Chapter Twenty-Seven
Margaret walked back to her temporary bedroom after having been dismissed by Doctor Donaldson. She did not want to go, to leave her husband's side. She wanted to know everything; everything that the doctor suspected in regards health. Yes, he informed her that he feared John was comatose, a condition that Margaret did not really understand. But there was more lurking behind his eyes; something else he knew that he would not tell her. Of course she had demanded answers; but her pleas were ignored.
"You need to rest." He told her. "You need time to refresh yourself; both body and mind." Margaret scoffed aloud at the thought. Rest; as though she would be able to find any peace at the moment. An opinion that she had obstinately voiced.
"Margaret you're covered in blood. Make yourself presentable, and then you may return." Anger flared within her again at the memory of her mother-in-law's dismissal. Hannah's rather unsubtle insult of calling her Miss Hale once again had not gone unnoticed and truth be told, it rather hurt her feelings. Perhaps she stupidly assumed that they would let bygones be bygones after their discussion at the Mill. After all, Margaret had saved her life. So she stormed out of the room, making certain she sent a withering glare to each conscious occupant and did as she was bidden. She was covered in blood after all.
There was a bath steaming and ready for her when she arrived, no doubt drawn by Martha who was placing several of her gowns in the wardrobe. Margaret sent her away, not caring to be around anyone at the moment. Too much had happened that day, and the emotions she had been suppressing for hours rose to the surface of her mind, demanding liberation. It was with shaky hands that she undressed herself, throwing her clothes unceremoniously into a pile on the floor, and sank into the warm water with closed eyes. She lathered a bar of soap between her hand and a bristled brush, and worked from her feet upwards, being extremely careful of her recent stitches.
The first tear fell relatively unnoticed, but it served as the blow that broke the dam barricading the rest. Before she understood what was happening she found herself crying. She cried harder than she had ever cried before, scrubbing herself clean of the blood of countless injured, countless deceased, the blood of her husband. She scrubbed furiously, angry with herself for giving in to her emotions, angry with her mother-in-law for ordering her away from her husbands side, angry with God… As she scrubbed at her hands-her hands which her covered with the crusted brownish blood of the man she loved-she could no longer hold back the sobs. Her brush slipped into the water with a splash, and she covered her face with her hands and cried. She cried until the water turned cold, pulled her knees to her chest, and continued to cry. Even when a knock sounded at the door. They would have to wait-she was other wise occupied. She could not bring herself to stop when she recognized her mother-in-law's usual commanding tone call to her softly. A warm hand touched her shoulder, and Margaret lifted her head from her knees to met Hannah's eyes.
"I am sorry for the way I spoke to you earlier." She began without preamble. "It was unjust of me to do so, and I beg your forgiveness." Margaret stared at her uncomprehending for several seconds.
"I wholeheartedly forgive you, Mrs. Thornton." She said in an unintentional whisper, her voice completely failing her. There was a pause in which an awkwardness began to set in.
"Dry your tears Margaret." She said eventually, her tone still soft but with the underlying scolding tone which a mother could only achieve. "There is someone here to see you, and we have much to discuss with you." She rose to leave, but Margaret wanted to say to her something while they had a moment of privacy.
"I am sorry I did not come to visit you when you woke." She began, still worried she may have offended her.
"It is not necessary, Margaret." She replied, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I find that I cannot bring myself to be upset when you were so diligently looking after my son."
"But I wasn't!" Margaret cried. "I had only just arrived when it happ-"
"Margaret, calm yourself!" Hannah replied sternly. "You owe me no explanation. You are mistress of this house, and vicariously of Marlborough Mills. You did your duty as you are obligated to. Now come, if you remain in that tub any longer you will likely catch cold, and then who will look after the workers?" Hannah arched a brow as though challenging Margaret to contradict her, before quietly limping away. Martha bustled in directly after with her dressing gown.
"There now Mistress, I had this set out by the fire so it's nice and warm." True to her word, Margaret found the dressing gown to be almost too warm, and it claimed the chill that had set in the moment she put it on. It wasn't long before she was dressed once more with her hair in a rather efficient bun, walking back through the door to her bedroom.
"Ah, Margaret! At last!" A voice called. She jumped at the unexpected jovial tone, and squinted in the dim lighting to make out the face of the man who addressed her.
"Mr. Bell?" She asked, thoroughly confused. What was he doing there? He moved closer to her, kissing her hand and smiling reassuringly at her. She looked about the room once more, and noticed that Nicholas, Doctor Donaldson, and Mrs. Thornton were all eying her with something akin to…reluctance. What was going on?
