Margaret of the North

by EJourney

  Margaret arched a questioning eyebrow and fixed expectant eyes on her.

  "Henry is engaged." Edith announced momentously in a voice she struggled to keep low.

  "Who to? One of the three Harding sisters? They have all been after him for years." Margaret asked, her voice just as low but without the drama.

  "No, I doubt he even entertained that idea for a moment. I never liked those upstarts. No, Henry is marrying into big money." She paused, enjoying Margaret's look of surprise and anticipation.

  "Well, tell me," Margaret laughed. She knew Edith's penchant for surprises and Margaret had obligingly indulged her across the years by assuming an air of impatience.

  "You'll never guess. Someone from Milton who you must be acquainted with—some rich banker's daughter by the name of Ann Latimer!"

  "No! How? They did not meet at my wedding. The Latimers politely declined our invitation, saying they were going abroad at the time."

  "Apparently, he met her father when Henry came to Milton on business regarding your property, shortly after your wedding. Mr. Latimer was impressed with Henry's cleverness and financial knowledge and asked him over for dinner. It seems the attraction was immediate and mutual. They reached an understanding within three months of meeting but Mr. Latimer requested that they wait a year to announce their engagement."

  "I am happy for Henry. Ann Latimer went to finishing school and has the fashion and polish that he admires, which would be an asset to him in his career."

  "I am glad to hear that if she is to be my sister-in-law. I was afraid she would be some spoiled daughter of a nouveau riche who puts on airs. Still and all, I would have greatly preferred to have you for a sister. Do you know her well?"

  "Not really. Our paths have not crossed that often." She leaned over to whisper to Edith, "I will tell you this: She and John were seen together a few times before we were married and people from around here probably expected them to get married. I am certain Mrs. Thornton would have been much happier if John had married her, instead."

  "No!" It was Edith's turn to be surprised. She relished this bit of gossip, which she knew Captain Lennox would find as entertaining as she did and she wanted to know more. "Is she a beauty?"

  "I think she is very pretty."

  Edith's interest was piqued even more but the arrival of carriages that were to take them back to the Thornton house forced her to keep her curiosity in check until they were alone in a carriage. As the party gathered to board the cabs, Edith addressed her mother, "Mama, could you possibly exchange places with Margaret and ride back with Mrs. Thornton? We have not seen each other for a while and we have much to catch up on."

  Mrs. Shaw, momentarily confused, did not reply right away but before she could assent, John approached them and declared, "I would like to escort my wife and child back home. So, I will ride with Edith and Margaret." With a briskness of movement that Edith could not hope to match, he helped Mrs. Shaw and his mother into the first carriage. Watson and Fanny claimed the second one.

  Edith really wanted some time alone with Margaret so they could talk in confidence and it irritated her that John maneuvered effortlessly to arrange the return home as he wished. She sat a little sullenly across John and Margaret in the cab. Margaret, seeing her cousin sulk, turned to John and said brightly, "Edith has some good news for us about Henry Lennox."

  Edith was taken aback for a moment. She had intended the news to be relatively private because no formal announcement had as yet been made. But she saw that John, who directed his dark intent eyes at her, was quite eager to hear what she had to say. Something in those eyes seemed to compel a truthful answer and Edith thought, "Why not?" She and the Captain enjoyed sharing stories about others and, obviously, so did Margaret and Mr. Thornton. She warmed up to what was asked of her, a little hesitantly at first but as she proceeded, she infused her recounting for John's benefit with no less enthusiasm nor drama as she did with Margaret.

  John who, at first, was as surprised as Margaret had been, grinned widely. "A happy ending then for our clever sophisticated lawyer," he remarked, glancing at his wife with a twinkle in his eye that Edith did not catch.

  Margaret added archly, "And a very pretty lady found the man she would make happy."

  Edith was delighted that John found the news as diverting as Margaret did. He proceeded to ask questions and Edith answered them with great relish. But she could not help ending her news with the provocative question by which she meant to learn how tempted he was to propose to Ann Latimer—and, thereby, share with Captain Lennox a juicier story. "Do you think she is a beauty?"

