Chapter 12
"Don't." she whispered, her pained voice carving its misery into his soul. "Don't touch me." He didn't get the chance to grant her request however, because she placed a trembling hand on her forehead and wobbled unsteadily.
"Margaret." John said loudly, taking hold of her shoulders to steady her. But she did not respond, and instead fell limply against his chest in a dead faint.
"Margaret!" John said loudly, propping her lifeless body against his and holding it securely with one arm. With the other he patted her face firmly, but not enough to cause her pain. She did not stir. He placed his hand on her forehead and felt the warmth of fever there, much warmer than it had been earlier. Sighing in desperation, but not quite allowing himself to panic just yet, he bent down and lifted Margaret into his arms with surprising ease. He quickly made his way up into the house, up the stairs, and to his room where he lay her down as gently as he could manage, ringing the bell for his valet on the way. He refused to allow himself to panic, and thus made himself stay busy. He walked over to the side table and poured some water into the bowl that lay there. He then walked to his dresser and pulled out one of his cravats, folding it neatly lengthwise, before taking it and the water to his bedside. With a deliberately forced calm, he slowly soaked his cravat, wrung it out as best as he could, and lay it gently on Margaret's forehead. John made to repeat the motion when a knock sounded at the door.
"Come." He called. His valet Carter, a man not many years John's senior, entered and bowed slightly.
"Yes sir?" He asked before he caught sight of the bed. His expression changed to one of concern. "Is the Mistress unwell, sir?" He asked before he could stop himself.
"I'm afraid so." John replied. "I need you to go and fetch Dr. Donaldson straight away." Carter bowed once more and made to leave the room, but John stopped him. "I am sorry, Carter." he said sincerely. "I know I told you to take a few days for yourself. Please feel free to continue to do so once you return."
"Thank you, Master." He replied, a ghost of a smile on his face, and left the room. John was left staring at the place he had just vacated, quite unsure of what he should do. Nowhere, in any place of his mind, had he imagined his wedding night turning out this way. He had of course, imagined dozens of scenarios of what would happen when he brought Margaret here for the first time as his wife, and none of them had included her rendered unconscious by a raging fever and emotional overexertion caused by himself. Why couldn't he have just kept quiet? It had been such a wonderful day. And unexpectedly wonderful day. Just that morning he had been fighting back nausea so anxious he was with thoughts of what Margaret might do. He should have given more thought to what he might do to her. He should have listened to himself, and stopped while he was ahead. But he needed answers. He needed to know about the man at Outwood. He needed to know that there was a chance, however microscopic it was, that he could gain her heart. Perhaps he should have waited, given her the chance to tell him of the man at Outwood Station on her own. She was after all, now his wife. They were now a unit, operating together. She probably would have told him eventually...Wouldn't she? He sighed loudly, running a hand over his face in exasperation. They were probably the worst two communicators in all of history. He scrubbed his hand irritably down his face, and glanced over at Margaret, guilt flooding his insides. He didn't have time to feel guilty right now; that could wait until after he had spoken to Dr. Donaldson. He'd gone this long suppressing everything, and he could go a little longer. John stood and removed the cloth from Margaret's forehead, rewetted it, and ran it gently over her face once more. Oh, what had he done? A knock at the door roused his from his depreciating thoughts, and he walked briskly towards it, admitting his valet and the doctor.
"Good evening, Mr. Thornton." Dr. Donaldson said in a somewhat weary manner. "While I'm not particularly surprised at your summons, I must say it is a bit sooner than I anticipated." John blushed quite against his will, but managed to reply in his usual calm and clear manner.
"My apologies doctor, while you did explain this earlier, I thought it best to call you as I am not entirely comprehensive of the extent of her illness." Dr. Donaldson smiled knowingly at him before making his way to the bedside.
"What happened, if I may be so bold to ask?" He asked John after a moment checking Margaret over. His blush most unwillingly resumed it's earlier progression up his neck and to his cheeks, and he cleared his throat somewhat anxiously.
