“Indeed. I understand that a few boys two or three years your senior desired to train as Mr Hamper’s clerk. He was wise to choose the most promising of the lot.”
“Mother—” his ruddy cheeks flushed in embarrassment—“he only did so as a favour to Father. Father had convinced him to join in the investment opportunity with Mr Wright, and they have great hopes for future partnerships.”
“Mmm,” she commented neutrally, but a teasing smile made her dark eyes sparkle in the sunshine. “Tell yourself what you may, but I know you will not disappoint Mr Hamper.”
“I hope not!” he agreed fervently.
“And soon, you shall be earning enough to wish for an establishment of your own. What say you, John? Will you be leaving me in a few years to be master of your own house, and perhaps even marry a pretty little wife?”
“Mother,” he rolled his eyes, and looked to her as though he would dissolve into the sand.
“Oh, come now, John, surely the notion has occurred to you,” she chuckled, thoroughly enjoying his mortification. “Your father and I married when I was only seventeen, and he twenty. That is not so very far off.”
“You and Father have both said that you ought to have waited until he had gained greater security. Had not I better do the same? Besides, what need have I to marry? What could a wife do for me that my own lovely mother cannot?”
An indelicate noise startled from her and she turned her face sharply away. She sputtered, then cleared her throat and gasped in an effort to regain her composure. “Keep that sentiment as long as you may, son John,” she pleaded. “I am in no hurry to be replaced in your heart.”
He laughed, and his cheeks darkened again as some of the implications behind her mirth registered in his adolescent mind. “Never fear, Mother, you will always be first. Oh, look, there is Father waving to us! Come,” he tugged at her elbow, seemingly eager to change the subject. “He said he wanted ice cream this afternoon. I should enjoy tasting it.”
She dipped to the sand in a flamboyant, playful curtsey. “Lead on, kind sir.”
“Mother,” John drew that good lady aside as soon as he entered his door. “How is Margaret this evening?”
“Well enough, I should think,” she answered flatly. “I took her through the kitchen this afternoon, and she has spoken with Mrs Brady as to the management of the maids. She has retired to her rooms now.”
“You have thrust household duties on her so soon? She ought to have been given time to adjust.”
“It was her idea. She seems eager enough to assume the role of Mistress.”
“Mother, I thought we had resolved this!” he hissed. “I wish her to feel welcome, and if it pleases her to make herself useful and to learn her way about the house, I hope you will not speak ill of her.”
Hannah Thornton was not of a character which was given to sulk, but sulk she did. She crossed her arms and verily thrust out that dogged jaw of hers—the one she had passed to her son—and glared back in silence.
“Mother,” he groaned wearily, “I beg you to give her a chance to prove herself. It would be unfair to expect her to step into this new role without some difficulty. She has suffered much, and she had not the normal betrothal period to anticipate such a dramatic change to her life.”
The sullen mouth curved downward still more, if that were possible. “You do not think the lass foresaw marriage for herself? If she did not, it paints a pretty picture of her character.”
His eyes flared dangerously, an expression her son had never turned on the woman who had borne him. “Mother! That incident was over half a year ago, and since that date, Margaret has ever acted as befits a lady!”
“Has she?” challenged the slighted matron. “There is some great shame connected with that business—nay, I do not ask that you reveal it! You were right to keep it to yourself as a man of honour but take care that you do not trust the young lady more than she deserves.”
His limbs were shaking, his countenance startlingly white against the dark hair of his brow. He was breathing in great, sucking draughts through his clenched teeth, and his fists balled as he strove to restrain his fury.
“I do not pretend to know all her affairs! I have not yet gained her trust so far. But I do have faith in her virtue and believe that she must have had some perfectly innocent reason for walking out that night. You know her mother’s funeral was only the following day. Many persons might wish to lend the family aid or comfort under such circumstances. The gentleman may well have wished to indulge his charity without fanfare.”
“Where is that ‘gentleman’ now? Why has this helpful soul not come forward at Mr Hale’s death?”
He spun away, resting a shaking white hand on the sideboard by which he had been standing. He was still and mute for a full minute as his mother’s iron gaze bored into his back. At last, he answered in a weak, faltering voice.
“I do not know. I only know that no other had come to offer assistance. My love for her aside, I owed her father’s memory the faithful keeping of his daughter. I could not have turned her away, destitute and friendless—not if she had declared to my face that she loved this other man and reviled me more than ever! I can only hope….” Here, his words broke, and his fingers flexed and drummed helplessly over the polished wood he gripped. He cast his eyes beseechingly to the ceiling.
“I only hope,” he continued in a whisper, as his voice failed him, “that one day I shall be found worthy in her eyes, and that she may learn to hold some affection for me. I daren’t believe she might love me as I do her, but I wish her to be happy here.”
He turned to his mother once more, looking faint and doubtful. “Will you help me in that? I quite depend upon you!”
Hannah’s face had drained of all colour, even to her lips. She stared, speechless with both horror and pride. There was none to equal her noble son, nor any who could match his faithful heart. That he should throw himself away on one who was incapable of understanding his worth… it was too unjust!
