Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Blast!” exclaimed an irritated John Thornton after once again perusing the letter that had just arrived via express from his landlord, Mr. Adam Bell.

“What is it, John?” his mother asked, as John Thornton refolded the missive and stuffed it into his coat pocket.

“Bell is unable to leave Oxford and therefore, he won’t be able to make it to Milton to renegotiate our lease agreement,” the young mill master explained to his mother.

“So, go see him in Oxford,” she stated as if that was the obvious conclusion.

“I most certainly will,” he pointedly replied, “Unfortunately, I will have to leave when we are at a critical point in the fulfillment of an important contract.”

“Surely Williams, can handle it?” was his mother’s reply.  It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yes,” John conceded, “But with rumors brewing again of an impending strike, I wouldn’t put it past the hands to take advantage of my absence.”

“If you want, John, I can help keep an eye on things,” she offered.

“Yes, mother,” he replied, “That would be greatly appreciated.  Your presence strikes fear into the hearts of many a hand.”  He chuckled at the thought.  It was no exaggeration.  The hands thought they were discrete, but on more than one occasion he overheard them referring to his mother as, ‘the old dragon.’  He would never reveal that nickname to her, though.

Checking the newspaper for the latest south bound train timetables, John said, “I need not be gone for long.  If I leave first thing in the morning, I might just make it back late in the evening.  Hopefully before anyone even realizes I’ve even left.”

……….oOo……….

“Margaret!” Mr. Hale called as he walked out of his study in the quaint little parsonage in Helstone, letter in his hand, looking for his daughter. 

“In here, Papa!” the young girl of sixteen replied from the drawing room where she was sitting with her mother, mending clothes for the poor members of the parish. 

“Margaret, dear,” her father said as he entered the room, “Mr. Bell has invited me to visit him in Oxford for a few days and I thought you might like to come with me.”

“Oh, Margaret,” her mother gushed, “what a treat that would be!  You may get to meet some handsome young scholar!”  She waggled her eyebrows.  “A young barrister-to-be would make a nice husband.”

The young girl blushed deeply.  Edith had gone boy crazy this year, trying to match Margaret up with the brother, cousin, or best friend of every boy in whom she was interested.  Now her mother was joining in.  She had been hoping to escape such nonsense when she returned home to Helstone for the summer. 

Her mother had started the long holiday by trying to match Margaret up with the young and handsome Mr. Gorman whom she had once met at Mr. Hume's.  He came from a tradesman’s family, coach makers to be precise.  Unfortunately, having been raised mostly by her high society aunt, Margaret had developed a strong dislike for ‘shoppy people.’  When she pointed out to her mother that Aunt Shaw would never approve of Edith marrying a tradesman, Mrs. Hale soon changed her tune to match that of her well to do sister.

In the current instance, Mr. Hale, however inadvertently, came to his daughter’s rescue.

“It is summertime, my love,” he pointed out, and much to his wife’s dismay he added, “There will be no students there now.  Just crotchety old professors like Bell.”  The man snorted at his own joke.

“Oh, I adore Mr. Bell,” declared Margaret, in defense of the elderly gentleman, “He is clever and witty and behaves much younger than his years.”

“Now Margaret,” admonished her mother, “Mr. Bell is single, and quite rich, but I would never approve of you marrying someone old enough to be your father!”

“Mother,” replied Margaret, scandalized, “I am not thinking of marrying him, nor anyone else right now for that matter.  I find him entertaining company, that is all.”  She had seen firsthand what marrying for wealth and status had done to her aunt and she had resolved long ago to only marry for the deepest of love.

Turning to her father she added, “I will accompany you papa, when do we leave?”

……….oOo……….

John entered the parlor to bid farewell to his mother.  He was leaving immediately to catch the southbound train to Oxford. 

His mother approached and by way of distracting herself from the tears of separation she always felt when her son went away, no matter how briefly, she made to straighten his cravat.

“Now, I know you won’t be gone long, John,” she began, “nor will you be attending any social events, but if you have an opportunity to look around for a suitable wife…”

“Mother,” he said in frustration.