"It is good to see you, my dear." Mr. Bell said, drawing the attention back to himself. He opened his mouth to say something else perhaps, but Margaret no longer cared for polite conversation.
"What is going on?" She demanded brusquely, reminding herself very much of her mother-in-law. "What are you doing here, Mr. Bell?" For a moment he looked stricken at her direct words, but he recovered quickly.
"I was expected, was I not?" He asked. He frowned slightly, but he did not seem altogether unsurprised by Margaret's ignorance at his appearance.
"You did say you would visit while we were in Oxford-" She broke off suddenly, the realization of her father's death hitting her sharply in the chest. "But you did not say when…" She trailed off, her gaze wandering back over to her husband. She had completely forgotten about her father; true quite a lot had happened since his death, and Margaret was having trouble remembering anything that was not of utmost importance, but she still felt a twinge of guilt. It was not the first time she had forgotten of his passing. She supposed that he had not been gone long enough for her mind to readily accept such a reality.
"I wrote to Mr. Thornton not four days ago to inform him I would be arriving." Mr. Bell said, exchanging a weighted glance with Mrs. Thornton. There it was again: the feeling Margaret had been experiencing nearly all day. Something more was going on, and she had not been included in it.
"He did not inform me." She replied, glancing between each person in the room suspiciously. It did not surprise her that John had failed to inform her of Mr. Bell's impending arrival. Better though he had been, he wasn't wholly himself yet. Doctor Donaldson cleared his throat and stepped up beside Mr. Bell.
"Yes well," He began. "That is something which we would all like to discuss with you." Margaret's heart began to pound with anxiety. Perhaps they had discovered John's illness on their own, and were now gathered to discuss having him sent away. She would not let that happen.
"Forgive me Doctor," She interjected with no small amount to venom to her voice. "But if you are planning to remove my husband from his house, I'm afraid I have to tell you that it will not happen. From the corner of her eye she saw Mrs. Thornton practically glow with pride. Mr. Bell laughed openly, and Margaret found herself more confused than ever.
"Oh Mrs. Thornton!" He exclaimed, turning and speaking directly to Hannah. "You have made a fool of me, I fear." Hannah smiled satisfactorily at him.
"I told you she would never allow such a thing." She replied, looking quite pleased with herself. Even the doctor looked on with a smile.
"Forgive me for being rude," Margaret said, beginning to feel rather irritated with them. "But will someone please explain what is going on?"
"All in good time, Margaret!" Mr. Bell replied, still as jovial as ever he was. He led her to a chair that sat beside John, and bade her to sit. Mrs. Thornton was seated right beside her, but it seemed as though all the attention was directed at Margaret. It made her extremely uncomfortable.
"Now my dear," Mr. Bell stated, now appearing extremely businesslike. "I will keep you in suspense no longer, and get straight down to business." Margaret shifted nervously in her seat. "We know that all has not been well in your marriage." Margaret immediately bristled at the comment.
"Do you?" She asked with a trembling voice. She did not understand why it angered her so much, but she could not control it. "And how pray tell, did you reach such a conclusion?"
"It was rather obvious to anyone around you, Margaret." Hannah said.
"Then tell me," She addressed each member of the room, glaring at them in turn, her voice still trembling. "Why are you only just coming to me with such an issue?" Each person look a little taken aback at her comment, guilt clouding each pair of eyes. "If it was so obvious, why wait for nearly a year before bringing it up?" Her temper was flaring now, but she no longer wished to control it. "Is it because you did not think it relevant? Or perhaps it is because he may never overcome his injuries, and you wish to discuss it before he dies so that your conscious may be clear!" Doctor Donaldson stared at her, obviously stricken. Hannah faced away from her, from the set of her jaw and her rigid posture, Margaret could tell that Hannah knew she was justified in her words.
"It is true Margaret," Mr. Bell began. "That we knew of the unhappiness of your marriage, but until very recently we could only speculate on the cause." Margaret glared at them still, willing her temper to die down a bit. "It was your father who first approached me with the idea that Mr. Thornton might be ill." There was a heavy silence in the room, where all eyes had turned to Margaret, and she assumed that they were attempting to gauge her reaction. She took a deep breath.
"My father was correct." She said. Beside her Hannah exhaled sharply.
"How can you be sure?" The doctor asked.
"I have spent every day with that man for nearly nine months." Margaret said dryly. "You can believe me when I say I know that he is suffering from mental illness."
