Super important authors note!
If you haven't read the updated version of chapter 30, go back and do it now or you will not understand ANYTHING that's going on, haha.
Chapter Thirty-One
Mr. Bell's final words rang true for Margaret during the next several days. Things were looking up. Things were looking up far more than she had ever anticipated. Thanks to Harry Watson, Margaret's name had been cleared with the police, and she was free to access the special account that her Godfather had set up before his departure. She nearly fainted when Mr. Latimer informed her that the balance was over twenty thousand pounds. It would took time, but with the excess of money, and the invaluable help of Nicholas Higgins, they would get the Mill back on track. They were able to employ the remaining workers to handle the deconstruction, while simultaneously building a kitchen to help feed them as they went, something that Nicholas informed he had\
been planning with John now for several weeks. They were able to completely eradicate the Mill's outstanding debt within a matter of days, and by the grace of God managed to set up an extremely long line of suppliers, who were already working on their admittedly enormous order for raw cotton. Hope had been kindled within her once more, and she truly believed that her darkest days were now behind her.
John even appeared to be showing great signs of improvement. Each one of them had at some point or another noticed and seemingly simple, yet altogether remarkable feat from him. A twitch of the fingers, a small crease in his brow…Doctor Donaldson said that it was no longer a matter of if John would wake, but when. Though Margaret was loathe to leave his side and possibly miss the moment he first regained full consciousness, but she did unfortunately have greater responsibility. Every day that passed since the fire, there was not one single moment in which she was not grateful for Nicholas. Margaret may have been able to handle this business without him, but it would have taken far longer to achieve any sort of progress while she attempted to figure out the cotton industry.
And so it was that seven days from when she received Mr. Bell's letter, they seemed to have (more or less) gotten the business affairs back in line. They were no where near ready to start production, but they were infinitely closer, if you considered that there had once been no hope of doing so at all. Margaret had never felt so accomplished in her entire life. Now if only her husband would wake…
She forced herself to remain positive about John's fate, although it truthfully was not very hard to. Only a week ago she had been faced with the distinct possibility that he was going to die. Now she was faced with the likelihood that he might wake at any given moment. It certainly gave her mind an occupation while it wasn't busy with other things. She had so many questions, so many fears whirling around her head, that it was sometimes quite difficult to even distinguish between them. For the time being, she did not actually need to distinguish between them; that was something she could worry about when John woke up. For the moment, she would suppress her flurry of thoughts, and focus on the peaceful quiet she shared with John before attending to her other duties.
She stood from her usual perch at his bedside to relieve her aching back. Sleeping in that small chair with her head resting on the covers beside John's leg had not been kind on her body. She lost actual count of how many days it had been since the fire, and since she originally took that position. She cast a longing glance at John. Surely no one would mind…
Not giving herself time to rethink her plan, Margaret walked to the other side of the bed, and climbed in as gently as she could, extremely mindful of his broken leg. She did not bother with changing her clothes, nor even to remove her corset. She had already disposed of her boots, and now that she had decided to sleep beside John, she could not constitute wasting the time to dress properly for it. Besides, who was there to notice? She lowered herself slowly onto her back with a soft exhale of relief, and turned on her side to face John.
He really could almost be sleeping, she mused. He was sleeping; just not in the way she desperately wished he was. In the now somewhat dimmed lighting of their room, she began to feel a sense of familiarity, of peace. Out of habit she ran her fingers along the contours of his face, mapping every surface and plane to memory, as she had done for many months now. It was a habit borne out of sheer desperation for affection during the blackest months of their marriage, when the only way she received affection was to take it unknowingly. Those had been dark days indeed, but Margaret had grown used to it somehow. She wished for those days now; having John there in body and soul, even if he was not there in his mind, seemed a better alternative than having him gone altogether.
Perhaps that was selfish of her. To wish for John to be back in that uncertainty, that darkness, that fear. What it said of her, that she would prefer her husband subjected to madness than at peace somewhat, she could not say. There was a very great chance that it was entirely wrong of her to feel so, but she could not feel so guilty as to force herself from the thought. She wanted her husband back. She wanted the chance to help him from his fears, and to learn to love him once again. No matter how much she tried not to think on it, a small part of her did believe that it would be so much easier for John if he never recovered. Death, for him at least, was infinitely easier than living. He had already fought so hard; fought, and suffered merely to survive. His entire life had always been a battlefield, a place to succeed or die trying, but never to give up. And that mentality seemed to stick with him in every endeavor. He was still fighting, right at that very moment, just to stay alive.
Margaret took his left hand in hers and placed a small kiss upon his knuckles, before laying it on his chest with her hand covered underneath it. As she pressed her face against his upper arm and marveled at its warmth, she caught the glimmering light of the fireplace dancing off the gold band resting silently on his finger, and remembered something. Words he had spoken to her on their wedding day, that she believed he did not really mean. Promises of forever.
"Forever I am yours." He had said.
She willed it to be true.
Margaret opened her eyes blearily, wondering what was different about her surroundings. It took a moment for her mind to realize what her eyes were seeing. She was laying in her bed, exactly where she normally lay, still holding the hand of her husband. Beyond his peacefully resting face however, was Hannah, looking upon the scene before her with a slight smile on her face.
"I hope I did not wake you." She said quietly, as though she did not yet want to break the calm silence of the early morning. "You get little enough sleep as it is." Margaret rubbed at her eyes tiredly with one hand, the other still firmly trapped beneath John's.
"What time is it?" She asked, somehow knowing that she had overslept.
