John was dead on his feet when he parked his truck alongside Watson's company car. Margaret was curled against the window, her steady breathing fogging the glass. Even though it was almost one in the morning, the porch light flicked on.
John stepped out of the truck and walked around to the passenger side. Margaret was still asleep. Jack jogged up to the car, his face split with a wide grin.
"Hey, Dad."
"Jack," John stared at him.
And then because he was strung out and worn to the edges of sanity from spending almost eight hours in complete silence with Margaret, John pulled his son into a fierce hug. Then he stepped back and rubbed his eyes.
"You alright, Dad?"
"I'm going to bed," John walked passed him. "Help your mother inside."
"Mam?" Jack sounded confused. "What, is she with you? Here?"
John couldn't answer. He marched through the front door, into the quiet old house, weaving down the hall to his usual bedroom on the first floor, threw himself onto the bed, and was asleep in less than two minutes.
The mobile exploded on the bedside table and Margaret almost rolled out of bed. Her head pounded with the ringing and her own breathing. She groaned when she saw the time.
Who the bloody hell was calling at seven in the morning?
"Hello?"
"Margaret, it's Henry."
She flopped back on her pillow with a sigh, "Hello, Henry."
"Is this a bad time? Were you sleeping?"
"Yes," She blinked at the sandy feeling in her eyes. "What is it?"
He hemmed about with some polite chatter, until Margaret lost patience.
"For God's sake, Henry, what do you want?"
"Margaret—"
"It's seven in the morning. I'm tired, a little hung over, and I don't want to chat about the latest miserable gossip from your office." She bit her tongue as the line fell silent.
"I'm worried about you, Margaret," he said at last. "You've not been yourself lately."
"You needn't worry," she said, sitting up.
"When will you be back?"
Margaret rubbed her hand against her forehead and stared out the window. The sycamore trees flanked a marvelous brook that ran near the main house. She wished she had her camera.
"Margaret, are you listening?"
"No," She stood. "Please don't take this the wrong way, Henry, but you need to leave me alone for a few days. I'll explain later."
She hung up before he could say anything and turned her mobile completely off. She padded downstairs towards the kitchen, the sounds and smells of breakfast making her stomach roll.
Fanny Watson looked up from the stove where she was flipping bacon, and let out a small shriek. She threw her fork into the sink and stood with her hands on her hips.
"I swear to God, I'm going to murder John Thornton."
"He didn't tell you I was here."
Fanny snatched her fork from the sink and returned to the bacon with a vengeance, "The day my stupid ass brother decides to let me know anything important about his life is the day I know he's lost his damn mind." Fanny looked back and smiled. "How are you, Margaret Ann?"
Margaret smiled, and sighed. "I've been better Fanny May."
"I should've known something was up. John took Jack fishing at the crack of dawn. I thought he was avoiding Mr. Bell, but obviously not."
Margaret rubbed her temples, her head pounding from last night's whiskey.
"Sit yourself down," Fanny pointed to the table where two little boys were busy with their breakfast. "We can talk after you've had a decent breakfast and a cup of coffee."
"Make it two cups," Margaret said and sat between the boys smiling at their bright blue eyes and blonde hair.
"That bad?" Fanny gave her a wry grin.
"What do you think?" Margaret asked, as Fanny handed her a mug of coffee.
Fanny shrugged and pointed at the children, "This is Mike, my youngest, and that's Robbie. Say 'good morning,' boys."
"Hello," Margaret smiled at their sleepy faces. "I'm Margaret."
"Are you Jack's mommy?" The older boy asked, studying her, his fork hovering in the air.
"Yes," she took a long sip of coffee.
Robbie frowned and glanced at Margaret and then at Fanny's back.
"What is it?" Margaret asked.
"Are you Uncle John's wife? The one that's lost?"
"Robert James Watson," Fanny whipped around. "Hold your tongue."
"Dave said it first," Robbie pouted.
"It's alright, Fanny," Margaret smiled at him. "Is Dave your brother?"
Robbie nodded, "He's ten."
"That's very old," she nodded solemnly. "How old are you?"
