A Mother's Final Gift

by TheScribblerCMB

As Thornton battles bitterly with Margaret's rejection, and she in turn struggles to come to terms with her true feelings for the northern mill owner, an ailing Mrs Hale decides to intervene. Will her final gift to her daughter be enough to save this classic couple?

34. A SYMBOLIC CIRCLE

Hello! So, first of all, I hope you enjoyed the first two chapters. I haven't heard much in response to them, but hope they were enjoyed all the same. 😊 Secondly, I'm sorry that it's taken me a bit longer than planned to get this chapter out, my bad, I shouldn't have said that it would be out on Sunday. I thought it would be, I did, but then childcare/work responsibilities changed. Either way, I still think 3 long chapters in a week is a pretty good accomplishment, so I'm not too worried. I am not too sure if this chapter is quite up to snuff, but I just wanted it out and done, so here we are, hopefully it will be agreeable.

Secondly, please note that this chapter does contain a brief, albeit stark reference to George Thornton's passing, so that may distress some readers.

And lastly, on a much more pleasant note, you can see Margaret's engagement ring on Twitter or Facebook. Twitter: TheScribblerCMB, Facebook: TheScribbler_CMB.

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CHAPTER 34:

A SYMBOLIC CIRCLE

It all happened so fast and in a blur of intrepid valour, swift motion, and disorientating surprise, that neither John nor Margaret had the chance to fully appreciate what was happening, nor did they have the cherished opportunity to savour the magic of their first kiss.

In Margaret's case, she was simply relieved that in her inexperience, she had not missed his mouth, but had indeed managed to reach her lofty target with the bullseye of one attempt and one audacious thrust of her mouth as she stretched and soared on her tiptoes, ballet dancing never having been her forte. The kiss had only lasted about four seconds, maybe five at a push. Neither of them had moved their mouths, they did not have the chance to think or try, and their joined lips had merely lingered in a single and stagnant meeting, a dreamlike trance which was over before it had really begun.

Pulling away, Margaret teetered backwards, reeling from the spine-tingling sensations which rushed through her head and made her quite dizzy, her arms flailing about her as she tried to find something to grab a hold of for support. With her cheeks blushing yet again like two ripe cherries, she watched with apprehension as John's eyes snapped open, and with the look of one who had just been slapped sharply across the face, he stared at her in stunned stupefaction.

Margaret instantly regretted her rash actions. What must he think of her? He was probably thinking that she was a most disgraceful young woman who had no respect for the rules of propriety whatsoever, and guessing by his astonished face, John was disconcertingly gobsmacked by her impulsive and improper conduct, almost certainly judging that she was no lady after all, but a scrumpet who had shamed the both of them with her brashness. But then again, did John not love her for her independent ways? Did he not champion her spirit? Did he not admire her impertinence? Was it not because Margaret was defiant, daring, and different that John had fallen in love with her?

Oh help! She was dreadfully sorry. Wait, no she was not. Yes she was, and so she should be. No she was not, she was not sorry one bit, and she had no reason to be. She had lips after all, just like he did, so why could she not apply hers as readily and skilfully as he might employ his own? Oh dear, Margaret was not sure!

As she tightened up into a ball with her shoulders hunched and her arms wrapped around her middle in a self-conscious huddle, Margaret acknowledged that she knew precious little about kissing, hardly anything in fact. Edith had talked quite a bit about it when she and the Captain had started courting, but her cousin had made it clear that a lady must wait for a man to begin that phase of their relationship, no matter how frustrating his dawdling postponements or incompetence might be. Women who took the lead in such things were apparently dissolute and without a stitch of moral fibre to their name, not at all the sort of girl men wanted to marry. Again, Margaret did not know how things were done in the north, but she at least appreciated that the sons of this city were men of action, men who liked to be in control, in command, and her John was the very definition of the type of man who personified a sense of self-governing determination in his every deed. Therefore, for her to have whipped that familiar impression of influence out from under him by behaving so impudently must have been like a jarring shock to his system. Margaret felt so very foolish. He would surely be intolerably cross with her, so disappointed in her. But she had just been trying to help!

Margaret felt her body shake as John just stood there, not moving a muscle, his eyes wide, his mouth agape, his breathing laboured, his whole being screaming out in shock. 'Oh! I am terribly sorry!' she apologised, her hands flying to her face to try and cool the stinging sensation that itched beneath her skin like a hive of angry bees. Oh dear, oh no! Margaret had just wanted to prove to him that she was real after all and to show John that she too could be as brave in her character and bold in their relationship as he. That is all she had wanted, honestly. But then again, maybe that was a lie, since Margaret knew that she had also been impatient, and in her craving for his contact, she had refused to wait, choosing instead to throw herself at him in wanton recklessness. Oh dear! She could feel her cheeks burning more hotly than Dixon's kitchen stove in response to the way he was staring at her in naked disbelief, his gaze darting between her mouth, her eyes, and back to her mouth again.

'I ─ I ─ I should never have behaved in such an unladylike way. I have never done anything like that before, truly. I was just trying to help, I promise. John, I am so sorr ─'

But Margaret was unable to finish, since before she could complete her bumbling sentence of apology, John had hurled his vigorous body forwards and grabbed her with astounding strength. In a flash, he had hauled her close, and with one hand secured about her waist and the other embedded at the base of her neck, the master crushed his lips against her own.

John was beside himself with joy. She was still here! She was real! This was real! Hallelujah!

Margaret gasped as she felt his mouth expand and compel against her own with ravenous verve, almost as if he were a starving beast, she being his first meal in days. However, the weight of John's build and the intensity of his passion were too much for an amateur Margaret, given that she had been unprepared for such an ambush of ardour, and in retort, she found her diminutive frame stumbling backwards step after wobbly step, until eventually, her legs hit the table with a loud thud and she whimpered.

On discerning this clamour, John himself drew away as swiftly as he had started, and with his face awash with remorse, he backed away from Margaret. 'I'm sorry!' he hissed, tripping over his tongue as he struggled to regulate his fitful breathing.

Peering at Margaret with cautious concern, John could see that she just stared back at him with wide eyes brimming with fright, her finger rising slowly to touch her puffy lips, the place where he had just set about her most shockingly, the poor lass no doubt scandalised, if not indeed traumatised by his libidinous loutishness. It was just that he could not believe it, this was all real, and he could finally kiss her safe in the knowledge that she would not vanish when their mouths met, and they could truly be together. And oh God! Margaret, his beautiful, brave Margaret, how he loved her for being so courageous and caring as to kiss him first. She was incredible, and yet John had repaid her with his crudeness and carnality. For shame!

With his head hung low, John cursed himself inwardly, and with the mouth-watering sensation of her seductive lips staining his own, an intoxicating impression he could never hope to wash away, not that he would ever wish to, he searched for words sufficient to beg her forgiveness for his vulgar conduct, shame spiking his repentant tone. 'What is wrong with me?!' he scourged with a fearsome scowl of self-degradation and disgrace. 'That was too forthright, too forcef ─'

But again, taking turns to surprise each other tonight, the man was caught off guard, and this time, without so much as a word of warning, it was Margaret who lunged at John. Clawing at his jacket like a wild animal, she snatched large fistfuls of his clothing in bunches and dragged him towards her with a force which completely knocked John for six. As their mouths cuffed and chafed together yet again, he let out a gruff and instinctive groan while she let out a breathy and involuntary moan. With their hands impatiently weaving around each other so that they might grip their partner more tightly in this dance of passion, their bodies spinning in circles under the influence of their insatiable zeal, it was now John's turn to sway, and as he staggered backwards, his back struck a bookcase at his rear with the most tremendous thump of an impact, so much so that he felt certain that he would be battered and bruised by morning. As Margaret and John fought to hold each other as snugly and securely as humanly possible, her enthusiasm and astounding energy meant that John found himself pressed up against this item of vertical furniture, pinned to the wall like her most willing prisoner. Chuckling to himself as a pile of books were disturbed and fell off the shelves, the tomes tumbling to the floor, (not before clobbering him on the head and shoulders during their disordered descent), John thought about how books, his faithful friend all these years, were now the ones to support him in this most wonderful new chapter of his life, a fantastic fitting fluke of fate if there ever was one.

John and Margaret remained like this for some time, their mouths working hungrily in unison as they explored each other like voyagers investigating new and novel worlds. Together they surveyed fresh terrain, charted unfamiliar territory, unlocked hidden secrets, discovering breath-taking wonders that saturated their every sense. Margaret's arms were entangled around his neck and in turn, John had one hand cupped against her cheek to hold her head in place, whilst the other was positioned firmly around her side to keep her close. Margaret dug her fingers into his hair and dragged them through his thick black mane, her nails scraping along his scalp and causing a sharp pang of pleasurable pain to course through him. At the same time, John shoved his own fingers into her hair, and after taking a big clump full of silky locks in his fist, he gently tugged at it, enticing her head back so that he might kiss her neck a little, and the man nearly choked on a ball of satisfaction which had become lodged in his throat as she panted and towed his head harder against herself in consenting welcome.