“Well, you don’t seem to be interested in any of the available young ladies of Milton,” she chided him, “even though I have paraded them all in front of you at least twice!”

“More like three or four times,” John grumbled under his breath. 

For the past three years his mother had made it her life’s mission to find him a fitting partner.  John supposed there were plenty of ‘suitable’ young ladies of his acquaintance, however, none felt suited to him.  John Thornton was a man of character, of fortitude and persistence.  When there was something he wanted he went after it until got it.  Some people even likened him to a bulldog in his stubborn persistence.  One thing he had decided long ago was that he would not settle for anything less than love in his marriage.  He wanted a wife that would love him for himself, not for his money or status and that was all the belles of Milton saw him as – a rich mill master.

“You must marry some time, John!”  his mother reminded him.

“Mother,” John sighed, “I am traveling to Oxford, meeting with Bell, and returning immediately.  Trust me, there will be no time for romance.”

He rolled his eyes while he stepped away and headed for the door. 

“I’ll be back late,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t wait up,” he advised even though he knew that she would not listen.

……….oOo……….

“Papa,” exclaimed Margaret as they boarded the northbound train, “Did you know that I have not been any further north than London!”

“Well,” replied he, “Oxford isn’t much further north than London.”

“I know,” replied Margaret, “but it is all new to me.  I wonder what sites I might see and what people I might meet.”

Sixteen-year-old Margaret might not be interested in the romance of relationships, but she was most certainly interested in the romance of adventure.  In this manner she was much like her brother who had left home to become a sailor.  Oh, how she missed dear Frederick.  Margaret prayed every day that he would come home soon, safe and sound.  She spent the whole of the journey to Oxford watching out the window and commenting to her father on the beautiful scenery they passed.

Mr. Bell met them at Oxford Station.  He greeted his old friend with a firm handshake and a pat on the back.  Margaret noticed a sympathetic look in the old man’s eye when he looked at her father, but she did not think much of it.  When the Oxford don turned to her, he clasped her hand in his and proclaimed, “Margaret!  I declare you get lovelier and lovelier with each passing year.”  He bowed and kissed the back of her hand.  “Why Hale,” he said to his friend, “My dear goddaughter is fit to break the hearts of many a young lad.  I suspect you will be marrying her off sooner than you think.” 

Margaret blushed and rolled her eyes.  Why was everyone trying to marry her off!  She had only just ‘come out’ this year.  She was enjoying her youth and was not yet ready for the responsibilities that marriage, and the inevitable motherhood would bring.  Plus, she wanted to marry for love, like her parents.  She was not interested in money, like Aunt Shaw, or status, like Edith. 

“Margaret intends to be extremely selective in her choice of husband,” Mr. Hale teased his daughter, “She has already sworn off tradesmen and does not have much interest in young academics.”

“Oh, really?” Bell replied.

“Oh, Papa, not you too,” Margaret chastised, “It is just that I am still young. I have no interest in marriage just yet.  I want to spend more time with you and Mama.”

Mr. Bell smiled at the young girl.  “She is right, Hale,” he declared, “there is plenty of time yet for romance.”

It was a short walk from the station to his lodgings on campus and as it was a beautiful day, Mr. Bell sent his man ahead with their bags, and escorted the father and daughter thither on foot himself. 

After a light tea Mr. Bell took Margaret and her father on a tour of Oxford’s beautiful historic campus.  She enjoyed seeing the old buildings where famous people, such as John Locke and Adam Smith, as well as her father had studied.  Mr. Bell and her father regaled her with stories of their time spent there as students including some of the pranks and other mischief they got into.

As they returned to Mr. Bell’s office, Margaret’s father turned to her. 

“Margaret, dear,” he said, “I would like to discuss something with Bell in private.  Do you mind waiting here in the gardens?”

Margaret’s features flashed with alarm but for her father’s sake she quickly schooled them into calm acceptance.  She did not like the idea of being left alone in a strange place. 

The ever-observant Mr. Bell, however, caught her hint of reluctance and endeavored to rectify the situation.

