaret with a wide grin. "I can never have enough of reading. Mama said I could buy whatever books I saw fit to bring you cheer. It is no small task, especially given the manner of books that are popular now, but I did my best. They were all stories on men chasing whales or slaves seeking freedom or unrequited lovers who make everyone around them as miserable as themselves. That would not do. I could not decide on one so I bought all the books I found of interest."

To bring you cheer.

It was the closest Miss Thornton had come to referring to the unfortunate circumstances the Hale family found themselves in… and Margaret was unsure whether she found the reprieve of mundane chatter a relief or a jarring omission. Every other visitor to the house entered with somber faces, dark brows, and a multitude of platitudes and grave condolences. There was question after question into her well-being and the affairs of her family. The tragedy of the moment cut through layers of social niceties and prompted an intimacy of speech and directness of familiarity which Margaret found refreshingly honest.

And yet… and yet… Miss Thornton was the first to approach Margaret as if simply on a social call and not as if she were a wounded animal in need of resuscitation. Perhaps, Margaret ought to feel offended that Miss Thornton did not inquire further into the true state-of-affairs or acknowledge her impending grief. Miss Thornton must know the particulars, as intimate as the other Thorntons were with the affairs of the last few days, and yet she acted as if all was well, other than the Hales requiring "cheer." It was such a flat, trite expression. As if "cheer" were a few handfuls of confectioner's sugar she could scatter about the house that could cure all.

And, perhaps it was so simple after all. Margaret couldn't help the relief she felt in simply discussing the weather and the probability of frost rather than dredging up all the misery she had stockpiled within her for another audience to see. News of social gatherings, of life continuing on in the outside world, untouched by mutinies and court martials, was a breath of fresh air. Thus, despite her initial misgivings, Margaret brought her workbox over and settled herself on her settee. Then, she nodded at Miss Thornton.

"You choose which book you wish to read," Margaret said.

It took far longer than Margaret anticipated. Miss Thornton carefully thumbed through book after book, her face shifting from various grimaces and grins as she did. Then, she settled on one and flipped through it once more. "This one is a tale of German stories for children. The bookseller assured me it ought to be fanciful and diverting," she said.

"Go ahead," Margaret said, beginning to thread her needle.

Miss Thornton cleared her throat and began, "In the old times, when it was still of some use to wish for the thing one wanted, there lived a King whose daughters were all handsome, but the youngest was so beautiful that the sun himself, who has seen so much, wondered each time he shone over her because of her beauty…"

She read about the king disguised as a frog and the princess who broke the enchantment and went on to marry the king. On and on it continued, stories of happy lives intermixed with gruesome ends. She read about the cat who stole the pot of fat from his companion mouse, before eating the mouse and the king who cut off the heads of his own children and the woman with the long hair whose love was cast from the window of a tower to wander the earth blind. Finally, Miss Thornton came to a story about a rose and Margaret tried her hardest to attend. However, the more she read, the more Margaret frowned.

"There was once a poor woman who had two children. The youngest had to go every day into the forest to fetch wood. Once when she had gone a long way to seek it, a little child, who was quite strong, came and helped her industriously to pick up the wood and carry it home, and then before a moment had passed the strange child disappeared. The child told her mother this, but at first she would not believe it. At length she brought a rose home, and told her mother that the beautiful child had given her this rose, and had told her that when it was in full bloom, he would return. The mother put the rose in water. One morning her child could not get out of bed, the mother went to the bed and found her dead, but she lay looking very happy. On the same morning, the rose was in full bloom."

"Merciful heavens, Miss Thornton! Please, no more!" Margaret cried, her eyes bright with her pleading and her hand across her mouth. "Why is it that in these stories everyone must die and in such gruesome, terrible ways! No more books, I beg you!"

Fanny cast the book away from her as if it was made of coals rather than paper and she grimaced. "The bookseller assured me this was a book appropriate for children, meant to cheer and guide and instruct. I do not agree. I beg your pardon, Miss Hale, I did not mean to upset you!"

"I do not think I will ever get the image of the poor scalding mouse or the walking sausage out of my head," Margaret said, her tone stretched between humor and disgust.

Fanny made a face. "What of the stepsisters cutting off their own feet to fit into a shoe and the birds pecking out their eyes?"

At this, both women looked at each other for a solemn moment. Then they burst into giggles- hesitant at first and then growing with momentum until tears rolled down Margaret's cheeks. It was strange to feel tears of mirth rather than grief... and she wondered how long it had been since she last laughed.

Not since Frederick's visit, at least. She mused.

"Let us write our own endings, then," Miss Thornton suggested. "I will give you the first paragraph or two and you give and ending you find fitting."

"A worthy exercise- but for another day," Margaret said. "I do not think I could bear thinking on Hansel and Gretel further. What of your fashion plates?" While discussing fashion with a woman in mourning was a strange notion to Margaret it was far preferable to listening to any more tales of wolves devouring children.

Miss Thornton's smile grew, and she eagerly moved to sit alongside Margaret on the settee. "An excellent suggestion!" She said, withdrawing her collection from her basket. "What think you of this one?"

For some time, the women glanced over colored dresses of elegant women, commenting on the combination of colors, the manner of bonnet, or the type of lace employed. After a time, there was a subtle shift, and the fashion plates were no longer as attractive but became so elaborate that they bordered on obscene. The colors were brash, the patterns unwieldy. Still, Miss Thornton eagerly asked her opinion, watching her intently for her response. For a time, Margaret attempted to answer politely, not wishing to offend her visitor. However, when Miss Thornton pointed to a particularly ostentatious gown and suggested it would suit Margaret best if it were made in orange, Margaret could hardly hold her composure.

The gaudy piece of flounced lace and bustles would have been unsuitable on Margaret's frame even in a suitable colour, but there was no gown in orange which would suit Margaret's fair complexion. She was musing over how to appropriately respond to Miss Thornton when she caught the subtle twinkle in Fanny's eye and her attempts to hide her smile - as if she were telling a joke and only waiting Margaret to catch on. It made her pause.

Was this a game? Was Miss Thornton serious at all?

"Perhaps with larger sleeves, and more lace," Margaret added tentatively, testing her companion's reaction with the suggestion. "Orange always suits me so well."

Miss Thornton positively beamed. "Excellent! Perhaps in plaid, then! With green trim!"

It was such an absurd image that Margaret could not suppress the chuckle that burst forth. "Lots of green trim," she agreed. Miss Thornton looked well-pleased with herself and brought out the next plate.

So that was it, then. To take an already gaudy garment and come up with all the ways to make in unbearably worse. This was a game even Margaret could enjoy - made all the better when Margaret brought out her pencils and attempted to sketch their "improvements." Soon the tables and chairs in the room were scattered with sketches. Both women were flushed with their mirth and sat next to each other in easy familiarity, Fanny watching as Margaret sketched their next creation, adding in her own suggestions to Margaret's strokes.

"There. It is bright enough to be noticed," Fanny mused, when Margaret had done.

"Do you choose your books with the same taste as your fashion plates?" Margaret asked, casting a wry glance at her companion.

Fanny grinned and held up the book she had read earlier. "Even worse, apparently. You shall never trust my taste in books again, I fear."

Both women burst into laughter again. "I love books which take me to other places," Fanny confessed, as if a great secret. "I've always wished to see the world… but, well, this is Milton. Through the pages of books, I can explore all of the Alhambra and the French country sides and colonies in the Americas. It is as if I have been there and I am no longer bound to the smoky, dirty streets of Milton. I can live the lives of so many other people – men and women, old and young, wealthy and poor. I can pretend, for a while, that I have been where they have been and seen what they have seen."

Margaret nodded, considering. "Your mother has never wished to leave Milton?"

Fanny shrugged. "Has not wished to leave or had no capacity to leave? I daresay, she's never even considered traveling anymore than she has wearing a color other than black.

"I have never liked black. There is too much in my house. Mama, John, the servants- everyone is always wearing black. It is too somber, too grave. I wish to add a bit of color, where I may." Fanny's blue eyes sparkled with a vibrancy, a deep well of mischief so absent from the rest of her family. "I wish to live!" She declared firmly. "All John and Mama can see is work and the mill and Milton. Day and night, night and day. I daresay the only thing John's ever done apart from work is his lessons with your father. Yet, even then he spent all his time reading the words of dead men from years long past. That's all good and well, but what of life here and now and beyond us?"

Margaret gave a fond, slightly saddened smile. "You sound like Frederick now- my brother, that is. He always wished to see the world… that is why he ran off to sea to be a sailor. He always writes the most interesting letters – of the places he's gone and all he's seen. It was as if I could see a bit of the world through his eyes."

"If I were a man, I would have gone to sea," Fanny said, quite in earnest. "Imagine, sailing the world! I keep begging John to bring me with him when he travels to London or Le Havre or even Liverpool."

"Yet, it has not ended well for Fred," Margaret whispered, finally approaching the subject heretofore unspoken between them.

"No, I suppose not... but there were years before, were there not? One's full of life and adventure?" At Margaret's nod, Fanny grew pensive. "I wonder- is it better to live a very long dull life or a very full short one? I cannot say, but then I am not so very brave and I find my adventures in a book- before going for tea in the dining room."

Margaret did not know how to answer. Of course, she wished her brother to live a long life - but enough to have kept him from going to sea? He dearly loved his life as a sailor. She did not know.

Margaret's eyes returned to the stack of books on the table and she thought over stories she had read, the lives of characters she would never meet. "Is it very faint-hearted- to wish to read only the stories which end well? Which are not so full of death and evil?" She asked.

Fanny shrugged. She did not offer any further explanation or answer. She simply sat, her layers of silk crushed against the side of the settee, and her face pursed into as serious an expression as she could muster.

"Let us read that other book," Margaret said, as if steeling herself. "The one about the Puritans in Salem, Massachusetts."

Fanny gave her a dubious arch of her eyebrow and reached for the book. "Are you certain? I hear it is quite the scandalous story of a fallen woman who does not show nearly enough shame."

"All the better," Margaret answered, reaching out to take up her sewing again. "It cannot be any worse than those children's tales."

Thus, Fanny Thornton began to read aloud again about the discovery of the embroidered letter in the Salem attic and the story of Hester Prynne.

"The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison...

"But on one side of the [prison door, and rooted almost at the threshold, was a wild rose-bush, covered, in this month of June, with its delicate gems, which might be imagined to offer their fragrance and fragile beauty to the prisoner as he went in, and to the condemned criminal as he came forth to his doom, in token that the deep heart of Nature could pity and be kind to him.

"This rose-bush, by a strange chance, has been kept alive in history... Finding it so directly on the threshold of our narrative, which is now about to issue from that inauspicious portal, we could hardly do otherwise than pluck one of its flowers, and present it to the reader. It may serve, let us hope, to symbolize some sweet moral blossom, that may be found along the track, or relieve the darkening close of a tale of human frailty and sorrow.…."

Chapter Text

Milton General Cemetery lay in a hilly wooded plot of acreage, interrupted by a lane through the middle of rows of gravestones and a low brick wall around the edges. On one side, Milton Community Park abutted the cemetery, providing a rare open place for children to play and the inhabitants of Milton to walk on a well-kept lawn and through a carefully tended grove of trees. On the other side, the cobblestones and chimneys of Milton crept in, overshadowing the trees with their impermeable grey walls and reminders of the conquest of Men over Nature.

The walk through the park and into the cemetery had always been Margaret's favorite, though it was too far to come as often as she might have wished. When she could be spared and had the strength for the long walk, she came to wander through the shade of trees and smell the sweetness of growing grasses and living things. The cemetery itself was an island of forest in the heart of the city. While the trees changed their leafy garments each season and the graves they guarded multiplied like crocuses in spring, the quiet sanctitude of the space did not shift or turn or strive to keep up with the great men of Milton around them.

By the handful of lingering brown leaves, bare grey branches, and withering grasses, the cemetery itself spoke of the turning of the seasons. There was a chill in the air which clung to the cold stone crosses and iron gates and quickened Margaret's heart. Not a drop of sunlight penetrated the thick charcoal blanket of clouds overhead and a thin layer of frost tinted the edges of the stones and the grass beneath her feet. The grey of the even rows of headstones marched on in every direction along the path. They were not all the same, though many were alike. Some gravestones stood tall and elegant, proudly proclaiming the final resting place of some grand family. Others were small and humble, penitent in death as they had been in life, hardly remembered by those who lived on without them. There were those who died without a name and those who were gathered together with all their kin in death as they had been in life. Here they would stay, while Milton powered on full steam ahead around them.

It was a fitting irony, in a way. Until the recent development of Milton Community Park, the greatest abundance of natural life in Milton was to be found in its cemeteries and church yards. It was between the graves and steeples that trees could freely grow and tower over the silent subjects holding vigil beneath their roots. It was as if only in death that the men of Milton could find their repose in the shade of a tree, in a meadow of grass. After they ceased their striving, it was then they could pay homage to the power of nature in the silence of their eternal rest. They could lay undisturbed - long enough for moss to grow on the headstones and their names and the scant details of their lives to be weathered away by wind and rain and ice.

Try as she might, as she walked through the cemetery, she could not escape from the memory of one of Fanny's terrible stories and the images it conjured. Long before princes seeking wives, birds casting ballgowns over gravestones, and stepsisters cutting off toes to fit into an ill-fitting shoe, the story of "Cinderella" had centered on the death of a beloved mother and her daughter's duty to her mother's memory.

The story said, "When she felt her end drawing near she called to her only daughter to come near her bed, and said, 'Dear child, be pious and good, and God will always take care of you, and I will look down upon you from heaven, and will be with you.' And then she closed her eyes and expired. The maiden went every day to her mother's grave and wept, and was always pious and good."

It was in her dedication to her mother's memory that Cinderella was given the aid she required and rescued from the harsh treatment of her stepmother. Ever since Fanny read that story, those words had haunted Margaret throughout her troubled night. It was not that she needed her mother to send her a new silk gown for a ball but her realization of her neglect of her duty to her mother. Since the day of her mother's funeral, Margaret had not visited her mother's grave. So caught up in Fred's departure, her father's grief, and the death of Boucher, Margaret had not mourned her mother as she ought.

Hearing what troubled her, Mrs. Thornton had sent Margaret from the house directly after breakfast on an errand to her mother's grave.

"I could not possibly leave Papa!" Margaret had protested.

"I will not leave his side," Mrs. Thornton assured her. "The fresh air and exertion will do you more good than any number of days by the fire. Your father will benefit from the return of a daughter refreshed far more than one wearied with constant vigil in the house. Go, walk, and spend some hours out-of-doors while the weather keeps."

Mr. Bell managed to coax Mr. Hale out of his room and into conversation long enough for the scones to all disappear and for him to take a turn about the house on his daughter's arm. Then, with a stern expression, Mrs. Thornton ushered Margaret from the room. Reluctantly, Margaret had fetched her shawl and gloves and left the house.

The change of sights and exercise did do her good and helped clear her mind of some of its accumulated cobwebs. Margaret far preferred the cemetery when the names on the graves were all those of strangers. To read through the births and deaths of people she had never met and held no tether on her heart proved a fertile exercise for imagination and curiosity. Now, though, it was all changed and one far corner of the Anglican side of the burial ground held a claim over her heart and she could not journey among the graves with her old indifference.

There, under an old beech tree, Margaret reached out to stroke the gravestone with one gloved hand. The smooth granite was not yet weathered by age and no moss grew on its edges. It was like her grief- young, untampered, still new and fresh. Time would dull the edges and wear on the engraved words, but not yet. The inscription was still sharp and she felt each dotted 'i' and crossed 't' like the stab of a knife in her heart.

In Memory of Maria

The Beloved Wife of Richard Hale

Who departed this life the 10th of October, 1851, in the forty-eighth year of her age

Deeply lamented by her family

Christ will Clasp That Broken Chain Closer When We Meet Again

A fresh wave of tears filled her eyes as she read the words chiseled into the granite stone. At least, in the fresh bloom of spring and the heat of summer, her mother rested beneath a glade of trees. It was a small comfort to Margaret. Yet, her heart protested. Her mother ought not to have been buried in Milton. She ought to have lived out her last days in Helstone and been buried in the cemetery of the parish she labored for most of her adult life. She ought not have died a near stranger - unknown and unmissed by the masses around her.

A fiery, blazing burst of anger flared through Margaret's chest and she fought to push the emotion away. It was not right for her to feel such and yet… she did.

She was angry her father had taken her mother away from Helstone.

She was angry her mother had not informed Margaret of her illness sooner, that she had not summoned Margaret from London earlier. The years they could have spent together, during the days her mother was still strong and whole! Why bring her back, only for those few months of the very end?

She was angry her mother had asked Margaret to write to Frederick and put her in such an impossible situation. She could not disobey her mother's urgings and yet, to bring about such an end! It fell to Margaret and not her mother to live with the effects of her final request and it was a burden Margaret did not think it right for her to bear.

She was angry that Fred heeded her request at all rather than staying in the relative safety of Cadiz. Why had her parents not informed her more fully of his affairs and the danger returning to England would have placed him in? Why must she learn all in bits and pieces and incomplete patchworks until she erred so far she could not sew it all back together again?

Ultimately, Margaret was angry with herself. She ought to have known better, been more vigilant, and not sent Fred on a fool's errand to London.

And yet, she had not known.

She felt as though her life, since she had left London to return to her parents, had been an endless series of blind fumbling and attempts to forge her way alone through the dark. A single tumble would result in irreparable damage to all those she loved and, yet, how could she make her way without a candle or even a handhold along the edge of the cavern to find her way?

No, no, she could not say she had no light to guide her way. As the daughter of a parson, she knew better. She had prayed and made her decisions the best she could, trusting in the Hands of Providence with the outcome. Had she learned nothing? She had chastised herself for proving herself faithless in the face of a police inspector and possible inquest. She must hold firm now. Like Moses and the rock that he struck, rather than speaking to, Margaret feared she would fail again.

