Warning for this chapter: Just prepare yourself for utter pain and despair, will you? :P
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Chapter 9
It was hours later when John woke with a splitting headache. He was lying on top of the covers in his darkened bedroom and kept his eyes tightly shut, as a painful moan escaped his lips.
Everything was still fuzzy. He distantly remembered the uproar in the mill yard, his struggle to get Margaret Hale to go back inside – what had she been doing there in the first place? The woman really did have a knack for trouble.
He did not recall how she had gotten there or what she had said to the workers, what he did recall however was that she had thrown her arms around his neck, trying to protect him and his breath quickened even now at the thought of it.
He could not believe she had tried to shield him from danger with her own body. Why had she done such a thing? Surely, she could not care for him in any way that would provoke such behaviour. She did not like him, he was sure of it.
He struggled to remember anything after that, but all that came to him were blurred fragments, which might or might not have been his imagination. He could have sworn that she had touched his face, had spoken to him in a soft voice, though he could not recall her words.
Surely, she would not have done that. It was probably just his injured head playing tricks on him. But it mattered not, he thought. Even if this was only a dream, he would relish in it forever.
John let himself sink back into sleep, as he let the feeling of her hands against his skin wash over him.
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The next morning, John stood in his office, staring through the big glass window leading down into the carding room, which had come to life once more, the machines cluttering away. At least one good thing had come of all this: The strike had been broken by the riot and the workers had returned to their positions.
Ten minutes before, he had called Williams in and asked him about the events of the previous day, shocked to hear that Miss Hale had indeed been with him after he had been struck by a stone, while Williams had gone for the doctor.
Even though his overseer had had the mind to warn the house staff to keep quiet about the whole affair, John was certain that there would be some talk. He did not know if any of the strikers had recognized her and she had been alone in his house, unchaperoned. This in itself was enough to be her ruin, if it were ever to come out, not to mention everything that had followed. He knew what this meant…and he knew what he would have to do, but he shied away from the thought.
It was not that he was opposed to making her an offer of matrimony – quite the contrary. The thought alone exhilarated him beyond belief. It was the circumstances, which repelled him. He had been certain that, if he was ever to propose to her, it would be, because he was sure to have secured her affections. Not that this would ever be anything he deemed possible, she had made it clear that she was anything but fond of him.
But to marry out of convenience – she would be miserable for the rest of her days, and he would likely suffer as well, having her so close to him without having gained her affections. How would she ever be able to respect him?
It would have been easier, had he been indifferent to her. He was a man of honour and there would have been no question in his coming to her rescue. But in this case, he was putting his own heart on the line, and he was not sure he would be able to survive if she were to break it, which – he considered – was as much as a certainty.
But then again…he caught himself…she had rushed to his protection yesterday. She had practically thrown herself at him to shield him from any act of violence. And then, when he had been hurt, she had sat there with him, taking care of him with her soft hands and her gentle voice.
Was there any chance that maybe she did care for him? He dared not hope for such a thing. Yet, he knew he had to ask her. He would not be able to live with himself if he did not, for he loved her and he knew that he would be unable to hold back any longer.
John balled his hands into fists and released them again. It was a mistake, he knew, but there was no point in dragging out his suffering unnecessarily. He had to go to Crampton and get this whole affair over with.
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Margaret was in her room, reading Edith's latest letter, when she heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knock on her door. "Miss Margaret?" Dixon's voice called from outside. She opened the door to see an irritated expression on the servant's face. "Mr Thornton is here, Miss", she stated in a low voice, obviously not at all approving of the fact. For a moment Margaret felt something like relief. If he had been able to come to Crampton, he must have somewhat recovered from his injury.
"Is father not in his study?" "He asked for you explicitly."
Oh dear, what could he want now? She was not sure she was able to face him after everything that had happened. "I'll be right there, Dixon" And with that she bravely marched down the stairs after the older woman.
As she entered the sitting room, she found Mr. Thornton standing by the window with is back to her. He seemed to sense her entering and turned around slowly to face her, looking slightly pale.