"Nearly nine." Hannah replied calmly. Margaret's eyes widened.
"I must go." She said, gently laying John's hand back upon the sheets, before hurrying to the was basin.
"You should not press yourself to the limits of exhaustion, Margaret." Hannah remarked sternly behind her. Another time, a month ago even, Margaret would have assumed her biting tone to be disapproval. She had come to know her mother-in-law quite well however, and understood what she was not directly saying.
"I will stay as rested as possible." She replied, turning to giver an appreciative smile. Hannah did not look as though she believed her, but Margaret headed her off. "I must go, but I will be back as soon as I can. You will tell me if anything changes?"
"You are so very similar to him." Hannah remarked, looking back to her son. "It is exactly the response he would have given me." She looked away then, and Margaret felt rather than saw, the emotion she was restraining.
"He will recover Hannah," she said determinedly. "He will wake soon, and you will have your son once more." Hannah looked up at her, tone entirely serious.
"And you will have a husband again." she said. Margaret smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. Something told her that having her husband again (if he ever really was hers to begin with) would be much more challenging than that.
It happened unexpectedly, John waking from his coma. She had not been there for his first moments, but luckily she had only just reached the bottom landing of the staircase when her mother-in-law shouted her name.
"Margaret, come quickly!" She knew what that call meant exactly. She understood fully what it implied, and wasted no time at all in sprinting back up the stairs, Carter flying past her in a blur. She came to an abrupt halt before her bedroom, unable to enter it. Her blood was pounding in her ears, and she felt somewhat afraid. Afraid of what she would find in her room. It was ridiculous of course; she knew what she would find. She knew somehow that John had woken, and yet she could not shake the inexplicable wariness she felt over entering her room again now that he was waking. A thousand doubts flooded her mind, and she felt somewhat overcome by them. But it was not the guilt that held her back, that had somehow rooted her to the spot; it was something deeper. It was instinct.
A gut feeling, intuition, or perhaps a sixth sense she did not know she possessed. Whatever it was, it spoke the same inexplicable truth: this would not be as easy as she had hoped. So she gathered her courage, every ounce of strength she had left, and entered her room.
He was there, slightly hunched over and coughing wildly, but there, awake! Despite her apprehension at entering, she was powerless against the wave of joy that swept through her, and the pit of nerves (although it had been dormant of late) that burst into flames at the thought of him here with her again. He spoke, and it sounded so strange, so foreign to her that it drew her to him. It was so long since she heard his voice…
"I-" He paused to cough violently once more. "I cannot see." Margaret reached towards him, tentatively brushing her fingertips along the length of his arm, eventually reaching his face.
"John?" She called softly, her voice coming out in little more than a whisper. His head turned towards her, but his eyes stared unseeing.
"Who is there?" He asked in a tone that (to Margaret at least) exposed a fear he seemed to be feeling.
"Calm yourself John, we are here." Hannah said, shushing him. To Margaret, the expression on John's face told her everything she needed to know. The shock, the incredulity, the fear…and the curious puzzlement that fanned the pit of flaming nerves within her, and caused fear to smother her senses as wholly as smoke. Dr. Donaldson bustled in through the door, Carter following so closely they might have been attached.
"Mr. Thornton my lad!" He boomed upon entry. John looked over in the doctor's general direction, squinting as though trying to will his sight to return. "I must say, you had me worried for good while."
"He says he cannot see." Margaret said, certain the her heart would explode from the intensity of the events unfolding around her. Dr. Donaldson frowned a little, looking somewhat disheartened by the news.
"All in good time Mrs. Thornton." He replied calmly, heaving his bag of supplies onto the bedside table. "Now, if you wouldn't mind excusing us for a moment, and let me examine the poor man in peace." Margaret wanted to be affronted at being asked to leave his side, especially after everything that she had been through in the past few weeks, but she couldn't. She knew the doctor quite well now, and understood what he was saying, what he was doing for John, for her. She would have to quickly come to terms with having her husband back. The doctor would be informing John of what became of his Mill. He would likely have questions, and many of them. Margaret needed to be ready to answer. Of course, all of this was contingent upon him actually being able to see Margaret.
Not literally, of course, although a part of her was deeply troubled by his inability to see. No, what worried Margaret more than anything else was the thought that his illness would still be there. That it would be as bad, if not worse than it ever had been, and she would be unable to enjoy his consciousness as much as she desperately desired to. She did not know if she could bear to see him in any more pain, to see him push her away once more. How awful it must have been for him in those eight long months. Could he still handle that? Could she? Truth be told, Margaret didn't want to handle it anymore. She still loved him of course, and would never leave him to fend for himself, but she honestly didn't want to. She didn't want to deal with any of it, but she would nonetheless. She would persevere, because she did truly love him. And living in that Hell with him was an infinitely better alternative to being without him anywhere else. But it didn't mean that she had to look forward to the prospect.
In all honesty, she knew his illness would still be there. Something like that did not simply vanish. No, he would still bear the effects of his trauma, and she would have to try that much harder to penetrate his walls. In all likelihood, it would be more difficult than it had been the first time. He was going to find out that his Mill was gone. The Mill was everything to that man, it always had been. It was his pride, his success, his income. Of course, they didn't need to worry about money anymore thanks to her Godfather, but John certainly didn't know that. John only knew what was on the day of the fire: despair, destitution, and loss. It would certainly take him time to come to terms with what had happened. And time, he would have in abundance. She very seriously doubted his broken leg would be healed enough for him to bear any weight on it, and that was without any of his other injuries. He had been in bed for weeks, on a steady diet of nothing more than broth and water; it would take time for him to regain his strength. Not to mention that he apparently could not see…
She needed to stop dwelling on that. It was done, there was nothing she could do about it.
