There were few sadder things, John supposed, than a sparsely attended funeral. The church was almost empty, only four pews half-occupied. One by himself, the other by Margaret, her father and Mr Bell. A third, just behind them, by their servant - who, by his estimation, was deeper in grief than Mrs Hale's own family. A fourth, at the very back of the church, by Nicholas Higgins and his daughter.
A sorry crowd indeed.
In this case, such a thing was no reflection of the deceased. Mrs Hale had been a good woman, one he had held a great respect for. She had not suited the northern climate, and John wondered if the unhappy state she had spent her final months in had contributed to her death. It was speculation only, for he could not claim to be any great friend to the woman. He knew only what he had seen, and what Margaret had told him. Perhaps she had always been a sickly sort of woman - or perhaps her husband's choice had condemned her to an early grave.
Margaret did not look over at him, her eyes fixed firmly on the coffin in front of her. She looked exhausted, her pale skin almost grey in pallor, eyes ringed red. He knew her grief all too well; losing a parent was a terrible thing, and she was still young in so many ways. She looked so small in the pew, sitting between Mr Bell and her father. He longed to sit beside her, to hold her hand in his and comfort her through this. He could do nothing to take this pain from her; and he knew that to try and do so would only cause her more discomfort.
It was no surprise to him that she had insisted she attend the funeral. His own mother and sister had not asked to come, upholding the usual expectation that women would stay away.
After the short, sombre service, the mourners left the church. It was a cold, unpleasant sort of November morning, the air thick with damp and the heavy scent of smoke. There was rain in the air, though it did not have the courtesy to fall properly. The mist of it clung to his coat, his ears numb with cold beneath his hat. A miserable day for a miserable occasion.
Margaret and her father stood, flanked by Mr Bell, saying goodbye to the few who had come out on this grey day. Margaret held onto her father's arm tightly, and John was under the impression that without the support of his daughter, Mr Hale would fall to the floor. He inhaled deeply, and took a step closer to them, wishing to offer his condolences. Before he could walk, he felt a tap to his shoulder, and heard a voice in his ear.
"Mr Thornton."
He turned to see a policeman he recognised from his magistrate sessions. What cause did the man have here? John nodded, his jaw tight as the man returned the greeting.
"Mason isn't it?" John asked, his eyes darting towards Margaret. She did not see him, occupied with her father. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr Thornton. But with you being the local magistrate - would you come with me to the morgue?"
Some time later, John stood in the terrible place, the stench of death surrounding him. He stared down at the stiff face of the man he had seen just two days prior. He had seen death more times than he cared to count; he had never before felt the icy chill that washed over him now upon seeing the face of this dead man. A man he had assumed would be a stranger - but he was not.
"We know nothing about him. I reckon he's not from 'round here; folk know their own, and nobody has recognised him thus far. The doctors believe he had an internal complaint that contributed to his death, exacerbated by the drink and the cold."
"I know this man." John said, for the truth would come out soon enough. "One of my servants was engaged to him. You are right, he is not from here. He is from the south. Leonards, his name is."
"I'm sorry, sir, to put the sorry task of identifying him to you. What sort of a man was he?"
"A poor excuse for one." John muttered. "A taste for drink and trouble making. I only saw the man in passing, but I knew of his reputation well enough. Where was he found?"
"He was found collapsed in a doorway of a home near the edge of the city. He was taken to hospital, where he died in the early hours of this morning."
"When was he found?"
"The morning of the twenty-seventh, at dawn. They think he had a fall, or engaged in a fight, something of that nature. A drinking habit perhaps contributed to his death."
Cold crept through him, every drop of blood in his veins replaced with ice. His mind raced, trying to recall those few, panicked moments. Had the man fallen then, or had a punch been thrown? His mind was clouded with panic, and he could not recall the precise series of events.
"I saw this man," John said eventually "at Outwood station on Thursday evening. I was there on business."
"You saw him?" Mason echoed, taking a notebook from his pocket. "What time was this, sir?"
"Around midnight. He was on the platform. Drunk, and aggressive with it. Starting fights with decent folk, making a show of himself."
"Did you speak to him?" Mason asked. "You knew him by sight, and he surely knew you in turn; you must have engaged him in some conversation."
"Aye, I did. I have not seen him often, but I know his face - and his reputation, as I said. I sent him on his way, with the threat of summoning the proper authorities."
"Where did he go?"
"I do not know; away, that is all. I saw that he left the station, and to my knowledge had sustained no physical harm while there."
"Might I take a statement from you, sir?" Mason asked. "You know there will have to be an inquest into the sudden death."
