The miserable have no other medicine
But only hope.
-William Shakespeare
('Measure for Measure' (1604) act 3, sc. 1, l. 2)
'Margaret,'
Something cool and soft touched her cheek. A hand—gentle, determined. Her body did not wish to move, every limb heavy, pressed into the chaise on which she lay. It smelled faintly of soot and beeswax. She blinked, squinting into a bright beam of sunshine. Her head ached, and she turned away from the light. The hand brushed the hair along her left temple, a sharp ache pulsing under the cool finger tips.
'Please,' Margaret's voice was thick and hoarse. 'Stop.'
Where was she? She tried to remember what happened.
'A stray stone,' a voice said. The silhouette of a woman, framed by the afternoon light, moved to sit near Margaret at Mrs Thornton's writing desk, scratching out a quick note. A stone?
Go inside. This is not your place
Margaret shuddered. Of course. The last hour came flooding back to her. The empty streets, a riot of desperate mill workers, Mr Thornton running across the mill yard.
Go inside or I will take you in
Margaret sat up, blinking against the sun. It was almost too bright for a Milton afternoon. She gingerly explored the pain along her temple with her fingertips.
They will not want to hurt a woman
She'd begged Mr Thornton to be reasonable, to pacify them. She'd been wrong to ask him to do such a thing. Why had he listened to her?
'It looks worse than it is.' The woman finished her writing, blotted the paper, folded it, and stood. 'The scar will be small and easy to hide once it heals,' she continued, brushing her fingers absently against her own temple. She moved nearer, letter in hand. Her voice struck Margaret as odd, something about it making her skin itch. It held the ever so slight tinge of flat northern vowels so common in Milton, but the cadence was soft, lilting, and distinctly southern. She'd heard it before hadn't she? Margaret squinted, willing her vision to clear and her head to cease its dizzy spinning. It was eerily quiet. No shouts, no footsteps, not even a rustle of fabric. Where was everyone?
'I must go home,' Margaret said firmly. Her voice sounded muffled, as if she spoke into her bedclothes, rather than the Thornton's large open parlour. She frowned as she rubbed her hands over her skirt, eyes darting about the room. 'Mama will worry.'
'There's time for that yet. Doctor Donaldson will be here shortly to take you home in his carriage,' the woman said. There it was again; the odd feeling of woman sighed, knelt, and clasped both of Margaret's hands in hers. 'There's something you must know, before— but where to begin?' The angle of the light made her face difficult to see, as if the edges were somehow too soft to focus completely. She raised a hand and gently stroked Margaret's cheek. 'Heavens, I'd forgotten how young you were.'
'Who—' Margaret swallowed. 'Who are you?'
'A…visitor,' the woman assured her. 'And a friend.'
'Of the Thorntons?'
'Of sorts.' That familiar something in the woman's voice and posture made the small hairs on Margaret's body suddenly stand on end. 'I've dreamed of coming back here, to this moment, so many times. It's where it all went wrong, you see. Yet I never thought it possible—but you must listen. I don't know how long we shall be together.' The woman sounded so earnest, her grip tightening on Margaret's hands. 'He needs you, and he doesn't know what to do next, dear foolish man. But then love makes us all do fool-hearty things.'
'Love?'
The woman nodded, 'He loves you, Margaret, and has only just discovered it.' She turned and glanced over her shoulder as if expecting to see someone. 'He never told me how he managed to wait as long as he did. He said it drove him mad. He would be here with you now, if he could.'
'I don't—' Margaret swallowed and tried to sit back, but the woman kept hold of her hands.
'Who loves me? What do you mean?'
The woman shook herself and turned back towards Margaret, her face still obscured by the light, 'You mustn't waste time on anger and hurt pride,' her grip tightened. 'Every moment with him is precious, little pearl-ling.'
Margaret's eyes widened at the familiar endearment. No one knew that tender name of her childhood—no one but her father had called her that. She yanked herself free.
'You must listen, please,' the woman grabbed at her hands again, her voice strained and choked with pain. 'Time is so short, Margaret.' A tear dropped from the care worn cheek, glinting in the oddly bright light. Margaret looked at the sudden glint of gold sparkling from the woman's hand. It was a simple ring; small, delicate, with a pearl as it's center stone.
