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The steps echo in their house, their spiral nature enabling such a thing as though it were an appealing feature instead of one which grates on Maragret's nerves. She can hear every one of Dixon's steps in triplicate, as she rushes to catch Margaret before she departs.
"Oh, Miss Margaret, I wish you wouldn't." Dixon gasps, out of breath with worry rather than exertion. She finally reaches the ground floor landing, wringing her hands together as soon as she removes them from the bannister. Margaret focuses on fixing her coat. “I do so wish you wouldn't."
"I am going, Dixon."
"Think of your dear M-"
"Dixon!"
Margaret's voice echoes, too. It lingers, unpleasantly, and Margaret refrains from shifting with discomfort. Dixon has ever been as a second mother to her, much beloved and respected, and times when Maragret speaks over her so harshly weigh on them both. It is poor of her, to resort to such methods. The only reason Margaret can possibly offer is that her head is still aching, a regular but faint throb which she has been assured will go away with time. If she says such a thing to Dixon, however, the woman will likely bar the door with her very own body until Maragret gives up on the idea of leaving the house.
"My apologies, Dixon."
"It's alright, Miss Margaret. I know you're all aflutter with worry, but surely your friend would want you to stay abed until you've healed?"
"I am perfectly well now, Dixon. ...You know I'd not do anything to concern Mother, or yourself."
Dixon sighs, deep enough that her shoulders climb almost to her ears before they fall again.
"Aye, I know. You're a good girl, Miss Margaret. A good woman now, I should say." Dixon smiles at her and for a moment affection eclipses the worry on her face.
"Everything will be fine, Dixon." Margaret assures her, placing one of her own hands atop of Dixon's. Dixon wastes no time in clasping their hands together, bringing their joined hands towards her own chest. Ah, Margaret thinks, reluctantly bemused, trapped. Dixon's used this very same trick since Maragaret's childhood and, still, she falls for it without fail.
"You'll come right home if you're feeling poorly?"
"Of course, Dixon. I wouldn't want to worry Bess or Higgins anymore than I would yourself or Mother. I’m only going to sit with Bess. Nothing strenuous."
Dixon gives a small, suspicious hum, narrowing her eyes as though gauging Margaret's sincerity. With a final click of her tongue, and another reluctant smile pulling at her lips, Dixon releases her.
"Wait here, Miss Margaret, I'll make up a basket for you to take."
Margaret puts her hat on as she waits, cautious of her injured head, and, soon enough, Dixon joins her at the front door once more. The older woman proffers the basket but, as expected, does not immediately release it into Margaret's care.
"What time will you return?"
"I'll be home for dinner, Dixon."
“And - "
"Yes, Dixon, I will take all possible care during my journey and if I begin to feel poorly, I will set off home at once."
Margaret smiles through what is not technically a lie. She will certainly return home, should she begin to feel significantly worse. It would not do to burden the Higgin's with her own ill health at all, let alone when they are already suffering with Bess's. Perhaps there is some sin in the way that Margaret is bending the truth, but she hopes such a thing will be forgiven, as it is in aid of a greater cause.
"Alright then. Off with you, that you'll be home sooner." Dixon hands the basket entirely off to Margaret and opens the door while Maragret says her goodbye. The darkly tinted daylight of Milton is nothing in comparison to Helstone's bright rays and, still, the sudden wash of it has her wincing.
When her vision clears, after a short moment, Maragret is struck mute by the sight of Mr. Thornton. His face is mere inches away from hers, his blue eyes for once not narrowed with intense focus but blown wide with similar surprise. After a long moment, wherein the shock of such a sudden meeting has them frozen, so close together, Mr. Thornton hastily descends the stairs until his feet are at street level once more. Maragaret only sways back a half step, uncertain of whether Dixon would be so easily convinced to let her leave a second time, should she cross the threshold once more.
"Mr. Thornton," Margaret manages to say, at the same time the man himself exclaims,
"Miss Hale!"
Another pause, as they both wait for the other to speak. Mr. Thornton inclines his head slightly, allowing her the privilege, and Margaret realises that she has no idea at all what to say to this man, after...
To say Mr. Thornton had gone to speak with them is not quite true. He had shouted at them, truly, but the low sound of his measured speaking voice would never have been heard over the ruckus. Even then, he had not spoken much of anything by the time Margaret inserted herself into the situation. She still does not know whether her presence helped or hindered, whether the injury she suffered was worth anything at all.
She had not realised until she had stood before the rioting crowd herself, just what she had asked of Mr. Thornton. Margaret still firmly believes that to speak with the strikers, to treat them as the humans they are, will prove more successful than setting soldiers upon them. That does not mean she did not feel the first spark of fear, to stand on that balcony before them. For a bare second, perhaps she did see them as she supposes Mr. Thornton must - a faceless hoard, undeserving of a conversation; of that same equality Mr. Thornton purports to esteem so highly in her.
Then Margaret had seen their faces once more, dissolved from a mass of movement and sound back into individual people. People who hunger and fear and worry; people who have suffered and want nothing more than to feel secure once more. Individuals whose faces she has seen before, delivering what aid they suffer to accept.
What does it say of Mr. Thornton, that he cannot see that?
What does it say of him that he had done as she bade him? That he had stormed outside, furious but obedient; firm before the fury of a crowd that Margaret had not understood the might of, before she too had stood in front of them.
She had not realised the danger she had entreated him to enter into, when she had commanded him. Nor had she realised that her womanhood would fail so thoroughly in protecting her, though she doubts that she had been hit purposefully. Mr. Thornton had known far better than she, the danger. Despite this, he had acquiesced to her insistence. Margaret did not know the weight of such a thing, then.
Even now, she is still coming to terms with it. With the danger, with her own injury; with the fact that she is even further out of her depth than she has ever been before - despite these many months in Milton, still she cannot find solid footing. The blow has rattled her, in more ways than one. The lingering effects have made it hard to think deeply in the way she so desperately needs to. She had hoped for more time, before facing Mr. Thornton again. Enough time to ruminate, to understand her own feelings and actions and reactions, even before she begins any attempt to discern those of others.
As is usual, here in Milton, Margaret receives no grace at all. Mr. Thornton stares up at her from the street, at her doorstep, and Margaret must pull conversation from the very air itself, so little can she think to say to him.
"I had not expected to see you today, Mr. Thornton. I regret to inform you that my father is absent the house, at this moment, and I cannot say when he shall return."
"Nor had I expected to see you attempting to leave the house, Miss Hale." The surprise has long since fled Mr. Thornton's face, replaced by his usual severe look. His tone, too, is full of reproach as he continues, "What could possibly stir you to such foolishness, so soon after injury?"
