Mr. Bell raised his eyebrows at her vehemence. He glanced at his old friend before returning his gaze to Margaret. “I see that you have some of your father’s blood in you,” he declared. He then regaled her with how the quiet Mr. Hale, known for his soft-spoken, reticent ways, had once burst into an angry tirade against the treatment of one of their fellow students, who was obviously from a poorer, Welsh family.
Margaret watched her father smile at this memory. Stories like this filled Margaret’s heart with pride for the unshakable compassion that was at the core of her father’s heart. He surely ‘hated iniquity and every evil way.’
Mr. Bell continued on. “It struck a deep chord in me at the time—and has ever since, I might add—so that we became friends. I have always admired his moral strength.”
“It was only the right thing to do,” Mr. Hale demurred, embarrassed by too much praise.
“It was, but none other of us had the courage to do something about it,” Mr. Bell replied.
He turned his focus to Margaret again. “And now here you are, about to go ‘once more into the breach’ to dine with the enemy, so to speak. I suppose these masters could use a good crack on the skull now and then! Men in positions of power are apt to grow full of themselves, you know. But say,” he said, his tone turning more serious, “haven’t you found Mr. Thornton a rather reasonable fellow?”
“Indeed, very reasonable,” Mr. Hale answered for his daughter, who bowed her head at the mention of Mr. Thornton’s name.
“He has been very kind to us,” Margaret quietly conceded, still averting her gaze. “I only wish he could exert more of his tenacious efforts to find a way to communicate with his workers, so that such suffering might be avoided,” she stated more forcefully.
Mr. Bell studied her posture, detecting a tone of wistfulness in her utterance. A startling possibility crossed his mind, which he determined to test carefully for its veracity.
“I’m pleased you have come to visit,” Margaret began more brightly, wanting to shake off the sudden awkwardness she felt. “Will you be staying with us?”
“Certainly not! I would not trouble you at a time such as this. And in any case, I’m very stuck in my ways and must have things done precisely as I like. I shall stay at the Clarendon Hotel, which will serve me well for that.”
“Very well,” she replied. “I will leave you now to resume your conversation with father. I must go check on mamma to see if she needs me. I will see you this evening.”
Mrs. Hale was resting, having spent the better part of the day reclining to save her fortitude for the formal dinner affair that had occupied her mind for weeks. Although her body was in repose, she had been contriving to imagine every detail of the evening—wondering aloud about what would be served, how the people would be dressed, and how Mrs. Thornton would manage the entire affair. Dixon was glad to see Margaret come into the room, for she could leave her mistress for a time to dothe ironing while Miss Margaret absorbed her mother’s audible musings.
“When I was Miss Beresford, I attended many dinners and balls. I didn’t think there would be such things in this town, but I am glad for your sake there is some culture and society here. Why, I truly don’t recall the last time I attended a formal affair,” Mrs. Hale exclaimed to her daughter.
Margaret kept silent about the fact that her mother had chosen not to attend Edith’s wedding—quite a gala affair—simply because she did not think any of her dresses would suit the occasion. Perhaps it was that her mother did not want to appear dowdy in her own sister’s London opulence.
Now, with Margaret’s attention to her mother’s desires, Mrs. Hale had agreed to have one of Margaret’s dresses altered for herself. It was the next best thing to having a new dress, for Margaret’s gowns had been purchased by Aunt Shaw in London within the last two years. Mrs. Hale had fussed that it wasn’t right to take one of her daughter’s dresses away from her, but Margaret had insisted she didn’t need them all, and her mother’s yearning to go had won over her initial objections.
“I’m happy, mamma, that you are to go tonight. I don’t think I should have gone if you were not.”
“Nonsense, my dear! I should want you to go. You are young and need such entertainment. And besides, I should have wanted to know all about it. It is very trying to be bound most days as an invalid of sorts. This invitation has already given me much needed distraction and interest.”
“I am glad, then, that we were invited. But it will be hard for me to forget the suffering I have seen today while I partake of the extravagance of the masters,” she sighed.
“Oh, I hope this terrible strike business is put to an end soon. What have you seen today to put you out so?” she asked, her brows contracted in worry.
Margaret told her mother what she had seen at the Higgins house, and how the Bouchers suffered. She regretted dousing her mother’s enthusiasm with this tale of woe, but it lifted some of the burden Margaret felt to share it with a sympathetic heart.
The knowledge that little children had nothing to eat indeed troubled Mrs. Hale. “We must send them food tomorrow first thing,” she insisted. The role of a vicar’s wife revived in her at once.
“I am sorry to have told you—“
“No indeed, my darling. It was right to mention it. We must do what we can whenever we know a family is in need.”
It was not long before Dixon returned, and it was time for the women of the house to begin their preparations for the evening ahead.
With pin curls still in her hair, Margaret swept into her mother’s room later to have Dixon fasten the hooks at the back of her gown.
“Oh Margaret! It does me good to see you dressed in such finery,” her mother enthused from her perch upon the seat at her dressing table. Mrs. Hale herself was wearing a youthful pink taffeta gown with tulle rosettes adorning a modest neckline.
“Indeed, she’s turned out very well. She’s sure to be more than a match for any Milton girl there,” Dixon remarked. “I’ll come do your hair, Miss Margaret, as soon as I finish with the Missus here,” she added, picking up the hairbrush again after fastening Margaret’s dress.
“Thank you, Dixon. I can manage setting it up, but I need help with the final touches,” Margaret answered before returning to her room.
As she set to work on putting her thick curls up, her emotions swirled in a mix of dispirited trepidation and curious anticipation. Her stomach tightened when her thoughts fell upon Mr. Thornton. As she studied her reflection in the mirror,noting her fashionably low neckline and bare shoulders, she realized Mr. Thornton had not seen her in formal attire since they had met in London—was it two years ago now?