She could not believe how warm and soft his lips were, and in turn, he could never have dreamt that her lips tasted so delicious, like the finest delicacy known to mankind, the only indulgence he wanted to sample for the rest of his life. Margaret found that her hands brazenly scraped along John's body, and she felt her breath catch in her throat at the feel of his firm muscles beneath his clothes, the thrill making her clench his hands so that she might force them to clutch and embrace her more tightly. When she did this, John's splayed fingers voraciously scoured Margaret's figure and gripped onto her greedily about her shoulders, her abdomen, and her lower back, the master fighting every urge which pulsated throughout his throbbing body, stalwartly denying his craving to travel further north or south of the borders of decency to more restricted lands.

Due to their immense difference in height, every now and again, John would lift Margaret off the ground as if she weighed no more than a feather, her feet dangling in the air as their heads reached a more evenly matched altitude. From time to time, as they parted slightly to draw breath, she would let out a light-headed sigh while he let out a coarse grunt, the sensual sounds driving them mad and only serving to induce them to resume the frenzied disinterring of their mutual desire with more gusto than before, the slapping and sucking noise of their famished lips echoing around the room.

Margaret giggled as she felt his stubble scratch her, but she did not mind it, it did not hurt, instead it felt wonderful. It was difficult to describe, but the contrast between his rough skin and smooth lips was an overwhelmingly poignant reminder to Margaret that while John may be prickly on the outside, he was so very tender on the inside, a contrasting character which she treasured. In turn, John thought he had died and gone to Heaven. She was divine, more so than he could ever have envisaged in his most outlandish fantasies. And those lips! Oh, God save him! They tasted of honey, a sweet and sugary substance that he could happily sample ─ no devour ─ for the rest of his life, and John now knew that he needed it to survive, for he would surely starve without the nectar that was Margaret's kiss.

As their deflowered mouths continued with their passionate introductions for what could have been either minutes or hours, John and Margaret were both acutely aware that it was late, it was dark, and they were alone. Anybody could walk in at any moment and disturb their elicit and most scandalous embrace, but neither of them cared a fig, not now that they were finally happy, together at last, wrapped up in each other's arms, and promised to each other in an unbreakable bond of love and loyalty, meaning that as far as their faithful hearts were concerned, they were already man and wife.

At long last, they broke away, and leaning their sweaty foreheads together, they panted, their chests heaving. Staring into each other's eyes, they saw excited orbs sparkling back at them, their souls now alight with the animated delight of their newfound appetite for each other's mouths. Margaret giggled as she found that John's cravat had near enough been torn off and discarded upon the floor, the material hanging loosely around that thick neck. She felt a strange desire to press her lips to it, but she refrained, more was the pity, because that spot had teased her mind for days, ever since she had first seen his exposed throat in his office. As Margaret thought on this, it occurred to her that she would probably be seeing more of John's body in the future, but when she realised what this actually meant, she nearly died from mortification for allowing herself to even contemplate such rude thoughts, so she quickly ducked her head and concealed it against him, since surely John could read her mind and see the indecent imaginings within.

In turn, John smirked as he saw her chaotic hair, his fingers having made a mess of that shock of glossy chestnut tresses, the once elegant arrangement now resembling something akin to a shambolic bird's nest. How he longed to take all her pins out and shake her hair out so that it flowed freely like the mane of a lion, Margaret, his lioness of a woman who was as fierce as she was majestic. John knew that when they were married, he would request that as often as she would allow him, he would see to her bedtime routine himself, and those pins were not the only thing he would be removing.

John's thumb rose to skim the glaze of her moist lips, those rosy petals now swollen, no longer naive, but puffy with the memory of his ardent touch, forever marked by his love. 'See, that was not so bad,' he grinned, his throat hoarse.

Margaret swayed in his arms. 'No, I suppose not,' she blushed as she coiled a stray strand of hair around her finger and swept it away from her face back towards her fringe, an enchanted John watching as the adorably stubborn wisp simply fell back again a second later in wilful defiance, thus proving whose beautiful and obstinate head it belonged to.

'In fact, it was marvellous!' she grinned broadly. 'I do not know how I shall ever find it in me to do anything else now. And besides, it was our first try, so we have many, many more opportunities ahead of us to hone our newfound skill and hobby,' she joshed.

'You are right there!' he agreed avidly, trying to catch his breath. 'You know, I think I may have to give up the mill, because I certainly won't have time to see to that and kiss you as frequently as I want or as often as you deserve it, my love. Hmm, yes, I think I shall just have to let my precious mill run itself into the ground, there really is no alternative,' he decreed with a tenor of mock gravity to his tone.

They both laughed jovially, but as they slanted their necks so that once again their lips might mingle and merge as one, they were both distracted by a faint thudding noise as something thumped on the floor between them. Gazing down, John and Margaret scrunched up their eyes as they scrutinised two slithers of material that lay strewn at their feet, one dark, one light.

At first, they were perplexed, but then suddenly and simultaneously, they both shouted out: 'My gloves!'

Bending down together and nearly knocking heads, they both picked up their own glove, John his large leather one, and Margaret her small silken one. Turning over the lost artefacts in their hands, they were each astounded to think of where they had been hiding all this time.

'I know how I have yours, but how in the world did you end up with mine?' Margaret checked, her fingers stroking the satin lining of the fine Parisian fabric, since you see, John may have known about her having his gloves, but she had not yet been equally enlightened as to him pocketing hers.

John huffed through his nose at the recollection of how he had come to be in possession of an item of Margaret's clothing, a fact which he only now fully appreciated was horrendously inappropriate in every way. 'You left them at Marlborough House on the day of the riot. I did have every intention of returning them to you, honestly. I brought them…that day,' he said, abruptly trailing off as the memory of that unspeakable day clouded his cheerful thoughts. 'But in the turmoil that unfolded, I forgot. I confess that after our argument, I found that I just could not bring myself to part with them. I hungered for you so helplessly, so hopelessly, Margaret, that I could not deprive myself of them, these inconsequential yet weighty items that brought me just that little bit closer to you. I felt your touch as if your slender hands were encased within them. It felt as if I held your hand in mine like I had at the dinner party. I am sorry if I have offended you, and I am sorry that I have dispossessed you of your gloves for all these weeks by effectively stealing them,' he apologised sheepishly, feeling most absurd indeed for having conducted himself so idiotically, he being a grown man with a rational and responsible mind.

However, John was not about to admit that far from merely hoarding the gloves, he had in fact carried them about on his person day and night like some sort of treasure, the master having worked with them in his study and slept with them in his bed as a way of keeping her nearby at a time when Margaret felt so very, very far away, the close intimacy of her love an unattainable aspiration of his tortured heart.

Margaret shook her head benevolently. 'I do not think I have the right to be affronted, John dear, given that I did the same,' she remarked, nodding to his glove.

John smiled. 'I have been looking for them, hunting for them high and low. They are my favourite pair. I bought them the day I was named Master of Marlborough Mills five years ago as a sort of self-congratulatory indulgence to mark the occasion. It had been God knows how many years, you see, since I had purchased anything for myself that was not strictly necessary. I racked my brain trying to think where they might be, almost going so far as to line up all the servants and accuse them of pilfering my stupid gloves, as if anyone would want to take something so pathetically tattered and worthless. I even wondered if Fanny had pinched them as revenge for me confiscating and concealing her piano music,' he sniggered. 'But for the life of me, I never considered that they might be here, even less so that you of all people would have them, love,' John said in incredulity, his eyebrows as high as a kite as he still tried to come to grips with this extraordinary turn of events.

'Oh! I am sorry!' Margaret stammered, feeling riddled with guilt. 'If I had known how sentimental they were to you and how much you had missed them, I would have returned them at once!' she contended. 'I feel dreadful for being so selfish!' she claimed, her eyelashes drooping under the weight of her contrition.

However, John simply lifted her hand and kissed it fondly. 'Hush now, woman!' he ragged blithely. 'For one thing, Margaret, you do not have a selfish bone in your body, of that I am sure. And secondly, how can you imagine that I missed them more than I missed you, hmm?' he asked, pressing a light kiss to the tip of her dainty nose. 'Do you not think that knowing that you had them and kept them is far more sentimental to me than having them languish in loneliness in my coat pocket? The idea that you were cherishing them in thought of me is too gratifying to describe, these old gloves that I have had for years somehow being permitted the honour of knowing your love for me even before I did. So, no, darling, I am not cross, do not be daft, since the fact that you had them makes these gloves all the more meaningful to me,' he reassured.

