Not a Gentleman
by Tintinnabula
Chapter Three
In Loco Parentis
"Miss Hale, it is I, Mr. Thornton," John began, but quickly realized Margaret had slipped back into unconsciousness. A familiar, tightening sensation spread through his midsection, one he recognized as anxiety- of the type brought on by unfilled obligations. "Mother," he said, turning his attention to the black-clad woman sitting sentinel-like in the wing chair to the left of the bed, "you did send a letter to the Hales, didn't you? I completely forgot to ask. With all of the commotion this afternoon..." John rubbed a hand through his hair, completely disheveling it. Mr. Hale must be completely out of his mind with worry. Hopefully he had not mentioned his concerns to his wife.
"Do not worry, John. While you were ignoring Dr. Donaldson, he happened to mention he would be checking in on Mrs. Hale. I asked him to drop off the water mattress and to let them know of the girl's condition. He also had some final comments about Miss Hale's care. No food or water tonight, although he did not say why."
John breathed a small sign of relief. Circumstances were more than he might have hoped for. While his mother's letter likely would have told the entire story, Dr. Donaldson was sure to be more circumspect, and to paint Margaret's injury in the way they had discussed. They agreed that Richard Hale did not need to know every detail, not when his own wife was so ill. A carriage could be quickly despatched to Crampton should Margaret's condition change, and the entire truth told at that time. Additionally, John did not feel comfortable sharing the particulars of how Margaret came to be out there on the porch before those rioters. That was a story for Margaret to share with her father herself, should she choose to do so. John turned his attention back to Margaret, his stomach attempting to untying the Gordian knot snarled expertly by anxiety and dread. His contemplation was interrupted immediately by the parlour maid, Jane.
"Ma'am, if you'll excuse me, the Hales' servant is here. She's askin' to see Miss Margaret."
John jumped up and hastily exited to investigate the medicine chest. Perhaps there was something there for rapid-onset indigestion. Besides, it would not do for that harpy, Dixon, to see him in the same room with Margaret. The ever-indignant housekeeper would surely have an apoplectic fit.
In contrast to her beleaguered son, John's mother rose in the imperturbable manner that befit the mistress of the finest mill in Milton, and met the red-faced housekeeper with steady eyes and a calm demeanor.
"Is she hurt?" Dixon asked as she rushed into the room. She dropped her shawl as she sprang to Margaret's side, fairly knocking over the slat-back chair so recently warmed by Mr. Thornton. "Miss Margaret, please wake up!"
"She is resting," Mrs. Thornton said in dry tones, drawing the draperies to further darken the room. "Dr. Donaldson suggested it would be best not to disturb her for some time."
Dixon ignored the older woman, and began patting Margaret's hand in an effort to rouse her. "And what is this, then?" she cried, noticing the bandage on Margaret's arm. "Dr. Donaldson said she fell and hit her head. He did not mention any injury to her arm."
"Dixon," Margaret opened her eyes and blinked, struggling against the dim light. "Is Mama well? Has something happened?" A look of fear crossed the young woman's face as she tried to sit up in bed. She was unsuccessful. "Oh. The room is spinning. I.. I am not well."
Mrs. Thornton glared at the frumpy housekeeper, who for her part tried to soothe her charge. She patted her hand after tucking her back into the bed.
"Now, now, Margaret, do not worry. Your mother is doing much better, thanks to the water mattress you fetched from the Thornton's. It was very generous of them to offer it, and she sleeps much better this evening as a result."
"Oh. I am glad of it." Margaret blinked as her dilated eyes tried unsuccessfully to adjust themselves to the room's dim light. "But where is Papa?"