It was hard to walk in faith when she could not see the way – but what was faith for but for the times of deepest darkness, when one's feet are most uncertain and one's way unclear?

She wandered the rows of gravestones for longer than she realized, until she noted the lateness of the hour. Mrs. Thornton had been correct. Frederick would not have to be forgotten, his name could be remembered and be forever entombed with the mother he gave his life to see. There was enough space for another name to fit below, even if no body would ever rest there.

What of the rest of the Hales? Where would her father find his final rest? And where would Margaret lay? Would they end their days as separated as their living years had been?

One thing was for certain. No Hale would be buried in Helstone, despite the many years that beloved place had been their home. That was another death she had not quite fully grieved and it lingered below the surface of her mind, like a submerged log in a river current, ready to grasp unsuspecting boats overhead in its clutches. Yet, she could not bury Helstone in the same way she buried her mother. Instead, she must bury Helstone every day by choosing to wake up and walk through and dwell fully in Milton. It was in Milton she now lived and in Milton she must make her way. She determined she would find a way to place a wreath of roses on her mother's grave. With a lingering glance at the guardian trees and the precious patches of green and growing things, she departed and reentered the chaos of living men again.

She had not gone four steps beyond the entrance to the cemetery when she heard her name. There, across the street in front of the bookseller's shop, Mr. Thornton stood. His face broke into an earnest, delighted smile, which only grew when she made her way across the street to join him.

"Mr. Thornton!" She cried warmly, her hand outstretched to eagerly clasp his.

She must have completed the necessary greetings but she hardly attended to what she said, so distracted was she by the suddenness of their meeting and the overwhelming rush of emotions she felt at coming upon him in this manner.

He had not come. Not that morning nor the day before. Now, here he was, before her.

Perhaps, if he had shown more diffidence in manner or restrained his smile, she may have managed better. However, she could hardly attend to what was going on around her when he looked at her so.

"Mother sent me to the bookseller to acquire a new sketchbook and pencils for you," he said and held up a paper-wrapped package. "I was to bring this to you at Crampton tonight… but, well, I do not think she would begrudge me giving you your gift early."

"How kind!" She said, her gratitude earnest for the thoughtfulness of the gesture. "I had wished to sketch a second likeness of… that is… I had started a portrait of Fred when he was here and I thought…." At this, Margaret's expression fell and she stared most resolutely at the path before her. "I meant to send the portrait to his betrothed. She is in Cadiz and she must know… she must be told… I must write to her."

Mr. Thornton reached out to place a hand on her arm, just long enough for her somber, grey eyes to look up at him again. "Let Mr. Bell write to her," he pressed.

Margaret took in a deep breath and threw her shoulders back, as if preparing herself for battle against him rather than simply discussing the correct author of a letter. She shook her head. "No, it must be me. We would have been sisters if not for…well… you see."

He nodded once. "I suppose you must finish your portrait, then," he said and handed the package to her gloved and trembling hands.

"Indeed. You could not have given a more timely or thoughtful gift."

He smiled warmly. "I am glad of it. I wish I could claim more due in its origin, but I am merely the messenger. Now, tell me, what errand are you on that brings you all the way out here?"

She motioned towards the open iron gates of the cemetery. "Your mother suggested I visit my mother's grave to see if we may add Frederick's name to her gravestone."

"I see," he said.

Margaret hurried to continue, "There is plenty of space on the stone and I will have Mr. Bell hire the stone mason to carve the additional phrases… Oh, Mr. Thornton, is it not terribly macabre to be planning the gravestone of a man who is not yet dead? Perhaps, I ought not to have come, but it had been so long since I ventured from the house…"

"I learned many years ago that it is not wise to argue with a directive from my mother," he said.

Margaret smiled. "That is wisdom, indeed."

"It is not a cheerful errand, but I am glad to hear it has been done," he said, as gently as he could. "Are you quite finished, then?"

"I am."

"May I accompany you home?"

"I would be most grateful," she answered honestly. She easily accepted his outstretched arm and turned in the direction of Crampton with him. At first, she made a valiant attempt at politeness. She asked him about the mill and his tasks the last day or so, though as much as she delighted in his company, she did not attend closely to his answers. Her mind remained fixed in the rows of graves she had left behind and the man, far away, held prisoner on a ship anchored somewhere off the coast of England.

"I wish I had more courage," she said, rather suddenly, interrupting Mr. Thornton's tale about fixing a loom that morning.

"I beg your pardon?" He asked in confusion.

"If all goes as expected, Fred will be buried in the naval cemetery in an unmarked grave. No rites will be said over his body. No prayers will be read or Christian service conducted. At least, I do not believe he will be gibbeted, but that is little comfort. If I were brave, perhaps I could find a way to bring him to Milton to be buried alongside Mama or find a way to have a service performed over him in secret after he is buried. It seems so small a thing to only inscribe his name on a stone."

"Unless you wish to hire unscrupulous fellows to steal his body in the dead of night, I do not believe you have many other options. His body belongs to the navy."

"I suppose I could steal the body myself, hide it in a dung cart, and transport him all the way to Milton in that manner," she replied.

"Aye. That you could… and I do not doubt you would, if you set your mind on it," he answered, a wry smile on his face. "Even if you must unearth the coffin with your own bare hands."

"No, I do not doubt you would readily believe me capable of such foolishness," she said with a self-effacing sigh. "I seem to have no qualms about setting myself and those I care about into harm's way with questionable decisions and overly emboldened directives."

"Yet you ensure the brunt of the harm falls upon your own person and you willingly take the greatest burdens upon yourself," he said. By the softness of his tone and manner she wondered if he, too, was thinking of the day of the riot and not only current circumstances.

"I wish I could do more. If I cannot help Fred in life, then in death?" She said.

Mr. Thornton looked down on her from his great height, his blue eyes kind. "We could hold no proper burial service for my father. At least he was not buried at the crossroads with a stake through his heart. If it had been a few years earlier, that would have been his fate. He was buried in the middle of the night with no service held for him. Mother read scriptures and she made me read the prayers, but only after the grave diggers had gone and no one else could hear."

"It was only you and your mother there?"

He nodded. "Fanny was far too young and we left her with a neighbor for the night. Thankfully, my father had purchased a plot in the Dissenter's Cemetery in earlier years, when the babe before Fanny succumbed to illness. He could be buried alongside her and added to her headstone with very little trouble. It was a good thing, too. Graves were hard to come by, then. It was the same time as the influenza epidemic and there were so many burials the cemetery was inundated. Mother sent me to check on the grave every day for a month to ensure no one came to make a quick shilling by stealing his body and selling it to the university."

"Where is that cemetery? I do not believe I have heard of it," she said.

John cast her a wry glance and pointed, "Yonder, there, a bit outside the city, beneath Outwood station." At Margaret's look of surprise, he continued, "That cemetery filled so quickly that it could not be used anymore. The city kept growing and land was scarce and, well, as no one had need of it anymore for its former use, the railway built Outwood Station on top. They moved some of the bodies to other parts of the city, but most are still there – including my father."

Margaret's mouth fell open and she was torn between an expression of horror and surprise. "Oh, Mr. Thornton! I cannot imagine! What can your mother think!"

He shrugged. "We were away from Milton, at the time. I was working as a draper's assistant then, some distance from Milton, and we did not find out about the construction until we returned to Milton some years later. By then, it was far too late to uproot the railroad to move my father to another place. However, I think he might be far happier where he is. He always admired the railroad."

"I am sorry you do not have a proper grave to visit."

"No, but he is still there, if I wish to speak with him. It is rare I do, but sometimes...," he said and trailed off, not finishing his thought.

"I suppose it is fitting, then, for Fred to end his days in a grave by the sea, but his name to be remembered in Milton."

"There is more you can do, I think. We may still hold a service for him, even if not an entirely proper one," he said.

"It is just the thing," she said and gratefully clasped his arm a little tighter, fighting back a rush of tears.

She looked up at him and she knew. If she asked it of him, he would find a way to bring her brother back to Milton from whatever unmarked grave he ended in. He had faced down an angry, riotous crowd because she sent him to. He had protected her from an inquest and ensured the case against her went no farther. And, how many of his precious hours had he spent sitting alongside the Hales in their grief this week? Here he was, taking time away from work to buy her pencils and paper. No, if she were to be honest with herself she knew enough of John Thornton to know.

He would go. If she asked it of him, he would go.

If she asked it of him, she would immediately feel guilty for sending him into danger.

She knew enough of herself to know she would insist on going alongside him. Just as she had the day of the riot.

It was this solid assurance in his compliance which ensured she would not dare ask it of him.

Chapter Text

"I could never be enough for her. Maria wished for greater fortune, greater affection, more time, more devotion. I never came into her presence but to be reminded of what I lacked. Eventually, I gave up trying,” Mr. Hale confessed.  It was one of those moments where he was roused from lethargy and overflowed with remonstrations from the past.  These moods came and went each day – great tides of sudden emotion and verbosity which just as suddenly lapsed into slumber again.

Mrs. Thornton sat alongside him, her knitting needles clicking together in front of her. She forced a response to Mr. Hale, but she did not think he even heard- or recognized who it was he spoke to. Such candid expressions ought not to be made in her presence and would be far more fitting for Mr. Bell’s ears, but the old scholar had stepped out with Mr. Lennox and had not returned. In truth, Mrs. Thornton did not think such confessions were proper for Margaret’s ears either and she was doubly glad the girl had agreed to walk to the cemetery. 

“What cost my conscience has claimed!” Mr. Hale continued.  “Is this my punishment?  To lose first Maria and now Frederick?  It is more than I can bear!”  Then, Mr. Hale fell into a long quotation of something or other.  It made no sense to Mrs. Thornton and so she assumed it was in some long-forgotten language, written by some long-dead poet.  The tone was eloquent and spoken with passion.  For a moment, she could see a hint of how he must have filled a Sunday pulpit, inspiring his congregants with his sermons.  She hoped he had used more English words than Greek or Latin or whatever it was he was reciting now.  She wondered if John would have understood it and her heart swelled with pride that he very well might.  Not that it was a particularly useful skill, this spouting out ancient nonsense that only the highly educated and sedentary could understand, but she was gratified that her son was quite capable of such intellectual feats – if he chose to pursue them. 

After some time, Mr. Hale finished his quotation and he turned to face her again.  “I cannot leave Maria,” he burst out, as if answering an argument that Mrs. Thornton had not made.  It was an unusually firm statement from the usually passive man.  She looked up from her knitting and was surprised to see he was waiting for an answer. 

“Where else would you go?” She asked, determining that a question would be far more effective than any trite platitudes. 

“Adam wishes us to go with him to Oxford,” he answered.  “However, I cannot leave Maria behind.  I have wronged her enough.  I must remain here until I join her.”

“What of Margaret?” Mrs. Thornton asked, her concern far more with the living daughter than the dead wife. 

"Margaret adapts well enough anywhere she is," Mr. Hale responded.

Mrs. Thornton frowned. The statement was true enough, she supposed, but there was an aspect to it that unsettled her.  Wasn't it just the fate of a woman- a wife, a daughter, a sister, a mother- to adapt " well enough" to the decisions of their menfolk?  She sighed; her attention fixed on untangling a bit of yarn.  She wondered where Margaret would choose to be, if asked.  No, Margaret would choose to remain alongside her father until he had no more use for her.  Mrs. Thornton amended her thought to wonder where Margaret would choose to be if allowed to freely decide her fate - if she ever would experience such freedom.

It was late afternoon when Mr. Bell returned. Mr. Hale had long since extinguished his wellspring of words and returned to bed.  Mrs. Thornton had eagerly welcomed the silence and set about organizing the maid and household affairs.  She was pleased to find how well the accounts were already managed and to find that a diligent feminine overseer had managed to keep the household organized - even in the midst of illness and death.  She doubted whether Mr. Hale would notice his daughter’s efforts or recognized the skills displayed, but Mrs. Thornton was glad to know the girl had some sense to her and knew what she was about when it came to running a house. 

Mrs. Thornton saw that tea was brought for Mr. Bell and he spoke flippantly of his errands about Milton.  She could tell there were weighty undercurrents which he intentionally avoided speaking of, but which were foremost on his mind.  She did not pry, but she wondered what else he knew that he did not wish to share.   When the tea tray was taken away, Mrs. Thornton rose to retrieve her work, but she paused as the sight of something caught her attention from the window.  She came closer and peered out into the charcoal grey of the November afternoon outside.  A man and woman approached- each garbed in solemn black, shadowed by the clouds overhead and the grey cobblestone road they walked on.  Yet, despite their somber dress, the pair walked arm-in-arm, their postures angled as closely together as propriety would allow.  Their steps were far too slow, as if neither was in a hurry to reach their destination.  The countenance of each proved far too pleased to belong to joint mourners and they spoke in eager, animated conversation.

 Mr. Bell, noticing her attention, came to the window and looked out for himself.  There, his gaze lingered, his attention rapt on the sight beyond. With a bemused expression, the old man looked over at Mrs. Thornton inquiringly, his raised eyebrows and merry eyes speaking his conclusions.  Before he could speak his mind, the front door opened and closed and steps were heard in the hall.  Miss Hale swept into the room, her cheeks rosy and her eyes bright.  In her hands, she clutched a brown paper-wrapped parcel.  She remained with them only long enough to give a profusion of thanks to Mrs. Thornton for her thoughtful gift, inquire after her father, and express her satisfaction with her outing.  Then, she disappeared up the stairs again to look in on her father.

Her companion did not come to the house.  John Thornton remained on the street beyond, watching until the front door closed, and then he turned back the way he had come with such a smile on his face and a lightness in his step that Mrs. Thornton was hard-pressed not to groan out loud and chide him for such a display. 

"I suppose that explains Margaret's reluctance to leave Milton," Mr. Bell observed, once Margaret was beyond stairs. Mrs. Thornton gave a huff but did not answer directly.  Mr. Bell was not dissuaded.  “Poor Mr. Lennox,” he continued.  “The family in London has been trying for some time to fix a match there, or so I’ve been told, but if the gleam in Margaret's eye and the spring in your son's step is to be believed, the poor barrister has been beat out by a Milton man."

"And why shouldn't he be? John is ten times the man that London boy is," she proclaimed, only recognizing Mr. Bell’s triumph after she had spoken and realizing he was goading her.

"And you think Miss Hale will suit? She's a London lass herself.  You’ve never been overfond of the ladies produced by our fine capital city.”

Mrs. Thornton’s initial reaction was to defend Miss Hale and proclaim she was not like those other London girls, but the very strength of her reaction made her pause and wonder at herself.  It was not even a week ago that she would have argued against the match and proclaimed Miss Hale entirely unsuitable to her son.  What had changed?  What made her respond so differently to Mr. Bell’s assertions today?

Mr. Bell spoke the truth.  Mrs. Thornton had never liked Londoners.  Southerners, in general, were a lot she could hardly understand.    Their finely dressed men with soft hands gained more praise the less work they did and their women, made of silk and lace, could no more face hardship without swooning than recognize the merit of a true Milton man. Those Southerners could never understand their Northern ways and they turned up their noses at Northerners at the first note of their accent, the first recognition of their origin beyond the southern counties of England.  For all they admired Northern monies and Northern products, they had very little patience for Northern ways or the people themselves.  Mrs. Thornton would not suffer the disdain of such people and had no use for their fine ways and even finer ideas about themselves. 

For those long years, Mrs. Thornton had watched those fine gentlemen and ladies – from both the North and South- despise her son and look down on him while he worked in the draper’s shop.  For all they required his services and admired the fine figure he cut as he assisted them with their heavy bolts of fabric, they could not respect him as a man.  As John rose in prominence and position, so did the opinions of those around him.  Those who would have once despised him began to take notice once he proved himself a man of means and influence.  Mrs. Thornton’s heart had swelled with pride as she saw her son receiving the respect and admiration which should have always been his. He earned his place by his own merit: the wisdom of his mind, the sweat of his brow, and the strength of his character. He was the same as he had ever been, only finally receiving the fruit of his labors, the recognition his excellence deserved. As much as she felt John deserved the praise directed his way, she also despised and doubted it in equal measures. If a lass would have despised him as a draper only to admire him as a master, then the woman was not to be trusted and she proved she did not know John’s worth as a man.  Hannah knew she was unfair – that she bordered dangerously close to hypocrisy for such a stance- but she could not help it.  No woman of sense would have married a draper’s assistant- no matter his character- for no man in such a position could have afforded a family.  Yet, she hated how remnants of that time, that disgrace, had lodged themselves in her son’s heart and made him carry a weight of insecurity he had never quite been able to cast off.

And the fortunes of Milton were ever-changing. Hannah knew only too well how quickly a man could topple from prominence; a house of cards tossed by a breath of wind. John knew this shifting, unsteady admiration and did not trust his reception by the women of Milton. He could not live by halves and to take a wife who admired his wealth over his person was a position he could not bear. He was too honest, too influenced by those years of ill fortune. No, his chosen wife could not love the master if she could not love the draper’s assistant.  John needed a wife who would stand by him through any change of fortune and respect him for the man he was and could be.  Hannah knew all too well how family could disown you in hard times and how it was the worst of trials which revealed the truest of loyalties. She also knew the pain and betrayal of finding one's spouse would not face the worst of life together. She would rather spare her son a marriage made of glass and hold out for one of iron.

Thus, Hannah was more than content for John to delay marriage for as long as he needed. Sometimes, she had worried about him and wished for him to have the companionship and support a wife would give. Yet, he was able to throw himself single-mindedly into his work and his position and she must also approve of that. It was what enabled him to rise to the position he now held.   Let the women of Milton admire him from afar!  He would not belong to any of them unless they could prove themselves worthy of such a man!

Then came Margaret Hale. 