Margaret reached out to tenderly finger the rawhide covering of the garment which now rested in his sizeable hand where she supposed it belonged, but all the same, she suddenly felt oddly possessive over it, and even more so over the hand which held it. 'You have no idea how much solace they have brought me, John, how much comfort. I carry them with me constantly. And this morning, I put them away, hoping that if they were out of sight, then you would be out of mind. I resolved to try and forget you and to move on from my heartache. I told myself that if you did not want me, then I should not want you. I was resolved to persevere in my purge of you from my heart, but I found that despite myself, I could not. I still needed them to get me through the day, so I retrieved one just moments after I had put them aside, so if that does not show you how deeply I missed you and wanted you, John, I do not know what shall,' she said, her fingertips gripping the glove, and John let it go, intuitively sensing that somehow it was no longer his, but hers, and in a strange way, it thrilled him through and through to know that even such a small part of him had come to mean so much to her. It gave him such hope to think that if Margaret could love his glove so ardently, then there was no saying how passionately she could grow to love him.

'I sometimes keep them in my pocket and slip my hand inside so that my fingers might caress the leather coating and sheepskin lining, and I feel safe once more, I feel content and confident, as if having you with me brings me such strength as I have never felt before. But now, I do not need such trinkets, for I shall have you, all of you, and my heart shall not be warmed by a glove, but by the support and shelter I know that I will find daily in your secure arms, my new and permanent home,' she whispered, gazing up at him demurely.

John let out a shuddering sigh. 'Oh! My love!' he breathed, his arms surrounding her and swiftly bringing Margaret back into the intimate circle of his love.

Still clutching his glove and spying her ivory one in his grasp, Margaret quietly asked, 'What shall we do with them, John?' since she could not speak for him, but in her case, Margaret knew that she could never wear these particular pair of gloves again with anything akin to casual irrelevance, not since they had taken on such a celestial meaning.

'Keep it,' he offered without a qualm, his chin resting on the crown of her head as John tucked Margaret into that space from his neck down where she moulded so perfectly against him, almost as if their bodies had been made to measure, specifically fitting the dimensions of their own precise and precious jigsaw puzzle. 'As you say, we do not need these consoling articles anymore, not now that we have each other. So, we shall keep one each, a tender reminder of the sparks of hope that burnt valiantly amidst the pain of the past few days, weeks, and months that formed our bond and brought us together. And then, if we are ever apart, even for a day, we will have a glove each to cheer us.'

Margaret smiled and John's heart was enamoured as her cheeks puffed into little balls. 'Yes, I like that,' she settled, her fingers still petting the glove. John watched in hypnotic silence as her digits moved back and forth so tenderly, and his eyes fixed obsessively upon the fourth finger of her left hand, a slender stem which suddenly appeared so intolerably naked.

'Margaret…?' he whispered thickly.

'Yes, John?' she replied with absent listlessness, her own attention still focused on his glove, something which she now inspected with fresh adoration as if it were the most fascinating thing in all the world.

'I have a ring,' he blurted out before he had time to think better of his admission and stop himself.

Margaret's eyes darted up; all thoughts of the glove at once driven from her mind. 'A ring?' she echoed.

'Yes,' John stated frankly, 'for you,' he added, gesticulating towards her gracelessly, later rebuking himself for such an idiotic remark, for of course it was for her, who else would it be for?!

However, it seemed as if his clarification had been necessary after all, for all Margaret could do was recite, 'For me?'

John's face slumped into a frown. 'Yes,' he expounded again, unsure of where he had lost her. 'May…may I please show you it?' he lobbied, a troubled lilt to his voice.

Margaret startled, and her eyes swooped up and down him searchingly. 'You have it here? Now?' she interrogated, turning to look around her as if she might find it behind her, leaping out at her like a surprise at a birthday celebration. Margaret felt as if the room had by some means taken on a new and surreptitious significance, wondering what other secrets lay secreted hereabouts.

Nevertheless, Margaret soon ceased her twitchy revolving as John reached into his breast pocket and drew out a small blue-velvet box, one which she noted was the same colour as her sash and his cravat, a curious coincidence indeed. But as his unsteady fingers inched towards her, John unexpectedly drew back and held the box close to his person in possessive and protective edginess.

'You do not have to say you like it!' he stipulated, his tone a tad terse, his mouth clamped into a thin and tense line. 'Promise me that you will not say you do if you do not. I could not stand for such a meaningful symbol of our pledge to one another to gild your finger if you despised its design. That would rather defeat the purpose,' he acknowledged with a grimace.

Margaret felt her heart melt at the fretful look which furrowed his unfairly handsome face. 'I promise that I shall be honest, dearest,' she agreed softly, desperate to see it.

After a lot of hemming and hawing, John gave in, and with brooding reticence, he handed Margaret the box, discharging it to her care and critique, a slight tremble in his sizeable hand as he relinquished his bejewelled offering of love. From his great height, his bowed head observed the scene nervously as he watched her open the lid, and John's stomach churned as he saw the confused expression which bothered Margaret's features, one which she did not even attempt to hide. Damn it! She hated it, didn't she?

With her nose wrinkling in perplexity, Margaret impatiently pushed the lid open fully, so that she heard the snap of the hinges as it locked into place, ready to proudly present the contents inside. However, John had been most wrong in his anxious assumption, for Margaret was not even thinking about whether she liked it or not, not yet anyway, but rather, she was mystified by an entirely different matter. 'I do not understand,' she mused, her eyes scanning the bauble which shone and shimmered with magnificent brilliance in the candlelight.

John glowered in bafflement. 'You do not understand?' he repeated huffily. That was not what he had been expecting. What was there to understand? It was just a blinking ring!

'This is new,' Margaret assessed, carefully taking the ring out of its snug stand. Twisting it about in her fingers, she studied it with great interest and painstaking attention to detail, the thing so close to her eye that one jerking move could have caused the stones to scratch her iris. When she had first opened the box, Margaret had not been sure what she had been anticipating, but she could at least say in all honesty that she had been expecting to find an ornament which had been worn before by a previous Thornton, an heirloom. But no, no, because even although Margaret was no expert when it came to jewellery, as she examined its burnished sheen, dazzling stones, and the undented metal of the circumference, she could see that it was unscathed and undamaged by time, so therefore, all of these clues implied that it must be new.

'John? I do not understand. You have only asked me now. My mother only summoned you tonight. Where ─ when ─ how?' she gabbled on, trying to deduce how on earth he had managed to acquire her a ring and bring it here with such little notice.

John smiled. With his large fingers once again nipping into his pocket, the master retrieved yet another item which had sat patiently by his breast, eagerly anticipating its chance to meet this mythical Margaret of whom his heart beat so passionately for. In doing this, he lifted out a single yellow rose, one which had been pressed to preserve it, but the vivid yellow of its bloom was still as vibrant as ever. Holding it out to Margaret, John waited for her to notice it.

At last, Margaret glanced up from her evaluation of the ring and let out a strident gasp. 'Helstone?!' she cried at once, filching the flower from his hands acquisitively.

'Aye,' he chortled, a rich rumble coming from his belly, the man warmed by his sweetheart's adorable response.

'I do not understand!' she repeated, feeling as if nobody had ever uttered these four few words so often before in one night.

John placed his pacifying hands over hers and encased them there, along with the treasured trinkets she now held in awe. 'I went the day after the dinner party,' he said quietly, saying no more, allowing time for this revelation to sink in, and for Margaret to come to terms with what this admission meant.

And, as he had hoped, after an interval of reflection, in which John could almost see the cogs of her clever mind turning, the penny eventually dropped. 'You mean…before you proposed?' she determined, her voice as mild and meek as a mouse. 'Before…oh, John!' she gasped, her eyes broad and brimming with a flurry of emotions. 'Even before the riot?' she said, hardly able to form the words, the butterflies which swarmed and soared in her tummy rendering her woozy, her knees knocking beneath her skirts.

'Then that means…John! That means you always meant to ask me. It means that I was so very, very mistaken in my slights against your sincere intentions!' she wept, her eyes welling with tears of remorse, the bluey-green of those spheres making them appear like great big oceans in which many a man could easily lose himself in the depths of.

'Shhh! Do not be sad, my love! No more crying,' he soothed, cupping her face and rubbing at her tear-stained cheeks with his thumbs. 'It is not your fault; you were not to know.'