“Margaret,” said he, “Why don’t you come and sit here.”  He directed her to a comfortable bench underneath a great pear tree.  “My office is right there, in that window,” he said, indicating the closest window to her position. “Your father and I will be able to see you from there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bell,” she graciously replied.

“You will be quite alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered she, “I have my sketch book to keep me entertained.”

“We shan’t be too long,” her father said as he placed a kiss on her cheek.

“Yes,” added Mr. Bell, “As a matter of fact, I have an appointment with one of my tenants in an hour.”

“Well, there it is, Margaret,” her father said, “I will be back in an hour.”

Margaret nodded her assent and watched as the two men strode off together toward the building.  Something had seemed to be weighing on her father’s mind as of late and Margaret hoped that this conversation with Mr. Bell might help alleviate whatever concern was pressing upon him.  In fact, she suspected this visit to his old friend in Oxford was expressly for that purpose.

Margaret sat there for a little while looking around at the beautiful gardens.  It was a sunny summer day and the sunlight filtered through the trees and danced off the leaves.  Margaret pulled out her sketchbook and began to draw. 

……….oOo……….

John Thornton stepped off the train and sighed.  The journey south had been long and tiresome, and he did not look forward to having to make the same trip back home in the evening. 

He was already prepared to give his mother a report on the eligibility of his female train companions.  One was too young – about eight years old.  One was too fat – she even brought a basket of pastries with her and consumed them continuously for the entire journey.  The third was, well, too much like Fanny.  While John loved his sister to death, he could not stand her frivolous and overly ostentatious nature.  A spouse of her ilk would never do.  Why couldn’t he find a beautiful, refined, intelligent young lady who sparked his interest. 

He sucked in a breath of fresh Oxford air and strode away from the platform.  He had been here before on similar business and knew the way to Bell’s office on campus.  The bright sunny day lifted his spirits tremendously.  One never really experienced this kind of warmth and sunshine in Milton.  The belching chimneys of the factories made sure of that. 

However, John was proud of Milton and its factories, his especially.  He had worked hard, and from such a young age, to raise Marlborough Mills to where it is at today – one of the finest cotton factories in the kingdom.  The names of Marlborough Mills and John Thornton were known at all the major trading ports of the world. 

And here he was – forced to take time out of his busy schedule to negotiate a new lease with his landlord.  A long-term goal of his was to purchase the factory from Bell.  However, that was most definitely on the back burner especially with the threat of an impending strike.  But he was determined, by hook or by crook, he would one day own Marlborough himself.

As John walked across the Oxford University campus a strange sensation began to spread throughout his body.  It grew and grew until he had to push aside all other thoughts and concentrate on what might be the cause of it.  He stopped and looked around.

……….oOo……….

Margaret looked around for the best scene to sketch.  She finally settled on a view down the path through the middle of the courtyard garden.  She had to turn partially on the bench to get the right angle as the scene was mostly behind her.

A warm breeze blew through the trees, yet Margaret suddenly felt a chill.  Footsteps were heard approaching from down the pathway that she was sketching.  Margaret leaned around the tree for a better look.  Her breath caught in her throat at what she saw.  A man was walking in her direction.  He was tall, dressed all in black except for a crisp white shirt.  He had a confident stride and Margaret noticed how handsome he was the closer he came.  He wore a serious expression and Margaret couldn’t help but wonder how much more handsome he would look if only he smiled.  She felt a strong desire to be the one to make that smile appear. 

Suddenly he stopped and began to look around.  Could he feel her staring at him?  Holding her breath, Margaret quickly withdrew behind the tree again before he could see her.  A moment later his footsteps started again, and Margaret looked up to watch him stride down the part of the path that ran nearest to her location.  She was still partially concealed, and the handsome stranger never looked her way.

As soon as he disappeared, Margaret knew exactly what she wanted to add to her sketch to make it perfect.

……….ooo……….

Mr. Hale began to pace around the room as he and his oldest friend wrapped up their conversation.  His conscience had driven him to doubt his calling and he felt the need to discuss it with his trusted friend in person.  The decision he needed to make was weighing heavily upon him.