Margaret can feel the way her posture straightens even further, though she does not need the help to look down at him, given that she is currently taller than him by the height of an entire set of stairs.
"The 'foolish notion' which so moves me is that of my friend's dire health, which is far worse than mine has ever been." The slight indelicacy of her words is well worth it, to drive her point home - to both Mr. Thornton, and to Dixon who is no doubt hovering at the still open door, more than ready to haul Margaret back inside should she spy the chance.
Mr. Thornton closes his eyes for a brief moment, an odd sort of crease to his brow that is nothing at all like his usual scowl. The expression clears quickly and then he is looking up at her once more. As always, the intensity to his stare is something close to unnerving. Breathtaking. Margaret steels herself against his intensity and waits for whatever rebuttal he inevitably has for that, so that she might cut it down and be on her way.
"Foolish was a poor choice of words. For that you have my apologies, Miss Hale, though I do not regret the sentiment behind them. I - I worry, for your health."
There is no possibility for silence between them, as the street on which Margaret lives remains as lively as ever. People working and talking and shouting, going about their business, completely unconcerned with the pair of them, staring at each other. Margaret feels the silence between them, regardless. Feels it deeply, as she does the weight of Mr. Thornton's eyes, and this concern he has for her now. It must be due to the injury occurring in his mill, on the steps of his very house. Many things may be said about Mr. Thornton, but no one can deny that he takes very seriously any responsibilities which he feels are his own.
"I thank you for your concern, Mr. Thornton." Margaret descends from the top step and hovers on the middle, unsurprised when she does not hear the door click shut behind her. She wonders whether Dixon has had the discretion to remain hidden by its bulk, or whether the woman is peering around the door. "But I am afraid I cannot be swayed from my destination."
She is close enough, now, to hear the way Mr. Thornton gives an ungainly little huff, the meaning behind which Margaret cannot even guess. The man shakes his head slightly, one corner of his lips beginning to tilt upwards in what - bafflingly - appears to be a rueful smile.
"Aye, Miss Hale, I had no doubts about being able to sway you from your set course."
Well. What can one say to that, indeed.
Once again, Margaret is hesitant in the face of these Northern ways. Such a thing sounds an insult but, as she has found again and again, she cannot grasp the meaning of many things properly, here. Some days it seems as though all society has been turned on its head, in Milton. The act of being well mannered is rude, and rudeness is lauded and appreciated.
The throbbing of her head improves her chances of understanding not a whit and makes her entirely disinclined to argue with Mr. Thornton. She has heard him shout with that great horn of a voice, and she has heard him taken with passion during a discussion, and she can handle neither volume today. She can barely handle the level of noise happening around them in the street, to tell truth, though she shant say a word about that at all.
"Thank you, Mr. Thornton. I am pleased you know me so well." Is what Margaret finds to say, after thankfully only a few seconds of grasping for something that isn't an insult of equal weight to being called obstinate, and so publicly at that.
"I am pleased that you are pleased, Miss Hale. That I know you. For - I do. Know you."
How odd, for Mr. Thornton to speak so stiltedly. He nearly always has the demeanour of a man who means every word he says and, moreover, has given serious thought to everything which leaves his mouth.
Margaret finds herself equally confused by having successfully navigated what was apparently not an insult, but some bizarre Northern compliment.
"As you say, Mr. Thornton. Now, I am sorry to be a poor host, but I truly must depart. You are quite welcome to wait for my father's return."
Margaret takes the final step to street level and does not miss the way Mr. Thornton's hand extends, to help her. She takes it, as is only proper. Reluctant though she is to admit it, Margaret does feel reassured at the feel of Mr. Thornton's gloved hand within her own. The ache in her head is not so dangerous as to demand her to remain at home, but perhaps Mr. Thornton's presence was not the only reason for her incredibly slow descent of a meagre handful of steps. Mr. Thornton's thumb stays firm across the back of her hand, even after both her feet return to the ground.
"I have not come to call upon your father, Miss Hale. It is your own presence, which has brought me."
Her hand lingers within his for long seconds, as she stares at him.
"Oh," is all she can muster. "That is... quite kind of you, Mr. Thornton." And quite out of the norm.
"Not at all, Miss Hale."
Of course, it is due to her injury; it is only right, that a gentleman should seek to check in after such a wound was dealt.
"I am headed out," Margaret says, inanely, as their hands finally part. Mr. Thornton's fingers drag against her own, quite by accident, but it arrests nearly all of Margaret's attention while it happens.
"It is admirable, for you to care for your friend's health. I only wonder if you should not be placing more weight upon your own. No, Miss Hale, do not give me that look. I seek not to censure or restrain you. It is but an observation, make of it what you will."
"I thank you once more for your concern then, Mr. Thornton, though I am making a swift recovery."
"Swifter still than any doctor might recommend, I imagine."
"You may continue to imagine then, Mr. Thornton, but I have business to attend to." Margaret straightens her coat, preparing to be a truly wretched host and bid Mr. Thornton a curt goodday, though Mr. Thornton's unannounced visit marks him as a poor guest and therefore renders them both ill mannered.
"If I may be so bold, Miss Hale," he says, shifting slightly to the side so that they face each other more directly, though not so far as to block her from setting out if she truly wishes to. Margaret, nobly, does not inform him that he may not, and allows him to continue to speak. "May I accompany you? To your destination."
"There is no need, Mr. Thornton. It is a trip I am well able to make by myself and, indeed, have done so several times."
"It is only, I have some knowledge of these matters. They can worsen, suddenly. Unexpectedly. If you'll forgive me for speaking so candidly, so hard a blow can linger for weeks. Aching; sudden dizzy spells; fatigue; nausea and its resultant effects."
Mr. Thornton must have heard once that it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, and has since adhered strictly to it, for he does so have the habit of asking forgiveness even as he charges ahead, speaking all manner of unwanted opinions. Yet, she cannot take him to task for it, if only because his words have caught her interest.
"Weeks, you say? The doctor mentioned but a few days."
"Aye, for I do not think the doctor expected you to be quite so willing to venture out after such a shock." A brief pause, that off little smile tilting Mr. Thornton's mouth once more, "More fool he, to have underestimated you Miss Hale."
Margaret would have words with a doctor who would give her so incomplete an accounting of her own state, if only it would do any good. Likely, the doctor relayed such instructions to Mr. Thornton at the mill, and then to her father, leaving her entirely removed from the conversation. An unfortunate affliction that many doctors share, she has found; their treatment is especially egregious, when it comes to her mother. Why, they won't even tell Margaret! She must hear everything second hand from her father, or else join Dixon at the door while the two men talk.