"The case is a simple one; a drunkard whose body could take no more. I saw the man myself. He could barely stand."
"Who else bore witness on the platform? Who were these folk harassed by the deceased? We will need to speak to them."
His throat tightened; there was indeed another witness to this, one who (if anyone had seen her, which they surely had) would have stuck out like a sore thumb on that platform so late at night. Any lie would be easily discovered later, and that would lead to infinitely more questions about why a magistrate would fail to tell the truth when under question by the police.
And so, John did what he believed to be right; he told the truth.
"Miss Margaret Hale of Crampton was present. The man spoke to her in a way that was not appropriate, so I removed him from the station. He was a danger to himself, as well as those unfortunate to come into contact with him.."
"A young lady at the station late at night? Were you accompanying her?"
There was a question, an implication, to the man's voice that John did not appreciate.
"No. I believe she was seeing a family acquaintance onto the train. Her mother has just passed, you see. A sorry business indeed."
"I'm sorry to hear it. I fear my visit today will not be a welcome one."
"Visit?" John asked.
"I must ask her these questions too. I am sure you understand."
"Of course. But I would greatly appreciate it if you gave the family time to grieve."
There was a flicker of hesitation over the man's face, before he gave a brief nod.
"Very well, sir. I will not call upon them today. A good day to you, Mr Thornton, and my thanks for your cooperation."
After the unpleasant business of identification was finished, John returned home. He avoided his mother, for he did not wish to speak with her. Neither did he seek out Margaret. Let her grieve in peace, without putting this on her shoulders. She played no part in the death of the man, and any other witnesses would attest to that fact. Nobody save the dead man knew the identity of her brother, and John was confident that this whole matter would soon be forgotten.
-
The next day, as John went about his business, the officer found him once more.
"Good day to you, Mr Thornton. We have made progress in our investigation, and I wished to come to you to discuss it."
"What news?"
"There are still questions about his final hours, and I wondered if you had recalled anything else."
"I have told you what I know. I was there on business. I remember the man well; shouting and causing a nuisance. He could scarcely keep upright, and stank of drink."
"He was known to be a troublemaker of that kind, sir, yes. You have said that he left the station, but we know little of what happened to him up until the time he was found, early the next morning around half a mile away. I am sorry for asking the same questions again, but you are a witness."
"A witness to what? All I saw was a man making a disgrace of himself." John countered. "I saw no crime - there was no scuffle, only one man shouting abuse at someone who could not defend herself. He knew her, it seems, from the place where she was born. I sent the man away from the scene and, to my knowledge, he left. I did not see him again."
"Other witnesses say that they saw that, indeed sir. The deceased was talking to a Miss Margaret Hale, by their recollection, and a gentleman they did not recognise. Is that right?"
"Yes. Miss Hale was there, as I told you."
"Unusual for a young lady to be out so very late at night." Mason said, eyebrow raised. "From a good family, at the least."
"She was waving off some man come to Milton for the death of her mother," John said. "It is my understanding that they do things differently in the South. Such a thing might be more common."
"A strange place indeed if that is the norm, to send an unmarried lady out to wave folk off at night," The officer shook his head. "Perhaps you might advise her that the streets of Milton can be very dangerous at such a time. Certainly no place for a woman of good standing."
"I have," he said shortly. "Is there anything else?"
"I have some questions for Miss Hale, but-"
"What could you have to ask her?" John interrupted sharply. "She was not involved in this man's death, which happened away from the station. She can tell you nothing of where the man went, for I was with her and have already told you what I saw. I took Miss Hale home myself, sharing the same concerns as you for her safety. She is grieving the death of her mother, as I'm sure you can understand. I see no benefit in disturbing her at such a time. She will tell you nothing I have not already - or indeed the dozen others who were at the station that night."
If the officer thought John's actions odd, his expression did not betray it. He looked down at his notebook and nodded.
"Thank you for your time, Mr Thornton. It is much appreciated."
"Of course. In my eyes, the evidence is quite clear that this man was not well - the result of a life poorly lived, no doubt. If I were the magistrate on the case, that would be my verdict."
"I believe you're right, sir. Good day to you."
And with a tip of his hat, the policeman was on his way.
-
John returned home after the whistle had been blown, walking through the empty yard. He felt fatigued, a day of meetings combined with the uncertainty of the investigation weighing heavily on his mind. When he arrived home, hanging up his coat and his hat with weary fingers, his mother appeared in the doorway. Her arms were folded, her keen eyes sweeping over him from foot to hair, making an assessment as she always did.
"Where have you been? I've not seen you all day," she said sharply. "I did not know you would be detained all day. I did not see you last night, or perhaps you would have been so good to tell me you would be absent from the mill."
