Chapter Twenty-Three
Hannah Thornton was a practical woman. She didn't believe in wasting time in nonsensical pursuits that had no benefit on working life whatsoever. She truly believed that the measure of a man was determined by what he made of himself, how he bettered himself in ways that benefited not only him, but others as well. This was the foundation for the ever growing mountain of pride she possessed for her son John. That was, until he met Margaret Hale.
Margaret Hale who practically opposed every single belief she held so dear to her. Margaret Hale who knew nothing of what it meant to build yourself up. Margaret Hale who had been given everything she needed in life without ever having to ask. Margaret Hale who had somehow managed to steal the affection of her child.
Hannah had noticed it, perhaps even before John did. She knew her son well enough to know that he wasn't as blind to her as he had been every other woman he had met. She detested the idea. Then came the strike, and with it the riot where Margaret had stood before a furious group of self-entitled workers. Hannah had thought then, that she could grow to accept this woman, this stubborn girl who had acted from her heart to save a man she loved, and could very nearly have lost her own life in the process. Except, Margaret did not love her son; or so she claimed. Instead she humiliated him by rejecting him, and made herself look like a desperate wanton fool by taking such a blow.
The passage of time did not improve her opinion of Margaret's character. In fact, it made it worse. And her son, her blessed child, was still completely besotted with her. When Hannah heard of a late-night incident involving both John and Margaret, she could not help herself. She had been blinded with a rage at the insolence of that girl. How could any parent let their child act in such a way? She had marched over to the Hale residence to tell her father that herself. Only, she was so angry she had not thought of the consequences of her actions. Then John appeared seemingly from nowhere, and everything spiraled into disaster.
No, he would not be dissuaded from marrying her. Of course he wouldn't. His honor was impeccable, and it was his duty. She had seen to that. And John wasted no time in reminding her that it was her words alone that had driven the necessity of marriage. Blinded by anger and pride, she left his house and claimed sanctuary with her daughter and son-in-law. It was only after she arrived that the guilt began. Day by day it plagued her, only growing stronger with the passage of time. She had been wrong, she had done wrong. Now she was paying for it. Reaping the benefits of what she had sown. What had she sown? Bitterness? Hate?
Fanny had told her of Margaret's failing health. Pneumonia, it was said. She told her of John's dedication to his bride, and eventually of Margaret's recovery. But even Fanny could not explain what happened next. Something had happened to her son. She could not tell what, but it was wrong. He was not like himself anymore. He was not happy. At first, she felt a sort of vindictive pleasure. Perhaps he realized what a mistake it had been to become attached to the likes of Margaret Hale. In time she realized that it was more than that; there was something deeper which she did not understand. Margaret was even unhappier than he. And if Margaret had designs on her son for his wealth, wouldn't she at least be content with her situation? The unhappiness and tension in their household seemed to have intensified with every visit she made. There was something else bothering her as well. And why wasn't Margaret with child?
It had been close to a year since their wedding. She had never known a woman who could conceive, to go so long without conceiving. No, something was not right with her son and his wife. Margaret's father seemed to have noticed as well. She caught the same suspicion and incomprehension in his gaze, that she felt within herself. But she was no stranger to her son; and although they may have parted ways badly, she would not dally in this matter. She had done what any loving parent would have done:
She confronted him outright in the privacy of his office.
Only, he was determined not to speak to anyone of it, not matter who it was, or what consequences it had on his happiness. But she was a determined mother, and if she had to pester him to death about it, she would. It was her God-given right. And it was this determination that drove her to seek her son's company for the third consecutive night that week.
She waited in his office (the overseer stated John had left to speak with his wife, but would be back shortly), and took comfort in the subtle presence of her son that had always been there. His books, his ledgers, quills, and ink. It practically exuded the pride she herself felt for her son. A twinge of nervousness began to settle in her stomach. There was so much she would say to her child, and it was not of a comfortable subject. Her recent correspondence with Mr. Bell had shed a bright light on the darkness that had settled around her family, and it was time to make things right. Only, she knew that John would not take what she had to say easily.
In her anxiety she began to pace, waiting somewhat impatiently for John to return from the house. Moving to the window, she searched for the tall form of her son. However her eyes landed upon Margaret instead. She was coming in the gate, walking briskly across the courtyard. Guilt and remorse flooded her insides once more as she looked at her daughter-in-law. When everything was finished, she would go to Margaret, and plead for forgiveness. Mr. Bell had enlightened Hannah on quite a lot of things. She would put her pride aside. For after everything that she had been through these last months, and everything that she herself had put the poor girl through, heaven knew she deserved it. Suddenly there was a flash of light, followed by a searing pain.
And Hannah Thornton knew no more.