  "She is very pretty but as Shakespeare says, "Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye."

  Edith thought his tone as disinterested as Margaret's. She especially liked his way of saying he was indifferent to Miss Latimer's looks with a quote from Shakespeare. It was certainly a more gentlemanly approach that spoke well of him in Edith's eyes and was enough to convince her of Mr. Thornton's lack of amorous intentions. Her romantic soul would not have desired, could not have conceived him in love with anyone else but Margaret.

  Later, as they were piling into the dining room, Edith whispered to Margaret, "I like your husband, I think, even more than I like Henry. He has a sincerity and gallantry about him that is more appealing than Henry's cleverness and sophistication."

  "But, Edith, my husband is a tradesman." Margaret teased.

  "He is a well-respected manufacturer."

  XVII. Discord

  "Well, mother, what do you think?" John asked Mrs. Thornton after he and Margaret took her around the new house for a quick look.

  John and Margaret had visited the house a few times. Sometimes they went together and, twice, Margaret went alone to make final decisions on colors, wall paper, and trim. Mrs. Thornton was seeing it for the first time and, although she went with misgivings, she was determined to be agreeable. There was, after all, nothing more that she could do and she was there merely to look through her suite of rooms and tell them how she wanted her furniture arranged.

  Mrs. Thornton did not answer right away. John and Margaret stood next to each other like mimes in synchronized suspended motion, holding their breath, waiting for a cue to execute their next move. They were anxious, in fact, about what Mrs. Thornton would say. Both wanted very much to appease her—John, out of his lifelong habit of heeding his mother and often going along with her wishes, and Margaret, because she still hoped her mother-in-law would eventually accept her. Mrs. Thornton continued to believe the move unnecessary, and they feared confirming their suspicion that she was profoundly unhappy.

  Mrs. Thornton was not happy. In the last six months, she tried to resign herself to the move which she knew was inevitable. She countered her frustration at her helplessness to prevent it with the thought that it was largely John's decision as well as Margaret's, not hers. When they asked her to look at the house, she resolved to be fair in her judgment.

  She now commented drily, "The neighborhood seems quite wholesome and the house is rather bright and airy with all these windows and light walls."

  To Margaret, the comment was neutral and, therefore, favorable. She answered, smiling, "I hope you found your rooms pleasing."

  "They would be away from the street noises and it's good you had them painted darker than the rest of the house. I find the lighter colors a little blinding for my poor old eyes."

  The first sign of discontent, obliquely conveyed, was evident enough. "We want you to be as comfortable as possible, mother, so you must tell the movers what to do with your furniture."

  Mrs. Thornton was unaccustomed to restraining her true feelings and opinions for too long and with a frown, she blurted, "It will be almost too quiet back there."

  "It will be quite restful and private," Margaret answered as evenly as she could. "We have a similar suite of rooms on the floor above yours."

  Mrs. Thornton turned to her son, expecting him to know better than Margaret what she could not explicitl
y say but he was then smiling in acquiescence at his wife. Defeated and feeling neglected, she turned her back abruptly to them and headed for the stairs. "Well, then, I shall go up again so I will know what to tell you to do with my furniture." She struggled to sound nonchalant and composed but she could not mask the dejection in her voice.

  "Take all the time you need," Margaret said lamely as she stared at Mrs. Thornton who walked up the stairs and disappeared around the landing. Margaret stood rooted in place for a long moment before she hooked her arm around John's and said in a subdued tone, "Let's wait in the garden. Right now, that is the only place where we can sit."