"With your mother, of course. Now rest." Dixon smiled with some relief as Margaret dropped off to sleep, and busied herself with brooding, hen-like motions. She fluffed the pillows as best she could without moving the poor girl's head, and smoothed the blankets, noting their precise tucks at each of the bed's corners. Dixon surveyed the room from her vantage point at the head of the bed. It was over-large, in keeping with the house's ostentation, but its housekeeping could not be faulted. Even in the dim room she could see the sheets were bleached to brilliant brightness and starched to crisp perfection, and the room was in perfect order, without mote of dust in the air. That was a fine accomplishment in this dirty, sooty locale. Still, Dixon did not like the looming presence of Mr. Thornton himself who had appeared, arms crossed, in the doorway, as if overseeing some industrious pursuit on the floor of his mill. He should not be darkening even the doorstep to this room. Propriety forbade it. She would tell tell Mr. Hale, she would, but first the letter. Dixon crossed the room, chin raised, and with well-mustered hauteur she handed over a thin envelope addressed to the mill owner. He nodded in perfunctory thanks, but opened the letter immediately and scanned its contents. Then, much to her chagrin, he entered the room and took up the empty seat beside dear Margaret's bed. The slightest of smiles was upon his face, she noted. For some reason, it irked her mightily.
"Mother," said the tradesman quietly, as Dixon's mouth opened to the point considered by most to be agape, "Mr. Hale thanks us, and asks that we act in loco parentis."
"He- he should not be here," Dixon stammered, flustered, knowing full well it was well above her station to speak in this way, but knowing also that Margaret's virtue as a lady hung in the balance.
Mrs. Thornton shook her head at the nonsensical scene being perpetrated in her home. Her son should know better, she thought, than to rile up a servant, especially one so pig-headed as this. (And how fitting, she thought, that the Hales would employ one so recalcitrant as themselves!) Surely John could have waited to reenter the room until this Dixon person was gone. With a sigh, Mrs. Thornton held out her hand across the bed, and John dropped the folded missive into it. His mother read it quickly, then reread it aloud to Dixon.
"Dear John,
I must thank you for the considerable efforts you have made, once again, on behalf of my family. Dr. Donaldson has conveyed to me the unfortunate news of the riot today at Marlborough Mills, as well as my daughter's extreme shock upon encountering this scene, and her subsequent faint. How providential that she was that you were there to protect her from the encroaching crowd after she fell and hit her head! Dr. Donaldson also tells me that you have extended your hospitality to avoid moving her at this critical time. For this I am most appreciative, although I do hope I may myself encroach upon your hospitality early tomorrow, as I would like so dearly to see my beloved daughter. Until then I authorize you and your mother to act in loco parentis, as you have already shown your willingness to protect and defend Margaret in my stead. I am glad to count your friendship among my many blessings.
With utmost appreciation,
Richard Hale"
"So you see, Dixon, there is nothing untoward here. My son is chaperoned, by me, and is here at Mr. Hale's request. Your young mistress' has nothing to fear."
Dixon gathered her shawl, her face beet red. No, it was not right, no matter if Mr. Hale allowed it. Perhaps he was addle-headed from all the time spent nursing poor Mrs. Hale. But even if he did not, his servant still knew right from wrong. It was this place, Milton. It was this horrible, sooty place that had turned everything they knew inside out and upside down. A place where tradesmen were the better of gentlemen, where men stole the virtue of maidens while their mothers looked on- no, she would never forgive Mr. Hale for bringing them to this horrible, horrible town, and inflicting such torture on her family.
"Dixon, it is late. Please allow me to send you home in our carriage." John extended the olive branch, but it was swatted away by the affronted Dixon. Did they think she was putting on airs? No, she knew her place in society, even if he did not.
"I require nothing so extraordinary, sir. I am fully able to walk there as I did here." Dixon pulled her shawl more tightly around her and held her head high.
"Our butler, Stokes, will accompany you, then. I insist. Please tell Mr. Hale that I will send the carriage at eight a.m., sharp, so that he may visit his daughter. And although Dr. Donaldson thought this very unlikely, should circumstances should change in the night, I will call for both Mr. Hale and Dr. Donaldson immediately."
With undisguised resentment, Dixon nodded, and walked out with Jane. Once the servant were safely downstairs, Mrs. Thornton summoned John into the hall with an imperious gesture, settling herself on one of a pair of settees strategically placed in that wide space. She spoke softly, although she was certain she was out of earshot of Miss Hale, should she wake.
"Was that really necessary, John?"