"Six," Robbie held up three fingers on each hand. "I can read too."
"Can you?" Margaret beamed at him. "Well done. And to answer your question, yes, I am Uncle John's wife. Which makes me your aunt."
"We've already got lots of aunts," said Mike, his mouth full.
"Well, she's the prettiest," Robbie stabbed at his breakfast.
Fanny set down a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Margaret, "I'm sorry," she said under her breath.
"Don't be," Margaret ruffled Robbie's hair. "Children have a lovely way of breaking through the awkwardness and just saying what must be said."
"So, how long do we sit here," Jack pushed his hat back and glanced at John, "And stare at the water, like?"
"It's fishing, Jack," John reeled his line in and cast it out down the brook, "Not a whole lot to it."
"You going to tell me how mam ended up in your truck, then?" Jack stretched out his long legs, leaning back against a tree.
"No."
"Are you always this much fun on holiday?" Jack peered at him, a good humored smile on his face.
John grunted.
"Mr. Bell said we could have a bonfire tonight."
"Good for him," John reeled his line in again and squinted at the sun. "Hungry, kid?"
"God, I'd thought you'd' never ask," Jack sprang to his feet as John packed up the tackle and rods.
It was almost noon when Fanny chased her boys outside with their father, grabbed several beers from the fridge, and dragged Margaret away from her work and out onto the porch swing.
"You get one drink, and then we talk," Fanny said. "No use putting it off."
"Fair enough," Margaret sighed and took her beer. "First I'll start with saying I—I'm terribly sorry for—" She glanced down. "For what I did. I know you rearranged your wedding for me. Twice, I think."
"I don't think I'm the one who needs an apology," Fanny sat back and folded her arms, watching her. She nudged the swing back and forth, enjoying the breeze coming up from the brook. "That was along time ago, and I've forgiven you."
"But he hasn't."
"Have you asked him to?"
"I can't," Margaret shook her head. "I can't even look at him."
"Did you talk last night?"
"It was awful," Margaret took a sip of beer. "I don't know if I can do it again."
"You don't really have a choice now," Fanny fingered the beer in her hands. "You owe it to everyone, yourself most of all."
They fell silent, the creaking of the swing mingling with the rustle of leaves and wind and the rattle of insects.
"Did your father ever find you?" Fanny asked at last, still watching the trees.
"How did you—"
"I asked him to look for you," Fanny said, turning towards Margaret.
"Fanny," Richard Hale offered her a weak hand shake. "What can I do for you?" His voice almost trembled as he tried to settle himself.
"Do you know where she is?"
Richard cleared his throat, "London, I think."
"Mr. Hale, it's been six months and John—" she stopped. "He hasn't even seen his baby boy. He doesn't know if he's healthy or what his name is or when he was born." Fanny broke off. "Please."
"Does he know you're here?"
She shook her head, "And don't you dare tell him."
"He did find me," Margaret said with a sigh. "He died three days after returning to England." She stared at the bottle in her hands. "Something about the flight dislodged a bloodclot in his brain."
"Oh my God," Fanny breathed, covering her hand with her mouth. "Oh, Margaret Ann, I didn't know."
"I always wondered if I would've come back sooner, if he hadn't died," Margaret darted a glance a Fanny. "I've made one bloody hell of a mess."
"You didn't do it alone," Fanny said, taking a long swig from her beer. "Nobody knows my brother's faults better than me."
"But?"
"But, he's been eating his serving of humble pie for far too long. I think it's time you picked up a fork and ate your own damn slice."
Margaret sat back, looking away.
"The two of you did this to yourselves, and the two of you have to face it if anything's going to change."
"Change?" Margaret's shoulders slumped. "A bit late for that, I think."
"There's always hope." Fanny took a long sip of her beer and looked at Margaret until she met her gaze. "Did John ever tell you about my first baby?"
"No," she glanced down, "but Bessie Higgins did."
"That was the worst decision I ever made." Fanny took another sip. "I was young and stupid and scared. Sound familiar?"
"Fanny—"
"We can't go backwards, Margaret, only forward. Now I have five beautiful boys and one waiting for me in heaven," She took Margaret's hand and squeezed. "It took a long time, but I found my forgiveness."
