Entry tags:
FIC: Sick of Shadows - 4
Title: Sick of Shadows
Rating: this chapter PG, overall NC-17 for explicit sex
Length: this chapter 7 K, overall probably 110 K. 80 K written so far
Characters: Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Summary: Margaret and Mr. Thornton gradually get to know each other better. With conversation, balls, politics, and Fanny.
A/N: thank you to kleindog at C-19 for the initial beta a year ago; thank you to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hl for the recent beta, and for being extraordinary and amazing
Constructive criticism is welcome.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9? | Chapter 10? | Chapter 11? | Chapter 12?
Chapter Four
Mrs Thornton was pleased the Latimers were coming with them to London, seeming to think Ann Latimer a pleasant and fashionable companion for her daughter. Mrs Thornton did not seem to think similarly of Margaret’s presence, but Margaret chose not to take offence, and bid her mother-in-law good bye with all the grace she could summon.
The train ride was a long one, and Margaret had not thought until it began about how she would now be subjected to several hours of forced company with her husband. She told herself that she did not mind. If they were not friends, they were slowly growing toward it. She appreciated his quiet courtesy. She even looked forward to the mornings, finding comfort in his strong, stable presence, in the way he sounded like he needed and wanted an honest answer when he asked how she had slept.
A train ride would really be no different from all those now serene-seeming evenings, when Fanny’s eyes grew bright and her imagination vivid, and Margaret humoured her in the firelight while brother and mother easily went about their evening tasks. It only began to seem different when Margaret considered the closeness of their compartment combined with Fanny’s restlessness. Mr Thornton did not have his ledgers to work on here.
This was a chance to draw him out, to begin to know him better. She did want to better know the man she had married, and yet at the same time, she felt reluctance. They had established a kind of peace; she did not want to break it.
This possibility presented itself to Margaret most keenly when Fanny, shortly after the train had begun its journey, announced her intention to share a compartment with the Latimers. One compartment was not large enough to seat five, and so the Latimers were across the small corridor. Fanny, after some not small amount of trouble fitting her hoops through, pushed through the narrow door and shut it with a click behind her.
Margaret and Mr Thornton were seated across from each other. She felt sure that his eyes were upon her, even though she was looking out the window and so could not confirm it. The cool English countryside slipped past.
“Are you well?” he asked her after a time.
“I am perfectly well, thank you.”
“I meant, regarding your friend, Miss Higgins,” Mr Thornton said. “Some time has passed. I have observed you look less pensive. You are not suffering?”
Margaret looked at him in surprise, which changed to gratitude when she saw his concern. “Thank you.” She thought for a moment. “I think it a shame that someone of such kindness and humour, who seemed so wise at such a young age, should have to leave us all so soon. But I am glad she is in a better place now. She deserved to be.” Margaret looked back out the window.
“They really are your friends,” Mr Thornton said. He easily interpreted the affronted look she gave him. “You think me callous.”
Margaret opened her mouth, then closed it. She wondered whether it was appropriate to agree with your husband when he said that you condemned him. “I know what you are asking,” she said, after some thought. “In the South, we would bring baskets to the poor, the invalids and the farmers who had too many children to feed. I have always thought of charity as a kindness, not a way to express superiority. But in the South, things were very clear. We were fortunate, and there were those who were less so.”
Margaret thought of the families she had known in the Forest. “I knew interesting people,” she said. “Young people, old people, farmers, grandmothers who used herbs for remedies. They were gracious, and I liked them, but I knew them as a benefactor. I had a love of the race. When they went away, certainly I felt sadness. I did not feel as though a personal quality had been stripped from me.”
“It is different in the North?”
“Yes. When we came here, we were alone. We did not know anyone, and no one cared for us. Even the people with whom we eventually became acquainted seemed foreign. Everything was so different, I did not even know to whom I might take a basket, and less so that baskets might not be welcomed by those in need.”
The corner of Mr Thornton’s mouth twitched. “I cannot imagine it would go over well, with some Milton men.”
“It did not.”
Mr Thornton smiled. “But you persevered. During the strike—”
“They came to know me,” Margaret said, not wanting to argue over the feeding of children again, as they had at the Thornton's dinner. “There are some who will accept charity, if they understand the intentions behind it. Nicholas and Bessy taught me that, though they would never accept it themselves.”
“They do not want to be condescended to.”
Margaret put her head back. “And so I do not condescend to them.”
“You call on them.”
“I had to wait for an invitation.”
“There are not many women in your position in Milton who wait upon invitations from ha—workers. I never did understand it.”
They had discussed this before. “Bessy and Nicholas were the ones who first invited me, and the first to let me know I needed to be invited,” Margaret said. “They helped me all the time with understanding Milton ways. Even when I was most lonely, Bessy assured me that Milton would get used to me.”
Mr Thornton’s brows rose. “How long did she suppose it would take?”
“One or two years."
Mr Thornton laughed.
Margaret looked out the window. The train rushed along, their car rattling. “She was a friend when I had no one else to talk to.”
She had told Mr Thornton they might try to be friends as well. During the strike he had condemned the workers so easily, and disapproved of her charity to them. Yet even though he thought less of the Higgins’s than perhaps he should, he also seemed interested in her dealings with them. He seemed to truly care about her feelings regarding Bessy.
He had also seemed interested in her father's lessons, which seemed a hypocrisy in light of what she saw as close-mindedness. Mr Thornton was a contradiction: set in Milton ways, defensive of them, and yet strangely eager to learn about the rest of the world and what other people thought. She remembered what he had said about the Great Exhibition, his stated interest in seeing the new inventions and great thinkers there.
“What do you think we will see at the Exhibition?” Margaret said. The silence in the car felt too heavy, and she was all too aware of his proximity.
Mr Thornton spoke of seeking investors at the Great Exhibition, but rather than speaking of sums of money they might offer, he spoke of new technology and efficiency. He also spoke of examining the newest inventions that might benefit his mill. He seemed eager to see these inventions, not for the money they may bring in, but for the sheer joy in human ingenuity, and pride in progress and improved efficiency.
“What sort of inventions?” Margaret said, to be polite.
“Pressure gauges, and engines. The main thing is that they are always improving the looms.”
Margaret frowned. “I do not know much about technology, but I have heard it said that the power loom is ‘the perfect machine’. It certainly seems to produce a great amount. The work that goes on automatically at Marlborough Mills is indisputably impressive. How does one improve on perfection?”
Mr Thornton gave her one of his half smiles. “By working at it. The kinds of looms we use at Marlborough Mills may be automatic, but they are only semi-autonomous. This is of course why workers are needed. The loom needs to be stopped to recharge empty shuttles. If there is a problem—a thread breaking—the loom will also stop. Then the thread needs to be retied or pieced. The needles break as well, and need to be replaced.”
Margaret listened in surprise. No one had ever described to her the workings of machinery before. She would have supposed that she was not interested; it was the business of men, yet it occurred to her as he spoke that this was vital. The lives of everyone she knew in Milton, with the possible exception of her own family, were dependent on this technology.
In reply to some small question she asked, Mr Thornton digressed for several minutes regarding a needle. It was a needle with a latch connecting it to the shaft, instead of held there by welding. He said that this would cause the needle to have more flexibility, which would in turn cause it to break less. It seemed like such a small thing, a needle, but he was able to determine how much time this would save them, and therefore how much more the mill might produce.
Margaret also observed that it might be safer for the workers, since it seemed that a needle, when it broke, could easily fly off a machine. Mr Thornton agreed, and launched into discourse regarding various inventions to improve mill safety, such as guards for the looms, and an improved wheel to keep the dust and fluff out of workers’ lungs. He mentioned the telegraph fire alarm that someone had proposed, but he thought it was not worked out yet.
Unable to hide her interest, Margaret made inquiries, which encouraged Mr Thornton to continue to speak of inventions, the Great Exhibition, his hopes for Marlborough Mills, his interest in technology. He got to talking about engines, and all that they were doing with steam. At one point he spoke of Mr Joule and a gentleman named Lord Kelvin, in an analysis of thermodynamics that was well beyond Margaret’s understanding. Yet he did not speak to her as if she was stupid, and when she made sounds of incomprehension, he was eager to simplify his terms.