"The carriage?" John shrugged. "I thought it might subdue her temper a bit. She seemed quite irate, and it's getting dark. We've missed dinner, I imagine."
"Don't change the subject. And no, not the carriage, although I certainly do not approve of treating our personal carriage as a cab. Son, you know what I am talking about."
"Mother-"
"There was no need for you to enter the room as you did, not while that Dixon was there."
John shrugged again, and rolled his heads and shoulders into a languorous stretch. "I do not care what Dixon, or any other servant thinks."
"Are you sure, John?" He looked at his mother quizzically as she continued. "We both know they will talk, as your presence in Miss Hale's room has obviously been noted by our own servants. It will be all over Milton by noon tomorrow. But you seemed intent on provoking, just now. There is a difference. Ask yourself why, and what it is you were trying to prove. And to the likes of her."
John thought. "I do not know, Mother. Except... she thinks me less. When I come for lessons that woman stares at me with contempt. She will barely touch my coat and hat."
"You go to better yourself—not that you need to- and she looks down on you? Then it is she who has the problem."
"You are right, Mother. As you often are." John sighed, but the smallest of smiles lit his face. How lucky he was to have a person of such wisdom to guide him.
"John," his mother said quietly, "I do not see what you find of interest in these Hales. They are not our sort of people. You think them too good for you, but this could not be further from the truth. Look at what you have made of yourself and think of who you are. You have made yourself into this person, from nothing. How many can say that?"
"Mother-"
"Please let me finish, John. I can see that you have a great deal of respect for this Mr. Hale, and that you consider him a friend. A fatherly friend, perhaps. That is a good thing. There is a loneliness in you since your father's passing, one that should have been remedied many years ago." Mrs. Thornton paused, as she contemplated her next words. "I also see that you have formed an attachment to Miss Hale." John looked at her in surprise. "Yes, a mother can see these things. I do not know if this attachment is a good thing. But that is not for me to decide. I only pray you are not hurt."
"How could a creature such as this hurt me?"
"As I said, you are from different worlds. She is a fine lady." Mrs. Thornton could not help but roll her eyes as she said these words. Yet her son took her seriously, as was his wont.
"And I am not a gentleman. I know, Mother. I am not good enough. But I do not offer myself. Not yet. I only seek to help her. That is enough, for now. It will have to be."
"Well, then. Let us return to your Miss Hale, and hope she appreciates all you do for her."
John noted it was 3 a.m on his pocket watch before he attempted to awaken Miss Hale again. She was barely sensible each time he'd done so before this evening, and he hardly expected this time to differ. He lit a candle, and found the pencil stub he'd been using to scrawl hasty notes about her condition in the small twin to the leather-bound book Dr. Donaldson had left behind. He leaned over Margaret and carefully attempted to rouse her.
"Miss Hale?" He would not attempt to slap her, as Dr. Donaldson had done so brutishly. No, a gentle voice worked wonders, he had found. Her eyes fluttered open almost immediately.
"Mr. Thornton?" This was the first time she'd recognized him. Progress, to be sure.
"It is is, yes. Are you well?"
"Where am I?" Margaret attempted to sit up in the bed, her eyes widening suddenly. She gripped the sides of the bed, wrinkling the sheets as she pulled them loose. "So dizzy. That was not a good idea." She fell back into the bed, closing her eyes with a sigh. "I am not well. No, indeed."
John waited until her grip on the bed clothes relaxed, and presumably the room had stopped spinning.
"Miss Hale, I apologize," he began, "but Dr. Donaldson asked that I examine your eyes. Would you open them for me?"
"But, why?" She opened her eyes again, but now they were filled with dawning apprehension. "I do not know this room," she said carefully. "Am I in your house? Where is Papa? How is it that I am here with you?" A gradient of pink crept over Margaret from decolletage to forehead as she slowly became aware of her situation. Her hands moved to her neck, ascertaining that the clothes she wore were unfamiliar, and therefore, not her own. She pulled the bed clothes tight to her breast and trembled.
"Do not worry. My mother is also here. Over there." John held out the candle so that its pool of light illuminated the sleeping woman, who was snoring lightly in the wing chair to the bed's left. Margaret turned her head carefully and relaxed slightly at the sight of the elder Thornton.
