CHAPTER 33:

THE MARRIAGE OF OUR MOUTHS

Margaret gasped and John felt her body shake next to his, her petite limbs shivering against his sturdier frame. She could not speak; she could not breathe. In truth, Margaret had completely overlooked the fact that John had not yet formally asked her to marry him, since you see, she had assumed that his earlier declarations of devotion had been his proposal, albeit a lengthy and roundabout one. Again, she had imagined that her reply was obvious, it being perfectly clear that she had already given herself to him entirely, perhaps not yet in body, but most certainly in soul. Consequently, she had naively presumed that he did not need to ask officially, properly, nor did he intend to. So, you see, now that it had finally happened, even although Margaret had been expecting it, she had really not expected it at all, and she felt more surprised than she could say to hear those hallowed words escape his lips.

Oh my! Dear John! How anxious he must have been all this time, since while Margaret had imagined that he knew, perhaps he had in fact not, and he was still lost and lonely in the dark, waiting in the wilderness of uncertainty for her reply, wondering what she would say, and praying for a specific answer to put an end to his reservations and validate his hopes.

Breathing deeply and placing her hands against his brawny arms for support, Margaret at last let out a delectably breathy: 'Yes.'

Before she knew what was happening, John suddenly collapsed forwards and nearly knocked Margaret over with the sheer weight of his powerful body smacking against and sinking into her own, the man letting out a spontaneous guttural groan from deep within his gut.

'John!' she shrieked, trying to steady him as if he were a floundering drunk who had lost the basic ability to keep himself upright.

'J ─'

'Say it again!' he demanded impatiently before she had the chance to say anything else, for he had to be sure he was not imagining things, since in truth, John had fantasised about this sacred moment, this exact second, a thousand times before, but now that it was here, he could hardly believe his ears.

Margaret giggled. 'Yes!' she stated both confidently and clearly so that he might know the conviction and certitude of her answer.

'Again!' he begged, breathing erratically with burdensome breaths that hurt his insides, his ribs digging into him as the organs beneath near enough burst with a jamboree of joy.

Margaret laughed. 'Yes! Yes! Yes!' she proclaimed to the world. 'Of course I will marry you, John! Yes!'

John released a shaky breath, all the oxygen evaporating from his lungs, a puff of air fleeing him that he had not even known he was holding in, the gust wafting forth and blowing the cascading strands of Margaret's hair. He could hardly credit what he was hearing. 'Margaret?' he wheezed, his fingers curling around her neck and stroking the succulently soft skin he found there. 'Is it true? Are you to be my bride? My wife? My Margaret? My Mrs Thornton?' he checked with scepticism.

Margaret's head bobbed up and down eagerly. 'All of those titles sound marvellous! So, yes please, if you will have me, that is.'

John snorted and sent forth the loudest laugh he had ever produced in his whole life, the cheerful boom resonating around the room, the merry sound filling Margaret with such tremendous contentment, since John's happiness now meant more to her than her own. 'I assure you, Miss Hale, that there is no doubt on that score,' he sniggered. 'For if I could just have you and nothing else for the rest of my life, then I would be the richest man on God's good earth.'

It was at that moment, as he felt his joints groan in complaint, that John noted that he and Margaret were still kneeling on the ground. Shaking himself out of his sentimental stupor, the prudent part of John deemed that after all the grievous oversights he had made in this house, in this room, it was perhaps best to take a hold of his senses and remedy this indecorous position before he got himself embroiled in a further sticky-stew of a situation. What was more, even although they were now again on speaking terms, John did not trust that sly and sneaky window not to rat him out to the Hales for taking liberties that had most certainly crossed the fine line from respectable to downright ungentlemanly.

'I suppose all this kneeling is rather improper and bad for the old knees,' he chuckled throatily. 'Perhaps we should stand before your father walks in on us and wonders what the blazes is going on in his library with his daughter and his pupil on the floor in the dark,' he recommended before soaring to his full height and bending to offer Margaret his arm as a means of support as she too struggled to stand.

'Oh! Goodness gracious me!' Margaret tittered, jolting as if she had only just become aware of her surroundings, her cheeks blushing. 'I suppose you are right,' she agreed, allowing him to assist her, the voluminous skirts of her dress making such a simple sounding feat rather tricky on her own, and without John's aid, Margaret may very well have tumbled over and fallen flat on her face upon the floor like a pancake, an embarrassing image that hardly endorsed romance.

As she rose with awkward stumbles, John's fingers unconsciously girdled her arms and he leapt back in fright as Margaret let out a sharp yelp, much like a puppy who had just had its tail trodden on.

As he watched Margaret curl up and rub at her arms with a wounded grimace, John's face plummeted into a flabbergasted frown. 'Margaret?! What is it?' he solicited. Then, spotting the way she winced as if in pain, John's eyes scanned her up and down in frantic concern. 'Have I harmed you?!' John pressed, dismayed by the very idea that he had upset her in any way, especially so soon after she had agreed to marry him. Honestly! – sometimes he forgot his own brutish strength.

But instead of replying, Margaret ducked her head and bit her lip, too abashed to explain herself. On discerning her timidity, John abandoned his agitated tenor and coughed so that he might clear his chords to adopt a much more affectionate one in its place. 'What is it, Margaret? What is the matter?' he cajoled, moving closer so that he might once again envelop her in his embrace.

