by Nancy Klein
Dixon beamed. “It arrived just yesterday! I thought it might be a present from your aunt.”
Meg approached the bed and deftly undid the wrappings. Lifting the lid from the box, she gasped in pleasure. Nestled inside was a beautiful black lace mantilla and jeweled combs. As she lifted the delicate lace from the box, a note fell upon the floor. She stooped to retrieve it, and recognized her brother’s handwriting.
“Oh, it is from Fred!” she exclaimed with pleasure. “Look how beautiful, Dixon,” she said, holding out the length of lace for the servant to admire. As Dixon took the mantilla to examine and exclaim, Meg broke the wafer on the note and spread the paper open to read its contents:
My dearest sister,
By now, you should know that I have safely returned to Spain and have resumed my life here. I thought I had left you and Father to fend for yourselves; imagine my distress at receiving your letter telling me of Father’s death. Dear sister, I wish that you would come to me—I am your closest relation and well able to care for you. And you would find a loving, sympathetic heart in my Dolores. If you have not guessed, I must tell you at once—we are married! She is an angel, Margaret, and I know you will love her like a sister.
She selected the gifts that I have enclosed, and sends them to her new sister with her warmest love. Write soon, Margaret, and tell me that you will join us in Cadiz, and make your home with us.
Your loving brother,
Frederick
Meg looked at Dixon with a glowing yet dismayed countenance. “He is well, Dixon—and married! He wants me to live with him in Cadiz. My letter must have crossed his in the mail, and he does not know that I, too, am married. Let me see my mantilla!” she said excitedly, exchanging the lace in Dixon’s hands for Fred’s letter.
She settled the mantilla upon her head, securing it with the beautiful combs. It came down to her waist, a cloud of fine lace. She whirled, raising her hands above her head as if to dance the flamenco, as Dixon laughed. “How do I look?”
“You are glorious.” Her husband stood in the doorway, a look of deep admiration upon his face. Meg danced across the room into his arms.
Dixon was astonished to see Mr. Thornton’s normally stern face soften as he held his and settled his chin atop her head. She observed him wince as he scratched himself on the gilded edge of one of the combs, but he said nothing, drawing Meg more closely to him.
Dixon picked up the box and discretely left the room, shutting the door behind her.
“So,” he said with a sigh, “your brother has asked you to live with him in Cadiz?”
Meg pulled away and looked up into his face. “He did, but he does not know that I have married—otherwise, he would not have suggested it.” She gave a snort of laughter and snuggled into his arms once more. “As if I would ever leave you!” She was gratified to feel his arms tighten around her.
“I thought perhaps you would want to visit Spain,” John said solemnly. “You would look so beautiful, strolling down the sunny streets in your mantilla.”
Meg looked at him in surprise. “Are you trying to get rid of me already?” she asked in an injured tone, although her eyes laughed at him.
“No, I just thought that since your brother would like to have you visit, you might consider going to Spain.”
“And so I shall, someday—with you,” she replied, and was rewarded with a kiss.
“Meg,” he said reluctantly, “I must go to London for a few days, to meet with investors. I put this trip off since your return, and can put it off no longer.” He spoke with the greatest reluctance.
She nodded. “This is the trip you were to take the day I returned, is it not? The one I thought you had taken when I dashed about the train station like a madwoman?”
He smiled. “Yes, that is the very one.”
She readjusted the lapels of his coat. “Then you must go,” she replied firmly. “I will be waiting for you here, when you return. I have my work at the clinic, and must settle what is to be done with the house in Crampton.”
“I will handle that for you—if you wish,” John offered. She opened her mouth to reply, but he hurried on, “Meg, please understand that I consider your inheritance yours and yours alone—I will not meddle with how you see fit to dispose of it.” He looked at her in appeal. “But I would like to help you where I can. If you are not adverse to the idea, I will discuss disposing of the Crampton property with your lawyer—or leasing it, if you prefer.”
Meg crossed her arms over her chest and regarded him in amusement. “I was about to ask if you would handle disposing of the house. I was going to ask Mr. Bechtold to transfer the handling of my estate to your lawyer, if you are amenable.”
His eyes warmed with pleasure at her faith in his judgment, but he felt bound by his sense of honor to caution her. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
“It makes no sense for us to employ the services of two lawyers, John. And I trust your judgment implicitly, so I am willing to place my monies in the hands of your lawyer.”
He reached out and smoothed the lace of the mantilla away from her face. “Then I shall speak with my lawyer on the morrow.”
“And I will pack your valise for you tonight.”
“Nonsense,” he said in a startled voice, “One of the servants can see to that.”
“No,” she replied firmly. “I am your wife now, and I claim that privilege.”
His heart swelled with love for her. As she turned to remove the mantilla, he reached out and clasped her wrist.
Startled, she looked up and met his darkening gaze. “I like you in the mantilla,” he said in a silken voice.
Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Would you have me wear it for the rest of the day?”
“No, but I demand the privilege to see you wear it—and only it—when we are alone tonight.” His voice held a hint of languor.