"Calm yourself Margaret, it will all be well." Margaret noticed with a start that she was in the hall outside her room, and had apparently been pacing rather restlessly. She did not even remember exiting her room. She looked over at Hannah, a picture of serene indifference. But Margaret knew her better now. She could tell by the rigid posture, and the white of her knuckles on her folded hands, that Hannah was not as calm as she outwardly appeared. Margaret crossed over to her in three brisk steps and mimicked her demeanor. After all, if Hannah could control herself, then there was no reason Margaret could not. It seemed as though Margaret was not the only person with an improved understanding of their in-laws; Hannah quietly unfolded her hands and grasped on of Margaret's without a word. And it wasn't until she did, that Margaret realized she wanted that comfort. They remained this way, still as statues until the door opened quietly, and the doctor stepped out. Margaret made to move forward, but Hannah's hand gripped hers tightly, as though anticipating bad news.
"How is he?" Margaret asked, unsure of why her voice was quite so breathless. Dread, more intense than before when she first looked upon John, settled heavily upon her chest. The doctor sighed, somewhat of a trademark expression of his that preceded bad news, and scrubbed and hand down a weary looking face.
"Physically, he is fine; certainly much better than I ever hoped." He looked at them both, his eyes searching the faces of both women. "His sight, I believe will return given time. I believe his eyes may simply be injured from the heat and smoke of the fire."
"What must be done?" Hannah asked.
"Nothing more than keeping the room darkened, and a bandage around his eyes to keep out the light." Dr. Donaldson replied simply. "There is something that worries me however." Margaret's insides were in very great danger of bursting from the sudden onslaught of anxiety coursing through her. "He seems to have suffered some memory loss." Margaret felt as though she couldn't breathe.
"How much memory loss?" She heard Hannah ask, her tone every bit as sharp as the fear that Margaret felt.
"Everything." The doctor replied. Silence fell upon them. A silence that echoed in Margaret's mind, permeated her soul. "Right now, it seems as though he remembers nothing. Not even his name." Margaret lost focus on the world around her.
"How can he remember nothing?!" Hannah cried, her voice sounding distinctly muffled in Margaret's ears.
"I do not know Mrs. Thornton." The doctor replied, seeming frustrated by Hannah's question. "It became evident throughout my examination that he had suffered some memory loss. It was only upon further questioning that I discovered how much was gone. He could not tell me his name, nor even his age."
"Will it come back?" Margaret asked, her voice coming out much softer than she expected. Her vision remained somewhat unfocused, but she could make out the soft pattern of the carpet on the runner in the hallway.
"Only time can tell, Mrs. Thornton."
"What must I do?" She asked, dreading the answer.
"John needs time." The doctor replied shortly. "Most importantly he needs to heal himself." His pointed expression told Margaret he was referring to the illness more than the actual injuries he sustained. "My advice is to let him follow his own pattern. If he is to regain his memories, he needs to be the one to remember them, to remember you." Margaret nodded, fighting off the acrid taste in the back of her mouth. "Do not tell him of his memories directly, unless he requests it; even then I would exercise caution. Give him facts, not details. If you tell him too much he may never be able to accept which memory is real, and which is a fabricated version he arranged in his mind." Margaret nodded once more.
"I understand."
"This is of course," The doctor added, his tone much lighter than it had been only moments before. "Assuming that it takes him a while to work past this. He may only need rest before they come flooding back in all on their own." He smiled reassuringly at Margaret, but the bitter taste in her mouth had only increased, and she found herself unable to return the gesture.
"Why is this even happening?" She asked.
"It could be many things." Dr. Donaldson replied, collecting his bag from the floor and making as though he were about to leave. "He had a nasty head wound, if I do recall…but then, he was also comatose for several weeks. The coma itself was a way for his body to recover unhindered. It is not entirely inconceivable that this is merely another form of healing. Either could have caused it. There's no way of knowing for certain." With that, he was gone. Swept away as though he hadn't just brought such devastating news to the Thornton women.
Margaret moved forward to the door, but hesitated when faced with actually going through it. She knew she must, she even wanted to. There was a part of her that did not entirely believe the Dr. Donaldson's words; how could they be true? After everything they had already been through, everything she had been through without him, how could more keep coming? She didn't understand it. But she needed to see for herself, needed to prove it to herself. She needed to know that this was real. Hannah's steadying hand on her shoulder was all she needed to push the door open and go inside.
The room, though previously much darker than necessary, was quite difficult to see in at all now. Carter stood over by the fire attempting to coax the flames to burn warmer. At their entrance he merely nodded tightly, and turned his attention back to the hearth. John, who had previously been staring in the direction of the ceiling, turned sharply in their direction. Margaret stared at his face in wonder; His hair was rather ruffled, his face still bore the evidence of not having shaven in several weeks, he was still battered and bruised with two bandages now about his head, rather than one, but it was still him. Absolutely and unequivocally John. Even without his sight, his memories, Margaret nearly burst into tears at the familiarity of his wakeful presence. The man exuded an air of intimidation and power anywhere he went; apparently it extended even to these circumstances. She could feel him watching her; well, looking in her general direction she supposed. But she could feel what would have been his stern and questioning gaze upon her. Despite how incredibly uncomfortable it made her feel (as it always had), she reveled in being able to be made to feel that way by him. Although it felt like years, in reality it really had not been so long ago that he was destined for death. That she was destined to be alone.