The penniless daughter of a disgraced parson who had the audacity to carry herself as a queen and turn up her nose at all Milton. The Southern girl was no more impressed by the wealth of the masters than she was by the danger of a riot and yet it was this woman, of all women, who caught her son's eye.

It was absurd. It was the most foolish fancy her son had ever maintained. For all Mrs. Thornton could not understand wasting precious hours taking lessons from an old scholar, at least that pursuit was harmless enough. But to wish to wed a woman with no love of Milton, no admiration of what made a Milton man, and none of the grit and endurance of a Milton woman- why that was the utmost of foolishness and could only lead to John's unhappiness. 

Hannah knew her son. Once he set his mind on something, his mind was set.  However, she also knew enough of men to know the effect a pretty woman could have on their decision-making skills and she was surprised to find even her beloved John was not exempt from such danger. She supposed she should have considered herself fortunate that John had never been so afflicted before and that she had not seen him suffer more than one broken heart through his long years.

However, of all women in the world, why would John set his heart on this one?  It left Hannah entirely baffled. Was it all an attempt to prove himself? Was the girl a symbol of a level of status John wished to obtain or was she merely the draw of novelty and exotic difference? She was a hothouse orchid and John had grown too used to hedgerow roses to recognize their merit. Did he even know the girl or was he drawn to the idea of her, the image she represented? Hannah had hoped it would all pass, that he would recognize the ash and smoke and lack of material for his affection move on to something, someone, of true substance.

Then the strike came.

Mrs. Thornton never knew what had happened that day only that her son left the protection of the house to single-handedly face down a mob crying for his blood.  She had to assume that such foolishness must spring from the same root as his other great folly and had something to do with Miss Hale, though even then, Mrs. Thornton could not fathom how it was that the pair of them ended up facing down an angry crowd together.  Whatever the logic (or lack thereof) which compelled them to leave the safety of the mill house, John and Miss Hale found themselves the targets of ire of all the dissatisfied, angry mill hands of Milton.  All the repressed rage and building fury of every mill worker must then be directed at John – whether he was their master or not- and he must be the symbol of all that made them dissatisfied with their lots in life.  The miserable creatures would hold no qualms in using him as a scapegoat for every wrong and slight they had ever received- whether real or imagined- and Mrs. Thornton shuddered to think how it all might have ended. 

If not for Miss Hale. 

Did that woman have even an inch of self-preservation?  What compelled her to wander Milton on such a day?  Why must she throw herself in the midst of the chaos rather than choosing to keep herself safe?  Whatever it was, at the end of the day, the blows that were meant for John, she took upon herself. 

No, Mrs. Thornton was forced to reconsider Miss Hale again after that day. A woman who faced down an angry mob and placed her delicate body between certain danger and John Thornton was a rare creature and made of sterner stuff than she had anticipated. And that was what John needed. Strikes and riots and stones would come. He required a wife who would stand alongside him in the fray, make the worst endurable, and love him enough to take a blow in his stead. Hannah knew of very few Milton lasses willing to face down a mob.

What compelled a woman to take the blow meant for a man?  Was there a greater proof of love than such an act?

Mrs. Thornton might even learn to like her for it.

Until the next day changed everything again.  Miss Hale refused him, emptied her act of any meaning other than general charity - as if she'd have done the same for Slickson or Hamper or the butcher’s boy if in the same position- and she did not bother to shield John from the blow she gave herself, leaving his heart shattered in pieces. 

The pebble remained where it had fallen after the day of the riot. It had crashed against the stairs, broke in half, and now lay behind a series of crates. She had never bothered to move it. Knowing about the pebble, would Miss Hale still have done what she did? Or would she have allowed the stone to strike John instead? Was it a grander thing to imagine Miss Hale protecting a man she despised than one she loved? Which spoke better of her character? Mrs. Thornton did not know and even the idea that someone would despise her son made her ire rankle. No, there were certain levels of honesty that not even Mrs. Thornton could manage and honesty about the faults and foibles of her son was impossible, despite her intimate knowledge of them.

Hannah did not understand. What was Miss Hale about? What did she want? The incident at Outwood Station made it all clear.  Miss Hale had another lover – one she was willing to engage in all manner of morally dubious and improper activities with- and Hannah Thornton could wash her hands of the girl and praise the Almighty for sparing her son such a wife.

The past five days had forced Mrs. Thornton to change her position all over again and she wondered how many more times she must adjust her perception before she had the right of it.  After five days spent with the Hales under the most intimate settings, Hannah was forced to view the Hales not as Southerners or competition for John’s time and affection but as flawed human beings.  Hannah was forced to admit she doubted whether Margaret herself knew what she was about.  In some ways, Margaret was a proud, grown woman-all self-assurance and confidence. In other ways she was still very much a child- bound in idealistic ignorance and privileged security. She may seamlessly grace a dinner party in silk and lace but she stumbled her way through mill yards and back alleys, her mouth agape at the starving babes and dying women and desperate men she found strewn along its corners.  She had never faced hunger nor lack.  She had no conception for danger or human capacity for violence.  She had not known the ill-turn a crowd could take during the riot and it was obvious she had not realized the extent of risk she placed her brother in.  She was bold and courageous, but she required more life experience to tamper her and tether her courage to sense and the cold, hard ground of reality. There were hard decisions she had never been forced to make and so must be given leeway in her idealism.

However, Margaret Hale was not a fixed creature, set in her ways and knowledge of the world. For all her show of airs and bravado, she was still growing, still learning, still stumbling through life and, perhaps, just perhaps, she had not yet decided what she wanted or where she belonged. Yet, Hannah had to admire her ability to grow. She was not the same as when she had first come and her experiences in Milton had forced her to change. Margaret could adapt to changes of circumstance- however clumsy - and with time make the best of where she found herself. She would make friendships with people she considered worthwhile- regardless of class or status- and she would make herself thrive.  Mrs. Thornton had been surprised when the only friends of Margaret who came to call were hands from the mill.  Nicholas and Mary Higgins came by often, sometimes bringing a Boucher child, and managed to cheer Margaret up a bit. Mrs. Thornton could not approve, but she could hardly turn them away, especially seeing the delight Margaret took in such visits, but she wondered how lacking in company Margaret had been that these were the people she turned to for companionship.

She thought of the Hales- their strange decorations, their strange ways, their strange thoughts. They did not belong to Milton nor did they understand Milton ways.  They could learn, of course, if they wished it, but before Margaret could understand a Milton man she must come to respect Milton itself.  In the same way, John needed to understand Margaret's home and how things were done in the South before he could fully understand Margaret.  Had John ever truly known Margaret? Not that such intimacy was necessary before marriage. Enough marriages began with each partner in ignorance of the other and they still muddled through and learned each other as they went along, but listening to the familiar discourse between Mr. Lennox and Miss Hale revealed a far deeper friendship and knowledge of the ways of each other than Margaret shared with John. Mr. Lennox knew the Margaret Hale of London. He was surprised in the shifts he had seen in this new version of Margaret- the version who called on orphans in the Princeton district and welcomed companionship from a mill worker and his daughter- but then, this version of Margaret even caused raised eyebrows in Milton. However, John knew less about the woman, despite all his protestations of love and desire to marry her. He had not known her family or the circumstances of the mutiny. He had been ignorant of the existence of Mr. Lennox and the designs of her family for a possible alliance between them.  Her son, for all his great love and affection, had not even realized Margaret enjoyed watercolors or had a special fondness for yellow roses. 

John never could love by halves and he was just as willing to throw himself into a passion for a woman he hardly knew and prove just as devoted to her as to one he knew intimately, but it could only benefit him to know the woman a bit more... and for her to know him. Because it became just as apparent in her conversations with Miss Hale how little Margaret actually knew of John.  For him to obstinately continue in his determined affection, despite her rejection and choose to assist her and even protest his mother's ill remarks about her, spoke well of the depth of his affection. It was of sterner stuff than pure infatuation, tested and tried, and she must believe it had a more solid foundation than she originally assumed.

For, Margaret Hale was not simply a Southerner, a London lass, an outsider with fine manners and a soft tongue. Hannah thought of the rough mill hand- that union leader- standing outside six hours to speak to the master of Marlborough Mills- because Margaret had sent him. Then there was Frederick Hale- risking his neck to come to the sickbed of his dying mother- because Margaret had bid him to. There was John, facing down the mob and dismissing a case from an inquest and bothering to dress for dinner and carrying baskets of fruit like an errand boy- because of Margaret Hale. Then there was this Mr. Lennox. Hannah doubted he would have bothered to do so much if Margaret was simply a cousin-in-law. Perhaps it was Hannah's own jaded experience with family, but she doubted his interest in the fate of Frederick Hale was purely that of lines of kin. No, it was for Margaret that he did as much as he did, and it was for Margaret's sake that he remained in Milton this week, hoping to be of service to a woman he cared about. Even the grocer's boy, once faced with Margaret's denial of her presence at Outwood station, recanted rather than going against her word. No, Margaret Hale forced change, whether she wished it or not. She was a firebrand in cotton, without even knowing it. She dared the men around her to prove their mettle and showed what they were made of. With a toss of that haughty head and a flash of those expressive eyes, she called everyone around her to account and made them stand a little straighter, speak a little bolder, and act a little better than they otherwise would have done. 

Hannah never expected to admire dishonesty but knowing Miss Hale lied to the police inspector made her admire the girl all the more. Because Hannah would have done the same without hesitation. A woman who held her head high in face of the scorn of all Milton, the gossip of the town, and endured Mrs. Thornton’s own fierce upbraiding without once faltering or dropping her head or proving her own rightness to the detriment of another- that was a woman worth keeping. A woman who sacrificed her own reputation to save the life of her brother, who placed her own wellbeing at risk to protect her family- that was the manner of wife she would wish for her son.

And Miss Hale was good for John, for all she made him miserable. If she challenged him to grow and become a better man, than she would be an asset. She was not afraid to speak her mind against a room full of mill masters nor to John himself.  Hannah Thornton could even rejoice in the earlier rejection of his suit. Margaret would not be swayed by material advantage, elevation in status, or even to salvage her own reputation. No, when Margaret Hale accepted a proposal, it would be because she chose the man- and that would be an acceptance worth having.

She felt the hope growing in her. Like frost on grass, it disintegrated at the slightest pressure, fragile and delicate. Affairs remained too uncertain, too much could change. However, Hannah Thornton clearly saw how Margaret’s expression changed the moment her son walked into the room.  No longer did she look down on him or treat him with cold civility.  In the throes of grief, Margaret did not have the strength to maintain her usual stoicism. She was exhausted and even when she tried to force cheer into her manner for her father's sake, she could not maintain the charade for long. No, her emotions were written across her face like a signal flag for all to see.

Hannah Thornton did not understand it. How could the girl on one day reject her son and crush his heart, only to now stare after him with open admiration and obvious affection? She lit up like an oil lamp when he entered the room and she watched the door eagerly whenever he was away. Then, when they were together, the space between them and around them was saturated in such a tension that none (save Mr. Hale) could be oblivious to it.  It was as if two magnets pulled inextricably towards each other, forcing all the rest of the inhabitants to silently make way, to allow the pair to be pulled together by their unconscious draw.  It was enough to fill the room and make all other occupants feel the room already too full.  It was enough to make Hannah hesitant to leave the room at all.  No, she did not think Miss Hale would reject her son’s advances – at least, not now. 

Was it a true attachment on Miss Hale's side or the effect of her grief and loss impelling her to reach out for any source of affection she could grasp? It was too easy to turn to more pleasant emotions- such as attraction- in a time of grief than to wallow in the misery. Would she wake out of her infatuation, once the storm had passed, and crush her son’s heart again?

Hannah hoped not. If she were honest with herself (which she tried her hardest not to be in this case) she had to admit her own hopes had been raised. She remained unsure of the desires and intents of the girl, and was hesitant to raise her son’s hopes. All was in tumult and Miss Hale did not yet know who she wanted to become. Did she wish to become the Miss Hale of London or Helstone or Milton? She was still growing, still changing, and she had to decide for herself what she wanted.  Miss Hale needed time- but, Hannah would still do all in her power to give them both the time they needed.

Turning back to face the smug, self-satisfied Mr. Bell, Mrs. Thornton gave him a haughty toss of her own head, her eyes daring him to argue.  "Miss Hale is no London lass. Not anymore.  She's from Milton now.”

Mr. Bell gave a surprised bark of laughter before turning from the window to settle in a nearby chair.  “A Milton lass?  Truly? I admit I cannot see it and think her far more suited to life in Oxford.  Tell me, you believe she should remain in Milton, then?" Mr. Bell asked- as if Mrs. Thornton had any authority in the matter.

"No, I do not,” she answered honestly.

For the second time that day, Mr. Bell choked out a gasping, surprised laugh. "A funny matchmaker you are, Mrs. Thornton. Tell me, you wish to prove the old maxim of ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’? Or you have your own reservations about the match."

"There are circumstances you are unaware of and I think a bit of time and distance could do them both good."

“Tell me,” Mr. Bell asked, leaning forward to urge her to comply.

With a resigned sigh, Mrs. Thornton took up the chair across from him.  In as few words as she could manage, she informed him of the strike, the blow, the tittle-tattle of Milton, and the rejected proposal.  Then, she moved on to speak of the incident at Outwood Station and its aftermath.  When she had finished, Mr. Bell's initial reaction was such a raucous display of laughter that Mrs. Thornton found it quite inappropriate to the situation. She frowned and glared at him.

"Oh, what I would have given to be an observer for any of these dramatic displays!  Shakespeare himself could not have set up a better set of misunderstandings and pathos!  I see affairs are far more complicated than I assumed. And my friend Hale knows none of this?" Mr. Bell asked, wiping at his eyes with his handkerchief.  Soon he settled himself enough to switch between mirth and sobriety- a line he far too often danced upon for Mrs. Thornton to respect him or take him seriously.

"I do not know what he has been told. I think the affairs of Outwood Station were kept quiet... and I suspect he knows little of Margaret's involvement with the riot.  Mrs. Hale was ill then and I cannot see the girl speaking of such affairs and stirring up the concern of all about her."

"But a proposal- surely she would have mentioned that! However, since Richard never spoke of it to me and surely, a failed proposal between my favorite tenant and my goddaughter would be something to write about, so he must still be ignorant of all that has occurred under his nose.  I cannot say that surprises me.  You know, if it were not for the meddling and constant hints of Maria’s sister, I do not know if Richard would have ever known of her interest or gotten to the point at last.  Well, for all the twisted turns and miry paths this romance has taken thus far, I must say it looks far more promising now.  If you tried to convince me of my goddaughter’s indifference to the man, I am afraid I would have to call you either blind or a liar."

"I cannot say," she said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"Oh, do not be obtuse.  You have seen as much as I but have the benefit of far closer association with all involved.  No, as matters stand, Mr. Thornton is wise enough a man not to give up at the first sign of difficulty and has managed to steal the heart of his lady love through his dogged determination."

"That is yet to be seen," Mrs. Thornton interjected.

" Oh, it's as plain as day- even to an old bachelor like myself. No, the question is a matter of timing... and you are right- wedding directly after the scandal of her brother is not ideal for anyone involved.”

"There will be talk, Mr. Bell. There has already been talk. For all I know, the tale of her indiscretion at Outwood Station has already been attributed to John rather than some mystery lover. While Miss Hale may care very little for the tittle-tattle of Milton, Miss Hale will wish to wed of her own free will and decision and not to hush up a scandal. John visiting the Hales daily does not help quiet matters.”

“I suppose walking arm-in-arm across Milton gazing at each other like lovestruck swans, entirely unaware of the world around them will not aid matters,” Mr. Bell mused.

“If it were up to me, I would have her go away for a time, until she knows her own mind- and the choice is one that is fully hers- not compelled by circumstances."

"Ah! A woman after my own heart!  I must commend you for your wisdom, sense, and brilliance.”

Mrs. Thornton rolled her eyes.  “It is no wonder you never married, sir, if all you wish is for someone to agree with you all the time.”

“Can I be reprimanded if my ideas are the very pinnacle of sense and good judgement?  No, in this point, we are agreed, and I do believe it would be best for the Hales to relocate for a time – even for only a month or two- and that Oxford would be the ideal refuge.   Margaret will not protest if she knows it would be best for her father- which, selfish motivations aside- I believe to be the truth. Perhaps, it would not be amiss for you to share assurances of regular correspondence and visits between families- in the most proper forms of course- until her time of mourning is complete.  Why, we have a very sweet guest wing that opens into a lovely little garden.  You would find it quite charming and it would be the very place for wooing a young lady."

“Milton is just as good a place for such things,” Mrs. Thornton retorted. 

“Apparently, though I never would have believed it.  Is it the regular tradition for men to court their ladies amongst the gravestones and quaint little paths of the cemetery and there make grand promises of their love lasting forever?”

Mrs. Thornton was spared from answering such a question by Margaret’s return to the room and her settling alongside them both.

"What are you both speaking of?" She asked as she sat.

"Oh, Shakespeare and the grandeur of Oxford over Milton," Mr. Bell responded with a wink to Mrs. Thornton.  Then he proceeded to inquire into her day in such a manner that she did not ask any further questions and he did not bring up the idea of relocation again.

When John Thornton returned home from the mill that night, he found his mother waiting up for him in the dining room. Her hands busily mended a torn apron and they did not cease their activity when he sat down across from her. She inquired into his day at the mill and called for tea. It was not until the tea things were cleared away that John turned to his mother.

"I came across Miss Hale by Milton Cemetery and the bookseller's today," he told her.

"Did you now?" She responded, all her attention remaining fixed on her work, entirely unruffled by his news.

"You meddled," he accused.

"I did no such thing."

"You sent Miss Hale on a walk to the cemetery…," he began.

"Miss Hale required fresh air and exercise," she interjected, before he had finished.

