Hannah Thornton’s gaze sharpened upon her son at his reply.
“Who is she? A duchess, or perhaps a marchioness?” Fanny asked, her expression alight with attentive curiosity.
“No, the girl I speak of is a vicar’s daughter from Hampshire,” he answered plainly, eager now to end the conversation.
Fanny rolled her eyes. “I do not see why we should not all go on your visits to London. The opportunities and privileges of such a stay are utterly wasted on you!” Fanny exclaimed with a churlish pout as she dismissed her brother and took up her sewing with an exaggerated flourish.
“What of this girl?” Hannah pressed after a moment of silence, careful to appear somewhat indifferent to his answer as she bent her head to resume her own needlework.
“There is nothing to relate, I suppose. Only that I thought her…unlike the rest,” he said, searching for a sufficient explanation of his thoughts even as he endeavored to brush off any further contemplation of her image.
“In any regard, I’m glad to be back home,” he said, standing near his mother and placing his hand on the back of her chair.
A slender hand, still strong although showing the sinewy lines of years of trial, reached up to clasp his own. The pair exchanged a look of mutual affection.
“And now, if you will excuse me, I have much to attend to,” he announced before heading toward the mill.
The breadth of details entailed in preparing for the newly obtained order soon consumed Mr. Thornton’s attention, sweeping away the lingering pangs of unsettled, fresh remembrances that had attempted to haunt him on the train.
He soon fell into the worn patterns of his life with a certain relief at having banished the uncomfortable thoughts that had pressed him so strongly in London. The memory of the girl in gold seldom came to mind during the course of his daily routine. However, it was with some discomfiture that Mr. Thornton recognized that certain sights or sounds—the glow of yellow flowers in a vase or on a hillside, a feminine laugh, the mystical light of a full moon—brought to mind at unexpected moments all the loveliness and enchanting allure of the woman he had once held in his grasp.
Although he attempted to disregard it, it was with a shadow of unease that he became aware that he moved in social circles with a new consciousness of women. Where before he would have paid no regard to allusions and pregnant glances made by the gentler sex toward his person, Mr. Thornton was chagrined to find himself conscious of the manner in which eligible Milton maidens batted their eyelashes and simpered sweetly in his presence. None could compare to the idol of soulful beauty and honest, innocent comportment that he had found in the vicar’s daughter from Hampshire. And he grew even more averse to the occasions when society demanded polite conversation between gentlemen and ladies.
These moments had weighed little in Mr. Thornton’s consideration for the better part of his existence, and he wouldnot be distracted now. He threw his concentration with vigor upon the operations and schedules of his thriving mill through the long days of the summer into the dark evenings of winter.
Chapter three
Candles burned mid-day to provide cheering light that the sun failed to supply on a dismal November day in London. Beyond the window panes in the Harley Street house, all was gray and indistinct as rain attempted to wash away mankind’s accumulated grime and soot from the layered bricks and stones of the city landscape.
The steady sound of pelting rain outside gave the dry, opulent drawing room a peaceful feeling. Margaret loved the rain. No respecter of persons, it fell on the meek and the mighty alike.
The gliding strains of piano music that filled the atmosphere with calm exuberance ceased abruptly. Margaret raised her gaze from the pages of the book in her hand as Edith swiftly rose from the piano and crossed to the nearest window.
“This dreadful rain! I shan’t be able to wear my new dress,” she muttered at the paned glass.
“Perhaps it will clear up in time,” Margaret offered, with little conviction.
“I won’t have my violet gown spattered with mud. And if I cannot wear that, then I won’t go at all!” Edith declared, foldingher arms across her chest in defiance of the rain’s disregard for her plans.
“You could wear your best blue gown, the brocaded silk with gold trim. Save your new gown for another occasion,” Margaret proposed, knowing her cousin only needed a little coddling to soothe her agitation. An appeal to the wide variety of beautiful garments from which she could choose often steered her thoughts more happily down endless paths of vain adornment.
“Hmm,” was all she received in reply, a sound edged with faltering resistance.
Edith continued to threaten the abandonment of her scheduled soirée, but when the time for the dinner approached, she could not deny the stronger impulse to be seen and admired. She was determined to wear her violet dress; the weather would not ruin her pleasure in displaying the glory of her beautifully crafted new gown. Margaret watched the footman and houseboy as they contrived—in the pelting rain—to lay a plank over the puddles that covered the brick pathway to the carriage. Careful maneuvers with several umbrellas and a handful of attending servants kept Edith’s fetching attire from any offending dampness. Aunt Shaw accompanied her with only one umbrella to protect her broad skirts before she climbed into the dry coach.
Margaret let out a contented sigh as the carriage trundled away and was swallowed by the darkness beyond the gas-lit street lamp. She was glad that she had not been invited to the dinner party. She would enjoy taking her meal on a tray in her room much more than partaking of lavish courses and tedious conversation amidst a select gathering of men and women whose only care centered upon their own amusement. It would be well enough to join the party later, when there was more freedom to move around and join the various circles of conversation and activity.
At nine o’clock, Margaret climbed into the carriage wearing a deep burgundy dress trimmed with velvet ribbons and cream lace. Only a few drops of rain fell from the sky, the clouds having expended their efforts in their daylong tirade.
Margaret wished the carriage windows were open. Fresh bursts of wind blew the branches of barren trees, and the smell of damp earth and stone filled the chilly night air. She thought of how warm and comfortable it would be at home in Helstone on such a night, with a glowing hearth in the drawing room; her father would be reading a book in his favorite chair, and her mother sewing while the wind buffeted the windows outside. All would be serene, and picturesque in the morning light.
Lost in her reverie of home, she was unprepared for the gentle halting of the horses at the gate of a tall brick mansion. She alighted with the aid of the ready footman, and he escorted her to the door, casting his wide umbrella over her. Hastening to put on her gloves, one fell from her beaded reticule onto the wet cobblestones below.
She stopped, but had not even time to declare her loss when a gentleman stooped to retrieve the fallen article. Her heartbeat quickened as she thought he might be the northern stranger.
The man stood, and she saw at once that he was not.
“Allow me,” a well-dressed man said, offering her the glove in a graceful gesture.
