A/N: Halfway North and South the reader starts seeing less of Margaret's thoughts and more and more of Mr. Thornton's, to the point that in the last two chapters we only see Margaret through other people's eyes (Edith, Dixon, Henry and Mr. Thornton). I think that's because Gaskell fell in love with her male leading character (not that I blame her for that ;-), so here I attempt to bringing Margaret back into focus.
Also, because I am always surprised by "Oh, Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough", I try to delve into her state of mind that makes her say that.
Here is a one shot story that should go between Ch. 51 and 52, the two last of the book. It's the night after Mr. Thornton comes for dinner, and Margaret reflects on the nature of their relationship and has an imaginary conversation with him.
Please read my notes on language and inspirations for this piece at the end of the text.
Thank you for reading and your comments (if you have any, of course).
Dixon helped Margaret out of her dress and undid her hair, tossing the pomegranate flowers with a little too much energy on a side basket. While she combed the long jet black locks and tied them for the night, she observed that her young mistress' cheeks were red and she sat unusually quiet, even though she had been in her room for more than half an hour. Just as Edith had expressed before, Dixon feared Margaret might be ill from visiting slums during the day.
-"I hear Mr. Thornton dined here this evening", said Dixon to make Margaret come out of her silence.
-"Yes, he did", was the absent-minded reply.
-"Not that I mind much about them, but are Mrs. Thornton and Mrs. Watson in good health?", persevered Dixon.
-"I really don't know, Dixon. Why do you ask?" Margaret's eyes met her servant's on the mirror.
"Oh, I only wondered." Dixon felt cornered as she often did when Margaret didn't want to be challenged. "You look flushed. Are you alright, Miss Margaret?", she said to change the topic of conversation.
Margaret shifted on her stool as if Dixon had jostled her. "Yes, Dixon, I am alright" she snapped, but tried to soften her tone. "It's so hot, please be nice and bring me a cool refreshment. Maybe a glass of lemonade or a piece of fruit. Will you, dear old Dixon?" she said with a cajoling smile. "A nectarine would be just the thing."
Miss Margaret could handle Dixon better than anyone, and Dixon was glad there were never witnesses to the times when her mistress kept a short leash on her. She went to the pantry and came back quickly with a jug of cool water and two nectarines on a small tray. She left them on Margaret's desk, and stood waiting to be dismissed.
-"Goodnight Dixon, you may retire" said Margaret. She wanted to be alone, if only to think, because some thoughts are best had in private. The servant retreated closing softly the door behind her, and Margaret turned to the tray with the water and the fruit and sighed.
This evening she had met Mr. Thornton for the first time in a year and a half. She had spent the afternoon with poor factory workers' families, and on her way back home she pondered about the conveniences of marriage without love - she saw daily examples and knew that camaraderie and friendship sometimes lasted a lifetime, when love sometimes just vanished within a few years. She had thought about Mr. Thornton, as she had often done since the day he had proposed, figuring him far and happy in Milton - only to find him sitting across the table two hours later.
But then, it had always been like that with Mr. Thornton. He always seemed to be a step or two ahead of her, and everything she had once assumed about him had been proved wrong.
When she thought him cold and dismissive of other's feelings, he had offered her (in private!) every help within his powers to ease her mother's discomfort. By antagonizing her she felt he held only derision for her opinions and her person in general, while in reality he was forming a very serious attachment of the heart. She thought she wouldn't see him again after her cruel rejection, but he kept attending his lessons and bringing baskets of fruit of her ailing mother. After her mother's death she had found him at Higgins' home and she thought he might still have some feelings for her, but that very afternoon he made a point in stating exactly the opposite, in so many words. He was angry because of her lie, enough to spat hurtful words in the presence of her father and Mr. Bell, but saved her from the police inquest by calling it off; so disgusted by her as to ask his mother to remonstrate her, but discreet enough not to share the particulars of her misdeed. He could spare the time to go to Crampton and ask after herself and attend her father's funeral in Oxford, but unable to sit down when she went to his house with Aunt Shaw to say goodbye. Then he had stood reading some business letters, and he seemed to remember them being there only when they were leaving to walk them to the door, as if he couldn't wait to get rid of her. She had thought him prosperous and far, but he was broken and very near.