But far from being mollified, Margaret shambled forlornly on the spot, clearly distressed that she had misjudged him so unfairly, so in turn, John decided to set the record straight once and for all. 'It seems that it is my turn to tell my side of our story, love,' he began seriously. 'Margaret, I knew for a long time that I had feelings for you, but much like you, I was disorientated by them, my typically cool and calculated mind suddenly disturbed by a fog of feelings. I found that my intuition and sense of self had become confounded by the unrest that these strange and unfamiliar emotions had created in me, emotions which I had not even known I had the capacity to feel before you came along. As I said, I had never found myself in such a position before, and you have no idea how true that was. I have never been a flirt, I do not even know how,' he professed timorously, and Margaret found herself nodding, for indeed, that would explain his inelegant efforts in courting her, a farce which now seemed out of character for a man who was usually so impressively proficient in everything he put his mind to.

'But on the night of the dinner party, everything instantly became clear. I thought only of seeing you that night, I was not interested in anyone else who might attend, they could all go to hell for all I cared!' John bit out, and Margaret was unsure of whether to scold him for his coarse remark, or smile, since she could not help but be grateful for his sentimental speech, even if it was delivered with uncouth blasphemy. What was more, he was doubtless nervous, and so, Margaret, in her boundless generosity of spirit, did not mind pardoning John this slip of the tongue in the house of a man of the cloth, so long as he did not make a habit of it.

'I remember getting dressed and being beset by this fear that you would not come, that some excuse would deny me the chance of seeing you and foil my aspirations. I was so anxious that you should enjoy yourself. I wanted everything to be to your liking, to your taste. I found myself preoccupied with fretting about the food, the music, even the blasted table settings. I think my mother was mighty confused about why I was pestering her constantly about petty candles and plates, details I had never taken an interest in before. I wanted to send everyone else home, to throw them out on their ars ─ I just wanted them to leave,' John amended, finding himself growing increasingly vulgar as his emotions got the better of him. 'I just wanted to be alone with you, Margaret,' he professed quietly, afraid that this confession would sound too familiar, even after everything they had been through tonight. 'I wanted to sit with you and talk amicably about everything and nothing, to demonstrate to you that I could be a civil and cultured gentleman, not just some beast you looked down at with that darling little nose of yours from high on your pious pedestal.'

Margaret was not sure if John was complimenting or chiding her for her unwavering commitment to her moral compass, but she did not have time to think, for he was not quite finished with his astounding homily, the most astonishing statements yet to come. 'Then, when I saw you, standing there, looking like a vision, and when I took your hand in mine…,' John said breathlessly. 'I knew, I just knew that night that I was madly in love with you. I knew that I wanted nothing more in all this world than to be your husband, Margaret, and for you to sit opposite me at that table, as my companion, my consort, my wife.'

Margaret stiffened in surprise. 'That night?!' she whispered, clutching onto her belly, those butterflies now doing somersaults. 'But I thought that I had made you angry with what I said, with my discourteous performance at the table in front of all your friends and fellow masters.'

'Far from it!' he retorted in an instant, depositing a gentle kiss on her knuckles, his lips quivering in worship. 'I was not angry, Margaret, I was proud, proud of you.'

Margaret's pretty mouth fell open. 'Proud?!' It would seem as though being kissed for the first time had not robbed her of all her naivety in one go.

'Yes!' John confirmed with a broad grin, angling forward so that he might sheath her face with both of his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. 'Fiercely proud! You are so compassionate, so clever. You put me to shame, my darling, with your innate wisdom and empathy. You were so wonderfully valiant, my dove of purity, who found herself surrounded and outnumbered in a vicious den of wolves. You put us all to shame with your conviction of our collective conscience which had been corrupted by selfishness. So, you see, I was not insulted; no, I was ashamed of myself. I knew then and there that I needed you in my life, that I needed your guiding light to redeem my character and restore my soul. I wanted you to make me a better man, Margaret, a man worthy of wedding you and calling you my most treasured wife.'

Margaret's bottom lip trembled. 'I thought…I thought you wanted to silence me, to stifle my opinionated and obstinate ways,' Margaret said in distrust. 'It made me so sad to think that you disapproved of me, and that confused me, because I had never sought a man's good opinion before, and I was vexed that I desired yours. I could not understand why your estimation mattered more to me than any other persons ever had, and I did not like it, and I did not like disagreeing with you about something so fundamental as the welfare of an innocent child who deserved your care and not your coldness. Then after what I said, I thought you wanted to muzzle me in front of your fellow masters and friends, but I refused to let you, because I will never allow any man to control or constrict me!' Margaret declared hotly, a fierce blaze of independence flashing in her eyes as her haughty manner returned.

John let out a groan. Oh, God! This was it; this was why he loved her, this courageous woman. It was this peculiar mix of gentleness and audacity which only Margaret possessed. Dipping his head so that his mouth brushed against her face, John followed the curves and contours of her skin, and Margaret's head fell back, and she let out a breathy sigh as his bared teeth lightly nipped at her as John skimmed her flesh. His deity was at her most beautiful when she was defiant, and John was finding it hard to resist her.

'Are you mad?' he hissed raucously, hardly able to draw breath as he pulled her flush against him, her breasts palpitating against his chest. 'How could one mortal man possibly think to possess the power to master a goddess like you? You are a tigress who cannot be tamed, Margaret, and for that, you not only have my respect, but also my reverence. Change you? Control you? Constrict you? Never!' he murmured feverishly into her ear. 'What insanity that would be, what a waste! For my only wish is to set you free and delight in the glory of your liberation, to venerate the sovereignty of your spirit and to bask in the sunshine that is your sweetness!'

Margaret moaned as his teeth grazed her again with savage desire, and she found that her head lolled to the side to grant John greater access, her hands clinging onto his arm for support as his inflamed lips dragged down her neck, teasing her with his feathery trail, her nails digging into his skin and drawing blood beneath his shirt.

'When I went to bed that night, I slept ill. I dreamt…,' John's words faded away. What could he say? That he had dreamt of her in his arms? Well, she already knew he had imagined her thus, but did Margaret also know that he had thought of her naked? Bedded? Her belly full with his babe? All inappropriate imaginings that served as evidence of a shared romantic bond and physical union which John had fantasised about from near enough the moment he had met her. Is that what he should say? No. Honesty was all right and well, but there was a constraint on what a man could say to a woman, especially if he wished to avoid his fiancée slapping him across the face for his coarse obscenity not a half hour after agreeing to wed him.

Instead, John restrained and refined his candour, simply acknowledging with a strangulated voice, 'I dreamt of you for the first time that night.'

Margaret gasped.

'When I woke, I felt dazed, as if my life was suddenly meaningless without…(without waking up with you by my side?)…without you,' he described. 'It was a turmoil of emotion that I had never experienced before, not even in my youth, not even with my father's passing,' he confessed, and John almost burst out crying like a child to see that far from flinching at his mention of his father's scandalous passing, instead, Margaret shuffled closer into his embrace and placed a reassuring palm over his heart to comfort him.

Feeling emboldened by her unreserved love, John soldiered on. 'So, since there was no mill to demand my attention, I got up and I simply left. I did not plan. I did not think. I just let my feet guide me. But alas, I do not think it was my feet which shepherded me, no, it was my heart. It pulled me across the country, like a puppet on a string, all the way to the place where my Margaret, my remarkable girl was born and grew up to become the fine woman I know today.'

Margaret laid her head against his chest and sniffed. 'Oh, John! I had no idea.' Even although she knew it would have been impossible, Margaret found herself wishing that John had come to her and offered to escort her to Helstone that day, their own little elopement from their contrasting cares, his concerns focused on monetary and mercantile matters, whilst hers had been preoccupied with caring for an ailing mother and missing an absent brother. Again, reflecting upon the question of siblings, Margaret remembered that she really ought to tell John about Fred as soon as possible, if not tonight, then definitely tomorrow. However, returning her mind to think about his spontaneous journey down the length of the country, Margaret knew that John could never have just turned up to her house unannounced and suggested such an incongruous thing as to abscond with him on a train unchaperoned. No, no, even she knew that such a reprehensible frittering of modesty was not appropriate in either the south or the north alike, probably not even in the west or east neither. She knew that she could not possibly have accepted such an unsuitable proposition, but still, she wished it so very much. It was not so much seeing Helstone again which filled Margaret with such longing, but the idea of showing it to John and helping him to appreciate it as much as she did, all the while the two of them loving each other. Yes, maybe one day they would go together as husband and wife, that would be lovely.

