Page 16 of Through Darkened Clouds

My dear Miss Margaret,

I hope you are as happy as can be expected in your cousin’s house. I will be joining you soon, I hope, as the auction is nearly all arranged.

Mr. Thornton asks if there are items which you would like to keep. He has been very helpful in preparing for the auction, which is to be held next week. I’m sure it reflects how much he honored your father.

I’m certain Mr. Thornton will be glad to be done with his duties here. With his sister’s wedding very soon, there is much for his family to tend to.

At any rate, I am eager to be done with this place and come to London, as you well know.

Yours truly,

Dixon

Fanny was to be married! This news gave her pause, as she believed Fanny to be of similar age as herself.

Margaret read the letter again, hesitating over the way Dixon had scripted Mr. Thornton’s name. How kind he was to think of her. A lump formed in her throat as she thought of how she had learned too late to admire his gentler qualities.

She sighed once more and folded the note, carrying it in her hand as she strode to the back drawing room to write a reply.

Mr. Thornton stood in the Hale’s front parlor, now stripped of its charm. Furniture from other rooms had been stacked against the walls in preparation for the forthcoming auction. He frowned to contemplate how long these pieces had served the Hales—likely for decades—only now to be divvied off to unrelated parties who had no concern for the former owners.

The air was musty, with a hint of beeswax. He had seen Dixon polishing the oak dining table yesterday. Glancing at the slender cane-seated chairs that matched it, he imagined how the ensemble might have appeared in the spacious vicarage he had admired in Helstone.

A clatter of something metallic came from the kitchen area below, alerting him to where Dixon was.

He strode through the house. There was truly nothing here for him to accomplish today. Yet he could not resist the opportunity to follow the familiar pathways to Crampton every day and tread these floorboards once again. Soon enough, he would never again be able to immerse himself in the remnants of her world.

He stepped into Mr. Hale’s study, once crammed full of books and papers—now strewn with myriad household items for sorting, laid upon upturned moving crates. A book list of the pieces for sale lay open on a table in the corner.

In this small room, he and Mr. Hale had engaged in shaping grand ideals and contemplating fantastic futures for an advanced society. A twitch of a smile softened his face as he remembered how fervently the kindly former vicar argued for the ultimate rise of goodness in humankind. A surge of love for his friend made the yearning to turn back time a tight pressure in his chest. How cruel it was to recognize the depth of affection for someone, come to light upon his death.

His footsteps echoed as he climbed the stairs and entered Mrs. Hale’s sitting room, where more furniture was stored. With the carpets rolled up and draperies folded for sale, every room was starkly barren—every scuffling noise a startling intrusion on the morose emptiness of the place.

He walked into Margaret’s small room, with only the pale rosebud wallpaper to tell of its former occupant. Was he mad to believe he felt something of her presence here? It was in this room that she had slept and dreamed, and perhaps cried as she struggled to adjust to such a foreign place.

And what a startling change it must have been! He moved to the lone window in the narrow space, where the neighboring building eclipsed the view of the sky. Remembering the expansive green surroundings of the Helstone vicarage, he frowned.

Bowing his head, he sighed. She no doubt was glad to be rid of this whole town. Her new surroundings in London were no doubt a pleasant change from the strife and soot of his world. She would put Milton and her time here out of her mind to regain a sense of peace.

While he would treasure forever those days and weeks when she had lived here and their worlds had intersected, however briefly.

He pulled out the note Dixon had gruffly given him so that he might collect and set aside the proper items.

Dear Dixon,

Please thank Mr. Thornton for his kindness in thinking of me.

I should like to keep the painting on the wall in papa’s study—the one of the shepherd and his flock. Also, the vase in mama’s sitting room—the one with the yellow and blue pattern. I’ve taken the small trifles from my room that I treasure.

I have a fondness for my dear old writing desk, which I’ve had as long as I can remember. But I suppose it would be too large an item to set aside for me as I don’t know when I shall be able to reclaim it.

Oh! I almost forgot—do have him save a few of papa's books for me. I did not have time to save any.

Yours truly,

Margaret

His gaze lingered a moment on her remark about his kindness. He half-smiled and after sweeping his thumb over her name, he folded the letter and tucked it back in his pocket.