Listening to him, Margaret realized she could learn much more than how many foot-pounds of ‘work’ it might take to increase the temperature of water. Gentlemen of London pooh-poohed scientific knowledge; understanding of Latin and Plato were all that mattered. At one time she had felt there was wisdom in this. Understanding ideas was more powerful than understanding gross mechanics. Bodies may be constrained by the real world, but the soul was part of the spiritual. Abstraction was key.
And yet in all these theories of thermodynamics, there could be a key to ideas. By understanding the world around them, man might better learn of the world outside of them as well. Besides, the spirit was grounded, at least for a time, in the body. Both were inventions of a higher power; seeking understanding was only another way to worship that power.
Speaking of thermodynamics, of Watts and pressure, Mr Thornton sounded almost lofty.
Not only was the subject not base, it was complex as well. There were many men of her acquaintance in London who claimed an understanding of the classics, who Margaret knew would never comprehend these theories of work and pressure and internal force. She wondered who had determined that one form of knowledge be higher than another.
She had never much liked Plato. He seemed to her short-sighted.
Yet in the next moment, Mr Thornton was speaking not of thermodynamics and theories of energy, but again of the intricacies of mechanics, some belt or reed he had heard of that would increase the production speed of the looms he’d described. Margaret noticed then that for all her decision that discourse of this sort was not base, Mr Thornton was by no means speaking abstractly. It seemed obvious from his discourse that he spoke from personal experience. He not only managed the workers; he had managed these machines.
Margaret did not think other masters had such experience—or, if they did, would admit to such. Mr Thornton was the only man she knew who made pretensions to gentlemanliness, but in the same breath was not afraid of admitting he had worked in a draper’s shop. She knew Mr Thornton had never worked as Nicholas did, or Bessy, but she could not imagine that he was afraid of trying his hand at it. He had a history far inferior to that of most of the other manufacturers.
Just as Margaret did not know anyone else who would have spoken so freely to her of such things, she also did not know anyone who would have spoken as eagerly. The dark she so often observed in him lifted a little as he spoke of the world, technology and inventions, engineers and science and America, where they were always inventing new things.
Apathy was the height of distinction in London. One had interests “here and there”, one tried “this and that”, one dabbled in art or in business or in knowledge. If one dedicated one’s self to a cause, one became a bore, a zealot who was not refined enough to appreciate the diversity of interest in the world, and the shallowness of their scope. In London, speaking in this way, Mr Thornton would seem coarse and boorish, self-obsessed and over-heated.
Margaret welcomed it. Not only did she find the subjects of his discourse interesting, she was gratified to see someone who did not define boredom as a praise-worthy characteristic. She was glad to know someone who did not disguise his passions.
There was a softness and mobility to his mouth that she had not seen before. There was colour in his face. His voice was deep, resonant, with a power to it that was rough, yet sensible and true. Still, under that voice, woven through the Darkshire accent that gave his words a strange lilt to her ears, there was a depth of feeling. An excitement, a fascination, a joy, and he was sharing it with her. It was for her alone, wrapped up between them in this car where only they two sat.
Thinking these things, she felt suddenly very close to him. Even though he seemed to be bringing the entire world between them, speaking of its wonders and its workings, she felt suddenly as though they spoke of intimate things.
The feeling only grew as he continued talking, until she felt as though she was stripped down out of all trappings so that all that was left was the person she was, and he was similarly stripped. They sat before each other now in this train car as equals, the equals she had spoken of when she spoke of Bessy also.
He moved his hand in some gesture, and she felt as though he were touching her in that moment, even though he was only attempting to describe a boiler system to keep cotton dry. His fingers were long, the palms broad and square.
He could draw her to him with those hands, and yet he never had.
She was his wife, she suddenly realized. She wondered why he had not drawn her to him. He could hold her against him with those hands, pull her to him, his rough body and square chest; he could hold her and let his voice wrap around her. They could be together, equals, as men and women were supposed to be, as man and wife.
But Margaret did not know how it was supposed to be. She felt confused and flustered; she did not know why she was thinking these things when he spoke only of cotton. He was obviously not thinking these things of her. He did not want to hold her the way she had so suddenly imagined, or else he would have done it. He had a right to it; she was his wife. He had never touched her in that way.
And yet he was not without passion. She could see it in him; it was part of what stirred her heart so. His eyes were bright as fire.
“I am sorry,” Mr Thornton said suddenly. “You are bored. I should have noticed.”
The tone of his voice was changed completely.
“I am not bored.” Margaret spoke in a somewhat breathless voice. Her cheeks felt flushed. She realized that she had indeed become distracted; she had stopped commenting and asking questions, content to merely listen and absorb.
Mr Thornton looked askance at her. “You have a particular interest in keeping cotton dry?”
“Yes.” Margaret lifted her chin.
“You do not need to feign an interest for my sake.”
“I am not feigning an interest!” The accusation demeaned both her and the way he had been speaking to her. He may have merely forgotten that she was not one of his business colleagues, rather than speaking that way because he truly did respect her intelligence and ability to grasp issues that mainly concerned men.
“I am sorry,” he said again. “I did not mean to suggest deceit on your part, but rather too solicitous charity.”
She looked away, feeling in some small part deceptive after all. It was true that she had lost the thread of his conversation, becoming preoccupied by his voice rather than his words. She did not know what had precipitated it, and shame coursed through her. He had not become distracted that way; his heat had been all for the ideas of which he spoke.
Even with her head down, she knew that he watched her. She knew that he eyed her keenly; she could feel that burning gaze.
“It is too warm,” Mr Thornton said suddenly. “Forgive me; I was distracted. I will open the window.”
“I am not too hot,” she said in strained protest, because he was standing up.
His legs brushed her skirt. “You are flushed,” he said, and opened the latch on the window.
“I only need a glass of water.” She stood too hurriedly and stumbled.
“Margaret,” he said, grasping her arm.
“I am not faint.” She stepped away.
He still held her arm. “I will get the water for you.”
“Thank you,” she said, as stately as she could. She allowed him to continue to hold her arm as she turned and seated herself again.
He lingered as he bent over her, so that she had to turn her face away from his. She felt his hand travel gently up her arm, to her shoulder, her collar bone. She thought that he forgot that he had never touched her this way. His hand touched the side of her neck, under her ear. It was damp with her sweat. “You are overheated,” he told her, because now he had evidence.
“I would like some water,” Margaret repeated almost sharply, unhappy and frustrated to be made to feel this way. Resenting the very coolness of his fingers, she made the mistake of turning her head back to him in some rebuke. His face was so close, the area of his mouth lined with soft concern. His eyes looked darker than usual.
She could track that progress of his gaze. She knew when he was no longer staring into her own eyes, but at her mouth. “Mr Thornton,” she said, meaning remonstrance. She did not sound remonstrating at all. She thought she sounded pleading. She did not know for what she pled.
He tore his eyes away. “Yes,” he said, and straightened. “Do not move. I will bring it to you.”
Then he was gone, leaving her to herself to wonder what had happened.
She did not think of it. Instead, she let the cool air from the window rush over her. The rocky terrain of northern England was giving way to rolling farmland. She should be happy, she thought, to be leaving Darkshire. Here was the land with which she was familiar, bright in comparison, and green. There was grace in it, and peace.
The quiet dullness of it made her restless.
She thought that if Mr Thornton had been a gentleman, he would not go on speaking of cotton as if she were a man. She also thought that if Mr Thornton were a gentleman, she would not feel this way. Her body did not feel as though it was under her control, and its responses were uncomfortable. She was too hot, and constricted, and she just wanted to feel calm and at peace again. She felt ashamed for reasons she could not define.
If only he had not been so calm and gentle to her! She would rather he had been irked, or frustrated, or somehow as perturbed as she was. She did not know what effect this would have had, only that she would have felt better about all of it.
The narrow door swung open, and Mr Thornton came back into the compartment. Handing her the glass, he sat beside her. Margaret drank the water quickly.
“Do you feel any better?”
“Yes. It is nothing. I am only hot.”