'He's not what you think. Please.' Margaret blinked hard and looked up into the woman's eyes. The sunlight shifted ever so slightly, the edges of her face sharpening for just a moment. Familiar grey-blue eyes glistened with desperate tears. 'He's a good man, a good husband, and you will have a good life together.'
'You—I don't believe you," Margaret gasped. It could not be. I'm dreaming, she thought, her own eyes widening. This is a dream. 'You're—You cannot be real. You cannot be here.'
'Perhaps I'm not,' the mouth turned into a familiar restrained smile. The woman brushed aside a well-placed lock of hair and Margaret caught sight of a faint old scar on her left temple. Margaret's own fresh cut throbbed. 'Perhaps, you are my dream, pearl-ling.'
Margaret's breath quickened, shallow and gasping, her lips and fingertips tingling, as she stared into the woman's face, as if looking into a mirror.
'Dream or not, you must believe me,' the woman said, her voice now muffled and fading. She pressed a folded bit of paper into Margaret's hand. 'I'm trying to help you.'
'No,' Margaret shook her head. It suddenly felt heavy, a wave of dizziness forcing her eyes shut as she fell back in a cold faint.
'Oh, Jane. Is she dead?'
'She's breathin', miss, clear as day, but she looks very bad.'
Voices drifted around her, breaking through the hazy warm dark. Margaret recognised Fanny Thornton's shrill tones and the other, perhaps one of the maids. She forced her eyes open, her head throbbing at the dull grey brightness.
'Oh! Miss Hale,' Fanny fluttered her fan rapidly in Margaret's face, making her eyes water. 'You must lie still till mother returns with the doctor.'
'I don't need a doctor,' Margaret murmured, slowly sitting up. She grimaced and swallowed back a wave of nausea, clutching at the chaise, frowning as a bit of paper in her hand crumpled under her fingers. The woman! Her eyes darted around the room. The woman was gone. 'She's gone.'
'Who?'
'There was a woman,' Margaret blinked heavily and stood, swaying slightly.
'Miss Hale, you mustn't!' Fanny fluttered her fan even more rapidly.
'I think—a dream,' Had it really been just a dream?
'You'll fall—Mother! Come quickly.'
'There now, Miss Hale,' Hannah Thornton appeared at Margaret's side and grasped her firmly by the arm. 'I've brought Doctor Donaldson to tend to your injuries.'
Margaret stared as the grizzled doctor appeared, sitting at Mrs Thornton's insistence. 'You're—Doctor Donaldson?"
'I am,' The doctor frowned, taking her face in his rough hands, looking her over quickly. Margaret tried to suppress her trembling, hiding the paper between her hands. The woman had told her he was coming, but—it was just a dream, only a dream. It must be. Doctor Donaldson gently prodded the wound and wiped it clean, 'You took quite a blow, young lady.'
'It looks worse than it is,' Margaret murmured, wincing as he plastered the cut.
The doctor gave her a sharp look, but he nodded. 'Aye. Just so.'
'I—please, Doctor, I'd be most grateful if I could go home.'
'Surely not, Doctor,' Mrs Thornton protested.
Margaret felt her temper rise. She clutched her hands tightly in her skirts, suddenly torn between her need to get home to her mother as soon as possible, and her desperate wish that the strange woman with those familiar grey-blue eyes and earnest words were nothing more than Margaret's own imaginings. But the paper was still in her hand, rubbing against her skin.
'The streets are still quite wild,' the doctor said gruffly. 'But I see no reason to keep her here, since she's a mind to go,' He held out his hand, helping Margaret to her feet. 'I'll take her in my carriage, see she reaches home safely.'
'Very well,' Mrs Thornton conceded.
'Thank you for your kindness,' Margaret said faintly, her head swimming. She did not know what else to do or think or say. She stood, nodded to Mrs Thornton and Fanny and followed Doctor Donaldson to his waiting carriage. He took her home, just as the woman in her dream had said he would.