"Will you tell me?" The doctor asked gently. "Will you tell me what you know?"
Hours had passed since Margaret reluctantly began the tale of her life since she became John's wife. It was an intensely personal conversation that she initially refused to have. Unfortunately she had been persuaded to do otherwise. It was explained to her that they three (including her father while he was alive) had been in contact for a number of weeks, attempting to discern the cause of John's unusual behavior. After much deliberation, they had come to the unfortunate conclusion that he must be suffering from a type of insanity, and agreed to consult a doctor they trusted before doing anything further. But now they needed her own perspective on his actions; and it was only after everything had been explained in detail to her that she agreed to share her side.
She told them everything; she told them of his first proposal, of Frederick, of their walk, of their wedding night, and their first real kiss. Of his silence, and of his fear. She told them everything, hoping, praying, begging that perhaps it would help her husband. When she finished, Nicholas shared his side, something Margaret had not before been privy to. He had observed John's behavior more closely than anyone had realized, and maintained the belief that he was perfectly normal and capable in every way. Just so long as Margaret was not around, or brought up in any way. When he finished Doctor Donaldson sighed loudly, and closed a notebook he had been reading very intently.
"The science of the mind is not something which mankind is very knowledgeable in." He said wearily. "Until very recently, it was believed that insanity was something that could be cured with brutal treatments, or simply by learning how be normal. Only recently have scientists and doctors really begun to understand what mental illnesses are." He glanced over at John's sleeping form before continuing. "I have discussed your husbands symptoms at length with a colleague of mine who specializes in mental illness." Margaret, who had been looking at John's peaceful face for the latter half of the conversation turned to look at the doctor.
"And what have you discovered?" She asked quietly. She had tried to prepare herself for this moment. The moment where all the questions were answered. The moment where everything came to a head. True, she still knew nothing about his physical condition, or even if he would make it out of this horrible ordeal alive, but somehow this felt more important. This would be a moment that would define her remaining days on earth, regardless of whether or not John lived.
"I believe that the largest portion of his illness is an anxiety caused by some form of trauma." Margaret stared at him blankly.
"I don't understand…" Margaret trailed off, her mind working furiously. "What I mean to say is that I understand your diagnoses, but I don't understand why I am-why it only affects him when…" She could not finish her question; embittered though she was, admitting her feelings and fears to others, speaking them aloud, made her realize how truly affected by it she still was. Her chest clinched painfully, and she rubbed at it absently. Doctor Donaldson sighed, looking as though he deeply hated what he was about to say. It only made Margaret's chest hurt more.
"While you were taken ill," He said slowly. "On your wedding night that is, I was there. When you got worse, I remained. During my time, I cannot recall a time where Mr. Thornton ate, slept, drank, or even moved away from your side. You were unconscious for nearly six days Mrs. Thornton." He paused, looking at her very intently. "There are other signs that say he may have been unconsciously struggling with the beginnings of this anxiety before your marriage, something that, as I understand from your mother-in-law, plagued his father in the months before he died." Margaret's mouth opened in shock, and she turned to Hannah, looking for some form of reassurance or understanding within her gaze. But she was determinedly looking at her son with an unreadable mask settled firmly upon her brow.
"What does this mean?" She cried. Margaret could hardly believe her ears. Was he suggesting that John might be led to ending his own life as his father before him had?! He would not, he could not! John was far too strong a person, and even though Margaret never knew his father, she knew her husband bore more similarities to Hannah than anyone else.
"Well, nothing at the moment." The doctor replied, casting a lingering glance at the bed. Margaret understood the unspoken statement that it would not matter unless he woke up.
"I still do not understand entirely." She said after a few moments. "If he was carrying this illness before we married, then why does it only affect him when I am near?" The doctor sighed once again, something he was doing rather a lot of in her company, and did not answer for several moments.
"The mind is a wonderful and complex thing Mrs. Thornton." He said gravely. "And we are only just beginning to understand it. Anxiety is a fear; but it is not merely fear alone, it is the fear of something specific, and it is usually related to something very specific that has happened to that person. Something that caused them great emotional distress."
Margaret was beginning to understand now.
"I believe it is extremely likely that the tumultuous relationship, along with the distress of being rejected by you all those months ago planted the seed within him." He paused, and Margaret used the quiet to look once more at the sleeping face of her husband guilt already beginning to flood her body to the point where she thought she might be sick. "Now it is likely that he might only have carried a small degree of this with him after you married. Perhaps he might have been abnormally shy around you, timid even, or even extremely self-conscious in your presence. In short: afraid of what you might think of him."
