Because of my poor English I've asked for help. And I've got it from amazing Beta – coldie voldie. Now this story has two authors. Even if I have written the scheme of "Different way", this is she who is filling it with colours and life. Thank you, coldie voldie!
Margaret didn't really know what kind of greeting to expect from Mr. Thornton this time. The last time she had seen him was at Mr. Crawley's office, incidentally one of their more unpleasant meetings. After the reading of Adam's last will, she had been so shocked that she hadn't even bothered to try and guess what he was thinking. She remembered one of the last conversations had with her husband, once the illness had fully set in, and she scarcely left his bedside.
"You have made me a very happy man, Margaret" He had said. "I could not imagine a better end for myself". There was no point in denying the inevitable; they both knew he wouldn't recover. "I have always considered you an extraordinary person, but I must admit that your choice of wedding gift truly convinced me that you do not merely look like an angel: you are the angel. I have never met such an unselfish and compassionate woman before."
"I don't know to be unselfish, Adam. But we agreed we wouldn't talk about it any more... And that no one would ever know."
So it was with great effort that she stood before the door of her dead husband's study trying her absolute hardest to remain composed, despite that she had flown down the stairs like an overly excited girl not even seconds before. She took deep breath to calm herself, assumed her usual regal pose and entered the room. She froze when she met his blue eyes, and as though she had been hypnotized, she heard herself say:
"Good morning Mr. Thornton". Confusion permeated her senses as she tried to understand why he was kneeling before her. It was several seconds (during which neither party spoke) before she was hit with the realization that he was gathering items off the floor. Items that had spilled out of the basket that contained her needlework. She felt a sudden rush of panic as she tried to think of how to avoid being exposed in front of him, but it did not matter. He was already rising from the floor with her basket in one hand, and his own pair of leather gloves in the other.
"I believe these are yours." He said after sometime, all the while staring at gloves in his hand disbelievingly. She came closer and was looking not at him but at the gloves the in his hand with a slight frown in his expression. Margaret knew her face showed her fear.
"Yes." She said breathlessly, before realizing her mistake and interjecting quickly. "No. Actually..." She trailed off when she noticed the unusual expression he bore.
Mr. Thornton could practically feel her fear. 'She is terrified that her secret will come out. She still doesn't see me as a man of trust.' He thought miserably.
"Please accept my apologies for my clumsiness." He offered, extending the hand that stll held his gloves.
"No at all." She said taking them.
"Mrs. Bell, I've come to thank you..." Mr. Thornton said, but stopped abruptly as he was hit with the memory of the last time he spoke very similar words to this same woman. Words that began the most painful conversation of his life. "...for your generosity to the mill." He ended.
She looked away and said in low steady voice " It is obvious to help people if one has such opportunity."
Déjà vu hit them both.
"And you would help anyone ...as I recall. I can only assure you of my gratitude... and friendship" He nodded shortly.
"I never doubted it." Margaret said looking in his eyes eventually. "Sit down please" she said, gesturing to an armchair by the fireplace. She also sat and lay the gloves gently on the armrest.
"Can I offer you a cup of tea?" She asked, jumping to her feet once again as she remembered her hostess duties.
"Yes, thank you." He carefully observed her preparing tea by the desk. Aside from the bracelet he remembered well, the only notable difference was wedding ring. He frowned. Eventually she handed him a cup, but he didn't dare to touch her fingers. She felt somehow disappointed.
"I hope you are in good health, Mrs. Bell." Mr Thornton asked after taking a sip.
"I am, thank you. I hope your mother and sister stay in good health too?"
"Thank you. My all family is well." Silence descended between them. But she unexpectedly felt comfortable. He seemed relaxed as well, sitting calmly at the armchair with china in his hands, and gazing into the fire.
"You have beautiful house."
"It is my favourite room. I like spending my evenings here." She said looking at the shelf on the fireplace. He followed her line sight and could easily envision her sitting in the same armchair, basket on her knees and needle in her hand, glancing longingly at the faces in the pictures.
"I like to at least pretend to be closer to those whom I love the most" She said softly, unaware that she was absentmindedly caressing the black leather of Mr. Thornton's gloves.
He immediately felt an urge to comfort her. "I have something for you." He said, putting away the cup and reaching to his pocket. "I haven't had the chance to deliver it any earlier." He handed her a paper, folded in quarters. "It is from Tommy Boucher" he added when she raised her eyebrows in astonishment.
"Thank you." Margaret said, and unfolded it with great curiosity.
It was drawing made undoubtedly by child. There was a man and woman on it, holding hands and smiling broadly. She was wearing brown dress and big brown hat. Margaret was sure it was her on the picture. The man was wearing dark suit, but no other significant details as to relay an identity. In the background there were chimneys, grey buildings and big bright sun over them. It was Milton for sure.
Margaret examined the picture carefully with smile on her lips. "It is beautiful. I will treasure it." she said at last. "You must send Tommy my best regards...if you would see him that is..." she corrected herself.
"Of course. I often met him." he saw her curious look and added "Tommy uses my library now that he is in school. May I ?" he asked pointing at the paper in her hands.
Mr. Thornton studied the picture wondering what exactly it was that Tommy had in mind. It was obviously set in Milton; it was only place on earth the boy knew. But to draw Margaret in the company of man? Maybe he was her father, Higgins or Tommy himself. He folded the drawing in a half as his face grew darker.
"I have to get back to Milton, Mrs. Bell; I've come only for my books." Mr Thornton said, standing abruptly and setting Tommy's drawing upon the mantle.
She looked at him, searching his face and subconsciously tightening her hand on the black gloves. She didn't get another explanation from him, and he avoided her eyes so plainly that she eventually bowed her head in defeat.
"Of course." She replied, her voice oddly toneless. Well I hope you will not be too disappointed, but according to Mr. Bell's testament I have found only one book of Roman philosophy in his library."
She received no sign of interest, no expression of acknowledgement, so she got up and went to the desk. He stood polite, if not rather aloof, as his gaze drifted to the miniatures over the fireplace once again.
"I can pack it for you in paper." She said, feeling somewhat awkward. "I believe it is raining now" Still she got no response from him, so she cleared her throat softly to gain his attention. "That is all I'm afraid." Margaret gave him a parcel but he refused to look at her face.
"Thank you Mrs. Bell." Was the reply he gave. Why did 'Mrs. Bell' sound so accusing when passing through his lips?
She watched him take two long steps toward the door. "Good bye." He said, as though he suddenly remembered social courtesy, and turned halfway toward her, bowing as he did so. He didn't dare look at her at all. "I wish you well." He added somewhere in the direction of the floor, and quit the room entirely.
Margaret was left absolutely confused. She came closer to the fireplace and took Tommy's picture in her hand once again, before sitting on Mr. Thornton's recently vacated seat, attempting to understand his actions by playing out their entire encounter. She examined drawing more closely this time, and turned the page over. There on the back, in small crooked letters was written Mis Margaret and Fredic. The paper slid slowly from her fingers and gently floated down onto the carpet. She sat for a long while with her eyes closed, desperately trying to remember every word, every expression, every gesture of her guest during his visit. In spite of her previous hopes, it did appear as though this would truly be the last she saw of him. The realization of what she had finally and completely lost hit her full force, and she doubled over in silent sobbing protest. When she did finally open her eyes, she saw the unfortunate drawing still resting innocently on the floor, and a small dried yellow flower resting just as innocently beside it. She picked it, examining it closely. She was certain that she had kept a careful eye earlier while cleaning, going so far as to have the room cleaned twice before he arrived. There was no way she could have missed it, and it was a yellow rose.
