Chapter Text
Margaret walked anxiously through the various halls of the Crystal Palace, where the Great Exhibition was in its final weeks. She was in an agitated state after an uncomfortable exchange earlier between herself, Mr. Thornton and Henry Lennox. Henry had been quite rude and demeaning toward Mr. Thornton, and he had cynically used his proximity to her family to taunt Mr. Thornton by hinting at an especial closeness between the two of them. The cheek of it! So she had wandered off from her party in order to have a few minutes to herself to bring her temper under regulation.
Conveniently, this also afforded Margaret the opportunity to more fully explore the wonders around her brought forth from all corners of the empire. There were enormous statues of royal figures from Egypt, a stuffed elephant with an elaborately adorned Indian howdah, the Koh-i-Noor diamond considered to be the world’s largest, and all sundry of modern machinery and lavish textiles. It was truly a marvel to behold.
As Margaret passed through a different area, she spotted Mr. Thornton in the Australian exhibit. He was looking at aboriginal artefacts from Tasmania. There was a waddy described as being made of wood from a tolosa tree, along with a model catamaran made of tea tree and paperbark, and a bull kelp water buffalo.
Mr. Thornton was struck by the brilliant simplicity of the engineering and its utility, as well as by the resourcefulness of the individuals who made use of them. The artefacts reflected a deeply ingrained knowledge of the natural world. As a Milton native who encountered but little nature himself, he found himself humbled by the vastness of the empire and by man’s tendency towards ingenuity in any setting.
Margaret stood quietly just outside the entryway, hesitant to interrupt him, but he felt her presence anyway.
“What do you imagine Tasmania is like?” He said in a hushed tone, as if not wanting to disrupt the quiet he had found in this space, which appeared to be sparsely visited and of little interest to the majority of tourists that day.
“I do not know,” Margaret said, not expecting his question. She did not think he had noticed her come in. She glanced at him, then back at the display. “Hot, for a start.”
He cast a sideways glance at her, finally, one corner of his mouth lifting gently. “Just think how different our lives are from a distance of only a hundred miles,” he said, referring to Milton and London society. “Can you imagine living thousands of miles away?”
It appealed to her to know he was a man who took a keen interest in the world. He was so unlike the other gentlemen of her acquaintance. “You think the world must seem quite different from such a place?” she asked.
“Perhaps at first,” he replied. “But then I imagine human nature is the same no matter where you are in the world.”
She detected a hint of regret in his voice. “I am sorry about earlier.”
His eyes squinted in confusion. “Why?”
“Henry was —“
Mr. Thornton frowned at the personal way she used Lennox’s Christian name — it made him feel all the more the lack of any intimacy he had with her. He stood a little taller and raised his chin.
“It was nothing,” he said dismissively. “Reckon I’m used to sneering condescension from London gentlemen.”
She looked down with an amused expression. “As am I, actually.”
He raised his brow and turned to fully face her, surprise evident on his face. “Are you?” She met his gaze with a simple shrug and a small smile, which he could not help but return. “Reckon I’ve added my failed suit to the pile, then,” he said, surprising them both in finding even the smallest levity about his proposal that had been so recently and painfully rejected by her.
Unused to his humour, Margaret did not quite know how to reply. She laughed uncomfortably. “You are nothing like that sort, I can assure you.” After a pause she worried he might mistake her meaning. “I meant that kindly.”
“I didn’t think you meant it unkindly.” He cleared his throat. “What did you think of the Exhibition? Did any particular section catch your eye today?”
She appreciated the deft change in topic. “It’s quite the spectacle, is it not? There was so much to take in. I wish we had more time. However, I must say the India exhibit was most fascinating.” He hummed in agreement. “And your speech earlier,” she added.
“Aye, what of it?”
“Your response to the query about how to put an end to strikes. You seemed resigned to the endless struggle between masters and men.” He did not reply, only looked at her intently, waiting for her to continue. “Do you see no hope for the future, then?”
“In truth, not particularly. I believe there will always be strife and grief between workers and bosses. I hope I’m proven wrong, but I can only speak from my experience, Miss Hale. It is a never ending battle.” He sighed. “It vexes me. I take no pleasure in it.”
“No, of course not.” She considered him thoughtfully. There was a brief silence. “When do you return to Milton?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Tomorrow. Much to Fanny’s dismay, but I must get back to the mill.”
