Chapter 37

"There was nothing else for it. He would have no choice but to make Margaret tell him of how they came to be together. Of what their 'complicated past' entailed. He would finally understand."

John stared blankly at the ceiling, his mind whirling in the wake of Margaret's hasty disappearance. It appeared that Margaret would not be forced into speaking of their past. Quite the opposite it seemed, if the rapidity of her departure from their bedroom was any indication. He couldn't fathom why it upset her so much to declare she would retire to her own bed for the night. He wanted to feel angry at her actions, perhaps even guilty, but he was filled with a burning desire for answers. He would try again tomorrow, perhaps. He would try again every day until she gave him something, anything, on their personal past. Then he would be able to focus on the future.

Too many questions burned in his mind, burned through his body and soul, and his wife held all the answers. His wife with an obvious surprise for affection of any kind. His wife who did not appear be at all comfortable around him. His wife… but no children. John could only conclude that their marriage was not a happy one, but he wanted to know why. Was he not an affectionate man before the accident? His affection for her, his desire to be near to her at all times seemed so natural. In fact, it was as natural as breathing to him, since he had fought with it since the moment he woke.

Just over a year of marriage, and affection was surprising? No children either, and Margaret never seemed to fully relax around him. Always second guessing herself, visibly thinking over each word and action before they happened. That could mean several things at once, John pondered. Either they had simply never consummated their marriage for whatever reason, or perhaps they had; perhaps he forced her. John felt furiously nauseated with himself at the thought. God help him if he had been such a man. But then surely there might have been a child produced from such acts?

Nicholas had said John had been dead to the world when they should have celebrated their one year anniversary. His accident accounted for the last few months; a child should have come. Perhaps he could rule out that disgusting option after all.

John woke so early the following morning, that he could not even distinguish the sounds of the servants moving about below. He stared at the ceiling for what felt like days, his mind flitting from one uncomfortable topic to the next. He felt a restless energy fill him, and wished that he could at least move about his own room, or do anything that might occupy his thoughts. Margaret would not speak of their relationship it seemed. She appeared angry, frightened even as he broached the topic. John only had fragments of memories to work with. Nicholas had been fervent when he begged John to wait until he had the facts.

He knew in his very bones that he was correct on their marriage not being a union sought from mutual affection. The reality of it settled upon him like a heavy blanket. He also had the memory of a distraught Margaret agonizingly confirming that he was not quite so honorable as he assumed he was. The memory of Nicholas condemning him for his pride, the one of Margaret's father. He could clearly feel the shock, horror, and overwhelming guilt that coursed through him when the conversation happened. There were other memories that didn't correlate with his most recent additions.

The memory of walking with her on a clear cold night. The way her face felt underneath his hand, the soul-piercing look in her eyes, and his overwhelming desire to lower his lips to hers… John could physically feel the echo of the love he held for Margaret even then. It was a combination of agony, desperation, and hope beyond measure. He was devastated, and yet hopeful in her presence.

As though summoned by his reflection alone, the door quietly clicked as it opened and Margaret stepped inside. John, who was already propped upright, straightened completely. She made eye contact with him briefly as she shut the door behind her, but broke it with a soft sigh as she crossed the room to the wardrobe. Obtaining what she wanted, she turned back towards the bed, setting the garment on her side of their bed.

"Good morning, Margaret." John said quietly. Her hands stilled in the process of attempting to loosen the knot in her dressing gown with one hand, and her eyes raised to his.

"Good morning John." she replied quietly. Her fingers fumbled once more with the knot.

"May I?" John asked, gesturing towards her. Margaret looked frozen in place, perhaps attempting to find a reason to decline, before crossing back around the bed towards him. He edged himself closer, slowly letting his legs fall off the side of the bed. His broken leg throbbed angrily at this new position, but he did his best to ignore it. He wanted a new position in this thrice-damned bed. She looked quizzically at him for a moment, and he imagined she was perhaps wondering if the angle his leg was positioned might be uncomfortable. It was, but he had no intention of going back now. He searched her expression a moment longer before reaching for her hand, and drawing her a few inches closer to him. The action was two-fold; it afforded him the opportunity to be close to her in a way previously unknown to him, and also he would be unable to reach the ties without putting the majority of his weight on his legs.

