The good doctor did all within his means, calling upon the neighbours for their grudging assistance and putting the room to rights as well as he could. There was nothing a doctor could do for the dead man, and nothing anyone could do for that brave, devastated boy, but he could spare the widow some little measure of the shock she was about to receive.
Donaldson would never see a penny for his trouble, for this family was already in straits enough. He wondered, glancing above his head at the invisible children huddling upstairs, if the survivors had yet heard what was whispered in town today about Daniel Wright and that failed speculation. He had been hoping in vain that he would not see a case such as this after those reports had begun circulating. How many men were now destitute?
The washing women were still hard at work—though the walls were now somewhat improved, and the floor roughly swabbed—when young John made his reappearance. He was cuddling his little sister to a fresh shirt, clinging to her as though she were his comfort rather than the reverse. Donaldson moved to stop him from entering the study again, but the boy’s attention was not on the cursed room. Instead, he was staring towards the door, his face utterly blanched. Donaldson’s heart sank.
He turned, expecting that the person now behind him would not be seeking any polite introductions. She was a handsome woman, somewhere between thirty-five and forty years of age, with jet hair and dark blue eyes to match her son’s. Her sudden deathly pallor, too, was his.
Donaldson tried to intercept her, but the woman never saw him. Her eyes fixed on her son, and the deep, shared empathy of a mother with her child must have imparted to her the whole of the grisly revelation. She dropped her parcel and stumbled forward, only one word on her lips.
“George!”
Margaret’s face was streaming with tears of misery. He had offered her the warmth of his arm some while earlier, and she had hungrily draped it round herself, so she might not have to look upon his countenance as he told of his father. What horrors trembled in his voice! She had known the superficial facts, but never considered the gruesome images he still carried, nor the sheer devastation of such a discovery to a mere boy.
“John—” she was staring at his far hand, resting lightly upon his knee. How was it not clenched in anguish, as was hers? “I ought not to have asked. I am sorry!”
He straightened somewhat, drawing her eyes to his. “I have told you too much. Forgive me, I did not intend to cause you any greater distress.”
“No! You mistake me. I… I am glad you told me.” She twisted under his arm to seek his face. “I cannot imagine what it must have been for you.”
The tension present in his manner at the beginning of their late-night encounter had vanished. Somewhere about the time she had begun to shiver with dread at his unfolding tale, and he had hesitantly slid his arm behind her in comfort, he had found the freedom to breathe easily in her presence.
He met her expression with open quietude, despite the pain in his eyes. “It is in the past. I have long since made my peace with it.”
Margaret caught her upper lip with her teeth, continuing to blink as the tears pooled. She could not so easily dismiss the complete upheaval of his young life. What calamitous forces had shaped his character, and how had he not succumbed to despair? It was a puzzle she felt unqualified to sort out as yet, but one surety warmed her heart. Whatever sorrows she might claim, the strong man under whose shoulder she now nestled had faced worse. Most curious of all, he seemed generously inclined to offer her sanctuary, whether she deserved it or not.
“Margaret?”
She looked up. Blue eyes gazed softly into her own. She saw him catch himself, but after a brief struggle, he haltingly raised his other hand to touch the backs of his fingers to her cheek. A light caress brushed away her grief, and then his fingers uncurled to hover just under the base of her ear.
Margaret’s breath came ragged and shallow. Her lips parted, moistened still with captured tears, and she drew a sharp little gulp when his warm thumb soothed them away. His eyes… oh, those beautiful, eloquent eyes! She was hypnotised, swept from her wave of mourning to a tide of awakening feeling.
There seemed only one answer to the yearning growing within her. Her chin wavered and lifted, her neck lengthening with each panting breath. He was closer now—was he drawing near by his own desire, or was it all her own unseemly impulses? What would he think of her if she…? Oh! An unbidden gasp jerked her.
John’s hand dropped away, and he stiffened back to his own side of their seat. His arm, still looped about her shoulders, tightened uncomfortably. He looked to the remains of the fire, the muscles of his jaw working in the shadows.
Margaret clenched her eyes in regret. Just when he had shared the darkest secrets of his heart and a wavering tenderness had broken down some of their uncertainties, the doubt surfaced once more.
“I… I should allow you to rest.” He kept his face turned as he spoke.
She shivered as his arm slid from her. “Yes, that would be for the best,” she murmured, almost inaudibly.
He offered her his hand, and she fumbled to accept it—uncertain how a woman was to grasp her husband’s hand. In the end, her fingers wrapped clumsily over the back of his thumb, and he lifted her with no visible effort. They stood, then, only inches apart.
Once more, she lost her composure. He was so tall! Her gaze rose only to the hollow of his throat, an intimate view to which she had never before been privy. The warm cleft trembled with his pulse and breath as she stared at his bared skin—soft, yet prickled now by some sudden chill.
Nothing else filled her vision until she straightened a little away. The distance made her thinking no clearer, for her view of him widened and the full measure of his manly symmetry met her fascinated eyes. The thin nightshirt he wore was a poor disguise for the power simmering within his broad shoulders and deep chest, and his scent, now unconcealed by layers of wool and flannel, warmed her heightened senses.
