“I wrote to Mr Bell this morning.” Before the words even left his mouth, he regretted them. What better way to impress her utter vulnerability upon her again than to remind her of her absent godfather? Had Bell been in England….
He clenched his teeth. Had Bell been in England when his old friend had died, Margaret would not presently be his wife. He could not decide whether he ought to be elated or sorrowful about that fact.
Margaret gave no indication whether she had perceived his repentant thoughts. She turned up to him, her eyes soft. “You wrote about my father?”
He drank in a deep, cleansing breath to restore his mental clarity. “Everything. The last word I had of him was several weeks ago, and he had intended to sail for South America. I have no idea when the letter will reach him.”
“He left you his address in South America?”
“I sent it through his agent in London. I expect the fellow will know where to forward it.”
She was silent again, tipping her face low to gaze at her folded hands. John watched with ardent longing as a tendril of her dark hair tumbled down from where she had tucked it behind her ear. Blast. He was done for.
Hesitantly, and not very gracefully, he lifted his fingers to restore the wayward strands. She jolted in some shock, bumping his hand with her chin.
“I beg your pardon!” She lurched back.
“No!” He was panting. What the devil was wrong with him? “My fault… I surprised you.”
Her lips parted, her eyes dilated, and her breathing became uneven. His presence in her darkened bedroom was most decidedly affecting her, though in what way, he could not know. It would be so easy to just lean over… so simple to taste those lips… but to his untrained and willingly deceived eyes, what so closely resembled burgeoning desire could, in fact, be gripping fear. The two passions might be one and the same, given the proper inducements. Surely, such tender expression, such hesitant yearning as his imagination sought to envision could not be for him. He dared not risk it!
He forced his gaze away, snatching back his hand. Margaret, too, had straightened. She held her shoulders squarely and exerted a trembling effort to control herself… and not to chastise him. It was generous of her. She was so young and so exquisite—he was too rough, too unpolished! Surely, she had been taught to expect better from a gentleman… from a husband. He grimaced.
John stared unseeingly into the embers of the fire. There must be some way of salvaging her night, so she might rest. A muffled, quivering intake of her breath brought his eyes back to her. Not the tears again!
“Ah… may I stoke your fire for you?” Distraction, that would serve!
Margaret looked to him in mild astonishment. She did not reply, but her gaze shifted over his shoulder to his own darkened chamber. “Why do you have no fire in your room?”
“I seldom do. My hours are not always predictable, and I do not like to trouble the maids to keep it tended.”
Her expression softened into something close to a smile, but then cooled again. “You are not often at home, then?”
He hesitated. Did she seem troubled by that information, or relieved? “I usually work late,” he supplied cautiously. “I expect that my routine must now change….” He could not keep the hope from his voice as he hungrily sought her response.
“I would not ask you to alter your business day for my benefit.”
He frowned in disappointment. Where was the sparkling, regal, haughty young woman who had commanded his actions and stolen his heart? In former days, she would never have quailed at presenting him with her opinions, be they ever so scornful. Did she suddenly fear offending him because they were married? Or had her grief so diminished her spirits that she no longer possessed the strength to challenge him?
“Margaret….” He hesitated, then floundered ahead. He could lose nothing by a little honesty, could he?
“You are my highest concern now. If it should please you to have my company, I will do all I can. If, however, you prefer more privacy—”
“I do not.” She held his gaze with beseeching eyes, her breast trembling in uncertainty.
He stilled, but scintillating pleasure quickened his veins and tingled through him. “You… you would like me not to work late?”
“I… I would not wish to impose upon your business.”
“But,” he probed intently—not wishing to allow her to back away in modesty, if that was all it was—“you might welcome my company?”
Her timid gaze found his face again. She only nodded, very softly, but her eyes spoke volumes.
The whole of his being lit with unrestrained joy. “I… of course! But… I do not wish to burden you. Perhaps if you do not desire to be alone, you might leave the door cracked? I would not then need to trouble you if your wishes are otherwise.”
She swallowed, and her cheeks brightened. It was for the husband to request his wife’s attentions, not the reverse. His suggestion was rather unconventional, to say the least, and placed her modesty in an inconvenient bind.
He growled at his own brashness. Again, he had unsettled her! He started to apologise—though he still thought the idea a workable one, if she would have it—but she stopped him.
Her hand reached to touch his—the first time she had volunteered such contact—and she was visibly bracing up her courage. “I think that a fine solution, John.” Then, she smiled.
She smiled! He would have laughed in relief, but he could not dare to frighten that glorious expression away. His held breath trembled from him, and he caught the hand she offered.
“Then, we are agreed.” He was grinning like an idiot, the muscles of his cheeks utterly disobeying any effort of his to restrain their enthusiasm. He had made Margaret smile, on only their second day of marriage! It was an auspicious beginning, indeed!
The moment of elation was not destined to last long. She did not pull her hand from his, and he made no moves to release it, but the melancholy descended over her again like a shroud, blocking out all but sorrow.
“Margaret?” He peered gravely down into her face. “Will you tell me what troubles you?”
