Sunday: June 4, 2006
Margaret knelt on the dirty washroom floor, hugging the airport toilet as her stomach emptied itself of its few scant contents she'd managed to hold down earlier that morning. She sucked in a slow breath through her mouth, trying not to think about the 1.3 million other people who'd possibly used this toilet. She retched again, limbs trembling, as the soft sound of footsteps approached the stall door.
"You okay in there?"
Margaret glanced through tear-blurred eyes at a shiny pair of low black pumps and black stockinged legs, the kind that flight attendants wore. She never could understand why there were so many bloody gaps in American toilet stalls. The shoes shifted and she caught a brief glimpse of a face through the long hinge gap. God, she hated puking in public.
"Fine," Margaret closed her eyes, and willed the woman to go away. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and slowly stood, leaning her back against the door. At least she'd arrived at JFK in one piece and there was some triumph in that. "I'm fine. Air sickness."
She shivered and pulled out her mobile, frowning. No calls, no texts. She didn't know how long she stood there, staring at the pixelated screen. She definitely wasn't expecting a ring from John but—her face burned as a slow persistent blush crawled over her cheeks when she realised that's exactly why she'd checked her phone. Just in case he had. Her thumb twitched, hovering over her contacts. She really ought to ring her mum instead. It had been months since they'd spoken, but—
Margaret snapped the device shut, straightened her shoulders, and gathered her rucksack, rolling suitcase, and garment bag. There would be time to ring later.
John swore, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands. It was shaping up to be a damn long day. It was barely past lunch and his stomach grumbled painfully. He was up to his neck in paperwork, phone calls, and dozens of problems all requiring his attention. But he couldn't seem to settle down, no matter how hard he tried, watching the damn clock like a kid stuck in school waiting for the bell. Margaret's plane had already landed, and he'd spent the last hour wrestling with himself over whether or not he should call.
Williams cleared his throat and John scowled at him, "What?"
"Those files won't double check themselves, Master," Williams tactfully examined his coffee mug. "Or should I come back when you've got yourself unfucked?"
John swore, ignoring him.
"I'll come back then." Williams set his coffee down and paused. "It's none of my business, but airplanes are statistically the safest mode of transportation."
"Get out." The pencil in John's hand snapped and he threw it after Williams as the old man ducked out of the office, his laughter crawling under John's skin.
"Asshole."
When she finally arrived at The Bronwyn Hotel, Margaret almost burst into tears as Edith swept her into a crushing hug. "Oh, Migs, I'm so happy I could cry."
"Don't or I will," Margaret scolded, hurriedly paying the cabbie and gathering her things.
"Just you wait until you see inside,' Edith gushed, grabbing her hand and tugging her through the tall glass doors held open by green-liveried doormen. Margaret gaped up at the enormous crystal chandelier presiding over the wide spacious lobby.
"Good heaves," she breathed and followed Edith to the lift, her arms full of her belongings. Edith rambled on about this accommodation and that luxury The Bronwyn Hotel offered those willing to pay. Margaret didn't really hear her. She swallowed slowly, her stomach still pitching and rolling, trying to take in the grand splendor. She didn't actually care about the accommodations or particular luxuries her uncle's money could purchase; so long as she had a soft bed and a quiet room, she'd be content. At this moment all she really wanted was to take the stairs and let her stomach settle. But getting her cousin to walk up stairs was akin to convincing a Persian cat to take a swim in the ocean. "I must nap before supper, I'm positively dragging," Edith yawned prettily after giving the lift attendant their floor number. "The jet lag is simply awful, Migs."
"You're the one who wanted to get married in America, Eds," Margaret rolled her eyes and willed the lift to stop. "Although I'm not sure why."
"Darling, weren't you listening to anything I said?"
"Yes, of course," Margaret said, her voice flat. "I hung onto every word like nuggets of pound sterling."
"Don't be like that," Edith pouted. "—oh, here we are."