She could still feel, as if she remained yet in his embrace, the warmth and strength of his body through that light cotton. Would that he felt as she and wished to return to that exquisite communion! How readily they might learn the ways of affection if only he could see her as he once had—as a woman he admired and trusted, and who would bear his heart.
Margaret slipped her hand from his and could not help but notice how he still seemed frozen, reaching for her, even after the contact was broken. Was it possible? She searched his expression but could not read the complex interplay of feeling inscribed there.
It was John who found his voice first, unsteady though it was. “Good night, then, Margaret.”
She offered him a hopeful smile, but shyly ducked her head as she did so. “Good night, John.”
He lingered yet another moment, staring in mute indecision. Then, with an impetuous gasp, he touched her shoulder to press a quiet, brotherly kiss to her cheek. He straightened, his fingers kneading against each other as his hand fell away once more. “Rest well, Margaret,” he said roughly.
Margaret was gazing blankly at him, her mouth agape. Numbly, her fingers went to her still-warm cheek as she watched him disappear behind the door. He did not close it completely.
Four
Margaret never did sleep that night. It had been nearly one in the morning when John had left her. From the dubious comfort of her bed, she could watch the hands of the clock spinning impassively about its face, indifferent to her despair at finding rest. After well over two hours of futile effort, she returned to the little seat by the fire.
She tried to read, but her thoughts lingered only on the boy she had learned of this evening—the boy whose existence had been wholly unknown to her before. In her mind, John Thornton had always been exactly as he was: an authority to be challenged or obeyed, a force which drove all before him and held lives in his power. But she had seen him now—had seen the stolen youth brimming beneath that controlled mask, and she could never again be ignorant of it.
Her
father and her own experiences had compelled her to recognise John as good, but it had taken the stricken horror still evident in his voice for her to understand that he was without equal. That crushing, hideous blow did not break him, as it would any other, but forged him into yet a greater man than he could otherwise have been.
She was absently musing thus over the dwindling fire when there was a soft knock on the door between their rooms. Perhaps he could not sleep, either! She hurried to the door, some lonely hope inspiring the notion that he might have wished to see her.
He was dressed, but for his hat and coat, and smiling timidly as his eyes swept unconsciously over her. “I am sorry to disturb you so early.”
“Early? Is it morning already?”
“Five-thirty, or just after. Did you sleep well?”
She blinked and stifled a yawn. “I—” her words cut off as another yawn took over.
He emitted a soft huff, almost a chuckle. “Nor did I,” he confessed, then he sobered. “I would not have troubled you, but I am afraid I must break the promise I made to you last night.”
Her eyes simply refused to focus, and she could not help rubbing them. “Promise?” she asked blearily. “I do not recall….”
“I said I would accompany you to the Crampton house today, but I have only just received a note from my overseer.” He paused, his still-ungroomed cheeks flinching in discomfort.
“Mr Williams? Is there some trouble?”
“He is ill. Williams has been with me for four years, and only twice has he ever been too ill to work, so I do not doubt him. I hope it was merely his dinner which troubled him, and that he will be back to work by tomorrow.”
“And you cannot do without him? Forgive me, I do not yet know how matters are.”
“I can, but it is twice the work. I could possibly take an hour or two away from the mill today, but a full work day with neither Williams nor myself to oversee matters… it would prove folly.”
Margaret nodded, unable to hold back another yawn, and crossed her arms. “I-I see.” Mindless of the coarseness of the act, she dug her index finger again into her uncooperative eye. If only she could focus on his face as he spoke!
Her vision did manage to sharpen rather suddenly when he stepped close to her. She was forced to tip her face up, and was shocked to find the deep, almost heartbroken regret etched into his rigid features.
“I am sorry, Margaret! I would not disappoint you, had I any power to do otherwise.”
A weary smile pulled at her mouth. “It is quite all right. I fear I would be in no condition today to face what must be done at the house.”
“That should not matter. You have asked nothing so far but this, and I am prevented from doing you this small service by my work.”
“It could not be helped,” she shrugged reasonably, her gaze finding a button at his chest. It was easier, somehow, to face that small, stolid point, than to look into his eyes and allow her hopes to fancy what they might. He was an honest man, after all, and would only naturally wish to keep his word, regardless of his reasons for giving it.
“Margaret….” Once again, his fingers touched to her chin. A secret little thrill shivered down her spine, but she kept her eyes lowered for another heartbeat until she could meet his gaze with composure.
“Margaret—” his voice was low and pleading, and his thumb stroked deliciously over the lower edge of her jaw before his hand dropped away. “I know you never expected to be bound to one such as I. No proper gentleman would find it troublesome to set aside his duties for the day to see to your pleasure. I would not blame you if this incident should serve to heighten your dismay over present circumstances.”
Margaret knit her brows. “I think you mistake me. I suffer no such sentiment.”