It was as he pulled her in towards him, that John spied a series of marks below Margaret's gossamer sleeves. With his eyes flitting between her face and the transparent mesh that sheathed her forearms, John's fingers cautiously crept forwards, and being vigilant not to rip the thin material, he rolled it up, exposing her lower arms. On doing so, John found a warren of abrasions to her porcelain skin, a sequence of scratches and welts that defaced her most gruesomely. Letting his alarmed gaze travel over these scuffs, John observed that they were not old, but new, the cuts still red-raw and the bruises tinted with a medley of brown and blue. With grave disquiet, John deduced that these had been made in the past few days.

Trying damned hard to steady his tone so that he did not sound aggressive in his apprehension, John sensitively enquired, 'How did these come about, love?' John's mind was filled with a series of unsavoury possibilities, each as appalling as the last, diabolical misdeeds which he had regrettably come to witness over his years as a magistrate, a role which gave him a sickening insight into the corrupt and carnal underbelly of his beloved Milton. But for the life of him, he could not think that anyone would have harmed her. Good God, he hoped not! If they had, he'd kill the despicable devil.

A picture of old Mr Whitehall flashed through John's fevered mind, and he growled and snarled under his breath, his features taking on a wolfish ferociousness, but he soon dismissed the fiendish letch from his list of suspects, because at least John could attest that the predatory and perverted parasite was locked in gaol and unlikely to be unleashed to roam the streets anytime soon. John thought back on the vile rat's evil threats towards Margaret, and it filled him with such rage and fear, his features paling to recall the crook's revolting words. But then again, at least by the time the old man was released, (that is if he had not drunk himself to death by that point), then Margaret would hopefully be John's wife, and living in his home and with her faithful and fierce bulldog by her side, John would be much better placed to protect his innocent darling from the immoral sins and sinners of this wicked world.

But Margaret just shrugged her shoulders reservedly in response, her cheeks bleaching, a disconcertingly white shade smearing her previously rosy complexion. 'Margaret? Darlin', please tell me,' John entreated, his inflection growing thick in his worry. Darn it, he was no use at this. Even although John had a most caring nature, he knew that he was too gruff outwardly to be any good at playing the role of a doting fiancé, and he now felt acutely afraid that he was making Margaret intolerably uncomfortable, opposed to reassuring her that she was in safe hands, if only she were willing to confide in him and be comforted by him.

Shuffling nervously, Margaret whispered, 'I…I did it the other night….after,' she trailed off, her head twitching nervously towards the study door.

John's narrowed eyes lifted to follow her direction, his brow furrowing in bewilderment. 'I don't understand.'

Margaret stomped her foot, frustrated that she was obliged to explain further, since she felt terribly self-conscious as it was. 'After you left, after what you said about how you had never loved me and never would, I was so distraught that I ran to my room straight away. But in the darkness and in my haste, I bumped into this and that along the way,' she went on, flinching slightly at the recollection. 'I think I must have grazed and bruised myself as I went, as I fled,' she enlightened, motioning towards her contusions.

John scowled like he had never scowled before. His jaw tautened in anger, but not with her, but at himself. If only he had known what effect his monstrous lies had had on her, he would have turned on his heels, returned to the house and the scene of his crime, broken down the door, and marched through the rooms until he found her. After that, he would have taken Margaret into his arms in an instant, soothing her with his apologies for what he had said, his confessions for how he truly felt, and his assurances that he would never hurt her like that ever again.

'And these?' John asked dryly, nodding towards the collection of nasty scratches, since they were different from the rest, each one disfigured by a distinctly jagged edge, the magistrate distinguishing that they had all been made by the same sharp implement.

Margaret bit her lip, so ferociously hard that she tasted the sour tang of blood in her mouth. 'The roses,' she whispered as quietly as she could.

John's head bucked up. 'What?!' came a brisk bark of a retort.

Margaret jumped at his snarls and her bottom lip wobbled as she held back tears, her eyes misting miserably. Huffing at himself, John instantly cursed himself under his breath for being such an appalling ogre, a thug, a complete and utter villain. He did not mean to be so short-tempered, nor so snappy and sullen, and John always hated how intimidating he sounded, but it was just his manner, something which was difficult to shift after years of this habit of latent hostility being left unchecked and unchanged. But he must amend it, he surely must, since John could not bear for his sweet Margaret to always feel on edge because she did not know when his foolish temper would lash out next. No, he could not have that, and he resolved to do better and to be more peaceable in his speech towards her.

Placing a hand on her back and rubbing soothing circles, he tried again, 'What do you mean by, "the roses," love? Not…,' John felt his throat congest with apprehensive anticipation. 'Margaret, darling, do you mean the ones I brought you?'

Margaret nodded slowly, sadly. 'I − I found them on my bed when I returned to my room,' she went on in a hesitant mumble, 'and in the heat of my despair, I am ashamed to say that I tore them up, your lovely, lovely roses,' Margaret admitted mournfully, for they really had been so exquisite and the gesture had meant so much to her. 'But I accidentally nipped myself on the thorns of the roses as I ripped at the petals.' Margaret thought about how in her heartbroken haze that night, she had considered the irony of how she had been wounded by a thorn and a Thornton in a matter of both muddled and malicious minutes. With a remorseful sniff, her mind visualised the white dress which now lay discarded in a disgraced heap in her bedroom with its dewdrop blemishes of red spoiling the pure material, the gown abandoned upon the blood stained rug where she had lain down and fallen into a fitful sleep and dreamt of him. 'Oh, John! Are you displeased with me? Are you cross with me for ruining them? Is that why you are angry?' Margaret asked anxiously, unnerved by his ire.