"I've had things to attend to," he said wearily, walking past her and pouring himself a drink. "I was tired, Mother, so put myself to bed early last night. I was not trying to avoid you, or cause offence."
He did not wish to burden his mother with the day's events; nor did he wish to hear her opinion on such matters. There was no possible way that he could tell her of the circumstances that had led him to pulling Miss Hale away from the train station into a carriage so late at night. There was no way he could tell his mother about Frederick Hale, for she would not hold with Margaret's actions in bringing a fugitive to dangerous shores.
Perhaps his mother would feel some sympathy for Mrs Hale. John knew full well that his mother loved him with a ferocity that he did not truly understand, and he wondered if there was a small part of her that would feel some sort of sympathy towards the dying woman's final wish to see her son again.
"During working hours?"
"Yes."
She paused, fixing him with a stare. At times, he felt as though she saw into his soul; she knew him better than he knew himself. She seemed to have a sense for when he was lying, or when he was troubled.
"You know what the servants are saying about Margaret?"
"I don't know or care what they're saying. You should not listen to folk who have nout better to do."
"Out after dark with a gentleman. They say..." she paused, trying to find the words. "John, were you with her? It sounds too absurd to be true."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I was at the station on business. I saw her safely home. The streets at such an hour are no place for a young lady such as Miss Hale."
"Indeed they are not. Honestly, John, that girl parades about without a notion of how she appears to others. You'd be wise to keep away from her."
"Must we have the same conversation over and over, Mother?"
"It appears that we must!"
"Mother, you must know my intentions towards Miss Hale by now."
"I do."
"Then you know that I would do what I can to keep her safe."
"At the cost of your own reputation?"
"I've done nothing wrong. I've told the truth. Whatever gossip there might be isn't true, and you'd be well minded to ignore it. Her father allowed her out alone to see off a visitor from the south, come for Mrs Hale. A foolish choice, and one I am glad ended in the way that it did. I took her home, that's the end of it. Mr Hale is not thinking clearly, and I'll do what I can to help him."
Her face darkened, her jaw drawn tightly. He had seen that face often, the countenance of such deep disapproval that it changed her appearance entirely. He himself had not often been on the receiving end of such a glare. Though he was a grown man of thirty, he could not help but feel a clench of fear in his heart at her open disdain towards him.
"I believe it is you, John, who is not thinking clearly. She mocks you. She was seen embracing the man, the servants say. Oh, they were only too happy to tell Fanny all the news, and of course she rushed to inform me. She is practically giddy at Miss Hale's indiscretion."
"Miss Hale has made no indiscretion. She made a mistake, perhaps an error of judgement. But I'd thank Fanny to have some sympathy towards a young woman whose mother has just died, and to show her a little leniency. I do not know when my sister became such a stickler for good manners."
"John. You've lost your head."
"No. I did what was right, and if folk want to gossip I'd ask them to come to me. I'm sure they would not be so brave then."
"Perhaps."
"I thought you better than this, Mother," He sat down heavily, exhaling sharply and rubbing at his forehead to try and ease the tension that was building behind his eyes. "Please. Try to be kind to her."
She raised an eyebrow at the chastisement, her shoulders raising as she straightened her back. He recognised so much of himself within her, seeing all that she had given him reflected in her eyes. It was not an easy thing to disagree with her like this, for he had always valued her advice and followed it wherever he could. Now, he could not. He could not allow himself to lose the woman he loved so deeply, just because his mother disapproved. He was not sure how this change had overcome him, but he knew he could not obey his mother on this.
"Have I been unkind?" she continued, her voice sharp and unforgiving. "I have said nothing that is not true. John, she is young. She has been hopelessly sheltered and allowed to believe her own importance. She knows nothing of the world, nothing of how we do things. She lacks any sort of care or delicacy, yet her opinion of herself is impossibly high. She rejects you time and time again..."
"No," he bit out, his voice tight. "Stop."
"What reason has she given you, that she might play with your affections in such a way? I do not know what has happened between the pair of you - I can only hope you have not lost all sense, John. I did not think you so easily won over."
He knew what she was implying, and he took exception to it. He valued his mother's opinion above all others, but did she not know him at all? He said nothing, sitting in a tense silence until his mother could no longer stay silent.
"John." Her voice softened as she leaned forward, reaching out to touch his cheek. His eyes drifted closed, unable and unwilling to see the disappointment that was surely in her eyes. "Please. Take care."
"I must go." He stood, knowing if he continued this conversation he would very well lose his temper. His patience had not only grown thin, but had a distinct hole in it. It felt as though he had been having this same conversation for months, and still nothing had changed.