As she stepped into the room, he moved behind her and closed the door. A feeling of unease crept over Margaret. It was not proper to be here alone with him, with the door closed, and it reminded her of all the other improper things she had done in the past twenty-four hours.
"Mr. Thornton, I hope you are feeling better", she attempted to break the silence. "Quite, I thank you." He did not meet her gaze. "Miss Hale, I'm afraid I did not have the opportunity to express my gratitude towards you yesterday."
She shook her head. "You have nothing to be grateful for", she said hastily. "I think that I do", he answered. "Why, I did only the least that anyone would have."
He looked at her in disbelief at that, as she went on: "I was after all responsible for placing you in danger and I apologize for that. I was acting in a spur of the moment and I regret having sent you down there to face that angry mob."
He shook his head, as if willing her to stop talking, and she saw him swallow visibly as one of his hands restlessly fumbled with the cuff of his frock coat. He drew a shaky breath. "Miss Hale, I did not just come here to thank you. There is something I need to speak to you about." He seemed nervous, jittery even, as he struggled for words. "I – I never found myself in this position before. It's…difficult to find the words."
Dear god, Margaret thought, what on earth could he want from her? Surely, he was not going to… "My…my feelings for you are very strong…"
"Please, stop!" No, he would not! He could not! It was only after a second, that Margaret realized she had said the first two words aloud. "Please don't go any further!", she begged, her heart hammering in her throat.
He looked at her in bewilderment. "Excuse me?", he stammered after a moment. Margaret's shock quickly turned into anger. How dare he? "Please do not continue in that way", she huffed and strode over to the window, turning her back to him and hugging her upper arms tightly around herself, to keep from trembling. "It is not the way of a gentleman."
This seemed to aggravate him. "I am well aware that – in your eyes at least – I'm not a gentleman. But I think I deserve to know why my words upset you so."
She spun back around at him, furious. "It offends me that you come here and speak to me, as if it were your duty to rescue my reputation! I will have you know that this is wholly unnecessary and unwanted. I have done nothing that I am ashamed of. You were in danger and hurt, and I did my christian duty, as I would have done for any man."
He looked as though she had slapped him right across the face and when he opened his mouth again, his voice was full of outrage: "I spoke to you about my feelings, because I love you, I had no thought for your reputation!"
Now he spoke of love! This simply could not be happening! "You think that because you are rich and my father is in reduced circumstances, you can have me for your possession", she ejaculated, fighting back tears. "I suppose I should expect no less from someone in trade!"
This was the final straw for him, as he took an angry step towards her, his hands clenching into fists at his side. "I don't want to possess you, I wish to marry you, because I love you!", he cried out. He was way too close for comfort now. Margaret turned her back to him again and stared out into the street in defiance, but seeing nothing. "You should not!", she blurted out. "Because I do not like you! And never have!"
A silence fell over them after her last words. She stood there, her hands clutching her upper arms, staring straight ahead. She felt his gaze upon her back, but could not sense the slightest movement from him. It was as if he had been petrified.
As the silence stretched on, Margaret could not bear it any longer. She turned around slowly and when her eyes fell upon his face, she realized with a pang how much she had hurt him. How could this be? Why would he be this hurt by the rejection of a proposal he had certainly only made to save her reputation? He could not really like her, it was simply impossible. Since their very first meeting, all they had ever done was quarrel.
Was it vanity? Did he think himself so above everyone and everything that he had not deemed it possible to be refused? That had to be it, Margaret tried to convince herself, for she could not bear to contemplate that – for some very strange and absurd reason – he could in fact care for her.
It was then, that she caught a faint glint in his eyes, almost like unshed tears. She saw it only for a moment, before he quickly lowered his gaze, as if he had been caught. Margaret felt her anger at him dwindle at the display of his vulnerability and, much as she did not understand his motives, she felt a pang of guilt at having been the cause of his suffering.