John intertwined his fingers through her hair, gently looping the ringlets around his digits as he peppered the top of her head with comforting kisses. 'I needed to be close to you, and in some strange way, even although I was distant from you in body, I had never been closer to you in spirit,' he sighed wistfully.

'I realised there and then that you were the only woman I would ever ask to marry me, Margaret, the only woman whom I would ever wish to call Mrs John Thornton. I decided that I would request an interview with your father and seek his permission to speak with you. And then, I determined that I would somehow pluck up the courage to ask you whether you could ever come to care for me. I knew that you did not feel as I did, but I thought that possibly…somehow…below the surface of your disapproval towards me, maybe there was a chance, even the smallest chance, that you could come to like me, and in time, perhaps if I tried hard and was very patient, you could learn to love me. And I can tell you now, that such a prospect ignited such an intense fire of hope to burn in my breast, the likes of which even the master poets could never hope to capture the integrity of,' he huffed, unable to believe that the most treasured hopes of his heart had come to bear fruit, that Margaret really was his, and what was infinitely more important, she loved him dearly.

'And then, when I was lingering in a village close by on my journey home, I came across a small jeweller's shop by chance,' he went on, returning to the matter of the ring.

Margaret's eyes widened in realisation. 'Bethune's? In Braehead?' she guessed. 'Goodness! Is he still there? I thought he would have passed away by now. Was he a small man with a big, bushy beard of white?' she asked, her hands springing away dramatically from her face as if to show just how enormous this beard really was.

'Aye,' John confirmed with a chortle, an image of thick, wire like bristles as white as snow and as fluffy as cotton coming to mind. 'The very same.'

He remembered the odd fellow who had served him very well indeed, for when he had entered the shop, John had been the only customer, and loitering like some sort of suspicious scoundrel with a threatening scowl distorting his face, the jeweller had noticed him straight away. With a wary gaze watching him behind thick-rimmed spectacles, Mr Bethune had eyed the rather nervous looking foreigner who had anxiously twisted the brim of his top hat round and round in his hands as he kept glancing towards the display counter in the window like he had a crick in his neck. The shopkeeper had wondered whether the fishy chap with the fearsome frown might be a highwayman, a villain always on the road, the likes of which you read about in penny-dreadfuls, given that despite his affluent clothes and noble bearing, the man also appeared exceedingly worn-out, much as if he led a dissolute or disturbed way of life. Nonetheless, he soon thought better of this uncharitable theory, given that if he looked closely, Mr Bethune could detect the vulnerability behind the man's veneer of tetchiness.

Tracking John as he perused the items in the shop, pretending to casually look around, all the while his eyes flitting to the window, the jeweller had considered it best to speak to him directly, lest the man's gigantic figure collide with one of his cabinets or crash through the ceiling, the Tudor building not built for such a colossal frame as this gent's. On conversing with him, Mr Bethune had deduced that the lad was not from these parts but from the north of England, the proprietor thinking what a coincidence that was, given that the affable Hale family from Helstone had not long since packed up and moved sticks to those parts. But surely their paths had never crossed, so he did not trouble either of them to enquire any further into this unrelated happenstance. At any rate, after his many years in the trade, Mr Bethune summarily guessed that the man was here to purchase a ring, but being uninformed of such things, he did not have an inkling of where to begin, and then being of a shy and no doubt proud disposition, had felt too embarrassed to ask for assistance.

After a short and somewhat strained conversation, the proprietor had called his wife, Fiona, in from the parlour, and together, they had advised their reserved customer regarding his impromptu acquisition of a ring, one which they could only assume was for the woman he loved. However, they dared not enquire any further into this, since not only was it not their place to pry, but they also had the terrible suspicion that he might bark at them and bite their heads off for extending their cordial curiosity his way, no matter how harmless their intentions may have been. The stranger had looked at a great number of choices, but no, his mind was made up, it was to be the one in the window, and the Bethunes could not argue with his dogged decision, given that they firmly believed that it was not only a lass who should like her ring, but the lad who gave it to her should also have that special instinctive feeling about it deep in his gut.

John relayed his side of the tale to Margaret who listened keenly, amazed to think that while she had been all the way up here in his Milton, dear John had been all the way down there in her Helstone. 'While I was waiting for a carriage to take me to the station, my daydreams were interrupted by a twinkling light,' John explained, his head turning towards the window of the library as if to demonstrate just how it had happened, the window keen to once again be invited to play a role in their love story, the glass gleaming a little brighter in lively response. 'And when I turned to look, there it was, winking and waving at me in the winter sun. It felt like fate wanted me to buy it, like it wanted me to ask you, like it wanted us to be together,' John described sentimentally, not caring that his words sounded farfetched, since it was true, it had felt like destiny had been with him that day, cheering him on, slapping him on the back, and offering him some much needed courage like an old chum.

John had not known it, but after he had departed that quaint old shop with its slanting roof and whitewashed stone walls, the couple had commenced to pray that the fellow's endeavours would be successful, for they had rather taken to their peculiar patron with his stern features and soulful eyes, since he had smiled a small and private smile when he held the ring in his hands, as if it were the most prized thing he had ever purchased and ever would. It made them believe that he was a good man, and for that, they trusted that he would be a loving husband to the lucky girl he asked to be his bride, so long as she granted him the chance by saying yes. And again, unknown to John, they had prayed for him every day since then without fail, and as they knelt before their bed tonight, they were praying for him even now as we speak.

John knitted his eyebrows pensively. 'I know that I was rash to acquire you a ring when I had no hope of calling you my own. But I already knew that you were the only woman for me, so I believed that it was the only ring I would ever need, and for this reason, I saw no harm in having it,' John upheld, wanting to defend why he had been so impetuous, not wishing for Margaret to think that he was generally prone to impulsive and extravagant purchases, disquieting pictures of his own father's excessive spending and his mother's despair hounding his memories. John also appreciated that making a costly and private purchase while he was facing financial troubles at the mill had perhaps not been prudent, nevertheless, for some reason, on that day, the practical and self-sacrificing master had pushed his penny-pinching scruples aside and done something for himself for a change, something that would make him happy, and the miserly concerns of cautiousness and consequences could be damned. Perhaps it had been the fresh air going straight to his head, John could not say, but it had felt right then, and it felt right now.

As he watched her turn the ring over in her fingers and study it both thoroughly and thoughtfully, John softly enquired, 'Do you like it?' his voice tremulous with longing.

When Margaret did not immediately answer, John wittered on in the hopes of persuading her of its charms. 'I know that you may have preferred yellow, but this one, well, it reminded me of you, of my Margaret.'

'A brilliant blue, for your eyes, see,' he advocated, watching as Margaret's lithe finger glided across the sapphire which sat in splendid and stately majesty in the centre, John's own index finger reaching up to touch the delicate skin beside her eyes. 'I did not know this until I looked it up in a book after I returned to Milton, but sapphires also symbolise wisdom, virtue, good fortune, and holiness for monarchs, so I thought that if it is good enough for the likes of them, then it should just about be good enough for my girl. And when it comes to an engagement ring, they are considered to represent faithfulness of devotion and sincerity of affection, which I suppose is no bad thing either.'

On seeing Margaret's lips curl upwards, John felt heartened and rushed on animatedly. 'Then we have diamonds for the brightness of your mind,' he enlightened as she tapped the sparkling rocks embedded in the metal. 'And for the rarity of your impressive character, of course,' he added, not wishing to forget that crucial part. John was about to let his scholarly mind wander and tell her of how the Greek and Roman scholars had esteemed diamonds above all other substances on earth due to their dual clarity and resilience, but he thought better of this, since this was perhaps not the most opportune moment to blather on about dreary old philosophers, not when he was trying to be romantic. No, he would leave that for his future discussions with his father-in-law, a thought which filled John's soul with such immeasurable contentment, the idea of being welcomed into the Hale home like a family member, no, not like one, but as one, sitting opposite Mr Hale beside a cosy fire, and with the parson's daughter no longer positioned across the room from John in haughty separation, but nestled by his side in close companionship.

Moving on, John continued, 'You will see that we have pearls for your honesty and humble virtue,' his infatuated eyes fluttering across her lovely face. Then as an afterthought, he tallied, 'And for cotton too, I suppose, the insignia of the man who gave it to you,' he chortled as Margaret's fingers slipped between the white gems.

'Then lastly, we have the golden leaves to embody the wild and natural beauty that blooms in your sweet and passionate heart. All precious stones and metals to symbolise how precious you are to me. And the shape and style, they are unusual and unconventional, I know they are, but that is just like the one it was intended for. But for all the meaning that this ring holds, it felt right, it felt like it was made for you, my darling Margaret,' John explained, illustrating the profound reasons why he had chosen this very ring to signify his immortal love for her.

