Friday: July 6, 2007
Mr Adam Arthur Bell allowed his eyes to wander over the shabby Blanding offices of Marlborough Shipping before he turned to his new lawyer. The young man was meticulously combing through the stack of files John Thornton had left for their perusal. When Thornton first started his fledgling shipping business, he only had two trucks, one employee, and the balls only a not-quite-twenty-year-old American man can have. Things had turned out well, all things considered. John had been a gamble but Mr Bell enjoyed a good game of chance. And he liked being right.
The Blanding office manager, Mitchell Bailey, watched Mr Bell's lawyer with undisguised suspicion slurping his coffee every time young Lennox turned a page. Mr Bell smiled to himself as the muscles in the lawyer's face tightened with each noisome interruption. The successful London solicitor was clearly more suited to the sleek offices of his partners Darcy, Elliot, and Churchill. The backwoods of Blanding, South Carolina had began to wear on the man and he'd only been there a few hours. Mr Bell chuckled to himself and perched on the edge of the desk. He happened to like the backwoods of America. They were far more easy to manipulate than the sharper worldly businessmen of London and New York.
"So, Lennox, has Thornton done his job or not?"
"Everything seems to be in order," Henry admitted stiffly. "However I don't see the budget report we were promised." He turned his sharp eyes on Bailey who slurped his coffee one last time before he shrugged and grunted.
"It'll be done when it's done," Bailey said with a scowl. "John's got enough to do without you hounding his ass."
"I'm certain he does," Mr Bell replied with a knowing grin, "now that he's managed to catch himself a pretty wife."
Henry Lennox's jaw muscles twitched and he straightened his tie, returning to his work. Ever since he'd hired Lennox, Mr Bell had grown more and more suspicious that there was something more to the man's dislike of John Thornton than the mere fact that most people tended to dislike Thornton. Mr Bell glanced at the lawyer and then turned conversationally to Bailey, keeping an eye on Henry out of the corner of his eye.
"Have you met Thornton's new wife, Mr Bailey?"
"Briefly."
"And?" Mr Bell prompted, crossing his legs, and linking his hands over his knee. "I've not had the pleasure of meeting, what was her name, Lennox?"
"Margaret Hale."
"Yes, that's it." Mr Bell beamed at the tension building in the room. There was a delicious story here, twisting between John Thornton, his Margaret Hale, and Henry Lennox. Naturally Mr Bell was determined to sniff it out. He enjoyed watching people dance, especially if he was the one directing the steps. He jumped from the desk and rubbed his hands together. "If you've seen all you need Lennox, I've a mind to meet this Margaret Hale."
Henry jerked to his feet, straightening his suit jacket. "Meet her, sir?"
"Why yes of course." Mr Bell beamed and sauntered back to his car where Merrill the chauffeur held open the passenger door. "John and Margaret are honeymooning at Helstone. John promised me an introduction and I think it's time to collect on that promise. Merrill, Helstone please."
Mr Bell leaned back and smiled broadly as Lennox stiffly applied his safety restraint. Mr Bell had been keen to meet the poor girl Thornton managed to trap into a hasty marriage ever since Hannah Thornton had requested he relinquish the old Thornton ring for John. 'Trap' was probably too harsh a word. But then again, Mr Bell had seen the young man's father do much the same thing to his mother Hannah. Mr Bell shook his head. He'd been fond of Hannah Thornton, and still was —in his own way.
As much as he wished to investigate this new Mrs Thornton, now Mr Bell was far more interested in getting Henry Lennox and John Thornton in the same room. Whatever happened, today was going to be jolly good fun, and Adam Bell intended to relish every minute of it.
Margaret hummed softly as she stirred the bowl of biscuit dough. She'd never been much of a cook but Mary Higgins managed to teach her how to make passable biscuits. She shook her head, sighing, and began placing globs of dough on the baking stone. Margaret had peeked into the library earlier where John was still occupied before slipping into the kitchen. They'd been tiptoeing around each ever since their argument at the carnival, Margaret keeping to herself in the portrait gallery on the third floor or in the solarium, while John worked on the budget report in the kitchen or on reorganising the library. She didn't understand why the idea of naming their son after him bothered him so much. She wasn't about to let it drop, but she'd been avoiding him and John had quietly left her to her thoughts. Margaret hoped a little breathing space would make her feel better, but all she felt was unsettled.