He had to see Margaret.
The streets were deserted at this strange hour; work was over for the day, and folk were in their homes. In an hour or two, the place would be full of men with coins in their pockets looking for drink and cheap entertainment. But now, the street was bathed in warm autumn sunlight, and he was alone.
Noise would have been a welcome distraction. Instead, his thoughts were painfully loud, swirling in a chaotic jumble that he could not make sense of. His jaw was tense, shoulders hunched as he walked at speed towards Crampton.
He knocked on the door and waited. Some minutes passed, and he wondered if he had even knocked at all. He was about to turn and leave, doubt settling in that his trip here was a dreadful idea. Before he could move, the door opened and Margaret stood before him. She was dressed in black, of course, her eyes ringed red, her hair dishevelled.
"Good evening," he said, his throat tight. "I'm sorry if I disturb you."
"Good evening." Margaret nodded, stepping aside. "Please, do come in. I apologise, my father is indisposed, and Dixon too. We were not expecting company. Mr Bell has returned home."
"I came only to offer my condolences once more, and to ask if there's anything I can do. I'm sorry I had to leave so quickly after the service."
Margaret closed the door behind him, staying pressed against the door. Anxiety was etched into her face, the weight of the day evident from the slouch of her shoulders and the tight line of her jaw.
"I saw you talking to a police officer outside the church. I do hope everything is alright."
"It was about the night at the station."
"What do you mean?" She asked, her face paling. "Oh no. They...how do they know? Did Leonards speak to them? I do not know that Frederick has left England, what if he is stopped? Oh, what will we do?"
"No. It is not about your brother."
Margaret slumped forward with relief, the tension in her shoulders relaxing at once.
"Thank heavens," she breathed.
"But it is not pleasant news. It would seem that Leonards was found dead a short while after."
Perhaps he should have phrased it more delicately, but he seemed incapable of behaving with tact or care in his haste to reassure her. Her brows knitted with confusion, her eyes widening.
"Dead?" Margaret asked, her voice choked. "I don't understand."
"The man had some illness, they are sure that is what killed him. He was a well known drunk. The policeman seemed ignorant to our presence there that night, and I told him myself."
"Why?"
"I could not lie. Gossip has swirled, and news would reach him soon enough. I am a magistrate, I cannot lie in a case such as this. I have nothing to hide; if we are consistent with our story that you were seeing off a relative come for the death of your mother, there will be no further investigation."
"Will they need to speak with me? John, I have not told my father what happened, he cannot find out, it would worry him too much...Oh, what a terrible mess this has turned into."
"I've asked the officer not to bother you with questions, for your answers will only be the same as mine. I do not know that he will listen to me, but I see little use in him coming to you. The wretched man was found miles away from the station, there was no suggestion of our involvement. They are trying to piece together his last hours, I suppose, to see what became of the man."
"What about Fred?" Margaret asked. "How have you explained the second man?"
"I've said he was a friend of your family, come to give condolences on your mother's passing. The officer did not have any questions about the man, for he was seen boarding the train - and a man leaving for London late at night is not unusual. Please, do not concern yourself with this. I will take care of it. It is merely a formality that he even approached me at all, there is no suspicion of you."
"What if he told someone about Fred?" Margaret asked. "You said he was engaged to your servant. If he told her, then perhaps-"
"Nobody would believe it. I believe that your secret is safe. I'm afraid, though, there is gossip about the nature of your relationship with the man. And me."
"I don't care." Margaret shook her head. "I have told you. My reputation is poor enough already. I do not need the approval of anyone here, and I do not care to seek it. I am sorry if I have damaged you, John. I am grateful for your help. I was foolish to go out alone, I see that now. We should have sent him alone, but I could not see reason at the time."
"You wanted to protect him."
"More than anything. You do not understand just how great the risk of bringing him here was; if anything had happened, I fear my father would have died with the shock and grief of it too. It was my mistake; I thought only with my heart, not with my head."
"I am sure it brought great comfort to your mother."
"Yes. Yes, I believe Fred's presence helped her. She is at peace now, and Fred will almost be back on Spanish shores by now. When I receive a letter that he is safe in his own home, I shall be able to breathe again."
He nodded, unsure of what to say. He did not know how to ease her concerns.
"So, this matter with the police - it is resolved?" Margaret continued. Or, at the very least, we are absolved of any knowledge of what happened to the poor man?"
"There will need to be an official verdict, but yes, I think so. It is unfortunate but - your secret will be safer now that he is gone."
Margaret gasped.
"John, that is an awful thing to say. But - I must confess I thought the same thing. But a man is dead, and that is a tragedy."