Margaret shivered and swallowed a gulp of beer.
"Forgiveness can't erase a wrong. All it does is let us heal. Some days Watson has to remind me that I'm not that person anymore. Margaret Ann, you aren't the same woman who left my brother sixteen years ago."
"Fanny, we fight all the time," She stared at her beer. "I don't know if 'sorry' is enough for either of us. Maybe it never was."
"Horse shit," Fanny said flatly, opening two more bottles. "You always loved John."
"I never knew what I felt for your brother," Margaret said, exasperated. "It's why I left."
Fanny stared at her for a moment, and then laughed, "You're a damn smart woman, but sometimes you're so stupid."
Margaret's mouth fell open. Fanny gave her a Thornton stare, one eyebrow raised.
"I suppose I deserve that," Margaret said at last.
Fanny sat back and the swing swayed, "What do you love most about Jack?"
"Jack?" Margaret smiled to herself. "Everything. His wicked humor, his boundless energy, his tenacity, his painful honesty, his loyalty."
"His cocky attitude?" Fanny raised an eyebrow.
"Well, almost everything," Margaret amended, setting down her empty beer.
"All those things you love about Jack," Fanny paused and waited for Margaret to look at her. "Those things are John."
Margaret sat and Fanny allowed herself a smug smile, "Don't tell me you're not still in love with my brother."
"But we don't get on, Fanny. We never really have."
"You can love somebody and not like them," Fanny said, waving a hand dismissively. "You might not like John all the time—hell, I don't like him most of the time—but you love him. And love makes liking a lot easie."
"I don't think—" Margaret shivered, and pulled her legs into the swing. "What if he says no?"
"The door won't open if you won't even knock, Margaret Ann." Fanny smiled. "It takes a different kind of brave to admit when you're wrong. But I know you can do it."
Margaret glanced at the trees as the wind pushed through the leaves and Fanny waited.
"Do you trust him?"
"Yes," Margaret said quickly. "I always trusted John."
"Then give him a chance. Whatever's left of my brother's heart belongs to you. He just has to remember." Fanny shook out her hair. "For what it's worth I don't envy you. Apologizing to John always was a pain in the ass."
John swallowed a curse as Mr. Bell appeared in the doorway of the utility shed.
"I'm having cook prepare a marvelous dinner and I promised Jack a proper American bonfire." He held out two axes. Jack took one with a grin and glanced at John, who glared.
"No."
"We can't have a bonfire without fire wood, my boy. Your sister Fanny demands it," Mr. Bell loosened his grip on the axe, and John caught it before it fell. "We mustn't disappoint the ladies. You know where the wood pile is. Cheerio."
John pushed back his hat and spit, glaring at Mr. Bell's retreating form. Jack hefted his ax.
"I thought you were hungry?" John shot him a look.
"I'm clamming, but I can skip a meal. This looks like a bit of fun, like."
"John, you have to eat something."
He grunted, frowning, and made a note on his paper. The new contracts were putting a strain on the fleet as it was, but if he moved Welp over—
"John, look at me."
"I can skip a meal," he said, keeping his attention on the spreadsheets. He looked up when Margaret pushed his hat off his head and pulled his face to hers. John dropped his pencil, his hands circling around her waist, pulling her closer. The kiss left him stunned, every other thought evaporated by the taste of her.
She picked up a sandwich from a plate of food she'd set on the table and held it out.
"Eat."
John shook himself, "You ever chopped wood before, kid?"
"No, but how hard can it be, like? You just swing the sharp end really hard, yeah?"
"It's not as easy as it looks," John led them around the side of the shed towards the small south barn. A giant pile of rough hewn logs were heaped on one side. John retrieved two pairs of gloves, tossed one at Jack, and stripped off his shirt.
"Nice abs, mate," Jack snickered. "How do you even have time to work out, like?"
"Shut up," John twisted his hat around backwards and rolled his left shoulder. It would be sore tomorrow. He picked up a log and propped it on one of the old chopping stumps. "Look for knots. Their tough as shit and your ax can get stuck."