As easy as it was to fight with her husband, now that she knew how lovely things could be when they weren't always at odds, Margaret found herself hating the invisible line their disagreement had drawn between them. It wasn't the same cold crumbling silence that they'd endured before, but still—
Margaret knew they would always disagree on something, but she keenly missed the newfound civility they'd worked so bloody hard to build these last few weeks. The biscuits, therefore, were her attempt to bridge the gap. John wasn't much for dessert but he liked Mary's biscuits well enough, especially when she included little bits of chocolate. Well, Margaret hoped he did—she thought she remembered him enjoying them—and that he'd accept her mediocre olive branch.
She slid the baking stone into the oven and flipped open her planner, quickly scanning her list of things she knew about John and frowned.
John doesn't eat dessert
She frowned, and continued to run her finger through the list.
John likes candy canes.
Maybe she ought to have made the biscuits with peppermint bits instead of chocolate chips.
"Something smells good."
Margaret snapped her planner shut as John ducked into the kitchen and eyed the mess she'd made of the countertops. Margaret's stomach fluttered when he smiled.
"Cookies?"
She nodded, "Biscuits."
"You live in America now, Maggie," John grumbled, rolling his eyes. He popped a ball of dough into his mouth. "Would it kill you to use American English?"
"I might be in America but I'm not an American, thanks. Don't eat that," Margaret pushed his hand away as he reached for another bit of dough. "Wait until I cook them."
"They're good the way they are," John insisted. "Didn't you steal cookie dough as a kid? "
"Don't you dare," Margaret tried to be serious, shoving at him as he reached for the mixing bowl. "They've got raw eggs in them and—"
"I don't care."
Margaret rolled her eyes, "Of course you don't. But I do."
"I'm a grown ass man, Maggie."
"You could get salmonella."
"Maybe." John managed to slip the mixing spoon out of the bowl and held it above Margaret's head, his stupid lopsided grin growing wider. "What's the worse that could happen?"
"Salmonella kills people, John Thornton—"
"I'm not going to die from eating raw cookie dough." John stuck the spoon in his mouth, looking for all the world like a mischievous little boy, his eyes flashing as he licked it clean. "See? Still alive."
"Don't you have work to do in the library?" Margaret tried to snatch at the spoon.
He slipped an arm around her waist and gently pinned her against his chest while he held the spoon just out of her reach, "I thought you wanted me to take a real vacation?"
"Mr Thornton," Margaret squirmed a little, struggling to keep her face stern, but her heart beat faster at his playful mood. This was a version of himself John had just started to show, as if he'd saved part of himself just for her and no one else. It made her nervous and excited all at once. "You're ruining my plan."
"Which one?" He softly tapped her nose with the back of the spoon. "I think I've ruined a lot of your plans."
"You have," Margaret wrinkled her nose. "I just wanted—I'm sorry I was cross with you. I—"
But the rest of her reply got lost as John bent down and kissed her. She shivered, sighing contentedly as she felt the line between them blur. Before he could take the kiss further, Margaret pulled back and shimmied out of his grasp, snatching the spoon from his hand.
"Go back to your library duties, please, and wait for me to bring you fresh biscuits and coffee."
"Cookies and coffee."
Margaret raised her chin but John just held her superior stare, his eyes snapping with stubbornness, until she sighed, "Alright, fine, cookies and coffee. Happy now, love?"
"I'll be happier if you'd skip the cookies and come with me," John said with a sly smile, reaching for another bit of dough on the baking stone.
"Stop that," Margaret smacked his hand with the back of the spoon, and pointed at the doorway. "Go."
John winked and ducked out of the room, looking quite smug as he popped the dough in his mouth. Margaret shook her head as he trudged down the long hall, genuinely pleased with herself when he looked back before disappearing. She wished this honeymoon could last forever, but they only had one more day. Margaret returned to her baking with a happy sigh, determined today would be a good one.