They stepped off the lift into a broad, richly carpeted hallway. The Bronwyn Hotel was truly breathtaking with its sconces, dark wood paneling, and high ceilings, chandeliers hanging at regular intervals. Margaret could only guess how much money it was costing her aunt and uncle. She ducked her head, grinning to herself. John would definitely have a snarky thing or two to say.
"You're going to adore your room," Edith produced a key from her clutch and let them in. "It's the Crampton Suite, and it's divine."
"Really, Eds, a suite is extravagant and unnecessary and—"
"There." Edith threw out her arms in a triumphant gesture. "Isn't this perfect?"
Margaret drew in a soft breath. The Crampton Suite was a set of four rooms, complete with a sitting room, a decadent washroom, a miniature library, a bedroom, with the charming addition of a balcony overlooking Central Park. A palette of rich greens and dark mahogany wood gave the impression of an old Victorian home, with high ceilings, and even a fireplace. Fresh flowers, a grandfather clock, Grecian busts, and beeswax candles completed the look. "Oh, Eds, this is—"
"I know," Edith clapped her hands. "It's perfection. I knew you'd love it."
"Really, it's too much. I'd be perfectly happy in a much smaller room. What were you thinking? You can't waste this on me."
"Nonsense. This week's going to be absolute heaven." Edith set the key on a marble topped table and twirled in place, giggling. "And with Henry right next door too in The Cranford Suite—"
"What?" Margaret turned sharply. "Eds, why on earth is Henry in the adjacent suite?"
"Well, he's your escort for the week, darling, and we thought it best to keep you close and cosy."
"Cosy?"
"Of course. Maid of honour, best man, all that."
"And what about John?"
"Which John?" Her cousin frowned a little, her mouth forming a pretty little pout. "I've invited several."
"My boyfriend. The one I told you was coming? John Thornton."
"Oh, that John," Edith folded her hands and pressed her lips together in a wry little smile, "What about him?"
"Where is his room?"
"Dearest, don't be angry, but—well, mama," to her credit, Edith flushed pink, wringing her hands in embarrassment, "I'm sorry, darling—she thinks you're playing at bringing a boyfriend and I didn't know what else to do so—well, you know how she gets."
"Playing at—" Margaret sat down in the closest chair, the room pitching a little, stomach quivering. "Hang on—" she rubbed her eyes with her fingers and took a slow breath. "Your mother thinks I invented my boyfriend?"
"I know dating's a sensitive topic for you, darling—"
"No," Margaret interrupted, standing abruptly. She began to pace, her mind running over itself too fast for her to keep up. "Edith Beresford Shaw, are you telling me—why the bloody hell would she think I didn't actually—that I would ask uncle to pay for someone who wasn't—I can't believe this. Does he even have a room?"
"Please don't be cross, Margaret—"
"Bloody hell," Margaret's hands clenched into fists. "Did you think I was lying too?"
"Well," Edith shrugged, giggling as if it was a joke.
"You bloody spoke to him, Eds," Margaret gritted her teeth, wiping angrily at the tears trying to force their way down her cheeks. "On the phone, not two weeks ago—John set aside an entire week for me, for this, and—Oh God—" She slumped down onto the massive four poster bed. Edith sat on the edge next to her, primly examining her nails, giving her a moment to compose herself. Margaret let out an irritated huff and dashed away another errant tear. Of all the things that could've happened, this was probably the worst. "I can't believe you thought I was lying."
"It's not the first time you tried to convince us you had a boyfriend that didn't exist, darling."
"God, Eds, that was secondary," she snapped. "I was thirteen."
"You did it again when we were in New York for Christmas that one year, remember? Thankfully we had Henry to—"
"John's going to be here tomorrow afternoon," Margaret interrupted, ignoring Edith's comment. She hated being reminded of that particular Christmas. It had been utterly humiliating. "What am I supposed to tell him when he shows up and he doesn't even have a ruddy hotel room?"
"Well, you'll be grateful to know that in spite of mama's doubts I mostly believed you," Edith said, turning a little and gestured to the bed. "If your delightful American is as real as you say he is, obviously you can share."
"Share?" Margaret squeaked.