Jack nodded picking over the logs.
"And don't give it a half assed swing. If the ax bounces, your fucked."
"Well, aye," Jack pulled off his T-shirt and twisted his hat around. "After you, old man."
John raised the ax and brought down with a satisfying smack, his log flying apart. "Who're you calling old?"
Jack propped a log on his own block and swung. A chip went flying and the log bounced off the block. He growled and set it back up and swung again. John laughed, watching.
"Piss, off," Jack barked, after he tried a third time. "Does everything you do have to be so bloody hard?"
"Life's hard, kid." John split his second log. "And most hard shit takes practice."
Jack swung again, managing to sink the ax blade halfway down.
"Lesson one, bust your own ass or someone else will," John split his third log. "Lesson two, hard doesn't mean impossible."
Jack finally managed to work the ax through the wood and wrench the stubborn halves apart.
"Lesson three, don't give up." John split his fourth log.
Jack leaned his ax on his shoulder and raised an eyebrow at John.
"What?"
"You might take your own advice, Dad." Jack waved at someone and John turned to see Margaret and Fanny sitting on the porch swing. Fanny waved back.
"Go on, Dad, give mam a wave," Jack wiggled his eyebrows and set up another log. "See what happens, like."
"Mind your own damn business, Jack." He snapped.
"Are you just going to keep dancing around each other? Making it awkward as shit for the rest of us, yeah?"
"Stay out of it, kid." John's eyes went back to Margaret. He didn't know what he was going to do.
"Suit yourself," Jack shrugged, raised his ax, and let out a whoop when the log split mostly in two.
"Lesson four," John turned back. "Don't celebrate until the job's done."
"Anything else?" Jack grinned.
John sighed and grabbed a log, "I'm glad you called."
"I'm glad you came," Jack pushed at the dirt with his sneaker and then looked up. "I might be a Brit, but you can hug me again if you like. I don't bite."
John rolled his eyes, "Shut up, Jack."
"Love you too, Dad," Jack's wicked grin grew wider and he swung his ax again.
"Today has been the most awkward I can ever remember spending at Helstone," Mr. Bell joined John by the dying embers of the bonfire. "Wouldn't you agree?"
Everyone else had turned in long ago, John volunteering to see the fire went out. He'd let it burn down, letting his thoughts wander in the pleasant company of the burning logs.
John grunted as Mr. Bell handed him a glass of whiskey.
"Cheers," Mr. Bell clinked his glass against John's.
"What do you want, Mr. Bell?"
"All the dirty details in your painful reunion, of course. I must know, did you take her right then and there or are you making her wait?"
"Leave," John said, his grip painfully tight on his glass, "now."
"That's a no, then. Pity," Mr. Bell clinked the ice in his drink. "So what do you plan to do?"
John refused to answer.
"The old saying 'Lightning never strikes twice,' is a load of tosh, you know. It's not a common occurrence but it does happen. And God knows you've waited long enough."
"What's your point, Mr. Bell?"
"You've already lived sixteen years as if Margaret doesn't love you." Mr. Bell tossed back the remainder of his drink, "Be a man and find out if it's actually true."
John stiffened, as Mr. Bell stared at him a moment.
"Are you going to drink that?" He pointed at the glass still in John's hands.
"No."
John handed it back, and watched the old man disappear into the darkness. He dumped the bucket of water at his feet on the glowing embers and strolled back towards the house, a light on the second floor catching his eye.
He stared at the window for a long time before he could force his feet to turn towards his truck. Spending the night with Margaret Hale changed everything.
But now he had work to do.
John looked back at her window one last time, wishing he could stay, knowing he had to leave.
There would be time to do this right.
And God help him, he would.
The light flicked off and John stood watching the stars blaze to life as his eyes adjusted. Sixteen years ago, he thought he knew how to love Margaret, but he'd failed. And now too much had changed.
Hadn't it?
Still, one thing hadn't changed.
"You're still a damn fool for her," he muttered.
And he almost hated himself for it.
AN : Hats off to those of you still reading, cheering on J & M. You're lovely. Enjoy your weekend.