Chapter 4-Where Temperance Resides
Four more minutes had passed-thirty seven minutes since Margaret had swept out of the room.
John could hear the movement of the second hands on both his pocket watch and the clock on the mantle; the offset ticks played like a beating heart. He could hear the silence between the movements, a tinny, frothy nothing-noise more maddening than the heartbeat by far. He could not, hard as he focused, hear any indication of discourse.
He had been pacing at first, but his footsteps echoed too loudly. He stood by the mantle, but when he shifted his weight the squeak of a floorboard set his teeth on edge. The crinkling of a newspaper was out of the question, so he had taken up the nearest book to him-Mr. Hale's copy of Republic-and sat stiff on the edge sofa, attempting distraction.
"Two virtues remain: temperance and justice. More than the preceding virtues temperance suggests"
Thirty nine minutes. He shook his head, regarding the passage again.
"Two virtues remain: temperance and"
His confounded mother. He had bared unto her his heart last night, the woman who had raised him and whose good opinion and advice he had sought above all others for nearly his entire life; to have her treat Margaret so scornfully … and Margaret, in her grace, had remained so poised in spite of his mother's diatribe, his sister's gawk.
John pulled at his tie.
"and justice. More than the preceding virtues, temperance suggests the"
He drummed his fingers against the open book. His Margaret. Shoulders squared, a picture of dignity-but how cryptic her expression had been, and how her hands had trembled in her lap …
Now he could envision the two women, swords drawn, circling one another; he was naive to expect this day to go differently.
He touched his waistcoat pocket, feeling out the little metal circle nestled there. He looked at the clock. Still thirty-nine minutes. He bit his thumb.
"temperance suggests the idea of harmony. Some light is thrown on the nature of this virtue by the popular description of a man as 'master of himself'-which has an absurd sound, because the master is also the servant."
Fanny wasn't long behind Mrs. Thornton. As soon as John and Margaret were alone, he turned and reached for her; but at the same time she raised herself and wafted away, leaving him bent over the arm of his chair with his hand still extended toward her stupidly.
Perhaps she was angry with him, as she should be; his mother had insulted both her intelligence and her integrity. And he had done ... what? Defended her honor?
No.
He'd sat dumbfounded—impotent. Today his mother threw the rock, grazed the temple, and John was just as useless.
He watched her at the window. She was silhouetted against the sunlight, facing away from him, postured like a Greek sculpture-the antithesis to his stiff, lumbering form as he came to stand beside her. His fingers rested on her shoulder, but she did not acknowledge his presence at length. Her stare seemed empty, though tears threatened to tumble down her cheeks.
"Margaret?"
She still said nothing, did nothing, and the pitch in his chest grew. He took care in turning her to face him and, not knowing what else to do, bent to press his forehead against hers. All he could see was her, and he breathed her name-his lungs had no higher calling now-and he waited. He breathed, and he felt her breath, and he waited … and then her eyes looked up into his, and she smiled at him, a lit candle, an open bloom.
His sigh was a frantic laugh as his mouth collided with hers, his heart just closer to desperation than delight. The kiss was I am sorry, and I am yours.
John's hands slid to her neck and the small of her back, daring to pull her a little closer-and to his torment she arched into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He moaned against her, mouth dragging open, pulling her forward so that her body was flush with his, and the rise of her chest against his was fire, was heaven. She was so soft. She smelled of rose water. He was burning. The kiss was I need you.
Forty-one minutes. He scrubbed at his face.
He had thought every day, from the moment he met her, of touching her. There had not been a night where he didn't envision, whether bitterly or full of sweet hope, the touch of her hand, or what it must be like to swallow her in his embrace; to kiss her forehead, her wrists, the pout of her lips.
... And on endless nights when sleep mocked him, he'd succumb to the thoughts he otherwise refused to abide. His favorite—his very favorite—was of the dinner party years before, the white silk gown Margaret had worn; the way the fabric grabbed and shifted against her, and of the way the light of the candlesticks illuminated the slope of her neck and the perfection of her décolletage. He imagined what it would be like, his hands and his mouth exploring every inch of the glow, or what sounds she might make with his face buried in the crook of her neck there, or how those tapered fingers would feel in his hair, and—
(He groaned now at his impertinence—he was a beast, a shameful, savage animal, and he wanted her, and none of this helped.)
—and all the while he thought that if he could ever simply kiss her, he would be cured of this insatiable malady. His head could be cleared. Just a real kiss could satisfy his heart. The knowledge of her love would quell all restlessness.
He was a fool. The taste and feel of her was honey, and it was agony—he wanted more, and it would never be enough.
Forty-two minutes. He tapped his fingers against the book page.
His hand moved to his pocket again, Fanny's voice sharp in his mind, chirping along to the beat of the second hands—six months, six months, six months.