She hesitated. “If it is not too much trouble, I wonder if you might permit me to travel home with you and Fanny tomorrow? My mother is unwell, you see, and I do not like to stay away too long.”
“Of course,” he replied simply. Mr. Thornton strained to mask his surprise at her request and his concern at the reason, but thought it better not to press. He understood her mother’s health was the matter of some delicacy within the family. “It’s no trouble at all, Miss Hale.”
“Thank you,” she said gratefully.
He gave her a sympathetic nod then looked around. “Won’t your family be wondering where you are?”
She sighed. “Yes, I suppose you are right.” Still, she was reluctant to part company entirely. “Would you — you and Fanny, that is— join us for dinner this evening?”
Mr. Thornton didn’t particularly fancy the prospect of spending an evening with Henry Lennox, or the obnoxious aunt, for that matter. But he was keen to see more of Margaret before they left London and returned to Milton, where the mill kept him so busy that he rarely saw her and her father. Here, there was a softness in her manner towards him that he had never felt from her before. He could not account for it but was glad of it. He was worried the familiar aloofness would settle between them again once they arrived home.
“Are you sure Lady Shaw wouldn’t mind? I can’t imagine rough and uncouth tradesmen are part of her usual milieu.”
Margaret smiled. “Perhaps not. But you’d be welcome, all the same, as my friends,” she said. “Please, do come.”
He could never turn down such a personal invitation from her and inclined his head in acceptance. “Thank you. I can speak for Fanny, I know she’ll be thrilled.”
“Good. I’m glad.” With a tinge of regret she looked towards the exit. “Shall we rejoin the others, then?”
“Very well.” He motioned for her to walk ahead of him and followed behind.
——-
Dinner was an awkward affair. Lady Shaw seemed barely capable of suppressing her distaste at Mr. Thornton’s presence — after all, she thought, what if word spread that she kept company with such people? Meanwhile, almost from the moment John and Fanny had arrived at the elegant townhouse on Harley Street, Henry sought to monopolise Margaret’s attention.
At one point, as Henry wore her ear out halfway through the first course, Margaret shot Mr. Thornton an exasperated look across the dinner table as if to say, “Do you see what I mean?” referring to their earlier conversation. His mouth twitched and he looked down to cover his smirk. Still, she spotted the glint of humour in his eyes and it gave her unexpected pleasure to compel such a response from him.
After dinner, the party retired to the drawing room. Margaret poured Mr. Thornton a cup of tea and brought it over to where he stood near the window looking out over the crescent of finely appointed homes.
“Will you not be sorry to leave, Miss Hale?” he said, still looking out. As she drew closer, he turned to her. “Don’t you miss it at all?”
She passed the dish of tea to him, and their fingers brushed briefly as she considered his question before breaking into a smile. “One thing I will miss about being in London for Christmas is seeing people ice skating in Regents Park when the lake freezes over,” she said, glimpsing out. There was a family bundled up in woollen coats, strolling along the green and pushing an infant in one of those popular newfangled prams that Queen Victoria used for her own children.
“Have you been skating yourself, Miss Hale?”
“Yes, although never on the lake. My aunt used to take Edith and me to the Glaciarium in Marylebone. It was where the Queen and Prince Albert liked to visit and so, naturally, London society followed suit. I always wished we might go out on the lake just once, though. The glaciarium so often had an odious stench.”
“From the chemicals in the artificial ice,” Mr. Thornton supplied.
“Precisely. Still, Edith and I enjoyed it and there was a lovely bazaar next to it where we would buy fruitcakes and clementines and even bags of roasted chestnuts.”
“That is an enchanting memory,” he said softly. Mr. Thornton mentally tucked away the sweet image of a young Margaret meandering through a Christmas market, rosy cheeked and determined.
Something in his tone made Margaret look up at him. “And what about you, Mr. Thornton? What is your fondest memory of this time of year?”
Mr. Thornton shifted uncomfortably. The Christmases of his youth were mostly blighted by shame, hunger and want in the wake of his father’s death. But if he reached into the vault and thought further back to his earlier childhood, when the family was intact, there were happy memories to be found.
“When I was a small boy, my father would take all of us on sleigh rides through the centre of town on Christmas Day, when the shops were all closed and the streets mostly empty.” His expression livened at the memory and it made Margaret smile as she listened intently to him. “Fanny would be all bundled up in mother’s arms and my father allowed me to sit alongside him, even let me hold the reins from time to time.”