John shook his head so swiftly that it nearly swivelled right off its perch. 'No!' he cried fervently. 'No, darlin', of course not!' he said with intense insistence, pulling her close so that her tearful face was sheltered by the sanctuary of his chest. 'Please do not think that, please, I beg you.'

John let out a shuddering sigh. 'Oh, God!' What have I done?!' he exclaimed. 'My sweetheart. My sweet, sweet heart,' he muttered in contrition. Then, in an act of worship, John lowered his head and began to place soft kisses on her cuts and bruises, the act of adulation causing Margaret to tremble, an incontrollable quiver tingling throughout her body. 'They will fade, all will be well, I will make it my mission to see to it,' he mumbled against her arm, his parted lips leaving a wet mark of healing on a particularly large welt. 'Then I will do my upmost to ensure that nothing and no one ever hurts you again, Margaret, most especially me.'

'John, it was not your fault.'

'Yes it was!' he maintained. 'You know it was, Margaret. I may not have directly brought it about by my own hand, but my horridness and my deceptions caused you to become so distressed and disorientated, so I am most assuredly to blame.'

Unable to withstand his caring attentions a second longer, lest she swoon, Margaret's eyes drifted from John's soothing treatment of her injuries and fell on his own bandaged palm. Sucking her teeth, she cleared her throat. 'And what of you? What wars have you been in, Mr Thornton? I have been desperate to ask you, my curiosity driving me quite loopy.' At first, Margaret giggled, but she soon stilled as she saw the grim shadow that scurried across his face, settling at last into a decisive and most disgruntled frown.

Margaret took a step back, her arm wrenching away from him in the process. 'Have you…John, have you been in a fight?' she interrogated; her voice chary, her eyes wary, her arms crossing before her in palpable disapproval.

John's eyes widened in disbelief. 'What?! No!' he scoffed most vehemently. Then, turning tetchily on the spot, John combed his fingers through his hair for the hundredth time, the spiky edges sticking up here, there and everywhere, reminding Margaret of a scruffy garden lawn. 'Margaret, I have never struck another man since that day you saw me at the mill when we first met, that detestable confrontation which still fills me with disgust and disgrace. That was a most unfortunate incident which seems to have permanently debased my character in your estimation, and I cannot seem to convince you otherwise. It pains me to think that you consider such viciousness to be innate to my nature when it is most decidedly not!' he contended, horrified to think the woman he loved thought him an inherent tyrant who took pleasure in terrorising those weaker than himself in both size and status.

'That was an isolated outburst and even although I may have boxed in my youth, I am not the sort of master who knocks his workers about! Nor, would I like to add, am I the sort of man who has ever assaulted a woman, and I have no intention to start now! I would never and shall never raise a fist to my mother, nor my sister, nor my workers, nor my servants, and certainly never to my wife or daughters – and sons for that matter, ─ that is if God blesses us with children, which I sincerely hope he shall!' John swore; his blue eyes shining with prolific promise as he looked at her straight on with unswerving purpose.

'I am glad to hear it,' Margaret muttered matter-of-factly, since she would expect nothing less from him, but deep down, it was reassuring to hear all the same.

'That is why I was so flustered the other night when you told me about the Whitehalls and the way the old man…,' John swallowed thickly. 'The way he is…unkind, to the women in his life. I could not stand for you to think that being a well-built and often unpredictably grouchy sort of man, that I would ever lay a finger on you, Margaret. It cut me to the core to think you could imagine that of me.'

Margaret's mouth fell open and she let out a long sigh. 'Ohhh!' she gasped. 'I see….well that explains that. I did wonder why you were behaving so oddly, why you had obsessively latched onto that subject with such concern. But you are wrong, dearest, I never thought that of you, not for a moment! I was talking about someone else entirely. I know you may possess inestimable strength, John, and I know that you have your menacing moods to contend with as well, but I do not think you are capable of hurting me like that. I have never believed that of you and never shall, since I trust that you are too generous and too gentle for such things.'

John grunted in accord, indebted to Margaret for her accommodating appraisal of him. Again John thought of old Mr Whitehall, of how much he had wanted to clobber him in that prison chamber, of how that slippery snake had deserved to be pummelled to a pulp for his menaces against Margaret. John could have quite easily beaten him, breaking and bruising him with no effort, smashing him through the filth covered stone walls of that cell with a heavy punch to the gut or jaw. Nonetheless, he had not, no, John had stopped despite his own irrefutable capabilities and the man's equally undeniable guilt, and he had ceased his rage filled rampage of violence all because he knew how much it would pain Margaret. Yes, sweet Margaret, she would have cried to see him respond to the deplorable injustices of life by committing a dreadful wrong himself, and he could not bear to disappoint her thus, so therefore, in spite of everything, John had known there and then that he would never smite another man again, regardless of how much the blackguard warranted it.

'Even so, I promise you that I have turned my back on such ruthless ways, for your sake and my own,' he asserted, sweeping his hand from one side to the other, as if to demonstrate the drawing of a line in the sand. 'Such ugly behaviour is destructive, and I pledge never to do it again so long as I live, you have my word,' John vowed most solemnly, and Margaret had no choice but to believe him, the truth of his conviction burning deeply in his spirited eyes. Indeed, his expression reminded her somewhat of his face on the day after the riot when John had stood opposite her, almost exactly where he stood now actually, and told Margaret that he had not thought of her reputation, but that he only wished to marry her for love and not out of a taciturn sense of obligation. She had not listened to him then, therefore, she felt honour bound to listen to him now.

