iv.
Despite the soft mattress and luxurious bedding, Margaret slept poorly.
Early the next morning, she heard the sounds of her husband moving about on the other side of the door that connected his room to hers. Heard the deep rumble of his voice as he spoke to someone.
Gathering her courage, she belted her robe about her slender waist and tapped on the door, timidly pushing it open at his muffled response. She stood in the doorway between the two rooms – saw that a small table had been set up near the hearth complete with porcelain place settings, a silver domed platter and a pot of tea.
"The kitchen apparently believed we would prefer to break our fast here," he said without turning. "Of course, you should take what you would like to your room…" He braced a hand on the mantle and leaned down to stir the hot coals in the hearth. "I would ask only that you keep our disagreements private." He tossed a log onto the burning embers, staring blindly at the small flames licking the edges of the wood. "I know you are already well-acquainted with the fact that the staff likes to gossip as it was by their tittle-tattle that you have found yourself dragged into this mess."
"Mr. Thornton," she interrupted. "I wish to apologize." Margaret folded her hands demurely before her and took one step into his room. "I had no right to speak to you as I did last evening. I had no cause to accuse you as I did."
He set the brass poker aside and waved a tired hand. "Do not worry on it another moment, madam," he said wearily.
"But I do," she protested. "I wish I could say that I did not mean to cause you injury, but that would be a lie." Her innate sense of honesty and fair play pushed her to speak candidly. "I was anxious. Miserable, to be utterly truthful, and I wanted you to be as well." She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, embarrassed by her behavior.
"I was frightened –"
His head whipped up and around, incredulity painted on his features. "Frightened?" he asked. "Of me?"
"Yes… n…no," she stammered. "Of the unknown," she confessed. "You are right, Mr. Thornton. We do not know each other well and I presumed… Well, I let my anxieties take over and allowed my imagination to run wild."
"Not for all the world would I wish to cause you unhappiness, Margaret." Hurt was still evident on his face and he ducked his head, unwilling to meet her eyes.
"I know." Hideously ashamed of the accusations she had flung at him the previous evening, dismayed by the hurt she had caused, she crossed to his side and laid a tentative hand on his arm. "I would have your forgiveness, sir."
He drew in a long, shuddering breath, bobbing his head in a short, jerky nod. "And so you have it, madam."
"Thank you," she whispered and knuckled a stray tear from the corner of her eye.
"Will you not sit?" He swept a hand toward one of the chairs positioned near the breakfast table and Margaret sank gratefully onto the offered seat.
"I… I also wished to thank you." She folded her hands in her lap and gifted him with a tentative smile.
Genuine curiosity showed on his face as he took the seat opposite her. "For what?"
"For your kindness yesterday – to my mother and… and to Dixon."
His brow furrowed in confusion. "I – I do not think I know…"
"The flowers," she reminded him softly. "You arranged to have nosegays sent for both of them. It was a wonderful gesture and much appreciated by them… and by me."
He flushed and rubbed a finger over the bridge of his nose in a nervous gesture. "I am pleased they liked them."
"And my bouquet." She thought of the still lush nosegay, the stems of which rested in a crystal vase on her dressing table. "It was you who chose the flowers was it not? The yellow roses?"
"You spoke nostalgically of them on one occasion when you joined your father and me after a tutoring session. I wanted you to have something to remind you of your home," he admitted with a shrug.
"They are beautiful," she said quietly. "A lovely and thoughtful gift. I thank you." She played with the ribbon securing her hair in a thick braid, rolling the scrap of fabric nervously between her thumb and forefinger. "And the earbobs… I –" Mortified by the memory of her churlish behavior the prior evening, she covered her face with her hands.
"Margaret." He reached out to tug her hands away from her face. "We are young and, God willing, have many years ahead of us. I would have us learn to live in peace and friendship – if not in love."
Her mouth trembled and she nodded. "That is my wish as well," she whispered in a choked voice.
"Will you not shake my hand on our pledge, Mrs. Thornton?" He stretched his hand across the table, dropping it slowly in consternation when she wrinkled her nose and grimaced comically. "What is it?"
"Oh, nothing. It is just… Mrs. Thornton. That is your mother!" Startled by the giggle which had escaped, she clapped a hand over her mouth.
"So it is," he grinned. "And perhaps someday a moniker you will proudly bear yourself. But until then, it may be best if we call each other by our given names." He held out his hand again. "Is that not something we can shake on, Margaret?"
She took his hard, callused hand between both of hers pumping it once with a decisive nod of her chin. "It is… John."
He squeezed her hand gently in return, running a thumb over the bright shimmer of his rings on her finger and she could not shake the feeling that the exchange had been more binding than the vows they had taken in church. Settling more comfortably in her seat, she wrapped her fingers around the handle of the teapot and lifted it.
"Tea?"
0o0o0o0o0
At times painfully awkward, at others cautiously comfortable, they shared a breakfast of fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and toast with jam. And slowly, haltingly, they began to talk. At first of the mundane – debating opposing preferences for marmalade versus strawberry jam and a mutual longing for summer and the return of fresh grilled tomatoes on the breakfast plate.
He learned that she liked her tea sweet and milky; she remembered from his visits with her father that he preferred his black with only a hint of sugar.
Quickly exhausting the dubious merits of breakfast as a source of stimulating discussion, their conversation branched out further. By silent agreement, they stayed on the path of safe and neutral topics and quickly found a mutual love of literature.
"Reading was a particular passion of mine as a child," John confessed. "But all too soon life became too… busy," he said with an oblique reference to his father's death. "I have tried lately to carve out time once again to devote to books, though business at the mill often makes it difficult."
"You have enjoyed your lessons with Father." She stared at him over the rim of her teacup.
