Hannah turned away, unseeing as she paced the familiar room. A morbid sheet of horror had fallen over her eyes, blurring all before her save the stark reality. “How long?” she whispered.
“I should think the matter will come to the point rather soon. By her symptoms, and what I know of her stage of pregnancy, I would be surprised if it wants a week yet. There are a few more signs, and then…. You must watch her carefully. If she experiences any pain through her shoulder, then we know for a certainty that the end is near.”
“And there is no saving the child?” Hannah did not like the desperate quaver in her voice.
“No! Nothing is to be done there, if my suspicions are correct. All our efforts must centre on saving the mother.”
She turned slowly, meeting Donaldson’s gaze. Neither needed speak, for both knew what must be done next. “I will speak to him,” she managed in a choked voice.
Donaldson dropped his head, still shaking it in pity. “I shall attend you.”
Twelve
Margaret’s agony came upon her with little warning. All through the evening meal, John and his mother had watched her with wan, hollow eyes, but when she pressed them for the cause, neither would make any confession. She was no simpleton—such an oppressive darkness over her husband could not be excused by his struggles at the mill. No one had told her the results of Dr Donaldson’s findings, and the funereal silence spoke eloquently enough.
She wielded her fork with trembling fingers, sensing all the while that John’s eyes hungrily drank in every motion, every flicker of health he could possibly discern to allay the doctor’s nameless fears. She passed her attention from son to mother, and back again, as both attempted—unsuccessfully—to make a show of enjoying their meal. At last, she could tolerate their brooding no longer.
She laid her silverware aside, met each of their gazes with quiet insistence, and made her appeal. “Will one of you have the goodness to tell me what Dr Donaldson has said?”
John and his mother exchanged conscious glances, and Margaret noticed for the first time that evening the red rims about his eyes. “John?”
He drew a shallow breath, his fingers flexing upon the table. “He is needlessly concerned, Margaret. I told him how strong you are, that we need not fear for you. He is a doctor, and naturally sees only the worst situations, while he has less experience with someone perfectly healthy as you are.”
She narrowed her eyes and glanced to her mother-in-law for her concurrence. Hannah Thornton was dabbing her mouth with her napkin and staring at her plate.
“Donaldson fears for the child,” Margaret stated flatly, still attempting to force the lady to meet her eyes.
“No!” John interjected. “You and our child are both well, Margaret. Donaldson knows nothing for certain, and I will not have his baseless fears causing you any distress.”
Hannah chose that moment to rise from the table, turning quickly away so Margaret could no longer see her face as she left the room. Little she might have done could have so effectively reinforced the terror twisting round Margaret’s heart, and she sought her husband’s expression again for reassurance. His head was bowed, his hand writhing upon the table, and his shoulders were quivering.
“John?” Margaret rose unsteadily to draw to his side. “John, you must not fear for me! I do not know what Dr Donaldson has told you, but I am certain my experiences have been nothing out of the common way. Carrying a babe is not intended to be an effortless process, but a baptism of sorts. I shall come out of the waters whole and new, and the most blessed creature alive. You shall see!”
His mouth trembling, he captured her hand to kiss it with a hungry fervency, then he rose to stand beside her and envelop her in his quaking arms. “I cannot bear the thought of you coming to harm,” he rasped in her ear. “God could not be so unjust!”
“He is not. I shall be perfectly well, John.”
He pressed fearful kisses over her cheeks and brows, then drew back to cup her face, slaking his obvious need to feel her confidence, her calm assertions. “Margaret, I have sent for another doctor. He cannot come until tomorrow, but I wished to see that you have the best care. Donaldson is growing old, and he could easily have mistaken…. Margaret?”
Margaret was stretching her neck and shoulder in discomfort, blinking as a low gasp hissed between her teeth. “It is nothing, John. Just a slight pain in my shoulder.”