'It is beautiful,' Margaret breathed at last.

John let out a tremendous sigh of relief, an accumulation of tension leaving his body. 'Truly?' he pressed. 'You do not have to wear it. I can acquire you another one. I ─ I have never bought a woman, any woman, jewellery before, not even my mother or sister. I do not know what is proper, what is fashionable. I am sorry if my modest and manly efforts are not what you would have hoped for ─'

But Margaret soon stopped his anxious ramblings as she reached up on her toes and placed a calming kiss on his lips, the sensation silencing her fiancé in an instant like the charming spell of an enchantress. 'Truly,' she reassured, her eyelashes fluttering. 'It is perfect, John, you know me so well. Thank you, my darling, I could never have hoped for anything so lovely.'

Snatching up her hands and clasping them close, John anxiously affixed, 'Margaret, I know that I have said it already, but I need you to understand that I had not planned to ask for your hand that day, not so unexpectedly, nor so carelessly. I knew that I was being reckless, even as I walked to this house and waited for you in this very room. As I have explained, I had it all planned out carefully, I had hoped to ask if I might pay court to you, then…well, you know what happened thereafter to spoil my intentions,' he trailed off, a dark shadow flitting across his face.

'The riot,' she mumbled faintly, her slim shoulders shuddering at the memory. As she sniffed, Margaret allowed John to enclose his secure arms around her like a shield, and the master speckled the top of her head with doting kisses, vowing privately to never again let harm befall his beloved angel.

'Yes,' John murmured solemnly. Letting his gaze swoop to her temple, he lifted his hand, and his fingers impulsively inched towards that particular spot which was concealed beneath a cluster of curls. 'May I?' he requested raspingly.

Margaret nodded with a nervous dip of her chin.

John let his hand continue to her head, but just as he was about to reach out to disturb her tendrils, he halted, a nightmarish memory disturbing his mind, one which he had fought to repress these fifteen years. It was of a young boy standing over his father who sat at his study desk, the man still, silent, and as dead as a doornail, as Dickens would say. As he looked at the unmoving body before him, a rather pitiful figure, the son had studied the scorched circle of blood at his father's temple, and ever since then, the boy, who would grow to be a man, had found that the sight of head wounds made him sick to his stomach, one of the many reasons why he had held back and not touched Margaret's injury when she had lain limp, perhaps even lifeless, on the steps of his mill.

But taking a deep breath, John reminded himself that he was no child anymore, but a man, and one who would have to be brave if he wanted to show his fearless Margaret that she would know nothing but strength, support, and sanctuary in their marriage, a trinity of reassurance which she deserved. Reclaiming control of his composure, John urged his fingers to continue with their mission, until eventually, the tips brushed against her russet locks, and gently pushing them to the side, John revealed a harrowing secret buried beneath.

John let out a shallow howl like a maimed animal when his eyes landed upon a small scar which lay hidden behind the chestnut wisps of her hairline, a mark that was so well covered that nobody would even know it was there. With his fingers hesitantly rising to inspect it, he ever so lightly let them run across the circumference of the gash, the cut no more than two inches by one, the abrasion healing satisfactorily, the skin surrounding it knitting itself together again with intuitive restoration.

John could hardly stand it, the guilt of what he had let happen to her gnawing away at his conscience. The master had often found himself impetuously yearning to go and speak with Doctor Donaldson in order to ask after Margaret's health during the weeks following the horrifying incident. In a fit of irritable solicitousness, John had found himself coming up with all manner of implausible excuses as to why he should be prying, even going so far as to stress that the accident, (if he could call it that), had taken place on his property whilst she was under his protection, thus making him responsible for the calamity which had come about, a fact which John was devastated to say was all too true. On one occasion, a fidgety master had even prowled as far as the doctor's door, but had then skulked on the outer stairs, stalking up and down the stone steps in vacillation, until, after what had probably been several minutes, he had noted the swarm of snooping eyes watching him suspiciously. After that, John had growled and swiftly fled the scene like a gust of wind storming down the street, the man feeling like Moses parting the Red Sea as all the unassuming pedestrians promptly sidestepped out of the way of his fearsome path.

'Does it still hurt?' he asked, afraid of her answer.

'No,' she said simply, shaking her head and causing the cut to blur before him.

'Are you telling me the truth?' he tested, worried that she was fibbing to save his feelings.

Margaret pouted, since she did not appreciate his cross-examining. 'Yes, John, I am. It does not hurt now, I promise. I admit that I did feel a little woozy for a few days, but that is all gone now.'

As John returned his attention to the wound and examined it, he felt a surge of anger boil and blister inside him. How dare they! How dare they hurt her in this way?! They should all be strung up for what they had done to Margaret, this innocent, gentle creature who would never so much as harm a fly, a sympathetic guardian angel who had just been trying to help them. But alas, perhaps a woman like Fanny would have called for such a ruthless response, but not Margaret, no, she would beg him to be merciful, imploring him to be sensitive to the plight of his workers, and so, John had no choice but to honour her wishes. How could he not? She was the one who had been injured after all, not him, although John wished with all his might that the stone had been true to its mark and struck him down like Goliath. However, it pained John more than he could say to know that she would always wear that scar, a constant sign of his inability to safeguard her that day, a failure that he would under no circumstances forget or forgive himself for, never.

Moving his head towards her, John deposited a lingering kiss on that hallowed spot. 'If I had lost you…,' he whispered, his heart breaking at the idea that she….that his Margaret…

'But you did not!' Margaret reminded him, tearing John away from his gloomy visions of a bleak and barren future without her, a solitary grave upon a hilltop serving as a perpetual and punishing reminder of the love which death had denied him. 'I am here, John. I am safe, I am well, and I am yours,' she soothed, taking his hands in hers and kissing them over and over again, the dense hairs of his dermis tickling her nose.

'When I saw you lying on the ground, and you were not moving, you were not breathing, I felt like the world had stopped spinning. I wanted to lie down beside you and hold you, hoping that by some unfathomable miracle, the devotion that poured forth from my body could heal you. It is illogical, I know, but I was so scared that you would never wake up, and I would never get the chance to tell you that I loved you,' John quaked, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

'I scooped you up in my arms as gently as I could and carried you into my parlour. I laid you down on the settee like you were just asleep, and then since we were alone for a moment, I got down on my knees and prayed that God would save you. I pleaded with him, promising to sacrifice all that I have and all that I am to his service, on the strict and single condition that you were spared. But much to my regret, I allowed myself to be called away to talk with the authorities, but by God, I wish I had stubbornly stayed by your side where I belonged, and maybe then, things would have been different,' he envisaged bitterly.

Margaret listened enthralled as he spoke, since she had never heard an account of what had happened after the stone had hit her, herself only remembering waking up to hear Fanny accuse her of trying to ensnare her elder brother, the most eligible bachelor in Milton, into a marriage of convenience by the way of some cunning scheme. 'If only I had come just a little sooner or a little later that day,' Margaret mused glumly, thinking on how the Hale's had still not got round to borrowing that silly water mattress.

But shaking herself from her melancholy, Margaret put on a jolly smile and inclined into John's arms once more. 'But what did we say, John, darling, hmm? What is done is done and cannot be undone,' she reminded him. 'So, there is no use in crying over spilt milk,' she settled, returning her attention to much more pleasant matters, her ring.

As he watched Margaret hum away happily as the ring caught the twinkling light most splendidly, its colours effecting a glinting prism to dance across the Hale's floral-papered walls, John thought on Margaret's earlier question. Why had he brought it tonight? Furrowing his brow, John recalled that he had not even stopped to consider whether he should bring the ring with him or not, no, since as soon as he had quitted that sickening confrontation with his mother, he had instantly gone to his room, collected up the box, and left. It was as if his heart had by some means known that he would need it, since deep in the recesses of his mind, John could see that no matter what had unfolded tonight, whether good or bad, the outcome being in his favour or to his folly, he had always planned to propose to Margaret one last time.

'Margaret, love,' John said suddenly. 'I was wrong,' was all he would divulge.

Margaret eyed him curiously. 'What about?'

'I was wrong in saying that the last notable feature of quality on the ring was its gold leaves, but that is not true, for you see, no matter how charismatic its embellishments may be, they are all superficial in comparison to its one pure attribute.'

Margaret looked at the ring once more and then back at John. 'Do tell.'

John smiled. 'The ring itself, my love,' he revealed, his finger moving to encompass the circumference. 'It is a symbolic circle, one in which the giver promises the receiver that they will love them with a loyalty and devotion that is eternal. And just like metal, our love has been forged in the fire of adversary, which may have been painful, but it has made us tougher, meaning that we are unbreakable, and that our love is armoured against life's trials, signifying that it is strong enough to withstand anything that may come our way. So, you see, this, my darling, is its most important and inspirational trait, a symbolic circle, a promise of love everlasting from me to you.'

