Her hands now preyed upon the rest of his body—his lean waist, his taut shoulders, his tender stomach. His pulse drummed against her cheek, and his hands tightened to cradle her more closely. When she slipped her fingers beneath his loosened clothing and began to caress his bare skin, she felt his breath catch.
“Margaret, are you certain?”
She drew back to look steadily into his face, then with deliberate intent, reached to pluck the comb from her hair. His eyes widened as she shook loose the careful ringlets and coils, then lit as she turned to present her back. “Will you help me with my gown?”
Light fingers worked against her lower neck; hesitant at first, then growing in boldness. Inch by inch, she felt her bodice loosen and begin to fall away. A throaty groan rose, just behind her ear, and then his hands were pushing the sleeves down her arms, caressing her back, nipping at the ribbons of her corset. She rested her head back against his shoulder, revelling once more in the feel of him reaching for her, desiring her.
“Margaret,” his hot breath was now upon her neck, his voice quivering with awakened hunger. “We needn’t… rush. We could—”
She spun and captured his mouth with a searing caress that would not be denied, trailing her fingers over his cheeks. All protests, all reluctance—indeed, all sense of reason—seemed to leave him. He renewed his efforts at unwinding her from her remaining clothing while his lips began a prescribed assault on her earlobe, her neck, and her exposed bosom.
He spoke not a word and seemed to care little for the occasional sounds of seams ripping. The fear and emptiness in his eyes had been replaced by a feral gleam as he turned her against the wall, pinning her with his weight and lifting her upon his thighs. His movements were all hasty need; power, long restrained so savagely, unleashed in a moment of wanton indulgence.
It was exhilarating, the swift change that had swept over him; their cares of the day thrown to the ashes… for a moment. Margaret tipped her head, trying to catch his eye to offer a tempting smile, but he would not look at her. His hands and eyes raked liberally over her body, seeming to find it as he had known it before, and his breath started coming in short little pants. She felt less like he was loving her and more as though he was slaking a need long denied him.
Margaret had never before feared her husband, but a gnawing uncertainty began to nibble at her heart. This was not John as she had known him. He was a strong man, as she had grown to appreciate on many a previous night. His passion and vigour had so often kindled her own spark, as if she could glory in his strength, letting him carry her to places she could not reach, and bestowing on him a grace he could attain nowhere else. But John, at his most ardent and eager, had always been still hers. His energies would be softened by tenderness, by that silver thread of communion and intimacy. Now… perhaps she should have accepted his offer merely to talk by the fire.
He was not satisfied with the wall, and she felt his arms capture her from below. A moment later he was above her on her bed. She smiled, even laughed a little, seeking his face. He kissed her, but not lingeringly, for his mouth was again grazing over her skin, taking and claiming once more all he had nearly lost.
Margaret’s eyes drifted from his dark head, bent low over her, to his bared shoulders… the blanket he had cast aside… her knee, tucked close to his waist as his hand slipped down her thigh… the clock ticking on the wall. A shift in the air brought a cool draught from the window over her skin, and she longed for nothing more than to retrieve the blanket on the floor and cover herself with it.
He was heavy. She was already beginning to struggle uncomfortably for breath when a rasping pain, both familiar and novel, caused her to gasp and tense. She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth as his weight rocked, but she could not relax as she had always done. Too many memories flashed—of blood and tears, of the doctor washing his hands, of humiliation and loss and exposure. And this, this secret vulnerability she had offered the man she loved, had slipped into something else entirely.
John froze, his head turned away from her. He began to lift his body, to pull back, but she caught at his shoulders. “Is something wrong?” Had he now found her less than what he remembered?
“I have hurt you,” he rasped, and raised to a sitting posture.
“You have not hurt me, precisely.”
“Is that why you were flinching and pushing me away?”
“I did not intend… it was only a… a little too fast, I suppose.”
He backed away, disentangling their limbs, and turned to sit sideways on the bed. “You wished for this,” he reminded her, a hint of accusation in his tones. “I told you it was too soon, but you begged me… insisted, rather.”
“That is not what I meant. I—I know how trying your days are lately. I wished to comfort you, and I could think of no better way.”
“Am I such a beast, then, that I can only be satisfied in bed? Is there truly no other way for you, of all people, to comfort me? Then I am the monster you once thought me to be.”
“John! I said nothing of the kind. I wanted to love you and hold you as we used to do. I wished to feel close to you, as I have not done since before….” She swallowed and cast her eyes to the floor.
“I thought we were.”
“But it was not the same. I felt as if I barely knew you.”
He turned, his eyes wide in astonishment and hurt. In the candlelight, she could catch the glimmer of moisture in them. He was blinking, and his mouth opened once or twice to speak, but he could not. He looked away once more, then pushed off the bed and wrapped a sheet around himself.
“John?”
“Was it another babe you wished for? Another chance to win back what you lost? Another risk? I ought never to have allowed myself.”
“How can you say such a thing?” She rose to stand beside him, trying to wrap her arms about him, but his remained firmly twisted into the sheet. “Of course, I long for another, but it was not in my thoughts tonight. I do not even know if it is possible—very likely it is not. I only wanted you, John, but you have seemed so… distant.”