Now she had been given a second chance. And she was not going to waste it.
Her determination, however strong it was, would not be enough to quell the worrying doubts that rooted in her heart.
"John?" She heard Hannah call somewhere to her right. Margaret watched his head snap suddenly in the other direction, the downturn of his mouth telling her that he was somewhat displeased.
"Who is there?" He asked quietly. His voice, oh God the sound of his voice in that moment was nearly enough to break her completely. As it was, it took her far longer than was necessary to realize that he had just asked his mother who she was.
"I am here John." Hannah replied calmly, sounding far more level-headed than Margaret knew she herself would sound. "Your mother, and so is-" glanced at Margaret as she spoke, but Margaret cut her off with a furious shake of her head. "Carter." She tactfully added at the last second, though not without sending Margaret a frown that clearly said she disagreed.
"I do not remember either of you." He said sharply, clearly irritated with the fact. He sighed and slumped his head back on to his pillow.
"Do not worry my child." Hannah said softly, gently taking John's hand in her own. "They will come back to you with time."
"What happened to me?" He asked; had he been able to use them, Margaret was positive his eyes would be gazing somewhat distantly at the ceiling. She met Hannah's equally disheartened gaze before the woman responded.
"You had an accident; I am certain you will remember it in time." She stood then (Margaret had not even noticed she had been sitting), and removed her hand from John's, smoothing out her skirt as she did. "I will leave you to rest now John, but I will return later." John resumed his distasteful frown to the heavens, but said nothing in reply to his mother. Margaret followed quietly, noting that Carter had placed himself in an armchair in the corner of her room, watching them leave with a carefully concealed expression. She nodded to him, silently asking if he was to stay with John while they left. He nodded back, clearly saying "Yes."
Once out of the room, Margaret closed the door quietly behind her and looked towards her mother-in-law. She was a few steps ahead of Margaret, but she made the distance up quickly and grasped Hannah's hand with firm reassurance. Hannah did not turn to look at her, but returned the pressure before leaving Margaret alone in the hall once more. She had the distinct impression that Hannah would not have been able to look at her even if she had spoken to her directly. A son forgetting the woman who bore him was far worse than a man who forgot his wife.
Apparently he had been in some sort of accident. An accident bad enough to bring him to the edge of death and clean his mind of its memories. At least, that was all that he had been told; he knew nothing of the events themselves. In fact, he found he could remember nothing about himself at all. John, that woman had called him. Perhaps that was his name. She would have known; apparently she was his mother. He frowned in displeasure at his situation. While the woman's voice had given him an almost unnatural feeling of calm, he could not remember whom it belonged to. He tried, he tried so hard to simply picture the face that went with the voice, but only succeeded in making his head throb more than it already was.
He wondered absently how he came to be where he was. He was injured, that much was obvious. But just how and why were rather a great mystery to him. He had no idea what had happened, but he was in an overwhelming amount of pain. His entire body screamed at him any time he moved, so he (unhappily) resolved to stay as still as humanly possible. He couldn't see, but he had been reassured by the man who bound his eyes (and called himself a doctor), that it would return when his eyes healed completely. Then there was a man called Carter. He didn't know really anything about this man other than his name, and that he said he would stay with him while he rested. Which left him nothing to do but absorb the darkness while trying to block out his pain, and wonder exactly what kind of person he had been.
Margaret retreated to her mostly abandoned temporary bedroom, seeking a place to sort her many jumbled thoughts. She didn't have to wonder if Hannah had done the same; she knew. She sat down on her bed, sighing quite dramatically, and rubbed a hand across her forehead.
She did not quite understand exactly why she did not want John to know of her presence, but she knew she did not want him to. The idea of it settled wrong inside her, as though some instinctual part of her knew it would not end well. There were so many reasons she could voice, telling herself that it was better this way. How do you explain to a man who has no idea who he is, a man bedridden by his extensive injuries, a man temporarily without his sight that you are his wife? It would be simple to merely tell him. But other consequences would come of it, she was sure. He might reject her entirely, refusing to accept the idea of being tied to someone else. He might guilt himself into being kind to her, or worse: simply pretend that he was in love with her out of a misguided sense of obligation that John was notorious for. She could not bear it. Even the vague inclination of it happening was too much for her to think about.
No, she would not tell him of their marriage, but neither would she lie. Doctor Donaldson had advised them to let him figure out as much as possible on his own. Margaret spilling out such large intimate details of his life in such a manner would do nothing but hinder him. He would have to remember her on his own. She could only pray that he remembered what little happiness they shared together before he remembered everything else.
Margaret sat bolt upright, completely unaware that she had fallen asleep. She felt disoriented, and by the darkness in the room she knew it was well after sunset. How long had she been sleeping? The source of her abrupt wakefulness became apparent in the next moment when a sharp rap sounded at the door. She crossed to it quickly, hoping she did not appear too ruffled before opening it wide and squinting at the brightness of the hallway.
"Sorry to wake you Mistress." Carter said. It was a very good thing that Margaret knew his voice so well, because the somewhat unnatural brightness of the hallway made it impossible for her to see his face. "But it's time for the Master's bandages. Shall I fetch the Doctor to do it?" Time to change his bandages; right. It must be later than she thought. Margaret smiled appreciatively at Carter. The man was a king among servants. He knew that Margaret had always been the one to change John's bandages. He also knew how upset she would be if he had gotten someone else to do it, simply because she was sleeping. And yet, he still gave her a way to gracefully decline should she wish to now, given the awkwardness of the situation.