"Why do you think I convinced mama to book you a suite, Migs?" Edith stood and picked up the telephone. "It's not just because you're my maid of honour. Aren't I clever?"
"We—no, John and I aren't—I specifically asked for separate rooms—"
"I'm not sure why. You ought to be thanking me, you know," Edith replied. "Yes, this is Edith Shaw. I would like to request a second key for this suite."
"Stop," Margaret begged, trying to grab the handset, but Edith slipped gracefully around her. "John and I can't share a—"
Oh God. She shuddered and turned deliberately away from the bed.
"Yes, a second guest arriving tomorrow. John Thornton. Wonderful."
"Your mother will murder me if she catches us—"
"Which is why we aren't going to tell her," Edith giggled, replacing the handset. "There. They have a key set aside for him. If he exists, that is."
"You know I wouldn't lie, Eds." Margaret insisted, even while her conscience niggled. She'd been perfectly willing to lie about having a boyfriend two months ago when she'd received the invitation.
"I believe you, darling. Mostly." Edith winked and gathered her clutch. "I'm off to my room to freshen up. Tea's downstairs at half-four."
"Please, Eds—"
But her cousin was already gone in a cloud of fabulous perfume.
"Bloody hell," Margaret flopped back onto the bed. She'd thought accidentally seeing John naked at his mother's house last April had been ruddy awful, but this—this was definitely worse. She groaned and flung her arm across her eyes, her head throbbing. She didn't know which annoyed her more at the moment; the fact that her family had expected her to lie, or the fact that John had been right. If not for his stubborn insistence that they actually date, she would be lying and her family would've known. After he got over being cross, she would never hear the end of this. Margaret grabbed one of the sumptuous pillows and threw it at the wall, swearing loudly.
What the bloody hell was she going to do? Suddenly she was glad he hadn't rung. It wasn't like she knew how to explain if he did.
John ran both hands through his hair, leaning back in his chair with a stiff groan. He'd been sitting on hold with a contractor out of Canada for over an hour, the same stupid-ass jazz riff playing on repeat over the speaker on his desk phone. His eyes continually wandered over to the clock, but the damn thing only seemed to slow down each time he did. He grabbed his cell phone and flicked it open. No missed calls.
He swore under his breath, feeling stupid. Margaret was an adult. She had enough to do without him bothering her, asking about her flight, or if she got to the hotel alright, or any of the lame-ass shit running through his brain like a song on repeat. She could manage her own damn life just fine. He tossed his phone aside and threw his hat after it, spinning himself slowly around in his office chair. The clock kept pounding out its grating reminder that this day was taking too damn long.
"If you'd had a bit more patience when you arrived, I'd have sent Henry with the car," Aunt Shaw said indulgently. "But you were never one to wait for others"
"I'm sorry, aunt." Margaret pressed her lips together into a strained smile, accepting the cup of tea Edith handed her with a grateful sigh. She knew her aunt would send Henry to fetch her which was precisely why she hadn't bothered to wait. "I suppose I was eager to get here."
"Isn't this hotel divine, Margaret?" Edith gushed for what seemed like the fifteenth time. "It's only few blocks from Central Park."
"Yes, it's lovely," Margaret repeated. "I love Central Park." She held her cup as close to her face as was polite, letting the steaming brown liquid fill her nose with its familiar comforting scent.
"What a terrible expense this wedding will be," Aunt Shaw said, setting her cup down with a click. "Such an event, so many details to plan—You're not eating, Margaret Ann."
"Oh—no, I—"
"Mama, you remember how awful Migs gets when she flies," Edith smiled, turning to Margaret, giving her arm an affectionate squeeze, "We really have missed you, darling."
"I've missed you too." Margaret blinked back sudden tears. It had been nearly four years since she'd last seen them. "I haven't seen uncle yet. Is he well?"
"Busy, terribly busy, and all that," Aunt Shaw said dismissively as she scrutinized a triangle of cucumber sandwich.
