Chapter 7: Tempis Fugit
The weeks passed and the season changed. John and Margaret saw each other nearly daily. He visited Crampton whenever his schedule would allow it. John resumed his lessons with Mr. Hale two days a week. Margaret took to sitting in and sharing John's copy of the text, allowing for the occasional brush of hands or knees. On other days they sat in the parlor and more often than not, the kind old gentleman would find small excuses to leave them alone for a few stolen moments of privacy. In her turn, Mrs. Thornton invited the Hales to family dinners. Fanny cajoled Margaret into playing the piano for them — she instantly regretted it when Margaret's skill surpassed hers, but was mollified when Margaret offered to practice duets with her.
In the midst of all of this, Sunday strolls had become the highlight of their weeks. They could spend hours rambling about Milton in low, private conversation. The bitter weather of Milton in January, however, had forced them to pass their Sunday afternoons indoors in the stifling company of their families. Three weeks had passed in this manner when Margaret intercepted John at the door one Sunday.
"John, I know you've just braved the weather to walk here, but would you mind terribly if we walked out today?" She looked at him hopefully, then lowered her eyes and blushed.
"It is terribly cold today, I should hate for you to fall ill my dear," he replied, torn between the lure of a warm fireplace and the prospect of privacy with Margaret.
"I promise I shall bundle up warmly with my coat and shawls," she glanced around the hallway, then added in a low voice, "I've missed speaking freely with you."
He took both of her hands in his, comforted by her desire to spend time with him, and said, "very well, a short walk it is."
After a brief bustle over outer garments, John and Margaret were off down the street followed by a disgruntled and cold Martha. Margaret had both of her hands around his arm in a possessive gesture that took the chill out of the air. He placed his hand over hers to keep them warm and to feel that much more connected to her.
"John," Margaret began, then seemed to lose her courage.
"Yes, my dear?"
"I ... I know it is not my place ..." she paused again and studied the passing pavement. John was intrigued, she had at first been hesitant to offer advice about the Mill, but they had long since overcome that fear. What could she have to say that was not her place? "... we have been courting for nearly four months."
He sighed, "Yes, the happiest months of my life."
"Truly?" She smiled up at him.
"Can you doubt it?"
Her brow furrowed and she looked down again. "John, I grow weary of seeing you for only an hour in company with our families present each day. I wish there were not three miles separating us. I wish we could see each other even on days you have pressing engagements. I wish we could speak privately without running the risk of frostbite. I wish for ... more."
"I know, Margaret, so do I. But there is little to be done." John replied soothingly.
She looked up at him with that spark of battle in her eye that had so defined their early relationship. "There is one rather obvious solution." But the fight seemed to drain away to insecurity and she added in a voice so quiet he had to strain to hear it, "unless you are no longer sure..."
"Margaret!" John froze and turned her to face him, unable to allow her to think he'd changed his mind. "Margaret, I have never been more sure of anything in my life than I am about marrying you!"
"Then why are we still courting?" She asked regaining her combative tone.
"I ... you ..." he stuttered, unsure how it had come to pass that she was yelling at him for not having proposed in a timely manner. "You needed time for your feelings to grow. I did not want you feeling obliged to accept for security or gratitude."
"John! I've told you things I've never told another soul, I've called you by your given name for months, I light up when you enter a room, I think about you constantly in your absence, you see me daily!" She shouted, her cheeks were rosy from cold and indignation and her breath plumed out in puffs of condensation as she punctuated each point. "How could you not know that I love you!"
Even shouted in frustration those three words from Margaret were the sweetest he had ever heard. For a moment he just stood there grinning at her. "You ... never said," he eventually replied.
"Because I couldn't! Society does not permit a woman to speak of her feelings until she is engaged! I cannot imagine what my mother would say to this exchange, let alone my Aunt, or — heaven forbid — your mother!"
John let out a joyful laugh — the kind he didn't think himself capable of before Margaret came into his life — and took both of her hands in his. "Margaret Hale, I love you more than words can express, will you please do me the great honor of becoming my wife at last?"
"At long last," Margaret replied saucily and took a step closer, "yes!" John was being pulled in by the soft light shining in her expressive eyes, and would have forgotten himself entirely and kissed her were it not for the sound of applause breaking his attention. Looking around, he recalled that they were in the street, in full view of a row of shops. They had drawn quite the crowd with their strange, wild, combative engagement. A crowd of Milton gossips who had been feeding their habit on the courtship of the handsome mill owner and the fiery southern lady and were now thrilled to have witnessed the dramatic conclusion first hand.
Margaret hid her face against John's shoulder in embarrassment, and John took a moment to shoot a self-satisfied grin at their audience over her head. They were engaged, and by nightfall everyone in Milton would know. He propelled Margaret forward, though she did not look up until they had placed several blocks between them and their spectators.
"I suppose my plan of walking to gain privacy rather backfired," she laughed.
"Yes, I'm afraid that plan requires hushed voices."
"Oh dear! I'm afraid I nearly lost my temper, I am sorry."
"It is a strange notion of propriety, to shout about feelings society prevented you from speaking of," John laughed. "I am sorry it took such extreme measures for me to come to the point at last. But given the results of my first proposal ..." he sighed, "... I did not trust myself to judge your feelings."
"Yes, after I was so brutal in my previous refusal, I can see why you were timid." She gave a small gasp, "Oh! Now all of your memories of proposing to me shall be tainted by me yelling at you!"
John squeezed her hand. "You my yell at me as much as you choose, my love, so long as it ends with a declaration of love. That is a memory I shall always cherish."
"I do love you," she said softly, "I'm sorry that the first time I said it was in anger."
"It is rather fitting of our relationship. Every milestone we've had was borne from conflict of some sort. Nearly the whole first year of our acquaintance was a string of arguments and disagreements. Then it took a riot and an injury for me to even see my love for what it was, let alone declare it to you — and if you'll recall I shouted my first declaration of love as well in the midst of the ensuing argument. Had I not observed the fight between Frederick and Leonards, I would have continued thinking the worst of you and you may never have trusted me. It was the violence of your feelings after the aborted inquest that led me to state my intentions and eventually request a courtship. And after all of that, is it any wonder that you had to resort to yelling before I could believe that such a magnificent creature as you could ever return my feelings?"
"I suppose," Margaret conceded. After a moment, her laughter tinkled on the still winter air. "Only think what that shall mean for our wedding day — a battle between my aunt and your mother, perhaps? Or the birth of our children?"
John stopped short at the idea of Margaret bearing his children — and the necessary steps between this milestone and that — and pulled Margaret into his arms. Overcome by emotion and desire he lowered his lips slowly to hers. When Martha discretely began coughing behind them he rested his head on her forehead, impervious to the January cold around them. In a low voice deep with longing he said: "I greatly anticipate a good deal of shouting and declarations of love on that occasion," trailing a line of kisses to her ear, he whispered: "as well as in the process of making said children. I imagine our marriage will never fall short on passion."
Author's Note: I can't imagine a world where John Thornton and Margaret Hale don't argue! So now for the eternal question: epilogue or no? There's still a lot of N&S plot that I could touch on, but I don't know if it's necessary to this story. What do you guys think? Would you like more?
I would also like to thank all of you for reading this short little what-if. I appreciate all reviews, favs, and follows :)