"Would it make you more comfortable if I woke her?"
"No, please. There is no need," Margaret said softly.
"Your father asked us to take care of you," John continued in a near whisper. "He will see you in the morning. All will be well, I promise."
"Father? You promise." Margaret nodded and relaxed further.
"Miss Hale? May I look?"
"What?"
"At your eyes. As Dr. Donaldson requested," John clarified, patiently.
"Oh, yes. What must I do?"
"Nothing. Just look at the candle." She did, and John observed that her pupils were every so slightly less dilated than before. Progress, again. He scratched out some notes in the book Dr. Donaldson provided.
"Does the light still hurt?" He could not help but notice her eyes were tearing up. John placed the candle on the bedside table, behind her head, so that it provided just enough illumination for comfort.
"Yes," Margaret replied, "My eyes can't seem to focus, and my head aches dreadfully. Did elephants stomp on it?"
"Do you do not remember what happened?" A vertical crease marred the space between John's intense blue eyes. Dr. Donaldson had not mentioned memory loss as a possible complication of the injury.
"That was an attempt at levity." Margaret laughed weakly, although she still clutched the blankets tight against her person. "Although apparently not a very good attempt. I do remember behaving shamefully earlier today."
Even in the dim candle light John could see the color that came into her cheeks at these words, words that were not the ones he hoped to hear. He saw nothing shameful in her embrace. To protect someone else could never be so.
"It was wrong to send you down to face that crowd. I apologize, Mr. Thornton. I must admit, my naivete gets the better of me at times. You see, I think I understand the way men think. But in Milton, people behave so differently from what I expect. I never thought those men would attack, I thought they would listen to reason. Or at least to a woman. I did not realize. I am sorry."
These words were even less expected then the last. He longed to hold her hand, to comfort her in some way. But words would have to do.
"It is I who must apologize to you. It was my choice to face the hands. It would have been cowardly not to, just as you suggested. But to allow yourself to place yourself in harm's way as you did was unforgivable. No man should have allowed that. And you did come to harm. I cannot tell you how worried-"
She surprised him then, by reaching out until her hand found his. "I would offer you forgiveness, but you have done nothing wrong. I, too, acted of my own free will. It was I who sent you down there, so clearly it should be I who protected you, should it not?"
"No Miss Hale, it should not." John shook his head at the simple stubbornness of this young woman, and the principles from which she would not be moved. There was something to admire in her granite temperament. And clearly her mind was returning to its normal, clear self. He smiled in recognition of this observation.
"But one act mitigates the other. One hand washes the other clean. We will have to disagree on this, I think." Margaret's wide-pupilled eyes regarded him gravely.
"Yes, Miss Hale," John said, as he regarded Margaret's supine form. Her eyes, inky, blue-rimmed pools glowed in the shadowy light cast by the single candle and her full lips seemed more silken than he'd ever noticed. He longed to kiss them, but settled for the fact that her hand still rested in his own. "We will agree to disagree."
"Should you not sleep, Mr. Thornton?"
"I cannot, Miss Hale."
"But the strike is broken, is it not? Surely you must rest this night so that you can tend to the reopening of the mill."
"Tomorrow, or rather, today is Sunday. Even in Milton men rest on this day."
"Of course. I am still confused. I did not realize... but why do you sit with me?"
"To be honest, Miss Hale, you suffered quite a blow. The doctor did not want you to sleep deeply tonight."
"So you take it upon yourself to keep me awake?" Margaret's lips curved into a small, tentative smile, and John's heart sang. "What shall we talk of, then? I know, why don't you tell me about your childhood. Were you always a mill master?"
"I believe I once told you I was apprenticed to a draper," John said quietly, and not without some tension.
"Oh, yes." Margaret blushed as she remembered the embarrassing conversation brought on by her own insistence that Mr. Thornton could not know anything of the hardships faced by his hands. "I had forgotten. Please excuse my lapse in memory. My mind is a bit woolly, it seems. And were you successful? What did this job entail?"