John’s eyes flew wild with terror, and if he had been pale before, he appeared positively ghost-like now. He grasped her arms, gently but with a feverish intensity as he swept his panicked gaze over her face. “Love, you must retire now! I will carry you, but you must lie down at once!”
She shook her head. “John, you are behaving erratically! First you tell me I am perfectly well, then I must take to my bed at the littlest thing?”
“Margaret, do this for me.” He gave her no option to do otherwise, as the next instant saw him sweep her, skirts and all, into his arms. Her protests went unheard by any in the house, for his voice thundered more loudly. “Mother! Send for Donaldson at once!”
By the time John had laid her out on her bed and summoned Dixon to assist her, Margaret had ceased her objections. Pain radiated through her body, stabbing through her breast and ripping her abdomen with unspeakable torment. Shock and fear had blinded her eyes to all save John’s face, and she reached for his hand, then clung to it with a death-like grip.
“John! Oh, John, hold me! My baby, my baby!” she sobbed, over and over again, until she could speak no more, and others had pulled him away.
~
They forced him from her bed. John had collapsed just outside her door, on his own side of the wall dividing their rooms, his head sunken into his hands and great heaving moans defining each breath. Just a few feet away, every gasp of distress, every cry of anguish, and every strained directive given by the doctor informed him of the horror his Margaret endured. She was fighting for her very life on the other side of that door, and he powerless to even hold her hand. Would that she were a loom or boiler! Then he could confidently bend a new piece of metal or adjust a bolt to make things right again.
He had tried. Heaven knew his heart tore open afresh with each shock of grief and each ripping agony of pain he heard washing over her. How many times had he burst back through that door, snarling and raging at those who bent over her in her sufferings?
Each time, his mother, Dixon, or Donaldson himself would cajole, plead, or outright force him from the room. Even their efforts at shielding him would have failed, had Margaret but called for him. Instead, she had turned away, implored him to leave her.
His mind simply refused to understand. How could she not long for him to carry her away from them, from her torment? If only she would reach for him, he could soothe her brow and hold her when the pains came upon her. He could comfort her as she mourned their child, as he had been privileged to do when she had lost her father. He could share in her grief, could offer his strength and his warmth in exchange for that lonely, blood-covered bed. How he longed to do something—anything to save her!
The only resort left to him was prayer. He clung to it, preferring it to despair. Would not her father have joined him? Hale would have bowed his head, his preacher’s heart breaking for his flock, as he wept tears of intercession.
John was not so eloquent. By turns he swore epithets and then wordlessly begged heaven above for a miracle, for deliverance. He pleaded for her life, repeatedly offering his own in exchange, if only God would spare his Margaret. Heaven, however, seemed silent and barred to him as he railed against its gates.
His fingers tore into his hair when another sob from Margaret shook him. This was not a cry of physical torment, as had been others, but of heart-wrenching sorrow, and he echoed it through his own soul. For the first time in his adult life, tears were flooding down his face with no sign of abatement. Only once had he approached this sort of despair since his father’s death—the day Margaret had sworn she would never h
ave him. That grief, haunting as it was, could not compare, for this new sense of mourning was not for his own bereavement, but for hers.
John could bear it no longer. He lurched unsteadily to his feet, prepared to break down the door if Dixon had locked it again. It yielded easily and swung wide, unguarded by any glowering sentry. John hesitated, his heart pulsing in his throat.
Donaldson was at the basin, his shoulders stooped as he rinsed his hands. Dixon had retired to a corner chair, shaking her old head and covering her eyes with a handkerchief as she wept quietly. His mother stood off to one side, holding a doctor’s lantern equipped with a shining reflector in one hand and a blood-soaked towel in the other. It was her empty look, and the stillness of the white-shrouded form on the bed, which sent a spear through his being.
“Margaret?” he cried, stumbling forward, and caring nothing for anyone’s scrutiny. “Margaret, my Margaret!”