"We…had a slight disagreement…" he said with conviction trailing off into uncertainty. He cleared his throat again, this time in an attempt to maintain a sense of stability. "I had noticed she was becoming increasingly unwell during the reception and although she did not speak a word of it to me, I insisted that we should return here. I believe our-conversation must have been too much for her. She lost consciousness around thirty minutes ago." The doctor nodded, still looking at Margaret, and hummed in ascent.
"Well," he said cheerfully, turning to face him and packing his things back into his bag. "It seems much worse than it really is. I'm afraid I may have kept her in bed a little too much this last week. She's merely exhausted herself. Let her wake on her own; she'll need plenty of rest for the next few weeks, and keep her meals light. I would endeavor to say she'll be as good as new in about three weeks." John nodded in understanding, following the older man out of the room and into the hallway, shaking his hand gratefully.
"What about the fever?" He asked. Dr. Donaldson frowned for a moment, as thought contemplating something.
"It could be something to worry about," he said, looking down at the carpet. "But there's nothing we can do except to let her body fight it off. Her father said this was nothing too out of the ordinary for her. I am to understand that while it is difficult for her to become ill, it is also a rather lengthy process for her to overcome it. Her mother was very similar." John nodded, a hundred conflicting emotions rising up inside of him. His expression must have betrayed his inner turmoil, for the doctor added: "Do not fret sir," He said, smiling reassuringly at him. "Your wife will make a full recovery in time. I do not believe you should concern yourself unless the fever persists for more than a week, but I will call in a few days if it will ease your mind. I would however, strongly advise removing her corset as soon as possible, so she does not suffer from oxygen deprivation."
"Thank you, doctor." John said earnestly, shaking his hand once again and moving towards the stairs.
"Don't trouble yourself Mr. Thornton." He replied. "I can show myself out. Go back to your wife, and get some rest." John tried to smile in thanks, but he felt that it came out more like a grimace. He walked quietly back to his room, before Dr. Donaldson's final instructions permeated the fog of his mind.
"…Removing her corset as soon as possible, so she does not suffer oxygen deprivation."
John stopped rather abruptly outside his door and stared incomprehensively at the wall in front of him. That Margaret was lying in bed encumbered by her wedding dress, and would not pass a restful night whilst wearing it had not ever occurred to him. Of course, she would've changed into a nightdress on her own…were she not unconscious. He had not considered the fact that she was laced tightly into a very restricting corset, that would hinder her ability breath properly. But of course it made sense now that it had been brought to his attention. She would have to get out of that dress somehow, most likely by his own hands. He was her husband, after all. Wasn't this part of his duty, to undress his wife?
No not exactly.
Well, yes, exactly. It was something he was supposed to do. But not while she was unconscious, not while she was burning with fever from an illness he still felt that he had inadvertently caused, not without requited love, and certainly, under no circumstances without her consent. He shuddered slightly. Could he do this? He was a man of honor, a man of extreme reservation, a man of absolute control. But he was a man violently in love, and quite often driven ridiculously over the boundaries of his self control by that very same woman. He would not take advantage of her, God no. He wasn't a barbarian. But even he had enough intelligence to know that undressing that woman, that gloriously beautiful, enchanting, wonderful woman who was now his wife would require an exorbitant amount of self-control. He would do it however, and knew that he could do it, because for Margaret he would and always could do anything she needed. As he always had from the moment he first became aware of his love for her. God only knew what would transpire if she were to regain her consciousness whilst being undressed by him of all people, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He lingered in the hallway an unnecessary amount of time, before coming to his senses. He opened the door, and walked to the bed.