Margaret sniffed and threw her arms around his neck. 'Oh John!'

With his lips pecking her cheek, John confessed, 'How I urgently wish to place it on your finger now, my love, but I cannot. I should wait to speak with your father first.'

Margaret frowned petulantly and John could not help but grin in amusement at her childish sulk. 'You heard my mother; she approves and knows that my father will too. He cares for you deeply, John, he respects you, he thinks of you as his dearest friend. He will be glad to give his consent to our union, he will consider it an honour. It will be like a beacon of hope amidst the sadness of the impending passing of his wife, to know that in his loss, he will at least be gaining a son.'

'I hope so, I sorely do!' he said seriously. 'You have no idea how keenly I wish to offer whatever modest assistance I can to bring you and your parents comfort and cheer in the sorrowful months ahead that you must endure. But I have made such a deplorable hash of things up until now, Margaret, therefore, I soberly intend to make no further missteps if I can help it. I want to do things properly from now on, by you, and by your family, our family. So, if you agree, I shall give you the ring for safekeeping, for it is yours, but we must wait for me to place it on your finger until I have spoken first with your father and secured his permission to marry his only and most cherished daughter.'

'But could I not wear it now until you leave tonight? Just for a teensy, tiny while? Please, John! And then you can ask my father tomorrow and put it on properly then, with as much solemnity and ceremony as you want,' she begged, pouting her lips playfully.

John grinned at Margaret's loveable longing to have his trinket of affection and faithfulness adorn her finger. 'No,' he decreed decisively, kissing her forehead. 'And I shall tell you why. It is because once that ring is on your finger, Miss Hale, I never want it taken off. I fully expect to see you with it always, do you hear?' he stipulated in mock high-handedness. 'So, as much as it would be pleasing to see you wear it briefly tonight, I think we should wait until tomorrow, and then, my love, I can place it on your finger and know that there it shall stay forevermore.'

Margaret chewed her lip. 'If that is what you think is best,' she conceded, although she felt there was no need for such formality, since she knew that her father would leap at the chance of having John as a son-in-law. However, Margaret could not fault John's romantic sentiments, nor his desire to be respectful rather than rash, even if the furtively feminine part of her personality was desperate to adorn this beautiful insignia of his love for her. You see, Margaret owned so few items of jewellery as it was, most of them gifts from family members that she wore out of dutiful gratitude, opposed to them actually matching her very particular and simple tastes, but this, oh no! – this item of jewellery was special, and she wanted to wear it now and always.

'What shall I do with it in the meantime?' she asked.

But as the mill master mulled this over, it was Margaret who suddenly shrieked, 'I know!' Raising her hands to her neck, Margaret drew John's attention to a thin silver chain which hung thereabouts, the hawser so threadlike that he had not even noticed it before. 'I could keep it on here, that way I can still wear it,' she suggested excitedly.

Motioning for her to turn around, Margaret obliged, and John reached out to move her cascading hair and sweep it to one side. Once he had done this, the man found himself faced with the slender column of her exposed neck and the expanse of her upper back, and for several heartbeats, he could do nothing but stare, his eyes entranced. At last, he extended his fingers and as the tips made contact with her skin, Margaret let out a shuddering sigh and her head drooped back. Gulping, John strove to distract his thoughts, and he found himself turning to fantasise about how much he wished to brush Margaret's hair.

It was a strange thought, he knew, but still, he felt a peculiar manly urge to do it, the impulse itching in the tendons of his hands and causing them to pulsate. He had brushed Fanny's hair when she was small and they had no servants to see to such things, meaning that John was now an expert in detangling irksome knots in the most tender way possible. As a lad and young man, he had returned from a gruelling day of toil and had been obliged to tend to his infant sister, and in his exhaustion, it had felt like a burden that he bitterly resented. However, in spite of this, John had done it all the same, since he would do anything to bring his sister joy, especially when a lack of means had deprived her of all else, at least for a while, just until he could rescue them from the clutches of destitution and restore the town's confidence in the Thornton name. But gazing at Margaret, John knew that this was different, since no matter how tired he was, John appreciated that coming home at the end of a long day to brush Margaret's hair for her would be his reward for all his hard work to secure his wife and children's home and happiness.

Turning his attention back to the task in hand, John felt his body stiffen, and he tried desperately to ignore the way that his every miniscule sense was seduced by the glorious creature before him, and with fumbling fingers, he undid the clasp of her necklace. He then took the ring from her and slipped it on, observing as gravity did its part, and it swiftly slid down and fell behind the swell of her breasts. John forced himself to look away, and after redoing her clasp, he slowly turned her back around to face him, his heart beating like the wings of a bird to see the way she blushed most beautifully.

With his fingers strumming at the chain, John avowed, 'Margaret, with this ring, I do solemnly swear to you my fond friendship and fierce fidelity. My body and soul are no longer mine, they are yours, to do with as you please. I live to serve you. Everything I have, everything I am, it is yours, which I give to you most freely and humbly. I ask you again, my love, will you be my anchor, my angel, my always? Will you be my Margaret, just as assuredly as I am already and forever more your John?'

'Yes!' Margaret cried readily. 'A thousand times yes!' Placing a hand over her heart and plucking at the necklace, she made her own vow to her fiancé. 'John, I promise that I shall hold your ring here, close to my heart, the home that I unreservedly give to you as your eternal dwelling place. It shall stay there until you place it on my finger tomorrow, and there, I hope and trust that it shall not be lonely for long, for it will soon have a lifelong companion to keep it company over many happy years, a wedding ring. I intend to be a good wife to you, John Thornton, and to do you proud, just as I know that you shall make me proud with all that you do and all that you are. I know that our marriage shall not be perfect, but so long as we love each other, I know that I will have found my perfect partner in life, and I could never ask for more than that.'

'Oh, my love!' John groaned in gratification, his lips pressing against hers with insatiable passion.

'I wish I had something that I could give you in return,' Margaret murmured against his mouth.

John chuckled. 'Margaret, you are giving me your hand in marriage, that is more than enough! It is more than I could ever have hoped for. When I woke this morning, I thought that you would never want to see or speak to me again, and now, all in the same day, I find that not only do you love me, but that you wish to be my wife. Trust me, sweetheart, you have given me everything!'

'I know, I just meant…an emblem, I suppose,' Margaret pondered in disappointment, wishing so much that she could give him something, anything as a token of her infinite love for him.

As she looked about her in search of inspiration, John's eyes fell upon something sitting on a table and he clicked his fingers. 'I have an idea!' he announced. As he walked away, Margaret's eyes followed him questioningly, her nose crinkling as he picked up a pair of miniature sewing scissors. Returning to her, John toyed with a strand of Margaret's hair which hung loosely over her shoulder. 'May I?' he asked again.

Margaret nodded, although she had no notion of what he was about. With one swift snip, John sheared off a single curl of Margaret's russet locks. Bringing the coiled spiral to his lips, John kissed it, breathing in her familiar aroma of pears, his favourite fruit. Then, opening his treasured pocket watch, his late father's timepiece, John banked the cutting of her hair in there for safekeeping.

'There, now I have something of yours too, and every time I open my watch to consider the earthly concerns of my day, I shall be reminded of you, and I shall stop and smile, remembering how much I now have to be thankful for, and for whom I live and toil.'

Margaret smiled warmly, but then it soon waned into a brooding glower, her eyebrows drawing together. 'John?' she opened timidly.

'Yes, darlin'?'

'I know that my parents will be thrilled by the news of our engagement,' she started uneasily, and John felt himself scowl in the ominous knowledge of where this was heading. 'But what of your family? What about your mother? I can imagine that she will not be best pleased by this match, since she had hoped for better for you, and I know that she does not approve of me, not one bit.'

'She will accept it!' John bit back brusquely, not keen to think of his mother at this happy moment, not after what she had done. If it was up to her, then he would never have learnt of Mrs Hale's summons and John would not have come here tonight, meaning that even now as we speak, he would still be oblivious to Margaret's feelings for him, and far from being betrothed, the couple would still be struggling amidst the grief of their estrangement.

'But John…,' Margaret persisted.

'No Margaret!' he snapped. 'I don't care what she has to say on the matter! We are getting married, and you are coming to live with me at the Mill House, and that is that! My mother can like it or lump it; it is up to her. But she will recognise you as my wife or else she can ─'

But John stopped in his temperamental tracks as he saw the concern which paled Margaret's face, the colour slowly draining away from her previously rosy complexion. Damn, dash and dang it! He had been a right cantankerous sod, hadn't he?!