Richard stopped when he reached the window, spying his daughter outside.  He cocked his head and let out a chuckle saying, happy for the momentary relief of his tension, “What is Margaret doing?” he wondered aloud, “Playing at hide and seek?”

Mr. Bell came and stood next to his friend, his eyes quickly taking in the scene outside his office window.  Margaret seemed to be hiding behind a tree yet trying to peek around it.  Following her gaze, he saw John Thornton walking this way, his tenant from Milton, approaching.

“I’ve never seen Margaret behave that way,” her father mused, “She is usually so reserved.”

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Bell, thoughtfully. 

Bell noticed the color rise in Margaret’s cheeks as she watched Thornton the entire time he was visible to her.  Her father, however, was oblivious to the other person outside the window.

Seeing his daughter at this moment struck a chord with her father and the magnitude of the choice he was contemplating surged forth anew.  “What about Margaret and Maria?” he asked with a shaking voice, tears pooling in his eyes.  “What will they think of me and how will they fare if I make this choice?”

“There, there,” comforted Mr. Bell, placing an arm around his friend’s shoulders.  “Everything will turn out alright in the end.  As I’ve said, I will help you.  I will set my mind to it, and we will find you something to do.”

His tears had begun to fall.  Mr. Hale thanked his old friend.  Mr. Bell escorted his distraught friend to another room where he could compose himself before collecting his daughter.  They would meet again later as Mr. Bell’s afternoon appointment was due to arrive.

……….oOo……….

As John reached the door to the building he paused and looked around once more.  He still could not shake the feeling of being watched.  He had to admit though, that it was more than that.  There was a strange tingling sensation throughout his body which gave him an undeniable thrill.  Glancing around, he saw and heard no one.  He didn’t have time to waste, however.  He needed to finalize his lease with Bell and get back to his business in Milton.  Pulling open the door, he stepped inside.

John had been here before and knew the way to Bell’s office.  As he approached the appropriate door, he saw his landlord escorting another man to a room across the hall. 

Bell looked up and saw him.  “Ah, there you are,” his landlord said.  Gesturing with his head to the office door behind him, Bell said, “Go on in and make yourself at home.  I will be right there.”

John entered the office.  After having spent four hours sitting on a train, John had no desire to sit at the moment so the went to look out the window.

Immediately his eyes were drawn to the sight of a beautiful young lady sitting on a bench in the garden.  She was stunningly beautiful with chestnut hair and a lithe figure. He must have walked right by her but had not seen her.  The tingling sensation returned.  Was it she who had been watching him?

The girl was sketching in a notebook.  She would occasionally glance down the path and then back to her sketch.  All of a sudden, she stopped and looked around as if she too felt she were being watched.

John took a step back from the window.  Could she see him in here?  He could not however, wrest his eyes from her just yet.  There was something about her that he was drawn to. 

……….oOo……….

Mr. Bell leaned against the door frame and observed the usually staid Master of Marlborough Mills as he stared out the window.  From the direction of his line of sight, the Oxford don knew precisely what he was looking at and he was enjoying the love struck look on the younger man’s face. 

Bell moved silently across the office and stepped up beside Thornton.  Surprising the young man he said, “Lovely, isn’t she?”

“Huh?” replied Thornton, flustered.

“Lovely, view, I say, isn’t it?” Bell covered.

“Oh, y-yes, very much so,” John stammered, trying to recover his wits.  “Good to see you again, Mr. Bell,” he offered his hand and gave his landlord a firm Northern handshake.

“You too, Thornton.  Please, have a seat,” Bell indicated a chair, “so we can conduct our business.”

John sighed and gave one last wistful glance out the window and took the seat.

Mr. Bell cocked an eyebrow and in his meddling mind he made a note to arrange a meeting of the two youngsters someday if the possibility was ever within his grasp.  Oh, the fun he could have bringing together the gruff northern manufacturer and the high society southern beauty.

Chapter Text

“Un-cle-John! Un-cle-John! Un-cle-John!”

“Sholto!” exclaimed Edith as she stepped into the nursery. “We do not shout in the house.”

Lowering his voice maybe half a decibel the lad continued, “Un-cle-John! Un-cle-John!”