Yet, her motherly burden would not be denied, the affliction of her great love for her son could not be forgotten. His cherished face—that of his father, very nearly—pleaded with her to surrender her affronted dignity. There was nothing else for her to do.
She hung her head in defeat. “Aye, John.”
Never did her old Darkshire inflexions surface more markedly than when she was vexed, and just now, she was very much so. “I’ll do as I can.”
He released a long, quaking sigh. “Thank you, Mother.”
Three
“Was your day agreeable?”
John stopped his wife in the hall as he escorted her to her room. Dinner had been as awkward and strained on this second evening as on the first, and he had exchanged less than ten words with her all day. This was the first opportunity he had found since the prior night to solicit her feelings, and he scarcely knew how to begin.
She met his soft question with hesitation and parted lips. He tugged at her elbow, causing her to turn towards him. “You went to Crampton today?”
“Y-yes” Her brow creased, and she stared again at the buttons of his waistcoat. He determined to examine them when he undressed later, to see if they were somehow out of sorts.
“You had a productive day, then?”
Her eyes flashed up at last. The strange look she graced him with caused him to bite his own lips together. She had probably never in her life been asked if her day was productive! He groped for a gentler expression.
“I meant… did it pass satisfactorily?” He cringed. That question sounded suspiciously similar in intent to the other.
A crease appeared at the corner of her mouth, and for the first time in his memory, an amused warmth lit her expression. “Quite.” The light faded once more, and she resumed her inspection of his waistcoat.
He gazed helplessly into her crown of shining dark hair. Like silk… rumpled silk, all the more touchable for the few wayward curls pulling loose near her temples. His mesmerised g
aze trailed down to the tender spot where blood had once darkened her hairline, then lower still to where her pulse drummed erratically against the pale flesh of her throat. How her rich hair must curl round that ivory throat when she tugged it free of its pins, and then allowed it to spill over her pillow! What would it feel like to—
“John?” Her head came up sharply, cutting off the outrageous ideas flitting about his beleaguered brain.
“Yes?” He jerked, a little too quickly. Did his voice crack?
“I… I would like to finish the house without delay.”
His brows arched in interest. “Have you any particular reason?”
She swallowed, and her head dropped. Again, with the buttons! Daring, he touched the tips of his fingers to her chin to lift her face and made a wild guess at her troubles. “Does it grieve you to linger there?”
Those luminous eyes clenched in answer.
“I see. Do you wish for me to accompany you tomorrow?”
Imploring eyes opened once more, and she gave the barest of nods. “If you can spare the time.”
“I ought to have gone with you today. Forgive me for leaving you to your own devices. It was unfair of me.”
She lifted her shoulders, her tearful gaze dropping again—this time to his feet. “I would not have wished to trouble you.” Her tones fairly dripped with martyrdom.
“Will you be ready by ten?” he asked quickly. He could not bear to argue his duties as a husband with her, not again.
She nodded a hesitant reply in the affirmative. They made plans to meet downstairs in the morning, and he bade her a chaste goodnight. He lingered a long while outside after the door had closed.
~
Half an hour later, he lay flat atop his own bed, not even bothering to toss the counterpane over himself. His room was freezing—as it always was—but he was too restless for slumber. His desperate ears sought every movement, every breath from the next room. Would she cry herself to sleep as she had the previous night?
He writhed in torment. He could not bear to hear her suffering! Surely, he might find some way of comforting her even if he dared not go to her as a man went to his wife. His eyes wide open in the darkness, he stared blindly at the ceiling as his other senses reached into the next room.
He heard Sarah leave her, and the creak of the floor as her bare feet stepped softly to the bed. What would she be wearing? He gritted his teeth and clawed at his own eyes in a vain effort to banish his imaginings. Margaret… she was so temptingly close!
She would not deny him, either. She had a mind of her own, to be sure—his favourite thing about her—but her feminine pride was burned into her character. She would count it a disgrace to turn her husband away if he should ask….
He heaved a moan of agony and tried to smother himself with the pillow.
In an instant, he had snatched it from his face again. He could not miss a single sound! He held his breath, waiting for the sobs he knew were to come. They were soft and muffled, but distinctly hers, nonetheless.
Taking care to make no noise of his own, he straightened from his bed and tiptoed to the door. He pressed his ear to the wood, and the old panels amplified the heartbreak pouring from the other side. Tense with self-doubt, he slid to a crouch, his back pressed to the door. Once or twice silence prevailed in the room, and he thought she might have finally drifted to merciful dreams. The quiet never lasted long.
At last, he could bear it no longer. She was his wife, and he had sworn to take her into his care! Did that not include comforting her in sorrow? He leaped to his feet with predatory grace and gasped for courage. With a rush of forced bravado, he tapped his knuckles on the door.
The sounds within paused, and he imagined her sitting up to determine if she had truly heard a knock. He clenched his fist and knocked again, more firmly this time. “Margaret?”
She did not answer. His heart thundered in the silence, but after an excruciating minute, bare feet pattered across the cold wooden floors. He strained to hear as they stopped, only inches away. Hoping to encourage her, he spoke her name again. His eyes fastened on the latch, then raised to find her through the crack she permitted.