"Margaret." He called softly, leaning closer to her ear. He would try to wake her first. He respected her, and her privacy enough for that. "Margaret?" He called again, louder than before but still quite soft. He pushed some of the hair that had been trapped underneath his damp cravat away from her forehead. He moved his hand down and cupped her face in the very same manner that he had done when he walked her home from the Higgins' home practically a thousand years ago. "Margaret." He called again stroking her face with his thumb, voice firm, completely against the insecurity he felt within himself at that moment. She stirred then, only a little, and murmured something incomprehensible. Taking this as a sign of luck, he pressed forward. "Margaret, you cannot sleep in your wedding dress. I'm going to help you get changed." John was surprised at how calm and secure his tone was, when he was anything but on the inside. Margaret was stirring, but she did not fully awake.
"Mmm hmm." she mumbled. John seriously doubted that she actually understood the implications of what he had just said to her. But he could not blame her. It was increasingly obvious that she was not entirely lucid. Fever, especially high fever could do unusual and sometimes quite deadly things to even the healthiest of people. But her responses were encouraging to him. They made him feel less…appalling somehow. As though he wasn't quite so despicable, because he had told Margaret what he was doing, he was talking to her, even if she was not responding to him with full clarity. He felt so entirely awkward and horrible for what he was doing even though it was necessary, that he didn't really know where to begin. He cleared his throat.
"Dr. Donaldson said the fever wasn't too serious." He said, easing tension he felt at beginning this somewhat uncomfortable task. As he spoke, he set to work, starting with her shoes, the easiest article on her. "He says that you will be back to normal in no longer than three weeks." He tried to keep his tone strong and light, telling himself that it was for her benefit, not his. He could not ignore the growing unsteadiness in his voice as he looked at her stockings. So he focused intently on her face as though she were actually conversing with him, and bunched up the stocking above her ankle, and pulled. But nothing happened. Assuming they must be hooked somewhere, but not wanting to look away from her face, he blindly (and tentatively) brushed his fingers a little further up her leg until he found the edge of the stocking. Pointedly refusing to acknowledge how warm and soft the skin on her leg was, he found a clasp and managed to release it with ease, and quickly released the one on her other leg as well. The uncomfortable feeling was settling back in to his stomach, and he floundered for a topic. "We could go to the country when you're well, if you like." He added in a falsely cheerful voice that made him wince, while he quickly grabbed the hem of each stocking and quickly pulled it down and off.
"I haven't been to the country in years." He continued in the breathlessly false cheer. He sat down on the bed next to her, and gently lifted her upper body, cradling her head, and propping her weight against his chest while he fumbled through unbuttoning her bodice with trembling hands. "Perhaps we could go to Helstone," Oh, there were so many buttons on this dress! "And you could show me where you spent your childhood." At last the final button had been freed, and he gently placed back down on the mattress. He continued to speak, not breaking for fear that he might not accomplish his task if he was not speaking to her. "I cannot tell you," He pulled her arms out of the bodice one by one, and lay them at her side. He glanced down quickly and located the buttons of her skirt. "How often I have dreamed of seeing Helstone." He pulled the skirt down, careful not to tear the sheer material, and set to unbuttoning the underskirt. "You speak so fondly of it, I often find myself daydreaming about visiting such beautiful places." Margaret made no response aside from her feverish mumblings. After he removed the underskirt, John looked down expecting to see the corset, but was met with more layers. He knew (and he could not even remember how), that the corset was the last thing to be removed, with the exception of the chemise, which he would not touch. Already he could feel his face warming at the thought of it, and he forced himself to speak again, and to keep his head. "I think I may safely guess that you would be more than willing for a bit of fresh air after being confined to the indoors for as long as you have been." John lifted her again and awkwardly managed to extricate her for the corset cover. After he removed her petticoat (still looking only at her face as much as he could help it), he gathered the various clothing items, and draped them neatly over the chaise lounge in the corner of the room. He returned to the bed, lifted Margaret once more and placed her against him. Peering over her head, he spotted the intricate lacing of her corset, and slowly, while keeping a steady stream of conversation, he managed to unlace it. "I would have to work quite a bit more than I normally do to prepare for such a journey, but I think I can easily venture that we could travel in four weeks." Using one hand to keep her against him, he pried the corset out from between them with the other, and tossed it a little unceremoniously on the far end of the mattress. "I wouldn't mind working so much though," He continued desperately trying not to think about how little clothing she was now wearing. It was practically impossible to accomplish. Her body was burning with fever, and was warming him effortlessly now that there was hardly anything covering it.