  They strolled into the garden, an awkward silence creeping up between them, brought on by their shared sense of guilt that they had imposed their own opposite wishes on Mrs. Thornton. Though she went along with them, she was clearly miserable about leaving the house at Marlborough Mills, particularly now that the move was imminent. They sat on a stone bench under a shady tree, hesitant to talk about a matter of potential contention. Margaret, restless with her unease, surveyed the garden distractedly. Although she observed a few things she would ordinarily have remarked upon, she could not force herself to break her silence. But John could not stay as restrained. His mother's doleful countenance weighed on him heavily. "It is quiet back here! My mother has been so used to all those sounds from the mill. This will be very different for her."

  "Yes. But as you once told me, Hannah is quite resilient. She will survive this well enough and she might even grow to like the tranquil atmosphere."

  "You are right about her resilience." He agreed but he could not shake off his trepidation. After a long pause, he asked irritably, "Why have you never called her mother?"

  The question so startled Margaret that she could not answer right away. When she did, she was clearly trying to steady her voice which had an edge to it that she could not control. She caught the reproach in his question and it grated on her. "Is that what she would prefer? I am afraid she does not think of herself in that way where I am concerned. Your mother will never totally accept me as her daughter-in-law. I have reconciled myself to that fact."

  "You might make more of an effort."

  "Tell me how because I do not truly know what more to do. You have lived with her all your life and you must have a trick or two you could share with me." The edge had now grown into distress tinged with annoyance and sarcasm.

  He did not answer, only looked away. He smarted at her sarcasm but he was also sorry that he caused her distress by what he said. After a few minutes, he turned to her and was mortified to see the gloom that clouded her face. She sat very still, hands clasped tightly on her lap. With her head and her eyes cast down, the afternoon sunlight against which she was silhouetted, deepened the shadows under her eyes and her lower lip, curled tightly under the upper one.

  He reached over to stroke her hand, "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I was upset that my mother seemed so unhappy."

  She nodded ever so slightly to acknowledge his apology but she said nothing, her eyes fixed abstractedly on the ground.

  He inched closer to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and kissed her temple. "Forgive me?"

  She looked up, lifted the corners of her mouth for a smile that faded with her sad eyes, and leaned back against him.

  **************

  Immediately after dinner, Margaret pled fatigue and headed directly for the bedroom, leaving John and his mother on their way to the drawing room for after-dinner drinks and coffee. Conversation at dinner had often been strained between Margaret and Mrs. Thornton although Margaret usually did her share with John of keeping some intercourse going. This evening, however, she was unusually withdrawn and spoke very little. She had, in fact, been listless since their return from the new house.

  John entered their bedroom nearly an hour later and found her reading by the fireplace. She did not raise her head at his entrance and barely reacted to his remark that he had expected her to be in bed. He went into his dressing room to change into a robe and night shirt. When he returned, he discreetly selected a book and joined her. She sat, rigid, seemingly immersed in her book but her countenance—which usually registered her reactions to what she was reading—was expressionless, impassive. He walked behind her chair, briefly caressing the nape of her neck as he passed by. She acknowledged his gesture with an almost imperceptible nod.

  John settled on the chair across from her, opened his book, and stared at the words on the page he had picked at random. Comprehension was nearly impossible. At dinner, he thought Margaret was indeed merely tired, as she claimed, but now in the privacy of their bedroom, she was still uncharacteristically reticent. He cast her stealthy glances from time to time, gauging her mood, wondering if he should ask how she was. She seemed to have slipped into a silence so introspective that it excluded everything and everyone around her. There was, about her, an aura of remoteness that John had never seen since she came back to him. He felt reluctant to violate it. After some time, she closed her book and fixed her eyes pensively, but unseeingly, at the gas lamp on the table that separated them. John watched her preoccupation from behind his book for a few minutes.

  "I am sorry about your mother." She muttered after many more moments of silence, her eyes transfixed by the flickering lamp.

  He assumed that she was referring to the events at the new house that afternoon and he replied, "It was not your fault and I was callous in my remark to you."

  "No. I do not mean because of something I did today." She raised her head and fixed her eyes on him.