He shook his head in fond exasperation. "And simultaneously you sent me a note directing me on a task a servant could have just as easily accomplished – one which placed me directly across from where you sent Miss Hale."

"You wished to be useful… and, I daresay, you did so," she said, though she lost hold of her needle as she spoke and had to bend to find it on the floor by her feet.

John began to laugh and shake his head. "I thought I was barred from the task of offering consolation."

"On your own, within the walls of the house at Crampton, yes. Beneath the open skies of Milton and chaperoned by the many eyes of passersby on the streets, I can see no harm in it. You saw Miss Hale home, then?"

"I did."

"Then you proved yourself useful."

"As you intended." John leaned over to kiss his mother on the cheek. "Thank you, Mother," he said.

Finally looking up from her apron, she smiled and clasped her hand against his face in a rare display of affection. "You are welcome."

Chapter Text

Fanny Thornton did all she could to remain still. It was a valiant effort. Ever since she was a small child, her mother had chided her for her inability to maintain a serene posture. The very command to hold still made her nearly itch with a desire to shift in her seat or tap her feet against the floor. She did her best to hold her head high, her eyes fixed on the bouquet of flowers on the table nearby.

It was quiet, too quiet. Not even a clock ticked. It was yet another reminder of how recently death had visited the house, how the affair with Frederick Hale was only one in a series of tragedies facing the Hales. The clock on the mantle of the study was still stopped- presumably on the hour of Mrs. Hale's death. No one had attempted to start the clock anew. The hall mirror remained covered with black crepe. It was said a departing spirit could get stuck in the world beyond the mirror if it had not been covered quickly enough. A black wreath hung on the door outside. Margaret's dress hung in black folds off her tall, elegant frame. It was said black was less visible to the spirits who came to gather the departed to their ranks, to protect the wearer from being called to join them prematurely. There were reminders of death everywhere- as if the dead and dying were forging their own sepulcher for the living.

Fanny hated it. She could not bear the black or the crepe or the drawn faces or the tear-stained eyes. She wished to throw open the windows and cast color back into the house and wash out the taste of it from her tongue. She wished to scrub Margaret's face so she could smile and gain colour back into her cheeks. She wished to pour out buckets full of tea and bonnets and news about ribbons until her mind was emptied of every dark and dismal thought that made her sit so grave and still and somber.

Mr. Hale already communed with ghosts and anyone who gazed upon his face could see his spirit already straddled the thin line between those who had gone before and those who remained. Margaret, though, she still lived and needed to be reminded to live and to tend to the affairs of the living, even if only through such mundane topics as the weather or the colour of fruit.

When Fanny had arrived that morning, she had been surprised to find Margaret barricaded away in her father's study. She watched for a time as Margaret wove a chestnut lock of hair into a delicate floral pattern. Once finished, it would be hung on the wall of the parlor, alongside a portrait of her mother. Fanny had read while Margaret worked, but Margaret stopped her not long after she had begun.

"Forgive me. I am melancholy today and do not believe I can attend to a story."

Fanny reluctantly stopped reading aloud, though continued reading quietly to herself. It was too quiet to remain idle and she longed for some exertion. She began to look about her, hoping to stumble upon some topic of conversation. Half-finished sketches and drawings lay scattered across the room – as if each was fervently started and then just as quickly cast aside and forgotten. Some were of roses and children playing in a garden, others the face of a man – his eyes, his brow, the lines of his smile. His features were reminiscent of Mrs. Hale and Fanny could only assume they were quick sketches of her brother. Still others were the lined eyes of a woman. Fanny could recognize the expression and color as reminiscent of Mrs. Hale. They were not finely drawn nor finished, as if they were evidence of sudden bursts of memories which Margaret feared to lose if she did not impress them immediately onto paper. As fleeting as smoke and candlelight.

She wondered if Miss Hale had slept at all or if she had spent the entire night drawing. Fanny was glad her mother had thought of procuring art supplies. If it was not so terribly improper, Fanny would have forced Margaret out of her dark, dismal house to attend a concert or to listen to the pianoforte or paint flowers in a florist's shop instead of endless copies of faces of the dead. Anything but remain where she sat, garbed in solemn black, eyes fixed on the same walls which held her last memories of both mother and brother.

"I wrote to his betrothed," Margaret said, breaking the silence of the room and drawing Fanny's attention away from the scattered sketches.

"Your brother's?"

"Yes. I sent her the newspaper articles I have saved regarding Fred's affairs… along with a picture I meant to send her."

Fanny bit her bottom lip and nodded once, unsure what else to say. She thought she ought to inquire more into this almost-sister and then she considered inquiring more into Margaret's drawings. Instead, she remained silent for a moment that stretched and carried and felt as heavy as that silent, unticking clock on the mantle.

After a time, Margaret placed down the lock of hair and her work basket. She rose from her chair and stretched her back. She paced the room three times, each time stopping before one unfinished portrait or another. Then she appeared to come to some decision. She carried an easel from a corner into the center of the room. Carefully, she gathered a paper and supplies for drawing. Her eyes flitted around the room before finally resting on Fanny.

"May I draw you?" Margaret asked.

"Of course," Fanny answered.

Margaret nodded and the warmth of her expression was the closest to a smile she had achieved that day.

Thus, Fanny Thornton smiled her prettiest smile and held as still as she could. She was no proficient in the art of sitting still and posing for an artist. However, if it inspired Margaret to draw something else, look at something else, see someone who still moved and breathed, she would do it, but with plenty of long-suffering sighs and unconscious movements. She attempted to keep her eyes fixed on the bouquet of flowers. Deep scarlet roses, tulips, carnations, marigolds, and zinnias were arranged carefully in a simple vase. She stared at the flowers, tracing their colours and shapes and imagining them each in the form of a gown. In her mind, she could see each grow and morph into the form of a woman dancing across a finely lit ballroom before turning back into a flower again. This kept her still for a time before her mind stumbled upon a question.

"'Tis a fine bouquet," Fanny observed. "Who sent it?"

"Your brother," Margaret answered.

"Ah, of course," Fanny said, considering the bouquet again more carefully.

She should have known these were from John. The flowers of friendship, loyalty, mourning, memory, grieving, and lasting affection- all the flowery things he wished he could say to Miss Hale but never seemed to have the words for. Here they were, arranged on a table, for all to see. She wondered if Miss Hale could attend to their meaning in the manner the bouquet was sent, or if she simply saw the flowers as a funeral bouquet.

"Why did you not marry John?" Fanny burst out, forsaking all attempts at holding her posture or maintaining propriety. Her ever-simmering curiosity boiled over and she fixed her eyes on the startled face of the artist. She knew she was being impertinent, but she continued anyway. "I cannot understand. He is well-established and a good man. He has a home and excellent prospects. What more is it you hope for in a husband? Is it a London man you are holding out for? I cannot blame you for that, you know. I would rather marry a London man, myself, and leave this dirty, smoky town, but I have never been to London, so it is hard." Fanny realized she was babbling on rather than permitting her companion the opportunity to answer her. She rapidly shut her mouth, but her gaze did not wander from Miss Hale's face. The moments stretched on without a response and then a deep rose crept over Margaret's features.

"I do not know," she finally answered. "I thought I knew, once, but now I am not as sure as I once was- about so many things." Margaret placed her pencil down and she wrung her charcoal-stained hands against her apron. When she looked back at Fanny, her expression was both earnest and pleading, as if begging Fanny to understand. "So much of my life has been in a constant state of transition – and change- and impermanence- and I have not had the opportunity to stop and consider... You see, I spent so many years as the companion of my cousin… And my aunt, well, she had Edith and it was all introductions and gatherings and flirtations for Edith. It was Edith who must be married off. What have I to tempt a suitor? I was but the dependent cousin, the poor daughter of a country parson.

"When not in London, I was the comfort of my parents… with Fred separated from us, they needed me so! Why, the first and only time my mother ever saw me dress for a dinner was that evening at Marlborough House last November. We never spoke of men or marriage or the prospect of me with a home of my own - apart from them. Why, I do not believe Papa has once considered it! I have never expected nor suspected myself to be the object of notice of a man. Nor can I say I have wished for it… at least... not until…," here she paused and broke off with a sigh, "I knew so very little when I first arrived in Milton and have spent the intervening months learning how little I still know."

Fanny opened her mouth as if she were about to speak, but she closed it just as quickly again. She meant to ask more, probe more, protest more, but for once, she kept quiet. She was quiet long enough for Margaret to change the subject, not allowing her to ask any further questions… questions Fanny knew John would be very interested in knowing the answers to.

It was a conversation that must remain unfinished.

Like the sketch of Fanny which, too, could not be completed.

Henry Lennox waited until the last dish had been cleared away and the inn servants dismissed. Mr. Bell, his appetite returning as the shock of the week's events slowly settled, had ordered a feast, and descended upon their supper as if it would be the last meal he would see for a week. The old man sighed in contentment after it was over and leaned back in his chair; his eyes half-closed as he luxuriated in his glass of brandy.

Henry could not imitate his companion's ease. He shifted in his seat and rumpled through the pile of letters on the table again. He already knew what each correspondence contained, but still he scanned their contents again, as if a fifth and sixth perusal would reveal any new information. Despite the languor of his posture, Mr. Bell remained alert to Henry's mood and movements. He peeked at Henry through one eye and frowned.

"Anything?" He asked, thus initiating the conversation they both knew must come.

Mr. Lennox shook his head, a frown deepening the dimples in his cheeks and darkening his brow. "Have your contacts proved themselves useful?"

Mr. Bell closed both his eyes and emptied what remained in his glass. With an audible clatter, he placed the unfortunate receptacle on the table and shook his silvered head. "I cannot understand it, Lennox. I have tried every dubious, underhanded means my wealth and properties can grant me and no amount of Midas Touch will open these doors. I must admit a profound sense of disappointment in the sudden morality of our Admiralty and our Members of Parliament. Of all times to grow a conscience and despise bribes! It is most inconvenient to me and my poor godson."

"You believe he should go free?"

"What a question! What a question! Do I believe him innocent? No. He is guilty of many a crime which our laws deem punishable by death. However, he is also my godson and thus I wish for him to go free, to hell with legalities and guilt and laws and punishments. Perhaps I prove myself a very poor upholder of justice and all the world may rejoice I am a scholar not a judge, but there it is."

Henry shook his head. He ran his fingers along the smooth, cool edge of his pocket watch and felt the gentle ticking of the hands. Time was running out.

"He is not helping himself along," Henry observed. "Lieutenant Hale still holds firm to his stance that all his wrongdoing is the fault of Captain Reid and he has even publicly decried and disowned England herself for not seeing things his way. Public praise of Spain may not be the best method to prove one is not a traitor."

"If he admitted to his wrongdoing, would it change things?" Mr. Bell asked.

"No, but he would gain more sympathy. His bursts of self-righteous passion hardly gain support among either the populace or the Admiralty."

"I wonder – is it better to admit one's guilt and accept punishment or to go to the grave decrying one's innocence, even when false? I cannot say which stance would prove more efficacious to the equanimity of a convict's last days, but there it is."

Henry had gained enough wisdom to refrain from engaging in another philosophical joust with the old man. Instead, he remained silent as Mr. Bell poured himself a second glass of brandy, all the while muttering to himself about "politicians these days" and "the foolishness of youth." Henry Lennox gave a wry half-smile and let his eyes dwell on the flames of the hearth fire. It sprang up merrily and cast warmth across his feet.

Henry looked down at the most recent batch of letters posted from Portsmouth, each in the rough hand of the subject of their discussion. There were letters to Mr. Richard Hale and Miss Margaret Hale as well- all in the care of Mr. Henry Lennox. He was given strict instructions not to deliver his letters until… until all hope of future letters was over. These were his last words, his farewell, his final account, and the sailor knew it. It was to Henry that a series of directions were given regarding the dispersal of property in Frederick Hale's possession. Bank accounts and properties in Cadiz were to be placed under the care of the Hales along with a not insignificant sum of money.

Henry wondered how Margaret would react. Could she eagerly accept this parting gift from her brother- despite the rather morally questionable sources of his funds? Mr. Bell determined it would be better to intermix her brother's gift with Mr. Hale's fortune without informing Margaret of the addition. It would be as if the money had always belonged to the Hales. Mr. Hale was in no position to bother about finances or totals or funds. Mr. Bell argued it would be best to simply wire the inheritance into Hale's London account and not say a word about it to either remaining Hale.

"I do not think either Richard or Margaret would feel easy about the inheritance," Mr. Bell admitted. "Let Fred give his final gift to his family. Goodness knows they've been through enough on his account… and Hale's been sending far more than he could really afford to support his son- who apparently was not quite as desperately in need of funds as he claimed to be."

Henry did not quite agree with Bell's summation, but he would not argue the point. This was yet another decision he would surrender to Mr. Bell's judgement and better knowledge of the family.

The men had covertly met together every day since their first meeting. Once they were sure the Hales were in the company of their other friends, the two men met to discuss the case of Frederick Hale and pull together all their connections and influences in the cause of Frederick Hale. It unsettled Henry- leaving the care of Margaret to such people as the Thorntons, but it could not be helped. Her aunt and cousin were too far to come to her side so quickly and there were few enough other people to depend on. Thus, he had very little choice but to depend on the brusque, strange Miltonian family and tend to his affairs with Mr. Bell.

It was Mr. Bell's turn to glance at his pocket watch. The man rose with all the laborious slowness of a man whose limbs were made of oak rather than flesh. He gave a regretful, conspiratorial glance at his companion and reached out to shake his hand.

"I'm afraid that is all, then," Mr. Bell said. "We have done what we could and must admit our defeat. The decision has been made."

"Will you tell them?" Henry asked.

"No."

"The verdict will be in the papers by tomorrow."

"Ensure no one reads the papers, then."

"They are sure to find out."

"I will read the papers to them myself – after. Give them this. Give them one more day. Days of tears will be plenty. I would give them one more day of hope and one less of tears."

Reluctantly, Henry nodded.

"You will stay with Margaret tomorrow?"

"Of course."

Henry Lennox had hoped this would be a short visit.

It was not.

"You are in mourning! Why are you making calls?" He had asked the next morning, when he saw her intent to leave the house with a basket on her arm.

"I am overdue a visit to the Higgins family. They have been very kind to me and Mary told me the children were inquiring after me," she said, as if that would explain her sudden desire to make calls.

"Well, allow me to accompany you, then," he said, noting that Mr. Bell sat with Mr. Hale- leaving him at his leisure to assist Margaret. He had hoped to spend the morning with her and, indeed, Mr. Bell had charged him with her care (and her distraction) - but he had not anticipated this would involve following her through progressively more densely populated areas of Milton and into the very bowels of the habitations of the mill hands. He could not believe that Mr. Hale had permitted Margaret excursions into such places and entirely on her own. Mrs. Shaw never would have permitted it.

"Margaret- why, precisely are we calling on these friends of yours?" Henry inquired, the longer they walked through ever more dilapidated sides of the city.

"They understand," Margaret answered. "Bessy- she was my first friend in Milton, you see, and she died, not three months ago. Mary came to help in the house when Fred was here. Then, these children lost their father and their mother is very ill. Papa and I have done all we can to assist, but it is very hard, and grief is…," she trailed off, her expression growing somber. "Grief is easier to carry when it is shared with others who understand."

Margaret tried to explain her relationship with this family of mill hands. She spoke of strikes and unions and masters and men. She spoke of cotton and trade, mills and Irish workers, and then there were soldiers and stones.

"Nicholas Higgins helped organize the strike... the strike which put Thornton's mill at risk... and Boucher helped end the strike by instigating a riot... now, Higgins takes care of Boucher's children while Thornton has hired on Higgins?" Henry surmised, at the end of her tale.

Margaret nodded. Henry frowned and rubbed at his temples. "Yet, if the mill flounders from the effects of the strike, Thornton, Higgins and Boucher's children will all suffer."

"Yes. Yet, each side thought themselves in the right and they would not speak with the other or note the justice of the other's cause," Margaret explained.

"I see," Henry said.

In truth, he did not actually see. He was more confused than he had been when they started, but he continued to accompany Margaret anyway. Margaret easily made her way through the dirty, crowded streets with all the ease and confidence of a well-practiced dance- giving evidence this was a route she regularly took. Then she ushered him into the small home inhabited by a gaggle of children. A woman- hardly more than a girl- with a great stout frame and hesitant movements bustled around the kitchen. She spoke little- only answering questions posed by Miss Hale and hardly meeting his eye or noting his existence at all- other than to blush brightly and chide the child nearby him from pestering him with impertinence.

"Father's at th' mill," Mary Higgins whispered to Margaret, her eyes bright with emotion.

Margaret's answering smile was warm and wide. "I am glad."

It was Margaret who begged him to sit down beside the fire in a chair. Then she placed a small child in his arms; a glorious smile gracing her beautiful face in response to his acquiescence. "There, now, Henry. You have enough experience as an uncle now to hold Johnny while I help his sister with her letters," she said, humor in her voice.

Reluctantly, he held the grubby, squirrelly child on his lap, inwardly lamenting the dust now coating his freshly pressed trousers. Margaret assisted a young girl with her book of letters, helping her sound out the words and teaching her a rhyme to help her remember. Two other girls watched and mimicked her – at least until a riot of young boys tumbled through the door and fell in a heap upon the floor, disrupting the chants of their sisters. Noting Margaret, they immediately quieted, stood up straight, and greeted her. With a toss of her head, she directed them to the basket of bread, cheese, cold meat, and jam on the table. They fell upon this bounty as if it had fallen from heaven itself and soon their cheeks were orange with marmalade and their fingers smudged.