'What then?' Margaret pestered, still a little circumspectly. 'If not a brawl, then how did it happen?'

John grumbled. 'You shall laugh at me.'

Margaret smiled, a warm, sweet smile. 'Laugh at you? Really? Oh, now I must know!' she teased. Nevertheless, on discerning John's lingering evasiveness with a hint of embarrassment lurking beneath, Margaret walked towards him, and on reaching out a finger to stroke his wound dressing, she privately thought on how she longed to play nursemaid again and tend to his every need. 'Perhaps I shall laugh at you, John, my dear boy, I do not know, but is that really so terrible?' For should love not be complimented by laughter, so long as it is merry and not malicious?' she philosophised.

John grinned at her sensibility, Margaret's sagacity always far exceeding his own, despite their difference in years. 'Wise words, woman, wise words. It is just that I am not used to allowing myself to be mocked,' he admitted, for indeed, the Master of Marlborough Mills was not accustomed to being ridiculed, not by any man, no matter how high or low he might be.

Margaret tilted her head and tittered fondly. 'It is just me, John, just me, and I shall never mock you, darling,' she promised. 'Will I disagree with you sometimes? Yes, but in private. Will I challenge you sometimes? Yes, but again, only when alone. Will I think you a tad silly at times? I am sure I shall, and quite frankly, sir, you would be a dull companion indeed if you were always severe and never amusing. But mock you, John? Never! Because there is nothing about you that I or anyone else could ever hope to deride, since you are the very model of respectability, and I admire you more than I can say.'

John's heart swelled as he looked back at her with unadulterated awe. How could it be that a man as grumpy as he had managed to earn the unconditional affection of one so gentle as her? He knew there was no point in asking such befuddling questions, since the finest minds in all the world could never work out this mystery, so it was perhaps best that he just accepted it, the man opting to be forever grateful that Margaret did truly love him, whatever her private reasons might be. Still, John knew her words to be true, for Margaret, his dear Margaret, she may never come to agree with all he said and did, nor did he want her to, since she was no pretty parrot to mimic its master, but bless her cotton stockings, he knew that she would never make fun of him so heartlessly, never.

Leaning his head back as he readied to humiliate himself in the name of love, John bit out, 'Argh! Here we go…it happened after you left my office, two days ago, when you invited me to tea.'

Margaret's temple creased in contemplation and John sucked in a sharp breath through gritted teeth at the thought that he was going to have to confess to his fiancée what a twirp her future husband could be.

'You may remember ─ I cannot believe that I am wilfully reminding you of my ludicrousness,' John laughed, extending an arm behind him so that he could scratch at his neck nervously. 'You may recall that while we were conversing, just before you left, I unconsciously smeared whopping great splodges of ink right across my face,' he harked back, his hand dragging over his jaw as if to repeat the offending action.

'I do,' Margaret confirmed, trying not to snigger, yet all the same, an enormous grin spilled across her face, dimpling it so delightfully that John did not mind his mortification, not if it made her smile at him so fondly.

'Well, after you left, I glanced in the mirror so that I might tidy myself up and make this old mutt presentable for an imminent meeting, and on seeing my sullied appearance, of knowing what a ridiculous buffoon I must have seemed to you, I'm afraid I rather lost my temper…and I took it out on the looking glass…but alas, it won,' he confessed sulkily, lifting his hand to show off his wound of war. Watching his face closely to discern his mood, Margaret felt sure she could spy a sly smirk concealed beneath his dour façade, and it made her so glad to think that John had a sense of humour after all.

'Oh!' she hooted, her hands clapping together and covering her mouth so that she did not laugh out loud. 'My poor boy,' she sympathised, her splayed fingers coming to rest on his cheeks and dotting down deliberately one-by-one, as if to pinpoint where the marks of inky indignity had besmirched that unreasonably handsome face. 'And the poor looking glass, it was not its fault that you had conducted yourself with such adorable absurdity,' she twittered like a songbird.

John's eyebrows rose to meet his hairline. 'Adorable?!' he echoed in astonishment, since he had never heard such a word used to describe him before and had certainly never imagined that a creature as adorable as Margaret would ever think him so, what with him being an intolerably crotchety sort of fellow.

Margaret suddenly blushed and John watched agog as a charming flush like the bloom of a red rose unfurled across her cheeks and descended along the breadth of her neck and chest, his eyes struggling not to let his gaze travel further south than gentlemanly manners permitted.

'Yes,' she conceded coyly, a hand lifting fidgetingly to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, the sight of which left John hypnotised, for you see, while other women would take this opportunity to flirt and lure their lover into their feminine traps, his sweet Margaret was as modest as can be, and the knowledge of this only sought to enhance her attraction and allure in John's mind, the man utterly smitten and seduced.

'I thought you terribly charming when I came to call upon you that day. There was something about your dishevelled state that quite transfixed me. It is difficult to explain,' she fumbled, her eyes darting up to meet his, but soon shying away again as she discerned the smouldering way in which he regarded her, Margaret's thighs quivering in a natural response to the indecent cravings that John conjured up in her, dormant passions which she still did not understand.

