From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Edgar Allen Poe, Alone
A single tear rolled silently down her cheek, despite her efforts to stop it. She had not cried as much as she felt was necessary when her mother died, nor Bessy or her father, or even Mr Bell, but now, of course, here she was tearing up at nothing at all. She hoped it would go unnoticed but he must have seen it in her reflection in the train window. His fingers crept under her chin and turned her head towards him.
"Margaret? What is it?" his voice was soft but she could feel the worry emanating through his fingertips and his eyes were asking if it was something he had done. She wondered that she had not realised sooner how gentle and caring he was, and how uncertain of her he now was because of what had transpired between them.
"It's nothing, I…" She faltered, "I'm just so very sorry for everything. For what has happened… and for what I put you through. How can you even bear to look at me?" She swallowed the lump in her throat; she would not cry. He sighed and cupped her face in his hands.
"Quite easily I'm sure. It might be harder were you less beautiful, but as it is, I want nothing more than to stare at you without end."
"John-" She started.
"No, Margaret, I'll not have you blame yourself for blameless actions. You believed I was insulting your honour. You believed me to be a scoundrel or a heartless fool. Quite understandably, I might add. My timing was terrible and I… It is of no consequence now. You are here. You are coming home with me and that is all I need to know. I love you, Margaret, and you'll not convince me that I don't."
"John, I…" She turned fully away from the window and pulled his hands from her face into her lap and clasped them tight. She was trying to say it back – she knew she hadn't said the words yet; there was something terrifying about saying them out loud – a sort of finality that frightened her. But when she had mustered the strength to look up at him, she found herself unable to form a coherent sentence. The intensity of his gaze was crippling, as it had been not an hour ago at the station. How she had even managed to walk back to her train to get her bags was a mystery, because if his gaze was crippling, his kiss was murder. Delicious, agonising death.
The way he stared at her made her heart beat faster, it always had, but now she knew to accept that feeling as good. Her face dropped and her breathe caught in her throat and his eyes flicked back to worry, "Margaret?"
"I'm fine," she found her voice, "It's just… when you look at me like that, I… I can't… it takes my breath away." A look of shock passed briefly on his face and she couldn't help but smile.
"How do I look at you?" He inquired.
"Almost as if no-one else exists." She said breathlessly and he looked pleased with himself. An idea seemed to strike him and he leaned in closer.
"Can I do anything for your present relief?" His voice was low, dripping honey to her ears.
"Stop that." She said seriously, but she was blinking rapidly and he tried to suppress his amusement.
"Stop what?" The smirk that she used to hate so much made her heart stop. There was a long, heavy pause, until finally Margaret brought her hands to rest at the base of his skull, guiding his head down to hers. They were nearly touching and Margaret was transfixed by his lips, when his hand hit the window behind her. He stopped less than an inch from her and she froze, startled eyes flicking back up to his. He canvassed her face for something, searching for something important. She tried to tug him closer but he resisted, hand still firmly planted on the window and refusing to budge. Her fingers dug in involuntarily when she realised with a jolt that his other hand was resting near her waist, not quite touching her, just floating on her skirt above her hip. Judging by his concentration, she wasn't even sure he knew it was there.
She was going to ask what he was looking for, but she changed course, instead her fingers started stroking the back of his neck, playing with his hair. She felt his arm waver beside her head and then the hand on her skirt began to move. His fingers started tracing shapes on her waist, finding solace in the curve of her skin. His eyes closed and his breath rushed out in a long, contented sigh. She moved her hands higher until they were lost in his hair and his arm was twitching yet more at the window. A satisfied hum seemed to be sitting in his chest. He pressed his forehead to hers and brushed his nose against her cheek. She pulled him forward but he kept steadfast, refusing to relinquish the barrier.
"What is it?" She asked, and he chuckled darkly.
"I am afraid." He said simply, "there, do I surprise you?"
"You do. I am astonished."
"I am afraid… that this is all a dream and that if I allow myself to become too content, that I will wake, alone and miserable at the Mills." His eyes flickered under his lids, but they did not open.
"Mr Thornton, I wasn't aware that you were so superstitious?"
"Not superstitious. Just unaccustomed to happiness."
Margaret tilted upwards and kissed his forehead, "When I arrived in Milton, I felt I had left my home, and in doing so, the one place I truly belonged. I felt I would never be sincerely happy again," she ran her lips from his forehead down the long slope of his nose, "then, I returned to Helstone and I felt completely out of place and lost in the world. When I heard about the Mills, I suddenly knew where I belonged." She hovered by his lips, "and when I saw you at the station I believed fate was being cruel; it was dangling you before me, just to snatch you away again. But I do not feel alone now. I feel as though I am home. I swear to you, John… you will never wake up alone again."