His eyes widened. “Do you not? You do not feel I abandon you during your time of grief?”
She intended to speak no reply which might justify his feelings of guilt, but he would not release her from his scrutiny. “I… perhaps… no, John, I should not think so.”
He nodded in resolution. “You do, and you deserve to. I have failed you miserably these two days.”
“No!” she objected sharply, then dropped her gaze again as his eyes flashed surprise. “That is… last night, when you sat with me, and the things you told me… I found it very comforting. It was good of you.”
“I do not call it ‘good’ to rob you of sleep, as I have apparently done. Margaret, I’ve no right to ask, but will you oblige me in one thing?”
She raised her head swiftly, the word “Anything!” trembling upon her lips, but she dared not voice it. Instead, she only waited in earnest silence.
His cheek flinched as he took her hand. “Stay here today. Recover your strength as well as you can, and tomorrow we will go to Crampton together. I would not see you go back there alone.”
“Dixon is there.”
“Aye, and what comfort did she offer yesterday?” he countered, and Margaret thought she detected a slight edge in his voice. During the week of their “engagement,” John and Dixon had clashed more than once over the best means of consoling her and helping to ease her transition to married life. Apparently, he thought little more of Dixon’s efforts now than he had a few days ago.
She could not help a shy tightening of her cheek as her head dipped once more. “I will stay, if you wish it.”
He narrowed his eyes, regarding her sceptically, but apparently decided to withhold whatever comment he would have liked to make. “I will inform Mother that you will wish to remain within your rooms this morning, so that you need not feel expected downstairs.”
The pleasant warmth of his considerate attentions faded when Margaret remembered her new mother-in-law. She swallowed. It would be yet another excuse for Hannah Thornton to think the less of her, but aloud she simply uttered, “Thank you.”
~
John managed to plod through his workday, performing the tasks of two men with the mental clarity of half of one. His every pulsing thought was with Margaret. My wife!—he reminisced ardently. What delirious completion he found in that simple phrase. He, a married man, after all those years of solitude!
The hours they spent in quiet conversation, with her tempting body curled so invitingly close to his own, had quite positively been the most blissful and tempestuous of his life. Even the emptying of his very deepest sorrows could not dampen the thrill he felt when he remembered the smile which had been for him alone, and the delicate scent that clung to his shirt for the remainder of the night.
He kneaded his eyes as he attempted, for the third time, to tally the morning’s numbers. The fragrance of his nightshirt and the tingling fire where she had pressed against his side—throughout his entire body, really—were to blame for his utter lack of sleep. Euphoric disbelief was an apt description for his addled state of mind, but the cumulative fatigue was beginning to tell on him. In truth, he had not slept well since the day of Mr Hale’s death, and the awakening of the certain knowledge that he was her only refuge.
He had every intention of wrapping up his duties, then slipping over to his house for an hour in the afternoon. The hands would be gone to their dinner, and Margaret would certainly be down from her rooms in search of some occupation. Perhaps she would not mind a private tour of the modest library in his study.
He rocked back in his chair, smiling as he imagined her studious contemplation of his own sanctuary. Would she be pleased or disappointed by the collection that had taken him years to build? Would it be the same accustomed gravity, or a flicker of kinship which marked her expression when she turned around to him?
John closed his eyes, his heart longing to see the latter in her face. Would that she could come to view him as a friend, possibly an equal! Equals were able to protect and comfort, and friends, after all, were permitted some liberties… perhaps even a bit of irreverent playfulness. Would she permit him to wrap her in his embrace, sharing his over-sized leather chair some evening in the library?
He swallowed and passed a shaking hand over his eyes. He was getting too far ahead of matters! She was not ready… yet was it his own wilful imagination, or was she already growing to be more receptive of his company? Was she simply in need of a companion, or had she at last begun to… to like him a little? Whatever her reasons, if she welcomed him, he would deploy every courtly manner and charm at his disposal to encourage her affections. A peaceful evening of gentle conversation and his own comforting arms might be the decisive moment to turn his wife’s grieving heart to his.
As he mused on that highly diverting topic, a fist from without pounded upon his office door. He groaned. “Come!”
Higgins peered around the door. “Beggin’ yo’r pardon, Master.”
“What is it, Higgins?”
“Sir, it’s th’ second loom. Th’ shuttle’s ‘ung up, and a good bit o’ cloth ruined.”
“What? Again!” he cried in exasperation. “I thought Thompkins resolved that matter.”
Higgins’ only reply was a cautious shrug. “I ‘ad th’ lads from that loom spread o’er th’ others, till yo’ say what’s t’ be done, Master.”
John snarled in annoyance. There went any hope of finishing his duties quickly. “Come, Higgins, let us see what we can make of it.”
Helstone
July 1837
“Where is he, Mamma?”
Margaret stood on her toes, straining to peer over the ledge of the window and up the lane. Papa ought to be home by now, but the sky was darkening, and no lone figure was silhouetted against the setting sun over the fields. She looked over her shoulder, her small brow etched in worry. “Mamma?”
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