John tore his gaze down to ties situated high on the side of her waist, and slowly begin to undo the knot. When he finished, he pulled on her sleeve lightly to help her out of it. When it came to her left arm he paused, and gently slipped the sling out from under her elbow. It was very lucky for him that he was so much taller than she. Even sitting, he was very nearly eye level with her. He supported the weight of her arm with one hand on her wrist, while the other very gently coaxed the sleeve down her arm. It took a little more effort than he would have expected, as he did not want to cause her any pain from her injury. As he pulled the sleeve from her hand, his eye caught on a jagged white line. The dressing down slipped to the floor, forgotten.

"Margaret." He breathed, staring at her arm with indescribable emotion. His fingers lightly traced the line carved into her skin, his eyes absorbing every detail. He could clearly see the marks on either side that indicated stitches, and as the line moved above her elbow, he could feel the slight indention in the skin that proved how deep the gash had been. It was a hideous addition that marred her perfection, but he could not help marveling at the strength of this woman before him. The strength of his wife. An image came to him and he stared unseeing at the crook of her elbow as the scene formed:

He could hear frantic voices, but they were muffled. He felt himself being lifted from the ground, and let out a cry of agony at the pain it inflicted on his legs. He somehow managed to take a deep breath, and open his eyes. He could see nothing definitively, as though he had opened his eyes under water, and they burned horribly. He tried, tried with all his might to form a sentence, even a word to let his rescuers know that he was alive, but could not. A sudden sound pierced the haze, the sound of a woman screaming. He knew that voice.

"He promised! He swore he would come back to me!" A peace managed to settle over him momentarily. He felt a sort of successful pride fill him as he was pulled further out of consciousness. He had managed to keep a promise to her at last.

John let out a deep shuddering breath. "What have I done to you, Margaret?" he whispered. 'What did I do to us?' he added silently as he let his hands fall, blinking rapidly to try and clear his vision. He looked behind him and grasped the garment she had earlier retrieved from the wardrobe. It was another dressing gown, though it was a lovely navy blue color that seemed to be thicker than the green one. He began to softly thread her injured arm through the sleeve. He turned her around so that he could help her with the other sleeve, before gently knotting it in the appropriate place, his hands trailing down the front of the fabric. He couldn't bring himself to look at her, though he did not fully understand the reason why. He could not identify the multitude of emotions swarming his chest and head. He didn't even know if she heard his question; he didn't know if he wanted her to answer it.

"John." Margaret said softly, her hand creeping up to his face, fingers lightly threading his hair behind his ears. He was unsure what happened, but he felt himself fall into her, and his forehead came to rest lightly on her sternum. Margaret made no move to escape, and John found he had no desire to escape. He felt her chest expand as she inhaled. "I know you are frustrated. I know you want to know everything. I understand that it makes you frustrated with me because I will not tell you at present, but you must try to understand. For me," her voice broke slightly, but she continued. "it is hard to tell you, to relive certain things. It is harder than I could possibly have imagined to review those aspects of my life that I would wish to forget."

"How many of those aspects am I a part of?" John asked, practically against his own will. Truly, he did not want to know at the present moment. Margaret remained silent for nearly a full minute, long enough that John lifted his head and braved her eyes once again. They looked troubled, as though she understood exactly how much her answer would affect him. His hands unknowingly clenched into fists at her sides.

"That is not fair." she replied at long last. "I am sure there are things that you may wish to forget, even though you have not known me for very long." Her logic was sound in that regard, but John found he could not related.

"I have already lost enough, Margaret. I would not wish to forget anything else, no matter how unpleasant." She looked to be a touch exasperated by his reply, but said nothing for a time.