There was a faint stirring on the pillow, a pale face lifted at the sound of his voice, and in the next instant he had gathered her into his arms. She curled instinctively in his embrace but did not clasp him to her heart; she passively allowed him to cradle her. She felt so weak and lifeless! His anguished gaze swept over the lips he loved to kiss—now grey and cool; the dull eyes which no longer sparkled with her usual passion, and he felt a bit of his heart die.
“Margaret,” he whispered—gently. “You are strong. So strong! Margaret, my precious Margaret, do not leave me. I cannot live without you. I will not! Speak to me, love.”
He felt her shoulders tremble as a silent sob passed through her, and she laid her cold cheek upon his shoulder. “The baby, John,” she whispered.
He caught the tear sliding from her lashes and kissed her hair. “I know, love. I know. I care about you now.”
She made no answer, save another shiver, another choked lament, and then she lay like death in his arms. He tightened his embrace as though he could imbue her nearly lifeless form with his will for her to thrive. There was a soft intake of breath and her eyes fluttered closed once more. Panic struck his heart, and he pinned Donaldson with a heated gaze.
“Are you going to do something? Look at her!”
Donaldson cleared his throat. “Mr Thornton, a word, please.”
John looked back to his wife. How could he leave her, even for an instant? Each breath might be her last. “Margaret?”
She drew in a low sigh, gave a feeble nod, and agreed with the doctor. “Go, John. I will be well.”
Well! Empty promises from a woman too brave or too stubborn to confess that she lay helpless at death’s door. He shook his head and clasped her hand.
“Mr Thornton,” Donaldson urged. “Please, we must speak. It is in Mrs Thornton’s best interests.”
He raised his head to stare defiantly back at the doctor, then his mother added her voice. “John, he speaks the truth. You must allow her to rest.”
He narrowed his eyes at the woman he had trusted all his life, and at last heeded her words. “Very well.”
Gently, he eased Margaret back to the pillows, and Dixon was there in an instant, coddling and clucking over her. He did not permit himself a backwards glance as Donaldson led him from the room, for he knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that his feet would carry him back to her if he looked again upon her face. Brisk efficiency ruled now, and he took the fore as their small procession entered his study.
“Donaldson, is she out of danger?”
The doctor wiped his forehead, tucked away his spectacles, and glanced up to Hannah Thornton with a significant look in his eye. “No,” he confessed at length. “Her condition at present is due more to pain and grief than true affliction. The worst may be yet to come.”
“The worst! How can there be more?”
“The bleeding has only just begun. I am afraid Mrs Thornton may have a deal yet to endure.”
“And what are you doing about it? There must be a surgery you can perform, or a cure you can prescribe! I care nothing for the pregnancy. You must save her, Donaldson!”
“Mr Thornton, the surgery would kill her in her present state. It is too late to stop the haemorrhaging.”
“Too late! What more shall your delays cost her? There must be a surgeon somewhere who can save her!”
“We are doing all that can be done, sir.”
“It is not enough!” he thundered.
“John,” his mother drew near and rested a hand on his arm. “No one could do more than Dr Donaldson is doing. You must leave this in wiser hands.”
He glared and, for the first time in his life, shook off her loving touch. She flinched, her eyes wide at the defection of his faith, and fell back. He spared her only another instant, a heartbeat of regret made imperceptible by fear. He turned away, unable to bear her sorrow along with his own.
“What do I pay you for,” he roared now at the helpless Donaldson, “but for wisdom! How dare you call yourself a doctor—you, who do nothing while my wife suffers! Let her be seen by someone who knows how to help her!”
“John!” His mother’s horror was inscribed plainly across her features. “It is the way of the world. Margaret is hardly the first to experience this. How could you dare blame Dr Donaldson? You are no boy that you could be so foolish!”
“Indeed, Mother, I am no boy. I am a husband, and I was to be a father. My wife shall live if I must bargain with Death itself for her life!”
“Mr Thornton—” Donaldson’s face was red with discomfort at John’s uncontrolled outbursts. “There is yet hope for Mrs Thornton. As I have said before, she is a remarkably strong young lady, and if any has a chance, it is she.”