"But?" Margaret asked tonelessly, knowing there was more.
"But," the doctor continued. "You became gravely ill. The loss of sleep, especially in extreme cases such as those can, I hear, cause significant problems in a persons health not just physically, but mentally as well. My colleague informs me that it is a hysteria usually seen in soldiers, and is caused by the stress of something you have seen or experienced that was traumatic. In this case: watching helplessly as your lovely new bride wastes away before your very eyes. She believes that the lack of sleep heightened the hysteria, which in turn heightened the somewhat dormant preexisting anxiety issue." Margaret angrily wiped the tears from her face with one hand, the other hand firmly holding on to her husband.
"So he is afraid of me, because he thought I was dying." She asked, her tone embracing the bitterness she had felt for so very long.
"You were dying." Doctor Donaldson reprimanded. "It is a miracle that you survived that illness unscathed." Margaret scoffed, not particularly feeling grateful at that moment. "To answer your question, yes and no. The anxiety was a way for his mind to block out the pain inflicted by your uneasy relationship. Watching you die brought that pain back to the front of his awareness. When you recovered, his fear of you had already been triggered by the trauma of your illness. His fear of you was a defense mechanism of his mind so-to-speak. It did not want to experience such painful emotions again, so it blocked you out, and inflicted an emotion upon him that would keep that pain as far away as possible."
Margaret understood now, more than she wanted to. So she had caused this. Inadvertently, but yes. She had hurt him so deeply that his mind actively fought to keep him away from her. This was something she had never heard of, never would have believed possible, and yet…here it was. Laid down before her, everything she had so desperately wanted to know for nearly nine months. This was far too much for her to bear. The mental illness alone had been more than enough, the fire alone would have been more than enough, but this? A dying, comatose husband who suffered from a paralyzing insanity that was she herself had triggered by inadvertently breaking his heart? Dimly she heard Hannah ask the doctor about his current physical condition.
"His brain has shut off any unnecessary functions." He replied. "The injuries he sustained were too great for his mind to handle, so he is sleeping until he is recovered."
"So he will wake when his injuries have healed?" Mr. Bell asked.
"There is no way of knowing for certain." Doctor Donaldson replied grimly. "Comatose patients are highly unpredictable. He will wake up when his brain determines it is time."
"So he may never wake up." Margaret stated quietly, still not taking her eyes away from John's face. The doctor cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"There is only so long he will be able to sleep without eating or drinking." He said. "Only time will tell."
"What of the fit he experienced earlier?" Margaret asked, tone still dull and eyes still fixed upon John's face.
"It was an epileptic fit. Something that commonly happens when a patients slips into a coma. He should not experience it again." Margaret nodded and spoke no more. There were quieted conversations between the other occupants of the room, but Margaret did not hear or care to hear what was being said. One by one the others slowly left the room, each offering parting condolences as they left her alone with John.
The room was hot, so unbearably hot that it vividly reminded Margaret of her short time spent escaping the Mill. She could not imagine what John must have been through, what he must have felt as the discovered himself trapped and alone the blazing inferno. Guilt flooded within her once more as she went over the details of John's predicament in her mind. Why had this happened? Her whole life, she could not recall that she had ever truly done anything wrong, anything that would warrant this degree of hardship. The lie to the inspector about her brother had been the worst; and John was the only person left now who did not understand her reasoning behind it.
Oh, why had she not told him all those months before! Now she was faced with the distinct possibility that he would never know. She would never be able to make amends with him, and he might die now believing (but not understanding) that she had lied to him for another man. That it was truth was the worst of it. She had lied to him for another man; she conveniently left out the fact that the man happened to be her brother. There was so much between them that she might never be able to resolve. There was so much that they might not ever experience together. She may never know the joy that would come of being openly loved by John Thornton. She may never know what he would look like as she came to his office to surprise him with a picnic lunch. She might never know the joy of being loved they way a man loves his wife. She might never see the perfect look of fear and elation he might personify as she told him she was with child. He might never hear how very much she loved him. She had never said it before.