Not so long after this, the train stopped for lunch, which made Margaret realize that she and Mr Thornton had been hours talking, she mostly listening. The Latimers and Thorntons ate in the small tearoom at the station, Fanny overflowing with plans concerning the art and sculpture she claimed she and Ann would see at the Great Exhibition. Margaret got the distinct impression that it was Fanny who had made these plans, for Ann did not contribute much to the conversation.
Meanwhile, Mr Latimer and Mr Thornton began to talk business. It seemed a much more financially oriented version of the discussion she and Mr Thornton had been having in the car, less filled with the technology and scientific knowledge that had seemed to excite Mr Thornton. Margaret still thought that it was interesting. She tried to listen, but it was harder to disappear now than it had been at the Thornton’s dinner, where she had sat silently and watched. Instead, Fanny required responses.
Soon, Margaret was enveloped in a debate about mosaics, which interested her after all because everyone knew the finest mosaics were made in Spain.
When they got back on the train, Fanny joined them in their compartment again. Instead of mosaics or Spain—or Mozambique, or even London, which might have been expected, since they were finally on their way—Fanny spoke of Ann: Ann this and Ann that, “I told Ann” this and “Ann thinks” that. Fanny seemed impressed by Ann, whom she also seemed to think quite a gentlewoman.
Margaret was not surprised to hear this. She understood that Milton’s manufacturers considered themselves more than mere tradesmen. Ann had gone to school, and this had made her refined, which was mainly what impressed Fanny. It was interesting to hear Fanny speak of Ann as though she were a knight’s daughter, or the sister of a baronet.
Thinking these things, Margaret did not know how to reply to much of Fanny’s conversation. Even had Ann been a baroness, Margaret was not given to praising people for their fortunes, their dress, or even habit of speaking finely, and these seemed to be the main sources of Fanny’s adulation. Margaret preferred to know a person before feeling they should be admired, however keenly she was aware of the differences between herself and the Latimers.
After a while, Fanny grew bored, and when she was bored, she grew twitchy. During the time that Fanny had been confiding to Margaret, Mr Thornton had taken out a book and quietly begun to read. Fanny had paid him no heed, but now she demanded to know what Mr Thornton was reading.
“It is a book belonging to Mr Hale,” Mr Thornton told her, and turned a page.
“Oh,” said Fanny, looking disgusted until suddenly she remembered that Margaret was in the compartment. Perhaps Fanny realized that disparaging the father’s books in front of the daughter was not the best of ideas. “Well, what is it?”
“Plato’s Republic,” he said, which caused Margaret to laugh.
“That old boring Greek,” Fanny said. “I never found him funny.”
“I never did either,” Mr Thornton said, turning to Margaret with an inquiring look.
“I do not think The Republic a comedy,” Margaret assured them. “I was only thinking of Plato earlier, and that I think him an old boring Greek as well.”
“They all are,” Fanny said in a comforting way.
“Do you?” Mr Thornton seemed surprised.
Margaret smiled, feeling a sudden inclination toward mischief. Now that they had stopped and got some air, and Fanny was here, she felt much more herself. She told Mr Thornton that she found Plato short-sighted. They debated this some little while, their discussion lively and engaging. Margaret found that now they were arguing a topic not close to either of their hearts, they could do so without misunderstandings.
She also found that she enjoyed teasing Mr Thornton, as she knew more Greek than he did, and she was lighter on her rhetorical feet, as it were. Mr Thornton’s rebuttals were slower and more ponderous, and yet they made sound logical sense, and showed a keen understanding of the material.
He seemed shocked by what he perceived as her lack of reverence for the classics. This was interesting, since London gentlemen assured themselves all the time that these manufacturers in the North could have no truly fine minds, as they were incapable of appreciating unassailable geniuses such as Homer and Aristotle, or Ovid and Virgil.
Mr Thornton, however, seemed very attached to his beliefs of Plato’s utter perfection. Margaret did not know if this was due to Mr Thornton’s desire to be enlightened, as exemplified by his lessons from her father, or a true agreement with Plato’s ideals. She did not think Mr Thornton longed for the former in order to impress London gentlemen; she thought he could care less what they thought of him. And yet she thought he somehow wanted to be like them, in regards to depth of knowledge and fields of interest. He did not admire their apathetic aspirations, or their indolent days of ease. He did admire their intellects.
But Margaret thought the latter was also true, that he did agree with Plato somewhat. Upon reflection, this was to be expected. She not only thought Plato short-sighted, she thought him a tyrant. Of course, he did not mean to be. He was all good intention. She said as much to Mr Thornton, who frowned.
“Plato’s ideal government is one of benevolence,” he told her. “Admittedly, it is entirely unrealistic—”
“Will you really sit and speak all the day away of governments?” Fanny said.
Mr Thornton turned to her. “Is it Greek to you?”
Margaret could not help her laughter, though there was a trickle of guilt at the thought it might be at Fanny’s expense. “There is an author I think we can all enjoy,” she said, trying to smooth things over.
“I do not,” Fanny said stoutly. “I do not enjoy anyone who is Greek.”
“I think the author to whom Margaret referred was most English, by all accounts.” Mr Thornton smiled.
“I am going back to the Latimers' compartment,” Fanny said. “Ann will be glad to see me, at least. I have had enough of people who are dead.”
“You might try Sappho,” Margaret said, trying to be helpful. “We might read it together.”
Fanny made a face, wiggled through the narrow door with her hoops, and left Margaret and Mr Thornton once more alone.
For all that Margaret thought she felt better, once Fanny was gone she began to feel restless again. Mr Thornton was not saying anything, but she did not understand why. It was not as though they needed Fanny to make conversation, and yet she was reluctant to broach any of the topics they had been discussing.
Disquieted, Margaret looked out the window. Mr Thornton had closed it up, because Fanny had complained about the rushing air disarranging her curls. That was unfortunate, as now it began to feel hot again. Margaret wished her fan were not in her trunk. It would have given her something with which to occupy her hands.
“Fanny has been enjoying your company,” Mr Thornton said suddenly.
Margaret turned to look at him, glad for the break in the silence. “As I have been enjoying hers.” She smiled. “She is teaching me Spanish, as I am sure you have overheard in our evening conversations.”
With a slight smile, Mr Thornton said, “I do not think Fanny knows Spanish.”
Margaret laughed. “Perhaps not. But she is teaching me salutations, and how to ask questions. I do not think she knows how to apologize, but otherwise, she knows what one would need to travel there.”
“Because you have often considered travelling to Spain.” He said this in jest, as if possessed of the knowledge that it was not true.
Flustered, Margaret looked down at her hands.
There was no way he could divine the reason for her upset, as he revealed with his next comments. “You cannot be interested in Spain for its own sake,” he went on. “You have been humouring her, for which I am grateful. She has had no one to speak to of those childhood fantasies for years. Thank you.”
He was right. She was not interested in Spain for its own sake—just not for the reasons he supposed. The guilt of her own deception made her words tart. “I am interested in your sister for her own sake, not to garner your approval.”
He tilted his head, expression disbelieving. “I am sorry.”
Margaret flushed, knowing that she was in the wrong, and ashamed of it.
Mr Thornton said, “I did not mean to imply that your feelings for my sister were manufactured. I had no doubt they were genuine.”
Casting her eyes down, Margaret spoke in a small voice. “They are. They are indeed.”
“I do not believe you capable of deception,” he went on. “We spoke of trusting each other’s good intentions.”
“I spoke hastily,” Margaret said, just as hastily. “Please. Forgive me.”
For a while, Mr Thornton did not speak. When he did, it was not what she expected. “When our father died, Fanny was but three years old. She did not understand why we had to move out of our home, why we could not have nice things. She could only understand that her father was gone.”
Margaret remembered her mother’s horror of the way Mr Thornton had spoken of his early days, of having to work to earn a living. She remembered how Mrs Hale had thought he should not mention his father, stating that the circumstances of his death might have been coarse. Mr Hale had clarified that the circumstances of George Thornton’s demise had been even more unspeakable, but Margaret remembered valuing what Mr Thornton had said.