"Mr Thornton, I'm sorry", she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "For what?", he croaked out, pain and irritation evident in his voice. "That you find my feelings for you offensive? Or that you assume that because I'm in trade, I'm only capable of thinking in terms of buying and selling?"
She took a tentative step towards him, her hand automatically reaching out to him. "Please understand, Mr Thornton-" "I do understand!" The bitterness in his voice stung her. "I understand you completely!" And before Margaret could utter another word, he was out the door, leaving her standing there, dizzy and paralyzed, as her insides crumbled into pieces.
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An icy wind was whistling along the seemingly endless rows of grey brick buildings, no more than silhouettes in the dark. The streets were quiet, safe for the occasional bark of a stray dog or muffled scraps of conversation and laughter, wafting out of one of the alehouses.
No one noticed the dark figure of a man, walking down the street, walking the length of the city, as he had been doing for hours, without a destination. He paid no attention to where he was going, in fact, upon closer observation, one would have noticed, that his feet seemed to be moving of their own accord, while the rest of him just followed, defeatedly.
What time it was or how long he had been walking, he did not know. He knew nothing anymore. All that was left of him was complete numbness. Staring straight ahead with a bleak, empty look in his eyes, he let his legs carry him…away.
He had to get away. But there was no escaping her words. They played over and over in his head, slowly but surely driving him insane. "You think that because you are rich and my father is in reduced circumstances, you can have me for your possession. I suppose I should expect no less from someone in trade!" "Because I do not like you! And never have!"
What had he done to himself? Why had he ever gone there? One stupid move, a few hurtful words and there his heart was…on the floor, shattered into a million pieces. He did not know what he had expected to hear. He certainly could not have expected her to accept his proposal.
But the reality of her words was something, he had been unprepared for. They had smothered the last tiny flame of hope he had held in his heart – hope that maybe one day, someone, anyone in this world, would care for him.
John knew loneliness. Since the age of twelve, when his mother and sister had died, he had had to fend for himself. First at the workhouse and later as a cotton mill boy. There had been no one to listen to his sorrows, no one to hold him, as he had cried, no one he could have asked for advice.
So, he had taken matters into his own hands. With hard work and determination, he had pulled himself out of the gutter, working his way up to a draper's assistant, an overseer and in the end a master. He had built something for himself, that he could be proud of.
Yet, the loneliness had never left him. It had become such an integral part of him, that he did not remember it not being there, a pain he was used to and had made peace with. Until he had met Margaret Hale and in a matter of a few months, she had managed to turn his world upside down.
Now, that he was certain, that she would never have him, he felt as though having had a glimpse of hope, only to have it ripped out of his grasp, was more painful, than never having known it at all.
A cold gust of wind hit his face and finally managed to wake him from his stupor, enough to gather his bearings and realize, that his legs had carried him out of the city and up the hill to the old graveyard.
Slowly, he passed through the rows of gravestones, until he reached a patch of soil at the far end, with a small and withered wooden cross, protruding from the ground, the carved letters on it almost unreadable.
It was this bare little patch of nothingness that covered everyone, who had ever loved John. He stood there for a long while, looking down at them in silence, feeling the darkness spreading from his very core, engulfing him, dragging him in, drowning him.
It was the same darkness, which had once swallowed his father, and since that day John had been afraid that, one day, it would come for him too, to finish what it had started. And as the damp, foggy blackness of the night fell over Milton, John Thornton sank to his knees, his body shaking with inaudible sobs.
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NOTES:
This whole story was a little challenge to myself, to try and portray mental health struggles in a hopefully somewhat accurate and perceptive way. Whether I succeeded in it, I don't know - you be the judge of that.
I struggled at first to put that last scene into words, so I put on my headphones and actually did walk around the nearest graveyard in the dark (and cold!). I went home afterwards and wrote that scene in one go.
I draw a lot of inspiration from music, when writing. Especially the later chapters of this stories were hugely inspired by the music of "Poets of th Fall". Especially songs like: "War", "Dreaming Wide Awake" and "Carneval of Rust". If you don't know them, go ahead and give them a listen, they are amazing.