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Mr. Thornton gazed out of the tall drawing-room window in Mr. Bell’s well-furnished house. Morning fog lingered among the spires of Oxford’s renowned structures of culture and learning. This town had engendered and grown many of England’s great minds. Promising men of keen intellect and eager curiosity had come here for centuries. He might have been one of them had circumstances not stripped him of the opportunity to explore his potential.

He took a long breath, letting the twinge of bitterness pass. It would do no good to dwell on what might have been. Life had given him the opportunity to rise to a level of greatness in another field. He had learned that dedication, perseverance, and attention to detail constituted the foundation of his success. With the experience born of necessity, he had developed a talent for managing resources and implementing long-term plans. He took pride in operating his mill with foresight and honesty. His factory provided hundreds of families with the wages that purchased their daily needs. Cloth manufactured at Marlborough Mills was worn and used everywhere in England and beyond.

No, he would hold his head high in a town such as this. He did not need the laurels of education to know his intellect or his worth.

Mr. Bell’s muffled voice from behind closed doors broke his musings and turned his thought back to the purpose of the day.

He could not escape the morbid thought that Mr. Hale had died in this very house only days before. Those left behind wondered about the mysterious transition from life to death. And how easily he had been taken from them! No disturbance had occurred, no worrisome vigils had to be made over his bedside. His life had simply slipped away in the quiet calm of the night.

And what remained but memories of him? What remained in this world that carried Mr. Hale’s imprint—that yet ensured his life had served a good purpose? Surely, his lifework as a vicar had edified and comforted generations of villagers in Helstone. His impact on Milton would be less tangible, for he had not had time to truly touch many lives.

His legacy stood in Margaret—that stalwart woman of grace, compassion, and moral courage. And of course, he himself would never forget his tutor and their binding friendship over philosophical wrestling.

Mr. Bell and his guest spoke little that morning over breakfast, their thoughts too full of solemn memories and the general unease brought about by the contemplation of mortality.

The funeral that afternoon was brief and sparsely attended. A few Oxford men who had studied with Mr. Hale and Mr. Bell paid their respects. Two elderly women sat in the back pews. Their apparent purpose was to honor departed souls who had few attendants.

During the litany of echoing words spoken in the empty church, Mr. Thornton thought of Mr. Hale’s daughter—how alone she must feel. He knew there had been a deep affection between father and daughter. The memory of Mr. Hale’s twinkling eyes as he used Margaret’s fingers for sugar tongs swept into his mind.

Afterwards, Mr. Bell and Mr. Thornton walked along the street together in silence as they followed the procession to the cemetery. An icy drizzle fell as the coffin was at last lowered into the ground. Afterwards, they hurried their pace down the streets to reach the protective shelter of Mr. Bell’s home.

“Allow me to pay half the expenses of the burial and funeral,” Mr. Thornton said after he had gathered his things, preparing to return to Milton.

Mr. Bell shook his head. “No, I won’t hear of it.”

“I insist—”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Mr. Bell retorted. “Hale has been my friend for thirty-odd years. You have only known him for what—a year? No, I am Margaret’s godfather, after all. I will take care of this sad business.”

Both men were silent a moment, heads bowed, before Mr. Bell looked up at the Milton manufacturer. “There is one thing, however, in which you may be of great help,” he began. “If you could see that all the items in the Hales’ home are sold or set aside for Margaret—the house will need to be cleared of their possessions when Margaret leaves.”

“Yes, of course. I will see to it,” was the immediate answer. “You live too far away to trouble yourself in such matters.”

“Yes…” Mr. Bell mused distractedly. “If only Frederick were here—”

“Frederick?” Mr. Thornton practically spat the name. “But he is with her, is he not?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Mr. Bell responded, his face contorted in confusion.

“Mr. Lennox. That London lawyer—”

“Henry Lennox? Good heavens, John! You are mistaken.”

Instantly relieved of the painful notion that Lennox was her lover, Mr. Thornton struggled to imagine anew who Margaret’s mysterious lover was.

Mr. Bell stared at the younger man, perplexed. “Didn’t Richard tell you who Frederick is?”

“Tell me what? Who is he?” Mr. Thornton’s rising temper clipped his words. Was Margaret promised to this other man? A man Mr. Hale had known and approved of? A dark mood came over him, forcing him to clutch the back of a chair. His mind raced through past conversations for some hint of this truth.

“I thought he would have told you,” Mr. Bell explained, seeing the staggering effect the news had on the younger man. He took a deep breath before continuing. “I suppose it’s not a very proud story to tell. Frederick is Hale's son—several years older than Margaret. He left to join the Navy as soon as he was old enough. He was not one to stay still. Anyway, he got caught up in a bitter argument with the captain of his ship. Frederick believed the captain’s irresponsible commands had led to a shipmate’s death. At the end of it all, Frederick was charged with mutiny. And you know very well what his fate would be if he stepped foot in England.”

“He lives abroad?” Mr. Thornton asked, stupefied by this account.

“Yes, he lived for a time in South America, but I believe he is in Spain now.”

The crushing weight of jealousy lifted from Mr. Thornton. She had not called out for a lover in her grogginess—but for her brother! A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Was it possible she had no secret lover at all?

“Did Frederick come to England this past October—about the time his mother died?” he asked, attempting to quell the eager hope that quickened his heartbeat.