He had told her family the truth that day; he had not sweetened it. Though Margaret still deplored his treatment of the workers, he had made her understand some of his opinions. He had not told them it was no topic for ladies; he had not told them they could not understand. He had spoken to them as equals. He had spoken to her that way earlier, when he spoke of the cotton industry.
He spoke that way now.
“I was raised in relative comfort until I was sixteen. I had time and a stipend away at school; I was thoughtless and full of dreams. When Father passed on, our family was brought low. I made a vow to restore our name. As I have told you, Mother stood by to support me. But Fanny was so young. She was not old enough to know what bravery was. She could not help with the work we had to do, nor did we want her to know the hardship we suffered. So we gave her everything we could. All the best, it always went to her.”
Mr Thornton often did not conceal his emotions from her, Margaret realized. When he spoke of things that must have some feeling attached to them, he made no effort at disguise. None of her acquaintances in London would have openly exhibited such pain or regret.
Earlier, she had been glad of Mr Thornton’s honesty, yet when confronted thus, she found herself somewhat uncomfortable. It was fine indeed when his bluntness only revealed information that was otherwise hidden to her, as a woman. It was another thing to bear witness to a man’s personal struggles. Raised to believe that repression and control were superior, it was unnerving to be confronted with true feeling.
Henry, she thought, might have called Mr Thornton weak, citing an inability to contain himself. Yet seeing the strength of love Mr Thornton obviously bore his sister, Margaret could not find him weak. She did not know what to think. It made her feel as restless as before.
“You wanted to spare her,” Margaret said.
“Yes.” Mr Thornton looked at her intently. “She would never have the carefree childhood that I had had. We gave her what happiness we could, but we did not have the time or the means to give her . . . She needed schooling, and guidance, tenderness, friends to call her own. She needed more than a mother and brother who always, to her eyes, seemed to be thinking of business before thinking of her. She needed a real home and father, and I . . . was not enough.”
Margaret’s heart went up into her throat. “That is not your fault.”
“That does not make it any easier on her.”
“Do you think that she is suffering still?” Margaret said. “I will grant to you that she is . . . a little spoiled, but to me Fanny has always seemed happy. I think you have done your duty, in that regard.”
Mr Thornton looked rueful. “She is happy around you. You give her the attention that she craves.”
Smiling, Margaret said, “I think that Fanny would be the centre of attention in most company.”
“Not out of the free will of that company. Most of our acquaintances, I think, find my sister tiresome. She does not know, of course. She finds them tiresome as well, because they are impatient with her.”
“And will not speak to her of Spain.”
Mr Thornton nodded. “I do not think she has any female friends. I cannot recall her ever having anyone she was close to. You can see now why I am grateful for your attention to her.”
Mr Thornton loved Fanny in a way that she had not heard many others express love or affection. He reminded Margaret of her father, when Mr Hale spoke of Frederick—that depth of love and loss.
Yet even while the thoughts of this touched her deeply with regret, Margaret was confused. She had observed Mr Thornton treat his sister with coldness and dismissal on more than the occasion with the atlas. No matter how honest or strong, she must bear in mind that displays of emotion were not necessarily beneficial.
“What about you?” Off Mr Thornton’s look, Margaret hurried on. “You said she has never had anyone she was close to. But I have noticed you and your mother . . . forgive me, but you and Mrs Thornton seem to pay her little heed.”
“Excuse me?” He looked startled, ripped out of his inner thoughts.
“I am trying to trust your good intentions, Mr Thornton,” Margaret said quickly. “But I can only speak as I find.”
He looked at her a moment in disbelief. “I love my sister, Mrs Thornton.” The tone was indignant. “You will not find that I feel differently.”
Margaret cast her eyes down. They again misunderstood each other. “My intention was not to accuse you,” she said.
There was a long pause. “We did not have time to give Fanny the upbringing she deserved,” Mr Thornton said slowly. He seemed still defensive. “I did not have time to give her the attention she deserved. I had to be more a father to her than a brother, and I was . . . I was just a boy.” His voice went hard again. “I could not give her the affection she deserved either.”
Margaret’s head lifted quickly. “But can you not now?”
“I love her.” His voice rasped. “What do you expect of me?”
“I only mean that you should show her.” The subject was entirely different, and yet Margaret was reminded of the riot, of imploring him to go down to the workers.
He was a stubborn man. Things were set in stone for him; he acted according to the way things had always been. He did not see the value of conversation as she did, did not see the value of meeting people halfway. And yet, when she told him to go down to the workers, he went. She did not think that most men would have. She said, “It is understandable that you did not have time in the past, that you were preoccupied with other things. But now you are successful, and you are free. She is older, and perhaps more receptive to sensible things you might say to her. It is not a hopeless situation.”
“Receptive to sensible things?” He appeared highly doubtful. “Remember, we are speaking of Fanny.”
Margaret smiled. “There is no harm in trying. She respects you; she looks up to you. She will listen to you, if you show her that you care.”
“Fanny does not care for me.” This blunt statement was greeted with startlement on Margaret’s side. “I had to be too strict with her in early days, despite trying to give her everything. She sees me as a tyrant.”
“You are wrong!” Margaret said, too surprised for anything else.
“Perhaps she also sees me as a benefactor,” said Mr Thornton. He was entirely convinced. “She is aware that it is my money and my business that keep her well dressed, and in fashionable society. But she also thinks that all I care for is money and business.”
Margaret was all too aware that she must have made him feel similarly in her initial rejection of his proposal. The realization of how that must have hurt him made her feel sick inside.
Mr Thornton went on bitterly, “Fanny thinks that I exist only to provide for her and take away from her. To her eyes, I am her banker. Perhaps I am her benefactor. But I am not her brother—not in the true sense of the word.”
“I do not think she can feel that.”
“Why not? Other people have similar opinions of me.”
Margaret’s head reared back. “I hope that you are not speaking of me.”
“Why not?” he asked again. His words were not so vehement now; he only sounded tired. “I am not your husband in the true sense of the word, either.”
Margaret fired up in heated indignation. “Because you would not have me!”
Mr Thornton’s face went pale. He held so still for a moment, the skin so tight, he looked like bone. Something twitched on his face, an angry tic.
“I was not speaking in physical terms, Mrs Thornton,” he said. His voice was icy.
Suddenly flustered, Margaret caught her breath. Of course he had not meant that; he had been speaking of his sister. He had been speaking of love. Still, she felt a frustration that must almost match his anger. “Then I am to blame,” she agreed, “but so are you.”
“Am I?” he said, still cold.
“Yes! I would claim that this society of ours is to blame instead, but we must take responsibility for our own actions. You knew how I felt, and yet you made your offer again. And I—”
“Then you still feel that way.” He sounded disgusted.
She could be just as disgusted as he. Her head drawing back higher, she spoke imperiously. “You know that I do not. You know, for I have told you, that I am grateful to you for all that you have done for me.”
He stared at her. “You did tell me.”
“I have also told you I found your actions honourable in this regard. That does not change what either of our actions were, or the lot we now call our own. Did you doubt my sincerity?”
He kept looking at her, all the righteousness of his expression seeming to have leaked away. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with a kind of defeat. “I could never do that.”
She felt powerful, that she could win this way, but at the same time experienced a stab of guilt. It was as though she had used a secret weapon she did not know she had. She did not know what it was, and yet she was terribly aware she could still use it to hurt him. It thrilled and frightened her; she longed to cast it from her, and yet did not know how.
She was confused about what had happened. He was the one who had imposed the conditions on the marriage bed.
“So much for trusting good intention,” he said after a while. He was no longer angry, yet spoke in a distanced way. Suddenly it seemed she was a stranger to him again.
Mortified, she did not know what to say.
“I only meant to thank you for your kindness to my sister.” His voice was a shallow husk.
“As you pointed out, whatever subject we choose seems to get away from us.” Margaret could not look at him.
The carriage rocked along. Presently he stood, saying, “I will send Fanny to you. She may be better company than I just now.”
“Mr Thornton,” she began quickly, glancing up.
He waited.
Dropping her eyes, she realized still did not know what to say.
Another moment passed before he opened the door and left. The compartment suddenly felt cold.