John tossed aside his hat and squatted, shuffling through a large pile of books he'd set aside throughout the week. It was a haphazard collection of fiction and nonfiction he'd weeded out of the massive catalogue of books Helstone boasted. John ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He'd always intended to sort through Helstone's books after his father died, but there hadn't been time. There really wasn't time now, but—John scowled. He'd put off the budget report all week for this and for Margaret. He smiled a little, the smell of the baking cookies growing stronger. Margaret and he had worked their asses off to get to their little plot of civility and he would be damned if he let his ghosts ruin it. John let out a heavy sigh. If he didn't finish these books now, he might never have another chance. His hand hovered over the closest volume. John almost jumped out of his skin when the telephone on the library table began to ring.
"Who the hell?" He growled under his breath, stood, and plucked up the handset. "What?"
"Good morning to you too, Thornton," a crisp British voice said. Mr Bell laughed. "I hope you're enjoying your stay at Helstone. Is everything to your liking?"
John pressed his eyes closed and leaned against the wall with a muttered curse. "It is."
"I'm delighted to hear it. You know, nothing tickles me more than having you owe me a favor, Thornton."
"Are you calling to collect on that favor?"
"Oh no, I plan to save that for another day. Is your wife there?"
"She is. Why?"
"I assume you're chipping away at my budget report."
"Mr Bell—"
"I never could understand how any son of Jonnie Thornton could work so blasted hard, especially with a pretty wife to tempt him. But, then again, your hard work makes me money and I can't complain about that."
John grit his teeth. He hated talking to the slippery old bastard but he took a deep breath, pushing aside his temper. "What can I do for you?"
"You're wondering why I'm calling my own house at such an odd time asking about your wife?"
"Yes." John rolled his eyes. He knew exactly why Mr Bell was calling but he refused to give the old man an inch of ground.
"I was hoping you'd be so kind as to unlock the front door. I'm afraid I've forgotten my keys."
"Now?"
"As soon as possible. We're already quite hot."
"We?"
"I've brought my solicitor. His visit's a necessary evil, I assure you. He'll glance over that report and some extra bits in my personal files, and then you'll have our undivided attention so we can get fully acquainted with your wife."
John grunted and hung up the phone, marching out of the library towards the front door. He hesitated when he heard Margaret humming softly in the kitchen. He should've told her about Mr Bell but his mind had been all over the map this week. John bristled at his own excuse. He knew Adam Bell would come for his pound of flesh—and gossip—sooner rather than later. And he should've prepared his wife for the impending shit show.
"Too late now," he grumbled. He flipped the bolt on the large oak door and yanked it open to reveal the grinning face of Adam Bell.
"The report isn't done." John said without preamble. He glanced behind Mr Bell and nodded to the suit-and-tie who stood like he had a stick jammed up his ass. The lawyer wore a dark suit and reflective sunglasses. He didn't return John's nod.
"No?" Mr Bell stepped into the foyer.
"No."
"Have you actually been enjoying yourself on this honeymoon, Thornton?" The surprise and thinly veiled implication was apparent in Mr Bell's voice but John ignored it. He studied the lawyer another brief second.
"Forgive me, I'm being rude," Mr Bell set his hat on its hook and gestured at the suit-and-tie. "Thornton, this is my lawyer, Henry Lennox."
John stiffened, even as he held out his hand in habitual politeness.
"John?"
Margaret's voice stopped whatever harsh remark was about slip out of John's mouth. He watched as she came around the corner, still in her flour-dusted apron. She hesitated in the front hall, glancing at Mr Bell in his bright white suit. The tall lanky silver haired man bowed jovially, but Margaret barely noticed, her eyes glued to the man standing behind him. Henry Lennox slowly removed his sunglasses, his sharp gaze traveling over her from head to toe, eyes widening.
"Good God," he breathed. "Margaret—"
John started to step in front of Margaret, his hands curling into fists, flinching when he felt her hand on his arm.
"Henry." Her voice trembled just a little. "How—nice."
"So you do know each other?" Mr Bell smiled first at Margaret then Henry and then John. "You might have said, Lennox. And I supposed you know John as well?"
"We've met," Henry said, his voice brittle, eyes flicking back over Margaret's very round belly before settling on John. "About seven months ago."