It was all very confusing, she thought while she filled a glass and raised it to her lips. Aunt Shaw and Edith liked to say that men were simple: they did not know Mr. Thornton!
In the long days by the seaside, watching the waves and listening to the gulls, Margaret had arrived to the conclusion that she should not spend any more time trying to discern Mr. Thornton's mind or heart, but that she should focus on her own ones instead. And what was not confusing for her, not one iota, was that at some point (she couldn't say when or how), she had fallen in love with John Thornton. One wild, strange, miserable feeling she took some time to name, it had been love all along. He had earned her respect and admiration, even if she had been reluctant at first, and had became her measuring canon of men. That essential truth had guided her actions, her priorities, her views of the world, even if the realization had arrived too late to do anything about it.
Today they had met in her home, fashionable Harley Street of London, among her set of relations, attending one of her cousin's dinners. Now she was rich while he was poor, she had suitors while he had silvery threads in his head, but he had been the source of the finest conversation while she had barely uttered an intelligent word. She did ask about the Thorntons and the Higginses (they were all in good health and Mrs. Watson was with child), but she didn't know what else to say and remained silent.
Oh, she was so hot! She stood and took a washcloth from a drawer, dipped it in the washbowl, rinsed it and put it on her neck, enjoying the cool drops of water sliding down under her night shirt.
She had felt so hot during the dinner, embarrassed by half formed thoughts of very improper nature. Where did those thoughts come from? She had noticed on their very first meeting that Mr. Thornton was tall and broad shouldered, but why hadn't she noticed how handsome he really was? This evening Edith had worked hard to live up to her reputed beauty when he wasn't talking to the parliamentary guest, and she had caught Aunt Shaw's very discreet eye assessing him while pretending to listen to the other female guests. Guests, who in turn, had made their respective inquires about the tall gentleman and went on to say that indeed, they had heard about him before.
Margaret sighed and undid the top of her shirt rolling it down to her waist, pressing the cold wet washcloth on her forehead first, then her front and back, finishing on her arms and ribs. The chill made her skin erupt in goosebumps, a pleasant feeling that made her nipples feel curiously hard. She knew that looking at her reflection in the mirror would be almost impudent, but she did it anyway. She was young and healthy, her breasts heavy and her womb dormant. Her lips and the petals of her flower (that's how Aunt Shaw had instructed her and Edith to call it down between their legs), still ignorant of their match, felt the hottest of her body, almost swollen and pulsating - it was both pleasant and a little unnerving.
Growing up in a rural area, surrounded by farms and peasants, and later on in her intercourse with the working classes, she had gained a fairly comprehensive insight on how babies were born and how they got there in the first place, and enough vocabulary to name most bodily parts involved in the process. Still, such knowledge was completely theoretical and flower petals was a poetic name she liked.
She patted herself dry and rolled up the shirt to its former place, tying it loosely at the neck. With another sigh (she was indeed flushed and breathing heavily) she took a nectarine - Mr. Thornton had eaten one during desert, and she had taken pleasure in seeing him holding the fruit with his long fingers and tearing the flesh with his white, straight teeth. An image of her own flesh being ravished so thoroughly had flashed through her mind, and she had felt a mighty blush creeping from her neck to her jaws, and cheeks and maybe even her ears. He had been smiling but when caught sight of her and her blush, went serious and didn't direct any other look her way. Had he known what was on her mind? Or did she look so unhealthy that he'd rather avoid her sight?
This one nectarine she was holding in her right hand was sister to that one, and even if this one was a feeble link to Mr. Thornton, it was all she could have in the solitude of her room.