"Immensely," he agreed. "But I fear I will need to work more diligently on my Latin and Greek if I am to continue on with him."
She smiled with genuine pleasure at his enthusiastic praise for her father and the manner in which the elder gentleman made Plato come alive during their study sessions, and in his obvious eagerness to move onto a promised study of Homer.
He spoke of the appeal of the adventurous Ivanhoe to his youthful self. They admitted to a mutual fascination with Shelley's Frankenstein and he smiled at her dramatic shiver as they touched on some of the more grotesque elements of the novel. He confessed to not having a taste for romantic poetry; she mentioned the recent pleasure she found in reading Wuthering Heights and her love of Pride and Prejudice.
"My mother enjoys Austen," he said, surprising her so that she choked on her tea. He arched a brow at her reaction and she hastily apologized.
"I am sorry." She used her napkin to mop of a small puddle of spilled tea. "But I find your mother to be so…" She searched helplessly for a less offensive word to replace the 'severe' immediately supplied by her brain when she thought of her husband's mother. "…so controlled," she finished with a meekly apologetic look. "I did not think Austen would appeal."
He dipped his head in acknowledgment of what, in truth, was a fair assessment of his mother's character. "Once upon a time," he said in his rumbling baritone, "my mother was young and very much in love." He stared past her shoulder into the flames dancing in the hearth. "I have distant memories – little more than wisps of dreams really, of our house filled with laughter." He sighed, shifting his gaze back to hers. "But life is often harsh. If you go to the cemetery, you will find two small gravestones next to my father's."
Margaret gasped sorrowfully and pressed her fingertips to her lips, waiting for him to continue.
"An older sister," he confirmed, "and a younger brother." He ran a finger pensively around and around the rim of his teacup. "My sister fell gravely ill just before her sixth birthday – I was but four years old at the time and have only the vaguest memory of her." His lips curved in a sad smile. "My brother was stillborn."
Forcefully reminded once again, that her husband's family had, at times, been cruelly treated by fate, tears brimmed in Margaret's eyes, one spilling over her lashes and she laid a comforting hand on his.
"Fanny was born years later – a surprise to us all - and with her arrival, for a short time, it seemed a spark of life had come back into the house." There was a fondness to his tone when he spoke of Fanny at odds with the exasperation Margaret so often saw on his face when dealing with his sister.
"When I look back, I believe it was grief over my father's passing…" The words seemed to stick in his throat for a moment and he coughed once to clear it before continuing. "…and the hardships which followed – the ugly talk of the manner of his passing, the loss of our home and way of life which caused my mother to develop such a defensive shell about her," he mused. "In any regard –" he visibly shook off the melancholy pall which had fallen over him "– my mother has a romantic heart buried beneath that hard exterior. Miss Austen's works," he smiled, "are something you have in common."
They passed the rest of the morning moving from topic to topic and eschewing the call to join the rest of the family for lunch. He admitted to never having the time or means to travel beyond London and she regaled him with memories of a trip to Paris with her cousin and aunt.
"I find that I am fascinated by America," he confessed.
"Now that I find surprising," she told him. "With your loyalty to and love of Milton."
"I do not see why you express such surprise. Have we not spoken once already of how we in the North value our independence?" he reminded her. "I find I am drawn to the idea of America with its pioneers and wide open spaces spanning two oceans."
"Truly?" she asked in wonderment. "I must admit those would be the last attributes which I would see appealing to a man such as you," she said, thinking of the rigid outlook he seemed to hold on any manner of topics.
He wrinkled his nose in a self-deprecating grimace. "I will concede your point that I am too much an Englishman ever to permanently leave Milton, and yet there is a part of me that longs to see new places and experience different cultures," he said with a faraway look in his eyes.
"The Great Exhibition promises to bring all the world to our doorstep," Margaret ventured, and the two eagerly latched onto the topic of the Prince's pet project set to open in the spring, the news reports of the finishing touches being done to the Crystal Palace and rumors of the many exotic and technological marvels reported to be part of the show.
And so much of the day passed until such time as Margaret, fatigued from the anxieties and excitements of the previous day as well as a lack of sleep, was unable to conceal her growing weariness.
"You must be exhausted." John rose and held out a hand to her. Laying her fingers against his, she allowed him to pull her to her feet. "I think a nap would be in order, he said kindly and, looking forward to resting her eyes, Margaret eagerly complied.
She paused near the door between their rooms, conscious of his gaze following her movements. Resting a hand on the doorway, she drew on her courage with a deep breath.
"Perhaps… if you would like, we could talk some more over tea later." Biting her lip nervously, she turned and glanced at him over her shoulder.
"I would. That is, I would like that very much," he stammered, meeting her bashful look with his own. "I will speak to the staff and have it served here if that suits."
Her chin dipped in acknowledgment and she slipped into her own room. Closing the door behind her, she pressed her back to the wood and laid a hand over her quivering stomach. Crossing the room, she slid beneath the covers and closed her eyes. Relief to have eased the animosity of the previous evening and intrigue of the things she had learned of her husband danced about in her head and it was a long time before she drifted into a peaceful slumber.
0o0o0o0
Notes: A huge thank you to all who have acknowledged this story in one way or another. I confess I did not expect such enthusiasm for a story based on a book written over a 150 years ago and a miniseries which aired more than ten years ago. Thank you, one and all.
This is a shorter chapter than others but this scene seemed to cry out for a standalone chapter. Moving on to the next days, weeks and months of their marriage did not seem to fit here.
I've refined my outline and have actually handwritten (loosely) the better part of what will likely be the penultimate chapter. That will need tightening and editing and, of course, I actually have to write what comes between now and then.