She introduced each to Henry, but he could not keep track of so many names at once. Soon, a brash, bold lad of around four came to question him about his pocket watch and his cravat and whether he had ever eaten marmalade before. It took Margaret's assistance for him to understand the thick Darkshire accent of the boy. Henry could hardly understand the boy, yet Margaret easily comprehended all he said. Margaret Hale moved with the ease and familiarity of a frequent visitor in the house. She came often enough for the children to know her and treat her as something other than an interloper.

At one point, Margaret made her way to where Mary tended to a boiling stew and they began to talk in hushed voices. Over the din of the children, it was hard to hear all they said, but Henry could just make out bits and pieces of their conversation.

"O', wench, is it true?" Mary asked, casting a furtive glance to where Henry sat, and then back to Margaret. "It were th' tittle-tattle o' th' mill- th' master missing his days o' work this week fo' business other than th' mill. Then, there's talk o' th' arrest o' th' mutineer called 'Hale'…Were it your brother they caught?"

Margaret could only nod once, her eyes downcast, and then she burst into tears. Mary reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. She did not say another word, but remained with Margaret's head on her shoulder, anxiously wringing her hands in her soiled apron while Margaret wept.

Why these people, of all the people in Milton? Henry wondered to himself.

Henry Lennox was no prophet but, in that moment, as he watched Mary Higgins comfort the weeping Margaret Hale, he had a vision of the future he knew with absolute clarity would come to pass. Margaret Hale was the bridge, the patchwork square that once sewn on would hold the rest of the seams together.

Chapter Text

John Thornton descended from his carriage far later than he had hoped after attending to a broken loom at the mill. The minutes had passed by like hours as he saw to the machine and closed the mill for the night. It was a brisk, chilly night and so he did not begrudge the carriage. Afterall, he had promised his mother he would see his sister home.

It was a strange thought – all these hours shared between Fanny and Margaret. He could not deny he was nearly bursting with curiosity to discover just what they spoke about when they were together. They were so different and yet they must have come into some accord, if what his mother assured him was to be believed. It was hardly fair that his sister – with her former indifference and ambivalence to the Hales- should be permitted so many hours in solemn conference with Margaret and he, who loved her so well, could only grasp stolen snatches of moments in company or when he caught her out on a walk. He sighed and chastised himself for his petulance… and impatience. He ought to rejoice in any companion who brought comfort to Margaret, especially during these hours when he knew it could not be himself. Who better than his mother and sister?

Now, though, he could not hide his anticipation as he drew near her home. John descended from the carriage and noted which windows of the Crampton house remained lit with the soft glow of candles behind the thick curtains. He could tell the parlor and kitchen remained inhabited and perhaps one of the upper bedrooms, but he was not certain which room belonged to which occupant. He was craning his head to see the windows on the uppermost floor when he heard his name called.

"Thornton! Good man! You have come just in time!"

John started and looked down to see Mr. Bell. The man wore a broad grin on his face- an unexpected and rare appearance compared with the dour expression that permeated his features during the previous days of this week.

"Mr. Bell. How do you do?"

"Oh, you have no idea how difficult this evening has been for me, Thornton! I ought not find anything humorous during such a week, but, if I was in the mood for amusement, this evening would have provided enough fodder for days."

"What has occurred?" John asked.

"The Hales had a very unexpected caller today, well, unexpected to me more so than to the Hales themselves. The fellow is a great friend of the family, I gather, though I would never have expected it. A mill hand, works for you, as it turns out, came to offer his condolences to the Hales."

"That would be Higgins, I expect."

"The very man! Yes! You see, it turns out that our Miss Hale once befriended the man's ailing daughter. And, the good parson's daughter that she is, she called upon them with a charity basket whenever hard times befell their family. Well, these Miltoners are a long way from Helstone and the Higgins family got it into their heads that this custom is a peculiarity of people from the South during a difficult time. So, the remaining daughter of this Mr. Higgins, knowing what a loss is facing the Hales, got it into her head to make a basket for the Hales in return. Sent her father over with it, too. Apparently after the death of the elder daughter, Mr. Hale did a deal in raising Higgins' spirits and he figured it was his turn to return the favor.

"Well, I wish you could have seen Margaret's face when Higgins handed her a basket and said he had 'come to keep her father from the gin house,' though, by the looks of it, I do believe the man snuck a small bottle of gin in that basket. Quite the generous offering, that, from such a family. Then there was some stew and bread. They must have taken quite the fancy to our Hales to be so generous. Well, Margaret was so dumbfounded she turned as red as a plum tart and could hardly find her words for five minutes all together."

John bit back a smile. "I wish I might have seen that."

"Well, for all the man is a rough fellow with boots that made Dixon nearly swoon, he's spent the better part of an hour with Richard and I only later realized he's the only one of the lot of us who has ever lost a wife and grown child. For all I never would have believed it, it just so happens he's been the best comfort for our old friend after all. I've left them to it and am just heading out to meet with Lennox."

"Higgins is still here, then?"

"That he is. He's holed up in Hale's study."

John smiled in earnest, then, at the discordant image of the rough mill hand giving words of wisdom to his old, learned tutor.

"I removed the bottle of gin before Margaret could come across it and have her delicate sensibilities offended. I believe Lennox and I are in far more need of it than Richard. You are welcome to join us at the inn, once you have completed your errand," Bell continued. "You have come to fetch your sister, I imagine." At John's nod of assent, the old man gave a mischievous smile. "I am no expert in the goings on of young females, but I do believe Miss Thornton has proved herself a good companion for my dear goddaughter. Knowing you and your mother as I do, I should not be surprised that Miss Thornton would have her own portion of Thornton loyalty, but there it is. She has stayed with Margaret all this long day and doing whatever young ladies do when they are holed up together. I believe drawings and sewing was involved. Perhaps some lace or demure poetry. I tried to join their company at one point. Then I discovered they were speaking matters of marriage and beaus and I admit this old bachelor rather fled the other way rather than intrude on such a conversation. Well, I'll be off then. Good night to you."

At this, Mr. Bell gave John a wink, shook his hand, and disappeared down the street, leaving John standing frozen in place on the steps to the house. It took John a moment or two to rouse himself and realize that Bell was gone. He glared back in the way the old man had gone and shook his head. Then, he rang the bell. It was Dixon who answered the bell, her eyes red-rimmed, but her movements prompt and uncharacteristically humble.

Apparently, his mother's chastisement of the maid had done its office, he noted to himself.

He was ushered into the parlor where he found Fanny and Margaret sitting across from each other, each with a workbasket at their feet and their fingers busily commanding a needle and thread.

"Oh, John!" Fanny said, her voice and eyes bright. "Come all this way just to escort me home? What a thoughtful, gallant brother you are! Strange. You so rarely escort me home from my visits to Miss Slickson or Miss Hamper," and her tone turned teasing as she spoke.

"Crampton is quite a distance farther than the Slickson's or Hamper's," he responded sharply.

"Oh, it cannot be much farther," Fanny replied with an airy cast of her hand.

John chose to ignore her and turn to her companion. "You are well, Miss Hale?" He inquired, leaning down to shake her hand.

She gave a brief nod, her eyes refusing to leave his just as surely as her hand stayed in place beneath his. She was so pale, so drawn. He felt overcome by all the words he wished to say, the questions he wished to ask. He gently squeezed her palm and was about to speak again when his sister interrupted.

"Well, let us be off then. I've been here the better part of the day and I'm ready to return home," she said as she rose to leave.

John frowned and was about to insist they remain longer when he realized she had already swept out of the room. He sighed and cast Miss Hale an apologetic smile.

"I will come as early as I am able tomorrow," he promised.

"We will be glad to see you, Mr. Thornton," she said, her grey eyes flagrant in their sincerity. He nearly forgot to follow after his sister in that moment, but a cleared throat from the hall goaded him onward.

"Why so hasty, Fanny?" he protested, once they were in the carriage together. His sister cast him a smile that was far too knowing and she failed to answer. Instead, she held up a partially finished drawing in her hand. It was not a particularly adept pencil sketch and if it were not for Fanny's explanation that she was the subject, he might have guessed it was any number of women.

"I do not understand. I thought Miss Hale quite proficient in drawing," John said, only belatedly realizing the unintended insult in his response.

"Aye, that she is," Fanny answered with a giggle. "Her mind was not fully taken to drawing today, I am afraid. Perhaps I do not make a compelling subject and she would do better if it were you sitting before her. Then, I imagine she would attend far more diligently. However, it was far better she draw poorly than to mope about and be melancholy. I will try not to take offense at her lack of enthusiasm with my person as her subject."

"Fanny...," he began, but his sister handed him the sketch and began to rummage through her basket. "Here, this one is far better," she said, holding up a watercolour of a cottage by a stream.

"It is. I imagine that is Helstone."

"Yes. She spoke of Helstone at great length today. I have rather taken a fancy to the notion of seeing it myself one day, even if it is not so grand as London or as romantic as Spain."

"Helstone is far easier to reach than Spain."

"So it is. You know, you and Margaret's brother are not so very different in age," his sister remarked, taking him by surprise both with her shift in subject and with her comparison.

"No, I suppose not," he answered.

She appeared thoughtful for a few moments before continuing, "Imagine if you had gone to sea when you were a lad? It would have just been Mother and I. I rather think I would have liked it."

He snorted. "What would you have eaten?"

"Oh, I would have eaten your share at meals"

"You already ate my portion at meals, even with me there, but my income as a sailor would hardly have kept you fed."

"Would it have been so different from your salary as a draper's assistant?"

"I do not know. But I do not like the thought of you and Mother on your own."

"Of course you wouldn't," she said with an exaggerated scoff. "You and Mother could not bear to be parted, in any case. I've no doubt she'd have gone to sea with you if you had tried to go. Then she'd have made her way to become an admiral before any were the wiser and then where would we be?"

"Somewhere in the Caribbean, no doubt."

"Or off the coast of Spain," she said, her voice becoming whimsical and her eyes obviously fixed on the Alhambra and not Milton.

They fell silent for a few minutes as the carriage continued to bump its way along the dark, lamplit streets. A handful of vendors remained on the roads, catching what remaining customers they could for the night. John's thoughts remained fixed within the parlor of the Crampton house when his sister interrupted his musings again.

"John?"

"Fanny."

"Margaret asked me about Father."

"Did she?"

"I do not believe another soul has ever asked me to speak about Father."

"Did you?"

"I tried. But, John, I do not remember him. At least, not much."

"You were a might young, then."

"You remember him?"

"I was fifteen when he died, Fanny."

"Of course. You have always been old, ever since I was born, and you are older still," she said, her head thrown back to challenge him to oppose her. When he didn't, she grew serious again. "I remember more of you from then, but him? There are only bits and pieces. I remember his dark hair and the smell of gin and cigars. I remember rooms full of men with dark coats and large laughs. He brought me home a lovely doll once and liked to pinch my cheek. And then I remember seeing him so still and silent and Mother cried when we weren't attending and then she pretended she had no tears. Then, we left that old house and there were no more sweets and we took our tea without sugar. That is all."

"Do you wish you remembered more?"

"No… it is only…oh, never mind."

There had been a blanket of uncomfortable silence around George Thornton, ever since the day he was buried. It was a thick, deep, smothering omission – all the more obvious for its silence. It was comforting, in a way, to think Margaret could sympathize with that sentiment. How long had it been since she could openly speak of her brother?

He was about to comment on this to his sister when Fanny spoke first. She began to describe in great detail how she had spent her time that day and he was glad of it. At least, if he could not be there with her, he could know how she spent the long hours of these interminable days of waiting.

"Wouldn't you like to know what Margaret and I spoke of all day?" she asked, after describing books and drawing and tea. By the coquettish smile on her face, John knew she must be trying to incite his curiosity.

"It is not my place to inquire," he said, secretly hoping her own desire to impart news would overcome his scruples and her judgement.

She cast him a sideways glance and then looked down to pick at the edges of her gloves. "We spoke of you, but I shall not tell you any details because it will bother you all the more not to know."

"Fanny…" he protested, but it only made her grin wider.

"Oh, she did take a liking to those flowers you sent. They were lovely, John," Fanny added.

"I'm glad," he answered, smiling more broadly than he ought. "Anything else I ought to know?"

"Oh, no. Not that I can tell without breaking a confidence… and I make it a point to always keep secrets that are entrusted to me."

"Fanny, you have never kept a secret in your life."

"What better way to learn than by keeping one now?" she answered and then made a show of closing her lips.

For the first time in his life, John Thornton wished his sister would loosen her tongue.

Oooo

It was early the next morning when everything changed again. John had been surprised not to find his mother waiting for him at breakfast. He doubted his mother remained abed but he wondered where she had gone to so early. Then again, they had frequently missed crossing paths with each other this week.

What a strange, terrible, wonderful, awful week it had been! Had it been only a week? He glanced down at his morning paper to confirm and it was true. Oh, how much had happened!

He just as quickly forgot all about the date and days and times as his eyes fell upon that headline – the one they had all been waiting for and dreading each day since this all began.

...

Execution of Frederick Hale for Mutiny. Victory, Friday Evening.

Yesterday the seaman of the Russell, under Captain Reid, Frederick Hale who was found guilty in being concerned in the mutiny onboard that ship on the 15th of June, 1845 and sentenced to death by a Court Martial, was executed at the fore-yard arm of the HMS Victory, Admiral Young. In the morning at eight o'clock, a gun was fired from on board his Majesty's ship, HMS Sparrow lying off the coast, Vice Admiral Arthur's flag ship, and the yellow flag, the signal of capital punishment, was hoisted, which was immediately repeated by the Victory hoisting the same colour on her fore top. Each ship in the fleet at this time sent a boat off with a Lieutenant, and a party of marines, to attend the Victory; and the crews of all were piped to the forecastle, and the marines drawn up on the quarter-decks, to be witnesses of the execution. The prisoner, who had taken his usual repast in the berth allotted him in the gun-room, was awakened a little after six o'clock from a sound sleep by the Provost Martial, who, with a sword drawn and with a file of marines, became his guard: he arose with cheerfulness, and requested permission might be asked for a barber to attend him, which was granted; he soon dressed himself in a neat suit of mourning, (waistcoat excepted) sent him by a friend. He then took his breakfast, talked of the last letter he had written; and after that lamented the misfortune that had been brought on by the mutiny.

At half past eight, he was told the Chaplain of the ship was ready to attend him to prayers upon the quarter-deck, which he immediately ascended, uncovered; at his first entrance on deck he looked a little paler than common, but soon recovered his usual complexion; he bowed to the witnesses, and a chair being allowed him, he sat down a few moments, and steadily surveyed the military array of marines under arms, round, the deck; he arose, and told the Clergyman he wished to attend him; the Chaplain informed him he had selected two Psalms appropriate to his situation: to which the prisoner assented. At nine o'clock the preparatory gun was fired from the Sparrow, which he heard without the smallest emotion. Prayers being soon after closed, he rose. His arms being now bound, the solemn procession moved from the quarter deck to the forecastle. The whole passed through a double file of marines on the starboard side to a platform erected on the forecastle with an elevated projection. Arriving there, he knelt with the Chaplain, and joined in some devout ejaculations; to all which he repeated loudly, "Amen". Rising again, the Admiral's warrant: of execution, addressed to Captain Moss, was now read by the Clerks, in which the sentence of the Court Martial, Order of the Board of Admiralty, and her Majesty's approbation of the whole proceedings, were fully recited, which the prisoner heard with great attention, and bowed his head, as if in assent, at the close of it.

He now requested "a minute to collect himself," and knelt down alone about that space of time; then rising up, said, "I am ready," and holding his head up with considerable dignity. The Marshal Provost placed the halter over his head, (which had been prepared with grease). The baiter was then spliced to the reeved rope; all this being adjusted, the Marshall attempted to put a cap on which he refused: but on being told it was indispensable, he submitted, requesting it might not be pulled over his eyes till he desired it.

He then took leave of the ship's company, saying this was the happiest moment of his life; but although he had committed crimes sufficient to sentence him to death, and acknowledged the justice of his sentence, yet he denied being concerned in the commission of the crime for which he was to suffer, although he was convicted on the clearest evidence. He now ascended the platform. Then the cap being drawn over his face, waiting by firm degrees up to the extremity of the scaffold and at the moment as he was springing off, the fatal bow-gun fired, and the reeve-rope catching him, run him up, though not with great velocity, to the yard-arm! When suspended about midway, by the elasticity of the rope, his body appeared extremely convulsed for a few seconds, immediately after which no appearance of life remained and he was launched into eternity.

All the boats in the fleet attended, manned, and armed round the flag ship, to witness this awful execution for piracy, mutiny and treason.

He suffered at exactly half past nine, and was lowered down, after hanging at the yard arm a full hour, when the yellow flag was struck, and his body instantly put into a boat, put into a shell, and carried ashore for internment in the new naval burying ground. He was interred exactly at noon.

May his unhappy fate have a proper influence on all those British seamen who were called to view his execution or who hear of his rebellion.

...

There it was. The end. It was all over, John Thornton thought to himself.

He clutched the morning paper in his hands, his heart sinking as he read the newsprint before him. Without a second thought he rose and quickly made his way to the front door, paper still clutched in his hands.

Chapter Text

John Thornton found the Crampton house entirely silent. Not even Dixon made a sound. There was no evidence of disarray or toppled crockery within, but only an oppressive, unnatural lack of disturbance. It was his mother's servant who opened the door and ushered him in, her voice dropped into a delicate whisper.

"Mrs. Thornton's above stairs w' Miss Hale," the girl informed him, assuming correctly what his first inquiries would be. "Mr. Bell sits w' Mr. Hale in his bedroom. Mr. Lennox waits in th' parlor."

"Thank you, Maddie," he said. Then he removed his hat and coat and ran a hand through his hair. He hesitated over which direction he ought to go next. It would not be proper to join his mother nor did he think it right for him to intrude on Mr. Hale. Yet, he would much rather not indulge in a private tête-à-tête with Mr. Lennox. However, departing out the door and missing any opportunity of seeing Margaret was a far worse prospect than being trapped in a parlor with a London lawyer. He would just have to force his way into conversation with Mr. Lennox.