"There are many things I would wish to forget that you are a part of." Margaret began, looking into his eyes with a sort of forced determination. "Many things that you are responsible for directly, and many that are my own fault. Some that no one can be at fault for, but are no less things I would never wish to see again." John nodded slowly, accepting this response for the moment even though it dissatisfied him. 'To be fair' he thought. 'I would have been dissatisfied no matter her response.'

"I'm not frustrated." he said, holding her gaze with his own fiery determination. He wanted, no needed her to comprehend his feelings as well as she could related her own. "I'm furious." Margaret looked taken aback by his proclamation, a splash of wariness danced in her eyes.

"I am furious that I cannot be useful. That I cannot remember anything, that I cannot understand you, or myself, or anything apart from this God forsaken bedroom!" His voice raised with the raw passion growing in his chest at each word. Every secret thought came flowing out, and he was powerless to fight it. He needed her to understand. Needed her to see what it was like from his perspective. "I am furious that I was powerless to keep you from harm, both physical and emotional. That you were accused to trying to murder makes me want to...smash things against the wall! That you were physically harmed on more than one occasion for my sake makes me want to rip the arms off of the man who dared lay a hand on you, but I cannot! I can't even dress myself, let alone protect you from others, or show every single day that I have left how wonderful you make me feel." His anger left him suddenly, and his voice cracked.

"I am furious with myself. I absolutely hate myself for what I have done to you, and I know in my soul that I am not even aware of the full extent of damage. I am furious at the fact that there is nothing I can do to take it back."

"What do you mean, John?" Margaret cried, eyes wide and curiously bright.

"I know that you were forced to marry me, Margaret." John replied, his voice completely hollow, and his body feeling devoid of all emotion. He felt nothing, and then he felt the familiar fear creeping back into stomach, his heart lurching at the sudden infestation of it. "I remember talking to your father, begging him to change his mind, not to force the union. I told him it would destroy you." he chuckled deprecatingly. "I know all of this to be true, partly because my instinct agrees with me, and partly because my observations have confirmed it to be absolute."

"What observations?!" Margaret demanded, looking equal parts furious and horrified.

So devastatingly beautiful.

"You have been uncomfortable with every act of affection I have given you thus far. Either it is because I am cruel to you, or because you are not used to such attentions from me, even small things. You do not seem at all accustomed to me expressing my feelings to you, with the exception of anger, perhaps even self depreciation. Given the violence of my affection towards you, it is not too far off to assume that I loved you very deeply, but you did not return my affections."

"You-" Margaret interjected furiously, but John calmly held up his hand.

"Please Margaret, I am not condemning you. Matters of the heart cannot be forced, nor are you to blame for them. Somewhere along the line, I believe that I must have acted reprehensibly, though I cannot claim to know any of the particulars. My recollection of the conversation I had with your father does not leave any room for misunderstanding on that point. I acted in the wrong, but you suffered the consequences."

"You do not understand, John." she said brokenly. A few tears had finally broken free, and he watched them lazily make their way down her cheek.

"Am I wrong?" he asked? It honestly surprised him how calm and even his voice was, despite the furious pounding in his chest, and the whirlpool of anxiety that was ripping his stomach to shreds. Margaret looked at him in anguish. A small part of him felt guilty for forcing this conversation. A small part of him wanted to fall to the floor and beg her forgiveness. A small part of him wanted grab the back of neck and kiss her so thoroughly that she forgot how to breathe, let alone cry. This obstacle had to be overcome, no matter how painful. If she did not love him, if in fact she merely tolerated him, he would not waste their time with declarations of love. If she hated the very sight of him, he would give her space. If they had formed a close companionship with one another, but no romantic attachment, that would decide how he acted as well. Whatever the answer was, he had to know, else he could not move forward from that point.

"How do you know that I simply did not grow to love you after we married? How can you be so certain that I am still unhappy to be your wife?"