"There was much fetching and cutting of fabric at first. Then, waiting on customers directly. Finally, as my skill with figures became more apparent, my master, Mr. Coleridge had me keep the books, and manage the ordering of goods."
"And what of before that? Were you born in Milton?"
"Yes, in one of the estates on the hill. Watson, another mill owner, recently bought the property. I hear he plans to fully renew it."
"Had you not thought of buying it yourself? As it was once in your family?"
"I have no desire to. It is far more efficient to live within footsteps of the mill. And I have no desire for such an ostentatious lifestyle. Our days in that house were splendid, certainly, but in some ways, I am glad they are past."
"I am sorry to bring up this subject. I fear that once again I have offended."
"You have not. It does not pain me to talk of those days, Miss Hale. My father was a good man. The poor decisions he made cannot change this. Nor can they taint the love he felt for his family."
The pair were silent for a while, and it was only when Margaret closed her eyes that John said softly, "Tell me about yours. About your childhood, I mean."
"Oh." She opened her eyes, and nostalgia colored into her voice. "Well, until I was nine I lived in Helstone with my parents. Helstone is quite small, even for a village, and it is surrounded by the New Forest. Despite its name the trees are quite old, and I spent many a day tramping through those woods, crushing bracken under foot as I looked for birds nest and mushrooms and any other treasures I might glean. Have you ever been to such a place?"
John shook his head. It sounded like another world to him.
"The smell of bracken is intoxicating. The only word I can use to describe it is 'green.' It is the greenest smell I know." Margaret laughed softly at the recollection. "As you know, my father was the parson, so we lived in the parsonage. It was a brick building that sat close to the village green, along with most of the commercial buildings of the parish. It had a rather large property, and a garden that mama loved. She had planted the most beautiful climbing yellow roses along an arbor that arched into a long tunnel. I would play in it all summer long. Oh, how I miss those roses!"
Margaret's narration was punctuated by a loud snort from Mrs. Thornton, which served as a reminder to lower the volume of the conversation. Margaret readily complied, as she found herself enjoying this irregular talk with her father's good friend.
"And there were fruit trees, too. Some espaliered against a fence, and others growing in their natural form. My father's favorite was a pear that grew the most succulent fruit. Of course, Father did not while away his time in the garden. He traveled some distance each month to the far ends of the parish to minister to the shut-in members of his flock. On foot, as we did not keep a horse. I accompanied him whenever possible. I loved those visits."
"And when you were not out walking? Were your days taken up with dolls and tea parties? Under the beautiful yellow roses?" John tried to imagine a young Margaret Hale and utterly failed. Like Athena, she a seemed a goddess born fully-formed.
Margaret brought him back to the present with her throaty laugh."Oh, no. My favorite past-times were climbing trees and playing dread pirate. My bro- my friends and I would fight to see who would climb the tallest tree behind our house. That was the mast of the ship, and the highest spot we could reach, its crows nest.
"And you, I take it, most often reached this crows nest?"
"Much to my mother's chagrin, yes. I tore far too many dresses, and ruined others with tree sap. Mama would much rather have seen me playing with dolls and the porcelain tea set my Aunt Shaw had sent for Christmas. I think it was because I was so wild that they sent me to London."
"To London! And how old were you then?"
"Nine. It was horrible at first. Although I could not let Papa know. He would have been heartbroken, as he was the one who escorted me there. But I was terribly homesick in the beginning."
"Yes, of course you were. The Helstone you describe is a child's paradise."
"I do love my cousin Edith, though, almost as a sister. And Aunt Shaw. And I learned so much in my time in London, although I will admit at times it was frightfully boring."
"How so?" asked John, intrigued. He never would have guessed that a lady such as Margaret Hale might not find London and all its perfection not to her liking.
"The endless parties, the daily social calls inviting a calculus of snubbing such that people pretend to be out when they are actually in, the extended conversations about exactly nothing. I so envied the men each evening after dinner. When the women left the table we whiled away the next half hour talking about nothing more interesting than the latest fashion plates or china patterns, while I surmise that in the next room you cigar-smoking men were talking about local politics. Or world events. Or perhaps the price of cotton. But of course, you see, I do not know. For I was not allowed to know."