She had enough time to register that his arm wasn't stopping them anymore, and then he was pushing her up against the window and his hand was between her head and the hard surface behind her. They were kissing more urgently than at the station now that they knew they were out of sight of prying eyes. Still, they were cautious: conscious of exactly how far they could push it before overstepping the line, although Margaret was pretty certain this kind of display set fire to the line and left it burning in their wake. His hands never strayed, one at her waist and one protecting her head, and his lips never moved from hers, but all he could think about was kissing her ears, her neck, her collarbone, her chest… she was gripping his waistcoat, tugging him ever closer until his whole body was pressing hers to the window.
When they pulled part it was only because the train began to slow. They stayed close, still wrapped up in each other despite their attempt at decorum. They discussed their plans; Margaret couldn't wait to see her friends and John was bursting to set the Mill right again. Both kept quiet about their true desires – to go home, their home, and assure each other in every way possible that neither would ever go back again.
"After I have settled, may I be permitted to visit my friends this evening?" Margaret asked politely, still unsure how to conduct herself in a relationship of such nature.
John was suddenly struck with a cheeky idea and deadpanned, "No, I don't think so."
Margaret's face fell and that slightly bemused, worried expression was one he hadn't seen before. He immediately set about committing it to memory and smiled as they stood to leave the carriage, "Not alone. We will visit them together, for since he began working at the Mills, he and I have struck up a secret kinship that might rival your own," then he kissed her nose and stepped off the train, bags in hand.
She looked after him in shock and only remembered to follow him when the conductor whistled loudly two carriages down. She skipped across the platform and whipped her bag from his grip, "that was very cruel," she admonished unconvincingly.
"Yes, well, I'm a cruel person," he responded and she smiled, looping her arm through the crook of his. "You do not need to ask my permission for things, Margaret. Other marriages might be based on such custom, but I hope ours will not stop to such lows."
She blushed, "I just… I am not accustomed to this."
"And I am?" John raised an eyebrow at her and her blush deepened as they alighted in a taxi carriage.
"John!? John is that you?" Hanna's voice floated down the hall and Margaret braced herself against the closing door. She could face the wrath of that woman: she has been sure of it in the carriage, but since crossing the threshold her courage seemed to have deserted her.
"Yes Mother," John called back and Margaret swallowed hard. Then she appeared in a blaze of black-cladded fury.
"Where the HELL have you been!? Scaring the life out of me, looking for you, worrying me half to death! Miss Hale came looking for you, trying to help me, comfort me, when I thought… I thought… she trailed away, her face white and her fury gone in an instant. The anger had been hiding what she truly felt – fear. Fear that something had happened to her son, fear that he was not in fact missing but dead or dying somewhere, alone.
"I am not my father and never intend to be," John said quietly, reaching out for his mother, but she drew back when she noticed Margaret.
"I see you're back then," she seemed bitter, "for good I suppose?"
"Yes, Mother, and I'll not hear another word about it," he reached for Margaret and she found she felt much stronger with his support and stepped to his side, gripping his hand in an iron vice. If he was uncomfortable in any way, he didn't show it, "You are to be nice to Miss Hale and see to it that Fanny does the same."
For a moment it looked as though Hanna considered arguing, and then she nodded. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, she grabbed Margaret's free hand tightly in hers, "Do not hurt my son again, Miss Hale, and you and I shall have no quarrel." The two women looked at each other for a long moment, a mutual agreement seemed to pass, and both nodded. Then Hanna did something even more unexpected. She turned on her heel and jabbed her son sharply in the chest. "And you. You take care of Miss Hale. I raised a good man. See to it that you stay that way."
John looked over at Margaret, "I believe I can manage that just fine," and both his mother and his fiancé relaxed slightly.
"Right. Let's get these bags away. Where has that silly girl got herself to now?" Hanna's brief moment of emotional frankness disappeared like it had never been, replaced with her usual disgruntled attitude. She called out but there was no reply and she huffed, stomping back up the stairs to find the maid. Margaret released John's hand and he winced, rubbing his knuckles.
"Oh, I'm sorry!"
"Don't mention it, it's not a bother." John mumbled, but she grabbed his wrist.
"Nonsense, you should have said something!"
"You needed me more than I needed my fingers intact in that particular instance."
"John!" She scolded, but he shook his hand out and shrugged.
"See, it is already feeling better. I will be fine, don't fret yourself." The maid ran down the stairs and apologised profusely to them both as she picked up the bags and took them away, "And I told you Mother would be fine."
"She doesn't like me."
"No. But I hope she will grow to."
Margaret scoffed – she highly doubted it.
Twenty minutes later they were in the carriage on their way to the Higgins Residence. At the door, they waited nervously, unsure of the correct way to present themselves, but when Nicholas appeared, they knew they needn't have worried. He yelled excitedly to Mary even as he pulled Margaret into an enormous bear hug, wrapping her in his huge arms and holding her tight. She had almost let herself forget how much she loved them all. When he finally let go, neither had dry eyes and Mary cut in for her own greeting while Nicholas crossed to shake John's hand and invite them in. They sat at the table and Margaret placed a basket of bread and vegetables before them. Nicholas laughed heartily, "You and your bloody baskets, Miss Hale."