"We have no children Margaret." He replied bluntly. "Surely a marriage of such love might have produced even a pregnancy by now." A sob broke his concentration, and he looked into her face again, scrunched slightly by what he assumed to be the effort of maintaining some form of composure.

"But we never tried!" She exclaimed, before her eyes widened, and she turned away looking mortified. John started.

"Do you..." he faltered. "We have not—that is to say we never consummated our marriage?"

"No."

There it was.

How could she tell him? Despair clawed at her lungs, filling them with holes and making it impossible for her to breathe properly. She wanted to gasp at the pain she felt, the horrible implications of the conclusions John was coming to. But he was not wrong. She did not want to marry him, not on either occasion that she had been asked. But it was not for the reasons he implied. How could she tell him?

How could she make him understand that she had been in love with him for longer than even she remembered? How could she make him feel the way she felt when he asked if their marriage had been consummated? How could she explain anything to him? He would not understand. His illness was a black mar on their history and she could not explain her unyielding love for him without discussing his illness. What if his awareness of the illness brought it back on full swing?

How could she tell her husband that she drove him to insanity because she was too stupid to understand her own heart?

John stared at her with resigned acceptance. She could not stand it. He didn't understand! He didn't know! Another sob escaped against her will. What could be done? Everything went back to the night he walked her back to Crampton. The night they were seen. The night before his mother paid her the most unfortunate visit in her lifetime. She hadn't wanted to walk home with him, knew that it went beyond the boundaries of propriety. She knew that ill would come of it if the wrong person saw.

John had insisted. She didn't fight it. She was secretly thrilled and terrified that he refused to back down, already mad with love without realizing it. She remembered how perfect it felt when he cupped her face, when he kissed her hand, and called her by her Christian name for the first time.

"Am I wrong Margaret?" he asked again, utterly calm as her soul shattered to the floor.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

"No."

Morning was announced by Carter ripping the curtains open to reveal an insanely bright sky. John glared at the friendly countenance of the man as he struggled to lift himself into a sitting position.

"Good morning, Master." Carter said primly. John barely managed a grimace in return as he leaned back against the headboard. Perhaps one morning he could manage to wake up without such a horrible stiffness to his limbs. "You'll be getting dressed properly today." John looked towards Carter, half hopeful, half convinced he had heard incorrectly. Carter chuckled softly, light dancing in his eyes.

"Yes, Master." He said, his tone chipper. "You will be getting dressed properly, just as you did before, and you will be getting out of this room. The Doctor believes you are sufficiently healed enough to see your house." John stared at him astonished, his pulse quickening in anticipation. A knock at the door interrupted his reply, and Margaret entered the room. His excitement waned considerably. Margaret's parting words from the day before still boring holes in his heart.

"No." A pregnant pause. "But I was not the only party forced into matrimony that day."

"Apparently I am allowed to dress in proper gentleman's clothes," he began. "And I am permitted to meander through the house." Margaret looked at him, eyes wide and impenetrable, before a hesitant smile graced her features.

"Are you really?" she asked, looking to Carter as though for confirmation and receiving a nod in return. "Exciting news indeed." she replied, but her tone still seemed discouraged. "You will tell me what you think of the house when I return, will you?" She asked, crossing the room to the wardrobe. John frowned, unidentified emotions battling within him.

"Where do you go this morning?" he asked, suddenly feeling uncertain of himself. Margaret paused her search in the wardrobe to cast a quick glance at him over her shoulder.

"I must go to the Mill today." She replied, busying herself once more. "There is still so much work to be done before we can reopen."

"What work remains?" John asked, feeling bereft at the mere thought of only wandering the house. Margaret chuckled somewhat humorlessly and sighed.

"I do not even know where we stand for certain right now, let alone how much remains."

"Is there not something I might be able to do to help?" John wasn't entirely certain what he would be able to help with, considering he had absolutely no knowledge of his own business other than it being in textile. Margaret adjusted the sling she still bore on her left arm, looking thoughtful.