Edith shot an uncomfortable look at her mother, then Margaret. She smiled again, her voice a little strained. "Now, we've a darling little supper planned for tonight; very cosy. Just you, me, James, and Henry. Won't that be nice? The boys popped out to secure our reservations but they ought to be back any moment—"
"Oh, no, Eds, I'm not really keen on dinner. Really—"
"I've got a naughty dress set aside for you tonight too. Have you brought those shoes I sent you? You're the worst when it comes to going out—"
"I was terribly upset when Edith changed her mind about Corfu, but James would insist upon New York," Aunt Shaw wiped her lips, speaking a bit over Edith, as was her habit.
"Oh, but everyone's getting married in Greece these days, Mama. We wouldn't want to follow the trend. And James found The Bronwyn. Surely that makes up for it—"
"Did you know most hotels in this awful place don't even serve a proper afternoon tea?"Aunt Shaw shuddered as if the very idea offended her. "Can you imagine?"
"Well, this is America, aunt," Margaret said, swallowing more of her tea. "They do things differently here."
"But The Bronwyn has everything we require," Edith continued. "They specialize in destination weddings and—"
"It's particularly popular with the Royal family when they visit, and that settled it—"
Margaret held back a sigh, and slipped her hand into her pocket, surreptitiously checking her mobile. Still no calls. No texts. She couldn't decide if she was relieved or annoyed. But what good would it do to talk to John now? He was hours away and he was probably busy—too busy to take a silly ring from his silly girlfriend who apparently couldn't manage to convince her family she had her own silly life.
"Are you expecting a telephone call, Margaret Ann?"
"What?" Margaret flinched a little and shoved her mobile out of sight."No, I—no." Edith nudged her under the table with her foot, and Margaret pretended not to notice. She gulped down a large mouthful of tea.
"What, no rings from this new beau of yours? Is he not the chatty type?"
Margaret glared at her, her cheeks growing hot as she felt her aunt's stare. She kicked her cousin back. "He—no, he—don't be silly—he's working."
"Working?" The word was sharp and brittle. "I've been meaning to speak to you about this, Margaret Ann—"
"Would you please pass the scones, Eds?"
"I thought you weren't hungry?"
"I've had a sudden change of heart."
"Who is this man you claim to be ... dallying about with, Margaret Ann?"
Edith lifted her napkin to hide a snort, and Margaret barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. "We're dating, not dallying," she muttered. "I'd rather not discuss it—"
"We are so looking forward to meeting him, aren't we, Mama?"
"Quite." Aunt Shaw looked as if nothing would please her less. "If he truly exists."
"We really have so much planned for this week, I don't know how we'll get it all done." Edith raised her eyebrows and bit back another mischievous smile, deftly swinging the conversation away from Margaret. "Destination weddings are quite the undertaking."
"Indeed they are," Aunt Shaw sighed.
"Why not marry in London then?" Margaret asked, grumbling into her teacup. She wanted to throw her not-quite-boiling tea in her cousin's face. Edith was enjoying the entire spectacle far too much, but until John actually got here, there was little Margaret could say or do to sway her aunt. It was one of the reasons she'd begged him for help in the first place. If anyone could stand against the force that was Victoria Shaw, and not be swayed in the slightest, it was John Thornton. "It would save everyone a load of trouble and expense."
"Because New York City is the place to be married. I told you."
"You told me Corfu was the place to be married."
"Well, it is, but James was absolutely insistent. He saw a Broadway play here a few months ago with Henry and was positively dazzled. Really, I think this city stole his soul in a way."
"Terribly unpatriotic of him too." Aunt Shaw flopped a large scoop of cream on her scone. "All the ladies at my club agreed—"
"He went on and on about the people, the culture," Edith waved a dismissive hand. "Anyway, he was so darling about the whole thing and I thought, 'why not?' And then of course we found The Bronwyn almost straight off and that settled any misgivings we had."
"What a relief it was—"
"It's not London, of course, but I suppose New York has it's merits."
"Imagine that," Margaret teased. "America isn't quite so bad then, is it?"
"I never approved of Maria bringing you here." Aunt Shaw took a delicate bite of scone. "I presume she's still in the city, is she not?"
