“To your rival! I would have thought, John Thornton, that you would not refuse an opportunity to best Harold Wright.”
He snarled, disgusted at her corrupted beauty and the twisted allure of her offer. “I need not bed his wife for that. Get out!”
All traces of desire and temptation now vanished, leaving her breath-taking features cold as marble. “I was wrong, then. I thought you were a man worthy of my trouble, John Thornton. A bulldog, that is what everyone used to call you—one who savagely clings to his object; but I see now you are but an obedient pup, called to heel by a woman who does not want you.” She spun and stalked away from him, towards the door.
He let her go, refusing to allow himself to rise to her bait. More words would only endanger him further, and his strength, after all, was flagging. He crossed his arms and glowered darkly after her until she had disappeared round the doorway, then listened to each hasty stride down the corridor.
He heard the door open and dared to breathe again, his arms falling to relax at his sides. It was over, and he had passed the test. Yet… was that the harlot’s voice again in the hall?
The door creaked, and he could still hear her tones, though her words were indistinct. Oh, this would not do! Goaded once more to anger, he strode to the hall and commanded in his best master’s voice, “You must leave, before—”
The words died in his throat. Not even breath escaped him, for he stood frozen, transfixed at what he saw.
Mrs Wright turned from the door, a conscious look of affected innocence contorting her handsome face into something grotesque. “I did not expect the pleasure,” she stammered, then bowed her head slightly to the figure which had just entered the house. “I am glad to meet you again, Mrs Thornton.”
Margaret spared her but a glance. Her features were hard, her eyes sparking indignation and fury. And all her ire was focused upon him.
Twenty-Two
“Before what?” Margaret dropped her satchel with a loud thump for emphasis.
John winced, his face a brilliant scarlet and his mouth still somewhat agape. Mrs Wright had fled without another word, but it only made the situation look all the more suspicious. Dixon, who had been standing behind her with her bags and a porter, had abruptly vanished to seek some other entrance.
It was just the two of them now, alone in the dimly lit entryway. Annoyed by his mute astonishment, she determined to punish him for the mortification of finding Mrs Wright opening her own door.
“She must leave before you were caught?” she demanded. “Before someone discovered your indiscretion? Tell me, Mr Thornton, what caution were you giving Mrs Wright when I so inconveniently appeared?”
At last the anger sparked in his glare and his fists balled at his sides. He answered her with an equal measure of outrage, his voice hardened to a brittle edge. “Think you that I have philandered with that woman? That I have broken faith, cast aside all sense of honour, simply because you were not here to secure my lead string?”
Margaret shivered, realising that the door stood yet ajar behind her. She whirled to slam it closed, then stalked a few paces nearer. “I believe I deserve some explanation, do I not? What possible reason could you have for entertaining a woman alone, in this house, in the middle of the day?”
“She was not invited! She claimed to be seeking you, and once assured of your absence, she presented an offer which disgusted me, and I sent her away.”
“Then it is my fault,” she retorted icily. “Had I been present, you would not have been tempted, is that it?”
“I never claimed I was tempted!”
“You must have been, for her to stay long enough to have a closed door between you and the rest of the world.”
He stormed a short distance away, raking his fingers through his hair as he always did when distressed. He did not answer at once, even seemed to tremble in some expression of anguish.
“And perhaps I was! For but an instant, but I’ll not deny it. The words she spoke were as honey to a starving man—words I might have longed to feast upon from you but have not even caught fragrance of in these many months.”
He cast his eyes to the ceiling, heaved a pained groan as his shoulders sagged, then turned back to her with a faint snarl in his voice. “But I will have you know, I yielded not. I sent her away! When I heard her tarry in the hall, I came to reprimand her, to demand she take herself far from me!”
“And this is what I am to believe? How simply you explain it all! Why have I heard no word from you these weeks I was alone in London? My husband wanted nothing to do with me, sent me away against my wishes even, and when I return to my own home it is another woman who greets me!”
“And have I had word from you? If you so longed for my company, what was stopping you from writing?”
She felt her brow flush, then begin to perspire, and the words with which she might have struck a blow faltered in her throat.
He was quivering, that same righteous fury evident that had so provoked her the first time he had proposed. “Margaret, have I ever given you cause to doubt my fidelity? Can you think so meanly of me as that? I have failed, indeed, if you can cast such upon me!”
She shook her head, dumbfounded and infuriated. “How shall I know what to think? You have sent me away—you, who once claimed to love me as man had never loved any woman, yet you turned your back and gave me no opportunity to make amends.”
“Because I thought you were better pleased without me! Because the only life that came to your eyes these last months was because you had a chance to go to London, away from me.”
“That is only half true, but you will not hear the rest.”
“And what is that? That you were eager to escape this house? My mother? Was it the trappings of our marriage which bore you down, or was it I myself, the dirty manufacturer?”
“It was none of these,” she returned flatly, crossing her arms. “I begged you, I pleaded for some companionship, some purpose to my life, but I was no more than an invalid you would coddle as if I would break.”