'Margaret, is that you?' Her mother's weak voice floated down the stairs, but Margaret hardly heard her. She stared unblinking at her reflection in the landing mirror. She could almost see the familiar lined face of the woman. Time had imparted a soft unbearable wisdom to her eyes; had shaped her mouth with the determined air of hardships born with grit and long suffering good humour; and given her gentle lilting southern accent the hard gravely vowels of having lived in the north of England for many years. But how could it be possible? It was not possible. And yet—she gently unfolded the now crumpled paper and read the flowing handwriting, so like her own—yet different:
Pearl-ling,
John Thornton will come tomorrow morning and ask you to marry him. It's not duty nor honour that brings him, but love. He's never been in love and neither have you. It's frightening, I know, and often difficult to recognise, especially when it's passionate. Don't be afraid, pearl-ling. You will also see Bessie Higgins tonight. Your anger cannot erase her pain. She will die soon, the workers will continue to struggle with the masters for a while, and life will always be hard. But none of these things are his fault nor are they yours. Don't blame him. Things can change. Things will change. You will change him and he will change you, and you will both be better for it. I beg you to be gentle with him, if not for your sake, then for his. He's known so little of hope until today. He told me once he spent this night holding on to a mere breath of hope that you might accept him. If you cannot love him now, then at least let him keep his hope. You will marry him one day, and I pray that day comes as soon as possible. For you will not always have him.
I wish you well and Godspeed.
P.S.: If you still doubt me, I offer this as proof; his middle name (Seamus) is the same as his father's but he doesn't like it. He's never told anyone but you.
'Margaret?'
She blinked, and softly called up the stairs, 'I'm just going for a walk, mother, to visit Bessie Higgins. I'll be back later.' Before she could change her mind, Margaret slipped out the front door and hurried along the dusty streets, the open letter still clutched in her hand. She barely saw or heard anything as she walked quickly towards Princeton. The ache in her head refused to abate, pounding over and over with the woman's words.
He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.
But how? She daren't believe such a man would care for her. He didn't like her at all—
'Oh, miss, you're here, miss! How did you know I wanted you?'
Margaret stumbled at the interruption, almost knocking into Mary Higgins. 'Mary?'
'Bess took a bad turn, Miss, and I didn't know what to do,' the girl rambled, wringing her hands. 'But how did you know?'
Margaret glanced at the paper in her hand, her skin turning cold. She hastily folded it up. 'I—a …friend told me. I'll come now.'
Margaret sat with Bessie for what seemed like hours, feeling a numb listlessness claim her as she tried to make her friend comfortable. But her mind couldn't rest. Her friend's wheezing laboured breathing made her shudder with anger, her mind turning to the man responsible. Bessie Higgins suffered now because of him. He knew what his trade did to others, knew that many of his hands would be sent to the grave before their time. But a new doubt haunted her. Did such knowledge make him culpable? Did it make him cruel and unfeeling? She didn't know any more. She wasn't certain she wanted to know.
When Margaret left Princeton, she couldn't bring herself to go home. The letter said he would not come until tomorrow, and she couldn't bear the thought of sitting there, simply waiting and watching the clock tick towards that fateful hour. How could she do anything else but refuse him? She did not love him, she didn't even like him. She never had—of course she hadn't. Her feet moved almost on their own, walking the familiar paths she'd worn in her time in Milton, their steady rhythm sounding in her ears.
He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.
She walked past the stationers, the grocers, the post office, and even the drapers. The streets had fallen quiet with the rapid approach of the evening. The small hillside cemetery surrounding the path was bathed in a hushed grey light, almost peaceful in its dullness. A chill wind blew over her as her feet brought her to her favourite outlook on the city. She paused and stood in the hollow silence, a gentle mist unfolding around her. Margaret took a deep breath and closed her eyes, suddenly too tired to fight against the impossible circumstance she found herself in. She clutched the letter in her hand, the only proof that this was not a horrible dream, no matter how hard she wished otherwise. And if it wasn't a dream, could it be true?
'He loves me,' she whispered into the misty grey light, her voice trembling.