“Darling, Uncle John is in Milton with Auntie Margaret. Uncle Henry is here though,” she announced excitedly. “Would you like to go and see him, he is in the study with papa?” the young mother held out one hand for the little boy and gestured toward the nursery room door with the other.

Sholto made a sour face at the mention of his stuffy paternal uncle and ran from his mother’s hand, vigorously shaking his head. He resumed his incantation, “Un-cle-John! Un-cle-John!”

The toddler continued to prance around the nursery chanting and clutching a book in his hands.

With an exasperated sigh, Edith bent to sit on the floor.

“Come here, Sholto,” Edith beckoned to her son, “Bring me your book and we’ll read a story. Then we’ll go see Uncle Henry.”

“No Uncle Henny - Uncle John!” Sholto exclaimed as he skipped over to his mother and unceremoniously plopped down into her lap.

“It’s Uncle Hen – RY,” corrected Edith, “Can you say Hen – RY?”

“Hennnnny,” said Sholto, and he knitted his little blonde brows and stuck out his tongue.

Edith gave up. She kissed her son on the top of his soft downy head and gently took the book from his hands, careful to avoid his sticky fingerprints.

“Sholto, this isn’t a story book,” his mother declared paging through the book and trying to keep it away from his grubby grasp, “This is one of Auntie Margaret’s old sketch books! Where did you get it?”

“On shelf,” declared the toddler, pointing in that general direction.

The nursery room shelves held all manner of children’s picture books like “Tom Thumb's Picture Alphabet,” “Old Mother Mitten and Her Funny Kitten,” and Sholto’s absolute favorite, “The Three Little Pigs.” However, the nursery used to be their school room when Edith and Margaret still had a governess, so it was not without the realm of possibilities that one of Margaret’s old drawing books could have been found there.

At that moment Dixon happened to be lumbering past the nursery room door. Dixon’s age and ailing health had prevented her from following her young mistress back to Milton upon her marriage. So she remained happily ensconced in the Lennox household in Harley Street, London.

“Oh Dixon?” Edith called out to the maid.

With an indulgent smile for little Sholto, the stout servant entered the room. Edith held out the book to her.

“Look what Sholto found!” proclaimed Edith.

Dixon gently took the book from Edith’s grasp. Sholto’s sticky fingerprints were quite obvious even to her old eyes and so she too was careful to avoid smearing them further.

“Why, it is one of Miss Margaret’s old sketch books!” replied Dixon. Whether she still referred to her young mistress as ‘Miss Margaret’ out of sentimental habit or because she never truly accepted the suitability of the Northern tradesman for the hand of the former Miss Beresford’s daughter remains unknown. “Why don’t I clean this up for you, m’ lady, seeing that the young master seems to have taking quite a liking to it.” Dixon gave the boy an over exaggerated disapproving look and held the book up pinched between a thumb and forefinger. Sholto giggled.

“Oh, would you, please?” enthused Edith. “I would like to send it to Margaret. It is hers after all.”

Dixon expressed her approval of this idea and strolled off, gingerly flipping through the pages. A smile crept across the old servant’s face at seeing the familiar bucolic scenes of Helstone and its environs sketched on the pages while many fond memories of her deceased mistress, as well as her young charge, warmed her heart.

…oOo…

With quill in hand and fingers stained with ink, John Thornton, 3^rd Magistrate of Milton and the Master of Marlborough Mills, sat at his desk leaning over his ledger book making entries and calculating sums. The Mill was secure and business was thriving but that didn’t stop him from meticulously keeping his books and tracking every pound, shilling and pence not to mention each bale of cotton used and yard of cloth produced.

While the Master of Marlborough Mills was still a shrewd businessman, he was no longer the ol’ bulldog that many of his hands had been wonted to call him. One might argue that any man would be softened by marriage, but the workers of Marlborough Mills believe that only ‘Miss Marget’ could ever have softened their Master. Many a pint o’ ale was raised to the name of that fine lady the day she married ol’ Thornton. Her touch could be seen in almost all aspects of the mill. The canteen now served desert twice a week, the mill sponsored a school for the children of the workers, and Thornton could actually be seen wearing a smile every so often. 