"So, if it pleases you Miss Hale, I would like to escort you to your destination."
Saying that it would please her is, perhaps, a step too far. However, for all Margaret is stubborn, she is no fool. Such company would surely make for a quiet, awkward sort of walk - or, worse, they should antagonise each other every step of the way. Despite that, such a thing would be infinitely better than being caught off guard and alone by a sudden bout of dizziness, or worse.
"I would accept your offer, Mr. Thornton, if only I had a different destination."
"Do you believe there is a place in all of Milton that I would hesitate to tread?"
"I am to visit the Higgins', of whom you may be aware -"
"Aye, I know Higgins, mischief maker that he is."
"He is a good man."
"He's a troublemaker, and make no mistake, Miss Hale."
"You make no mistake, Mr. Thornton, Higgins is a dear friend of mine and I will not bring such animosity to his door. As such, there will be no need -"
"Peace, Miss Hale. I'll not bring trouble to the man's door. Especially not while he's sick."
"It is his daughter, actually. Bess. She used to work for you, also, before -"
"Aye. Before." A dark look passes across Mr. Thornton's face, though it clears quickly.
"Do you intend to let me finish a sentence in its entirety, Mr. Thornton?"
"Not if I can help it, Miss Hale, else your sharp tongue'll have me turned around and back to Marlborough before I can take more than two steps by your side."
"You sound entirely too amused by such a thing, Mr. Thornton."
"For well I am, Miss Hale. I - you must know that I enjoy your presence, those times you have occasion to join my lessons with your father."
"Do you, Mr. Thornton? I thought it was a certainty that you misliked an intrusion. Civil conversation between us, after all, is not as easily found as today."
"To argue over literature and philosophy with you, Miss Hale, is often a highlight of my week."
Margaret looks away from Mr. Thornton's sharp eyes and peruses the workers on the street. It feels as though they should all be staring at her, waiting for her reply to such an unexpected announcement, but they care for Margaret's struggles not a whit. She clears her throat gently, readjusting the basket on her arm.
"It is indeed rousing, to know that you will stand your ground and debate me as an equal."
Far too many of her father's pupils, both here and the occasional one back in Helstone, had the habit of dismissing her words. Her opinions hold less weight, and any point with which they disagree is easily dismissed without a moment's thought. Mr. Thornton may be an infuriating man, who holds staunchly to many absurd things, but rarely has he dismissed her out of hand.
After a long moment of relative silence, she flicks her eyes back to Mr. Thornton.
He looks more stunned now than he had, when they had almost collided upon the stairs. Blue eyes wide, that severe mouth of his slightly parted; all of his considerable attention appears to be fixed on Margaret. She can see the way he swallows, visibly, under her stare.
“My honour to rouse you, Miss Hale,” he says, deep voice turned hoarse, and Margaret’s intent to demur at this unexpected compliment is shattered by Dixon.
“Mr. Thornton!” She bellows, and Mr. Thornton jolts in place, as though he’d not noticed that she was lurking. Dixon has forgone whatever shelter she had taken from the door, now standing at the top step with her hands firmly on her hips, eyes narrowed with a look Margaret recognises as dangerous indeed. "Anything I can help you with, sir? Don’t you have to be getting back to that mill of yours?"
Margaret raises an eyebrow at Dixon, but gets no answer as to Dixon's sudden attitude towards Mr. Thornton, to whom she has always behaved appropriately, given his status both as Father's student and a gentleman. Well, a Northern sort of gentleman, at any rate. As that is all which seems to be on offer here in Milton, they have all rather had to adjust. Though, perhaps it can be said that Mr. Thornton is one of the better examples of what passes for the upper echelons, here.
"I - have no pressing business on this day, thank you."
"Aye, I can see that," Dixon grumbles, more than loud enough to be heard by both Margaret and Mr. Thornton. Margaret is not so uncouth as to reprimand Dixon in front of Mr. Thornton and the whole of the street, but she hopes Dixon takes the meaning of her widened eyes and pursed lips.
"I think mother must be calling you now, Dixon. I shall see you this evening." With that, willfully ignoring Dixon’s audible huff, Margaret sets off down the street at a steady pace. She hears Mr. Thornton wish Dixon a good day, and though she strains her ears she cannot make out whatever Dixon says in reply. She can barely even hear the sounds of her voice, over the street, but she’s certainly not about to turn around and investigate. She can only hope that Dixon has not continued to be rude to Mr. Thornton, despite what had drawn her ire in the first place.
The door bangs shut, not quite a slam but certainly with distinct force, and Margaret is sure that Dixon is at this very moment hustling up all those stairs. The sound will have roused mother if she’s fallen asleep, and worried her terribly if not. Margaret will have to speak to Dixon about it on her return, and hopefully the woman has seen the absurdity of her actions in the interim. …If for no other reason, than because attempting to chide an unrepentant Dixon has never worked quite the way it should.
After a few moments, Mr. Thornton talls into step with her. He offers her his arm as they cross the street and, after a brief and hopefully unnoticeable hesitation, takes it. Her hand remains cordially in the crook of his elbow as they make their way. It is only proper, given that he now acts as her escort, and yet there is something distinctly odd about it. Perhaps it is how such a thing means that Mr. Thornton must walk so closely, when usually there is at least the length of half her father’s study between them. Mr. Thornton has ever been an intimidating man, from the very first, violent moments of their acquaint. Despite this, she holds no fear of him. Margaret cannot pinpoint when such a thing became true, if indeed it was ever false.
Marlborough’s master is, as he has ever been, entirely impossible to puzzle out.
Their pace is not quite leisurely, nearly imperceptibly faster than that, for all that Margaret wishes to employ a most unladylike stride to quicken their journey. Such haste is not due to the silence which has fallen between Mr. Thornton and herself - awkward, as she had expected - but rather due to the worry that weighs upon her.
Bess, dear, sweet Bess - she had already been so wan, the last time Margaret had seen her. That had been days ago, Margaret’s bedridden from her own injury. Now, she worries that… they had said goodbye, last they met, but it was no true farewell. Bess wants no such thing, Margaret is already well aware, but it still does not feel enough - to have this open ended friendship between them, no firm end but that to which Bess shall soon succumb -
It will never feel enough. Margaret is acquainted well enough with bereavement and grief to know such a thing. She knows, too, how the weight of long illness weighs upon a person. On their family, their friends. You can drown, beneath such a feeling. So slow a creep it has that you cannot even notice, until its waters have covered you whole. To wallow in it does nothing but worsen the rot; it chokes the life from the very bones of you, even while breath still lingers.