Rating: this chapter PG, overall NC-17 for explicit sex
Length: this chapter 7 K, overall probably 110 K. 80 K written so far
Characters: Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Summary: Margaret and Mr. Thornton gradually get to know each other better. With conversation, balls, politics, and Fanny.
A/N: thank you to kleindog at C-19 for the initial beta a year ago; thank you to
hl for the recent beta, and for being extraordinary and amazingConstructive criticism is welcome.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9? | Chapter 10? | Chapter 11? | Chapter 12?
Chapter Four
Mrs Thornton was pleased the Latimers were coming with them to London, seeming to think Ann Latimer a pleasant and fashionable companion for her daughter. Mrs Thornton did not seem to think similarly of Margaret’s presence, but Margaret chose not to take offence, and bid her mother-in-law good bye with all the grace she could summon.
The train ride was a long one, and Margaret had not thought until it began about how she would now be subjected to several hours of forced company with her husband. She told herself that she did not mind. If they were not friends, they were slowly growing toward it. She appreciated his quiet courtesy. She even looked forward to the mornings, finding comfort in his strong, stable presence, in the way he sounded like he needed and wanted an honest answer when he asked how she had slept.
A train ride would really be no different from all those now serene-seeming evenings, when Fanny’s eyes grew bright and her imagination vivid, and Margaret humoured her in the firelight while brother and mother easily went about their evening tasks. It only began to seem different when Margaret considered the closeness of their compartment combined with Fanny’s restlessness. Mr Thornton did not have his ledgers to work on here.
This was a chance to draw him out, to begin to know him better. She did want to better know the man she had married, and yet at the same time, she felt reluctance. They had established a kind of peace; she did not want to break it.
This possibility presented itself to Margaret most keenly when Fanny, shortly after the train had begun its journey, announced her intention to share a compartment with the Latimers. One compartment was not large enough to seat five, and so the Latimers were across the small corridor. Fanny, after some not small amount of trouble fitting her hoops through, pushed through the narrow door and shut it with a click behind her.
Margaret and Mr Thornton were seated across from each other. She felt sure that his eyes were upon her, even though she was looking out the window and so could not confirm it. The cool English countryside slipped past.
“Are you well?” he asked her after a time.
“I am perfectly well, thank you.”
“I meant, regarding your friend, Miss Higgins,” Mr Thornton said. “Some time has passed. I have observed you look less pensive. You are not suffering?”
Margaret looked at him in surprise, which changed to gratitude when she saw his concern. “Thank you.” She thought for a moment. “I think it a shame that someone of such kindness and humour, who seemed so wise at such a young age, should have to leave us all so soon. But I am glad she is in a better place now. She deserved to be.” Margaret looked back out the window.
“They really are your friends,” Mr Thornton said. He easily interpreted the affronted look she gave him. “You think me callous.”
Margaret opened her mouth, then closed it. She wondered whether it was appropriate to agree with your husband when he said that you condemned him. “I know what you are asking,” she said, after some thought. “In the South, we would bring baskets to the poor, the invalids and the farmers who had too many children to feed. I have always thought of charity as a kindness, not a way to express superiority. But in the South, things were very clear. We were fortunate, and there were those who were less so.”
Margaret thought of the families she had known in the Forest. “I knew interesting people,” she said. “Young people, old people, farmers, grandmothers who used herbs for remedies. They were gracious, and I liked them, but I knew them as a benefactor. I had a love of the race. When they went away, certainly I felt sadness. I did not feel as though a personal quality had been stripped from me.”
“It is different in the North?”
“Yes. When we came here, we were alone. We did not know anyone, and no one cared for us. Even the people with whom we eventually became acquainted seemed foreign. Everything was so different, I did not even know to whom I might take a basket, and less so that baskets might not be welcomed by those in need.”
The corner of Mr Thornton’s mouth twitched. “I cannot imagine it would go over well, with some Milton men.”
“It did not.”
Mr Thornton smiled. “But you persevered. During the strike—”
“They came to know me,” Margaret said, not wanting to argue over the feeding of children again, as they had at the Thornton's dinner. “There are some who will accept charity, if they understand the intentions behind it. Nicholas and Bessy taught me that, though they would never accept it themselves.”
“They do not want to be condescended to.”
Margaret put her head back. “And so I do not condescend to them.”
“You call on them.”
“I had to wait for an invitation.”
“There are not many women in your position in Milton who wait upon invitations from ha—workers. I never did understand it.”
They had discussed this before. “Bessy and Nicholas were the ones who first invited me, and the first to let me know I needed to be invited,” Margaret said. “They helped me all the time with understanding Milton ways. Even when I was most lonely, Bessy assured me that Milton would get used to me.”
Mr Thornton’s brows rose. “How long did she suppose it would take?”
“One or two years."
Mr Thornton laughed.
Margaret looked out the window. The train rushed along, their car rattling. “She was a friend when I had no one else to talk to.”
She had told Mr Thornton they might try to be friends as well. During the strike he had condemned the workers so easily, and disapproved of her charity to them. Yet even though he thought less of the Higgins’s than perhaps he should, he also seemed interested in her dealings with them. He seemed to truly care about her feelings regarding Bessy.
He had also seemed interested in her father's lessons, which seemed a hypocrisy in light of what she saw as close-mindedness. Mr Thornton was a contradiction: set in Milton ways, defensive of them, and yet strangely eager to learn about the rest of the world and what other people thought. She remembered what he had said about the Great Exhibition, his stated interest in seeing the new inventions and great thinkers there.
“What do you think we will see at the Exhibition?” Margaret said. The silence in the car felt too heavy, and she was all too aware of his proximity.
Mr Thornton spoke of seeking investors at the Great Exhibition, but rather than speaking of sums of money they might offer, he spoke of new technology and efficiency. He also spoke of examining the newest inventions that might benefit his mill. He seemed eager to see these inventions, not for the money they may bring in, but for the sheer joy in human ingenuity, and pride in progress and improved efficiency.
“What sort of inventions?” Margaret said, to be polite.
“Pressure gauges, and engines. The main thing is that they are always improving the looms.”
Margaret frowned. “I do not know much about technology, but I have heard it said that the power loom is ‘the perfect machine’. It certainly seems to produce a great amount. The work that goes on automatically at Marlborough Mills is indisputably impressive. How does one improve on perfection?”
Mr Thornton gave her one of his half smiles. “By working at it. The kinds of looms we use at Marlborough Mills may be automatic, but they are only semi-autonomous. This is of course why workers are needed. The loom needs to be stopped to recharge empty shuttles. If there is a problem—a thread breaking—the loom will also stop. Then the thread needs to be retied or pieced. The needles break as well, and need to be replaced.”
Margaret listened in surprise. No one had ever described to her the workings of machinery before. She would have supposed that she was not interested; it was the business of men, yet it occurred to her as he spoke that this was vital. The lives of everyone she knew in Milton, with the possible exception of her own family, were dependent on this technology.
In reply to some small question she asked, Mr Thornton digressed for several minutes regarding a needle. It was a needle with a latch connecting it to the shaft, instead of held there by welding. He said that this would cause the needle to have more flexibility, which would in turn cause it to break less. It seemed like such a small thing, a needle, but he was able to determine how much time this would save them, and therefore how much more the mill might produce.
Margaret also observed that it might be safer for the workers, since it seemed that a needle, when it broke, could easily fly off a machine. Mr Thornton agreed, and launched into discourse regarding various inventions to improve mill safety, such as guards for the looms, and an improved wheel to keep the dust and fluff out of workers’ lungs. He mentioned the telegraph fire alarm that someone had proposed, but he thought it was not worked out yet.
Unable to hide her interest, Margaret made inquiries, which encouraged Mr Thornton to continue to speak of inventions, the Great Exhibition, his hopes for Marlborough Mills, his interest in technology. He got to talking about engines, and all that they were doing with steam. At one point he spoke of Mr Joule and a gentleman named Lord Kelvin, in an analysis of thermodynamics that was well beyond Margaret’s understanding. Yet he did not speak to her as if she was stupid, and when she made sounds of incomprehension, he was eager to simplify his terms.