All possibilities of things that could have been were overshadowed by the crushing responsibility she felt at having been the cause. Had she never moved to Milton, had John never met her, he would not be in this position. True, the fire most likely still would have occurred, most likely with the same outcome…but the horrible self-depreciating insanity might never have occurred. She had seen him fighting with himself, she had seen him clutching his head in agony as he desperately fought to overcome it. But of course, he would not be able to; for she was the cause. Her pride, her lies, her god-forsaken desire to remain emotionally detached had done this to him. She could not bring herself to tell him how she really felt-their entire acquaintance nearly-and this is what came of it. Her pride had both kept her away from the man she loved, and destroyed his ability to love her.
There was fire-fire everywhere. It surrounded him entirely, the heat burning his skin and stealing the air from his lungs. He was running, but it seemed as though the Mill would never end. He was looking for someone, but who? The Mill stretched on for an eternity, and he ran as quickly as he could looking, searching frantically for something. And then he saw it:
Margaret. She was there in the Mill! What was she doing there?! Hadn't he specifically said not to leave the house? He called to her. But something was not right; he could feel the effort it took to speak, the vibration of it in his chest and the back of his throat, but he could not hear the words. He tried again, and again, over and over, but still nothing. He made his way to her as quickly as possible, dodging pieces of the collapsing ceiling and jumping over small piles of burning debris. It seemed as though it only took him a moment to be at her side, but it took his mind a good while longer to comprehend what he was seeing with his eyes.
Margaret was on fire; but she wasn't burning. Indeed, the flames that encompassed her entire being seemed to be casually dancing off her body, and Margaret did not seem to be in any pain. She looked at him curiously, head tilted to the side as though trying to understand him. He tried to call to her again, but again he could only feel the vibration of his words and nothing else. It wasn't his hearing. He heard everything else around him; the sound of his heavy breathing, the wood that cracked beneath the extreme heat, and the rushing sound of a fire growing hot and fast…but not his voice. What was wrong with it? Margaret did not speak, but moved towards him and grasped his hands. He looked at her suddenly and completely entranced. She was ethereally beautiful encased in warm golden light, blue eyes shining brightly at him, assessing, waiting.
"You have given me fire in my soul." She said. But her voice was not her own. It was deeper, stranger. "And now I will give it to you." He opened his mouth, perhaps to ask her what she was talking about, perhaps to tell her to flee. But the words never left; the very thought of what he might save spoken was forgotten in that very next moment, for a pain encompassed his wrists and set his blood on fire. He looked down in alarm.
He was on fire! Margaret had literally set fire to his clothes. He stepped back, making to draw his arms away from her and stamp out the flames, but he could not move. She held him firmly in place as the ethereal flames dancing about her spread to him, burning him down to his very bones. He could feel it spreading over his body, searing him with excruciating pain. He called to her, screamed for her to stop, but he had no voice; and she did not release him until the pain clawed at him so ferociously that the world around him turned to black.
A/N: So it's been a little while since my last update. When I say everything has been hectic, I don't really think that even begins to cover it. My husband and I have been trying to adopt this little girl out of Foster Care. To anyone who's remotely been involved with adoption knows what a God-awfully long process it is. We started back in June, and we've been busting our tails trying to get this done. Then there was that wreck in July, which really set us back as we had to get another car, and fork out a bunch of money to pay insurance and other such things. Now we have to move to be in a county adjoining to the one we're trying to adopt from. But then my husband got hired at another job (one that pays more, mind you), and quit his government job of four years, only to find out that the CEO of the company has warrants out for fraud, embezzlement, and forgery. Needless to say, the company is going down the toilet, and we're now involved in an extremely serious legal matter that we had absolutely nothing to do with. So yeah, that's why I haven't had time to update, lol.
Anyway! Enough of that.
This chapter was surprisingly difficult to write, and I hope it makes sense to you. And hoorah! The illness, finally uncovered. For those who did not find it clear enough, it is what is modernly known as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Anxiety. I thought it would make more sense if the anxiety was an inherited trait from his father, as so many of you cleverly picked up on.
Many of you have questioned the plausibility of an illness that only works on his wife, more or less. Understandable. Well, here it is. It isn't a situation that would normally occur, but it is something that is extremely probable, especially given the mental history with John's father. And six days of sleep deprivation in combination with extreme emotional distress would be more than enough to trigger post traumatic stress disorder. Believe me, I asked. ;)
Also, that bit at the end is a look inside John's head at the moment. There's lots of speculation about what coma patients experience while they're under, but I'm going with a personal account I had from a friend while she was in a medically induced coma for a week to recover from some pretty serious car-accident injuries.
Tell me what you think! Also, I'm a bit curious to know what you might like to see next. Inspire me my lovely readers. ;)