Margaret does not forge ahead to the Higgins’ home to force some extended, teary farewell upon her friend. She does not want their last shared memories to be tainted with more sadness than that which wells in their chests, silent but all too well known. Like recognises like, and Margaret the way such a sentiment can linger on a face. She sees it on Bess, on Higgins; on her own parents, on Dixon, on her own face in the mirror.
No amount of time will ever feel enough, of this she is well aware. It makes every moment spent together all the more precious. Each morning, each afternoon, scraped out by God’s grace - Margaret treasures them now, as she will treasure them always. Even if Bess can only take company for a single minute, that is a minute Margaret wishes to share.
That is why Margaret wishes to tear across this familiar walk as though chased, not any fault of Mr. Thornton’s. The man could be the greatest conversationalist this side of Paris, and still Margaret would be eager to leave his company.
Unfortunately - or fortunately, as it may be - Mr. Thornton’s presence ensures a somewhat sedate pace. Margaret cannot make the mistake of rushing, and is forced to match the man’s not quite sedate pace. Reluctantly, Margaret allows that such a thing is beneficial. The light has not helped the ache in her head, nor has the noise of Milton, no longer dampened by the walls of her home. She does not feel so bad as she has the previous days - thus her decision to call upon the Higgins’.
A lingering headache is nothing at all - the smoke and grey skies of Milton had gifted her with the same affliction, their entire first month in the town. With Mr. Thornton’s caution still ringing in her ears, Margaret finds it uncomfortably likely that she was perhaps slightly premature, when she wholeheartedly declared herself well.
“I hope I was not too forward, Miss Hale,” Mr. Thornton says, eventually, once they have passed through a handful of streets.
“How could you have been, Mr. Thornton?” Margaret inquires, baffled at this nonsequitur. What about their so far short walk has prompted such a statement?
“Yes, of course.” The man says, as though engaged in an entirely different conversation. “Only, I would not wish to have made you uncomfortable with indelicate wording. I am glad to know that - well. As I said, Miss Hale. My honour, indeed.”
Ah, everything makes marginally more sense, now that Margaret is aware that Mr. Thornton refers to their earlier conversation. Yet, still, the exact twists of this particular one are eluding her. Before she can have a moment to think, to attempt to sort the pieces into something recognisable through the ache and the noise and the grey light, they reach a crossroads.
"You shall have to guide the way from here, Miss Hale."
"That was always my intent, Mr. Thornton," she replies. He raises his free hand and, for a moment, brushes it against the back of hers. She can feel the light pressure of his fingers through her gloves, though none of the warmth they must surely carry, and for a moment she wonders what it might feel like, skin to skin.
Margaret does not quite know what to do with this thought, or the embarrassment that thinking such a thing - while in Mr. Thornton’s very presence, no less! - brings to her. How frightfully inappropriate of her; she truly must be afflicted by her injury, still. Hopefully Mr. Thornton misunderstands her slight flush as a sign of exertion, for all they’ve yet to ascend the hill which separates her part of Milton from the Higgins’.
“I will happily follow your lead.” Mr. Thornton’s fingers linger against hers for another moment before they slide free entirely, leaving Margaret with neither thought nor speech nor the ability to protest when he presses her hand between his arm and side. Her hand might as well be burning, so warm does it feel tucked this closely to Mr. Thornton.
“Yes,” Margaret says, to fill time while she searches for a way to respond. She does not even know what she should address first. Mr. Thornton’s lingering hand, the feel of his torso against her own hand, the warmth of him, the unseemly thoughts she cannot quite eradicate, the way the Milton air now feels as ice on her heated face. She chooses their path, as she thinks. Mr. Thornton follows her easily, seemingly unconcerned by Margaret’s tied tongue. Step after step, Margaret still cannot think.
Is it the injury, the worsening that Mr. Thornton had warned of? Is it Mr. Thornton himself, the weight of his regard too much to bear in her current state? It seems an oversight, for a doctor engaged by Mr. Thornton to have failed to warn her about the impacts of the man’s attention while wounded.
"You will have to forgive me for not remembering, Mr. Thornton, but what are you currently studying with my father?” Easier to turn the conversation to something infinitely more palatable, rather than continue attempting to wade through the mire of her mind. They are not quite halfway between her own home and the Higgins’ place, the hill still before them, but hopefully such an innocuous subject will see them through.
They will begin their gentle ascent in a few short metres, after all. Soon after, the halfway marker for their journey. Then they’ll be practically at their destination and Margaret can see Mr. Thornton off.
“We are studying Diogenes of Sinope, currently.”
“Ah, the cynic. I suppose you find yourself a fan of the man, Mr. Thornton.”
“Are you to tell me that you dislike him, then, Miss Hale?”
“He was rather a rude man, was he not?”
“Oh, aye. Incredibly so. But is it not this very behaviour which emphasises his philosophy? It would undermine everything he stood for, were he to act in accordance with the rest of society.”
“I agree, though I must say that I did not think you would view the man so favourably.”
“How could I not admire a man so straightforward? He does not waste time pandering for those who would place themselves above him. Nor does he mince around, paying heed to all the useless sophisms which are so often present in philosophy.”
“Here is Plato’s human being,” she quotes, as amused now as she had been the first time she had discovered this particular antic. Diogenes may have been rude and uncouth, yes - contention during his own time period, also - but such a thing does not make him any less important a philosopher, for all she does not agree with all his ideals. Margaret is much more fond of romanticism than cynicism. Honestly, it should not have surprised her so much, to learn that Mr. Thornton likes Diogenes of Sinope so.
“Exactly that, Miss Hale. You know that I aim to become a learned man, and that I appreciate both your father’s tutelage and the discussions which arise from such teachings. Despite that, I cannot deny that the circular philosophical discussions which sometimes arise from such subjects can become trying. To see them cut through without any pretence can be as a breath of fresh air amongst the smoke.”
The worn ground is uneven in parts and Margaret finds that she is grateful for Mr. Thornton’s arm to lean on. They walk another handful of steps upwards before she replies,
“Yes, I understand such a sentiment, Mr. Thornton. It is just… I had not expected you to like Diogenes of Sinope, considering some of his ideas seem to run so counter to your own?”
“What do you mean by that, Miss Hale?”
“Well… You will have to excuse any translation mishaps, Mr. Thornton, for I am not so well versed in this subject as I perhaps ought to be.”
“I am pleased to approach any subject with you, Miss Hale, even the ones neither of us know much of. I’ll readily forgive you your missteps so long as you’re willing to extend the same courtesy to me.”