“Oh!” Meg exclaimed, her cheeks reddening. Her heart beat erratically as she lifted her chin to meet his challenge. “I believe I can arrange that, as long as you are prepared to make it worth my while.”
“Oh, I will,” he whispered.
********&********
Mr. Thornton approached Marlborough Mills in the gathering twilight, carrying his valise. He could have taken a carriage from the train station, but he preferred to walk; he was tired of sitting, and the evening air was cool and inviting. He had traveled on the train most of the day after conducting four days of meetings with his potential investors. These meetings had gone well, and the gentlemen intended to visit Marlborough Mills in the coming weeks. He was very pleased with their reception of his plans, and felt confident that once they witnessed the workings of his mill first hand, they would be readily willing to invest their money.
Happy as he was with his affairs of business, he was happier still to be home. Four days without his wife had seemed like an eternity, and he had missed her more than he cared to admit. Last night, after an endless dinner with his investors, he found himself longing for her—and not just for their physical relationship, remarkable as it was. He wanted to share his triumph with her, tell her all of the little details of his conversations, and solicit her perspective on the offers he had advanced. The next time he ventured to London, he fully intended to coax her to come with him. The nights were too long and his bed too cold without her.
As he walked briskly along, he recalled his first night in London. When he had unpacked his valise, he had found one of her lace handkerchiefs on top of his clothes. She had dampened the cloth with her perfume; when he had raised it to his nose, he had felt an overwhelming desire for her wash over him, so that he had to remind himself he had business to conduct and could not dash off to the train station like some lovesick youth. When he had emptied the portmanteau, he had spotted a note tucked neatly inside.
John,
When you read this, you will have arrived in London, and I will be missing you desperately. While you are gone, I will sleep in your bed in the vain attempt to
feel close to you. I am certain that your bed will seem as wide as the ocean without you in it, but I will dream that you are holding me in your arms and loving me.
Please hurry home—
Your Meg
A smile curved his lips as he remembered. She knew that I was anxious about leaving her, and sought to reassure me. He had slept every night in London with her handkerchief under his pillow, and had experienced sweet rest. As he came through the gates of the mill, he hastened his pace. He knew that she would be waiting for him, but some small, niggling doubt in the back of his mind made him fear she might be gone. He knew it was silly to think such a thing, but he would not be content until he held her in his arms. Only then would he breathe comfortably once more.
He had told her before he left that he would in all probability return late, and not to wait dinner for him. It was not as late as he expected—in fact, he had caught an earlier train. He hoped she had held dinner for him, but was determined not to be disappointed if she had not. His footsteps were light and quick as he entered the house and mounted the stairs. As he crossed the threshold of the dining room, his heart leapt. The table was set with two places, side by side. She had waited—in fact, was waiting; she was seated on the settee with her back toward him. He moved around to place himself in her line of vision, watching her for several moments with loving eyes, admiring her beauty. She was reading a book, and had her feet pulled under her in a comfortable and beguiling position. She looked up and, gasping in surprise, leapt from the sofa and into his arms as the forgotten book tumbled to the floor. “You are home!” She raised her face to kiss him.
He crushed her to his chest and she melted against him, angling her head to allow him better access to her sweet mouth. They were silent in delicious employment for several moments. When they broke apart at last, Meg sighed with happiness and laid her head upon his shoulder. While he had been gone, she had dreamed of his tombstone again, and awoke alone in bed thinking for a moment that she had lost him once more. When she recalled his trip to London, she had felt overwhelming relief. “I was afraid you had decided to stay in London!” she teased him. He pulled her close to him, and raised her chin to press his lips ardently to hers once more. He had the strangest feeling that they had done this before, but could not remember greeting her thus.
After a few moments, she stepped out of his arms and moved toward the sideboard, smiling over her shoulder as she poured a glass of his favorite wine. “I asked Cook to hold dinner until eight, hoping you would make it home in time to dine with me. Your mother has gone to dine with Fanny this evening, so it will be just the two of us.” Her smile was saucy, and he smiled in response to her roguish expression.
He suddenly remembered why all of this seemed so familiar. His dream! He had dreamed this before, the night before he had retrieved Fanny’s powders from the clinic. It had seemed to him at the time such an improbable fantasy, well out of his reach, and had filled him with a terrible melancholy, so strongly did he long for the reality. Now, it was real—she was his wife and it was his privilege and pleasure to be greeted in such a manner every day for the remainder of his life.
Her voice brought him back to the present. She stood, holding out the glass of wine to him, her eyes quizzing him. “John, are you well? You appear to be miles away.”
He smiled and took the glass of wine from her outstretched hand, placing it carefully on a side table. “As much as I like this wine, I think I prefer your kisses—and would have more, please.”
********&********
Meg sat on a low stool in the supply closet at the clinic, attempting to make sense out of the chaos in front of her. She found that if she was absent only two days, Doctor Donaldson would create disaster in his wake. He moved things about, removed supplies and returned them to another location, and in general created havoc wherever he touched. She had been stacking bandages and dressings the entire morning, and was in a less than a charitable mood with him.