While Mr. Lennox had been everything that was helpful and accommodating to the Hales, and really, John should feel more gratitude towards the man, John couldn't help his instinctive aversion. Since their first introduction, John had the uncomfortable suspicion that Mr. Lennox cared about Margaret as more than a family relation. It was in the controlled manner of his gaze, his dedication to this cause, and the way he projected aloofness and yet remained at her side- as if caught in a push and pull around Margaret that was all too familiar to John's sore heart. John did not wish for every new acquaintance of Margaret to cause him to spiral into a new bout of jealousy and yet… and yet… he still managed to compare himself to every young man she was close to- relation or otherwise- and find himself lacking. John was jealous for her attention, her admiration, her requests for assistance. Why had she sought out this Lennox and told him all before seeking out John? What would prevent her from seeking Mr. Lennox out in the future? Would not this Lennox be a more preferable choice for her to wed? it would be so simple, so easy, so acceptable for all involved. Mr. Lennox was suave and intelligent and he cared deeply for her. He was hard working and willing to go to great lengths to assist her with such a precarious series of events. He was already accepted by her friends and relations.

And yet… and yet… this week had infused a small and audacious part of John's heart with a fragile bloom of hope.

No fine London relation would discourage him, unless it was Margaret, herself, who sent him away. With a determined step, Thornton opened the parlor door. Mr. Lennox stood next to the fireplace, his back towards the door and his entire posture in an air of resignation. His cravat was loose around his neck and he held his pocket watch in one hand. He turned as he heard the door open and gave John a curt nod.

"You have read the paper, then?" Mr. Lennox said, without any other preamble.

"Yes," John said and held it up before him as evidence, as if Mr. Lennox required such proof.

"I rather wish we had been spared some of the details," Mr. Lennox observed grimly. "And that the Hales had not been so interested in reading the article themselves."

Thornton sighed. As Mr. Lennox made no invitation for him to sit and dispensed with any pleasantries, John settled himself ungracefully into the nearby settee. He threw the paper onto the table and rubbed his hands over his face. "Were you here, then? When they read it?"

Mr. Lennox nodded and moved to take the seat across from John. He motioned to the paper and grimaced. "Bell hid yesterday's paper when they announced the verdict and upcoming execution. I rather think I would have preferred they read that one and we hid this one instead. Or threw it into the fireplace. Well, what's done is done. Now, it's over and there's no good in quibbling over what might have been done instead. At least Bell had the foresight to ensure your mother was here early this morning, before the paper arrived. Margaret swooned as soon as she read the first paragraph."

"It is all over, then," John mused, not truly understanding what he said or why.

"It is."

For a time, the pair of companions sat in a thick, distracted silence. John was grateful that Mr. Lennox was not inclined to small talk or politeness this morning and he was surprised to realize he far preferred the lawyer's company at this moment over Mr. Bell's ceaseless chatter and provocative flippancy. A quarter of an hour passed in this manner before footsteps were heard on the stairs. Both men looked up as Margaret quietly crept into the parlor, Mrs. Thornton following close behind.

Oh, his Margaret! Her face was swollen with tears and her grey eyes haunted. Everything about her spoke of hours of restless toil and grief. She was raw with a desperate beauty, an unvarnished emotion. Was it strange he found her more beautiful like this than ever she was at the dinner party in all her silk and jewelry? With her prepossession gone, her air of haughtiness sapped like a felled conifer set out to dry, here she stood, glorious and desperate. He longed, more than he ever had, to wrap her in his embrace and speak words of comfort into her ear. Then, he would kiss his way down the line of her neck and feel those light, elegant tapered fingers in his hair.

A cleared throat woke him from his reverie and he realized he had been staring – gawking, really - his emotion far too openly displayed before the company on such an occasion and he felt a flush of mortification creep across his face. His mother's eyes flew upward, as if in supplication to the heavens, and she subtly shook her head. Then, with a sturdy determination in her movement, she crossed the room and settled herself next to Mr. Lennox. She began to ask him a series of inconsequential questions, exerting herself to engage him in conversation.

"Mr. Thornton," came Margaret's soft voice nearby, summoning his attention, and he felt his hand enfolded in hers.

He looked up, clasped her hand in his, and did not know whether to smile or weep for the openness in her countenance and the warmth in her expression as she looked back at him.

"You have all my condolences, Miss Hale," he said, pressing her hand between both of his, attempting to infuse the small gesture with as much earnestness and comfort as he could.

She inhaled deeply, struggling to restrain a violent well of emotions. "At least now it is done. We no longer must wait. The waiting has been so very terrible."

He nodded.

"Thank you… for coming… and being here," she continued, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

"Of course. There is no other place I would wish to be."

He remained by her side as long as he could, quietly speaking to her and inquiring into her well-being. It was only when she was summoned to sit with her father that he left her and made his way to the mill and forced himself to attend to his work.

Oooooo

It was midnight. The glow of the lamps cast flickering tongues of light into the cruel, bitter darkness. Long shadows of the headstones around them danced against the darkness, fading into the leafless, wintry trees of the cemetery keeping vigil over them. A small gathering met alongside the grave of Maria Hale. A new entry had been inscribed into the headstone to keep the former company until weathering, erosion, and human progress forced the words into obscurity.

In Memory of Maria

The Beloved Wife of Richard Hale

Who departed this life the 10th of October, 1851, in the forty-eighth year of her age

Deeply lamented by her family

Christ will Clasp That Broken Chain Closer When We Meet Again

Also of

Frederick Hale

Son of Richard & Maria Hale

Who departed this life the 7th of November, 1851, in the twenty-seventh year of his age

Though Lost to Sight to Memory Dear

A chorus of quiet voices spoke into the graveyard together:

"Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with the saints:

where sorrow and pain are no more,

neither sighing, but life everlasting."

A lone voice responded:

"You only are immortal, the creator and maker of all:

and we are mortal, formed from the dust of the earth,

and unto earth shall we return.

For so you ordained when you created me, saying:

'Dust you are and to dust you shall return.'

All of us go down to the dust,

yet weeping at the grave we make our song:

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia."

The chorus of voices responded:

"Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with the saints:

where sorrow and pain are no more,

neither sighing, but life everlasting."

At first Mr. Bell and then Mr. Lennox led the prayers and spoke words in remembrance of Frederick Hale. Mr. Hale could not speak the well-worn words, despite knowing each and every line by heart. Mr. Bell agreed to read them instead, though he protested it was near-sacrilegious for him to perform such an office. Mr. Lennox held up one lamp and Mrs. Thornton the other. Between them, they supported both Hales. Behind them, Nicholas and Mary quietly held vigil with them, repeating the words Mr. Bell instructed for them to say and remaining quiet through the prayers for his soul.

"Nothing proper about this," Dixon had protested. "Master Frederick ought to have been buried in Helstone. His body ought to be laid to rest here alongside his mother and not in some unconsecrated ground far from any who knew him."

"My dear Miss Dixon," Mr. Bell had responded. "None of us present disagree with you. The unconsecrated ground of a naval cemetery is hardly what any of us would have chosen. However, as the lad is already good and buried, the least we can do is to say the rites over his soul that were not spoken over his body."

Thus, despite all her tears and grumbling, Dixon still attended their unorthodox night service. Fanny Thornton, on the other hand, did not.

"John, you cannot ask it of me! I will spend all day tomorrow and the day after with Miss Hale if you ask it, but do not make me stand in a cold graveyard in the middle of the night surrounded by ghosts! I will not do it!"

Mrs. Thornton had grumbled something unintelligible under her breath, but both Thorntons let Fanny remain abed while they joined the somber procession of the last remembrance of Frederick Hale.

While they spoke, John's mind conjured up the only image he had of the young man they honored. He only had one memory from the single moment their paths had crossed. His tormented mind had played that moment over and over again in his mind after that night, as if he were a dog running on a wheel to turn a spit. He had once been so jealous of that man- back before, back when he believed him to be a rival for Margaret's affections… and so he had been, but not the affections that Thornton sought to claim as his own. No, this man owned an entirely different part of Margaret's heart and thus her loyalty belonged to him… that unfailing, unflinching devotion which caused her to fail her own moral code, lie to a police inspector, and face even the conjoined derision and judgement of the Thorntons and all Milton. Yes, when Margaret loved, she did so entirely, unreservedly. And she had loved this Frederick Hale with all her heart.

John's jealousy for the man vanished the moment he read that accursed article, the one that stated his unholy fate. He could not wish to exchange places with a man on the yard-arm for this man would remain separated from Margaret during all that remained of her waking days. And John would continue living - beside her, if he could help it.

Yet, there was a certain amount of sorrow for the man he had never met, the one he felt as if he knew for all the stories Margaret and Mr. Hale had told him over the last few days. This was a man he wished he could have known better, truly gained as a brother. But that would never be.

Frederick Hale met his fate on a rope hung from the yard-arm, hung for mutiny, caught for the crime of fulfilling his dying mother's last wish. Now, her wish was fulfilled and her beloved son would join her in the life to come, never to be parted from her again.

ooooooooooooo

In the aftermath of the loss of his son, Mr. Hale was entirely struck down by his grief. It was this debilitating loss and the weight of memories that assaulted him in every room of the house which compelled Margaret to reluctantly agree to Mr. Bell's scheme.

"My dear Margaret, you do not need to relocate permanently, at least not yet. Come to Oxford for some few months. Allow me and some of your father's oldest friends to keep him company and try to draw him out of his grief. Let him walk the grounds of the place he once loved so dearly and be reminded of happier times. Let my servants look after you both and give yourself the time you need to rest and grieve as well."

Perhaps, if she were not so very weary and so bone-achingly sad, she might have fought more against the scheme, but in the grey, dreary days of a Milton winter, with the prospect of even longer, drearier days in the months ahead, the allure of a change of place and a time of rest was more than she could bear. Perhaps, even then, she would have fought harder, if not for the intervention of Mrs. Thornton.

"Margaret, you will write to me- as often as you wish, and you will know your friends here are thinking of you often," she commanded- and suspecting the true motivation for her reluctance, she continued, "once you are settled in well and your father is improving, we will come and visit- John and Fanny and I."

"Oh, but to be so far away from Milton and our friends here!" Margaret cried.

"Milton will still be here waiting for you to return," Mrs. Thornton said.

It was decided, then, that three weeks hence the Hales would follow after Mr. Bell and stay in Oxford for some months. Mr. Bell would return to Oxford immediately with a promise to prepare affairs for them as quickly as he could.

"What is Milton to you? I do not see you so eager to return to Harley Street," Henry Lennox had groused.

"Oh, Henry, it is not the same!"

At his raised eyebrow, she flushed and cast those tremulous grey eyes slyly towards John Thornton, as she so often did when the man was present.

Henry Lennox wondered at this John Thornton. It was no secret to anyone who had been around the Crampton home during the last week save perhaps for the pair in question. The air sparked and snapped like lightning during a storm between the mill master and the former reverend's daughter. As much as he hated to admit it, Henry would be blind not to notice the obvious draw between the pair. For the first time in their acquaintance, Henry watched Margaret flush and flounder around a man and lose some of that haughty aloofness. The man, too, was no master of disguise. He wore every emotion, every thought, every past victory and failure in his countenance. Yet, why had he not pursued his object?

Henry could not help the tinge of regret and sour jealousy he felt as he was forced to witness the tentative dance between the pair. He had harbored so many hopes… and he watched each and every one slip away before him. However, he could not fully lament the shift. Henry Lennox had pursued the Margaret Hale of Harley Street and it was that Margaret Hale he still wished to court. Henry Lennox did not think he could have managed this new version of Margaret Hale. The Margaret Hale of Milton was bursting with too much change, too much instability, too much novelty. He would willingly embrace Margaret into his sphere, incorporate her into his life, but he could not rejoice in her newfound aims. He would have quenched the kindling fires, the simmering purpose, the burning mass of passion which she now carried. This was a new Margaret Hale and he could no more push her back into her old mold than he could turn himself into a mill master.

Mr. Lennox could not be away from his obligations in London any longer and had to make his farewells to the somber, black-clad house at Crampton. Before he left, he ensured he found a private moment with John Thornton.

"Look after her," Henry commanded, his expression earnest and piercing.

At first, Mr. Thornton looked surprised and then solemn, as the weight of Henry's words sank into him. He nodded once and reached out to clasp Henry's hand in a firm handshake. "You have my word."

Then, Henry Lennox was gone, along with Mr. Bell.

John visited the house at Crampton as often as he could in the weeks that followed, offering what consolation he could to both father and daughter. Mr. Thornton came, basket of fruit or cakes or books in hand. Mrs. Thornton came nearly as frequently. They were seldom apart, save for the time Margaret spent with the Boucher children. These visitations were their greatest comfort- the one cheer in their dark, tear-drowned lives.

There is an intimacy to grief, a sanctity which sets apart such seasons of life from the mundane, and in those moments of loss relationships are revealed to be forged of either iron or chaff. In those sacred, quiet moments, all the external world was removed like a sodden great coat, too heavy for such a gathering, and left at the door. Within, within, well, it was a gathering which required no small talk or pleasantries. Instead, each shared the bits of virtues inspired to them by their readings, bits of poetry that encapsulated both their lives and their grief. They spoke of faith and fears, things present and things to come. They spoke of the deepest of regrets, the most poignant of lost dreams, and a parade of memories of sweet days long past.

Maybe it was improper or indelicate to allow such frankness before Margaret. Her father spoke of his marriage, his wife, his youth in such depth as Margaret had never heard before and it was as if she was reacquainted with her father, her mother, and her brother in a way she had never been before. She lived an entire lifetime over again, through her father's remembrances, and she gathered each novelty to her heart like a hen gathers her chicks beneath her wings. John Thornton, too, eagerly drank in each new door into Margaret's past life, each insight into the people and places which had made her into the woman she now was. There, between those tear-stained days and sleepless nights, he saw her differently than he had before. Margaret was not so much an intangible, ethereal goddess as a woman, forged of fragile flesh and bone. Her feet were made of clay, same as any other, and she could stumble and err and lose her way.

Had he ever truly known her before, back when he first declared he loved her? If he was honest with himself, he had to admit he had known as much about Margaret Hale as a man on a train could know Milton only by watching the city pass by from the railway car.

Margaret took it upon herself to let him in and see him out. In the quiet of the front hall, they gathered. If their eyes lingered too heavily, his hand clasping hers longer than propriety allowed, none were around to chide them for it. The air around and between them felt like water over fire, boiling into bursting, full of potential, of raw power, of untapped, wriggling, writhing energy. It was those stolen moments which went to his head like brandy and flooded his sore heart with delicious heat and a desperate, untamable hope.

He could hardly draw himself away nor wait until the next moment he could tear himself from his work to call upon the Hales. Indeed, there was more than one day when he really ought to have worked longer; but the allure of such a greeting at the entryway, with Margaret's cheeks flushed, her eyes bright and fixed only on him, why, he no more could stay at the mill then he could fly.

He expected his mother to chide him, to call him home more frequently or inquire into his whereabouts. She never did.

It was on just such a day when he stayed far too late after tea. Miss Hale read aloud until her father fell asleep in his chair. She closed her book quietly.

"Do you wish me to continue?" She asked him.

With a half-smile, he shook his head. " We cannot deprive Mr. Hale of the next chapter, nor suffer you to read it twice."

There they sat, their eyes fixed on the other, the book between them, and the air growing so thick and heated he forgot how to breathe. Her cheeks grew flushed and, in an instant, she placed her hands against her cheeks, jumped to her feet, and fled the room without a word.

He didn't know what it meant, what he ought to do. He sucked in a gasping breath, one containing far less oxygen than he required to clear his head. He rose to leave, as quietly as he could so as to not wake his friend. Yet, his heart raced within his breast.

"Miss Hale?" He called, into the empty hall. He wondered if he ought to leave her be and see himself to the door.

Light footsteps came from the kitchen and Margaret emerged, still clinging to the shadows, her face hidden from view.

"Are you well?" He inquired, taking a step forward in an attempt to catch a glimpse of her face.

"Yes… I mean, no. Oh, Mr. Thornton! I do not wish to go to Oxford!" She cried out, stepping into the light of the hall to meet him where he stood.

He inhaled sharply. "I do not wish for you to go, either."

"But I cannot stay. Mr. Bell is correct. Papa would benefit from the change. He is so downcast… and he needs me so."

"Milton will remain here, ready to receive you when you are able to return," he said.

She reached out a tentative hand for him, her smile warm and sad. "I am quite counting on it, for that is the only comfort which makes our departure more tolerable."

"You may find you enjoy Oxford far more than Milton."

"Then Milton will simply have to follow after and remind me that I prefer it better."

He laughed quietly and reached out to stroke one finger along her tear-stained cheek. "Aye. That it will," he said.

Chapter Text

The Hales departed for Oxford on a Tuesday afternoon. It rained all day and night, and the billowing steam of the train melted into the grey clouds of the sky. The tears Margaret had shed when she bid farewell to the Higgins family was nothing compared to her parting from the Thorntons. John Thornton escorted them all the way to the railway station and remained on the platform, watching the trail of steam long after the train itself was beyond view, his heart sinking as Margaret Hale vanished along with it. Rent for the Crampton house was paid for the following six months. The house closed in anticipation of the return Adam Bell doubted would ever occur (though the man kept his doubts to himself).

Thus the letters began.

Until they were officially engaged, it was improper for the pair to write exclusively to each other. Thus, Mrs. Thornton and Fanny must serve as intermediaries in their correspondence and chaperones for all their communications. While Miss Hale might claim to be writing to Mrs. Thornton and Fanny Thornton, she knew (as did her recipients) who the other recipient would be. Conversely, it might have been Fanny's hand which wrote the words, but for large swathes of letters, she was only the medium, the mouthpiece, for the true source of the sentiments.

