Chapter Text
As John entered the shop in Jermyn Street, he cursed Fanny. His day in London had been full of arduous meetings with warehouse owners and potential investors, and all he wished for now was to be on the train back to Milton. A train was one of the few places where John had no demands placed upon him. There were no decisions to make and no meetings to endure; nothing but the agreeable rocking of the carriage as the train made its way past rivers, villages, and damp, green hills dotted with sheep. John was often able to sleep for a while on train journeys—a deep, untroubled sleep completely different in nature to the restless few hours he managed each night between his long, stressful days at the mill. A failing business and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility were not conducive to good sleep.
However, there was to be no train-induced rest yet, because here he was being the dutiful brother, following Fanny’s almost illegible directions to a shop selling—at no doubt eye-watering prices—fine leather gloves imported from Paris. He would say he had no idea how Fanny could even know about such London shops, having never been to the capital herself, but he knew well enough. Before she was married, there had always been stacks of magazines in the drawing room, with articles and adverts annotated as carefully as any scholar might annotate a classical volume. Through her studies of this reading matter, as well as intelligence shared amongst the affluent young women of Milton, Fanny appeared to be aware of every fashionable outfitters, milliners, and glove shop in the capital. John thought with some relief and satisfaction that now Fanny was married, the purchasing of expensive fripperies had mostly become Watson’s responsibility. With the precarious financial state of the mill, it was a relief to know Fanny was well cared for, financially, and that her talent for spending was now Watson’s problem. However, Watson never journeyed to London, whereas John did from time to time, and Fanny always thought of some item she was in desperate need of that could only be purchased from an exclusive London establishment.
The shop was small, with walls lined with wooden shelves and cabinets displaying not only gloves but also bags and cases of various types. Two assistants were engaged with customers and an elderly woman was seated on a chair near the counter, waiting to be served, so John resigned himself to a wait. He looked about the place and saw two elegantly dressed women examining gloves in the far corner of the shop. As the older of the two women turned a little, John realised, to his astonishment, that he recognised her—it was Mrs Shaw, Margaret Hale’s aunt. The woman’s face was etched in his memory following that dark day when she had come to Milton to fetch Miss Hale away after her father’s death. John could still remember the distain with which Mrs Shaw had eyed him. He could still feel echoes of the despair he had suffered as their carriage had driven away. For a moment he had the wild notion that the younger woman with Mrs Shaw was Miss Hale herself, but he knew, deep down, that it was not. Even after all this time, just a glimpse of Miss Hale’s back or the mere tilt of her head would have been enough for him to recognise her.
Mrs Shaw had not seen him, and he doubted she would remember him in any case, but still, he found himself moving behind a display cabinet without having made the conscious decision to do so. From where he now stood, he could see the younger woman more clearly. She had a blandly pretty face which possessed a similar structure and complexion to Mrs Shaw's. As they idly picked up and put down gloves, the younger woman spoke to Mrs Shaw in a voice loud enough that John could hear her quite clearly.
“Mama, is it wicked of me to say that I am glad to be out of the house for a while without Margaret? I love her dearly, but she is such dreary company these days. So quiet and dull, and she cries so often her face always looks blotchy!”
John was riveted to the spot by what she had said of Miss Hale, and was desperate to hear more.
“Oh, Edith, you must try to be understanding,” Mrs Shaw replied. “Margaret is still in mourning for her father.”
“I know, Mama. How could I not when she wears those awful mourning dresses and won’t go out to dinners and such!”
“Now, Edith,” scolded Mrs Shaw. “You know it would not be proper for Margaret to be so sociable outside the home. Not while she is still mourning.”
John had heard Miss Hale talk of her cousin Edith with affection, but as he listened to the heartless things she was saying, he failed to the see any merit in the young woman. As he watched, her face assumed a petulant expression.
“But it’s been almost nine months, Mama! Many daughters wear half mourning and accept at least some invitations, even after six months.”
Mrs Shaw sighed. “Margaret just doesn’t have the heart for gaiety, I suppose. She loved her father very much and misses him greatly, I am sure.”
At this, Edith flung down the gloves she had been inspecting and declared, “I don’t see why she misses him quite so much! He was not so very good a father, was he? Think of where he took his family to live. You have said many times, Mama, you are quite sure that it was the move to the north that killed dear Aunt Hale. You said the house they were living in was terrible and they were forced to mix with the worst sort of people.”