"I think," Margaret sighed, pulling back to look at him, "that I will not improve our situation by kissing you so plainly, where anyone walking past could see." Her lips and cheeks were ruddy, eyes still pink, sadness staining her flush of desire. She hadn't quite caught her breath. John was still panting.
"We're engaged—we can kiss as much as we like." He leaned forward again, but she tipped her head away, and a fervent, vexing itch ignited in him.
"Not this way. Not right now, not so—so passionately. And certainly not in front of an open window—"
John thrilled at her gasp (though he tried not to show it) when he yanked the curtains shut without turning from her. "There," he murmured, stepping closer, "now no one can see us." He brought his lips unbearably close to hers, all agitation and attraction.
"Someone might walk in."
"Let them. I do not care."
"But you care about your mother, and she does care who sees. I should speak to her. Now, where do you think she's gone?"
Thoughts of his mother immediately iced over those warm, pleasant Margaret-thoughts, and he now found it far easier (though not entirely easy) to keep from kissing her. John was unable to betray his chagrin: "After the way she's treated you, surely there can be nothing to say."
"To me, there is plenty to say. No ... no, I must speak to her immediately. Excuse me—" She turned for the door, but he still held her.
"She was out of line, Margaret, and I will not have her speak to you that way again. I will talk to her."
"John, you do not have control over this situation," Margaret said, and he responded, riddled with bitter guilt.
"To be sure, but I can get control over it yet."
Margaret's expression shifted, and she looked at him with aggravated determination. He had seen it many, many times before. "You misunderstand. The conflict is between your mother and me, and so you do not have any authority in this manner. I must set things right. I know I can do this, so you must let me."
Where that tone might once have set him on edge, he now found a thrill in it. His response was almost a laugh.
"Let you? Are people often successful in keeping you from doing exactly what you want to do?"
She flushed, and placed a chaste kiss high on his cheek. "Now, stay here. I won't be ten minutes."
Forty-four minutes after she left, something shattered distantly.
The book was on the floor now; John was on his feet. He threw the drawing room doors open in his haste towards the noise—they shuddered under the force of his hands. He barreled down the hallway, rounded the corner, and skidded into the little sitting room. Margaret was on her hands and knees near his mother's feet, hunched over a sea of broken china shards. She and Hannah both turned on him with wide eyes, and his mother arose from her chair.
"Heavens, John, are you alright?"
He didn't respond to his mother—did not even look at her—but dashed to kneel by Margaret and take her hand. "Are you hurt?"
She reddened, but she smiled. "Oh, I'm well! I was clumsy—I knocked my saucer off the table. I do apologize again, Mrs. Thornton." She resumed plucking pieces off the floor, but John took the little white fragments from her cupped hand—"Please, let me." —and finished the work for her as she got to her feet.
"It's no trouble. Fanny broke a cup some years back," he heard his mother say, "so the set was already incomplete. I told Miss Hale the maid would clean it up."
"I didn't want to trouble anyone—though I think I failed your son in that attempt. Oh, I had been saying: I will be quite happy using someone in town, but if Aunt Shaw should feel strongly about it, I'm inclined to give in. It's only a dress—certainly not the most important decision to be made."
John pushed himself to his feet, awkwardly cradling the china remains. He noticed now that the two women seemed to be regarding each other with pleasant respect, and he looked at them with equal doses of suspicion and confusion. "Wedding plans?"
"Battle plans, more like it," Margaret laughed. "Mrs. Thornton and I have been discussing negotiation tactics, in case Aunt Shaw and Edith decide to put up a fight about where to have the wedding."
"You needn't fret, Miss Hale. I can be very persuasive when I need to be." Then, after a moment standing between the betrothed, she muttered: "I'll see where Fanny's gone off to."
His mother stopped as she passed him, only for a moment, to lay her hand on his arm. He could see the guilt on her face, but he looked to Margaret once more, watched her smile, before he kissed his mother's cheek. She squeezed his arm gently and left them, looking every bit like a widowed woman.
Margaret had followed John out of the house and across the mill yard in silence. She was glad for the respite—glad to be away from his mother, even if they had come to terms with one another—and glad to be alone with John again ... if a little flustered.
He'd offered his elbow when they reached the stairs to his office, and though she took it she was careful to let go as she reached the top step. He escorted her into his office; it seemed so much larger now that it had been cleared of its stacks of ledgers and paper. In the center sat a great, empty desk upon which she skated her fingers as she peered out the window, watching. She knew that no one was around, but she felt she should strive to maintain at least a modicum of propriety—and it seemed that in the dining room she'd had none.
How much strife in the past three years had been caused by the mere appearance of imprudent behavior? Certainly she had learned better—yet her mind was now a train on an unbending track, and had been since the moment his lips first touched hers and she learned how it felt to be so loved. She wanted to kiss John, and hold him. She wanted—
—she wanted things that were yet mysteries, things she'd not wanted in any real way before meeting John Thornton.