As she worked, she thought how quickly the first year of her marriage had sped by. It was common knowledge in Milton that Mr. and Mrs. Thornton were deeply in love, more than was perhaps respectable for a couple no longer in the first days of their marriage. Meg recalled how her husband’s face lit up when he glimpsed her unexpectedly, and of how her heart soared when he entered a room. It was silly, she supposed, to show her evident love and pleasure in him for all to see, but she didn’t care.
Her life was magical—every day was a gift as long as she could spend time with her husband. He bought her roses every week, and delighted in surprising her with small and large trinkets alike. Early on, she had stemmed his urge to load her with rings and necklaces, or to fill her room with furnishings he thought she might like. Wealth still made her a bit uncomfortable, and she chafed at the amount of possessions that they had, but could not bear to hurt his feelings, remembering his eager look each time he presented her with a gift. By small hints and gentle words, she was able to convince him that she did not need presents—she just needed him. His warm embrace, heart-rending smile, and intoxicating kisses were worth more to her than any bauble or precious scrap of lace.
As the months sped along, Meg slowly worked to transform the house at Marlborough Mills into a comfortable and charming home, replacing the rigid furniture with more homey pieces, and reducing the amount of glittering knickknacks and decorations in the main rooms. She replaced the heavy draperies with lighter material, drawing more light into the rooms, and moved the furniture about to create groupings more conducive to conversation and entertaining. Under her direction, the family began to eat a more varied menu, and she spent one evening a week in the kitchen, on Cook’s night off, helping Dixon make dinner for the family. Mrs. Thornton was uncertain what to think of her son’s wife laboring in the kitchen, but Mr. Thornton enjoyed the informality of these evenings, and even his mother had to admit that the food was delicious and the atmosphere pleasant.
Smiling at the thought of the meal she had cooked the previous evening, and their activities afterward, Meg stood and felt the room spin about. Placing her hand on her abdomen, she leaned against the counter until the room righted itself. In an instant, she was overcome with nausea, and hurriedly grabbed a basin from the shelf. She retched for several moments before carefully setting the basin aside and swiping a few strands of hair from her damp forehead. As she turned, she met Doctor Donaldson’s knowing eyes.
“When were you going to tell me you were with child?” he inquired.
As she gaped at him in astonishment, he gave a short laugh. “Come now, Meg, I have been practicing medicine long enough that I can recognize when a woman is enceinte. You have been eating less, unable to keep your meals down, but gaining weight. You also cry at the drop of a hat, and change from happy to morose in the blink of an eye.”
He leaned next to her against the counter, gazing at her with deep affection. “I would guess you are about three months along, but would like to examine you to make certain.”
Meg sighed. “I wanted to tell you, but feared you would tell me to go home and not come back to the clinic.”
“And you would have been right.”
“Doctor Donaldson—” She began to protest, but he cut her off.
“Meg, you know as well as I do that it is dangerous for you to continue to work here if you are indeed carrying a child. What if someone should come in with a contagious infection? You do not want to put yourself or your babe at risk. If you are with child, you must bid me adieu until the baby is born.” Seeing her grieved expression, he gently took her hand. “Never fear, I fully intend to come to you with my cases and ask for your input. As for working here every day, or visiting the poorer districts? No and no—I am asking you not to do so.”
She sighed. “This is why I have not told you—or anyone. I knew it would come to this. And once I have told John, I will be wrapped in cotton batting and lucky to set foot from the house for the next six months.”
Doctor Donaldson laughed. “I
shall speak with your husband about the importance of activity and exercise. Unlike many of my colleagues, I am opposed to coddling mothers-to-be. Women have been giving birth for years and carrying on with their daily activities. You will go into a melancholy decline if you are forced to do nothing but knit booties all day—and I dread the thought of what those booties would look like.”
Meg threw her hands up in surrender. “Very well—may I finish working on this disaster of a closet, or would you have me leave now?”
He smiled at her. “First, I intend to examine you. Then you may finish your shift—or the cabinet, whichever comes first.” He surprised her by stepping up and kissing her on the forehead. “I am asking you to take care of yourself, my dear. You are very precious to me. Go into the examination room. I will be with you directly.”
The examination proved that Doctor Donaldson was correct: Meg was three months along, and was working her last stint at the clinic. Her tears made no impression on the doctor; he was gentle with her, but inexorable—she was to leave and not return until after she had given birth and was on her feet once more.
Once the cabinet was straightened, she slowly gathered her belongings and wished him good-bye, admonishing him numerous times to call upon her if some emergency occurred. He nodded and smiled, and set her out of the door as the town clock chimed six. Meg walked home with leaden feet, surprised that she could feel elated and miserable at the same time.
That evening, after dinner, John sat at the desk in the parlor writing a letter while Meg played melancholy tunes on the piano. I must tell him this evening, she thought with resolve. He will be overjoyed. Why am I reluctant to tell him?
“John,” she blurted out, and he raised his head immediately. “I am going to retire for the night. Will you come with me?”
He dipped the pen in the inkwell once more and smiled. “Let me address this note and I will be with you directly.”