John was certain the Shaws would consider him one of those dreadful people and he felt no particular personal affront, but he was incensed to hear such insults to his friend, not least because he had many times witnessed Richard Hale’s affection and concern for his daughter. John hoped Mrs Shaw would admonish Edith for such an outburst, but he was disappointed with the older woman's reply.
“You are quite right. The town was filthy and I am sure the poor air was what did for my dear sister. Mr Hale should never have taken her and Margaret there. But, as you know, Margaret will not hear a word said against him, and, of course, that does her credit as a daughter. It is concerning that she is taken so low with grief though. She has grown rather thin and drawn—I worry she will do permanent harm to her looks.”
“Well,” declared Edith, “in three months’ time she will have to stop with all this mourning and then Henry will marry her and everything will be well again.”
John felt as if he had been punched or stabbed, so intense was the sensation of injury. She was to be married. He lent against the wooden display case, feeling suddenly weak. He should not be surprised, he supposed. Miss Hale was a beautiful young woman with fine manners and a kind nature: every eligible gentleman who met her and who had any sense would want to marry her. This dismal news at least clarified something that had troubled John for a long time: who Miss Hale had been with at Outwood Station and for whom she had lied. It appeared she had been protecting this Henry, her fiancé. A while ago, John had bumped into Adam Bell on a train. He had steered the conversation towards that fateful night at Outwood and Bell had suggested the only man Miss Hale could possibly have been with was Henry Lennox, a barrister and family friend. At the time, John had been inclined to dismiss this assertion of Bell’s, and indeed, John had forgotten the barrister’s name, but now it was all confirmed. He felt deeply wounded, once again, and was angry with himself for feeling thus as he had no right, no claim on Miss Hale’s affections. He laughed bitterly to himself—she had made it clear he was the very last person to have a claim on her heart. He was about to walk away in disgust when he heard Mrs Shaw’s reply to Edith.
“Yes, I suppose she will marry Henry. I do always like the idea of love matches, as you know, and I am not at all sure Margaret cares for Henry in that way. At least, she has insisted she does not when I’ve tried to discuss the matter with her. Of course, I know many marriages are not built on love, but it does seem rather a shame. Still, I suppose it will probably be for the best if Henry marries her.”
“Oh, Mama,” exclaimed her daughter. “You are such a sentimentalist! Henry is a fine man with a great future ahead of him, and Margaret is in no position to turn him down. She has no fortune and she is virtually unknown in London society because her selfish father took her to that God-forsaken town. Even though she says she won’t have Henry, which is exceedingly vexing, she will have to—and soon! What alternative is there for her? And, in any case, why shouldn’t she want dear Henry?”
John’s anger towards Miss Hale, which had been stirred up once again on hearing talk of her imminent marriage, instantly abated. Or rather, his anger intensified but was redirected away from her and instead towards her family, towards this Henry, and towards a society that would have her marry a man for whom she did not care.
Then another blow struck him. Assuming this Henry was the man he had seen with Miss Hale at Outwood Station, was the intimacy he had witnessed between them a forced thing? Had this despicable man taken advantage of Miss Hale’s innocence? Had he demanded intimacy she did not wish to give? Oh God! Had John judged what he had seen, had he judged her, so wrongly? He turned cold with horror and shame as he recollected how cruelly he had treated her. He had spoken to her with the worst sort of cold civility, making it clear just how low she had fallen in his regard. And now it seemed possible that the events of that night were not of her choosing, and that she had born the loss of her parents, the unwanted attentions of a suitor, and John’s petulant anger, with barely a soul to give her support.
John was certain that if he did not leave the shop immediately, he would do or say something he would later regret. Feeling greatly agitated, he strode out of the shop and onto Jermyn Street, abandoning all thoughts of the gloves for Fanny. He headed north, taking side streets so as to avoid the many shoppers on Regent Street. He hurried through Marylebone towards the Regent’s Park, losing his way more than once in this unfamiliar part of London. Eventually, he reached the park and there he paced about for half an hour or more until he was less overwhelmed with emotion and more able to think. By the time he felt calm enough to make his way to Euston Station, a decision of sorts had been made—he had to help Miss Hale. He had no idea where to start, but resolved to spend the journey to Milton formulating a plan. What he did know was that he had, at most, three months before Miss Hale came out of mourning and all was lost.