“That seems to me to be a reasonable accord to make.” Perhaps they should have made it sooner, given the not quite cordial discussions they have found themselves enmeshed in, in her father’s office. The sun peers through the clouds for just a moment, lighting the path ahead of them, and Margaret squints against the usually pleasant sight. Would that her head ceased to ache so terribly
“That being said, is it not true, Mr. Thornton, that Diogenes prized autarkeia? That is, self-sufficiency. Perhaps independence is a better word? Autonomy, independence from those would otherwise demand tribute, and the like.”
“He did, Miss Hale. Why else would the man wash lettuce?”
“And these are the things you admire about the man?”
“...May I speak candidly with you, Miss Hale?”
“I believe you would, whether I gave you leave or not.”
The man huffs out a laugh, barely audible. There is some softness about his eyes, when she looks across at him. A slight upturn to his lips that seems more melancholic than happy.
“You do know me well, Miss Hale. As I know you. These are not light matters, not in the telling nor the listening. I will speak, if you shall hear me.”
They continue to walk in silence, the sounds of Milton fading around them as they go. This is as close to a park as there is in all Milton. Not until the town ends do trees and grass and flowers grow without restriction. Here, unlike near everywhere else in Milton, there is no one to overhear them.
“I will listen to whatever you wish to tell me, Mr. Thornton, though I’m afraid I will likely burden you with my opinions.”
“We disagree on many things, Miss Hale, but your opinions have never been a burden.”
“Not even when we met?” Margaret says, without thought. Mr. Thornton sends her a sly glance, some brief humour lighting his face.
“A burden? No. However, I said nothing of annoyance, Miss Hale.”
The cheek of him! Vexatious man!
“I would not share this shame with you, Miss Hale, except that the facts of it are already known, for all the private details remain within my family. I would not speak of it, not even for the sake of winning a quarrel with you.” The brief moment of humour has faded entirely, now. Mr. Thornton has once more regained his solemn mien.
“You deserve to know, given that you’ll be - I’d not wish to deceive you in any way, you understand, Miss Hale?”
“I understand, Mr. Thornton,” she replies, despite not quite being certain she does. Some things are clear, others are terribly muddled and Margaret is beginning to believe that such a thing is not entirely due to her headache. Perhaps she and Mr. Thornton are speaking at cross purposes, or otherwise miscommunicating. Once Mr. Thornton has relieved himself of whatever it is that so obviously weighs upon him, then Margaret will attempt to straighten it out.
“I’d’ve washed lettuce in a gutter, so poor I once was,” he says, voice low and gruff. “Any food, from anywhere, so long as it did not rot in my hands. …Some days, even that was not enough to stay my hand. I have my pride now Miss Hale, make no mistake, but I built up every scrap of it from the ground. After my father -”
There is something like grief on Mr. Thornton’s face, or anger, or some devilish mix of the two. Margaret cannot say for sure, given the man does not look at her. His hard eyes are fixed on the path ahead, sloping gently downwards to Milton once more.
“To live in disgrace is something I know well. Poverty, too. They are fetid, festering things. Escape seems impossible. Each day is more weight crushing your chest. Endless toil.”
Margaret lives in reduced circumstances, it is true. Her father’s departure from the clergy upended their lives, and the certainty that they had always had in her father’s livelihood. It had felt wretched, to leave Helstone for the unknown; to know that they might come to ruin, still, no matter her father’s optimism. Despite this, true poverty still only brushes the edges of her skirts, as she visits those less fortunate than her. She does not go hungry, does not lay awake at night, mind laden with worry and grief, her chest constricted with the uncertainty of what the next day will bring.
“I cannot imagine such hardship,” Margaret admits, when the silence has stretched for several moments.
“Nor would I wish you too. It is something that never leaves you, for all that you can leave it. That you have not known such sorrow brings me great happiness, Miss Hale.”
Margaret feels sorrow in her chest now. Sympathy which she already knows Mr. Thornton would spurn, were she to extend it. It saddens her to think of anyone in such dire straits, let alone someone she knows even so little as she knows Mr. Thornton. This man has her father’s respect and - perhaps he has Margaret’s, too. How fearless he was during the riot; his candour now. Mr. Thornton is not a man to shy from anything and if nothing else, Margaret can respect that.
“I am not glad that you have suffered, Mr. Thornton. In fact, it pains me to hear it. However, I am glad to be told of it. To be so trusted.”
As Mr. Thornton had said, only the broad strokes are widely known. His reputation would suffer, should Margaret suffer from an unfortunate case of loose lips. She would never, of course, but Margaret has spent a season on the ton. A reputation stains easily as white linen, and words spoken between even bosom friends can make their way to curious ears. Despite how little Margaret has interacted with what passes for high society in Milton, she has no doubt that it suffers from the same ailments.
It is a grand show of trust, for Mr. Thornton to be speaking to her of such - they are not shameful things. There is no shame in survival, in doing what must be done, of course. It is others who would, and almost certainly have, imposed their own shame upon Mr. Thornton for his necessary actions.
“How could I not trust you, Miss Hale? After yesterday… You stood for me, before them all. I have known your fierce nature since the very day you stood in my own mill and thought to chide me, despite having no knowledge of the nature of the crime.”
“I have not changed my stance on your actions towards poor Boucher.” Margaret says, though she can see that Mr. Thornton has not yet finished speaking. He does not censure her for it, though she had rankled at his own interruptions not even a full hour earlier.
“Nor do I anticipate such a change occurring. Your steadfast beliefs become you, Miss Hale. Even in front of that rabble, as they shouted and swore, you did not quail. Have you always been so vehement? So unyieldingly relentless?”
“They are not rabble, Mr. Thornton. I will say again - they are but people, each one of them human and as deserving of the milk of human kindness as you or I.”
“That would be a ‘yes’ to your perpetual state of relentlessness, I take it,” Mr. Thornton says, more under his breath than to her. Perhaps he had expected the slowly rising noise level to have covered his uncouth remark. Margaret barely restrains herself from glaring at the man, but Mr. Thornton is now scowling back. His face has even lost the harsh lines it had gained, whilst speaking of his past. The man almost looks… fond, though such a thing can hardly be the case. Whatever casual acquaint they have managed to make, through their poor impressions and occasional bickering discussions over her father’s lessons, it is surely not enough to have Mr. Thornton be fond of her.
Magnanimously, Margaret decides to ignore both the man’s words and his expression. Instead she continues,
“Did you not notice the change in the crowd as I talked to them? Before your own ill timed interjection,” Margaret cannot help but point out, “they had started to quiet. To listen. Speaking to them like the humans they are will provide far more success than setting soldiers onto them.”
“I believe that is what is referred to as the quiet before the storm, Miss Hale. Rightfully so, considering your -” Mr. Thornton cuts himself off, clearing his throat. “Considering.”