She dropped her head, drew a solemn breath, and then met his eyes with a piercing intensity. “Does it get any easier, John? The grief, I mean. Promise me it will not ache like this forever!”
“Easier, with time,” he sighed. “I imagine it must be bitter to have lost both your mother and father in so short a span.”
Her focus seemed to drift. “Yes,” she whispered. “But was it not as bad, or worse for you?”
“I think the two situations cannot compare. The circumstances were… are… very different.”
“Will you tell me?” She looked up to him with honest need.
He could not refuse.
Milton-Northern
17 October 1837
“John, I want you to go to the grocer’s for me.”
Fourteen-year-old John groaned and rolled his eyes. Again, she would interrupt him! He had precious few minutes allotted to himself of late after beginning his new employment. Today happened to be the one day Mr Hamper had allowed him to return home early, on the promise that he would apply himself to this very study and report what he learned on the morrow.
“Mother, I am not yet finished. May I go in an hour?” His tone was not quite impertinent, though he would be hard-pressed to call it respectful. She did insist on monopolising his time so these last weeks.
Hannah Thornton appeared around the corner of his door frame, her stern brow arched. “I need the flour now, if I am to start tomorrow’s bread. You may tinker with your drawing later.”
John made a face, but only briefly.
A threatening gleam flickered in his mother’s eyes. “Do you have something to say, young man?”
He straightened in immediate regret. No one ever prevailed by harassing Hannah Thornton, and well did he know it. His expression, however, had not gone un-noted, and now he must account for it.
“It is not a drawing,
Mother, it is a schematic,” he explained calmly. “There is an improved design for the economisers on the steam engines, and Mr Hamper wished me to learn all I could to help him decide if it is a sound investment. He has not the time to investigate it himself. It is quite an honour that he has asked it of me.”
“You may do that later, John.”
He grimaced sourly but made certain to look at his book as he did so. “I do not understand why you must now do all the baking for us. What happened to Samantha?”
Many other mothers might have brought the house down round his ears for such cheek. Hannah Thornton, however, was subtler. She fixed him with a grim stare, but some cunning spark lurked behind her expression. “What would be convenient for you?”
The lad gulped. Now, he had done it. “I will go now,” he amended, setting aside his pen and rising.
“No, no, my son, you must stay. This is important, as you have said. I suppose I may wait an hour.”
He hesitated. He knew his mother too well to accept her words at face value, but once she laid down her instruction, she would hold him to it. “Forgive me, Mother. I may do this later.”
She lifted her chin and pursed her lips. “No. Stay, John. I shall be content to wait.” She swept away, giving him no opportunity to apologise or to capitulate.
She left him to do as he had desired, but as she intended, he was riddled with guilt. He dropped to his seat once more, but the fascinating boiler schematics which had so involved him no longer seemed terribly critical. He tapped his pen on the side of his desk and watched the clock.
Twenty minutes later, his conscience overcame him. Perhaps it was not too late, though he suspected that his mother had already gone to the market herself. He glanced up at the clock again. It was only half past three. Feeling ashamed of himself, he rose and began to silently descend the stairs, his eyes ever searching to determine if she were still there, only waiting on his guilty apology.
The house was perfectly still. The maids had all been mysteriously dismissed the prior week, for what reason he could not accurately discover. His father had been silent and despondent of late, his mother pale and anxious. Still, neither had disclosed more to him than that there were some concerns relating to his own former host, Mr Wright, and that speculation which had troubled his mother.
As John made his stealthy, cautious way down the stairs, a shadow fell across the hall, and shoes whispered softly against the floorboards. He froze. Mother never crept about. Her steps were always firm and resolute, announcing her path with clear determination.
Who could it… he started when his father’s tall shape edged into view. Father never came home so early! Perhaps there was more bad news. Surely, he must be searching for Mother to share his woes.
John started forward to explain his mother’s absence but stopped in confusion as he watched the furtive manner of his father. The strong, determined face he had known all his life glanced over his shoulder, only once, and John’s limbs turned to ice.
There was something dull and lifeless in the haunted eyes—eyes which only a month ago had been bright and assured. The man’s countenance was grey and haggard; the firm jaw hung slack. It was as though George Thornton’s body had already passed through the valley of the shadow, and the brilliant, carefree soul of the man he knew as his father refused to remain in the hollow shell.
As John watched in growing apprehension, his father slipped inside the door of the study, and the door clicked between them. He heaved a few short, flustered breaths. What to do?
He ought to go comfort his father. Whatever troubled him, it could not be so grave that the effervescent George Thornton might not see his way clear to the other side. With the stout faith of his wife, and John’s own increasingly able assistance, surely whatever misfortune must have befallen them could not be so ominous as his father seemed to fear! They would face these troubles with a united will. With that resolve, he trotted down the stairs to his father’s study.
He had not gone four paces before the gunshot rang out.
A cry of alarm and fear wrung from the boy. Father! His knees failed him, and he tripped, stumbling down the bottom steps and landing gracelessly on the floor with skinned shins and palms. He scarcely even noticed, so quickly was he back on his feet. Panicked, and heedless of the unknown dangers, he stumbled to the study.