Listening to him, Margaret realized she could learn much more than how many foot-pounds of ‘work’ it might take to increase the temperature of water. Gentlemen of London pooh-poohed scientific knowledge; understanding of Latin and Plato were all that mattered. At one time she had felt there was wisdom in this. Understanding ideas was more powerful than understanding gross mechanics. Bodies may be constrained by the real world, but the soul was part of the spiritual. Abstraction was key.
And yet in all these theories of thermodynamics, there could be a key to ideas. By understanding the world around them, man might better learn of the world outside of them as well. Besides, the spirit was grounded, at least for a time, in the body. Both were inventions of a higher power; seeking understanding was only another way to worship that power.
Speaking of thermodynamics, of Watts and pressure, Mr Thornton sounded almost lofty.
Not only was the subject not base, it was complex as well. There were many men of her acquaintance in London who claimed an understanding of the classics, who Margaret knew would never comprehend these theories of work and pressure and internal force. She wondered who had determined that one form of knowledge be higher than another.
She had never much liked Plato. He seemed to her short-sighted.
Yet in the next moment, Mr Thornton was speaking not of thermodynamics and theories of energy, but again of the intricacies of mechanics, some belt or reed he had heard of that would increase the production speed of the looms he’d described. Margaret noticed then that for all her decision that discourse of this sort was not base, Mr Thornton was by no means speaking abstractly. It seemed obvious from his discourse that he spoke from personal experience. He not only managed the workers; he had managed these machines.
Margaret did not think other masters had such experience—or, if they did, would admit to such. Mr Thornton was the only man she knew who made pretensions to gentlemanliness, but in the same breath was not afraid of admitting he had worked in a draper’s shop. She knew Mr Thornton had never worked as Nicholas did, or Bessy, but she could not imagine that he was afraid of trying his hand at it. He had a history far inferior to that of most of the other manufacturers.
Just as Margaret did not know anyone else who would have spoken so freely to her of such things, she also did not know anyone who would have spoken as eagerly. The dark she so often observed in him lifted a little as he spoke of the world, technology and inventions, engineers and science and America, where they were always inventing new things.
Apathy was the height of distinction in London. One had interests “here and there”, one tried “this and that”, one dabbled in art or in business or in knowledge. If one dedicated one’s self to a cause, one became a bore, a zealot who was not refined enough to appreciate the diversity of interest in the world, and the shallowness of their scope. In London, speaking in this way, Mr Thornton would seem coarse and boorish, self-obsessed and over-heated.
Margaret welcomed it. Not only did she find the subjects of his discourse interesting, she was gratified to see someone who did not define boredom as a praise-worthy characteristic. She was glad to know someone who did not disguise his passions.
There was a softness and mobility to his mouth that she had not seen before. There was colour in his face. His voice was deep, resonant, with a power to it that was rough, yet sensible and true. Still, under that voice, woven through the Darkshire accent that gave his words a strange lilt to her ears, there was a depth of feeling. An excitement, a fascination, a joy, and he was sharing it with her. It was for her alone, wrapped up between them in this car where only they two sat.
Thinking these things, she felt suddenly very close to him. Even though he seemed to be bringing the entire world between them, speaking of its wonders and its workings, she felt suddenly as though they spoke of intimate things.
The feeling only grew as he continued talking, until she felt as though she was stripped down out of all trappings so that all that was left was the person she was, and he was similarly stripped. They sat before each other now in this train car as equals, the equals she had spoken of when she spoke of Bessy also.
He moved his hand in some gesture, and she felt as though he were touching her in that moment, even though he was only attempting to describe a boiler system to keep cotton dry. His fingers were long, the palms broad and square.
He could draw her to him with those hands, and yet he never had.
She was his wife, she suddenly realized. She wondered why he had not drawn her to him. He could hold her against him with those hands, pull her to him, his rough body and square chest; he could hold her and let his voice wrap around her. They could be together, equals, as men and women were supposed to be, as man and wife.
But Margaret did not know how it was supposed to be. She felt confused and flustered; she did not know why she was thinking these things when he spoke only of cotton. He was obviously not thinking these things of her. He did not want to hold her the way she had so suddenly imagined, or else he would have done it. He had a right to it; she was his wife. He had never touched her in that way.
And yet he was not without passion. She could see it in him; it was part of what stirred her heart so. His eyes were bright as fire.
“I am sorry,” Mr Thornton said suddenly. “You are bored. I should have noticed.”
The tone of his voice was changed completely.
“I am not bored.” Margaret spoke in a somewhat breathless voice. Her cheeks felt flushed. She realized that she had indeed become distracted; she had stopped commenting and asking questions, content to merely listen and absorb.
Mr Thornton looked askance at her. “You have a particular interest in keeping cotton dry?”
“Yes.” Margaret lifted her chin.
“You do not need to feign an interest for my sake.”
“I am not feigning an interest!” The accusation demeaned both her and the way he had been speaking to her. He may have merely forgotten that she was not one of his business colleagues, rather than speaking that way because he truly did respect her intelligence and ability to grasp issues that mainly concerned men.
“I am sorry,” he said again. “I did not mean to suggest deceit on your part, but rather too solicitous charity.”
She looked away, feeling in some small part deceptive after all. It was true that she had lost the thread of his conversation, becoming preoccupied by his voice rather than his words. She did not know what had precipitated it, and shame coursed through her. He had not become distracted that way; his heat had been all for the ideas of which he spoke.
Even with her head down, she knew that he watched her. She knew that he eyed her keenly; she could feel that burning gaze.
“It is too warm,” Mr Thornton said suddenly. “Forgive me; I was distracted. I will open the window.”
“I am not too hot,” she said in strained protest, because he was standing up.
His legs brushed her skirt. “You are flushed,” he said, and opened the latch on the window.
“I only need a glass of water.” She stood too hurriedly and stumbled.
“Margaret,” he said, grasping her arm.
“I am not faint.” She stepped away.
He still held her arm. “I will get the water for you.”
“Thank you,” she said, as stately as she could. She allowed him to continue to hold her arm as she turned and seated herself again.
He lingered as he bent over her, so that she had to turn her face away from his. She felt his hand travel gently up her arm, to her shoulder, her collar bone. She thought that he forgot that he had never touched her this way. His hand touched the side of her neck, under her ear. It was damp with her sweat. “You are overheated,” he told her, because now he had evidence.
“I would like some water,” Margaret repeated almost sharply, unhappy and frustrated to be made to feel this way. Resenting the very coolness of his fingers, she made the mistake of turning her head back to him in some rebuke. His face was so close, the area of his mouth lined with soft concern. His eyes looked darker than usual.
She could track that progress of his gaze. She knew when he was no longer staring into her own eyes, but at her mouth. “Mr Thornton,” she said, meaning remonstrance. She did not sound remonstrating at all. She thought she sounded pleading. She did not know for what she pled.
He tore his eyes away. “Yes,” he said, and straightened. “Do not move. I will bring it to you.”
Then he was gone, leaving her to herself to wonder what had happened.
She did not think of it. Instead, she let the cool air from the window rush over her. The rocky terrain of northern England was giving way to rolling farmland. She should be happy, she thought, to be leaving Darkshire. Here was the land with which she was familiar, bright in comparison, and green. There was grace in it, and peace.
The quiet dullness of it made her restless.
She thought that if Mr Thornton had been a gentleman, he would not go on speaking of cotton as if she were a man. She also thought that if Mr Thornton were a gentleman, she would not feel this way. Her body did not feel as though it was under her control, and its responses were uncomfortable. She was too hot, and constricted, and she just wanted to feel calm and at peace again. She felt ashamed for reasons she could not define.
If only he had not been so calm and gentle to her! She would rather he had been irked, or frustrated, or somehow as perturbed as she was. She did not know what effect this would have had, only that she would have felt better about all of it.
The narrow door swung open, and Mr Thornton came back into the compartment. Handing her the glass, he sat beside her. Margaret drank the water quickly.
“Do you feel any better?”
“Yes. It is nothing. I am only hot.”
Not so long after this, the train stopped for lunch, which made Margaret realize that she and Mr Thornton had been hours talking, she mostly listening. The Latimers and Thorntons ate in the small tearoom at the station, Fanny overflowing with plans concerning the art and sculpture she claimed she and Ann would see at the Great Exhibition. Margaret got the distinct impression that it was Fanny who had made these plans, for Ann did not contribute much to the conversation.