Everything the woman said was based upon the truth of those three simple words. And if it wasn't true, if all this was just madness, nothing need change. Mr Thornton might call on her tomorrow out of mere courtesy. He was enough of a gentleman to feel it necessary to inquire after her health. She'd been injured protecting him. Margaret shivered, the memory returning, and with it a new fear. Would he call because he imagined himself bound to her in some strange way because of her behaviour? Margaret blushed, suddenly angry, her eyes snapping open. She marched further into the mist and the growing dark. There was nothing improper in her actions, surely. She'd only done what anyone would've. Her foolish words placed him in danger and it was her duty to act. But Milton society was not so kind nor so understanding. If they misconstrued her actions, then society would lay the expectation of duty at his feet for her choices, to offer for her and preserve her reputation from gossip as a man of honour—and he would do it.
'Foolish man,' she hissed.
Love makes us all do fool-hearty things.
"It's not love."
It couldn't be. Surely, he wished to possess her like some fine social prize, because he was rich and her father— her fists tightened, and she pressed into an oncoming wind, her eyes blurring with angry tears. Or perhaps he simply wished to lay further claim to the title of gentlemen that he had worked so hard to earn. Or maybe—
She was so caught up in her spinning thoughts, she didn't see the shape of someone else moving purposely through the thickening twilight, and walked right into them.
'Oh!' The force of her own movement, so suddenly arrested, and the lingering haze of her injury, caused her to stumble on the mist-damped path. Two strong hands grabbed her arms, steadying her.
'Forgive me, I—Miss Hale?'
She stared at him. 'M-Mr Thornton?'
'What you doin' up 'ere? And at this hour?' He looked as stunned by her presence as she felt at his sudden appearance out of the mist, his voice weary and graveled, like he'd had too little sleep and too many thoughts occupying his mind. His eyes swept over her and then he let go, suddenly, stepping back a step, 'Forgive me.' He reached up, as if to remove his hat, but it wasn't there. He hastily ran his fingers through his damp hair. 'Are you well?'
'I was—walking. I've been visiting a friend.' She couldn't summon a smile. 'In Princeton.'
'Princeton?' he frowned, slowly, hands fidgeting with his watch chain, like her words took too long to reach him. 'What were you doin' there so soon after—' He broke off, his dark eyes moving to find her injury. His hand twitched forward, then fell back at his side. 'Forgive me, Miss Hale, I—I did not expect to meet anyone up 'ere. I'm afraid I'm being quite rude.'
'Please, stop—' she put out a shaking hand, almost touching his coat sleeve, but not quite. ' You have nothing to apologise for.'
'I think that I do,' Mr Thornton shifted on his feet, opened his mouth, then closed it. 'Miss Hale, what you did today—I'm grateful—"
'Mr Thornton, please, don't go any further,' she interrupted.
'Excuse me?'
'Oh dear, ' Then she did grasp his arm, if only to stop him speaking. She surprised herself by blushing, ' 'Whatever you feel compelled to say, I—I beg you to—'
'Compelled?' he spoke as if the word tasted bitter.
'Forgive me, now I'm the one being rude,' Margaret glanced about them, knowing they were completely alone. She had the sudden urge to run and yet she could not move, her hand still on his arm. ' I'm sorry, I—I must go. It's getting dark and my parents—'
'I'll see you home,' Though spoken like a command, as was his habit, she detected a slight note of uncertainty. She felt the tiniest tremor under her fingers. 'Miss Hale?'
'Yes, of course,' Margaret breathed, her own hand suddenly trembling as he moved it into the crook of his arm. 'Thank you.'
They walked slowly, the mist having turned into a thick rolling fog, barely able to see more than an arm's length in all directions. Margaret stumbled, and his other hand came round to steady her. 'You're not well, Miss Hale.'
'I'm just tired,' she admitted, her shoulders slumping. They'd stopped walking, the fog curtained around them, creating a strange greying world where only the two of them existed. 'My friend, Bessie Higgins…she's dying.'
'Higgins? Not the same Higgins as—'
'His daughter.'
'Fluff on 'er lungs?'
Margaret nodded, 'She worked for you.'