“A temporary situation! Do you forget that you nearly died? That disease could have posed an additional risk to you? Was I wrong to shelter and protect you, even against your wishes?”
“John—” her jaw set and her teeth clenched in rage—“I was grieving! I never mourned Mother or Father properly, and then….” Her voice choked, and she blinked hastily. She covered her mouth with her hand and tried to control the shrieking, gasping breaths that shook her.
He moved towards her in some concern, but she bore up, her long-repressed indignation blazing. “Do not touch me until you have heard me out!”
He shrank back, chastened.
“When I….” The panic rose in her breast again, and she was terrified of bursting into a sob. She put out her hand, gasping. “When I lost the… oh good God!” She broke, her voice crumbling and the sobs she had held at bay racking her, but he was too wary to approach and offer comfort.
She stifled a gasp with her fist and tried to continue where she had left off. The words were little more than a whisper. “When I was so sick, I was….”
Again, she clenched her teeth and breathed through a shuddering tremor. “I only wished for a friend! I wished for some reason to exist… I wished for you, but you turned your grievances into work, and I saw you not!”
“Did you think I abandoned you, Margaret? Was I not at your side, praying, begging for a miracle that would restore you? Did I not try to comfort you? But you would have none of me!”
“None of your platitudes nor condescension for the sickly. No, I would not have it. Can you not see, John? I was once your partner, your companion, but I became nothing more than a burden. Do you not know how badly I wished to tally one single sheet of invoices, just so I might have felt I could do some good in this world—some good for you?”
“And I was to bring bookkeeping duties before a wife who would scarcely eat? You had not even the strength to look out a window, much less hold a pen!
”
She shook her head. “I—I was not weak, but numb. I could not feel. I did not want to feel! For if I did, I was certain I would die.”
“And do you think I felt less? Do you think that watching you endure such agony, knowing there was nothing I could do to save you, and nothing I could bring to coax you to remain in this world did not crush me anew each day? Do you think I did not blame myself for each of your sufferings? Aye, I felt the full measure of guilt! And then later, when I knew you would survive, I wished to rejoice… but you refused to live! I could do nothing to cheer you. It was as if you were no longer yourself, and I did not even know you.”
Margaret’s stays felt too tight and her eyes were cast to the floor. “Yes. It felt that way to me, too. I did not know myself, even.” She looked up again, and her gaze hardened.
“So, is that it? Were you so disappointed in me that you could not bear my presence? So willing to grasp at anything that was not your wounded wife that you listened to the lies of a temptress because she offered what I did not?”
He had begun to soften somewhat, but at her accusation his spine stiffened, and his eyes glittered once more in offended pride. “And what of Henry Lennox? I daresay I have less guilt on my head regarding Mrs Wright than you do with him!”
“Was I to abuse what friendship might be offered and reject any sort of companionship I was permitted? Was I to speak to no one since you were not there?”
“A little respect, of the sort a woman ought to reserve only for her husband might have been in order, but that was too embarrassing for you to consider. I know very well that you are ashamed of me, but you could have taken some care to hide that, at least a little.”
“Ashamed! I have never been prouder of anyone in the whole of my life than I am of you, John Thornton.”
This seem to shake him, and he paused, tilting his head in wonder. “That… cannot be true. I do not believe it.”
She dared a step closer to him. “I have never known a finer man than you, nor one whose esteem I desired more, but I have lost you. You have been consumed by work and worry, striving in fear of losing control. I have not seen that competent, clear-headed, gentle man I came to love, but merely a petty, desperate shadow of him. However—” here, she sighed and dashed a stream of tears from her cheek—“I have done little better. I never wished for you to be disappointed in me. You were right about Henry, about Edith, and I too foolish to see it! I wished to give you joy as your wife, but I have only brought trouble and regret.”
“No!” He had stepped softly closer, his figure trembling and expanding with new vigour. When he spoke now, his voice was vehement and forceful, and he closed the distance to capture her hands.
“Never think that! You have been my life, the joy of my heart, since the day we married—nay! Long before that, almost from the day I first set eyes upon you, you defined all I ever hoped, and your love was a treasure I thought I could never win. I had never known such happiness, nor such completion as when you took me as your own. I thought I would burst; I could not comprehend how I could love you more, but so I have done each day since. No, love, never think for a moment that I could regret our marriage! It was I who proved inadequate. I could not satisfy—I was not enough!”
Margaret tipped her head up and gazed tenderly into the earnest eyes she had learned to adore. “You are more than I deserve.”
He stared in rapt astonishment, his breath ragged. She held his eyes, wishing to assure him in every way of her sincerity. Without warning, he leaned down and crushed her lips, demanding and pleading all at once.
He pulled back almost instantly, resting his forehead on hers and gasping. “Forgive m—”
She did not permit him to complete his apology, for the next moment she was pulling him down, kissing him hungrily, in a manner she had never done before. She felt his breath, hot and shared in her own lungs, and his throat rumbled, whimpering as a creature who has gone too long without water. He was drinking her in, in heady, lingering draughts, his kisses deep and savage.