“Father!” John slammed face-first into the door, expecting it to yield to his touch on the handle. It was locked, and he could not slow his hurtling body quickly enough to prevent dashing his shoulder into it. The pain jolted his frenzied thoughts and crystallised his growing dread.
Sobs of cascading worry began to shake him. He cast about desperately for his mother, who would know where to find the key… but she had gone to the market. Of course, she had, because he had disappointed her!
His hands were trembling, and suddenly, he was hideously relieved that his mother was not at hand. Understanding burst upon him with all the ferocity of denial and fear for what he might discover behind that forbidding, portentous door.
He was already screaming in adolescent torment when he ran back from the dining room with the heavy wooden chair. He slashed with it, over and over, until the chair disintegrated, and the door frame stood in ruin. With one last, frantic kick, the shattered door gave way.
He leaped through the splinters and froze. The room was eerily quiet, but the pungent aroma of metal and gunpowder drilled into his senses. There was no movement to be seen… except the desk chair, which tilted askew, almost ready to topple. John’s face was numb as the tears of denial started to trickle down. He panted, wishing to run—but he had to know.
He took three cautious steps forward, and that was when his shoes met with the spreading pool of blood from under the desk.
~
“Sit down, son!” Robert Donaldson, the bespectacled, middle-aged surgeon only lately arrived in Milton, fairly shoved the shaking boy into a chair. “You can do no good in that room!”
The dead man’s son—John, he had said—looked to be reeling and faint, but he had not vomited again for the last several minutes. Donaldson clucked to himself in pity. The things the boy’s young eyes had seen this day would forever be seared into his memory.
When he had first arrived, the boy was still on the floor, his father’s ruined head in his hands. He had been screaming disconsolately over the body; then trembling, weeping about the tang in the air, the shattered glass of the window behind the desk… and the spray of blood! So much blood… Donaldson had rarely witnessed such carnage. The entire room was showered in George Thornton’s demise, though at first the lad seemed to have been blind to the worst of it.
The wreckage of the study was nothing compared to the last vision the boy would ever have of the man who had raised him. George Thornton was beyond recognition, but for the familiar striped cravat and a prized pocket watch identified by his son. The doctor watched in heartbroken pity as the youth buried his streaked face in his trembling hands, too wrung out to cry more. He only mumbled, over and over under his breath, “I should have stopped him. I could have… I should have stopped him!”
“Son, where did you say your mother went?” Donaldson interrupted. There was a kind urgency in his voice—he hated pressing the distraught young man, but the lady of the house must be found, and the news broken gently.
“I don’t know!” he lashed out.
Donaldson drew back, his hands raised in surrender to the anguished lad. Fury was likely the last emotion left to him and employing it must have infused him with some little strength.
“You asked me before, and I only know she was going to the market!”
Donaldson sighed wearily. He gestured to the neighbour woman, who had been the one to send for him, to remain by the front door. If Mrs Thornton should come home, someone must be ready to apprehend her before she stumbled upon the brutal scene.
“Son,” Donaldson tried again, “Mrs Clarence said you have a little sister? How little?”
> John quivered and clenched his teeth. He had apparently forgotten about her in all of his affliction. “Two years and a half. She has been ill—I expect Mother left her sleeping upstairs.”
Donaldson thinned his lips and scrutinised the lad. If it had not yet dawned on John Thornton, it had occurred to the doctor. This traumatised youth was now the man of the house, with two others dependent upon his keeping. A hideous burden; one he had seen inflicted on far too many mere children. “Why don’t you look in on your sister, son? Oh, and take this.”
The boy looked up dubiously as the doctor pressed a hot, damp cloth into his hands.
“Your face, son. Your mother ought not to see you so,” Donaldson suggested. “You might burn that shirt, as well.”
Young Thornton looked down at his clothing. He was covered from his ears to his shoes in his father’s caked and drying blood, a testament to the vain efforts at which the doctor had first found him. Whatever made the lad think he could save the man with a gaping hole like that in his head?
A fresh wave of passion seemed to choke the boy. His composure broke, and the tears flowed anew as he crumpled the steaming fresh linen over his eyes. If only the cloth were sufficient to scald that vision forever from a person’s memories! Donaldson clucked in pity.
“Go, get yourself to a mirror, young man!” the doctor admonished. Reluctantly, John staggered from his chair, still mopping his eyes with the cloth.
“That’s the way, lad,” Donaldson encouraged. “Go on upstairs—yes, go to your sister.” The white-faced young fellow unsteadily mounted the stairs, gripping the railing as if it were the only thing keeping him on his feet.
As soon as he vanished from sight, Donaldson hurried to the door and gestured to two burly men waiting outside. “Come in, now. The body is in the study, just through here. Be quick about it! I don’t know where the widow is, but she may return at any moment.”
As George Thornton’s body made its final journey from the house he had so proudly secured for his young wife, Donaldson frantically waved to a pair of young washer women. “There you are. Quickly, come. I daren’t let the lady see—yes, in there!”
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