“No more than you have.”
“I?”
“You share nothing with me, Margaret. I find you weeping, and you will not tell me why. I try to cheer you, and nothing works. Have I failed you so miserably that you have lost all hope of my redemption?”
“Failed me? John, my feelings have nothing to do with you. How can I tell you why I weep when I do not understand myself? I wish I did!”
“Not half so much as I. Margaret—” he stepped away from her hands on his shoulders and looked seriously down into her face. “Do you still love me at all?”
She stared, struck mute for a moment. Love him? She could not live without him, that much she knew, but love?
“I… I love you with all my heart.” After she had said the words, however, she wondered what they could have meant. She did not even know where her heart was—shattered in a thousand pieces, and swept into the coal ashes, no doubt. And what was love to her? It was giving and pain, comforting and loss. What was that feeling she had once called love?
He waited for another moment, perhaps expecting her to recant her hesitant words. He made no answer, but the moisture pooling in his eyes before was now threatening to spill at the corners. She reached to brush it away, but found she was blinded by tears of her own. He pulled back.
“It is late, Margaret. You should rest.”
“I have wounded you. Please, John, let us talk on it.”
“We are both weary. I think it best if we do not, just now. I fear we may speak something we would regret.”
“But, John—” she was shaking her head, disbelief stinging her eyes as she watched him take another step back. “I want you. Please, will you not at least stay?”
He paused, the longing in his look crying out for her to soothe away his pain, but she did not dare pursue him lest he flee. “Not tonight,” he decided, his voice cracking. He stepped near to kiss her on the cheek, t
hen removed his sheet to wrap it around her. “Good night, Margaret.”
She fell back to the bed, bitter tears streaming down her face as she watched him go, and heard the door click between them.
~
It was the most brutal night he had spent yet. John had gone back to his room, defeated and feeling like a beast. He had trespassed against the sacred, driven his love out of his own arms, because the truth—the ugly, horrible truth—had been waiting for him all along, hungry jaws open and ready for him to slip. And that truth was that he never did, and never could, truly belong in her life.
He stared into the vacuous cavern of his empty fire grate, stained in coal ash and grown cold from disuse. Half a glass of brandy later, he could no longer see it—or he tried not to. His own dirty hands pressed into his eyes as silent moans shook him.
How could he have dared? His horror at his own desires and actions this night was merely symptomatic of the unholy lust that had always accompanied his thoughts about her. She was a guilty pleasure to look upon, the glorious crystal vase on the top shelf that was not meant for touching—or at least not by hands such as his own.
He poured another glass of brandy, from the very same bottle he had drunk in celebration with Dr Donaldson only a few months before. Now it seemed to be a wake of sorts, this harsh reality toasted with bitter recognition. She, gentle perfection, had tumbled into his clutches, and he had proved at last that he was no better than the vilest sort of man.
But it was worse, by far, than that! For even a wicked man, when he discovered himself to be such, might withdraw utterly and leave his wife in blessed peace the rest of her days. What had he to offer her? Failure! Financial ruin, a life of distress and worry as he sought other work. A smaller house where she would be forced more often into his path. He could not even grant her the solitude she seemed to crave!
The brandy was gone. John lifted the bottle and peered through it towards his lantern. The truth must be told, and soon. By his best estimate, he had enough of his own money to continue six more weeks—possibly longer if enough of his workers remained home with their sickness—using up whatever cotton was left in his sheds. The hands could be paid, his debts settled, and that would be the end for John Thornton, Master of Marlborough Mills.
He snorted. A fine master! He was as wretched a creature as Margaret had once accused him of being. Unfeeling, yes, that suited him. Unjust could certainly be applied. Cruel… he closed his eyes before that particular tear could drop. Was it not each of those depictions of his character that had driven his offenses against her this night?
The worst of it was that he was still uncertain where he had fallen. The heady thrill of being desired once again, of feeling her arms about his neck and hearing her whispered pleas panted into his ear… was that when he had abandoned his reason? Was it when she had bared her back to him, trusting and vulnerable, that he had snatched her up like a predator? Or was it the culmination, when he had taken her heavenly embrace as a balm for his own wounded pride, caring nothing if he scarred her in the moment of his pleasure? Whenever the treacherous slip had occurred, he had done nothing to prevent it. Indeed, had welcomed it—this chance to forget his woes, to take and devour, stealing love from the one who was precious to him.
Love… could she truly love him? The empty brandy bottle declared that she could not. Oh, perhaps he had done one or two nice things for her, and her gratitude was of such a faithful nature that she would not now deny him, but love? Could a rose love a lump of coal? It was inconceivable to even ask such a thing.
Fool that he was, he had thought to share in her life, to find his true home at her side, even to—most blasphemous of all notions—join with her in the most sacred of unions and then to cherish the fruit of their love. A family… good God! He dropped the bottle and his fingers tore through his hair as he confessed to heaven and earth how foolish he had been in thinking it possible. Nothing could be more unnatural!