Mrs. Thornton hated writing letters, almost as much as she despised small talk and social niceties. However, she loved her son and thus she would write letters every day if it would light up his face and brighten his step. Her communications were terse and succinct, as was her wont, but she exerted herself to write more than she had to any other correspondent in her past. Fanny, too, was pressed into service.

"I have written Miss Hale twice already this month. It is time for you to do your duty," Mrs. Thornton told her daughter.

"I do not see what all the fuss is about. Let John write, propose marriage, and then they can write each other twice a day with neither of us the wiser for it," Fanny answered. "I have enough letters to write with the wedding to prepare for. What have I to do with Oxford scholars and long books and her father's greetings?"

"It will not be long." Her mother predicted. "Just a few months more, I think."

Fanny Thornton acquiesced, more out of love for her brother and mother than any attachment to the Hales. She sent sketches of fashions she noted and details about her upcoming wedding to Mr. Watson. She mused over music she was practicing and who she visited for tea. She waxed eloquently on lace and ribbons and the new novel she obtained from the bookshop.

In return, Margaret wrote of slow, languid days in Oxford, filled with fresh air and the contrast with old dusty halls of learning. She wrote about quiet libraries and even quieter scholars. She wrote about housekeepers who could read Greek and candlelight gatherings of white-haired men discussing even more ancient writings. There were dinners with the wives of the intellectuals and long nights in debate over Plato and Aristotle. There were morning walks with some of the children and long afternoons spent with Mr. Hale and Mr. Bell. She spoke of sparkling ice on old roof tops and how she delighted in the quiet sound of footsteps her feet made in the snow. Other times, she might as well have not been in Oxford, for her writings were full of other times, other places- the forests of Helstone, the chaos of London, the noise of Milton.

Then there were the darker, tear-stained letters, the ones which were addressed only to Mrs. Thornton and which the matron did not permit either of her children to read.

"She is grieving, John. She feels crippling guilt and loss. We have our own burdens to bear, and this is one I can share with her more than you can," Mrs. Thornton told her son. Even in those responses, though, his mother allowed him a few lines of his own on the top of hers. He wrote of the mill, questions for Mr. Hale, and inquiries into Margaret's well-being. She responded eagerly to each, the darker moods lessoning as the weeks and months transpired between them.

"Now that my Aunt Shaw and Edith have left, I am afraid I am guilty of being quite idle," Margaret wrote. "While I enjoyed their company and I took the greatest delight in young Sholto, I did not repine their departure back to London. My days have been very quiet since. Mr. Bell's housekeeper is a very efficient woman and she has servants enough under her to tend to our every need. My only duties are to act as a companion to my father and even in this, I am not his only source of comfort. Here in Oxford, he has so many old friends that he may spend an entire day in company and have no need of me at all. Mr. Bell encourages him on daily walks to keep up his strength and he improves every day. I spend my free hours however I please. I do not think I have ever had the luxury of such leisure to myself before.

"Mr. Bell does his best to convince us we ought never return to Milton. Yet, I find myself longing more and more to return to the place I now think of as home. I was so grateful for the few lines you passed on from Nicholas and those from the young Bouchers. His writing improves everyday! I will send more books as soon as I can. I have gathered quite a number from the various libraries of the dusty old dons here. They may be slightly worn and aged, but they will be better than nothing at all.

"I cannot tell you how much it means to me to know you placed roses on my mother's grave. I miss Milton every day and most especially, our dear friends there."

John Thornton counted down the days between letters. After his sister read hers aloud, he read them and reread them to himself during each of the long days till the next could arrive. He clung to her words, the ones she cast in between her lines- like breadcrumbs in a forest. When Miss Hale wrote of how she longed to see Milton again, John's face turned a rosy red and he nearly burst with smiling, clutching the letter and humming to himself the remainder of the day.

Mrs. Thornton doubted he was so affected by her love for the smoky, noisy city, but she kept her suspicions to herself. It would do them both good – this separation. For all that they wished it away, Mrs. Thornton knew better. Margaret needed to grieve. She needed to determine what she wanted and have the chance to settle herself a bit. There had been too many changes too quickly and she was not yet ready for more. John, too, needed to set all his attention on the mill and set his affairs in order before he brought home a wife.

No one spoke of how thick the letters to Oxford were becoming or how many more sheets of paper the words of the Master of Marlborough Mills required over those of his mother and sister.

Margaret, too, claimed that her father was also a willing and eager party of their correspondence. How much this was due to his true delight in maintaining his Milton friends and how much was in acquiescence to Mr. Bell's unsubtle allusions to the existence of a tendresse between a certain mill master and his daughter, who can tell? Even the clouds of grief upon the bereaved man were not dark enough to obscure the secret that was now common knowledge to all parties (save the pair themselves). For however many winks and sly comments concerning Margaret's eagerness for the post or how many former letters remained "saved" in John's desk, the pair themselves remained just as oblivious, just as insecure, and just as caught up in their passions as they ever were.

The communion via letter proved invaluable to both parties. No longer distracted by taper fingers and tremulous eyes, John could keep his head about him and see more clearly, more deeply, more unreservedly the heart and soul of the woman he loved. There, revealed by words and ink, yet shrouded in paper and postage, they could converse with an honesty and openness that circumstances and propriety had never allowed them before.

He loved her all the more for what he learned. And she came to rely on him for the freedom such expression gave and his willingness to listen to her thoughts and emotion without censure. If she must be strong for her father, her correspondence made no such pretenses and allowed her full expression of her grief and guilt and heart ache.

"You are quite certain we should be encouraging this attachment?" Mr. Hale inquired of his friend, one afternoon.

Mr. Bell cast his companion an arched glance and motioned to the letters on the table between them. Margaret had read the latest from the Thorntons that morning and immediately responded, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright as she asked her father what messages she could convey on his behalf.

"Richard, I do not know if you have noticed, but your daughter is a grown woman," Mr. Bell answered.

Mr. Hale sighed. "I suppose you are correct. It's only… she was away for so long and has only recently returned… and with Maria and Frederick…"

"You wish her to postpone her own happiness until you are safely tucked away in your own grave."

"It does not sound so well if you describe it thusly, but, Adam, how am I to do without her?"

"Think of it as gaining a son and not as losing a daughter. You like Thornton well enough."

"Of course. I do not know of a better man."

"Well?"

"Perhaps, we can encourage patience. Why move in haste?" Mr. Hale pressed.

Mr. Bell could have mentioned the many reasons for haste that his own friend had, many years ago, experienced upon his own courtship with Maria, but he held his tongue, knowing such a reminder may not engender a father's goodwill towards his daughter's suitor. Instead, Mr. Bell maintained his own far less open correspondence with a few members of the Thornton family, doing all in his power to ensure things progressed as he thought they ought.

It was good for them, Mr. Bell thought. The developing relationship between Margaret Hale and John Thornton forced both Hales out of the miry introspection of grief and back into the ever moving, ever revolving, ever renewing world around them. They were reminded that they could still live, they could still find joy, they could still look forward to another dawn. Out of the long shadows of gravestones, Helstones, and riot stones, the Hales could stand up tall and proud and live again.

Oooo

As the frigid clutches of winter slowly thawed and the first buds of spring sprouted, the long-awaited visit occurred. Back and forth, the correspondents planned how they would meet again and delighted in the promise of the upcoming reunion. It was determined that John would stop in Oxford on his travels home from Le Havre. His mother and Fanny would meet him in Oxford and after travel home to Milton together.

It was the manner of happy reunion only those who are truly friends through such circumstances can experience. For two days, Margaret introduced Mrs. Thornton and Fanny to all the wonders of Oxford and listened to every scrap of news about Milton she could pry from them.

"There is very little we can speak of that we have not already written about," Fanny insisted. "Maybe, when John comes, he will know more."

John Thornton proved his sister correct. When he arrived, he spent the entire evening answering all of Margaret's questions on the mill hands and the affairs of the Higgins family and the various "experiments" Mr. Thornton hoped to attempt in the months to come.

John could spare very little more time away from Milton and so could not linger long. After a day spent in the company of Oxford, eagerly enjoying the companionship of the Hales, he sought every glance, every moment, every word with Margaret that he could steal away to himself.

Oh, how his heart soared at the warmth of her countenance and how often she sought his eyes across the parlor! She did her best to sit alongside him and he fairly burned with the weight of her gaze so frequently fixed upon him.

Every night since she had departed from Milton he had rehearsed in his mind how he would offer for her again. He planned each word, each turn of phrase, and he clung to every hope that she would prove receptive this time – that her answer would send her into the throes of his embrace and she would be his. The memories of her rejection lingered and he could not quite muster the courage to directly ask for a private audience yet. He would, before he left Oxford, or so he told himself. Until then, he would enjoy her smiles, her presence, the way her grey eyes softened when she looked upon him or how closely she sat alongside him in the parlor.

It was in this manner that, the next morning, he was entirely distracted by the bracelets on Miss Hale's arm. Rather than paying attention to the conversation around him, he watched as the bracelets fell to her wrist with each move she made over the tea tray. Under the cover of the table, he permitted his hand to brush against hers. When she did not pull away, he dared to reach and press her bracelet farther up her forearm until it stayed. Both their eyes watched his progress and he could hardly breathe at the sensation of her warm arm encircled by his hand and the expression in her eyes. So caught up was he that he did not notice the voices calling his name or his utter unawares of the conversations going on around him. Finally, at the third repetition, he looked up.

"I beg your pardon?" He asked.

Mr. Bell laughed loudly, far too loudly for Mr. Thornton's comfort, and cast an amused glance at Mrs. Thornton and Fanny who, to his chagrin, appeared equally as amused.

"Young lovers. They are possibly the most selfish, self-contented creatures on the planet. Come, Mrs. Thornton, Miss Thornton. Let us pry my friend Hale from the library. The day is fine and I believe a walk in the garden would do us all good."

"You are leaving?" Mr. Thornton asked in surprise. He rose to join them when Mr. Bell waved him back.

"Now, now, Mr. Thornton, stay right where you are. When your mother, sister, and I return, I hope to hear a full account of exactly what your intentions are for my goddaughter… and Margaret, be prepared to give me a full account of what your intentions are for my tenant. There is only so much mooning about and sly caresses and soulful eyes that an old bachelor like myself can stomach before I must retreat to the safety and chastity of elsewhere."

Now, both John and Margaret were flushed red as roses and they wore equally confused expressions on their faces. Noticeably, they were now leaning much farther away from each other than they were a few moments before- their eyes waffling between Mr. Bell and each other and the floor.

Mr. Bell gave a long-suffering sigh. "Young people these days. Do you require lessons in what must happen next or must I refer you to the example of the poets of old? Surely, even in Milton a man learns what to do to gain a wife?"

At Mr. Thornton's spluttered protests, it was Fanny Thornton's turn to cast him a chiding glare. "Sit down, John. Say what you need to say or I will not let you read any of Miss Hale's letters or permit you to sneak in your own words at the end of each of mine. Do this properly or I won't assist your correspondence any further."

At that, she swept out of the room. Mrs. Thornton placed her hand in the crook of Mr. Bell's proffered arm and followed after. She only stopped at the door long enough to look back and give them both an unusually warm smile. Then, their voices disappeared out the hall and into the garden beyond.

Margaret and John were unbearably caught in the sudden silence between them. He felt as though his tongue was made of lead, as if he was paralyzed, heart and soul. His mortification was quickly overtaken by a rush of anger.

"Old meddler! What gives him the right…I must apologize, Miss Hale…" he muttered. He stopped when he felt the gentle pressure of a hand on his arm and he forgot everything he was about to say. Margaret's eyes were impossibly larger, impossibly closer, than he had ever seen them before. The smile she gave him filled the entire room and left him without any space to breathe.

"I, for one, do not mind their absence," she said, her expression turned abashed. She looked away, her head turning every which way but at him.

"Margaret," he said, desperate for her eyes to be fixed on him again, suddenly ravenous for every expression, every turn of her eyes, every tilt of her mouth.

Her head snapped back to face him, and the edges of her rosy lips turned up in a sweet smile.

"John," she answered.

It was some time before anyone disturbed the pair and they were inextricably bound together in all the intoxicating and overwhelming passion of requited love. All the intervening months of words and ink and distance were set alight and extinguished by their perfect proximity.

When Mr. Bell, Miss Thornton, and Mrs. Thornton finally returned to the hall outside the parlor, they were not surprised to find the inhabitants entirely silent within. With a wink, Mr. Bell intentionally stomped his feet in the hall and raised his voice before making a show of fumbling at the door. He stalled for a few moments before as he heard the sound of surprised whispers and chairs shifting within. When he opened the door, they found the pair seated next to each other, a proper distance between them, though the flushed cheeks and mussed hair of each gave away just what that silence had been full of and still, Thornton did not release Margaret's hand from his own.

Mrs. Thornton cleared her throat, and this prompted John's face to break into a wide, heart-splitting grin.

"Mother, I am to be married."

"Why, you don't say," Mr. Bell observed dryly. "I am taken entirely by surprise."

After the initial glee of Fanny and subtle, warm acceptance of Mrs. Thornton, Mr. Bell reminded John of one more necessary interview. "I believe you have one further obstacle between you and matrimony. Once you can receive approval from Miss Hale's father, then we may rejoice properly."

Mr. Hale approved, though rather reluctantly at first. He decried all haste and wondered that Margaret would wish to remove herself from her father's side so soon or for such a reason. It was not until Mr. Hale stumbled upon the affianced pair in the shadowed alcove of the stairway that evening that he dispensed with his dilatoriness. Mr. Bell reminded his friend that the sooner the pair wed, the sooner there would be grandchildren to look forward to. Such an exhortation did little to calm Mr. Hale's nerves… or mitigate his daughter's mortification at the passionate embrace her father had found her a willing party to. However, it did have the desired effect and Mr. Hale agreed that perhaps haste might be preferable.

John Thornton married Margaret Hale exactly four weeks later.

Chapter Text

Henry Lennox was in no hurry to finish his breakfast. His train to Oxford would not be for some time yet. He easily accepted the second cup of tea his sister-in-law pressed into his hand and he allowed his thoughts to wander. He paid no heed to the conversation between Edith and Mrs. Shaw… at least, not until he caught the whispered undertone of Edith's musings.

"Is not Margaret the heiress?" She inquired. "The remainder of Mr. Bell's property falls to Margaret, does it not?"

"I would imagine so," Mrs. Shaw replied, airily. "After the amount he settled upon her on her marriage, I would not be surprised. He looked upon her quite as a daughter."

Henry attempted to hide his smile and feign deafness.

"Henry, you must know!" Edith protested, forcing him into the conversation. "Why, you are going to the funeral, after all and you were quite the friend to Mr. Bell, were you not?"

"If by 'quite the friend' you mean I shared with him the role of 'godfather' to young Richard Thornton, then I suppose you are correct," he answered succinctly. "However, as my involvement in his financial affairs are limited to basing them solely off how fine the tin soldiers and rocking horses Richard receives, I cannot count myself an authority on how Mr. Bell determined to dispose of his property after his death."

"But he must have settled something on Margaret… and the boy!"

"He very well may have. I do not argue against the possibility – only against the prudence of making presumptions without more intimate knowledge of the facts," Henry retorted.

"But… you will see Margaret in Oxford, will you not?"

"Why, Edith? Why would Margaret be there?" Mrs. Shaw protested. "Of course, she will send her husband to tend to his affairs, but there is no need for her to attend."

Henry bit back a smile and took another sip of his tea. He predicted, contrary to Mrs. Shaw's assumptions, that nothing save an act of God would prevent Margaret from attending her godfather's funeral that afternoon.

"You must remind her to visit! She must come, Henry!" Edith said, her pretty lips pursed into a pout. "It cannot be good for her or her son to remain trapped in that dirty, smoky city as long as they are. We are to Cromer soon, she must come!"

"As you have already written to urge her to come at least thrice, I doubt I can say anything else to convince her."

"She cannot be so very busy that she cannot be spared!"

"She may have the time, but her husband does not… And, as Mrs. Thornton is far more taken by her husband than she is by the seaside, I do not think there is much that would pry her out of Milton."

"I do not see why," Mrs. Shaw said. "He is such a great, uncouth, rough sort of man."

"Oh, but he is very handsome, Mama. Even you must admit that!"

Mrs. Shaw harumphed loudly. "That man! How does that signify? I do not see why he would prevent her from coming to London or Cromer, handsome or otherwise. Must he refuse her to stir from Milton?"

Henry chuckled to himself at the thought of Mr. Thornton refusing his wife anything she asked. No, he could not argue the point to his current prejudiced company, but he knew enough of the couple in question to suspect it was Margaret, herself, who wished to remain – exactly where she was- and she would not step out of Milton unless her husband was at her side.

The memory of the obvious devotion between Mr. and Mrs. Thornton caused warring expressions of comfort and pain to Henry, even still. In all sincerity, he rejoiced that Margaret was so well-settled and sure in the affections of her new family. He had proved himself one of the greatest supporters of their union, despite the dismay of Mrs. Shaw and Mrs. Lennox. He had genuinely wished the couple well when he attended their wedding in Milton. With Mrs. Shaw attending to Edith in her confinement, he had been the only member of Margaret's family in attendance… well, other than Mr. Bell and Mr. Hale. It had been obvious that Mr. Bell was the more delighted of the pair in the match and he was positively effusive throughout the whole affair and Henry had genuinely shared his joy.

How quickly that contagious delight had transmuted to sadness!

It wasn't fair. After Margaret had lost so much and was only just on the brink of happiness…

"Hale held out as long as he could… for Margaret's sake, I think. The moment he knew she was well-settled and taken care of, he could finally let go," Mr. Bell said, his eyes shining with tears.