'Aye, I know it,' His posture stiffened under her hand. 'I suppose you think that's my doin'.'
'No,' The word fell between them like a stone. It was true she had wanted to lay the blame for such misery at his feet. It was an easy answer, easy to hold on to her anger and her pride. But the woman was right; such suffering was not and could not be the fault of one man. He had his part to play but it wasn't fair that he ought to bear the burden nor the judgement of such a tragedy. 'It's not your fault and I can't blame you for it.'
Mr Thornton stopped walking for a moment and stared down at her. 'Do you mean that?'
Margaret blinked hard, fighting back sudden tears. He'd expected the worst of her censure and prejudice. She could hear it in his surprise. 'I do mean it.'
He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew his handkerchief, and held it out. 'I take no pleasure in sendin' my workers to an early grave.'
'I believe you.'
'Why?'
It was a simple question and yet she did not know how to explain herself. Margaret ducked her head, staring at the square bit of white cotton in her hands as she refolded it, 'You're not who I thought you were.'
'And who am I?'
'I hardly know.' She glanced up again. He was watching her with such intensity she could almost feel it on her skin. Had he always looked at her this way? 'I'm not certain I ever did know.'
'But?'
'But,' Margaret thought of the woman, the ring on her wrinkled hand, the tears she'd shed for this man, and her desperate words. If you cannot love him, then at least let him keep his hope. There was hope in his expression; she could see it, though he tried to hide it. The tiniest flicker, but there all the same, waiting. One misstep, one harsh word, and he would shatter. Margaret's fingers and lips tingled, her lungs unable to work. She understood then. If nothing else, she would tread gently; she must. Margaret pressed her fingers into his arm. 'I would like to—to know you better, I think.'
It was all she could offer him, and she prayed it would be enough.
The corner of his mouth moved ever so slightly upwards, 'I should like that very much.'
'Why?'
She asked the simple terrible question with all the same Northern frankness he'd asked her a moment before, and part of her was satisfied to see a flicker of discomfort. He frowned.
'Miss Hale, I— I feel quite strong—for you, that is—I— My feelings are—forgive me.' He let out a huff of frustration and tugged at his hair. ' I've never been in this position before—'
'Nor I,' She said it as a reprieve to his struggle.
'It's difficult to find the words,' he murmured.
'Then don't—please don't continue in that way. Not tonight.'
'Excuse me?'
'I do not wish to speak of this now,' she said quietly, gently, turning once more to face him. 'Perhaps—perhaps you might call on me tomorrow morning,'
'Tomorrow,' he repeated, but she wasn't certain he understood.
'Perhaps then you'll have found the right words.'
He studied her for another long moment, frowning as he came to whatever end his thoughts had run. 'And if,' he said haltingly, 'I 'ave found the right words, will you want to 'ear them?'
For a moment, Margaret couldn't speak. He was far braver than she, far more acquainted with the dangers of hope in such a cold deceptive world. He knew how much she could hurt him, and yet he stood, waiting. She admired him more at this moment than any other man of her acquaintance.
'You're a gentleman, Mr Thornton,' she said simply. 'I will hear anything you wish to say. Tomorrow.'
'And if,' he stepped closer, 'if I were to ask you to walk out with me? To court you proper, as a fine lady deserves?'
'I—I don't know,' she answered honestly. 'Mr Thornton, you must know I've never considered you that way.'
'Aye, I've guessed as much. Is that a no?' It was a quiet, chilly demand. But she felt his arm tremble, as if he were afraid to know.
'No, I—' Margaret stared at the watch chain hanging across his waistcoat. Could she trust the woman's claim that he loved her, and that in time she would come to love him as well? But how—how could she take such a terrible leap into a dim hazy future? 'I'm sorry.'
'For what?' his tired voice muffled into a strange softness as the fog curled in closer.
'I've not learned the proper way to—how to respond when—'
'When a man says what I've just done.' He finished for her, and she was grateful for the small mercy, knowing what it must cost him. She nodded. 'Are there others?' He finally asked, 'This 'appens to you every day, does it?'