Margaret began to nibble at her nails nervously. 'I was so accustomed to seeing you neat and regimented, never a hair nor a step out of place, your precise impeccability almost overawing at times. But there was something….comforting about witnessing you so disoriented, so lost even. You were unruly in every way, yet somehow, that put me at ease. It reminded me that you are not only a master, but a man, a man who is not immune to stress and strife. So, you see, far from judging you, John, I was very much spellbound by you, and it affected me to marvel at you more than ever,' she acknowledged demurely, rolling up and down on the balls of her heels, her hands behind her back. 'And when I saw the ink on your jaw, it was so sweet that…well…I just wanted to reach up on my toes and kiss your cheek.'

John nearly suffocated on the gratification which gushed through him. 'Oh, my darling, darling girl!' he breathed, lengthening out an arm to tow her close, his action strong and swift as her body flattened flush against his own. 'Only you could think such a pleasant thought in the midst of such disorder,' he acclaimed, still downright baffled as to how he, a man of no worth, could have been rewarded with such a wholesome prize as she. 'Just to think, while we have both assumed that we have been thinking badly of each other, all the while, we have been thinking the complete opposite,' he uttered in incredulity.

Margaret let out a small gurgle of agreement. 'If only we had not been so stubborn or scared, then we would have shared the contents of our hearts so much sooner and spared ourselves all this unnecessary heartache,' she considered as she looked up at him, her neck sloping back so that she could behold her John as he stretched on and on and on into the sky, much like a great tree.

As the candles which encircled them like a halo from Heaven flickered in the diminishing dusk light, John could feel his senses flood with a curious combination of emotions that played havoc with his mind and other more private parts of his person. He did not know it, but the candles in the room had been a gift from Aunt Shaw to her sister, the wax containing an infusion of lavender, jasmine, and camomile, the soothing scents intended to restore and revive Mrs Hale. But far from calming the ailing lady upstairs, they were down here, in Mr Hale's study, and the spiced aroma of pungent plants left John feeling inebriated with euphoria.

With his eyes falling upon his beloved Margaret, John let his gaze drink in every inch of the face that was before him, this cherubic sculpture that surely must have been carved by God himself, for it was flawless in every way, her butter-soft skin with its subtle contours driving him to distraction. It occurred to John then and there, that for so long, he had taken in Margaret's beauty with fleeting and furtive glances, often feeling racked with guilt for his stealthy studies of her when she was not paying him attention, which, to be fair, had been most of the time, her imperious gaze and interest never degrading itself to wander in his humble direction. Wrestling pathetically with his willpower, the besotted master would sneak a sideways peek at her while they sat during his lessons, cast a brief glimpse over his shoulder as he begrudgingly walked away from her, and take advantage of the brim of his hat to swiftly peer up at her on the street, each short-lived observation stored up in his infatuated mind so that he might absorb every look of the woman he loved unrequited from a distance.

Nevertheless, John now appreciated that he no longer needed to admire Margaret in secret, since she had granted him permission to gaze upon her with unrepressed adoration. Smiling to himself, John let this welcoming truth warm his heart, all the while also realising that he would soon get to learn and unlock so many mysteries about Margaret, as well as being granted the sole privilege of being allowed to see her in various states of attire and decorum, a thought which may have caused lust to kindle in him, but it did not, since all he had room for in his soul at this time was love.

Gulping, John stiffly whispered, 'Margaret…'

'Hmm?' she hummed dreamily, swaying in his hold, her head resting against a particularly firm muscle on his upper arm.

With his hands clasping behind her back as if to stabilise himself, since at this moment, he felt much like a shy schoolboy, John boldly replied, 'You are so very beautiful.'

Margaret's head slowly lifted, and much to John's surprise, it was not offence he saw there at his forthright remark, but rather, puzzlement. 'Am I?' she asked dubiously, since you see, she had never thought so herself.

John snorted. 'Yes!' he declared without hesitation. He was astounded by her question, since surely, she must have been told this a thousand times over by all manner of friends and family, not to mention the throng of disappointed suitors she had no doubt left behind her in London and Helstone, the south stripped of its finest rose. John tensed his jaw and bit down, trying hard not to let jealousy overtake him at the thought of other men looking at Margaret the way he did. 'I hope you do not mind me saying that I find you…'

John was unsure of what to say. Irresistible? Appealing? Handsome? Beguiling? Charming? Desirable? Bewitching? Gorgeous? No, no, none of these descriptions would do, because not only were they overfamiliar to the point of being obscene, but they were also abjectly insufficient in accurately defining Margaret's immeasurable beauty.

'There are no words to describe your exquisiteness,' John said at last, his brow scrunching in discontent at his inability to fully and fittingly articulate his reverence for her. 'You always look so irrationally lovely. My magnificent Margaret.'

Margaret crinkled her nose in that way which quite undid him. 'I am plain,' she alleged frankly, her eyes skimming up and down her figure, one which she had always deemed too little in longitude and too curved in latitude around her hips and breasts to be considered pleasing. 'At least, I know…I know that I am not pretty,' she said without any airs and graces.