"Indeed?" Mr Bell raised his eyebrows, and aimed his wicked smile at Margaret. "For my part, young lady, I'm delighted to meet you at last." He took her hand with a gallant gesture and bowed again. "Welcome to the family. Now then, if you don't mind, we'll see ourselves to my office and join you lovebirds for luncheon."
The hall fell into silence as Henry and Mr Bell disappeared around the corner and down the back corridor. Margaret stared at her feet, her hands twisting the fabric of her apron, mortification and anxiety written in every line of her body.
"Maggie—"
"The biscuits," She turned quickly. "They'll burn."
Margaret picked at her food throughout the tedious luncheon. Somehow Mr Bell managed to conduct the conversation without much help from any of them, prattling on from subject to subject, clearly enjoying their growing discomfort.
"So how did John manage to seduce you, dearest Margaret?" Mr Bell inquired, pushing his plate away, sipping at his third martini. "Don't spare us any details."
Margaret choked on her water, and stared at his smiling face, not quite certain what to say. She glanced involuntarily at John, and her stomach clenched. All traces of warmth or camaraderie had evaporated, leaving only a harsh wall of cold sternness about him she'd always hated. His face looked like a stone, void of all emotion, as if he didn't care. Her mouth felt dry even as she gulped down another swallow of water.
"If I were you, Margaret," Mr Bell continued as if he hadn't introduced an entirely inappropriate subject. "I wouldn't let your husband out of your sight for the next two or three months. Dear Jonnie missed John's birth and I don't think Hannah ever forgave him. He spent two days completely off his trolley, poor sod. I've never seen him so drunk."
Margaret made a polite noise and took another sip of water.
"I must say I was a little surprised—and pleased to boot—when Hannah revealed the whole situation to me. But then Thornton men have always been quite bad at keeping their genetic code to themselves, haven't they, John? "Mr Bell's smile widened as he turned to Margaret again. "I'm sorry to say that you'll have little choice over his name if it's a boy. Thorntons only ever have one son and they always give him their name and their legacy, for what it's worth. And they all die young too. Did John tell you that, Margaret?"
Margaret shook her head trying to swallow the lump forming in her throat. How could John listen to this? And why didn't he stop him?
"The first John Thornton died when he was fifty-two. His mill caught fire and burned to the ground. Grisly business that. His son died when he was forty-seven of influenza."
Margaret stared at Mr. Bell, not wanting to hear anymore. She knew John's father had died young, but—
"And Jonnie was thirty-five when he—well, that was an ugly business all around." Mr Bell finished his martini with a flourish and pegged John with a puckish grin. "I certainly hope you don't plan on repeating all of your father's mistakes, Thornton. Although you're making a good go at it, eh?"
"Mr Bell," John's voice was low, almost a growl in his throat.
"Would you care for some dessert, Mr Bell? Henry? " Margaret blurted, her hands protesting as she twisted the fabric of her dress so hard it was a wonder it didn't rip. She ached to do something, anything to erase that awful expression on John's face. "I made—" she paused and tried to catch John's eye. "I made cookies."
Margaret waited for him to look at her, but John continued to stare at his empty coffee cup, his arms folded across his chest. It was like looking at a closed door she hadn't realised was open until it shut in her face. She cleared her throat and disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve the biscuits. The biscuits sat on a bright silver platter, far too cheerful for Margaret. She felt tears sting her eyes, and she swiped at them angrily.
"Margaret?"
She straightened and turned to face Henry. He stood awkwardly, half in, half out of the kitchen.
"May I have a word?"
"Why are you here?"
"I'm Mr Bell's lawyer," Henry closed the distance between them. "Margaret, you should've called me—"
"Why?" She demanded. "You're not my lawyer, my lover, or anything else."
"I could have helped you."
"With what?"
"With—this," Henry gesture at her belly. "With—that man."
"That man is my husband, thanks."
"Think, Margaret," Henry stepped closer and took her hands. "Think very carefully about what you want. You don't have to—"
"Let go." Margaret was surprised at how calm and commanding her voice was. "Only one man is allowed to touch me without asking, and you are not him."
Henry's expression cooled into his usual disinterested demeanor. "I apologise." He dropped her hands and pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket. " I spoke to your aunt Shaw before I left London. She sent these, and says she looks forward to your visit."