-"You know, Mr. Thornton, it seemed as if I had conjured you up, so much I thought of you today", she said to nectarine. "Would you come if I called you again?"
-"Of course I would", replied Mr. Thornton. He was lying on her bed, hands crossed under his head, one flexed leg with the foot on the coverlet, the other one crossed over it.
-"Mr. Thornton! Why are you on my bed? And your foot is on the coverlet, you'll be ruining it!"
-"My foot is on the coverlet, dear Miss Hale, because I am too tall for the length of your bed. But don't worry about me spoiling it; since I am imaginary I cannot ruin physical things. Still..." he didn't finish the sentence but with a quick motion (almost a jump) sat on the bed with his feet on the floor. He was wearing the same suit he wore in Milton, with smoke and fluff on it.
-"I... did you have a pleasant evening, Mr. Thornton? I am sorry I didn't speak much, did I disappoint you?" Margaret's cheeks went ablaze once more.
-"Considering that the dinner was brought over by the loss of my business, I had a good time", he replied.
-"You have changed so much!", Margaret felt a lump in her throat, "was it that bad?"
-"My business didn't fail because of my lack of work, and the past two years have had a lot of it. But you have changed too."
-"Have I? I've finished mourning the loss of my family, that's all. Well, and I am rich now, as you well know, but that's because I'm Mr. Bell's heiress."
-"Is that all?", asked he.
-"Yes, I suppose so. You couldn't see it, of course, because I didn't speak tonight. And I was wearing this golden dress, which looks ostentatious but was chosen for me because I am not all that interested in clothes, but I did spend the day with factory workers" she added quickly, words coming out in a tumble. As usual, she lost her bearings when confronted to him.
-"Oh, I see. Have you already found London's own Mr. Higgins?" he raised an eyebrow while he asked, and she didn't know if he was serious or not. "So, you find me confusing", he said suddenly, "I heard you enumerating whys and whens. I'm afraid my memory is not that good as to repeat them all".
-"Don't you agree with me?" she replied defensively.
-"Actually no, Miss Hale, as your aunt says, I am very simple. You blame me on being confusing but it's only that my reasons make my actions look a little contradictory sometimes. If you take a closer look at my reasons and principles, I am quite a consistent man", he smiled a little, almost to himself. "But how about you? Are you not contradictory too?". Mr. Thornton was standing now, his shoulder against the door frame, his arms crossed. "How about yourself, Margaret Hale?"
-"What about me?" she echoed, feeling a little stupid. "What is so confusing about me?"
He sighed as if the task was completely unnecessary, but complied. "You were the daughter of a former country vicar but carried yourself like a queen. What was I to make of it? You lived in Harley Street, surrounded by all things nice and dandy, yet you didn't hesitate to making friends with Higgins and his daughter." He swallowed and frowned, and Margaret knew what came next. "You sent me down to protect the rioters from the police squad, go on protecting yours truly with your own body from said rioters, went on fleeing my house in spite of being hurt..."
-"I didn't flee your house. My mother was sick, I didn't want to spend any longer away from home!" she complained, but he continued as if she hadn't spoken.
-"Madam, you think nothing of putting your own life at risk, of sacrificing yourself (your time, energy, even your feelings) for the sake of your ideals or your loved ones. However," he paused for a few moments, "you seem unable to accept anything back."
-"I did take Mr. Bell's will. He asked me if I agreed, and I said yes. See, Mr. Thornton?" she said triumphantly, "you're wrong."
-"Am I?" his eyes bore into hers. "What did you do for him? I'd bet it was nothing."
Margaret was silent for a moment and he spoke next, picking a book from her night table. "Oh, I read this book once. I had the chickenpox and read every book available in the house. Miss Austen was one of the last I read before being back to health", he smiled boyishly. "Here's a line I've always remembered, I see it's in the chapter you'll read next".