Meanwhile, Mr Latimer and Mr Thornton began to talk business. It seemed a much more financially oriented version of the discussion she and Mr Thornton had been having in the car, less filled with the technology and scientific knowledge that had seemed to excite Mr Thornton. Margaret still thought that it was interesting. She tried to listen, but it was harder to disappear now than it had been at the Thornton’s dinner, where she had sat silently and watched. Instead, Fanny required responses.
Soon, Margaret was enveloped in a debate about mosaics, which interested her after all because everyone knew the finest mosaics were made in Spain.
When they got back on the train, Fanny joined them in their compartment again. Instead of mosaics or Spain—or Mozambique, or even London, which might have been expected, since they were finally on their way—Fanny spoke of Ann: Ann this and Ann that, “I told Ann” this and “Ann thinks” that. Fanny seemed impressed by Ann, whom she also seemed to think quite a gentlewoman.
Margaret was not surprised to hear this. She understood that Milton’s manufacturers considered themselves more than mere tradesmen. Ann had gone to school, and this had made her refined, which was mainly what impressed Fanny. It was interesting to hear Fanny speak of Ann as though she were a knight’s daughter, or the sister of a baronet.
Thinking these things, Margaret did not know how to reply to much of Fanny’s conversation. Even had Ann been a baroness, Margaret was not given to praising people for their fortunes, their dress, or even habit of speaking finely, and these seemed to be the main sources of Fanny’s adulation. Margaret preferred to know a person before feeling they should be admired, however keenly she was aware of the differences between herself and the Latimers.
After a while, Fanny grew bored, and when she was bored, she grew twitchy. During the time that Fanny had been confiding to Margaret, Mr Thornton had taken out a book and quietly begun to read. Fanny had paid him no heed, but now she demanded to know what Mr Thornton was reading.
“It is a book belonging to Mr Hale,” Mr Thornton told her, and turned a page.
“Oh,” said Fanny, looking disgusted until suddenly she remembered that Margaret was in the compartment. Perhaps Fanny realized that disparaging the father’s books in front of the daughter was not the best of ideas. “Well, what is it?”
“Plato’s Republic,” he said, which caused Margaret to laugh.
“That old boring Greek,” Fanny said. “I never found him funny.”
“I never did either,” Mr Thornton said, turning to Margaret with an inquiring look.
“I do not think The Republic a comedy,” Margaret assured them. “I was only thinking of Plato earlier, and that I think him an old boring Greek as well.”
“They all are,” Fanny said in a comforting way.
“Do you?” Mr Thornton seemed surprised.
Margaret smiled, feeling a sudden inclination toward mischief. Now that they had stopped and got some air, and Fanny was here, she felt much more herself. She told Mr Thornton that she found Plato short-sighted. They debated this some little while, their discussion lively and engaging. Margaret found that now they were arguing a topic not close to either of their hearts, they could do so without misunderstandings.
She also found that she enjoyed teasing Mr Thornton, as she knew more Greek than he did, and she was lighter on her rhetorical feet, as it were. Mr Thornton’s rebuttals were slower and more ponderous, and yet they made sound logical sense, and showed a keen understanding of the material.
He seemed shocked by what he perceived as her lack of reverence for the classics. This was interesting, since London gentlemen assured themselves all the time that these manufacturers in the North could have no truly fine minds, as they were incapable of appreciating unassailable geniuses such as Homer and Aristotle, or Ovid and Virgil.
Mr Thornton, however, seemed very attached to his beliefs of Plato’s utter perfection. Margaret did not know if this was due to Mr Thornton’s desire to be enlightened, as exemplified by his lessons from her father, or a true agreement with Plato’s ideals. She did not think Mr Thornton longed for the former in order to impress London gentlemen; she thought he could care less what they thought of him. And yet she thought he somehow wanted to be like them, in regards to depth of knowledge and fields of interest. He did not admire their apathetic aspirations, or their indolent days of ease. He did admire their intellects.
But Margaret thought the latter was also true, that he did agree with Plato somewhat. Upon reflection, this was to be expected. She not only thought Plato short-sighted, she thought him a tyrant. Of course, he did not mean to be. He was all good intention. She said as much to Mr Thornton, who frowned.
“Plato’s ideal government is one of benevolence,” he told her. “Admittedly, it is entirely unrealistic—”
“Will you really sit and speak all the day away of governments?” Fanny said.
Mr Thornton turned to her. “Is it Greek to you?”
Margaret could not help her laughter, though there was a trickle of guilt at the thought it might be at Fanny’s expense. “There is an author I think we can all enjoy,” she said, trying to smooth things over.
“I do not,” Fanny said stoutly. “I do not enjoy anyone who is Greek.”
“I think the author to whom Margaret referred was most English, by all accounts.” Mr Thornton smiled.
“I am going back to the Latimers' compartment,” Fanny said. “Ann will be glad to see me, at least. I have had enough of people who are dead.”
“You might try Sappho,” Margaret said, trying to be helpful. “We might read it together.”
Fanny made a face, wiggled through the narrow door with her hoops, and left Margaret and Mr Thornton once more alone.
For all that Margaret thought she felt better, once Fanny was gone she began to feel restless again. Mr Thornton was not saying anything, but she did not understand why. It was not as though they needed Fanny to make conversation, and yet she was reluctant to broach any of the topics they had been discussing.
Disquieted, Margaret looked out the window. Mr Thornton had closed it up, because Fanny had complained about the rushing air disarranging her curls. That was unfortunate, as now it began to feel hot again. Margaret wished her fan were not in her trunk. It would have given her something with which to occupy her hands.
“Fanny has been enjoying your company,” Mr Thornton said suddenly.
Margaret turned to look at him, glad for the break in the silence. “As I have been enjoying hers.” She smiled. “She is teaching me Spanish, as I am sure you have overheard in our evening conversations.”
With a slight smile, Mr Thornton said, “I do not think Fanny knows Spanish.”
Margaret laughed. “Perhaps not. But she is teaching me salutations, and how to ask questions. I do not think she knows how to apologize, but otherwise, she knows what one would need to travel there.”
“Because you have often considered travelling to Spain.” He said this in jest, as if possessed of the knowledge that it was not true.
Flustered, Margaret looked down at her hands.
There was no way he could divine the reason for her upset, as he revealed with his next comments. “You cannot be interested in Spain for its own sake,” he went on. “You have been humouring her, for which I am grateful. She has had no one to speak to of those childhood fantasies for years. Thank you.”
He was right. She was not interested in Spain for its own sake—just not for the reasons he supposed. The guilt of her own deception made her words tart. “I am interested in your sister for her own sake, not to garner your approval.”
He tilted his head, expression disbelieving. “I am sorry.”
Margaret flushed, knowing that she was in the wrong, and ashamed of it.
Mr Thornton said, “I did not mean to imply that your feelings for my sister were manufactured. I had no doubt they were genuine.”
Casting her eyes down, Margaret spoke in a small voice. “They are. They are indeed.”
“I do not believe you capable of deception,” he went on. “We spoke of trusting each other’s good intentions.”
“I spoke hastily,” Margaret said, just as hastily. “Please. Forgive me.”
For a while, Mr Thornton did not speak. When he did, it was not what she expected. “When our father died, Fanny was but three years old. She did not understand why we had to move out of our home, why we could not have nice things. She could only understand that her father was gone.”
Margaret remembered her mother’s horror of the way Mr Thornton had spoken of his early days, of having to work to earn a living. She remembered how Mrs Hale had thought he should not mention his father, stating that the circumstances of his death might have been coarse. Mr Hale had clarified that the circumstances of George Thornton’s demise had been even more unspeakable, but Margaret remembered valuing what Mr Thornton had said.
He had told her family the truth that day; he had not sweetened it. Though Margaret still deplored his treatment of the workers, he had made her understand some of his opinions. He had not told them it was no topic for ladies; he had not told them they could not understand. He had spoken to them as equals. He had spoken to her that way earlier, when he spoke of the cotton industry.