"Thank you," Margaret tossed the envelope on the counter, picked up the plate of biscuits, and handed them to Henry. "Make yourself useful. And tell John I'm making fresh coffee."
When Margaret returned to the sumptuous dining room with two cups of steaming coffee, she found it deserted. Mr Bell stood on the balcony through a set of french doors, surveying the garden.
"There you are, my dear," he called. "Please, join me."
Margaret smiled tightly and set the coffee on the table next to the biscuits.
"Where's—Henry?" She asked, folding her arms around herself.
"Don't you mean 'where's John'?" Mr Bell asked, keeping his eyes on a rolling flock of birds. "You don't give a toss about my lawyer. Although I think he might give one or two for you—"
"Mr Bell," Margaret interrupted. "I don't know you. I don't know your history with the Thorntons, and frankly I don't care."
"But?" He turned and leaned against the railing.
"But," Margaret unfolded her arms. "Stop fucking around with my husband. He's not responsible for his father's sins. Forcing him to relive it isn't clever; it's petty and small."
Mr Bell rubbed his chin, his eyes still bright and amused, "You're the second Margaret Thornton in John's family. Did he tell you?"
Margaret blinked. "He did."
"She was a force to be reckoned with, much like her husband. I've studied the Thornton family a great deal. They come from the same region of England as my own ancestors. Darkshire. Do you know it?" When she made no reply he continued. "I've never liked your husband, Margaret, and I don't think I ever will. He's too serious. Can't take a bloody joke to save his life."
"Perhaps his humour isn't to your taste."
"I'm not sure how you live with it, but I suppose it's his father's fault."
Margaret turned towards the gardens as a rush of hot wind blew through the trees. She wanted to be far away from this man with his ghosts and sharp words. She wanted her husband. "Where's John?"
"The library. He knows I won't bother him there."
"Excuse me," Margaret turned to go. The coffee was still warm, and there were still the biscuits.
"You know, John and his father never got on, not even when Jonnie was at his best. For all his faults, Jonnie did try. He loved his son, in his way, even if he failed miserably." Mr Bell chuckled. "He knew John loved to read and so he would leave notes in the books for John to find. It was the only way he could talk to him."
Margaret's eyes widened. She remembered the battered paperback novel John had given her to read nearly a year ago. He always seemed to have it nearby. In the cover was a scribbled note from his father, but she's never thought much about it. John had mentioned many of the books in their cramped apartment were his father's old books which seemed odd to her at the time. Jonnie Thornton didn't strike her as a reader, but John was. Suddenly her husband's determination to sort through ever book in this old house made perfect sense.
"I was unforgivably rude today." Mr Bell inclined his head. "Allow me to make it up to you."
"No, thank you—"
"I insist. I might not like your husband but I adore you, goddess that you are. Ask for whatever you like, Margaret Hale, and it's yours. A trip to England? A college fund for your child?"
"Excuse me," Margaret picked up a cup of coffee and the platter of biscuits.
"Even if you stay silent, I'll not be refused. When you change your mind, I'll have Henry make the arrangements."
John didn't look up from his work as the double doors to the library slid open and then closed softly. He kept his eyes trained on the books he was shelving, careful to maintain the meticulous order he'd arranged.
"I think I hate that man," Margaret's voice echoed oddly in the large space.
John paused and turned to look at her. She balanced two cups of coffee in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other. He could see her hesitation and the pity in her face. John scowled and crouched down.
"What's that pile there?" Margaret shifted through the stack of mismatched books in front of the fireplace. There was poetry, history, fiction, a book on architecture—none of them really belonged together. She picked up a red leather bound novel—Persuasion by Jane Austen.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
The word yanked John to a stop as if she'd reached out yanked his belt. He shifted, tossed his hat aside, and took the book from her. He ran a hand over the cover. Then he flipped it open and handed it back, crossing his arms as she studied the scribbled inscription on the inside cover. It was the first note he'd found during their trip.
John,
Never let anyone tell you who you are.
Dad
Margaret ran her finger over the words. The handwriting was as shitty as his own. John glanced down at his hands, slowly curling them into fists. He couldn't get away from the bastard. And he wasn't sure he wanted to.