With a self-conscious sniff, Margaret distinctly remembered some of Edith's friends whose physiques had been as flat as a plank of wood, the ladies scrutinising and sneering at the comely flower from the country at various balls, always ridiculing her and pointing out with a waspish sting that no man would ever approve of her luscious looks. However, unknown to an unworldly Margaret, that far from belittling her shapely figure, the spiteful mademoiselles had been seething with jealousy at the way their beaus all eyed the pretty parson's daughter with thinly veiled rapaciousness, the girl unaware of both the cattiness and covetousness which followed her about the room like a bad smell. To be honest, it was one of the many reasons she wore such dreary clothes, it was because the small part of Margaret that always felt ill at ease in her own skin, disliked drawing attention to herself, and bland dresses with their uninspiring designs and unexceptional fabrics were just the thing to stop people looking at her…well, everybody but John, so it seemed.

But in response to her ridiculous argument and appeal for modesty, John merely tugged her tighter, and with a rough growl, he stressed, 'You are perfect to me,' for he would never have her doubt how much he adored her in every conceivable way, not his Margaret, not his muse, not his Venus de Milo. With a glare, he could well understand why the petty ladies at his dinner party had tried to disparage Margaret's attire, it was because she was so naturally beautiful, and they hated her for it. Indeed, while they all needed gaudy and glitzy trinkets to draw attention to their inferior attributes, Margaret needed nothing, since her inherent grace and grandeur spoke for itself, the girl having turned every head that night with her impressive mannerisms and mesmerising elegance.

However, John's mind was preoccupied with thinking about quite a different night and quite a different dress. 'You looked so unbelievably enchanting in that white dress two nights ago. I thought I had died and gone to Heaven, a paradise where you were waiting for me, a Utopia where you actually wanted me. You were an angel…you were a bride,' he breathed against her neck, the unsteady desire in his voice lulling her like a pied piper, and Margaret could feel a strange burning between her legs, something she had never felt before she met John.

She was about to ask him about it, to enquire if he knew what it was and whether he felt it too, but Margaret was impeded as he continued. 'And tonight…oh!' he groaned, his fingers gripping her sides greedily, his nose delving into her hair and smelling the fragrant bouquet of pears and rosewater. 'I thought I would break down before you from an onslaught of affection and attraction when I turned around and saw you standing at the door, my lioness of a woman turned as timid as a mouse at the sound of my declaration of love.'

As John distractedly plucked at the rim of the ribbon around her waist, Margaret's fingers fondled the folds of her skirts. 'This is my mother's dress,' she told him nonchalantly. 'She wore it the day she became engaged to my father ─ goodness!' Margaret suddenly shrieked, a hand flying to her face in astonishment.

'What is it? John questioned, startled by her abrupt squeal.

Margaret laughed excitedly, impishly slapping John's arm. 'She knew!' she gasped. 'My mother knew that you were coming. She predicted ─ no, she planned everything that would happen this evening, right down to the last detail. That is why she wanted me to put this dress on tonight, because she knew that you would ask me to marry you,' Margaret explained, her flattened palms running along the lapels of John's jacket in an act of innocent intimacy, almost as if she had done it a hundred times before, and it were now natural to her, the sensation of which made him moan deep within his throat.

'It seems as if your mother has played us both, my love, and thank God she has!' he chuckled sincerely, wondering how he could ever repay the debt he owed to that wonderful woman. Well, he did, for John would thank her every day by loving her daughter with a fierce faithfulness and fondness that was unmatched either in fact or fiction. 'Who knows what would have become of us without her facilitation. But we are together now, and that is all that matters.'

Margaret smiled, flashing a row of pearly white teeth, and she leaned her head against his chest once more, purring contentedly in her new nest.

But John was not so ready to relax, because he had something else he wanted to say…something he wanted to do…something he had aspired to say and do for a very, very long time.

'Margaret…,' he said again.

'Hmm?' Margaret hummed in a blissful haze.

John bent his finger under her chin and gently elevated it so that she was looking up at him, her lovely neck slanted, her eyes glittering as splendidly as the sequins that adorned the hem of her gown. John could hardly breathe. With his fevered eyes drifting across her face, he announced, 'I think it only right to give you fair warning…I am going to try and kiss you.'

There, he had said it!

It may seem strange that he should have alerted her to his attentions thus, but you see, for John, he had made so many catastrophic assumptions when it came to Margaret and when it came to love, that he dared not wreck things further by allowing his arrogant suppositions to rue the day. No, he would not let hot-headedness spoil everything for him, for both of them, since he had to remind himself that they were an affianced couple now, and they would share each other's joys and woes from this night on until their dying day, so it was only right that John unlocked the door of his heart and let Margaret in, all so that she might know his mind and read his thoughts, since he always wished to be an open book to her.

However, much to his dismay, Margaret's doleful eyes suddenly blinked in trepidation and John felt as if he had been booted in the gut and groin all at the same time. 'What is wrong?' he solicited guardedly. 'Do you…do you not wish me to kiss you?' he asked glumly, his pitch laced with evident disappointment.

'I do not have to. I…I am sorry, I am such an uncouth oaf! I am taking liberties, I am asking too much too soon, aren't I?' he stuttered, feeling like a beast who was a slave to his base cravings. Perhaps he was moving too fast. Perhaps this was not how gentleman behaved in the south. Perhaps men of their refined ilk were expected to wait a respectable interval after proposing before requesting such a boorish thing as pressing their overly eager lips against their fiancée's. Oh heck! He really was making such a pig's ear of things, but for the life of him, John would never force his attentions upon Margaret, no matter how much he wanted her.