"He was not a good man."
"Perhaps not, but it is not a thing to be glad of." Margaret said softly, before yawning widely. She mumbled her apologies. "I am tired, Mr Thornton. John. I am glad to see you - I am sorry that it is under such circumstances. There is so much I need to say, so much that I have realised..."
"I have things I must say, too. May I come up?"
"No," she said quickly. His anguish must have been apparent, for she rushed to correct herself. "Tomorrow. Please, come tomorrow, when I am clear of mind."
"What time?"
"Ten."
"Very well. Until tomorrow," he agreed, nodding briefly before turning his back and walking away without another word.
-
That night was among the longest of his life, each passing minute an agony; he had never known the strange sensation that had settled low in his stomach. He felt sick with it, the anticipation of yet another rejection consuming him. His mind ran through endless scenarios, and when he finally slept, he had nightmares of Fredrick Hale swinging from the gallows as Margaret watched powerless and distraught from behind bars. He woke covered in sweat, his heart racing and his face damp with tears.
He did not know what she would say to him today, and he ached. He loved her so sorely that he would do anything to protect her, and that would never change.
But he dared hope that, finally, she would allow him to love her.
He arrived at the Hales' home just as the church bells struck ten. Margaret opened the door to him, Dixon presumably unable to perform her duties once again. Margaret looked a little better today, her eyes less swollen. She smiled up at him, and such a happy greeting struck joy within his soul.
"Mr Thornton. Thank you for coming so promptly," she gestured that he should come in.
"Of course."
They walked in silence to the parlour, where a teapot and two cups sat on the table. She had prepared for his visit, he thought. She had been waiting for him.
"Please, sit. Tea?" she asked, sitting delicately in the armchair and reaching forward to pour.
He did not take a seat, standing expectantly by the door. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw clenched; he felt as stiff as a statue made of glass, waiting for the moment that this woman would shatter him.
"Miss Hale, my mind has been in torment. I've had no rest. Please, just say what you must and let us be done with it."
"Very well," Margaret nodded, sitting back and staring up at him with wide, unblinking eyes. "I would be appreciative if you would allow me to speak, and leave anything you must say until the end."
He nodded curtly, his hands curled into fists by his side, nails biting into his palm as he waited for what she had to say. He braced himself for another rejection, to be pushed away once more. What sort of fool was he, he wondered, to put himself in this position time and time again?
"Thank you. Firstly, I must thank you most sincerely for speaking to the police on my behalf. I appreciate that you put your own reputation at risk, being involved in such a public argument that could have ended so badly. What happened to Leonards, I do not know, but I appreciate you shielding me from trouble. My father too. He is weak with grief, and I fear that if news of this was to reach him, it would only worsen his condition."
"Of course."
"And I must...I must be honest. Not only to you, but myself. I have spent these weeks running from you, convincing myself that I feel nothing. That is not true."
He waited, breath caught in his throat, for her next words. She held his fate in her hands, and he was unsure what way it would turn.
"Oh?" he asked, his voice tight.
"I believe that the time has come for the truth. Mr Thornton, if you would still have me...I should like to accept your proposal."
He blinked, taken aback by the casual air of her words - as though she were politely accepting the offer of a dance or perhaps a slice of cake.
"You...pardon?"
"You have changed your mind," she whispered. She stared down at her clasped hands, the woman standing before him a world away from the Margaret he knew. "I'm sorry. I should not have been so presumptuous, to accept an offer that you made at such a time. You have had time to think, and you have rightly judged me for my actions. Please, excuse me, for I must..."
He crossed the short distance between them in one stride. He fell to his knees in front of her chair, taking her hands in his. She looked down at him, those tear filled eyes tearing at his heart. He had seen many a woman in tears, and had developed a hardness to such displays of emotion. But this, this seemed to sear his very soul. He could not bear it.
"Hey, enough of that," he whispered, reaching up and brushing away a tear with his thumb. "I'm taken aback. That is all."
"If you wish to withdraw your offer, I understand. You have seen the worst in me; I have lied. Worst still, I have forced you to lie on my behalf, for you know that I have committed a terrible crime. I have dragged you into a mess you have no part in, and that is unfair. Unforgivable, for I risk a reputation I know you have worked hard to maintain. And besides that, I have been cruel to you."
"And I have been cruel to you in turn."
"What a pair we make," Margaret murmured, her eyes fixed on his. "What a mess we have made together, John. But I think...I think it will all be for the best. I think we could be...I think I will be..."
Her words faded, and he dared hope that the end of the sentence would be happy.
"You mean it?" John asked, hardly daring to believe it. "You accept?"
"Yes. I accept."