Page 21 of Through Darkened Clouds

Margaret’s stomach clenched. She exchanged a glance with Mr. Bell, who raised his eyebrows.

“Do you remember his name?” Margaret asked, her pulse quickening.

“The Milton man? I can’t rightly recall—”

“A Mr. Thornton?” Mr. Bell offered.

“Yes! I believe that’s it,” she said. “Rather quiet man. Not quite what one expects from a northern tradesman. A friend of the family?” she posed to Margaret, who was too occupied by skittering thoughts to respond.

“Yes,” Mr. Bell answered for her.

“Yes,” Margaret repeated, “he’s been very kind to our family.”

“I’m so very sorry to hear about your father. The new reverend is nothing like our dear old Reverend Hale. Although I suppose I shouldn’t cast judgment….”

Mrs. Purvis showed them to their rooms, prattling on about events Margaret had missed since her departure: Esther Guilding’s baby, Grace Underwood’s marriage, and old Isaac Satterwhite’s decline. She served them strawberries and cream for lunch; the strawberries were still warm from the sun.

Afterwards, Mr. Bell complained about the need for a nap from their travels, allowing Margaret to explore how much of the dearest spot on earth had remained the same.

Margaret knew who lived in each home, and her first encounter came upon finding Susan Newsome sitting on the wooden bench outside her cottage, knitting. Margaret smiled brightly as the village girl lifted her head to see who was approaching.

“Miss Margaret!” she called out, jumping up to greet her.

As would become the pattern in all her encounters that day, Margaret explained that both her parents were now gone and swiftly went about turning the conversation to other things.

“Why are not you at school?” Margaret asked.

“Oh, I don’t like school since the new vicar changed things, so I stopped going. I’m seventeen now anyway and have learned well enough, I expect.”

Margaret frowned at her response. “But you were good at your studies, as I recall.”

“Maybe,” was the short answer. “But it doesn’t do a girl good to be smarter than her beau, and I’m hoping Willy Gunter will marry me. I think he’s the handsomest boy around, no matter if he isn’t the brightest,” she said, her eyes alight with hope.

Susan clutched the leather string necklace that tucked into her chemise. “Old Maude Hillcock made me a talisman to make Willy Gunter fall in love with me,” she explained eagerly, pulling out the mottled fur and bone at the end of her necklace. “It’s the paw of his cat that had died. Maude says if I wear something he cared for, it will carry his affection to me.”

Margaret’s mouth fell open, but she closed it again, endeavoring to hide the look of disgust on her face.

“Have you a beau?” Susan asked, studying the exile from Helstone for a clue. “I expect you’ve met many eligible men in all your living in such busy towns and all.”

A faint blush came to Margaret’s face as she looked down to examine her hands. “No, but I did meet some interesting people in Milton. Factory people and…others,” she faltered.

“Perhaps someday you might venture to London or to Southampton for a spell,” Margaret suggested.

“But I’ve been to Southampton once or twice with mama and papa. It’s so crowded and busy! I suppose I’m just made for a simple life,” the girl replied, smiling as she looked down at the knitting in her lap.

Margaret stared at her, remembering how she had once dreamed that nothing could be better than to live here in symphony with nature, serving the people she knew. The polite smile she wore faded into a blank expression. How much had her outlook changed from the time she had left her old home!

As beautiful as this dear hamlet was, Margaret could no longer imagine living in so small a community where life went on much the same in every generation. There was no pulse for learning or experiencing new ideas. And little opportunity to meet new people.

When she returned to the inn, Mr. Bell was ready to take a stroll around the village. Margaret led him along the path towards her old home, her heart filling with a bittersweet anticipation of again beholding the dearly beloved stone house with its gardens.

They stepped together through the archway of the stone wall enclosing the churchyard, her nostalgic joy barely contained. But her smile faded as she glimpsed the grand vicarage. The beautiful rose garden her mother had lovingly tended for years was gone.

As they neared the house, she saw flagstones had been laid out, and a grassy clearing made. Children’s playthings lay scattered about: a skipping rope, wooden soldiers, and a hobby horse.

A servant girl came out, carrying a heap of damp laundry in a basket. She glanced at the approaching visitors as she set the basket down by the drying line.

Margaret didn’t recognize the girl, but smiled regardless. “Hello, I’m Margaret Hale. My father was the vicar here not long ago. Is the Reverend or his wife at home?”