Nevertheless, Margaret was quick to respond, her tone timid. 'Oh no!' she contended. 'It is ─ it is not that! I…,' she waned, her eyes cast to the floor.

'Tell me,' he beseeched, his sonorous tenor hoarse.

Margaret's eyelashes fluttered as she tentatively lifted her gaze to meet his once more, her heart flapping at the warmth and limitless patience she saw shining back at her. 'I do not know what to do,' she confessed diffidently. 'I…I might be bad at it.' At this, Margaret nipped her bottom lip, but soon quailed as John let out a rumbling groan, his soul near enough splitting in two at her honesty and the purity of her humble heart.

Raising a thumb to stroke the fragile petals of those virgin lips, John eyed them insatiably, his breath ragged with both love and lust. 'That is not possible, my darling, for you cannot be bad at anything,' he near enough whimpered as he saw her lips pout, the pertness of that moist varnish wetting his fingertip. 'And I think…I believe that your mouth was made for mine, and their marriage through a kiss is all part of their heaven-blessed design.'

'Besides, I do not know what to do either. I have never kissed a woman before,' he disclosed, unsure of whether such an admittance was embarrassing or endearing, but his heart quickened as he saw the relief of this revelation wash over Margaret's face as she understood that he had never known another. 'But at least, this way, we can be bad at it together. We can teach each other and learn from each other's lips,' he explained earnestly. 'But I must kiss you, for one more second without your pretty and irrepressibly impertinent petals urged against mine will surely drive me insane,' he murmured, his body aching from tip to toe for want of her, a feral hunger which he could no longer deny.

John felt his heart race as Margaret, bless her, closed her eyes and inclined her mouth nearer to his, peacefully and pleasingly waiting for him to fulfil his wish. Nonetheless, John did not grant his desire straight away, instead, he applied his notorious self-discipline and took this rare opportunity to survey her face at close quarters. God! – she was so lovely. Her soft skin, her unblemished features, her long eyelashes, her dainty nose, her pastel lips, and they were his, they were all his. Wait, no, they were not his, they were hers, and John would always seek permission before touching Margaret, since she never had been, and never would be, his property to do with as he pleased. To be sure, such possessiveness was neither in John's nature, nor did the principled man believe that any husband was ever justified in treating his wife like a doll that he could pick up, handle, and discard however he saw fit. No, John was determined that despite his undeniable faults, this was most definitely not how the Thornton's marriage would be. In the place of marital exploitation, as was sadly so often the standard norm, John would always strive to ensure that his wife, his Margaret, experienced nothing but equality. But all the same, it was still wonderful to know that he was the only man who would be able to sample and savour the sweetness of both Margaret's untouched body and untameable soul, something which made him want her now more than ever.

Nodding at last, John too closed his eyes and tilted forwards, ready to satisfy this most precious ambition of his heart. But then, as his mouth very nearly brushed hers, the distance between them so small that even mathematics could not measure it, he abruptly stopped, and there his lips hung in the air, quivering in intolerable indecision.

This went on for some time, until Margaret's eyes flew open in confusion. 'John?!' came a high-pitched query, her nerves getting the better of her.

Margaret felt a bubble of panic mount in her belly as John unexpectedly bolted from her and absconded to the other side of the room, much like she had done to him earlier. She clutched at her chest, for it felt like when he went, he had wrenched her heart away with him, and the chasm which he left behind was unbearable in its excruciating emptiness. Margaret watched as John prowled back and forth and back and forth again like an animal imprisoned in a cage, his head hung low, his shoulders arched, his nostrils flared, his eyes fearsome. The blurry candlelight which danced around the room threw shuddering shadows across his agitated form, almost as if light itself, a force as old as time, trembled in the terrorising master's wake.

He looked utterly frightful!

But Margaret was not scared of John, she never had been. The Master of Marlborough Mills may have been a daunting man to many, his strength of body and sharpness of mind making him a most formidable adversary that deterred anyone from approaching or antagonising him. But to her, he was her John, a kind, sweet, tender soul, her gentle giant, and she would not shrink away from him, not now, not ever. 'What is it?' Margaret asked, purposefully striving to ensure that her words were fortified by both a calm and caring quality.

Nevertheless, John just continued in his harassed stalking, an atmosphere of torment polluting his twisted features. Margaret, in her innocent dismay, could only guess at what the matter was. 'Oh! I am sorry! Did I do it wrong already?! I am so useless!' she apologised, feeling wretchedly pathetic, her hands wringing before her.

She had never been kissed before, but she and Edith had used mirrors to practice when they were younger, her cousin trying to show Margaret how she should shape her lips and how hard she should press so that she might compel her husband and oblige him, as was apparently her duty as a wife, something which had never sat well with Margaret. But alas, the pretence of this rehearsal had always felt false and foolish to Margaret, and she estimated that the cold and indifferent partner of the glass was not how a fervent admirer's lips would truly feel.

But John was quick to dismiss such doubts from her mind. 'No!' he bellowed like a crack of thunder; his gullet strangled as if he were in pain, and Margaret sprang back at the vigour of his conviction. John let out a lengthy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'No, sweetheart,' he tried again more steadily. 'You are just as you should be, you are perfect, as always. It is…it is just,' he faded feebly, turning to lean his weary frame up against the mantel, his elbow propped up on the ledge, his head bowed forward in shame.