John chuckled, although he hesitated to ask the next question. "And does Milton suit you better?"
"At first, no, I thought I did not. I was slow to learn your customs, and gave offense at every turn. To you, for instance. But the longer I live here the more I appreciate the openness of its people and the fact that unlike Londoners, Milton people say what they mean. There is much to admire in that."
John tilted his head as he processed both the apology and the oblique compliment. Margaret was full of surprises this night. Was this solely due to the accident or was this a facet of her personality newly revealed to him?
Margaret yawned. "You have learned something about me, I daresay."
"And what is that, Miss Hale?"
"That I am an incorrigible chatterbox, at times."
John scoffed. "I never would have imagined that of a preacher's daughter who loved accompanying her father on his visits to his flock."
Margaret smiled. "All of this talking has made me quite thirsty. May I have some water?"
"I am sorry Miss Hale, but that is something I cannot provide. Doctor's orders. His treatment requires-"
"What treatment is that?"
"You have noticed your arm is bandaged, have you not?"
"Yes, it is very sore."
"Dr. Donaldson administered salt water to you, in an attempt to lessen the swelling within your skull. It seems he is worried about the concussion you have suffered."
"He administered salt water to my arm. Somehow. By cutting me, I surmise. And because of this I cannot drink? But I am so thirsty! Surely a sip or two could not hurt?"
"I would not advise it, Miss Hale. His orders to my mother were quite clear."
"But not to you?"
"I was otherwise engaged."
"With the mill. I see. Of course. You had to worry about rounding up the rioters. And the damage to your property." Margaret's face fell in disappointment, although she tried valiantly to hide it.
John rubbed the crease between his eyebrows, as he felt a headache coming on. She jumped to conclusions as easily as a child playing four square. "No, Miss Hale," he replied. "With you."
He cleared his throat, then looked up sharply, mindful that the increased volume of their recent conversation might have awakened his mother. He needn't have worried. She slept on. That was a credit to him, he realized. She seemed to have no worries that son might somehow tarnish Margaret's virtue while mother slept.
John turned back to Margaret. "You should sleep."
"But you said I cannot."
"The doctor said you cannot sleep deeply. A light sleep will be fine, as you did earlier this evening. It will help you ignore the thirst, if nothing else. Your father comes at eight, and Dr. Donaldson with him. Hopefully you can survive until then?"
"I will try, Mr. Thornton."
It was 5 a.m., and based on her eye movements, Margaret was dreaming. Was this deep sleep? John had no idea. But Margaret seemed happy at first, based on the smile on her face and her relaxed affect. Although he was bleary-eyed with lack of sleep, John pressed on with his vigil. He could think of worse ways to spend a sleepless night: right now he had the opportunity admire each detail of her face, to memorize every curl that lay tousled around her. And certainly he could not be blamed if, in the growing light of the dawn he happened to notice that her blanket had slipped to her waist, allowing him a tantalizing view of the curves of her breasts through perfectly translucent fabric. He was shameless.
She stirred, and seemingly the dream changed, as her breathing quickened and she cried out softly. Her arms and legs moved slightly and John decided it was time to wake her.
"Miss Hale!"
She sat bolt upright, eyes wide open. He noticed her pupils were much smaller now, although still not quite back to normal.
"Oh, I had the strangest dream!"
"Why don't you lie back down and tell me about it?" John asked soothingly, pulling up her blankets, although he did not dare arrange them around the patient himself. While Margaret regained her modesty John glanced at his mother instead. She was still out, amazingly. Perhaps she had drunk too much claret with dinner.
"You are not dizzy?" he asked Margaret once she was settled back in bed.
"No, I think that has passed." her voice was soft and breathless, her face flushed.
"That is good."
"Yes." She seemed confused, as one often is after a nightmare, and in dire need of comforting. He wished he could hold her and offer that succor.
"Do you want to tell me?" John prompted softly.
"Do you think dreams have meaning?" Margaret whispered.
"In what manner?"
