Somewhere in the World

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

March--April 1860

After New York, life in Lovell seemed languid and uninspiring to Mrs. Hale. She would put her sewing down with a sigh and stare out the parlor window, remarking with regret, “Was it only a month ago that we went to the theater?” or “Remember that afternoon at that tea parlor, Margaret? What was the name of the place again?” She would often sit with her hands clasped in her lap, a small smile on her face as she remembered the splendors of shopping and dining in the great metropolis with her sister and her family.

Margaret smiled sympathetically, but felt little true empathy for her mother’s point of view. She was glad to be back in Lovell, glad to be working at the school once more, glad to have employment in her father’s library. A life of luxury and pleasure was not to her liking; she craved employment for her hands and her mind.

She held her tongue, however, knowing that any disagreement might set her mother off on a litany of dissatisfaction. Under her fretful air, Margaret knew that Mrs. Hale worried. They had still received no word of Frederick or his actions. An inquiry to their lodger in Williamsburg turned up no new information—no letter had arrived. And so, Margaret spent afternoons sewing and mending and answering her mother’s laments with patience and humor.

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Several weeks after their return from New York, Mr. Hale announced at breakfast that he had invited the Thornton family to dinner that evening. He had extended the invitation to Mr. Thornton the previous evening, after their lesson, but since his wife and daughter had retired to bed, he had had no chance to convey this news, which was now received with some consternation.

Mrs. Hale glanced up from her tea cup in alarm. “This evening? And this is the first you mention it, Mr. Hale?” Two blotches of color flooded her cheeks, but whether from alarm or anger, Margaret could not tell. Before she could speak, her mother moved swiftly to the door and called out for Dixon.

Mr. Hale turned to Margaret in bewilderment. “Have I done something wrong? It has been so long since we were guests at their house; I thought it time to return their hospitality.”

Margaret covered his hand with hers and squeezed in gentle reproof. “It is not the act, Papa, it is the timing.”

“Indeed, it is the timing,” his wife exclaimed. “We have not had time to tidy the house, or to go to market for groceries.”