“What chance has she? You will do nothing, and your previous incompetence and carelessness have cost her weeks, perhaps, when another could have seen and prevented such suffering.”
“There is no prevention! We can scarcely diagnose her condition with accuracy, even moments before the crisis comes upon her, and the surgery is far too dangerous. I would not risk it. I have explained as much to your mother—”
“My mother!” John cut his broken glare to that lady. “I should be disappointed to think, Mother, that you would not do all that could be done for Margaret.”
Hannah Thornton paled, and her son, grieved beyond reason, refused to acknowledge the tear of betrayal sliding down her weathered cheek.
“Now just one minute, Thornton!” Donaldson positioned himself between them. “You are perfectly within your rights to be distraught, but there is no call to abuse your mother!”
He rounded on the doctor. “Get out of my house, Donaldson. I am sending for someone who knows how to care for my wife.” Upon these words, he stormed from the room, banging doors in his impotent rage as he hurried to return to the woman who owned his heart.
~
Hannah Thornton sat erect in her sewing chair, her back stiff and her jaw clenched. She was the only one in the room, and she preferred it so. It would never do for Jane or Sarah to observe the faint tremble to her mouth or the strange sheen in her eyes. No, she would be entirely undisturbed here… everyone else was attending to Margaret.
It was unjust. Her motherly heart bled, but did her son take note? Did he ascribe any faith, any sentiment to her as she suffered with him? And Margaret! A choking sob welled up in her bosom. Too late had she confessed to herself her true esteem for that girl, and now there was none who could credit her own grief at beholding Margaret’s pain and anguish. She, who knew better than any a mother’s sorrows, was not welcomed at her daughter-in-law’s bedside.
Hannah released a shaken breath and tried to address herself to the scripture in her lap. Her eyes would not focus, but she had more success in reading that one sentence four times over than she had in holding a sewing needle in her trembling fingers. If only the house were not so still!
Her wish was soon granted, but not perhaps, in the way she might have liked, for her daughter burst through the door. “Oh! Mamma, there you are. I have heard the most dreadful thing
, and I came to see if it is true! Is Margaret really dead?”
“Dead!” Hannah scoffed, but her voice was unsteady. “Fanny do not be ridiculous.”
“Well, she must be very near it. I saw Dr Donaldson today, and I declare, the poor man was nearly speechless. He would say nothing, but that Margaret was in a bad way, and my maid told me the rest.”
“Your maid takes liberties with the truth. Margaret has lost the child and is very ill, but she is not dead.”
“Oh! Well, I am sorry for her. Surely, every wife must sympathise with her plight.” Fanny dropped into a seat opposite her mother, her hands clasped within the frills of her skirts as she frowned. She seemed to be waiting for her mother to make some response, but none was forthcoming.
“I say,” Fanny continued, less subtly than before, “it must have come as quite a disappointment for her, and for John. It is only natural that they were anticipating a son, as most couples do.”
Mrs Thornton had cast her gaze back to her reading, two weak fingers shading her eyes.
“Of course,” Fanny suggested comfortingly, “a woman who has lost a child can always have another. That is a mercy, for the next is just as good, they say, for it is not as if she ever saw this one. Provided, naturally, that she recovers, and is not too far damaged from the ordeal.”
Hannah’s grip slipped, and the Bible fell unheeded into her lap. “What… I can assure you, no one is thinking of another child just now! How can you speak so callously, Fanny?”
“Callously? I came to comfort everyone, and most particularly Margaret, since happily she survives. I found that a rather hopeful thought, and I cannot see why you do not. Besides, as you will not heed my little hints, I may as well tell you outright that you shall still be a grandmother. There, does that not please you? John might have suffered a misfortune, but we must not all mourn. I expect it shall be in late June. Had you not noticed?” Fanny rubbed a hand over her corseted middle, which looked no different to her mother’s eyes than it ever had.
Nowhere But North Page 25