Not that he needed to be any warmer.
Margaret's face was resting in the crook of his neck, scorching it immediately. He could feel her shallow breaths briefly cooling his blazing skin, lips sometimes coming in contact with him while she mumbled senselessly, and burning him in an entirely different way. One by one, with his breaths now coming out in sharp gasps, he probed her hair for pins, setting them on the table closest to his bed. When he was certain that there was nothing more in her hair, running his fingers through it perhaps a little more than was strictly necessary, he moved to lay her back on the bed. For several reasons, among them that he wasn't entirely certain he could trust himself, he held Margaret close to his chest as he lowered her back down, keeping himself pressed against her and allowing the mattress to claim his feverish wife. He would allow himself this one transgression, this one horrible betrayal of her trust. He had kept his word, and (miraculously) kept his eyes from wandering, but he could not help this; this one tiny, miniscule act of comforting affection from this woman who wasn't even lucid enough to comprehend what was happening, was enough to practically break him and drive him to insanity. So he indulged, just this once for it would never happen again, in the warmth of her body beneath his. He listened in rapture to the sound of her senseless mumbling in his ear, felt the slight pressure of her chest expanding against his, and reminisced the euphoria he had felt while his lips pressed against hers.
"There is nothing I could not endure for you." He finished in her ear, before forcing himself away from her. He felt blindly around her for the edge of the blanket, pulled it out from under her, and replaced it on top of her, creasing it underneath her. Quite begrudgingly, he shuffled over to the chaise lounge and removed his cravat, coat, and shoes, carefully setting them aside Margaret's wedding clothes. He shuffled his way back to the bedside, grabbing the back of a chair along the way and dragging it along with him, before dumping it unceremoniously on the floor by Margaret's side. He snuffed all but a few of the lights left in the room, pulled the chair close to Margaret, and placed his hand on her face once more. "Goodnight, my love." He breathed, leaning forward with doubt flooding his veins.
He pressed his lips to hers for the fifth time, knowing it would be the last time it happened, knowing that when Margaret finally woke, things would return to the horrible uncertainty, that had been poisoning things between them for nearly a year. Knowing that she could not stand to be in his presence, knowing that he had condemned her to this fate, this marriage that she had not wanted. Knowing that she would be disgusted with him for forcing himself upon her, for the terrible things he had spoken, for undressing her without her consent…But he tried not to think too much on the subject. So John sat at the chair beside the bed, took hold of Margaret's hand in his own, and lay his head down on the blankets, thinking only of the lingering pressure of Margaret's lips, and the tune of the music that had played while they danced at their wedding as he drifted off to sleep.
A/N: Ok, not too long, but I think its pretty good. I just enjoy suspense, as I'm sure you've noticed. =) Incase you're wondering, the song I envisioned them dancing to at their wedding was Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major (You can also search for BWV 1007 in Google, and it will take you to a YouTube video that inspired this). I highly recommend listening to this =D I think you'll love it!
Also, to my 200th reviewer Laura, you are amazing, and I love you! =D And in answer to your question, Margaret was still recovering from her illness that she contracted a couple weeks ago. It is extremely likely she could have fainted from overexertion after constant bedrest for nearly two weeks. And you're very right, it's extremely unusual for a woman to slap a man in those days. But John and Margaret aren't your conventional couple, and both have a tendency make the others' self control evaporate with a few words. So basically she just lost her cool big time and smacked the fire out of him ;) Anyways peeps, I love you guys and I can not wait to hear from you! =D