"Are all those—" Margaret nodded at the stacks at her feet.
"Yes."
She handed him the book and crouched awkwardly, tucking her hair behind her ears. "These are your books then, yeah?"
"No," John set the red volume down.
"But your dad—"
"They weren't his to give away," John said firmly and turned back to his work. "They belong to the house."
"What will you do with them?"
"Nothing." He could hear Margaret still shifting through the pile. "What did Henry want?"
John forced himself to keep working as Margaret sat. At last she sighed. "My aunt sent plane tickets for us to visit her."
"Us?"
"There were two tickets," Margaret stood and picked up a cup of coffee and held it out. "The baby won't need one, so I assume it's for you."
"I'm not going," John snapped, ignoring the coffee. "I don't want you taking her money."
"I know you don't." Margaret still held the cup, studying the brown liquid. "Come if you like, but you know I have to go. I don't want to discuss it further."
John shoved an armload of books onto the shelf, the wood thudding with the force. He stared at the leather spines, his stomach turning to lead. "When?"
"The end of November." She laid her hand on his arm and John turned. She held out a cookie and the coffee. "Please, love."
John flinched. There it was again. He grit his teeth, breathing slowly through his nose. Why the hell did she call him that if she wanted to leave so damn much?
"Are you going to eat these biscuits—cookies, or not?"
He sighed and took the cookie, eating it in two bites. He wiped his hands on his handkerchief, his mind spinning.
"Do you want help with this?"
John shook his head. He needed to think, and he never could think straight when Margaret was around.
"I'll leave the cookies."
Margaret sat in the portrait gallery staring at the old photograph as the golden orange light of the sunset poured in on one side of the room. The woman was small and fierce, with snapping pale eyes, and a round determined face, bearing herself like a queen. She gazed steadily up at the man who stood next to her in the picture, dressed in a black suit and waistcoat, black cravat, a stern familiar frown on his brow.
"How do I do this?" Margaret whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. "You did it first."
The baby wriggled, pressing down on her bladder. Margaret shifted, uncomfortable. She frowned at the expression in the first Margaret Thornton's eyes, her gaze flicking from between the woman and her husband. There was a kind of understanding in the way they looked at each other that Margaret envied. As if they too had fought their way through life. But she felt certain they fought for each other. Margaret reached out and brushed a thumb over the man's face. He looked fierce as a bulldog and yet the woman next to him didn't cower or seem broken by him. She matched his strength with her own. What had Mr Bell said?
A force to be reckoned with
"You were proud of him' Margaret murmured. "Proud to be his wife, even after he died."
Margaret picked up her polaroid camera and carefully took a picture of the black and white portrait. She slipped it into her pocket next to the folded envelope holding the plane ticket. She wanted to cry in frustration. Everything she'd found with John seemed to be fading away after one awful afternoon. But something about the old photograph made her straighten her spine.
"He might be a pain in the ass, but he's my pain in the ass," she said to herself, picking up the stuffed bulldog John had won for her. "And I'm proud of him no matter who his family is."
She hoped, she prayed that would be enough, no matter how difficult the next six months were for them. Margaret would fight for John, not against him.
"Mr. Bell."
Henry and Mr Bell looked up from their work to where Margaret stood in the office doorway.
"Come in, my dear." Mr Bell waved her forward. "Don't be shy."
"I've decided what I want."
"Have you indeed?" He beamed, patting the comfortable armchair next to the desk. Margaret stood where she was. "Well?"
"I want John's books, the ones his father left with notes for him."
Henry darted a glance at Mr Bell who stoked his chin. "A few dozen books is what? A couple hundred pounds, Henry?" Mr Bell shook his head. "I told you to choose something extravagant young lady."
Margaret's face turned hard as she thought. She chewed at her thumbnail for a moment and then raised her chin, her eyes flashing. Mr Bell rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Well, my dear?"
"Then I want the Helstone library."
"The entire library?" Henry asked when Mr Bell didn't respond.
Margaret nodded. "Every book, every piece of furniture, every rug, clock, box, and picture. Oh, and the shelves. I want it all."
Mr Bell blinked, and then he threw back his head and laughed. "Now that is extravagant indeed."