"I don't see the harm in keeping with disgruntled tradition," she responded, and he chuckled.
"Aye, that's not far from the truth," he turned to John, "So does this mean the Mill is open again or is it just the engagement you were announcing?" He and John shared a look and he nodded, "good then. No more sitting about twiddling thumbs for me."
"I don't believe you're capable of sitting idle," Margaret said slyly, "not for a moment."
"Well you may be right there Miss Margaret, but I gave it my best try." A hint of sadness creased his brow, telling of the stress of losing his job and the struggle of finding work, but it was gone in an instant. The four boys were dancing around them, trying in vain to draw John's attention, but he was too enraptured by his beloved as she bent down to the two little girls.
"I brought you something. Would you like a doll to share?" She pulled a well-kept doll from the basket and Nicholas started to object, "It is not charity, Nicholas. It is mine, or it used to be. While I was in London I… uh, I thought we had sold all of Father's possessions, except the books, when I moved in with my Aunt and Uncle. Mr Bell never told me that he was the one who bought them. When he left he sent me a letter which I received two weeks ago, explaining that he had bought the entire house with everything in it and had not touched a single possession. So when I came up here to find John," it was at this moment that John slipped his hand over hers, "I stopped by and found a few of my old toys beneath mother's bed. I have no use for them, and I'm sure the girls would like a doll or two to play with, as I used to."
Nicholas sighed but consented and the toy was passed to the children who ran off to play with it. The only one who stayed was James, who was still bouncing up and down by the table. John was so absorbed in Margaret's story that he barely noticed the boy until James tugged at his sleeve expectantly. John shook his head.
"I don't know what you're expecting little fellow… I don't have anything of value." He said, mirth clouding the seriousness of the statement. The boy looked disappointed until John reached into his jacket pocket, "All I have is this dusty old children's book – and that is no use to anyone, is it?" he waved the volume in the air and James beamed and tugged his sleeve again. John let his hand slip from where it had been resting on Margaret's atop the table and he stood and let the boy drag him into the other room. Margaret and Nicholas watched them go, amused, and Mary followed the boys.
"He brings them books. I believe that habit is your influence, because it's certainly not a Milton custom; you bring baskets and he brings books. After the second visit, they started asked him to read to 'em." Higgins told her. Margaret was surprised, but only for a moment. She committed the fact of her influence to memory and crept up to where the door to the boys' room stood ajar. John was sitting with James on his knee while the others sat and listened. Mary was just as enraptured as the children, just as eager to learn as any of them. Margaret leaned against the doorframe and gazed adoringly at her fiancé. "He's a good'un," Nicholas's voice sprung up behind her, "Bessy would've loved to see this. She always said you two would end up together, though lord knows I never saw it 'til after she died, God Bless."
"I'm sorry? Bessy thought this would happen?" Margaret felt a surge of loss that her friend would never see her married and settled: that she would never be able to invite her round for tea or ask for help planning a wedding, which she knew Bessy would have loved.
"Mmhmm, always gave me a look whenever his name came up, always tutted to herself after you left. I always told her it was nonsense, but I'm not ashamed to admit that she knew better than me, nor am I particularly surprised by it." Higgins smiled to himself at the memory. Margaret's eyes flicked back to John's and he watched her staring at her fiancé, remembering a time when he'd regarded his wife that way, before she passed. He wondered if she even realised how completely smitten she looked and quickly decided that he would not be the one to tell her – it was far too amusing – he resolved to just observe silently.
They spent all afternoon with the Higgins' and Margaret chatted at length with Mary while John discussed the Mill with Nicholas. As darkness enveloped the brooding city, however, she had to admit it was time to head back home. She curled her arm through John's as they waved through the carriage window, watching their friends waving excitedly back at them disappearing down the street.
She rested her head on his shoulder and exhaled comfortably as he rested his arm about her shoulders. She noticed him twiddling his fingers and realised that she had hurt him more than he had let on, but she didn't say anything, as she knew he would just claim it was nothing. Instead she brought it to her lips and kissed his knuckles. He tightened his hold around her shoulders and she realised she had just mimicked her actions from the train station; he was looking at her with that intense gaze again and she raised an eyebrow, almost challenging him. He made up his mind, however, and did not move: simply letting his sore hand go limp in hers while she held it gently.
When they arrived home she was loathe to release him, but they were both exhausted and the day had been long. They separated at the door and the maid led her to a room which would become hers. While it was a nice room, she felt for the first time in her life that it was entirely too big and too empty for her. It occurred to her only now that separate beds, even after marriage, was the "done thing" and an unpleasant pit formed in her stomach. Perhaps they might only lie together on special occasions? Perhaps they would only sleep in the same bed once, on the night of their wedding? The thought filled her with dread until she remembered her promise to John. Even if society dictated that they sleep apart, she would never let him wake alone. She would keep her promise.