John walked briskly through the house, hoping that he might come across his wife. He had just received a letter from Mr. Bell stating that he would be arriving the following morning for the visit he had promised them at Mr. Hales funeral. The letter itself was still clutched in his hands as he made his way through the house, in the hope that he might be able to present Margaret with it, and be spared from attempting to tell her himself. It was true, things did appear to be getting better between them, if their conversation the night before was any sort of indication. Perhaps in time, he might be rid of this wretched impairment altogether.
John made his way up the stars and towards their bedroom. If he did not find her there, we would simply leave the letter on her pillow. He had to get back to the Mill. He sighed when he noticed the room was empty. He went over to the writing desk, and hastily penned a quick explanation of the letter to Margaret. He glanced out of the window at the Mill, and turned to place the letter on the bed, but stopped. He looked back out of the window and saw Margaret striding across the yard towards the house. He smiled at the sight of her, and at the lessening of the anxiety that usually flared within him upon seeing her. He was getting better; every day was proof, and it sparked a flame of hope inside him. He turned away from the window once more, this time intending to go down to Margaret and hopefully speak to her, when it happened.
Something exploded.
The force was so powerful that it shattered his bedroom window and sent him sprawling face first onto the floor. It took a few seconds for the shock to wear off, but it was more than enough time for his mind to entertain a whirlwind of thoughts. He pushed himself up off the floor, and went back to the window. The entirety of the sorting room appeared to have been blown away, and wild flames could be seen there consuming everything they found . Suddenly his mind began moving again, and he remembered Margaret. He looked back at the yard, but did not see her. Without a moment's hesitation, he tore away from the window, flying through his bedroom and out of his house with such a speed that it was a miracle he didn't trip. Once outside, he frantically searched through the haze of smoke, and spotted Margaret struggling to push herself off the ground. He called for her, but she was facing away from him and perhaps did not hear. Regardless, he made his way as quickly as he could through the rubble and spun her around to face him. She had a nasty gash over her left temple that was bleeding freely onto her dress, but looked otherwise unharmed. He could not be certain, but he did not have time to worry. Already he could hear the agonized screams, smell the acrid scent of their flesh burning away…
"Margaret you must go in the house, you do not need to b-"
"What?" She called loudly, perhaps a little louder than necessary. John frowned before gently turning her head to one side. Blood caked inside and underneath her ear. The force of the explosion must have damaged her hearing.
He could worry about it later.
He grasped her arm and steered her in the direction of their home, where she would be safe, and he would be free to go and help the poor souls whose screams were permeating the air with as much pungency as the smoke. He faced her again.
"I want you," He said slowly, pointing a finger at her. "To get inside, and stay there." A finger this time pointed at the door. Her expression changed instantly.
"No!" She cried loud enough for John to know she still had not regained any sense of hearing. He threw his hands in the air in exasperation. He did not have time for this! "No, I'm going with you!" He faced her, incredulous.
"Have you lost your mind!" He cried. The explosion must have harmed her more than he originally thought, or she truly did not know him at all. There was no way in hell he would allow her to go with him into that blazing inferno.
"You cannot go alone!" She replied, looking desperate. "I will go with you." No, she certainly would not.
"No Margaret you will not!" He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but he doubted that he had any success. Right now he didn't care; he didn't have time to sit here. "You will stay here, where it is safe, where I know you will be alive, and I can come back to you." He made to leave her, stepping as far away as he could, and hoping his message had been clear enough.
"And what of you!" There was a desperation in her voice he had never heard before, and it made him pause. "What if you do not come back to me?" Slowly, almost painfully, he turned around to face her again. What he saw startled him so badly, he nearly jumped.
It was Margaret just as she had been seconds before, but the way she stood, the angle of her body in relation to his, the expression she bore, and most importantly the tears falling down her face, creating two vertical strips of could-be cleanliness triggered a memory within him he had forgotten. A dream he had months before, on their wedding night. She had stood before him, exactly how she was right then, in her father's house. The house and everything in it (including her) had been covered completely with a layer of black grime, save for the two vertical strips created by her tears. She'd even had a bleeding cut on her temple that he had thought was her injury from the riots. She had spoken to him before her woke. 'Remember that I chose this.' John had never experienced déjà vu before, and found he did not enjoy it too much. She had chosen this, but he had done it to her.
He had poisoned her innocence, blackened her heart over time, and he did not deserve her. She deserved to be whole again, clean, untainted by his sickness.
"Then all the better for you, Margaret." He said calmly, hoping she would heed his words. He strode forward, hoping to hold her in one last embrace in case he didn't come back, but Margaret met him halfway with a slap that set him reeling. Staggering slightly from the unexpected force she possessed (how had he forgotten the first slap?), he met her furious gaze with one of his own.
"Do not say such things John!" She exclaimed, tears falling freely once more. Her voice was deeply tinted with distress, cracking at almost every word, and several octaves higher than it normally was. He stared at her uncomprehending. Didn't she understand what he was doing for her? "Don't you dare think like that!"