"No thank you, Carter." She replied. "I will do it myself, as I always have." Her reply seemed to make the man a little happier, though she did not particularly know why. Margaret quickly made her way down to their bedroom, and was already gathering the many bandages and ointments needed when she realized what she was doing. More precisely she realized that she would have to interact with John. She looked over to the bed, and saw his head turned in her direction with his hands resting on his stomach, fingers idly dancing around one another. She would have thought him sleeping if not for his hands. He did not speak to her, as he had earlier when she had come in with Hannah, but waited; she assumed it was for her to speak. She cleared her throat.
"I'm here to change your bandages." She said quietly, feeling almost unbearably nervous. This would be her first time alone with him; the first time she would speak to him, touch him, since he had woken. She did not count her brief whisper of a touch, and frenzied calling of his name that morning. He probably did not even remember it. But at the sound of her voice, his fingers immediately ceased their languid movements and snapped shut into a tight fist. He did not respond to her, only nodded very stiffly, and Margaret felt her heart drop a little, disappointingly unsurprised. She approached him slowly, a bundle of bandages splayed across her arms, and laid them down gently upon his legs as she had always done. His head followed the sound of her movement across the floor as she walked the few steps to her side-table to open the containers of the various ointments the doctor had instructed be put on John's burns. Something to help with the scarring, he'd said. She paused, her hands frozen halfway through their path to John's leg, and tried desperately to calm herself.
The mad, desperate, almost hysterical part of her begged that John would just suddenly remember her at the sound of her voice, maybe even her touch. That same part of her, in a way, was terrified that John would suddenly remember. The more logical part of her told her she needed to change these bandages, regardless of the outcome. She could not magically bring back his memories, just as she could not magically fix his illness. In fact, she was the direct cause of his illness; although she was not the direct cause of these particular injuries, she still felt responsible. She felt responsible for him; she was his wife, it was her duty to care for him. In sickness and in health. And it would not do for her to simply dwell on every single possible outcome of her actions. Right now she needed to change John's bandages, and she would do her very best to focus on nothing else until she had left.
Margaret started with his broken leg, gently lowering it out of its holster, and making the move the blankets aside to reach the pin on the wrap. His hand seemingly shot out of nowhere, snatching her wrist with absolute precision in a grip so tight she could not possibly have removed it if she tried. She stared at him in shock. The man must have had the most precise hearing on the globe, for she truly could not think of any other way a blind man could have achieved that.
"What are you doing?" He asked, his voice sharp and cutting underneath her skin. Margaret could do nothing but flounder at him like a fish out of water for several moments while her hand turned to ice in his grip.
"Changing your bandages." She somewhat spluttered. She cringed at how ridiculous she sounded, but she was still rather shocked she had managed to speak at all. He said nothing to her, but did eventually release her wrist, and she hesitantly began her task once more. It seemed that unwrapping bandages was nearly impossible to do when you could not control the shaking in your hands. It took her nearly five minutes to remove the wrap on John's leg and set it aside. Margaret made to remove the cloth covering his stitches, but hesitated.
"This may hurt." She said quietly. She was met again with silence, but felt a little more comfortable knowing that he was aware. It would seem that his wounds were still quite painful, if the rigidity of his body and sharp hiss of pain was anything to go by.
"I was not expecting it to be that painful." He said through clenched teeth.
"It is a broken leg, and very badly broken I may add." She replied, hating how utterly breathless she sounded. "That is why it is in a holster; to keep it raised above your head." He hummed in acknowledgement, but did not say anything else, so Margaret worked in silence. She cared for the burns on his other leg, covering everything from his ankle to the place just above his knee in a thin layer of ointment before wrapping them loosely. She cleaned all his cuts and stitches, wrapping them exactly how they had been before. He said nothing, she and assumed by the stiffness of his body and the tightness of his jaw, that he must have been in extraordinary pain. She wished desperately that there was something she could do for him. It wasn't until she began unwrapping the bandage that covered the nasty cut on the top of his head that he spoke in a tightly clipped tone.
"Will you take the bandage off my eyes?" Margaret opened her mouth to protest, but he seemed to have anticipated it (or possessed impeccable timing), and added: "I would like to feel normal again for a few moments. Margaret deflated under his comment and imploring gaze. She had not ever realized just how many expressions you were capable of portraying without your eyes. She sighed and began to unwrap the bandage covering his eyes, her mind in conflicted turmoil. She wanted to cry at the feeling of his hair beneath her fingers, and throw herself on top of him…but she also felt terrified at the thought of seeing his eyes. It was an unrealistic fear, to be sure, but she felt it all the same. Not that it stopped her from doing as he asked. In that moment, he could have asked her to sing a lewd, drunken, tavern song, and she undoubtedly would have tried. As she removed the final piece of cloth from his eyes, she unconsciously sucked in a breath.
His eyes remained closed for only a moment after she removed the bandage, but when he opened them she had to physically keep herself from crying out. Blue as they ever were, fiery as they always had been, they were the first thing that drew Margaret to John. It had been torture to see his illness clouding and distorting them for all those long months, but the haze was gone, and Margaret had to remind herself that he supposedly could not see. He was looking directly at her, right in the eyes, and the intensity hidden beyond the sharp blue nearly made her physically ill. It must have been the onslaught of emotion that made her feel quite so nauseous, because she did not really have any other explanation for it. He frowned, squinting until his eyes were nearly shut before sighing.