“The ill thought actions of one man cannot be a reflection on so many.”
“Can they not?”
“They should not.”
They walk the last few metres of the hill in silence, though such a thing has once again become a relative term. The streets bustle with activity, with soldiers, with noise. It makes Margaret’s head throb. A cavalryman makes his way past at a steady pace, and Margaret’s head rings with each tap of the horse’s hooves against cobble. How absolutely wretched.
“I will not agree with you, Miss Hale,” Mr. Thornton’s deep voice cuts through the din, drawing her attention once more. “But neither shall I dismiss your words. I have little use for what if’s, for speculation of any sort, but I take your meaning. We cannot know what may have happened - but to always view things with such optimism seems to me to be a soft life.”
“Mr. Thornton -!”
“No insult meant, Miss Hale. I know you think we Northerners are hard, and harsh, and you may be right about that. It is how I have always found the world to be. No kindness has ever been free. Nothing soft has ever survived, not without intervention; without protection, blooming in naivety that is both a blessing and a curse.”
Margaret cannot help the way she thinks of Miss Thornton, so wildly different to both her mother and brother. Bright and frivolous, where the two older Thorntons make a habit of being severe. His words come back to her, about the toil of poverty. How often did Mr. Thornton suffer, so that his sister might know as little hardship as possible? How often did Mrs. Thornton do the same, proud woman that she is? Margaret cannot imagine the woman doing anything less than Mr. Thornton; finds it likely that she attempted to shield her son from the worst of it all, too, for all she failed.
Mrs. Thornton will want her sympathy, her pity, even less than her son would. There is nothing that Margaret can do, to unburden either Thornton of their past. There are no alms to be given, no house calls to undertake. All Margaret can offer either of them is her company, perhaps even her friendship, in whatever form Mr. Thornton and his mother will have from her.
It seems that every week which passes her by in Milton, she must reevaluate her own thinking once more. Surely she would be unrecognisable to her past self, by now. There is nothing inherently negative about such a thing. In fact, were her thoughts and head so heavy, she might even be buoyed by such a thing. She will never be of Milton, will never be one of these Northern women whose bearing seems forged with metal and equally unbending, but perhaps she is not so out of place as she had once known herself to be.
“I do not think softness cannot exist, without coddling. There is no intrinsic thing within you that enables it. It’s a choice, Mr. Thornton. Over and over again, to view the world with hope,” Margaret says, tilting closer to be heard without raising her voice.
“And what do you hope for, Miss Hale?” Mr. Thornton has tilted his head down, presumably to ensure he is also heard, though it brings their faces inexcusably close. Were they of a height, their noses might well be brushing at this very moment.
“I hope for a great many things, Mr. Thornton.” Margaret feels out of breath. Dry mouthed, also, but such a thing has not been uncommon in the last day. Mr. Thornton’s eyes feel piercing, as though he aims to see the very heart of her.
“As you should. Would that you receive all of them,” he replies, before the natural movement of their walk sways them away from each other. Margaret looks away, nodding in agreeance. She can feel the way her hat scrapes against something for a moment, before Mr. Hale stands tall once more. They continue through the streets, winding ever closer to the Higgins’ home. The silence between them feels more pronounced with every loud noise that echoes past.
“I find myself still unsure about your admiration for Diogenes, Mr. Thornton,” Margaret finally says.
“I admire his fortitude and perseverance. To have lived a lowly life for so long and embrace it? Reason and nature, not a single thing more necessary for his happiness. I would have hated to hear of it, as a younger man. But he bowed for no man, neither emperor nor master. He made a show of his own circumstances, held a mirror to the faults of his own society in a way that I could never have dreamt of. Unrepentant, and forthright. So yes, I find him admirable.”
“How eloquent, Mr. Thornton. Rarely do I have a chance to hear you so passionate without being distracted by my own forming rebuttal. Thank you for elucidating.”
“You are most welcome, Miss Hale. Perhaps, this once, I have managed to change your mind on something.”
Margaret turns away to hide her laugh, biting it back to a demure chuckle after a moment.
“I am afraid I shall have to disappoint you, Mr. Thornton. There was nothing to persuade. I have never misliked Diogenes of Sinope.”
“Did not you yourself mention his rudeness?”
“Indeed, though I find rudeness in a man much more easily forgiven at a distance of two millennia.”
“Aye, that does make it somewhat more palatable,” Mr. Thornton agrees with a small, rueful smile.
The sun parts the clouds once more, bright and painful, and Margaret cannot stop herself from flinching away. She near loses the basket she carries, so quickly does she attempt to shield her face. Seconds after, a sickening lurch within her stomach. Margaret presses one gloved hand to her mouth, fearful of such a feeling revealing itself to all.
“Miss Hale?” Mr. Thornton asks, then repeats himself, somehow both quieter and more insistent all at once, “Miss Hale, you’ve lost all colour.”
Some measure of relief is given then the man moves to stand before her, shadowing her face. His features blur before her, for a moment, though she hardly has the space to be worried about such a thing. The arm which had steadied her through their walk continues to do so, his hand now cupped around her elbow. The other hovers near her own face, not quite making contact with the back of her wrist.
“Is the Higgins place far?”
Margaret, holding herself terribly still everywhere else in an attempt to keep her nausea at a manageable level, manages to shake her head. They are quite close, actually.
“Can you -” he shakes his head, muttering no don’t be a fool, John, to himself before he gently lowers her hand from her mouth. He removes the basket from her arm and installs it over his own.
“If you’ll allow it, I shall shield you from the light. You shall still have to guide me, I’m afraid. Can you speak?”
Margaret does not think so. She keeps her silence, letting that answer Mr. Thornton’s question. He nods, as though such an answer was expected.
“Tap me right or left when we need to turn. Excuse me, Miss Hale.” Mr. Thornton raises one hand, keeping a shadow over her eyes as he steps to the side. His other arm slides from her elbow, up to her shoulder, then across it. It settles there, heavy and almost comforting. If Margaret had any space within herself for outrage, surely she would be near steaming by now. Unfortunately, all available space is taken up by a terrible, churning, ill feeling.
With a slow, gentle movement, Mr. Thornton pulls her towards him. She has no choice to move as he wills, but she cannot even protest the impropriety of it all because the near absolute darkness brings nothing but relief. Mr. Thornton has her near cradles against his chest, held there by his arm around her shoulders. Between the width of his shoulders, his chest and her hat, the light that still reaches her vision finally feels manageable.
The nausea lessens, slightly, though the disgusting sensation squirming within her is still unfortunately present.