Margaret choked on her tea, almost dropping cup and saucer to the floor. "I—y-yes, she's here. She—" Her mouth couldn't seem to form the right words. She'd known the topic of her mother would come up eventually, she just hadn't anticipated feeling so paralyzed. She cleared her throat and set her cup and saucer on the table with a shaking clatter. "She—she's not coming. To the wedding. Her treatment—it's—well, it's not...it's working." Aunt Shaw knew Maria Hale was dying, except it was always glossed over, shoved aside, to be examined at another, more convenient time. Margaret swallowed, determined to press on. "Have you spoken to mum, aunt?"
"Dear Maria will be so sorry to miss the wedding, of course," Aunt Shaw continued, "but then she was always a delicate child, even when we were children."
"Perhaps we—we should visit her together, Aunt—"
"Drink up, Migs, and then you can pop by my room to change." Edith interrupted, her voice too cheerful. "There'll be drinks at the hotel bar at seven and our reservation is at nine. Did you know the hotel bar has its own private band?"
Margaret ducked her head, her hands clutching her skirt in a vicious effort to control her temper. Her aunt remained aloof and unruffled, as if nothing were amiss, Edith continuing her inane chatter in an effort to cover over the awkward exchange. Margaret grit her teeth. It was always like this whenever she tried to talk about her mother. Nothing had changed.
"Excuse me," she pushed herself to her feet, hurried out of the hotel, and onto the busy street.
She didn't know where she wanted to go, simply that she wanted to be somewhere—anywhere—else. She walked towards the park, pulled by the wall of green and the promise of a moment of peace and forgetfulness. At the entrance, she slumped down onto a bench, pressed her face into her hands, and took several deep breaths. The sounds of city life spilled over her in a cascade of car horns, countless conversations, blaring music, barking dogs, and the rumble of the subway.
Margaret sat up and pulled out her mobile. She needed to talk to someone—someone who would actually listen to her, and bloody well care about the awful mess of her life. Her fingers paused over her contact list. Bess Higgins, her father, or even Dixon would do, but—
She didn't want to talk to any of them. Not really. More than anything she wanted to talk to John, even if he was busy or grumpy or rude. She didn't stop long enough to consider why, hitting the redial, her heart thundering in her chest as she tried to pull her scattered thoughts together. "Please be there. Please."
This is John Thornton. Leave a message.
"Oh," Margaret took a small breath, barely holding back the torrent of words aching to spill out. "I...It's just me. I...sorry to bother, but...oh, never mind." She winced and snapped the device shut. God, she sounded bloody ridiculous. Margaret glared at her mobile, tempted to throw it into a clump of nearby bushes. She fidgeted with it for a moment, turning it over in her hand, frowning. Maybe—maybe he would ring even if her message was a ruddy mess. It might help if she called again and left another message or—
"Oh, for heavens sake," she snapped, stuffing the device into her pocket so forcefully it slipped and landed on the pavement with a sharp clatter. Margaret slumped, burying her face in her hands again. "Please get here soon."
John folded his arms and glared at the row of clothes hanging in his closet. He'd had everything he needed for the wedding sent to the dry cleaner's a week ago. Packing for this trip shouldn't be difficult, except—
Except something about Margaret's mood before she left still bothered him, like an itch that refused to go away no matter how much he scratched. She was too damn worked up about this wedding and he couldn't quite figure out why. He had a sinking feeling there was something else going on, underneath all the flowers, the fluff, and fancy clothes. Something he was missing. Something that made Margaret desperate enough to ask his sorry ass for a date.
You're exactly the right sort of man for me—for this.
He didn't know what that meant, or why the wedding was so damn important to her. It was starting to piss him off. John made a face and grabbed his duffle bag from the top shelf. Whatever it was, he wasn't going to half-ass his way through this week, no matter how much he hated not knowing what he was walking into.
"Expecting a ring?"
"What?" Margaret glanced up from her mobile.