"Some say they are portents, as in the Bible, or symbols. For instance a dream of a crown may symbolize a desire for power."
John shook his head. "I cannot credit such ideas, as they have nothing to support them but wishful thinking. It seems more likely that dreams are the detritus of our waking hours, our brain's housecleaning. Certainly your mind has been through a lot in the past day and has a lot of organizing to do. I would not read too much into any dreams you have had this night."
Margaret took a deep breath. "It scared me. I was in the woods where I grew up. In the New Forest, as I told you. But it was different than I remember. Instead of a place where the sun breaks through to dapple the forest floor, the forest was dark and foreboding. But there was a bright lamp that I was heading towards-I was intending to visit the home of my friend, Bessy."
"A childhood friend?"
"No, she lives here in Milton. In fact she works at the mill."
"At Marlborough Mills?" John lifted an eyebrow. He knew Margaret was on a first name basis with some of the mill girls, but not that she took tea with them. His Margaret was like an onion, he thought, when one layer was revealed, yet another presented itself.
"Bessy is a weaver, I think. I met her that day..."
That day. John frowned. The day he showed Margaret just how violent a temper he possessed, how far below her standards he measured, and quite possibly shut her out of his life forever. With an effort, John removed all traces of emotion from his voice and urged Margaret to continue.
"I was bringing her a basket, as I sometimes do, and somehow I knew there was a wolf following me."
"Like Red Riding Hood?" John forced a smile.
"Yes, I suppose so. Except there are no wolves in the New Forest. The largest mammal I've ever seen, apart from ponies and pigs is a squirrel, and those are red. This wolf was silver. And it was huge! I was tiny compared to it. But I wasn't a girl like Red Riding Hood. I was grown."
Her hands began to shake as she continued, and to John's amazement she reached again for his.
"The wolf tricked me. The lamp was not lighting Bessy's house. It hung from a tree deep in the darkest part of the woods. And there the wolf attacked me. It pinned me down and bit me. I was in terrible pain, and I thought it would kill me."
Margaret trembled as she continued. "But then something strange happened. Two ravens flew down from the trees and intervened. They were huge, too. Much larger than me. One was noisy, the way ravens often are, and it attacked the wolf repeatedly. It pecked at his eyes, but still the wolf persisted. The other raven spread its wings and covered me completely. It sheltered me until the wolf went away."
John was silent, as he had no idea what to say. Finally he responded, "But you were safe? In the end?"
"Yes, I was safe," she replied quietly, mindful of the sleeping matriarch in the chair beside her. "And really, now that I've told you, I don't know why I was so scared." She released his hand and pulled her blanket higher on her chest.
"It is hard to understand why dreams affect us the way they do-" John began, but Margaret interrupted.
"As you say, they are just detritus of the mind." She closed her eyes and was quiet for a while, as she pondered the import of his words.
"But if that is true," she asked after some time, "which raven were you, Mr. Thornton?"
Author's note: A big thank you to everyone who has left such thoughtful and kind reviews! They make my day and make writing that much more rewarding, especially after a long work week. Although this chapter was very long, I hope it is what people were anticipating after two chapters without almost any interaction between Margaret and John at all. I thought it was important to set up the stage sufficiently first, but I thank you for your patience.
Although their situation varies greatly from what occurred in the book and movie, my goal is to keep this couple in character as much as possible, while at the same time writing this as a love story. I see both Margaret and John as similar in temperament. They are both passionate, principled people and that is why sparks fly when they get together, and also why they tend to misunderstand each other. But it is also why they belong together. I hope that I am able to do them justice as this story continues. I mentioned earlier that I greatly enjoy writing from John's POV. This may continue, as I am having a lot of fun with it. But I also realize that Margaret very much represents, us, the modern reader, who is often struck by the inequities of the new industrial era. For instance, in Victorian times, medicine (and many other aspects of life) suffered greatly from paternalism. Patients (particularly women) were often not told what was wrong with them, although their husbands or other influential people in their lives might be. Nor were they granted autonomy in their care. From a modern perspective, this rankles. I think it would bother Margaret, too. We shall see. ;)