"I believe I might know of something you would be able to help with." she replied, staring distantly at the rug. "I will have to collaborate with Nicholas on it, if you are certain you are up for the challenge today."

"I suppose there is only one way to find out." John retorted, smiling hopefully at her. He wished she would look at him, but he would be forced to settle for a nearly imperceptible nod. She gathered her belongings, and quit the room altogether.

Getting dressed properly was both thrilling and excruciating for John. Though Carter stated he would be dressing as a 'properly', they had not even left the room before the jacket and cravat were discarded. The effort it took to simply raise himself from the bed was monumental. Carter, thorough as he ever was, would not allow John beyond the room until he demonstrated sufficient skill and energy to use the cane Doctor Donaldson had provided. It was much sturdier than any cane that came to John's mind. Carter explained that it was specially designed to that it could support more weight.

"Why not just have me use crutches then?" John had asked.

"That is because the arm you would use to support yourself with a crutch, is the same arm that was pierced by the wooden beam. With the cane, you use the arm opposite the leg that is injured." This logic seemed somewhat sound to John.

He stood in the doorway, marveling at the sight of new walls, and patterns, and details. Carter gently coaxed him along, his hand firmly griping John's free arm as they moved. The stairs were particularly challenging. As he moved through the house, albeit very slowly, he was filled with a sense of comfort. Deep down, he knew these walls, this place. He just didn't have any memories to accompany it. As they made for the Sitting Room, John couldn't help but wonder at the unusual decorating style throughout the house. It was very bold, a stark contrast of light and dark mixed together. While it was not necessarily unappealing, it did not seem to be a style that either he, nor Margaret would have picked.

John was led to a comfortable looking chair, and instructed to prop his feet up on the footrest. As he adjusted to this newest form of resting, he could appreciate that Carter would not let him tour the entire house. He did not realize how tired the short journey had made him. Carter gave him a knowing smile, just as a maid walked into the room carrying a silver tray. Carter produced an interesting table that had legs wide enough to go around the chair, but low enough that he could comfortably utilize without having to bend. As such, the table itself was place directly over his lap, and they silver tray bearing the morning meal was laid upon it. The maid curtsied and left before John could even thank her.

"Now then," Carter began. "Here we have today's newspaper." He indicated the paper set on a side table. "I've taken the liberty of placing a few of your favorites volumes here as well. Should you need assistance with anything, the pull for the bell is directly on your right." Here he indicated the rope on the wall that was also conveniently within arms reach. He turned to thank Carter, but found he was completely alone. Within thirty minutes, Nicholas had appeared with a large box filled with papers.

"This is what we could salvage of the correspondence with the Mill." He stated, setting the box on the now vacant side table. "It may seem tedious, but it would be enormously helpful if you might go through it and sort it all."

"How should it be sorted?" John asked, shoving the feeling of inadequacy away in favor of finally being allowed to do something productive.

"Mistress said you previously had it sorted first by name, by the date (oldest to newest), and finally by type." Nicholas stated, slightly out of breath.

"What do you mean type?"

"Specifically as a buyer, or a seller." Nicholas replied. "Some people are buying the cotton you produce, some are selling you the supplies to make it." John nodded.

"Where is Margaret?" He asked, wondering why it was she could not have come with Nicholas.

"She wanted to come with me, as I wouldn't be letting her carry this box on her own, but was detained by the supplier finally showing himself with our materials so we can get back to rebuilding." Once again John was pained by the jealousy of being unable to leave the house. He found it was much better to deal with having finally found a way to be useful.

So it was that the days passed. John and Margaret both being quite busy, the former with his recovery, and the latter with the Mill, that they saw very little of one another. Margaret normally came to bed quite late, and disappeared with the rising of the sun. Between Nicholas and Carter, John was improving immensely. He could now walk without Carter's assistance, even dress himself for the most part. Nicholas had shown him much about the 'boring' side of business as he called it, and he was now exclusively in charge of correspondence. His mother spent hours with him teaching him once again how to properly balance the business and family ledgers. Each day brought new challenges, but for some reason, he found he was thrilled to face them head on.