Margaret was at a loss of what to do or say, but then suddenly, she stilled as a flood of realisation swept over her. 'Oh, John!' she exclaimed, her heart breaking into a thousand mournful pieces. However, he did not respond to her cry of understanding and unease on his behalf, instead remaining in his deformed stance of distress. Margaret shook her head, for she was having none of this. Deciding that John sorely needed both her bravery and her benevolence, she fearlessly walked across the room and only halted when she reached his side. Carefully lifting her hand, Margaret gently placed it on his arm. 'Oh, my love!' she breathed. 'I know what the matter is. The dreams.'

John's head spun round, and he regarded her in disbelief, his eyes wide and wild. 'How?!' he howled. 'How could you possibly know about my dreams…those dreams?!' he interrogated, staggering backwards in overwhelming shock.

Margaret gave him a small and sympathetic smile. 'I am there too, remember.'

But John shook his head adamantly. 'It can't be! You are not really there, it is not real, you were not real!' he asserted, pointing at her accusingly as if she were half woman half apparition, his crazed mind having fabricated the latter, the man now unsure of which of the two Margaret Hale's was standing before him.

Margaret paused while she thought this through and considered what best to say to alleviate his anguish. Then, at last, with a peaceable and reasonable tone, she opened her case with, 'I think, perhaps, in some strange way that neither you nor I can understand, I was there, and it was real.' But for the life of her, she did not understand how such a thing could have come about herself. All Margaret knew was that she had been there in his house, in his room, in John's bed. She had felt his touch, she had smelled his scent, she had heard his voice, she had tasted his sweat, and she had seen his face. It had all been as real as he and she were right now, standing here before each other. No, she knew that she would never solve this bewitching riddle, but she did not care, for Margaret would not wish those cherished memories away, no matter how wrong they may be both in terms of sanity and suitability.

'But, John, this is no dream. This is not an illusion, but is reality. I am flesh and I am blood. I am here, ─ look!' she affirmed, spinning in a circle and squeezing together a finger and thumb to pinch herself, showing that she was no spectre, no figment of his imagination. 'You will not wake. I will not vanish. This will not turn out to be some feverish fantasy that only exists in your head.'

John looked at her with such naked longing that Margaret thought her soul might rupture in agony, for they were twins you see, her soul and his, two halves of the same being, so, when he was in pain, so was she.

'I know, I just…Margaret, I think I would die if I woke to find that none of this was real. It would kill me!' he groaned with the bitter sting of grief. 'I burn to kiss you. I want it so badly, but now that I finally have the chance and your consent, I find that by some strange curse, I cannot,' he lamented, still refusing to come to her. 'And now I am afraid that all of this is a lie, that I am not really here at all, but asleep in my cold, lonely mill office, and I shall soon startle into wakefulness. Oh, then what? Then I fear that I shall give up the ghost there and then when I realise that you do not love me after all, because I will have nothing left worth living for.'

Margaret's heart began to cry, something she did not even know it could do.

In that instant, Margaret elected to be daring, more so than she had ever been before in all her nineteen years. John was courageous, fiercely so. He was a warrior of a man who had supported his family in poverty, a man who had built up his business and his standing in society without help, a man who had asked to marry her even when he felt certain she cared nothing for him, and a man who had come here tonight when he believed that she would never forgive him his mistakes and that he had forfeited her good opinion forever. Yes, he was heroic, and in turn, her dear boy deserved the same from her, the woman who would not only be his partner in life, but his pillar too, someone who would never let him fall, never let his confidence in himself collapse or crumble when he felt like his world was caving in around him, just as he did now.

Standing tall, (not that she could ever hope to be as tall as him), and rolling her shoulders back so that her petite frame stood straight and stalwart like an unusually short soldier, Margaret threw modesty to the wind and strode across her father's library.

With one resolute step at a time, she marched right up to John, and without stopping to consider what she was doing or fret over what he might think, Margaret reached up onto her tiptoes, seized the edges of his jacket, hauled him closer, dragging his head down at the same time, and then squashed her lips against his in a passionate kiss.

There, she had done it!

I hope you have enjoyed parts 1+2 of the engagement chapters and they are meeting your expectations, especially after it has taken so long for us to get here. A couple of notes from me. So, one thing I try and do in this story is to add in a bit of myself, and to me, gender equality is really important, so this chapter has a few instances of that. For one, Margaret's memories of being disparaged in London by other girls over being pretty is something which I believe we don't talk about enough as a society. We spend a lot of time discussing how unhealthy male attitudes can be towards the female body, but actually, as real and relevant as that problem is, we do not spend nearly enough time focusing on how women often bully and belittle other women over body shaming. It is something which happens all the time and has existed throughout history, the whole thing being so, so sad. I do wish we could encourage each other more and not feel threatened by each other, instead giving fellow women the space and support we all need for our own distinctive light to shine brightly and beautifully. Again, I also like adding back-stories to characters and events in my fanfic, so I liked making up that as well as being genuinely modest and unfussy, Margaret also gravitates towards plain clothes because she feels self-conscious, again, something which women do a lot today to hide either feeling ugly or attractive from others. And lastly, I hope you liked my little feminist bit at the end where Margaret was actually the one to kiss John first. A lot of these chapters were spur of the moment decisions, but this point of principle has remained crucial to me since the start. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it and like the next bit when it comes.

Oh, and…I will cry if anyone mentions Margaret's age. I think in an earlier chapter I made her 18, but for the purposes of future chapters in this story, I want her to be 19 now, so if you picked up on that, yes, I already know.