“I’ll start to walk in a moment, Miss Hale. Disreputable as it may appear, there’s an alley nearby that might -”
Margaret shakes her head as much as she’s able. It flares the ache in her head, though thankfully not her uneven stomach. How boorish of her, to inflict herself on the Higgins in this state, but she cannot do what Mr. Thornton suggests. To -- in public! No matter that it’s an alley, she could not bear the shame. Better that people wonder what in heaven’s name Mr. Thornton is doing, walking through this part of town with a woman clung to him. Some doubt might be shed but the man is a pillar of the community; with both Margaret and Mr. Thornton explaining the situation, no harm can be done. Besides, it will not take long for Mrs. Thornton’s sharp tongue to clear the air for him, Margaret is sure of that at least.
Mr. Thornton steps forward. His steps are slow but steady and Margaret, held firmly at his side, shuffles along with him. Margaret can only be thankful that the streets are not overly crowded, for all they’re filled with noise.
“Just breathe, Miss Hale. We’ll be there soon enough. Slowly, now. Left or right from here?”
Despite knowing where they are - knowing where they had been, not too many steps before - Margaret cannot concentrate. She knows where the house is located. She has come to know these streets. If she could only think a moment -
But she cannot.
All she can concentrate on is the nausea; the persistent ache in her head which throbs and constricts as it wills; the warmth of Mr. Thornton as he ensures she stays upright, wedged between his arm and body the way her hand had been not too long ago. Reluctantly, Margaret begins to turn her head in order to see the street. Though she has not long been cradled by the gloom created between Mr. Thornton and herself, the absence of light has made its reappearance a thousand times more painful.
Margaret shies away before she can truly see anything, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the onslaught. Darkness envelopes her near completely once more. When she opens her eyes once more, she can make out one of Mr. Thornton’s hands covering the small distance between her hat and his coat.
“Wait, Miss Hale. I should have thought of it earlier. If you’ve the address - ”
Margaret manages to give Higgins’ address at an audible volume, thankfully without anything untoward happening. They stay still as Mr. Thornton calls out, the deep drone of his voice within his chest more audible than his actual words. Over the ambient sound of life in Milton, Margaret catches some of the conversations. Directions, not that there are many of them. Had the sun not decided to make an enemy of Margaret, they would have arrived already.
Mr. Thornton begins to move them once more, that same easy pace that does not antagonise any part of Margaret’s rebelling body. How the man is managing it when even standing still had seemed a dubious prospect to her, Margaret cannot fathom. Experience, perhaps, though she should not much like to think of Mr. Thornton or any of his family experiencing a blow to the head like she had.
Weeks, Mr. Thornton had cautioned her.
Dixon will likely not let her out of the house for twice that length, once she discovers Margaret’s unfortunate turn.
Perhaps they should have stayed on the hill, discussing Diogenes and whatever odd little asides Mr. Thornton seemed so taken by, today. Usually the man debates as a train does - a singular track, as relentless as he had accused her of being. Or, not accused, given the negative connotations. He had said it as though it were a compliment. Margaret cannot understand him, cannot understand these Northern ways and that which they find commendable. The only consolation is that she’s aware her own Southern charms are equally baffling, to Milton’s locals.
Some days it feels as though they are all digging and kicking, striving to outdo each other. Diogenes truly -
“Did you say something, Miss Hale?” Mr Thornton asks, and Margaret belatedly realises that, yes, she had indeed spoken. She feels as though a fog had begun to roll in, centred solely on herself. Thickening her mind without even the courtesy to ease her headache, an entirely unforgiving tide.
“Digging and kicking,” she repeats, somewhat airly, unsure if her own voice is worsening her condition, “striving to outdo. No one strives to be good and true.”
A true butchering of the text, she feels, but surely Mr. Thornton takes her point.
…Margaret is not so sure she has a point, though it seems likely that there was one, just a moment ago. Why else would she have said anything aloud, for all she had not meant to.
“Is that what you think of me, Miss Hale?” Mr. Thornton’s voice has deepened, approaching a true rumble within him, for all the volume of it stays quiet enough for her to bear. Margaret hums her assent.
“You think that I am such a man? Digging and kicking, with no concern for others, but that I might be able to place myself above them?”
It is Mr. Thornton’s anger which permeates first, before his words. Margaret twists his words over, and then hers, then all together at once and through the fog a thought sparks.
“Oh, no,” she says, “not at all. Though I may have, once, when first we met.”
Mr. Thornton scoffs, “Would that that single act no longer defined my worth in your eyes, Miss Hale.”
Margaret taps at his chest with one of her hands, idly wondering when her fingers came to curl in the lapels of his fine coat. Surely she should have noticed such a thing instantly, should have dropped her hands before they ever reached such a tangled state. The memory of such an action is lost to her; somewhere between Mr. Thornton sweeping her along in his wake and the advent of the dullness encasing her mind.
Of course, she’s never been to sea, but Fred had described the way fog would take the ocean, some nights. The way it would blanket them, cold and eerie, inescapable. Margaret feels just such a thing now, settling deep within her mind. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, callous and uncaring of her wants, but at least she has a port in this storm. Mr. Thornton remains, steady and unflinching.
“What were we talking about?” Step after miniscule step, fogged but thankfully less nauseous. Perhaps the roiling within her gut is as a plant, withering without the sun's rays to nourish it. Margaret, kept shadowed by Mr. Thornton, might be nearly free of its blight.
“Diogenes ill opinion of his contemporaries, and your own ill opinion of me.”
“No,” Margaret corrects, “I think well of you, Mr. Thornton.”
“Is it not you who just said that I strive to outdo others, in the same derogatory manner that Diogenes dismissed the scraping and foolishness of the men of Greece?”
“Oh, I’m afraid I was talking about myself, Mr. Thornton.”
Silence as they sway another few steps forward.
“I cannot make heads nor tails of that, Miss Hale. You’ve certainly not tried to raise yourself on the backs of others.”
“Mr. Thornton, you have clearly never spent a season in London.” Margaret titters a laugh that makes her eyes pulse in an odd, alarming way. “It feels as though I am forever unbalanced.”
“That’ll lessen once we get you off your feet, Miss Hale.”
“In Milton. Little makes sense to me, here. I think if I cared more about whatever social standing my family has retained, I might very well dig and kick and step over others, to find some firm foothold here.”
“I do not think so, Miss Hale. You are many things, often several at once, but I think Diogenes would have little quarrel with you.”
“You could strive, Mr. Thornton. A good man, and true. It should not be hard for you at all, I don’t think.”
Mr. Thornton’s hand squeezes her shoulder, gently, but he does not respond directly to her words. Instead he says, “We’ve arrived, Miss Hale.”
The rap of Mr. Thornton’s knuckles against wood echoes through Margaret’s head most unpleasantly.
