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“I will return in a moment, Aunt. Do not worry,” she proclaimed calmly as she took feeble steps beyond her bedchamber. She wobbled down the hallway and clung to the wooden banister as she made her way down the stairs.

As she reached the floor below, she heard Henry asking how many men Mr. Thornton employed and felt a tug of pride as he was told that Marlborough Mills employed seven hundred workers.

Glimpsing Margaret’s tottering approach, Henry rushed forward to aid her.

“Margaret! What are you doing down here? You should be resting,” he declared, as he took hold of her arm to support her.

Mr. Thornton yearned to bolt from the room. Hearing Margaret’s lover call her by name and watching him take possession of her arm inflamed his envy and hate.

“Please, if you will allow me to search my father’s books,” she answered, wresting herself from his unnecessary hold. She stood in front of the shelves for a moment before pulling the volume she sought from its home. Pressing it affectionately to her breast, she turned to face Mr. Thornton before stretching the book out to him. “My father’s Plato. He would wish you to have it.” She wanted to tell him how much her father had cherished his friendship, but her throat choked with emotion, and she could only flash a look of gratitude at him before casting her gaze to the floor. She knew he must wish to get away from her presence.

“I will treasure it. As I will the memory of your father,” he replied as he took it. Mr. Thornton studied her pale face, saw the swollen eyes that had endured the shock of deep grief. He ached to be the one to gather her into his arms—he wanted nothing else but to clasp her close and never let her go.

The tenderness in his voice touched deep chords of sorrow, and tears watered her eyes. She could not speak, but nodded.

Margaret lifted her face to Mr. Thornton with a glint of desperation in her eyes. This might be the last time she ever saw him. She swallowed the lump that formed in her throat at this thought and spoke. “Please, will you give your mother my thanks for her kind intentions? I…I behaved rashly the last time I saw her. I ask for her forgiveness.”

It was now Mr. Thornton’s turn to be speechless as he tried to imagine how Margaret might have received his mother’s chastisement. He nodded.

“My dear,” Mr. Bell began, taking one of her hands between his own, “I will leave you in the care of your aunt. Thornton and I must go to Oxford to make all the unhappy arrangements.”

“Yes,” she answered feebly, sickened with grief to think that she could not go with them—that she would never again look upon her father’s face.

“I will come visit you in London after you are settled,” he promised, attempting to give her some cheer.

“Yes, please do,” she answered softly, attempting a faint smile.

She glanced back at Mr. Thornton, recognizing for the first time that he was wearing a black armband. Her heart filled with a bittersweet warmth for the fond regard he had developed for her father, which he now publicly displayed.

“Come now, you have said your goodbyes. You must rest for the journey home,” Mr. Lennox insisted, offering his arm to take her back upstairs.

Margaret glanced at Mr. Thornton one last time before letting Henry escort her back upstairs.

Mr. Bell saw a dark shadow cross the master’s face as Mr. Thornton watched her go.

“Now then, I shall get my bags. We must away, Thornton, or we shall miss the next train to Oxford,” Mr. Bell said.

Soon the two men, each carrying a portmanteau, made their way down the stone stairs and out to the street.

“What do you make of Lennox? Is he suitable enough for Margaret?” Mr. Bell asked, squinting up at the tall Milton master.

“I do not know him,” Mr. Thornton answered, struggling to contain a scowl. “He looks and acts a Londoner through and through—seizing to own governance of a situation he has just fallen into,” he added with flat disdain.

“My sentiments exactly. He may have an easy familiarity with Margaret as a frequent guest in her cousin’s home, but I admit I hope our Margaret will not take a serious interest in him.”

Bile rose in Mr. Thornton’s stomach at the thought of Margaret wedded to this London lover. A twinge of guilt tugged within to find himself hating a man he had just met with a burning repulsion. But hate him as he might, it did no good to change the situation. For it was the arrogant Mr. Lennox who was with Margaret—with her in her home—the very place where he himself most longed to be.

Was this the ‘Frederick’ she had called out to for comfort? The possibility upended every ideal he held of Margaret and disturbed his mood. He felt out of sorts in every way—downhearted, desperate, angry, and powerless.

As Henry helped Margaret up the stairs, she let out a breathy sob. By the time he had returned her to Aunt Shaw’s care, she wept without restraint. It unnerved and disappointed Mr. Lennox to witness her losing control of her emotions. He had thought her a stronger girl than that.

He understood, however, that she had over-exerted herself. Why she had used her energy to descend the stairs in her condition was beyond his comprehension. It would have served just as well to send her father’s book by courier to the Milton tradesman.

He did not linger to observe Mrs. Shaw trying to comfort her niece, but went downstairs to get away from the sounds of overwrought grief. He hoped Margaret would be better after a night of rest, for he hoped they could all return to London tomorrow.

Aunt Shaw was all soft cooing and coddling caresses as she endeavored to soothe her orphaned niece. She had no notion that Margaret’s sorrow was not solely for the loss of her father, but also a dreadful sense that her last chance for happiness in life had just departed the house.

Chapter five