He put the book down and walked about the room. "Can I have the other nectarine?" he said helping himself the lone fruit from the tray. "I'm not overly partial to nectarines, but you were eating the only apple that didn't look like it carried a worm".
Mr. Thornton wasn't a man who suffered from lack of words, but the one in her imagination was particularly loquacious.
-"Will we ever have a conversation like this one?" Margaret felt compelled to ask.
- "I don't think so", he said between bites and then paused to lower his gaze to her mouth. He stood in front of her, knelt and stretched out his left arm, caressing her lips softly with his thumb. In the mirror she saw herself, her right hand's thumb smearing the nectarine juice over her lips, but she didn't want to say goodbye to this vision yet.
- "I have a plan, tomorrow I'll have Henry draw a loan for you so you can have Marlborough Mills back." She was anxious to know what he'd think of this reversal of positions. "Will that reinstate me in your good opinions?"
- "Your money will surely save my business, but you cannot buy my good opinion", he replied. "I am not for sale. Would you have me here if I were for sale?"
The answer was obviously negative.
- "I don't want Marlborough Mills back, the premises I mean. I don't want the factory closed, and I don't want another tenant," she was on the verge of tears now. "It's all yours if you want it", she rubbed her chest to ease the knot that was starting to form there. "It's all yours", she said again, "because I love you. That's the truth".
- "And are you remarkable for saying the truth?" retorted Mr. Thornton, who now was sitting on the windowsill and scrubbed his hands with her used washcloth.
- "Matter of fact, yes I am" she was as hurt as the first time he had spoken those words. "The man you saw me with was my brother, who would be hanged if he is found in England. That Leonards man wanted to turn him in and collect the bounty. It's a long story, didn't Mr. Bell tell you about it?"
Mr. Thornton scratched his jaw pensively, the stubble making a nice scrapping sound. "No, he didn't. I heard he died... of course, you know all about that." He crossed his arms. "So you have a brother. How come your father never found time to tell me about him? How come you were so alone during your time in Milton, how come you're not with him right now?" he shook his head. "No, I find that hard to believe. All I know is that you lied to a police officer."
- "Will you ever forgive me for that?" asked Margaret, feeling her heart heavy as if it pumped lead instead of blood.
- "Maybe I already did. You don't really know much about my life these days, do you? I might have forgotten about you, as I once told you I would". He stated the facts in his usual voice while looked around for his hat.
- "You told me you had, not that you would", she remarked.
- "Did I? Well, I should be leaving and you should try to sleep." He was wearing hat and gloves in spite of the heat. "Thank you for the nectarine, and see you in flesh and bone next time. If there is any, that is".
Margaret turned down the linen sheets and slid into bed. She took a last look at Mr. Thornton, who seemed to be waiting for something.
- "Did Mr. Thornton really read Pride and Prejudice?"
He smiled. "That really doesn't matter, Miss Hale".
She still had one last question.
- "Do you still love me?"
- "Find out for yourself. Goodnight", and then he was gone.
Margaret still had the book in her hand, so she opened and read on. She had no difficulty finding the passage in question, since it had been underlined in pencil by a previous reader.
"He had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; (...) all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her."
Margaret closed the book and blew the candle off. She had a very good idea of what she would tell Henry, and she could only hope that he wouldn't be too dispaired to see his hopes crushed once again.
With these thoughts in her mind she fell asleep, tightly holding a pillow against her chest.
Language note: I would love to be able to write in Gaskell's style, but I am not native English speaker and I'd rather not risk sounding like an idiot. I appreciate if you can point any typos, wrong preposition or weird choice of words that clash.
Inspirations: Besides the obvious two works (North and South, and Pride and Prejudice), I drew inspiration from the film "Looking for Eric" (directed by Ken Loach, 2009), and victorian books "Alice's adventures in Wonderland" and "Through the looking glass", by Lewis Carroll (1865 and 1871 respectively).