“Do you think Higgins likes Diogenes?” Margaret asks, absently, moments before the door opens. Her friend most certainly notices Mr. Thornton before he notices her, for his voice is positively freezing when he says,
“Mr. Thornton? What dubious honour draws you to my humble -”
“Miss Hale needs to rest,” Mr. Thornton interrupts Higgins’, very obviously without remorse. Margaret makes a noise of agreeance, or maybe she’s attempting to apologise for darkening her friend’s door in such a state. Either way, Mr. Thornton presses her shoulder once more. With great effort, Margaret begins another attempt to free her fingers from their resting place. Mr. Thornton will see her safely into the Higgins’ household momentarily, and he cannot bid her adieu if she is still clung to him like moss.
“Will you allow us entry?”
“Of course, man, get her inside, quick like.”
Mr. Thornton, thankfully, does not follow Higgins’ instructions to the letter. He keeps the same measured pace, slow but steady, and after a moment the door closes behind them.
“Good afternoon, Higgins, Bess, Mary if you’re home,” Margaret mumbles, to which the response is several things at once.
“Miss Margaret? Is she alright?” Mary’s quiet voice is near dripping with concern.
“Here,” the scrape of wood against stone, “the chair.”
“No, over ‘ere with me,” Hisses a whisper that is almost certainly Bess.
“I am sorry to intrude,” Mr. Thornton, stilted and formal.
“Just lay her down, gently,” Bess again, and then Margaret is being moved. The sound of fabric against fabric, some shuffling, then the sweet relief of no longer being upright. She sighs in relief, even as a broad hand gently coaxes her own to release Mr. Thornton’s coat. Her hands are guided to the bed, though only one ever makes it, the other quickly claimed by a worryingly thin hand.
“Bess,” Margaret manages to squint her eyes open to look at her friend. The light of the room is dull enough that, after a moment, she no longer has to quint. “I am terribly sorry for all this.”
“None of that now, Margaret. I’m just glad to see you.” Bess’s words are slow, slow enough that half a conversation happens in the background while she says not even a dozen words.
“What’s the matter with her,” Higgins asks.
“You’ve heard about the incident at my mill yesterday?”
“Aye, I’ve heard. Who hasn’t? T’was Miss Hale who was struck, I suppose.”
“Indeed. She should not have been out.”
“Don’t suppose that suggestion went over well,” Higgins says, half amused.
“More fool the man who tried,” Mr. Thornton replies. That startles a laugh out of Higgins, and Bess too, for all it’s a weak thing. Margaret, woozy but feeling much improved by the simple fact of being reclined, cannot find the humour. She turns her head to find that Mr. Thornton and Higgins are standing a bare metre away, Mary seated at the table, all of them looking at her. The curtains have been drawn, which certainly explains the civil level of light.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Thornton,” Margaret says, finally releasing Mr. Thornton from his duty of care. The man in question blinks, brow furrowing for a moment, before it hardens into the stubborn lines she has come to know well.
“I’ll not be leaving. With Mr. Higgins' permission I’ll wait here. If not, the street’ll do me well. Regardless, I will see you home again, Miss Hale, whether by carriage or step by excruciating step along the streets.”
“Surely that’s unnecessary.” Margaret’s protest is swept away, almost entirely unnoticed except for the way it makes Higgins frown and Bess click her tongue.
“It is not. Even if it were, it is a task I would still perform happily. Only once your fearsome maid once again has possession of you, Miss Hale, will I allow you to release me from your presence.”
Margaret blinks at Mr. Thornton, who stares back at her. After a moment, wherein Margaret cannot come up with a single thing to dispute the man on, she sighs.
“Very well, Mr. Thornton, I must impose myself upon your kindness for a while longer yet, it seems.”
“There could be no imposition between us, Miss Hale,” Mr. Thornton assures her. Margaret thinks that there is something odd in such a statement being made towards her by this man, but cannot quite identify it. The only reason she is even sure that such a thing is true and not merely the product of her slowly tumbling mind, is that she can see the expression Higgins makes. Margaret cannot categorise Higgins expression, except to say that his eyebrows nearly reach his hair and his eyes slide between herself and Mr. Thornton as though he’s stumbled across some new understanding.
“You should rest your eyes, Miss Hale. Bess’ll look after you.” Higgins says, despite the calculating look he’s still aiming at Mr. Thornton. Margaret rather feels as though she shouldn’t leave the two of them alone together, for all it’s a poor version of alone, given the presence of Bess, Mary and herself.
“Worry not, Miss Hale. I’m sure Higgins and I can make civil conversation, for a short while at least.”
“We can be quiet about it, at any rate.” Higgins adds. Margaret looks between them, unfortunately aware that she has little choice but to trust them. She looks to Mary, who is fidgeting with her hands at the table, and then to Bess. Bess looks greatly amused, even through her wan pallor; her eyes, too, are darting between Margaret and Mr. Thornton.
“Only for a brief moment,” Margaret warns them, sternly. Bess pats her hand while both Mr. Thornton and Higgins nod their head, suspiciously amiable. Margaret watches them approach the table and sit before finally allowing her eyes to flutter closed. She’ll not be falling asleep, of course. Just filtering out the last of the light and allowing the tension to seep from her neck and shoulders. Taking a moment to breathe, to find equilibrium amongst the current chaos of her body.
“You are a bit of trouble, as always, aren’t you Margaret?” Bess wheezes quietly, laughing close to Margaret’s ear. Her voice is soft enough that it doesn’t even hurt Margaret’s head, to listen. She would suffer a great deal more than this wretched headache, to hear her friend laugh. Margaret, distracted as she is by Bess’s words, doesn’t hear Higgins say,
“I suppose you’ll be calling on Miss Hale once she’s recovered?”
“I fail to see how it is any business of yours,” Mr Thornton replies.
“Miss Hale happens to be a friend of mine. You surely know enough about her to know that, if you’ve come to my door for harbour while she’s ill.”
“Once she’s recovered,” Mr. Thornton replies, after a long moment. “I suppose we shall have to reach some sort of accord.”
Silence echoes through the small home. The only sounds are that of Bess’s laboured breathing, Mary’s fingers tapping and scratching at the table and the myriad of quiet noises that seep in from out of doors. Margaret wonders what happened to the basket she had been carrying. Mr. Thornton had taken it from her but she’d not seen it since. Then again, she has not spent much time with her eyes open at all, since.
Despite her resolution to stay awake, Margaret finds herself drifting into a light doze before she’s even truly aware of it. The last thing she hears is Mr. Thornton and Higgins, talking.
“Do you know Diogenes?”
“One of your Irish chaps, I suppose?”