Henry stood on her right at the hotel bar sipping on a gin and tonic. Edith and James were whispering to each other on her left, leaving Margaret and Henry to fend for themselves until it was time to leave for their dinner at some fabulously upscale restaurant she'd already forgotten the name of. So far Margaret had supplied the very proper 'hello, how are things? I'm brilliant, thanks,' and that was all. She'd ordered her usual fizzy water and tried not to look too bored. Henry was happy to do most of the talking, dragging her through one dull nicety after another—which was infinitely worse than stilted silence. Her nervous fatigue, travel sickness, and general irritation made each minute drag on in monotonous succession.
"You've been fiddling with that thing since we ordered drinks," Henry commented. "Worried about tomorrow?"
"I— I'm just tired."
"Still waiting for John to ring, Migs?" Edith asked, and leaned over, snatching at her mobile. She'd had two cosmopolitans, softening her usually impeccable manners and coordination. "Goodness, at this rate you ought to pitch him for someone with better sense."
"He's working, Eds. I told you—"
"It's nearly nine o'clock," she giggled. "Who works at nine o'clock in the evening on a Sunday?"
"John does," Margaret folded her arms. "He owns his own business and works very hard."
"Who's this John then?" James asked politely, motioning to the bar keep to bring another round. "Friend of yours?"
"Yes," Margaret kept her eyes on James, even as she felt Henry step closer. She swallowed. Today really couldn't get any worse, could it? "My boyfriend."
"Is he really?" James brightened a little. "You've got a boyfriend?"
"It's still a bit new, but yeah. I like him."
"When do we get to meet the lucky sod?"
"Tomorrow."
"Well," James handed her a martini glass full of some brightly coloured alcohol, avoiding looking at his brother. "That's ...fantastic."
"Oh, I don't want this—"
"To Margaret," he continued heartily, raising his glass, "and her first true love."
"Come off it, James, he's my boyfriend, we—" Margaret bit back the rest of her denial of love, catching Henry's gaze.
Henry raised his glass, staring at her so intensely she thought her skin might peel off. "Cheers."
"Cheers," She raised her chin, tapped his glass with hers, and took a dutiful sip of the drink, glancing at her mobile again, willing it to ring. Anything to give her the mere semblance of an excuse to escape Edith's giggling, James's careless teasing, and Henry's hard scrutiny. But her mobile didn't ring. It chose that delightful moment to die.
You've reached the phone of Margaret Hale. Please leave your message and I'll ring when I can, yeah? Have a lovely day.
John scowled, his mind suddenly blank. He hadn't planned to leave a message. He'd left his phone on the entry table out of habit, cursing when he finally saw she'd called him, left a voicemail, and then called again. Now here he was, calling back with absolutely nothing to say. "Uh, saw you called," He grimaced, swallowing a curse. "It's pretty late..." Goddamnit, she knew what time it was— He sighed, "I'll see you tomorrow." So damn stupid.
He slapped his phone shut, tossed it at the nightstand, missed, and swore when it tumbled to the floor. He flopped back onto his bed, dragging both hands through his hair. He was twenty-fucking-six and he'd spent all day second guessing himself like some dumb-ass high school kid with his first girlfriend.
"Get a grip, John."
He rolled onto his side and shut his eyes, trying to force himself to relax, Margaret's voice playing in his head.
It's just me...sorry to bother...never mind.
It was long past midnight when Margaret finally peeled off her ridiculous dress and collapsed into bed. But she couldn't sleep. Her mobile lay on the nightstand, charging. She sat up when it finally buzzed.
One missed call. One new voice message. She bit her lip and opened the notification. John Thornton.
She let out short heavy breath, smiling to herself as she listened to his gruff grumbling voice. She fell asleep with a small stupid smile on her face, mobile still loosely clutched in one hand.
AN: Let's pretend it hasn't been a month since I last added to this fic, yeah? (I've got the next chapter half written, so send your good thoughts and wishes my way that I can get it out soon.)
Cheers, loves.
PS. The Bronwyn Hotel is completely fictional and my own invention (based VERY loosely on the Carlyle Hotel) ;-)