"Sir, that's almost fifteen thousand pounds worth of—"
"Henry," Mr Bell interrupted. "Please draw up the papers gifting the Helstone Library to Mrs Margaret Thornton."
"Yes, sir."
Mr Bell chuckled to himself as Margaret nodded and left without another word. She was as fierce as her husband was, he realised, with a fiery temper when rile. The two young people were quite well suited, for all their blundering and mistakes. And who was he to stand in their way?
...
John leaned against the wall just outside of his parent's old bedroom, listening to Margaret singing. It had been a long shitty afternoon. He'd thought time with his own thoughts would help him sort through his anger, but nothing had changed. He'd spent thirteen damn years keeping his father's ghost in the ground, but for some reason he couldn't seem to do it anymore. A throat cleared behind him and John stiffened, shooting a dark look at Mr Bell as the older man joined him.
"You're wife is magnificent, Thornton," Mr Bell said, keeping his usually piercing voice low. The older man glanced to where Margaret stood in the bedroom, singing softly to herself as she packed her suitcase. The plan was to leave for Milton first thing in the morning. "That girl is the most delightful creature I've ever had the pleasure to meet. If I were forty years younger, I'd snap her up and convince her to run away with me to England—"
"Mr. Bell," John's whole body twitched. "Enough."
"Oh don't get tossed," he waved a hand dismissively. "She wouldn't have me, you know. I simply cannot understand why Margaret Hale married an ogre like you at all—baby or no baby."
"Neither can I." John admitted. He hadn't meant to say anything, but it was too late to take the words back.
But instead of coming back with a biting remark, Mr Bell pushed his hands into his pockets, "You're a lucky man, John Thornton. Don't let your pride chase her away." He flashed his irritating smile. "You'll have to come back and finish that budget report before the end of the summer."
John kept his attention on Margaret, continuing his quiet study of his wife, memorizing every detail of the light falling on her hair and skin, every bone-melting curve, every tiny proportion of her body, every soft note of her voice. The knotted ache in his stomach tightened.
Why had she married him? And why was she still here, knowing what an asshole he was? It wasn't enough that he had a temper and the personality of a porcupine, now she also knew all the shit his family carried around—his mother, his father—hell, even his grandfather and great-grandfather were a mess. But Mr Bell was wrong. It wasn't his luck. John shook himself, his mind finally putting words to the nagging uneasiness that had plagued him since his wedding day. Somehow, somewhere, he'd cheated fate when he married Margaret Hale. And cheaters always lose in the end. John knew that better than anyone.
"How long have you been standing there staring at me?" Margaret's crisp tone yanked him out of his thoughts.
She had her hands on her hips, head tilted in her superior manner that betrayed just how embarrassed she was to have been caught. She waited, eyebrows haughtily raised, but John couldn't answer. He just drank in the sight of her as if she would disappear at any moment. Margaret's embarrassment faded into concern and she frowned.
"John, what's the matter?"
"Nothing," He scowled and cleared his throat, his temper spiking. He shoved himself away from the wall, intending go find something—anything—to do to make himself feel useful.
"Wait," Margaret grabbed his arm. John felt as if his skin were on fire. He flicked his gaze from his arm to her face. "I named him."
"Maggie, I asked you to shelve it," John's frown deepened. "Please don't—"
Margaret held up the bulldog. "I named him."
"The—the cheap-ass toy?"
"His name is Thornton."
John looked the toy and then his wife. He didn't know why he cared if she liked it or not, but he did. He glanced at the calendar on the opposite wall. Margaret said she wouldn't visit her aunt until the end of November. John swallowed hard. He had less than five months to convince his wife he was worth it.
Problem was, if he didn't really believe it, how could she?
John reached down and yanked Margaret into a hug. Maybe he was an asshole, and maybe he couldn't really win. But he'd be damned if he didn't try. He had five months to come up with a way to make her stay.
AN: Happy Christmas, loves. I hope you had a lovely day. This chapter is my Christmas gift to you. I know it's not terribly Christmasy and cheery but I hope you like it nonetheless. I was totally floored by your response to my last chapter. Thank you so much and I will do my best to make this story the best I can. Cheers, loves.