She looked nothing at all like a bride opening the door to her husband—if, indeed, he might be trusted for an accurate expectation on that point. Her plaited hair was disheveled, her eyes swollen and red, and she wore a billowy, unflattering shift of some sort. He had seen evening gowns which were more revealing, save for the soft silhouette of her form set off by the warm light of her hearth. Angels in heaven, she was a goddess!
His mouth ran dry and his heart throbbed in his ears. And, like a bloody pup, he was staring, slack-jawed and hypnotised. He shook himself. Cost him his sanity it may, but he would not embarrass her… or himself. He forced his eyes back to her face.
Her puffy cheeks looked as though she had just scrubbed tears from them, and her mouth quivered. She crossed her arms self-consciously before her breast and silently blinked up at him. He had never seen her looking more irresistible! It was not her crumpled beauty, but her yawning need which called to him, and in this, perhaps, he could offer her what she sought.
“Oh, Margaret!” he breathed, and impulsively held his arms out to her.
Without hesitation, she flung herself into his chest, and the tears came. Her slim body racked with sobs, and were it not for his arms about her, he doubted not that she might have tumbled to her knees. Her cries were soft and keening, inarticulate as she pressed her wet cheeks into the collar of his nightshirt.
John closed his eyes and found tears of his own spilling down his face. He hid them in her hair, all thoughts of her tempting feminine shape banished for now. How he ached for her!—for her multiplied grief, for her isolation, for the terrifying, unwanted new life she had been required to accept. Then he wept for his lost friend, and for memories of his own which whispered once more to him.
John was under no illusion that she had suddenly done away with her mistrust. He simply felt grateful that she allowed him to comfort her when there was no other to be had. He held her until the tremors slowed, and her face pressed into him more out of embarrassment than sorrow. His hand stroked lovingly down her shoulders, detecting their sculpted perfection beneath her shift, and brushing the thick satin braid which fell between them. Oh, how he would glory in her touch…. Sensing himself in danger once more, he straightened and stepped back.
She occupied herself in turning her face away and wiping her eyes with her bared fingers. “I am sorry,” she mumbled. “I did not mean to disturb you.”
“Margaret, you do not disturb me. I would wish… it would give me the greatest pleasure to offer you some comfort.”
She hugged herself, closing him off once more. “It is…” She choked, and the remainder of her words came out in a harsh whisper. “It is hard!”
He thinned his lips and flicked his gaze to the modest hearth fire still casting its warmth from the corner. “You ought not to be so much alone as you have been this week. I should have never… will you forgive me?”
Her expression fell from sorrow to astonishment and she gazed up at him. Wordlessly, she nodded.
He offered a tight smile, entirely unsure of the wisdom of what he was about to suggest—heaven have mercy, she wore neither corset nor petticoat! He had never even seen a woman without such garments, much less held her as she cried on his shoulder.
His breath staggered in his chest, and he almost backed away in terrified defeat. But no… She needed someone, and there was no one else. “Perhaps we may sit by the fire together for a time?” he croaked.
She assented more readily than he might have expected and led the way to the little settee of her father’s at the opposite side of her room. As she cautiously took a seat at the far end, he glimpsed her dainty ankles crossing beneath her shift.
He nearly swallowed his own tongue. His eyes flew wide, and he floundered in searching out his place.
Margaret had not missed his reaction. She
squirmed, tugging the homely garment down around every breath-taking sliver of skin. Her cheeks were bright red. “I… I forgot to bring my house slippers.”
“I will buy you some tomorrow!” he offered quickly, then winced at himself. The last time his voice had creaked like that, he had been thirteen.
“Oh… I am sure there is no need.” She shrank from his unexpected energy, hugging a worn brown pillow to her middle. “I may retrieve my own by tomorrow.”
He gulped, willing his bounding pulse to be still. “I do not wish you to take a chill, that is all.” He cringed again. A smooth one with the ladies, that he was.
She smiled bashfully down at her hands. “You are very kind, sir.”
“John. You must stop calling me ‘sir’ and ‘Mr Thornton,’ at least when we are alone. Please. I shall never learn to believe we are truly married if you do not.”
Her cheeks flushed still more, and she dipped her head. Was she secretly laughing at him? Better than tears, he consoled himself. Anything was better than watching the woman he loved cry.
Margaret curled on her side of the furniture, biting her lips together and fastening her gaze on the fire. He tried to do likewise, but the soft haze it cast over her golden skin sent everything else into the shadows. She was inches away—so close he could feel her warmth more distinctly than that of the dying fire. It could do no harm simply to cradle his arm about her….
She was blinking rapidly once more, the crimson stain from her cheeks spreading to her neck. He caught his hand before it moved. Perhaps if he closed his mouth and stopped gaping at her like a lecherous fool… little wonder she seemed uncomfortable!
To bring his own treasonous limbs under regulation, he clasped his hands together and rested them upon his knees. Every muscle quivered with hopeful anxiety. What was he to say to her? He took a deep breath and plunged ahead with the first topic to present itself.
Nowhere But North Page 5