No answer from the skies thundered through his darkened chamber. No help poured forth from the bottle rolling at his feet. He was alone, a man on a raft with a broken oar, and a map in his hands to a paradise he could never reach. He curled his long legs into his tight seat, bowed his head against the wing of the chair, and wept.
~
Margaret’s eyes were swollen, and she knew it. Dixon had done her best with cool cloths and a tea compress, but nothing could do away with the redness or the haggard look of her features. She had passed off her appearance as the symptoms of a slight malaise, nothing more.
Hannah Thornton was not convinced, as her silence testified. She looked Margaret over once, suggested that she might have rested better by remaining in her room, and then flung her attention into arranging a new vase of flowers to be displayed under one of her many glass cloches. She took great pains with it; pruning a stray leaf here, bending a wayward petal there, until at last she was satisfied. The vase she then carried to be displayed in a place of prominence. The glass was lowered to protect it from soot and dust, and she stood back to appraise her work.
“It is lovely,” Margaret offered, by way of promoting some conversation for a diversion.
Hannah narrowed her eyes, still looking over the arrangement. “It will do.”
“Where did the flowers come from? I do not recall seeing them before.”
Hannah turned back, then moved to a seat. “Doctor Donaldson. He has been very attentive.”
Margaret was quiet for a moment. “Does John know?” she asked in a small voice.
Hannah sighed. “I am certain he suspects. I intended to speak with him this morning, but he was gone to the mill by four.” She slid a significant glance towards her daughter-in-law, then looked away. “Doctor Donaldson has not spoken to me, but his intentions are clear.”
“Would you accept? I had not thought your feelings so engaged. Forgive me, if I ask more than I ought.”
“A woman does not agree to receive flowers or other offerings from a man if she intends to refuse.” Here, she spared Margaret another long look.
Margaret swallowed and looked down, her cheeks flaming. “Of course. Please, excuse me.”
“I had never thought to marry again,” Hannah volunteered, surprising Margaret. “Even now, I am not certain I have the temperament for it.”
“Yet you are willing to proceed?”
“I am willing…” she still gazed at the flowers, as if their dusky petals could describe the remaining years of her life if she chose this path. “I am willing to pursue the wisest course. Doctor Donaldson is a respectable man, a bachelor these many years with a comfortable home. His company is agreeable, and I have long held him in my esteem.”
“You would not consider it a… reduction in your circumstances?”
One of the lady’s expressive snorts, then; “Did you, when you married a manufacturer?”
Margaret’s cheeks burned again, and the puffy feeling of her face seemed to throb with a nervous pulse. “I married for affection. I believe John the worthiest man alive, and I was deeply honoured that he would have asked again.”
“Indeed. And you do not regret that decision?”
“I never shall,” she answered swiftly, but her voice trembled. “And I hope that his feelings on the matter are the same.”
Hannah frowned thoughtfully, staring again at the expensive hot-house flowers which were so rare in Milton at this time of year. “I thought your illness would be the death of him, either in body or spirit.”
Margaret wetted her lips. “I know.”
“Then you must never doubt my son’s affections!”
“That… was not my intention,” Margaret winced. “I only meant that… that he is not without cause for disappointment.”
“Your marriage is hardly the first to suffer loss. Others have done so, and managed.”
“Yes,” Margaret agreed in a whisper.
“And it is far from the first time John has seen such trial.”
Margaret was blinking and tu
rned away to rest her chin on her hand and stare at the far wall. “He told me about his father.”
“There was more, before that.”
Margaret lifted her head. “You…?”
Hannah returned her questioning look with a grave, steady expression. “John had another sister. Elizabeth… she died of consumption, when she was only four.”
Margaret stirred uncomfortably. “I did not know. I am sorry.”
“Many children are buried in Milton’s graveyard.”
“And many more have not even that honour,” Margaret mumbled, though Hannah did not seem to hear.
The older woman paced round the room again, her arms crossing restlessly as her weathered face set and re-formed into lines of agitation, long repressed. “It is not a thing one speaks of. We make a virtue of mourning, all the proper appearances and the pride of the bereaved. We braid hair into our jewellery and drape ourselves in black—everywhere black!—but to speak of the dead as people we once loved… it might inspire genuine feeling, perhaps even passionate behaviour, and that is not to be borne.”
Margaret, by this time, was covering her mouth with the tips of her fingers as her eyes filled. “Will…” she ventured in a quavering voice… “will you tell me about her, then?”
Hannah did not face her, but her tones, when she spoke, were soft. “She was like her father. She laughed as he did, even possessed his dark turn of countenance at times. Her eyes were like John’s, and she had the same iron will. But she was beautiful! You would not have known her for my own flesh, Margaret, for her spirit was a thing of another world. She loved to sing in her nursery. She used to—”
Here, Hannah’s voice seemed to dry up, and her shoulders bunched together within her dark gown. She shivered, drew a long, visible breath, then appeared to be pausing long enough to collect herself. When she turned back to Margaret, her eyes still glittered but her expression was sober and calm once more.
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