John made his way through his office, opening every cupboard and drawer that he found. He was searching for new ledger book, as the his current one was completely filled. His mother assured him that he did not keep his extras in the office at the Mill, as his work very often came home with him, and that she knew he had placed at least two blanks in his office. The question was: where? He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pausing to scratch lightly at his face. He still had a short beard. Although he had been assured by every person he knew that he was completely clean shaven before the accident, he found he did not want to part with it. It had been on his face since he woke up, the idea of shaving it off felt foreign to him. Margaret seemed to smile quizzically at him when he told Carter of his desire to keep the scruff, but made no further comment on it. The man in question, who seemed to have a supernatural ability to know when he was on the mind of others, poked his head through the open door.

"Master?" He called.

"Ah, hello Carter." John replied, unsuccessfully searching the last drawer.

"Is there anything I can help you locate?" Carter asked politely.

"Yes, actually." John replied, grabbing his cane and making his way towards the door. "I can't seem to find the blank ledgers. My mother assured me they would be in here, but I have had no luck." Carter looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I seem to remember the Mistress speaking of a ledger in your wardrobe, but I am not certain. I will be sure find you at once should I come upon them myself."

"Thank you Carter." John replied, making his way towards his bedroom once Carter bowed and left.

He had no luck finding it in his own wardrobe, and was so fatigued from the stairs, he had to force himself to sit on his bed for nearly ten minutes. He searched through his nightstand, even Margaret's, before moving onto Margaret's wardrobe. There was a possibility of it being there, as she had been handling all affairs since the fire. Ah! There, in the top right drawer, he found four books matching the ledgers he already had. John held them to his chest with his free arm, and began the arduous process of going back downstairs.

He decided on the Sitting Room, as his leg was troubling him greatly, and he felt it would be best to prop it up. Once he settled himself and the table to his liking, he opened the first book, and saw the neat flowing handwriting that belonged to his wife.

Edith says this will give me a place to vent my frustrations, and help to stave off the loneliness I will doubtless feel, but even as I write, I cannot help but feel like a silly naive school-girl once again.

John snapped the book shut in shock. He did not know Margaret kept a journal. He had not once seen her write in one. He set the book down and picked up the next, but found it was another journal belonging to his wife.

My visit to London has gone exactly how I anticipated: Wonderful nostalgia for the first day. The previous four days have done nothing but vex me to distraction. I do not believe I can stomach London society any longer. Perhaps I truly have changed.

John quickly checked the remaining two books and found they were no different, though he was fairly certain he glimpsed his name once. He found himself at a sudden impasse. He could not read these books, it would be an invasion of her privacy to the deepest extreme. If he did read them however…

Margaret still declined speaking of their history together, and his memories came to him in brief snapshots that made no sense. If he read these, perhaps she would not need to tell him anything; he would already know. A small part of him thrilled at the possibility that he may even remember some events as he read them. He could fully well deal with Margaret's disapprobation, if it provided the clarity that they were lacking so entirely. His mind made up, he collected the books once more and agonizingly made his way back up the stairs towards the privacy of his bedroom.

Ok, so this is about the 57th attempt at posting this chapter. I've seriously been working on it for over an hour now, but its been the land of a million bugs over here. first it refused to let me upload a document, which I finally got past. Then my formatting. Then my formatting again. If you happen to read this without an authors note at the end, its not my successful version, which you won't know because my authors note wont be in there. Le sigh.

anyways! I wish I could tell you how much I wished I was able to update more often than I have been. Seriously, all this time later, I still get reviews, I still get pm's, I still get people wishing me well in the world. You guys are my soul. You have no idea what it means to me. its amazing, and beautiful, and keeps me going. So many of you have told me to publish this, that I'm starting to think I will, just because you guys are that level of awesome. Ill let you know.

In other news, I have the first half of two more chapters written. Inspiration really struck me hard guys. I'm rolling with it.