  He returned her gaze and detected a wistful melancholy in her eyes that he had not seen since the time she talked about her brother's plight. She seemed so far away from him and although her eyes were on his, they were veiled, focused inward, trying to grasp something within that was elusive. Her mood bewildered him. He said nothing and turned his attention back to his book, pretending interest in it. He wished that he could go to her, hold her and kiss the sadness away from her countenance but her self-absorption had erected an invisible but palpable barrier between them. She seemed neither to need nor want his loving reassurance just then.

  Margaret spoke again, her voice tremulous. "You know that your mother and I do not get on terribly well. Many times, we are like polite strangers living in the same house. Whenever I join her in the drawing room, she leaves shortly after. I know she likes to spend her afternoons there so I have taken to spending mine in our room so as not to drive her out of the drawing room. I have never lived with anyone who found my presence that uncomfortable." She could not conceal the hurt in her voice.

  This time, he closed his book and looked at her intently, "Has it been that unpleasant?"

  "She makes more of an effort when you are around but she drops most pretense when we are alone. I doubt that she will ever learn to like me." Her voice did not have the annoyance nor sarcasm of that afternoon, only sadness verging on anguish as she added, "How am I supposed to warm up to her?"

  "I am sorry," he muttered sincerely. "I never meant to imply that you were not doing enough."

  "No, that is not it, either. It is just that we are so different, your mother and I. Maybe she would have resented any woman you married but knowing that still does not make the situation easier."

  He was sympathetic but he felt helpless, unable to contradict the truth of her statement. Yet, he doubted that there was anything that he nor anyone else could do to change his mother.

  "It is hard but I can actually live with her indifference, even her avoidance of me, maybe, even learn to ignore it, in time. I realize that it must be hard for her, too, living with the woman who took from her the person around which her world had revolved."

  "I am sorry I was not aware of all this." He answered lamely.

  "You are busy with your work at the mill. How could you be?" The edge had returned to her voice, wrought by the perception that the situation with Mrs. Thornton was hopeless and that John could never fully unders
tand her despair over it.

  She abruptly got up from her chair and picked up her book. "I know and accept that the mill is important to you. I also realize that it is unpleasant and quite vexing to be caught in between your wife and your mother."

  She walked towards the writing table and nearly slammed her book on the pile on top of it. She turned, her eyes flashing. "What upsets me the most is how your mother seems so detached towards my daughter, who is of her flesh and blood."

  "What do you mean?"

  "She did not come to see Elise until a few days after she was born. I cannot remember if she has touched my child at all. It worries me that she might treat Elise the way she does me."

  "Give my mother time. It has been a long time since she has seen, much less held a baby, and she is not very demonstrative, as you know."

  "No, except to you." Her voice faltered and she sat down on the chair in front of the writing table. She covered her face with her hands as she struggled to keep from crying.

  "Margaret, my love!"

  He could not bear to see her cry and it no longer mattered to him then that she might repel his efforts at comforting her. All he wanted to do was hold her, tell her that he would do almost anything to make her happy. He came towards her, knelt on one knee, and disengaging her hands off her face, kissed and caressed it lovingly. She had shed no tears but her eyes were moist and red and clouded with such mournfulness as he had not seen in her before.

  "Has it been that hard living in this house with my mother?"

  She covered her face with her hands once again. "I miss Mama. I miss my father and Frederick. My parents never even saw my daughter, never knew I would have one."

  He gathered her close into his arms, "Oh my love." She buried her face on his shoulder and, immovable, reticent, impenetrable, she clung to him. Then, her body began to quiver against his, gripped by a disconsolate sorrow about which he felt helpless. All he could do was hold her until she calmed down again. Happy as the two of them had been, it had not occurred to him that she would continue to grieve and miss her family that much, especially now that she had her own. Then, he reminded himself that, as strong as his wife seemed to be, she was, in fact, quite young and probably occasionally needed someone to turn to for counsel and implicit support, such as that her mother or her father or even Mr. Bell had given her. Had she hoped that his mother could have become that trusted confidante?