Cursing himself for his grouchy bad temper, John muttered under his breath before rubbing his nose against hers. 'Margaret, sweetheart, I am sorry. What a bully I am! I should never talk to you like that, I know that. I am so sorry, my lovely one. It is just that you have touched upon a sore subject and I do not wish for anything to unsettle our joy, not tonight. Forgive me?' he pleaded, kissing her nose. 'I will try to do better, and with you to take me in hand and mend my irritable ways, I am sure that I shall become a reformed character in no time,' John smiled.

At first, Margaret meditated upon this quietly to herself, thinking on how she did not approve of his menacing moods, and even although she loved John unconditionally for who and what he was, she was certainly not going to stand for him shouting at her like one of his workers every time he took a fit of rage. No, it would not do, but with a little time and patience, she was sure she could bleed him of his bitterness, a phrase that he had used himself not so long ago, and it had stuck with her ever since. But then again, there was something else which caused Margaret to pause and ponder, and that was the way in which John had spoken about his mother.

Margaret could not begin to understand the co-dependant relationship that Mrs Thornton shared with her son, but she knew that the mother worshipped him, and in turn, he relied on her in every quarter of his life. However, far from being jealous of their privileged attachment to each other, Margaret was overcome with a selfless desire to preserve it, and right now, she had a feeling that something had strained that bond of late and frayed it into fragility. Narrowing her eyes as her mind sought answers, Margaret could well deduce what had caused this rift in their relationship, her. Yes, she could not be sure what had happened, but Margaret was determined to defend and restore it, which meant that right now, she was willing to excuse John's outburst and sympathise, for it must have taken a great deal for him to war with his mother, and if he was willing to do it for her sake, then Margaret knew that he must love her beyond compare.

Nevertheless, Margaret's attention was filched as she felt something wet dampen her hand, and as she startled into alertness, she observed John leaving a tender kiss on her knuckles. At this, Margaret let out a shrill laugh, one which near enough filled the room.

'What is so funny?' John asked with a grin, at a loss of how a simple kiss could have generated such hilarity.

But Margaret merely shook her head. 'Nothing,' she replied evasively. Nevertheless, that was not entirely true, for Margaret was indeed thinking of something, she was recollecting the moment from earlier this evening when Billy had kissed her hand on the stairs. Goodness! Had that really been only tonight? It felt like years ago. She recalled how she had been comforted by his strange attentions, thinking that this was the first and last time she would receive such courtly notice from a son of Milton. My-my-my! – how wrong she had been! Dear Billy, he had known! The cheeky chap had known all along, and that is why he had been so eager that Margaret trot up those stairs, it was so that she might see her Mr Thornton and the two of them might commence their reconciliation. Well, she would be sure to thank him properly one day for his care and consideration in helping to bring about this most blessed night.

As John's eyes wandered across Margaret's smiling face, one which stared dreamily off into the faraway distance, he chuckled to himself. 'Come here, you!' he demanded affectionately, as he tugged her close into his arms and held her tight. He did not care what she was laughing at, it did not matter, so long as she was happy.

But as John stood there, swaying on the spot, Margaret cocooned against his chest, he too smiled at a memory. Extraditing her hands from the ball they had formed on his front, John lifted them and set them down around his neck. There he closed his eyes and relished the feeling, his mind returning to that chaotic moment when Margaret had flung her arms around him in defence before the rioters, and how he, consumed by concern for her safety, had not allowed himself the chance to savour the sensation, even although despite the disorientating drama of those few seconds, John had still acutely felt her touch. Oh, how John had wished with all his might at that moment that Margaret had hurled her arms around him through choice and not out of necessity. But now, such longing faded away into insignificance, because here she was again, with no threat of terror to overrule her actions, her arms around his neck of their own free accord, and there he hoped they would remain for the rest of their lives together.

On heeding the low rumble of his laughter, Margaret opened her eyes. 'What are you smiling at, sir?' she asked, but alas, his response echoed her own as he mouthed, 'Nothing,' this precious thought a private one for him and him alone.

There they stood for Lord knows how long, her arms around his neck, his around her waist, dancing like blades of grass blowing in a gentle summer breeze. After a while, Margaret whispered his name, and something told John that she had another question for him.

'Hmm?' he replied against her neck.

'What did my mother's letter say? The one that brought you here tonight,' she queried.

John did not move, since he was too cosy and content to even contemplate breaking away from their delectable embrace. Nonetheless, his brow crumpled all the same, and Margaret could feel the lines of his forehead ridge against her skin. 'Very little actually,' he admitted. 'She simply said that she knew everything. I suppose she wanted to intrigue me. She probably did not want to tell me so much as to make me afraid to come, but not so little as for me to consider it of little import. Ha! – as if I could ever have thought of coming here and talking to or about you to be of no importance. Oh, and she included two playing cards,' he adjoined as a casual afterthought.

Margaret sucked her teeth. 'The King and Queen of Hearts?' she speculated.

'That's right,' John snorted, wondering how on earth she knew, but then again, so many strange revelations had transpired this night, that the origin of two cards were hardly high on his list of mysteries to solve. 'I suppose they were meant to represent us,' he ruminated.

'And you came straight away, just like she knew you would,' Margaret rejoiced, snuggling into him, burrowing and brushing her cheek against his chest like an affectionate kitten.

However, John felt his spirits plummet at her unquestioning faith in him, and he gulped thickly so that he might swallow the marble of shame which clogged his throat and threatened to choke him. It was not true; he had not come without delay, he had deferred, thus inconveniencing a sick woman and inflicting upon his sweet Margaret a whole additional day of misery. How could he tell her? It would break her dear heart.

Wrapping his arms around her as tightly as they would go, John stroked his bristled jaw along the crown of her head. 'I came as soon as I knew, love,' he said honestly, his voice gravelly, for while he may not have come as soon as he could, since John had never needed an excuse in the form of an invitation and a letter to come here, it was true that he had come as soon as he had known that his presence was wanted. 'I promise you that nothing and no one could have kept me away tonight, Margaret, for wild horses cannot drag me from you, not now, not ever, never again. As I said, I fully intend on stubbornly staying by your side for the rest of our lives, Miss Hale, soon to be Mrs Thornton.'

Margaret grinned. 'I suppose I can live with that,' she teased. 'So long as I may stubbornly stay by your side as well, Mr Thornton,' she giggled, although, if he listened, John could detect that her voice was laced with a tinge of adorable sleepiness.

John kissed her drooping eyelids and tried his darnedest not to visualise the idea of retiring after a long day at the mill, and unlike before, instead of being alone in a cold, empty bed, he would open the door to find Margaret there waiting for him, and after clambering in beside her, John would tug her close, and his wife would nestle into his embrace before falling asleep in his arms. However, John did feel a twinge of discord at the thought that maybe she would not wish to share his bed every night, since perhaps in the south that was not the done thing, and for all he knew, it was not normal here in the north either. Perhaps husbands and wives tended to only go to bed together when they…well, when they lay together as husband and wife, but after that, it was possible that they separated and dispersed to their own chambers. But John frowned, since he did not like this prospect one bit, and he sincerely hoped that his Margaret would wish to remain in his bed with him night after night.

Crooking his finger beneath her chin, John raised it once again so that he might gain access to her lips. Sweeping his against hers, he then applied a little pressure, and before he knew it, the honeyed suppleness of those pert petals were once again intoxicating his every sense.

As he kissed her, John kept pulling away to check whether Margaret consented to his affectionate advances, for he would not misuse her innate generosity by taking greedy liberties with her, no sir! But far from being grateful for his noble considerations, Margaret was irritated, and as he tore away from her for the hundredth time to ascertain her reaction to his amorous attentions, she pursed those very same lips as she grumbled.

'John!' she complained. 'You do not need to keep asking my permission, darling. I am yours; my lips are yours for the taking. You may kiss me whenever, wherever, and whyever you like,' she encouraged. 'And I promise that if I am ever unhappy about it, I shall tell you, and I know that you shall desist at once. But for now, please, John, kiss me.'

At this, John let out a loud sigh of relief. 'Oh, thank God!' he near enough snarled, before crushing his mouth against hers once more.

Heaven knows how much time passed, but as the darkness loomed around them and the fire dwindled and died, John panted against her lips, 'My Margaret,' and in turn, she wheezed, 'My John.'

It was then, quite suddenly, that the embracing couple found themselves jumping with fright as they heard a rowdy cough reverberate at the other side of the room. Jolting, they each spun round as quick as a flash to observe a most unexpected and unsettling sight.

They were not alone.