He spoke that way now.
“I was raised in relative comfort until I was sixteen. I had time and a stipend away at school; I was thoughtless and full of dreams. When Father passed on, our family was brought low. I made a vow to restore our name. As I have told you, Mother stood by to support me. But Fanny was so young. She was not old enough to know what bravery was. She could not help with the work we had to do, nor did we want her to know the hardship we suffered. So we gave her everything we could. All the best, it always went to her.”
Mr Thornton often did not conceal his emotions from her, Margaret realized. When he spoke of things that must have some feeling attached to them, he made no effort at disguise. None of her acquaintances in London would have openly exhibited such pain or regret.
Earlier, she had been glad of Mr Thornton’s honesty, yet when confronted thus, she found herself somewhat uncomfortable. It was fine indeed when his bluntness only revealed information that was otherwise hidden to her, as a woman. It was another thing to bear witness to a man’s personal struggles. Raised to believe that repression and control were superior, it was unnerving to be confronted with true feeling.
Henry, she thought, might have called Mr Thornton weak, citing an inability to contain himself. Yet seeing the strength of love Mr Thornton obviously bore his sister, Margaret could not find him weak. She did not know what to think. It made her feel as restless as before.
“You wanted to spare her,” Margaret said.
“Yes.” Mr Thornton looked at her intently. “She would never have the carefree childhood that I had had. We gave her what happiness we could, but we did not have the time or the means to give her . . . She needed schooling, and guidance, tenderness, friends to call her own. She needed more than a mother and brother who always, to her eyes, seemed to be thinking of business before thinking of her. She needed a real home and father, and I . . . was not enough.”
Margaret’s heart went up into her throat. “That is not your fault.”
“That does not make it any easier on her.”
“Do you think that she is suffering still?” Margaret said. “I will grant to you that she is . . . a little spoiled, but to me Fanny has always seemed happy. I think you have done your duty, in that regard.”
Mr Thornton looked rueful. “She is happy around you. You give her the attention that she craves.”
Smiling, Margaret said, “I think that Fanny would be the centre of attention in most company.”
“Not out of the free will of that company. Most of our acquaintances, I think, find my sister tiresome. She does not know, of course. She finds them tiresome as well, because they are impatient with her.”
“And will not speak to her of Spain.”
Mr Thornton nodded. “I do not think she has any female friends. I cannot recall her ever having anyone she was close to. You can see now why I am grateful for your attention to her.”
Mr Thornton loved Fanny in a way that she had not heard many others express love or affection. He reminded Margaret of her father, when Mr Hale spoke of Frederick—that depth of love and loss.
Yet even while the thoughts of this touched her deeply with regret, Margaret was confused. She had observed Mr Thornton treat his sister with coldness and dismissal on more than the occasion with the atlas. No matter how honest or strong, she must bear in mind that displays of emotion were not necessarily beneficial.
“What about you?” Off Mr Thornton’s look, Margaret hurried on. “You said she has never had anyone she was close to. But I have noticed you and your mother . . . forgive me, but you and Mrs Thornton seem to pay her little heed.”
“Excuse me?” He looked startled, ripped out of his inner thoughts.
“I am trying to trust your good intentions, Mr Thornton,” Margaret said quickly. “But I can only speak as I find.”
He looked at her a moment in disbelief. “I love my sister, Mrs Thornton.” The tone was indignant. “You will not find that I feel differently.”
Margaret cast her eyes down. They again misunderstood each other. “My intention was not to accuse you,” she said.
There was a long pause. “We did not have time to give Fanny the upbringing she deserved,” Mr Thornton said slowly. He seemed still defensive. “I did not have time to give her the attention she deserved. I had to be more a father to her than a brother, and I was . . . I was just a boy.” His voice went hard again. “I could not give her the affection she deserved either.”
Margaret’s head lifted quickly. “But can you not now?”
“I love her.” His voice rasped. “What do you expect of me?”
“I only mean that you should show her.” The subject was entirely different, and yet Margaret was reminded of the riot, of imploring him to go down to the workers.
He was a stubborn man. Things were set in stone for him; he acted according to the way things had always been. He did not see the value of conversation as she did, did not see the value of meeting people halfway. And yet, when she told him to go down to the workers, he went. She did not think that most men would have. She said, “It is understandable that you did not have time in the past, that you were preoccupied with other things. But now you are successful, and you are free. She is older, and perhaps more receptive to sensible things you might say to her. It is not a hopeless situation.”
“Receptive to sensible things?” He appeared highly doubtful. “Remember, we are speaking of Fanny.”
Margaret smiled. “There is no harm in trying. She respects you; she looks up to you. She will listen to you, if you show her that you care.”
“Fanny does not care for me.” This blunt statement was greeted with startlement on Margaret’s side. “I had to be too strict with her in early days, despite trying to give her everything. She sees me as a tyrant.”
“You are wrong!” Margaret said, too surprised for anything else.
“Perhaps she also sees me as a benefactor,” said Mr Thornton. He was entirely convinced. “She is aware that it is my money and my business that keep her well dressed, and in fashionable society. But she also thinks that all I care for is money and business.”
Margaret was all too aware that she must have made him feel similarly in her initial rejection of his proposal. The realization of how that must have hurt him made her feel sick inside.
Mr Thornton went on bitterly, “Fanny thinks that I exist only to provide for her and take away from her. To her eyes, I am her banker. Perhaps I am her benefactor. But I am not her brother—not in the true sense of the word.”
“I do not think she can feel that.”
“Why not? Other people have similar opinions of me.”
Margaret’s head reared back. “I hope that you are not speaking of me.”
“Why not?” he asked again. His words were not so vehement now; he only sounded tired. “I am not your husband in the true sense of the word, either.”
Margaret fired up in heated indignation. “Because you would not have me!”
Mr Thornton’s face went pale. He held so still for a moment, the skin so tight, he looked like bone. Something twitched on his face, an angry tic.
“I was not speaking in physical terms, Mrs Thornton,” he said. His voice was icy.
Suddenly flustered, Margaret caught her breath. Of course he had not meant that; he had been speaking of his sister. He had been speaking of love. Still, she felt a frustration that must almost match his anger. “Then I am to blame,” she agreed, “but so are you.”
“Am I?” he said, still cold.
“Yes! I would claim that this society of ours is to blame instead, but we must take responsibility for our own actions. You knew how I felt, and yet you made your offer again. And I—”
“Then you still feel that way.” He sounded disgusted.
She could be just as disgusted as he. Her head drawing back higher, she spoke imperiously. “You know that I do not. You know, for I have told you, that I am grateful to you for all that you have done for me.”
He stared at her. “You did tell me.”
“I have also told you I found your actions honourable in this regard. That does not change what either of our actions were, or the lot we now call our own. Did you doubt my sincerity?”
He kept looking at her, all the righteousness of his expression seeming to have leaked away. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with a kind of defeat. “I could never do that.”
She felt powerful, that she could win this way, but at the same time experienced a stab of guilt. It was as though she had used a secret weapon she did not know she had. She did not know what it was, and yet she was terribly aware she could still use it to hurt him. It thrilled and frightened her; she longed to cast it from her, and yet did not know how.
She was confused about what had happened. He was the one who had imposed the conditions on the marriage bed.
“So much for trusting good intention,” he said after a while. He was no longer angry, yet spoke in a distanced way. Suddenly it seemed she was a stranger to him again.
Mortified, she did not know what to say.
“I only meant to thank you for your kindness to my sister.” His voice was a shallow husk.
“As you pointed out, whatever subject we choose seems to get away from us.” Margaret could not look at him.
The carriage rocked along. Presently he stood, saying, “I will send Fanny to you. She may be better company than I just now.”
“Mr Thornton,” she began quickly, glancing up.
He waited.
Dropping her eyes, she realized still did not know what to say.
Another moment passed before he opened the door and left. The compartment suddenly felt cold.
sick of shadows
(Anonymous) 2011-04-05 01:46 am (UTC)(link)Re: sick of shadows
I don't have a super good grasp of the time period, but I did do quite a bit of research!
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I saw you posted your fic--looking forward to reading the new version!