Page 18 of Through Darkened Clouds

In the days before Fanny’s wedding, the conversation at home inevitably centered on the grand event. As Fanny’s excitement to impress grew, so did her penchant for whining at the least inconvenience or interruption of her plans.

Mr. Thornton bore Fanny’s annoyances with brotherly patience. He had only one sister, and although he would be relieved to have her gone in many ways, he recognized with a twist of melancholy that the days the three would live together under one roof were vanishing swiftly. In some respects, John would miss Fanny’s whims and fancies, but he could not help being glad to give another the responsibility of tending to her needs and wishes. Most of all, he would be happy when the wedding day had passed—when all the talk and preparations for the wedding were over.

One such evening he could no longer tolerate the talk of weddings, so he left his mother to absorb the exuberant energy of Fanny’s delight in making a to-do of herself. In truth, his mother mainly listened and responded briefly to Fanny’s prattle, often sharing a knowing glance with her son, who only smiled.

Mr. Thornton followed the now familiar byways to Higgins' house. He shook his head to realize that he now sought the company of men he had considered troublemakers to his enterprise.

When he entered the humble home, huddled about the table were some of the other workers at his mill. He gave a nod to them all, pleased somehow that he now knew many of these men by their names and was welcomed without undue distrust.

“Ah, Thornton!” Higgins greeted him. “Sam here works at Slickson’s and says that him and Hamper are pottering their brains to keep workers from flocking to Marlborough Mills for work.”

“Small-minded men cannot comprehend anything beyond the figures in their ledgers.” Mr. Thornton answered in a dismissive tone. “What are they up to now?”

Sam spoke up. “They believe your kitchen is a tool to bend the minds of men in your favor. They promise a better wage if orders stream in this summer.”

“And their empty promises are not meant to bend the minds of men in their own favor?” Thornton countered.

Grunts of approval answered him.

“I offer my workers a warm meal at a price that merely covers the cost of making it—no more. My profit is that my workers are fed and are fitter to work. They’re welcome to follow what we’ve done. There are no tricks about it,” Mr. Thornton explained.

“Hear, hear!” some called out.

A small cry came from the darkened corner of the open space, and the men hushed as Higgins got up to tend to the child. They’d forgotten for a moment to keep their voices low with the sleeping children about. That the outspoken and confident union leader had taken John Boucher’s orphan children as his own was a gesture of moral courage that won him admiration throughout the entire district.

Higgins came back from the shadows with a small, sniveling girl only three years old in his arms. He pitied the child, who still had frightening dreams of seeing her dead father all bloated and purple.

The men resumed their discussion while the Boucher child still whimpered.

After a time, Mr. Thornton held out his arms to the girl, to give Higgins relief. “Come, Anna,” he said gently, taking the girl up in his arms. He began telling her a story of a night angel that watches over little children as he made his way to where her siblings lay sleeping.

When he returned to the group without her, all eyes studied him as they would some new creature.

Mr. Bell received a letter from Thornton a few days later, relaying the sum the auction had brought and graciously offering to be of any further service in settling Hale’s matters, although both knew there was nothing more to be done.

Walking through the blossoming gardens of Oxford on his way to a Fellows' meeting, he could not help but think of Margaret and the beauty of Helstone, which he had only ever visited twice. He grimaced at the realization that weeks had gone by since he had promised to visit her, and he resolved to go to London as he stepped foot in his home.

“Willis, pack my bags, if you please,” he directed his long-time valet. “I’m going to London tomorrow.” The decision eased his conscience, allowing his thoughts to meander all evening over memories of Hale and the days when he had previously visited the bucolic hamlet.

That night Mr. Bell dreamed of Helstone and woke up dispirited to find the youthful joy he had fleetingly embodied had evaporated. He pondered the sights and conversations that had seemed so real. The Maria and Richard Hale of the past had smiled and laughed, welcoming him to their home.

The aura of pleasantness faded as he realized that only in his imagination could those faces and voices ever be seen and heard again. The unsettling sense of death’s creeping advance over his circle of friends set him to consider the use of his own remaining time.

As he took his tea and poached eggs, slathering marmalade on thin slices of toast, the lingering images of his dream tugged at his heart. He wondered if the same honeysuckle vines grew on the vicarage and if that ancient oak’s branches still hung low over the pathway to the church.

By the time he had boarded the train to London, the idea of taking Margaret on a journey had settled into his plans.

Alone again in the elaborate front parlor, seated on Aunt Shaw’s favorite rose-colored damask sofa, Margaret reread the letter in her hand. She stared at certain phrases, trying to glean more meaning behind Dixon’s quick summary of the auction and her complaints about the work involved. What wasn’t said was more of what Margaret sought, because she longed to know how much Mr. Thornton had been involved and what his thoughts were. She imagined, with a twinge of resigned gloom, that he had helped as a loyal homage to her father. She smiled, admiring him all the more for that.

He was likely glad, as Dixon was, to be done with his duties in Crampton. She was certain he did not think of her—or if he did, it would be with distinct displeasure. Had he not told her that his interest in her had vanished entirely?

A deep, familiar heaviness fell over her. She told herself she could put to rest the uneasiness that arose every time she thought of him if only she could explain to him the reason she had lied. She longed for him to know the truth.

She stared at the open letter in her hand. Although she knew it was nonsensical, she found a sad pleasure in gazing at his name as Dixon had scrawled it—the name she might have taken as her own, if she had been aware of the value of what he had once offered her.

She was engulfed in such bitter emotions when a maid announced a visitor.

“Mr. Bell!” she exclaimed, springing from her seat. “How good of you to come! You did not send word—”