"Margaret," he said impatiently, his body already turning towards the screaming of the poor souls who were trapped inside his Mill. He didn't have time for this. He needed to go, to leave her here, so he could save as many poor souls as he could before he himself perished, and then Margaret would be free. Free from marriage, free from his insanity, free from himself-
"No," Margaret said, taking his face in her hands, and turning him to face her. "You have to come back! I cannot lose you, not now!" Why was she saying this? Did she not want to be free from him? She had told him that she loved him only the night before, but John didn't dare let himself believe it, no matter how much he wanted to. She was trapped in an unending marriage with a man who loved her, but disregarded her, was on the verge of financial ruin, and whose business was currently up in flames behind them. No, he could not let himself believe that she really loved him. But it did not matter; he had always loved her, and always would. But in the next moment, every available thought and course of action fled his mind. Margaret had taken hold of his jacket, and pulled his lips to her own before he even understood what was happening.
Her lips, her entire body everywhere it touched his, burned with passion. It was as though Margaret had become fire, and sought to cleanse away his impurities. He could feel the little tugging, the warning in the back of his mind, but it didn't matter now. He pushed it away, focusing instead on the fire of the woman before him, and kissed her back with every desperate emotion he had withheld from her for so long. A part of him wished he could die here, held in the arms of that beautiful woman, and could care less that they were making quite a display for the few people who had bothered to look to them. They didn't matter; he'd been suppressed long enough, and if this was the last time he saw his wife, he was going to make damn sure he left her with no doubt of the love he held for her. The other part of him suddenly realized that if they were to stay there any longer, they would most definitely be killed. Not wanting to shatter this last moment between them, he lifted her off the ground, lips never leaving her own, and walked the short distance to the house. Begrudgingly, he set her back down and broke their kiss.
The sight of her, tear-stained and rather flushed, with lips so red they could have been apples, nearly drove him to shutting the door on the world and staying here with her. But he couldn't shut out the screams of those dying, and he knew (however much he did not want to) that he still had to leave her. He knew that he most likely would not return, but it did not matter. He had a duty to his workers, and he would rather die honorably by attempting to help them, than to live a coward with the blood of hundreds forever drenching his hands. He took in Margaret's every feature, committing her to his memory forever, as he would likely not see her again.
"I love you Margaret." He said, his voice thick with emotion. He would not tell her he would always love her. He would not place such a burden on her to bear. He remembered all too well the long hours of waiting by her side, waiting for her to draw her last breath. Margaret would never know such horror. He would not speak of it. But as he searched her eyes, he knew she understood exactly what he was not saying.
He was saying goodbye.
He let go of her, and turned sharply in one fluid motion, walking towards the Mill as quickly as he could. Even in the face of this disaster, he could not stamp the feeling of euphoria that spread through him, the way his chest felt as though it might burst, or the idiotic smile that painted his face.
"John!" He did not stop. He could not. He needed to leave her where she was, else his determination waver. He did however, turn and face her, walking backwards and still unable to compose his features into something more serious. "Promise me you'll come back to me." She said, not so much asking as she was demanding. Perhaps she really did love him after all. The bubble of joy in his chest merely seemed to grow at the though, and he was in very grave danger of bursting out with laughter for no apparent reason. He smiled at her, an enormous smile that didn't even touch the surface of the euphoria inside him.
"Of course I will!" He exclaimed happily. It might not be entirely true, but it did not matter to him. He wanted to leave her with at least one good memory of him. "Especially now that I have that to look forward to!" And he turned away from her, jogging towards the blaze of his sorting room, leaving Margaret to stand alone.
But John did not come back. And Margaret would no longer stand idly by.
A/N: Okay, some of it was from last chapter, but there were two reasons for this: 1) Its been so outrageously long since I updated, you needed a slight re-vamp, 2)You also needed to understand John's perspective on that encounter.
On that note, I am so very sorry about how long it has taken me to update. My life this summer has been so busy, I haven't had time to breathe, let alone write. Firstly, my birthday, my daughter's birthday, my brother's birthday, my grandmother's birthday, my dearest friend's birthday, and my anniversary all happen in July. If that wasn't enough, the day before my birthday, my husband was in a car accident, and our car was totaled. He's alright, thank goodness, but anyone who's ever been in a car accident where you were driving will tell you there's a lot of crap you have to go through after that. You've got lawyers, court dates, tickets, rental cars, deductibles, time off work, babysitting, doctor bills, and of course, you've also got to buy another car to replace the one you've lost. In short, you spend a shit-ton of money, while you're making less because you have to miss work. I haven't been home (save sleeping) for more than three hours at a time in over two weeks. I've been gone everyday, nearly all day, and this is one of the few days I've had time to sit and write some.