Fanny, who had been engaged in conversation with Edith, made her way over to Margaret and John. “What are you two talking of?” she asked, looping her arm through her brother’s.
He looked down at her with a nostalgic smile, as if still imagining her as the little girl all tightly bundled in the snow, her pink face and straw-coloured curls sticking out from under her hat.
He shook his head and squeezed her hand on his arm affectionately. “Just memories of Christmases past.” Mr. Thornton drew out his pocket watch and saw that the hour was growing late. “We should be getting back to the hotel,” he said to Fanny before turning to Margaret. “Miss Hale, if it suits, Fanny and I will come collect you in the morning, at ten o’clock.”
Margaret was struck by the fraternal tenderness Mr. Thornton displayed towards his sister. It was yet another side of him she had never seen. She was momentarily distracted.
“Miss Hale?” John tilted his head at her when she had not responded.
“I’m sorry – yes, that suits very well,” she recovered herself. “Thank you, Mr. Thornton.”
Margaret waited with John and Fanny in the foyer as the footman retrieved their coats and hats, and then saw them out. Mr. Thornton stood aside as Fanny thanked Margaret for inviting them to dinner and expressed how much she enjoyed the evening.
After assisting his sister into the carriage, Mr. Thornton turned back once more to Margaret. Neither quite knew what to say to one another. They silently regarded one another for a moment. Finally, John shook his head and settled for simply saying, “I will see you tomorrow.”
Margaret clasped her hands neatly in front of her, an image of poise that belied the growing curiosity she felt. “Until tomorrow,” her soft voice reached him just as he closed the passenger door.
——-
The train car was quiet and mostly empty as it passed through the West Midlands.
Fanny quickly dozed off and for a while, Margaret and Mr. Thornton sat in a kind of awkward silence, avoiding each other’s gaze. Eventually, Margaret broached the sensitive topic that had caused such distance between them.
“I wanted to say, Mr. Thornton, that I am sorry for the way we left things when you last came to Crampton.”
John’s brow creased in surprise at her broaching the subject and confusion at why should would feel the need to apologise. “It was folly to address you in the manner I did, I see that now. You cannot be blamed for your refusal.”
“Still I am ashamed of my own words, said in anger, which I am aware caused you pain. I was convinced at the time that you spoke only out of a sense of patronising obligation.”
He looked at his hands folded in his lap. “Foolish as I may have been,” he said quietly, “I was in earnest.”
“I know you were.” Their eyes met and Margaret watched a myriad of emotions cross Mr. Thornton’s face.
Just then, Fanny shifted in her sleep, suspending any further remark from Mr. Thornton, who drew up stiffly in his seat. His sister eventually settled into a comfortable position with her head resting on his shoulder and became still again. He glanced down at her, then briefly at Miss Hale before looking awkwardly out the window.
Margaret watched Mr. Thornton. She felt she had gotten to see a different side of him during this London break and it made her long to know him better. “Perhaps – perhaps we could start again?”
He turned towards her, his face inscrutable, but his eyes flaring in surprise as they scanned hers for signs that she was genuine.
Margaret continued. “I know it’s rather presumptuous of me, but –”
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes, I think so,” she said haltingly, the colour rising in her cheeks. “It is. I would like it very much.”
He softened at the sight of her blushed cheeks, which he found very becoming. “As would I.” He wanted nothing more than a second opportunity to win her affection and it stirred something deep within him to know that she might welcome his attention. “Thank you.”
Margaret offered a sheepish smile, her face now fully flushed as she turned her attention to the view out the window. They were passing through the outskirts of Milton now, as the train pushed further north, the scenery had transitioned from green and pastoral to decidedly grey and industrial.
“Not much of a view, is it?” said Mr. Thornton and there was almost a tint of apology in it.
She continued looking out at the cityscape emerging in the distance. “It is not so bad.”
Thornton turned his keen gaze to her, studying her profile. He looked down at the hat in his lap, taking in her words. The beginning of a half smile ghosted upon his face and he released a small, contented sigh. He returned his gaze to the window and together they took in the same view. Steady plumes of black smoke billowed from the long chimneys of factories and other works, creating an urban grid of brick stretching for miles. Cart horses trotted along murky waterways congested with flatboats carrying freight. It was not an attractive sight, but if they looked hard enough, they could see with wonder the place where two rivers merged: the Irk, flowing from the north, and Mersey from the south, met beneath the River Irwell to form the very heart of Milton and give it life.