"You can re-wrap the bandage now." He said, sounding very obviously put out. Margaret wanted to say something to comfort him, but could think of nothing and remained silent until her job was complete, and she left the room.
Margaret's next days passed so…abnormally. Although it had only actually been four since the fateful morning John regained consciousness, she felt entirely exhausted in every sense. She had rather a difficult time coming to terms with the events actually taking place in them. It wasn't so much that she could not accept, or even did not want to accept that John was awake…it was more or less that they had spent so long in the same horrible, miserable, pattern, that she did not really know what to do in their situation. It was entirely new to her, and rather backwards at that. She was maintaining their business, he was lying in bed, attempting to figure out who he was.
Margaret was somewhat afraid that he would suddenly remember who he was…who she was. She was terrified that at any moment, he might recover the memories that led to her eight-months of silence. That he would suddenly remember how she lied to him, or rejected him. More than anything she feared that if he did suddenly recover, they would be stuck right in the beginning of his illness once again. Frightened though she was, she refused to allow it to control her, and as such continued to change his bandages twice every day. And twice every day she would spend time with her very real, very much alive and awake husband.
He hardly spoke to her, except when necessary; even then it was only his customary request for her to remove the bandage from his eyes. He would look around, oftentimes looking straight at her (or more appropriately through her), and Margaret would have to remind herself that he was not actually seeing her. He would then sigh, and request for his bandage to be re-wrapped, before lapsing into silence again. Margaret would then leave, unable to conjure any form of parting words, before going to wash the filth of the day from her body. This day however, was somewhat different.
That morning found Margaret on a sunny hilltop overlooking Milton, with quite a number of other people. This was the day they buried the bodies of those lives lost in the fire. Margaret did not have to be there; strictly speaking, the grave-digging was not the typical labor of a woman. She felt obligated to be there however, and quickly silenced the immediate protestation of a small group of new workers at Marlborough Mills with a look that might have rivaled John's. It helped though, to have Nicholas on her side. He knew that she could not help for too long before other duties called her away, otherwise he might have said something himself. But she did the little she could while she was able. It was her Mill (and John's, but he would not have been able to help even if he knew of the funeral), and she should be there to honor those innocents who had perished while on her property. It was hard work indeed; combined with the mild heat of an early spring morning, it was enough to make her feel as though she were soaked through with sweat, and leave her arms feeling as though they were lifeless.
"Time for a rest Miss." Nicholas said, materializing at her side. She paused, wiping her brow with the short sleeve of one of her many 'work' dresses in a very unladylike manner that surely would have left her mother appalled beyond reason. She smiled fondly at the thought of it.
"What time is it?" She asked, out of mere curiosity than anything else. Nicholas pulled a weathered pocket watch from his waistband and tilted it several ways, attempting to see the hands through the glare of the sun.
"Nearly half twelve." He said. Margaret started. She'd come out with others at first light, just after six o'clock.
"Damn." She muttered. Nicholas was in very grave danger of losing his eyebrows to his hairline.
"Been spending too much time with the men Margaret?" He asked, his mouth desperately trying not to break out in a full smile. Margaret raised her brow, but tactfully ignored his comment. Perhaps she had…
"I was supposed to change John's bandages quite some time ago." She replied, holding a hand out to him.
"Aye, that you were." He said, now smiling every so slightly. "It's why I'm here. I knew you couldn't get out of this hole on your own." He took her hand.
"You are very kind Nicholas." she said sincerely. He then placed her hand on his shoulder, before taking her by the waist and lifting her up to the level ground. He climbed out after her, and took her hand to help her to her feet before surveying their work with solemnity.
"It's a good thing you're doing for them, Miss." He said, still looking down in to the hole where they would later lay nearly one hundred souls to rest. Margaret smiled sadly at him a little, and touched his arm before turning in the direction of her home with hurried steps.
It had hardly escaped John's notice that she had not come that morning. He could remember nothing of his past after all; it was very unlikely that he was not going to have every little pattern of his life memorized and committed to heart. Every day she came; once at eight o'clock in the morning, and once again and eight o'clock in the evening. But this morning, eight o'clock had come and gone and she was not there. Now the doctor's usual ten o'clock visit had come and was nearly over, but she still had not come. He couldn't help but feel rather…disappointed, although he did not know if it was because it upset his routine, or if he genuinely enjoyed her company. Most likely it would be the former. It was not as though they had any conversations that would give him company to be missed. His mother had come to see him often, although he still did not recall her from his past either. They did not speak, although she did bring him his breakfast, and read to him for a while as he ate. But that woman…the other woman…
She intrigued him, and yet he did not know why. He knew her, of that much he was certain. There was a certain feeling (one which he was becoming quite familiar with) that accompanied the sight of someone familiar to you. And while he had that feeling with every single person he had seen thus far, it was different with her. He knew this woman. And he could not figure out how. He thought himself rather ridiculous for being as upset as he was over her lack of presence. He never really even spoke to her. Actually, it seemed to be more of a matter of that he could not speak to her when she was there. Her arrival was always followed by a rush of emotions so intense, he did not know what to do with himself. So he lay quietly, as still as possible, while trying to fight off the offending torrent in his stomach.
At first he thought perhaps it was the pain of having her tend to his wounds, and by God that was excruciating in and of itself. Her second visit he realized it could not be only that. He had seen her six other times since then, and that same overpowering rush came over him each time, and faded once she had gone. He hated the feeling every time it came, and forced himself to endure it quietly; but what was worse, far worse, was when it had gone, he actually looked forward to it returning.