She didn't want people to see her wanting those things.
So when John closed his office door, and they were very much alone again, Margaret felt the return of an exquisite itch just underneath the skin of her chest. She held her breath as John came to stand in front of her. He leaned down gently in this new way of his: rolling his shoulders forward, bringing his face close to hers, and tilting his head as if trying to read in dimmest light.
"You're alright, then?" His voice was rough with worry, almost a whisper.
"I am well. You need not worry, John-we had a good discussion. I am certain we shall grow to love each other." Margaret reached up and laid her palm on his cheek, and she marveled at the pleasure it brought her, the tug in her chest. She waited for him to kiss her, but he straightened; his brow settled low, lids heavy, and he cast his eyes down his nose.
"I am glad," he said.
Then he was quiet while she waited. For a few moments his lips moved, almost imperceptibly, as if conversing with himself. When he started to speak, he did so as if practicing a tongue completely foreign to him.
"My—darling Margaret. I never thought ... never dreamed-" Then he was silent again; he swallowed, and Margaret saw nervousness branding his face, and she was awash with tenderness.
She had seen this look before.
She had dismissed it then.
"My darling John," she whispered, willing him to meet her gaze, and when he did, she was pleased to see his face stretch into a smile, his frame relaxing.
He stepped back, and watched his own hand as it pulled a shining little something from his pocket; he held it to himself, rather than out to her. She recognized it now—a Fede ring, a delicate golden band formed into two tiny hands which held a small, clear, bright sapphire.
"John." Her breath shook. "It's—"
"It is a trifle, and old fashioned; only, the handshake reminded me of you. And once the mill is back on its feet, I can buy something more worthy of your hand."
Still he held the ring close to himself; only when she placed a hand on his did he shake from his stupor and, laughing to himself, he slid it onto her finger (she did not mind that it was a bit loose) before diving down for a kiss—and then he swept her into an exultant embrace, pulling her up so that her feet weren't touching the floor, and she gasped in elation and tightened her arms around his neck.
"It's beautiful," she breathed while he peppered her face with kisses; returning her to the floor, he moved some fallen hair from her face, twisting a little curl between his fingers.
Then his movements were slower. His eyes grew dark, he sighed—she trembled—and he grazed his lips against the curve of her jaw just below her ear, and her breath hitched in her throat.
This. This.
He tilted his head to kiss her again, just below his last kiss. The tip of his nose tickled her neck, and (she thought) she should have been mortified to hear herself sigh at the contact, but she wasn't. She felt herself sway, and so she leaned back again, gripping the edge of the desk as she settled against it, and to her delight he followed. His hands met her arms, the placement of his fingers restrained—but his eyes were barely open and his brow was pinched together and she knew that what he wanted wasn't restraint.
His office seemed so loud now, raucous with the stilted rhythm of her heart and with his breath roaring in her ear. When his nose nudged at her, she dropped her head to the side, her other ear meeting her shoulder; when in response he groaned, the noise impossibly deep and close, she could feel the vibration of it string behind her knee and in the arch of her left foot, and she let out a breathy, squeaking sigh. She thought of earlier, when he had clutched her to him, his chest so firm and warm, and she longed for it—and fear and desire sparred within her.
Teetering at the edge of her mind was an awareness of how dangerous a path this might be to tread. Margaret knew little of true physical affection (and less of what it led to) but she wasn't ignorant; she had heard warnings about the passion of lovers, and the ease with which one could lose control if not cautious.
I can be careful, she told herself—but she was still gripping the edge of the desk, and something about the way John slid his hands down her arms to cover her own hands, slipping his fingers between hers, felt dangerous. Margaret could feel some new thread being pulled taut within her, a maddening tug that brought a mist over her thoughts.
Please.
Careful. Please.
When John brought his face close to the place where her neck met her shoulder, he paused. She felt the weight and tremor of his breath on her skin. She knew that if she asked, he would kiss her there, and then—she didn't know.
She didn't know, and she wanted to, but instead she turned her head and kissed his cheek once, twice, until his mouth met hers again. Careful.
They continued this way for some time, until John panted against her swollen lips, "What do you think of the first day of Autumn?"
Margaret pulled back. "That's little more than a month from now."
"A month of torture until I can wake up every morning and see you next to me." He radiated joy, his cheeks ruddy from affection, his look fixed upon Margaret, unraveling her.
"A very long month," she agreed.
A/N: Thank you, everyone, for your patience while I wrote and rewrote this, and thank you so much for all your kind reviews! I find them so encouraging. :-) I had some serious problems with formatting and content in the last chapter (all fixed now), so if you're still reading this, thank you for your gracious spirit!