Oh, AND I was in a wedding yesterday. I don't know about you guys, but I really don't care for weddings. Well, I don't care for being involved in weddings. They're difficult to plan, and one of the most frustrating evens to take part in. Anyways.
Also, I'm going to be honest and say that some of the reason it's taken me so long to get around to this is that I've been somewhat discouraged. There are so many of you out there who absolutely love what I've done with this. Contrary wise, there are just as many who absolutely hate it, and do not hesitate to tell me so. It's not the first time I've gotten this type of feedback, and I'm not discouraging it (I appreciate honesty above all else), and I have battled with how it affects my writing for a while. I guess this time I lost that battle. But I think if I go ahead and answer all your complaints (and praises) right here and now, it might help me some. So, here goes.
Ayesha, KatMB, LotsOfLaundry, xXObsesser96Xx, Dream-Runaway,Trinity Le Faye, Maria, Tiffany, Endlesscalander, Ana, ImprovementByExtensiveReading, Jenn, Melissa72, MaidMarian17, Sevy MMAD, Sacred Woman2k, VS, ReginaMS, Guest, Beka, Sophie, Meiav, Owlkin, Olivia, Lady Saffron Of The Daggers, RachelMargaret, Straycat1, and about 6 other guests. You are FANTASTIC! Thank you for the wonderful and encouraging feedback. I greatly appreciate it.
Guest: I'm sorry that I lost you with the mental disorder bit. I will not apologize for it seeming too out of character for John because, well, I'd thought it would be obvious. Mental illness, insanity itself, that's out of character for any person, fictional or not. His insanity is not an action, or belief, or personality that anyone can change. John has no control over it. Obviously he'll be out of character, he's insane. He can't be the John Thornton that we all know and love right now, because he's not the John Thornton we all know and love. He's the John Thornton that we desperately want to love, but struggle with, as he himself is struggling. Margaret did not reduce him to this mess. It's in his mind. If that doesn't help you, perhaps this will:
In-san-I-ty:
1 : a deranged state of the mind usually occurring as a specific disorder (as schizophrenia)
2 : such unsoundness of mind or lack of understanding as prevents one from having the mental capacity required by law to enter into a particular relationship, status, or transaction or as removes one from criminal or civil responsibility
3 a : extreme folly or unreasonableness b : something utterly foolish or unreasonable
Evangeline-Sibeliah: I'm sorry you feel that way. Before I go any further, I would like to quote you on something, and respond in kind:
"It's one thing to take a completely mentally stable and strong character such as John Thornton and to give him a mental illness - but to give him a made-up disorder that only works on his wife and practically deactivates in the dark?"
First, let me start by saying that this mental illness, is not fictional. I'm not the sort of writer to pull something out of my ass, and put it online for hundreds of people to read. Yes, I do make quite a lot of typos; I'm human. But I don't flout on real and factual things. The fact that you would suggest that I put so much time and effort into making my story wonderful, and in the same sentence essentially claim that I did not do enough is-honestly-rather insulting. The illness John is suffering from is in fact, a real mental illness. Personal knowledge aside, I spent many a long night doing additional research on said illness to make absolutely certain that this could be a verifiable situation. I did not think this would be responded to so negatively. Not that I regret my plot line; it was after all, the climax to the story. And as with any story, climax is always followed by resolution.
Second: As I have stated before, mental illness is not something that can be helped, or prevented, or chosen by any person, fictional or not. Much in the same way that someone does not choose to get cancer. John Thornton is absolutely the most honorable, strong-hearted, and mentally-sound fictional character, probably in existence. It is for this reason (And to anyone else who may be reading my unusual ranting, also not understanding my reasoning behind the illness, read up), that I chose to write this the way I did. To show that terrible things can happen, even to the greatest and strongest among us. People tend to write things off nowadays. But this is something that affects us all in different ways: to love so deeply, that you no longer know yourself. To show that you can be brought lower than you ever believed, by things you never imagined, but that you can still persevere. To show that love conquers all evils. That is the purpose behind my writing. Mental illness, something I am quite passionate about, is only a small part of that.
Lastly, I would like to add to everyone (especially those of you I've singled out) that I'm sorry if I have in turn offended you. I understand it may not have been your intent to cause offense, that you were speaking your honest opinion, as I have often requested. Truly, I'm not angry with you, and I hope I do not turn anyone away, but I've reached a point where I feel like it would be wrong for me not to pause and explain some of my thinking, while utilizing the very words of your confusion. This story, more than anything else, is for myself. I need to work harder on remembering that not everyone will like it, and that it's ok, because I'm not writing it for them.
In conclusion, I'd like to add once more, that I'm sorry there's not very much new information in this chapter. Just a little subtlety in the beginning which I hope you caught on to. If not, I suppose you'll just have to wait for the next chapter, which is already halfway done. =)
I love you all! Even my flamers ;)