A knock sounded on Thornton’s door.

“Come in,” he called without looking up.

Williams entered with a large pile of letters, including a parcel. “Post arrived,” he said and plopped the stack on the corner of the Master’s desk.

Head still lowered and quill scribbling away, Thornton tossed his overseer a customary nod of thanks. The man pivoted and left the room pulling the door shut behind him.

When his mother, now the dowager Mrs. Thornton, ran the roost, so to speak, she insisted that the postman separate the mail between what goes to the mill house and what was destined for the mill office. Margaret, however, in her infinite benevolence, did not wish the postman to waste his precious time and told him to deliver it all the to mill. Her correspondence could wait till the evening when her husband returned from the office or even the next day if he forgot, which happened quite often as he was usually impatient to see his wife at the end of his wearisome days.

As a result of this arrangement, John had to sort the mail himself. He looked at the pile and sighed but it was not a sigh of exasperation. Sure, he could ask one of his clerks to sort it, but this was actually one of John’s favorite parts of the day. It forced him to take a break from his tedious work. It reminded him of his wife’s boundless generosity and all the goodness she has brought to his life and to Milton. It also allowed him a brief glimpse into part of her daily life. She was forever receiving invitations to tea, or requests to sit on charitable, as well as social, committees. Of course there were letters from her Aunt Shaw and cousin Edith and every other month or so brought the highly coveted missive from Spain. Margaret was so popular that more often than not the pile for the mill house was higher than that for the mill.

He never opened her letters, mind. They were addressed to Mrs. John Thornton (the sight of her named in that manner always gave him a thrill), she would open them herself. After supper he and his wife would retreat to the drawing room. He would read the newspaper and she would open her letters. Some she would read aloud to him word for word, but most she would just summarize or read him pertinent snippets. Always keeping him informed of the happenings in her life, as he did with her.

He loved to watch her as she read animatedly to him from one or another of Edith’s or Frederick’s letters. He would laugh with her at the foibles and exploits of their little nieces and nephews and comfort her when she cried, missing them so. Although her tears of longing had significantly abated since the birth of their own child two months prior. Little Jack was a constant source of joy for both of his parents, not to mention his grandmama, whose heretofore stoic countenance has been significantly softened by the birth of her grandson, the apple of her eye.

Careful to handle the letters so as not to smudge them with his inky fingers, John piled his wife’s correspondence to one side. When he got to the parcel he found that it too was for Margaret - from Harley Street. It felt like a book but John couldn’t imagine for the life of him, Margaret’s well-meaning but flighty cousin sending her a book. Had the woman even read a book since her governess was dismissed, he wondered.

Adding the parcel to the pile destined for mill house, John returned to his ledgers and his own letters of business.

…oOo…

At the end of the day and with the pile of post tucked securely under his arm, John crossed the mill yard with a spring in his step and bounded up the stairs two at a time to reach the millhouse door. Every evening was the same, he couldn’t wait to get home to his Margaret. Before placing his hand on the knob, the door flew open and he was greeted by the smiling face of his wife with their babe in her arms. Like his mother in days passed, Margaret would watch from the window for his approach. However, foregoing her mother in law’s stately decorum, Margaret would always rush down the stairs to greet her husband at the door.

At this welcoming sight he swept her, babe and all, into his arms and kissed her soundly.

“John!” she exclaimed, but merely for propriety’s sake, “We will be seen! And you are crushing little Jack.” For the child was squirming fiercely being thus sandwiched between his loving parents.

Releasing her and stepping back he declared, “Let them see. Let the whole of Milton know that the Master of Marlborough Mills is happily married and has a son!” He then bent and kissed the infant on his soft velvety forehead.

Margaret laughed and slipped her free hand through his arm and pulled him into the house. The door now shut securely behind them and with the child angled to the side, the couple engaged in a more private, and lengthy, welcome home.

…oOo…

Margaret passed little Jack to his nurse and rang the bell for supper.

“Here is your post,” her husband announced.

“Just place it on the side table in the drawing room, I will go through it after we eat” she instructed him.