Henry and Mr. Bell sat in the same room of the same inn where they had taken meals together just seven months earlier when they had discussed the fate of Frederick Hale. They sat in the same chairs, along the same hearth, with the same servants bringing waiting upon them. Here they were again, attending another funeral service only a matter of weeks after meeting in Milton for Margaret and John's wedding.

"It is a comfort to Margaret that he will be buried alongside Maria and Frederick, but, that poor child!" Mr. Bell said, his hand covering his face and the firelight's flickering shadows dancing off his weathered fingers. "I had hoped... perhaps it was a fool's hope… but I had hoped Richard would rally again… that this day would not be upon us so soon… but, well, that poor, great heart of his could not go on anymore."

Henry had stayed alongside the old man until late that night. They both had taken far too much brandy, though the words they spoke were few. Mr. Bell fought to hide the strength of his emotion, but he grieved the loss of his oldest and dearest friend. While Henry did not feel the loss so acutely, over the last year, the Hales and Thorntons had slowly taken up residence in his heart and had become as much family as Mrs. Shaw and Edith ever were. He felt the loss of Mr. Hale keenly – on Margaret's behalf. He knew, also, that John would prove just as distraught.

"She had only just begun to rally," Mr. Bell continued. "This will bring her down low again, I fear. Why, the guilt she felt at leaving her father behind was enough I feared she would not marry at all until Hale left us! Now, she will blame herself and that is no good beginning for a marriage."

"She is no more to blame for the death of her father than that of her brother."

"You know that, and I know that, and the good Lord above must argue her case, also, but Margaret is too conscientious. She takes too much upon herself. It will take all the efforts of her husband and mother-in-law to keep up her spirits, I think. However, she is in good hands and for that, I am glad. They will take care of her, and she will rally again," Mr. Bell said, as much to convince himself as his audience.

True to his prediction, despite the turbulent start to the Thornton marriage, tears did not last forever. Henry was a witness to Margaret's improving circumstances when, only ten months later, he met up with Mr. Bell again. They were in the same room at the same inn- and this time spirits flowed out of joy rather than sorrow.

"Here we are together again, dear sir. What a christening! What an affair! I do believe that christening gown was even grander than Margaret's wedding dress," Mr. Bell cried out jovially.

"He looked very well, I will admit."

"Mrs. Thornton… the elder one, of course… she outdid herself this time. What an affair!"

Henry smiled and took a sip from his cup. It had been the largest and grandest christening he had ever seen. He assumed that was due to the sensibilities of Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Thornton rather than Margaret. However, it was the glow of happiness on Margaret's face and the genuine warmth of her manner that had struck him the most. There was a sense of deep peace in her circumstances, a settling into her role and place, which had developed that marked a stark contrast between the woman she now was and the young girl he had met on Harley Street. How she had overflowed with words as she spoke of her many charitable projects and her work among the poor of Milton! How many people had sent cards and gifts to wish her joy! Margaret Thornton of Milton was where she belonged and she was thriving.

"What do you say to that, my boy! We shared a godson now- we are forever forced to endure each other's company and argue incessantly over how far superior we would be as parents and all the ways his parents are inferior to our innate wisdom and, of course, how our little charge is the wisest and most gifted of all children in existence," Mr. Bell said, his eyes twinkling merrily with mirth, his cheeks rosy with drink. He clasped Henry's shoulder firmly and insisted on yet another toast in honor of young Richard George Hale.

"As the boy is not my only godson, I am afraid I will not be able to, in good conscience, declare him the best of all children – unless I wish to face the wrath of my sister-in-law," Henry answered, a genuine grin on his face.

"Oh, pooh! What do you have to fear from that quarter? No, it is Margaret I would fear to cross and would advise you to ensure it is her side you take on all things."

Henry laughed and shook his head. He could not argue otherwise. In all honesty, if he were to compare the characters and habits of the Thorntons with the Lennox's, he had to admit young Richard was far more likely to grow in strength of character and person than his Lennox counterpart.

"I only wish…. I only wish Richard could have been here to meet his namesake," Mr. Bell continued.

"As do we all."

It had been the last time he had seen Adam Bell.

Oh, there had been a handful of letters, which had surprised Henry. Apparently, Mr. Bell had grown to appreciate Henry enough to wish for a sporadic, light-hearted correspondence and Henry had readily complied. He had heard of Mr. Bell, also, through the letters Margaret wrote to Edith over the years that followed. Edith, herself, had even mentioned meeting up with the old man when he accompanied Margaret, John, and young Richard on a quick visit to Helstone that June. The entire party had stopped in London for a few days before continuing on to Helstone. However, Henry had been away and only heard about the affair after it had been completed.

Henry sighed to himself and glanced down at his pocket watch. He let his fingers sweep over the cool, smooth surface of the gold as he counted down the minutes till he should be off. He rather fancied a walk and considered whether he should make his departure sooner than he originally planned.

Oh, Margaret. How many funerals must you attend and how many before your heart will break? It is too many, too soon. I wish you could have been spared -at least one or two- but, here we are again. To meet over a gravestone and this time, I do not even have my old friend Bell to cast all in an irreverent light and cheer us all after.

The funeral in Oxford was all that it ought to be, and Margaret performed all the offices of a daughter to her godfather. She had been surprised at his presence but surprise was quickly replaced by joy and sisterly affection,

"It is so good of you to come, Henry," she said, after all was over and Henry sought to return to the train station.

"Well, I have some unresolved arguments with the old man over some derisive remarks he made about barristers and the Scots and those who dwell in London which I wish to have the last word in," he answered. He was rewarded with the laugh Margaret gave him and she had accompanied him through the garden back to the road.

"I have a few unresolved arguments with Mr. Bell myself," she said, her eyes bright and earnest.

"And what might those be? Do you wish to chastise him for leaving all his fortune to you and making you the landlord of your husband's affairs?"

She smiled and shook her head. "No. I cannot chastise him for that – not when his generosity on our marriage saved the mill and kept my husband in his position as master of Marlborough Mills. No, Mr. Bell has been incredibly kind to us and we will miss him dearly… but I must admit I am very angry over his deceitful, underhanded ways."

At Henry's raised eyebrow, she continued, "John and I spent all of yesterday tending to Mr. Bell's affairs… and we found a letter from Frederick stashed away in a folder. He had hidden it from me, these last two years, and I was rather put out when I found it."

"From your brother?" Henry inquired, though he already knew the answer. A gentle swell of guilt bubbled within his chest as he remembered Bell had mentioned the presence of such a letter – and had confessed his reluctance to share it with the Hales.

"He ought not have hidden it away and said nothing. Those were the last words from my brother," she said, her eyes flashing with a burst of irritation. Yet, this was quickly washed away by a sigh. "I know why he did. The letter… would not have raised our spirits, after those terrible days. You remember how cast down we were?"

"Yes."

"I will admit, I eagerly opened the letter, hoping to read something that would grant me comfort or resolution. Instead, I was left feeling angry – both at Fred and at Mr. Bell. It is terribly improper of me to feel such to one who has been so good to me, especially at such a time, but he ought not have hidden the letter… and Fred ought not have written such a letter."

Henry gave her an amused glance, one which she caught and caused her cheeks to flush in embarrassment. "Do not give me that look, Henry Lennox!" She cried. "I know I make no sense and contradict myself, but I cannot help it! I do not like deceit. However, oh, that letter! Fred spent the last lines he ever wrote, the last words to his family, going on and on about his own innocence, disavowing England, decrying the injustice of it all, and wishing curses on Captain Reid. How could he speak so? I cannot approve of that, but then, oh his last words to us!"

Then, she pulled the letter out of a pocket, and she began to read it out loud.

"My greatest regret is the pain I know you and our father must feel. I do not blame you, dear sister, for anything and please know it was worth everything to see our dear mother and you both one last time. Since the day I took my stand against Captain Reid, my life was forfeit and I have been on borrowed time ever since- which has made each of the days more precious. I would tell you not to grieve, but it would be fruitless, because I know your capacity to love and that you must grieve. Instead, I ask you to forgive yourself and to look after each other and to remember me kindly. I would also charge you to live your life now for me as well and allow me live vicariously through you. Go forward, not backward. My life is over, yours is only beginning. Dear sister, do not hold onto the past but walk into your future."

Margaret stopped reading and replaced the letter into her pocket, tears in her eyes. "I am so torn, Henry. How can he continue to claim his innocence- even to the very last? Oh, I have struggled to understand how I ought to feel and some days I have been certain Fred was in the right and then the very next, I must admit to myself that he was not, and then I am tumbled all over again the next day. Yet, it is very hard."

Henry nodded his head in understanding. Frederick Hale had been a complicated man… charming, captivating, and part of Henry had always wished to believe in his innocence. Yet, then there were the facts of the case… and the evidence spoke otherwise... and the barrister in him must also declare his overwhelming guilt.

"I believe Mr. Bell hoped to spare you from more pain when he kept the letter from you," Henry said. "Your grief was so deep and your father so fragile, I do not know how such a letter would have impacted you."

She nodded. "Do you know, I keep thinking of something Fred said during his last visit here. He spoke about the importance of 'doing something. Do good if you can; but, at any rate, do something.' He did not believe in feeling remorse but in doing good to counteract the bad, if possible. As if one's misdeeds could be erased as easily as chalk from a slate."

"I do not believe it works quite that way in the eyes of the law," Henry said.

"Nor in the eyes of God. However, that was just Fred… and I still loved him, despite everything. He was my brother, regardless of what he did. This calls to mind all that Scripture says of the enduring, steadfast love of God for us poor sinners and how God loves us, despite our guilt. Who am I to deserve such unconditional love? How can any of my deeds blot out the misdeeds of my past? Yet, we are promised it is so."

Henry did not wish to argue against her or interrupt her in her sermonizing. Yet, he was reminded again that she was the daughter of a parson and she was, every inch, her father's daughter. He remained silent, letting her gather her thoughts. She looked up at him again, her grey eyes earnest.

"Do you remember the Higgins family… my friends in Milton who took in all the Boucher children after the death of their parents?"

"I remember," he answered.

"Mrs. Boucher was entirely undone by the death of her husband. She loved her husband dearly, though, Nicholas claims Mr. Boucher had lacked any redeeming qualities and been nothing but a coward. Yet, Mrs. Boucher and their children loved him. Her love for her husband reminds me of that for my brother. I must wonder: is it that love makes us blind or helps us see what no one else may see?"

Henry smiled to himself as he remembered Mrs. Shaw's complaints about Margaret's husband, just that morning. "A little of both, I expect."

She gave him a warm smile and then clasp his hand in farewell as they reached the bend in the road.

"Again, thank you for coming, Henry. You have been so kind and so very dear."

Henry gave her one last parting look and returned to London, a well of emotion in his chest he could not fully understand or wish to pry apart to find its meaning. In London, he could be fully himself, well, the version of himself he chose to be when in such company.

It was only a matter of months before he saw the Thorntons again. Henry was surprised when Edith carried her point and the Thornton family willingly joined them in Cromer. While John only managed to stay a handful of days, he was there long enough to chase his young son and Henry's elder nephew along the beach and to spend afternoons watching the waves alongside his wife. Margaret did her best to participate, but she was not well and spent long hours each day resting. At first, Henry was concerned… at least until he caught Edith's subtle whispers about it one afternoon.

"If I am not wrong, there will be another young Thornton by early spring," she said. "Prepare yourself for another christening, Henry."

Henry's brother and sister-in-law did their best to be polite to their guests, but they did not know how to manage John Thornton for any extended period of time. They could speak about commonplace topics and pleasantries, but they did not know how to engage the man in any meaningful conversation beyond those that would be sought in other members of their social set… and Aunt Shaw did not even try. Henry was rather mortified by this. He exerted himself to make the man feel welcomed into their family party. Indeed, in some ways, he rather enjoyed the company of the Thorntons more than the Lennoxes. Their frankness and sincerity were as discomposing as they were refreshing. He was forced to dwell on topics he often avoided or which would not be considered acceptable among his London companions.

It was during just one such conversation, one evening after tea, when the topic of Frederick Hale came up again. It was little wonder they all three found themselves wishing to speak about it. Afterall, it was the very eve of the second anniversary of the capture of Frederick Hale. It was a conversation that the rest of the family could not… would not… understand. Yet, it was a topic which bound Henry to John and Margaret and which they could not speak of disinterestedly.

"I read only a few weeks ago that Captain Reid was called before a court martial again," Henry had observed. "He has been demoted from the rank of captain."

"I was not sorry when I read that," Margaret responded. "I do not believe it was punishment enough."

"It is something though, some manner of justice," Henry said. "I hope there is comfort to be found in it."

"I am glad to know he will not hold as much authority over the lives of other men anymore," Margaret said. "I wish he had faced more consequences after the mutiny on the Russell, though. I cannot believe they simply gave him another ship to command, another crew to tyrannize, and then looked the other way for years as he mistreated those he was meant to protect."

"Ah, but finally, it was the constant petitioning of the very men he wronged in subsequent crews that led to his demotion. Rather than mutiny, they fought the admiralty to listen to their case and they were finally heard," Henry said. "If only…," he began and then stopped himself.

"If only Fred had done likewise?" Margaret finished for him, her sigh resonating throughout her entire posture. "I have held similar thoughts; similar wishes. He was so rash, so impulsive, and yet he wished to right a wrong. Captain Reid was a violent, awful man, but I cannot fully acquit the mutineers of their actions, either. Can two wrongs make a right? Surely, it cannot be right to stand by and do nothing in the face of such gross injustice and yet so many more men died in the mutiny than would have otherwise."

"I have wondered," John interjected, leaning forward in his chair as he spoke, his face flushed with the intensity such a topic evoked. "I have wondered what Frederick Hale would have done in the captain's place. What would he have done, if made captain, if faced with a possible mutiny?" He glanced over at his wife, as if conjuring up an older conversation, and he continued, "sometimes men believe themselves on the cause of justice because they cannot understand the plight of those on the opposing side of themselves. If they were to truly listen to the arguments made by the other side, perhaps a better solution could be found."

Margaret's smile was brilliant as she listened to him speak. She reached over and clasped his hand quickly before returning to her tea again. "Sometimes, we are too slow to listen to the justice of another's cause… and too quick to argue our own innocence and the guilt of another."

John smiled back at his wife. "I have been just as guilty. I wonder if it is sometimes our own adherence to principle that is our undoing. It has been two years since the strike and all Milton still feels the effects. I can now admit that the strikers had justice to their cause, even if they did not understand everything about the situation…. And yet, I cannot acquit them of their actions. They caused more harm than good, despite their intentions. However, I cannot argue the justice of my own cause anymore than I can theirs. I responded in defense of my own position and willingly risked everything based on principle. The Irish hands I brought in were expensive and unskilled. They did not keep up with orders nor fully justify their cost. In the cause of Marlborough Mills, they were not helpful in easing the effects of the strike. And yet, I must admit that they did impact the affairs of all the mills in Milton. Their presence broke the strike and sent the millhands back to work. Based purely on principle, the Irish proved their worth in support of my cause. If I had not brought in the Irish, what must have happened next? I cannot say. However, I personally paid the cost to break the strike for all and it was a cost I would not recover. Without you, I would have had to give up Marlborough Mills and find work elsewhere."

"Yet, I wonder which side you would have taken if you had been one of the millhands rather than a master?" Margaret mused. She cast a wary glance at her husband to see his response. He appeared pensive.

"Perhaps, then, you would have proved more willing to see the justice of my cause?" He retorted, a wry half-smile on his face. "You immediately pleaded the case of the rioters and responded to them with compassion. You saw only their desperation and the nature of their circumstances – not their potential for violence and ill deeds. On the other hand, you immediately determined my capacity for tyranny and it took a far longer time to convince you that even a rough mill master could do good."

She blushed and shook her head. "It took me a long time to overcome my prejudices and admit that both sides of the strike were composed of men… and one was not made right purely by being in a position as a worker and the other wrong purely for being the master. It was far more complicated than all that."

"We cannot assume that someone is guilty or innocent by their position alone. Is a magistrate more just solely for the authority of the position that he holds? Is a captain less culpable to error due to the weight of responsibility on his shoulders? The poor are not made righteous by their reduced circumstances any more than a mill owner is made just by the power he wields," John said. "Not all in positions of authority use their positions well and not all who seek to relieve them of their authority are superior to their predecessors. If every millhand was made a master and every sailor made captain, does it follow they would use such authority well?"

"It is a good question," Henry mused. "In all the debates over the influence of birth and family and education in the character of a man, I must wonder. Does one's position in life reveal a man as he is or create him into who he is?"

"I do not believe it is so simple to separate the two," John responded, after a few moments thought. "The opportunities a man is given throughout his life both reveal his character and build his character. To differentiate where innate character ends and developed capacity begins is like attempting to separate the dough of the bread from the heat of the oven. Once they have been joined together, they are forever intertwined to create the final loaf of bread."

"So, you would argue that the greatest danger in the overthrow of tyrants is that it is we, ourselves, who will replace them. It is not our own innate goodness which leads to the proper application of authority, but the knowledge of our own evil, our own propensity to tyranny, that permits the possibility of justice."

"Yes!" Margaret answered emphatically. "I do believe you have captured it exactly, Henry!"

Henry sat back in his chair and took up his tea again with a smile on his face. He had no doubt that if Margaret Thornton was involved, she must find a way to bridge the gap between master and men and find both their humanity and their goodness. He knew she would have done the same for a sea captain and riotous group of mutineers, if she had been present. She would have kept the ship and all its crew from floundering as surely as she had helped save John Thornton from the strike.

She was a force to contend with, that Margaret Thornton. She was proof that one good woman could shape the fate of any of the masters, magistrates, mutineers, or men who were fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to cross her path. She would catalyze change and prove the mettle of those around her for all her days.

The End