'You know it does not, Mr Thornton.' Of course he knew. The ire of Milton gossips wasn't a thing hidden in the smoke and soot. She knew most people thought her a pretty but ignorant girl, a haughty and proud sort of girl. What Milton men would be lining up to walk out with her? 'There's no one—' No one else, her mind insisted.
'No London gentleman?'
'I've seen what London has to offer,' she said firmly. 'It wasn't to my liking, I assure you.'
He was quiet for a long while, their footsteps echoing strangely in the fog. 'And could Milton be more to your liking?'
"Mr Thornton,' she began, but then stopped, her focus caught once more on the glimmer of his watch chain. 'Do you know where we are?'
He paused and turned his head towards the thick wall of fog, 'Near enough to Crampton. No more than a mile.'
'Your watch—' the words felt thick in her throat. She had to know. 'May I see it?'
He frowned, but pulled the battered pocket watch from his waistcoat and held it out. She opened it, carefully reading the engraving on the inside. George S. Thornton
'Your father's watch.'
'It was, yes.'
'His middle name,' she said, rubbing a finger over the letter 's'. 'Seamus.'
'How did you—'
'It's your middle name too.' She glanced at the 'J.S.T.' stitched into the corner of the handkerchief she still held. Margaret raised her eyes to his face. His shock and surprise couldn't be hidden. 'You hate it.'
'No one knows that,' His voice was rough, barely a whisper.
No one except her. His wife.
The woman had spoken the truth. Margaret's hands shook and she took several trembling steps into the fog and mist, as if to flee, still clutching both handkerchief and pocket watch. Her heart beat a thundering rhythm in her chest.
He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.
'Miss Hale?' his voice followed her into the fog. She paused, looked over her shoulder. All she could see was his blue-black silhouette, gentled by the mist, his hair tousled, his clothes rumpled, and his weary posture. ' I know you do not care for me. ' He sighed. 'But I could not stay silent. Would you—would you at least do me the honour of considering what I've said?'
Margaret closed her eyes, heart still fluttering in her chest. It was too much, even if the woman was right. Too much, too soon—
'Please.'
And then a sudden warm wind blew across her face. He hadn't asked her to marry him. He'd only asked to walk out with her—to court her properly. A hard breath stuttered out of her, relief seeping into every inch of her skin.
'Mr Thornton,' Margaret turned back and looked up at him with a new fierce determination. There was time to come to know him, and herself. Time to discover the love that waited for both of them. 'I will consider your request and I promise you shall have my answer tomorrow morning.'
The change in him was so slight, she wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been watching him carefully. The small, almost-smile returned and his eyes softened. He did love her. He must, or he wouldn't look at her with so much warmth. A warm soft something, almost like a sigh—of relief? of anticipation?—spread through her body.
'Then I will come tomorrow.'
She took his arm again, shyly, and they arrived at the Crampton house just as the fog began to clear, the stars breaking through with their clear flickering light.
'Thank you for seeing me safely home,' she ascended the steps towards her front door. 'Wait,' she turned, 'I almost forgot.' Margaret held out his handkerchief and pocket watch.
For the first time they stood eye to eye. John reached out, hesitant, but he didn't take the offered bit of cotton or the watch. 'I must ask,' He brushed his fingertips at a damp strand of her hair. 'How is it that you know my middle name?'
'You wouldn't believe me,' Margaret did not pull away, even when he stepped closer. 'So I shan't tell you. Not yet, anyway.'
'Tomorrow then?' She shook her head. He lowered his hand and slipped his pocket watch into its usual place. She waited for him to take his handkerchief but he simply looked at her for a long silent moment. Then he stepped back, as if to go.
'But your handkerchief—'
'When you're ready to tell me, give it back.' That slight hesitant smile widened. 'I'll not ask again.'
She nodded, knowing she ought to retreat, but somehow unable to look away as he turned and walked back into the night. She clutched the folded paper to her chest, watching until he disappeared. A small sigh escaped her lips; a breath of hope for whatever tomorrow—and all the remaining tomorrows stretched out before them—would bring.
AN: Wrote this as a part of a collection I contributed to on A03. Thought I'd post here. Enjoy!
Should I continue this at all? Thoughts?