She reached again to stroke that strong jaw and soft, stubbled cheek she loved so, and found that his face was as wet as her own with tears. She broke away, only enough to whisper against his lips, “John, may I come home?”
He raised his head to look at her, a wavering sob escaping him. “I have no home for you.”
She placed her hand over his heart, then looked up. “This is my home. It is not in London nor Helstone. There is no home for me but wherever you are. I shall never leave it again if you will let me come back to it.”
His eyes were brimming and full when he choked, “You have never left, love.”
She pulled his face to hers and kissed him lightly, but in the space of a heartbeat something far different blossomed than the sweet reassurance she had at first intended. Rapt kisses fell over her face, her neck, and pleading hands pressed her against his chest until his very heart-pulse thrummed in her ears. And when, only a moment later, he began tugging her towards the stairs, still kissing her with every breath, she followed with an eagerness that matched his own.
It was she who chose his door, then bolted it behind them. It was she who tore at his clothing; first the cravat, then the waistcoat. There was a primal urgency to her desire, as if some part of herself had been dying all these months and was even now grasping desperately for a purchase on life.
He tried, for half a moment, to guard something of that modest reserve a man was expected to bestow upon his wife, but she would not tolerate such gentle civility from him—not now. How rapidly she was able to overcome him, and how little he objected! He was as a creature starved, his hands stroking and claiming all that was his own, aching to nourish his famished soul.
It was not until one of the buttons of her bodice fell to the floor that he checked himself. “I am sorry. I should not… will not rush you,” he panted.
Margaret rested her hands on his chest as if she were staying him. She looked full into his face and smiled—a mischievous, ardent smile that caused his breath to hitch beneath her fingers.
“You are not.” With both of her hands she ripped, and the white fabric gave way, falling in little more than ribbons about his shoulders. She caught her lip in her teeth and looked up in half-apology. “I hope you have another shirt.”
In that instant, she received the medicine that her heart had craved all these months. Her John smiled. And then he laughed—that keen, hearty, full laugh which betrayed all his earnest delight echoed again in her ears.
“Love! You truly have come back to me!” He swept her up and twirled her, waltzing her through the air until her feet again touched the floor.
He had not yet done—though his eyes were closed, his lips engaged, he swayed and stepped her all round the room as if to the pulse of an orchestra. Margaret was weeping and laughing all at once, her hands tangled in his hair, his clothing, and kissing him back whenever his frantic caresses brought him to her lips. The only tempo their feet kept was their shared breaths, the only melody moving their bodies swelled from jubilant spirits, but they spun until the room was too small and there was nowhere else to dance, then tumbled, in a riotous tangle of limbs and petticoats, into his bed.
She wrapped her arms about his head, so he might never escape till he had satisfied her longing. Knowing what she wished, he kissed down her throat while his hands caressed through her clothing. A moment later he paused, and pressed a sweet, gentle endearment to her forehead as he had done in former days.
“Are you not afraid? For your health? I could not bear if something else were to—”
“I am afraid of nothing. What can be worse than being apart from you? Love me, John or this life is meaningless to me, anyway.”
He was not gentle. Neither was he violent. There was some majesty in him in this moment, inspiring all the greatness in his character to express itself in the tender ferocity of lovemaking.
Never before had she felt the full measure of his strength, nor seen what he was
capable of when driven half mad with passion and loneliness. It was as if all his frustrations and fears were exorcised in this one exultant moment. She felt his anger, she felt the bitterness and the pain, but most of all she felt his need—a need to be desired by none but her, and desired for who he was; a flawed, noble man who pledged to her with every kiss, every caress, that his life would be spent in devotion to her alone.
He cried out in agony, all those months of anguish threatening to darken and snatch his triumph from him even as he gloried in unity once again. She cradled him, her body pleading for more. Their voices harmonised as one, travailing and rejoicing until they could bear no more together, and the same force shook them both in waves of pure, blissful relief.
He lay gasping in her arms, the demons banished at last. She turned her face to kiss the underside of his jaw, then closed her eyes. Trials they must yet endure, but it was over. All the heartbreak of separation, all the uncertainty of one another and doubt of themselves—such torments were things of the past.
She was home.
~
She was stronger than he had remembered. Perhaps it had only been the impression of grief, how it had ravaged her inner being, but it had been so complete, so oppressive, that the force with which she now clung to him was like a new creature.
And was that…? He peered out of one eye at the rumpled clothing they had cast aside. Soft green, just the shade of spring in the country. She looked breath-taking in colourful clothes again… and even more so out of them.
She was peaceful now, her eyes closed and her breathing light, but she did not sleep. A little wrinkle played at the corners of her mouth, her fingers tickled the base of his neck, and her nose brushed against his chin—an affectionate reassurance that they still held one another close.
“Margaret?” he ventured after some while.
She answered with a soft hum, tilting her head closer to his.
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