"There now John." The doctor said, pulling him from his thoughts. "Everything looks to be in order. I'll just add a few more drops to your eyes and be on my way." John leaned his back into the pillows and looked miserably at the ceiling, trying to ignore the painful sting of whatever medication the doctor had been dripping into his eyes. He obediently closed his eyes while the doctor wrapped them tightly. "Let that sit for a couple of hours, then take your bandage off. Lets start getting some light back into your eyes." John nodded.
"When can I get out of this bed?" He asked, sounding every bit as miserable as he felt. He heard the doctor laugh, a hearty full-bellied sounding laugh. It gave him the strangest sense of familiarity…
"You are much the same man you ever were, Mr. Thornton." He chuckled a little to himself. "Whenever you like, I should think. You slept long enough for the bone in your leg to set. So long as you do not put any weight on it, you are free to try and get out of bed. I would not attempt such a feat on your own however." John nodded, instantly intrigued by what the doctor had said. He knew his leg had been broken. Even if the woman never mentioned it, he had seen it for himself. He had not been aware however, that he had been asleep. And for a good while at that. The desire to know what exactly happened to him burned bright in the darkness of his closed lids once more, and a million scrambled thoughts flurried around in his mind as the doctor departed, and time passed around him.
It seemed like only a moment had passed before the door opened again. He knew it was her. John was always somehow acutely aware of her presence. She did not say anything, but he could hear her cross the room quickly and wash her hands. Silently she began her work, unwrapping and rewrapping, applying the mysterious and rather foul-smelling ointment to certain spots, and some form of cream to others. As usual when she finished, he somehow managed to unroll his tongue and ask her to remove the bandage from his eyes. He had not told her that he had (more or less) regained his sight almost immediately. His vision was quite blurred sometimes, his eyes burned from exposure to the air, and it felt as though someone were stabbing him with a blade if ever the light in the room was too much, but he could see.
He could see her. And she was so terribly beautiful that it frightened him. Her dresses were always plain, her hair was always pulled back in a simple bun, and she bore the heavy lines of exhaustion clearly upon her face. But beautiful. Breathtakingly, and horrifyingly beautiful. He could do nothing but stare until he realized that it might give him away, at which point he would look try to act as though he was not doing what he was very obviously doing. He found her to be puzzling, intriguing, mysterious, and he caught himself struggling with the desire to know everything about her. Or perhaps he already did, in which case he would settle for simply remembering. Her eyes…something about her eyes that quite literally pulled him in. Nothing he did would stop it. He knew this woman; and he wanted to know why. All too soon it was over, and she was rewrapping the bandage around his eyes, preparing to leave him. He wanted to tell her not to, so that he might look upon her still. He wanted to tell her that he watched her as she watched him, and he saw the way her eyes dimmed as she met his, the way her expression looked saddened and troubled.
But for some reason he could not seem to make the words come out of his mouth, no matter loudly he spoke them in his mind.
She came back later than usual that night; John (if the chimes of the clock residing somewhere in the room were accurate), supposed it must have been nearly ten. She made no sound as she entered, but he knew it the moment she walked in. So he gathered all the courage he had spent the last several hours building and spoke to her.
"You are late." Her steps, which he could tell had gone almost to the cabinet where the medical supplies were kept, stopped immediately. He heard the slight rustle of fabric suggesting she had turned towards him, but more than anything else he could feel her gaze upon him, and it thrilled and terrified him in a way he never knew possible.
"Forgive me." She said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I have had a…" She took a shuddering breath. "…rather eventful day." John did not know how to respond to her statement, so he settled on something else.
"Will you remove the bandage from my eyes?" He asked, the nearly crushing desire to see her somewhat overpowering him. He needed to see her, to reassure himself that she was real, that she was there. He wanted to see her clearly, to see her face unobstructed by the haze he had been peering through constantly. Her only response was the sound of her footsteps approaching his bedside before she began to unravel the cloth. Pain shot through his eyes and into his head the moment he opened them. He immediately brought his hands to shield his eyes, unintentionally exclaiming his pain to the woman. She hurried about doing something he could not see, but he heard her close the door and John, hearing she had fled the room, opened his eyes. They still hurt quite a bit, and watered rather profusely, but he could see. The source of his pain must have been the light from the hallway, spilling in through the open door.
There she was; his eyes immediately met hers, but she only held his gaze for a mere fraction of a second before turning and going back to the cabinet. John used this time to study her without the fear of giving himself away. She was dressed simply in a black gown, but her hair seemed to look a little more…extravagant than usual. He felt there was some significance to the black gown, but could not place it. She gathered the needed materials and returned to him, depositing her items in his lap as she usually did, casting lingering glances at him every few seconds that he could plainly tell she did not believe he saw; and he wanted to keep it that way. He then resolved to watch her profile as a whole, so as to stave suspicion. He had some trouble focusing, and was disappointed at how distorted she still appeared, but he had never seen so much of her as he did now. She seemed…saddened.
John, for the first time he could remember, gathered his strength and attempted to push himself into a sitting position. The moment he placed the burden of his upper body weight upon his arms, his left shoulder screamed in agony, and his muscles protested loudly to their abuse until he was left slumped back on his pillows, gasping for air.
"You should not exert yourself so." She said, and he could not mistake the disapproving tone to her voice. He suddenly found himself rather irritated with her.
"I am tired of laying in this bed." He snapped, not realizing how harsh he sounded until the words were out of his mouth. Her mouth, which had opened to say something, snapped shut just as quickly, and he felt somewhat guilty for his outburst. She did not give him a chance to repent.