“There is a parcel from your cousin,” he told her as he followed her orders, “Looks like a book.”

“A book!” Margaret queried with puzzlement, “From Edith?”

“Yes, my thoughts exactly,” he said as he reached her side and gave her a quick kiss. Leading her into the dining room he added, “Great minds think alike.”

The meal passed uneventfully. The couple exchanged tales of the day’s events and otherwise enjoyed each other’s company.

…oOo…

Harley Street

May 22, 1854

My darling Margaret,

I hope this letter finds you well. Do write soon and tell me how little Jack is doing. They grow so fast, don’t they?

Sholto found this book of yours on one of the shelves in the nursery. You must have left it there when that used to be our school room. Luckily I was able to rescue it from his clutches before he got his sticky fingers on too many of the pages. When I discovered him with it he was galloping around the room chanting “Uncle John! Uncle John!” You know how much he’s loved your husband ever since John took him on his knee to play horsey that first time. Remember, I told you then that he would make a good father. Anyway, It must be some sort of toddler sixth sense for an old book of your drawings to have reminded little Sholto of your husband. Whatever the case, I thought you might like to have it for sentimental reasons. Please, forgive any pages that may still be stuck together.

Dixon did take the book to try to clean it up. She noticed you had drawn in it when you were in Helstone a year or two before your removal to Milton. When she returned it to me she was mumbling something about you having had a premonition or some such nonsense. I don’t understand what the old biddy is talking about half the time anyway so I didn’t bother to ask.

Give my regards to your husband and kiss that little angel for me. Oh, and tell your sister in law that we look forward to seeing her and Watson when they come to London next month. There is a new milliner’s shop on Bond Street that she really must visit.

Your loving cousin,

Edith

…oOo…

All the while Margaret was reading this accompanying letter aloud to her husband, he was flipping through the pages of the aforementioned drawing book.

“Well,” said John with feigned gravity, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, “I think I know what inspired both the boy and the maid. The real question is,” he stated as he turned the book to show his wife the page he had found, “What inspired you?”

Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth as her jaw dropped. “I completely forgot about that drawing,” she said in amazement as she took the book from her husband’s outstretched hand.

She stared in disbelief at the page and then looked up at her husband. With her hand still hovering near her mouth, she stated more than asked, “It was you.”

John cocked his head and raised a thick black brow inquisitively.

 “Papa and I were visiting Mr. Bell in Oxford when I drew this scene,” Margaret gestured to the book. “A man walked into view and I…,” Margaret paused and her face flushed at the memory. Sensing this, she placed her hand on her cheek and continued, “…thought he set off the picture rather nicely, so I included him. It was you!” She looked up at him in utter amazement.

“Over the years I have made many trips to visit Mr. Bell in Oxford on business, of course,” her husband confirmed.

John examined the picture once more - and then his wife. A mischievous smile twitched at his lips.

“Had you developed a tendresse for me even back then?” he teased her.

“What ?! No! You…” Margaret attempted to deny.

Cutting her off, he declared, “I know, you were struck by my confident air and kingly bearing.” The smile grew on his face as he took the book from her hands. Holding it, and his head, at different angles, he feigned deeper scrutiny. “As well as my aquiline nose, it appears.”

“John!” Margaret exclaimed as she grabbed for the book, but her husband’s quicker reflexes, in accord with his longer arms, kept it out of her reach.

“No, no, no,” he chided, grabbing her hand and holding it in his, “First tell me,” he leaned closer to whisper suggestively in her ear, “did you go to bed every night with the book open to this page sitting on your bedside table? Or maybe you placed it under your school books, stealing glances at the handsome man you saw in Oxford, when your governess wasn’t looking?”

“John!” she exclaimed again, now completely embarrassed because he had hit fairly close to the mark.

“Don’t attempt to deny it. I can tell by the look on your face,” he teased.

“You’re insufferable!” Margaret exclaimed with a pouty huff.

Wrapping his arm around his wife, he pulled her into his side. They spent the rest of the evening, cuddled up on the couch, admiring her drawings and discussing the circumstances surrounding that fateful day oh so many years ago.