"Very well." She replied, her voice sounding oddly tight. "Do as you will." She immediately resumed unwrapping the cloth upon his left leg, and he was left with nothing else to do but attempt to raise himself into a sitting position. This was apparently much harder, and exponentially more painful than he thought it would be; and he had only tried for a total of sixty seconds before he seriously believed he might slip into the realms of unconsciousness from the pain. No sooner had he thought this when he felt the weight being removed from his arms. He rested there for a moment, gasping desperately for breath, and attempting to ignore the agony his upper body was now in, before he realized that he was sitting up, propped up against the pillows. The woman stood off to the side looking suspiciously out of breath, and he closed his eyes, nearly falling asleep as he did. He felt her move before he saw her.
"No, please." He said, catching her wrist as he had the first time he'd seen her. Her hand had been on a path to his shoulder, the one that still felt as though it had been doused in oil and set ablaze. He did not know why exactly, but he knew he did not want her to touch it.
"How do you do that?" She asked. He frowned, his mind feeling somewhat slow to respond.
"Do what?" John asked, keeping his eyes closed.
"How did you know where my hand was?" She replied. "That's twice now, and both times you could not see."
"I always know where you are." He replied, not thinking about what he said. He opened his eyes then and looked at her, but there was something so passionate, so fiery in her gaze that he could not hold it. Once more he found himself struck with the unending desire to understand who the woman was. He remained silent for some time, too exhausted to do anything else, and watched as she eventually looked away and continued with her work. John noticed then for the first time, that her eyes seemed to be tinted with red, and every now and then he could hear a soft sniffle from wherever she was working.
He wanted to know what had happened.
Further up the length of him she went, just as she always had; she took his hands and examined his palms. He did not even know they had been injured. At one point she lifted up his shirt to examine his side, and ran her fingers lightly across some sort of wound he must have had, his body completely betraying him by tensing against his will, and he had to take a deep, shuddering breath to try and calm the wave of powerful emotion that accompanied it. She took some of that horrible smelling ointment, and rubbed a little onto his side before replacing his shirt and moving upwards once more.
From this new angle, he experienced a perspective of the woman's face he had not seen before. She pulled at the neckline of his shirt, and he felt such an overwhelming rush of…fear, that he subconsciously pushed himself back and away from her. She hesitated and glanced up at him; there was something in her expression that he could not understand, but before he was given a chance to ponder it further, she turned her attention back to his shoulder. He did not understand; he wanted her to go away, to stop touching him and making him burn. But at the same time, and did not think he could bear to part with her. He wanted her to stay, at least as much as he wanted her to go. He needed this woman, for reasons that remained illusive to him. So despite his traitorous heart raging against her presence, he forced himself to study her, to memorize every part of her he could.
Her hair was a dark brown, though it looked as though it could be red in some places, and gave off a scent that seemed familiar to him. Her eyes, which remained resolutely focused on their work, he knew to be blue. Her face however, he had never seen before with such clarity as he did now. There were scratches, some deeper than others, and some looking as though they had only just healed, that littered the otherwise smooth planes of her face. He frowned, wondering where they had come from, but was immediately distracted by the sharp stab of pain against his shoulder.
"That hurts." He said between clenched teeth. Again, he found he sounded much harsher than he intended to be.
"I told you not to exert yourself so." He looked down at her furiously, but said nothing. That was, until a realization dawned upon him.
"Your dress." He said lowly. "It means you're in mourning." It was a statement more than a question.
"It does." She said quietly.
"Who do you mourn for?" He asked, his tone sharp. "Your husband?" Where those words had come from, he did not know. Harder for him to comprehend was why exactly he sounded so bitterly envious. He had no reason to be. In fact, he was one hundred percent positive that he had not known she was married until the words had already left his mouth. It was not hard to guess, she wore a heavy gold band upon the third finger of her left hand. But he could not remember this woman; why would he feel the bitterness of jealousy on behalf of a woman he did not know? He did not understand.
He wanted to know, more desperately than anything he had ever felt, who that woman was. She could not be more than a servant. As far as he could tell, they were in his house. His mother was there, his sister was apparently married. She was there, but she only ever saw him to change his bandages, and she always wore a very simple, and usually very worn dress. Her face and hair was always filthy by the time she came in for the second changing. But she always looked so miserable. Something akin to how she looked exactly in that moment.
"No." She said, her voice much higher, and rather unstable. "I do not mourn for my husband." She left him then, with little more than a swish of skirts, and he felt rather horrible for being unable to help her.
Perhaps they had been in love once, but were never allowed to marry. Or perhaps her husband was a horrible man, and she was secretly in love with him. He did not know, but by God he was determined to find out.
A/N: I could go on for centuries with what's been going on in my life, but I'm really not up to typing out all that bullshit, so... Here's another chappie for you lovelies! if you didn't notice, its quite a bit longer than my normal chapters. that would be because I've been working on this accursed chapter since my last update in November. I just couldn't end it where it was. I really don't know if i should end it here, but i'm at a loss as to what else I could possibly stuff into this already stuffed chapter. Please do let me know what you think. Those of you who've had the patience to keep up with my lack of reliability.
I'm really hoping you enjoy it. Even if you don't, I'd love to hear from you. I've had a few people in the last couple months tell me that they didn't really like how long my story is, and for that I respect you. It is very long. Believe me, I never intended it to be so. But I do look forward to your thoughts, suggestions, ideas, things you really really want to happen, things you really don't want to happen, etc...
PS: 10,400+ words in one chapter? yeah, I think i made it up to you just a little but ;)