A/N: A word in advance: No... As in: 'No, I don't consider the following scenario a very likely one'! But it was ever so much fun to lead our favourite couple astray virtually from the word 'go'. Hope you'll enjoy!
Before the Dawn | A North & South Continuation
01 |
She woke to the sensation of a warm firm body pressed against her back, and to the weight of an arm and hand on her hip. Not her own arm and hand, evidently. The ray of sunshine that had found its way in between the drawn curtains and had fallen on her face—thus waking her—tinted the insides of her lids a bright red. She moved her head and blinked, and slowly eased herself away from the man next to her and towards the edge of the bed.
She stilled as he rolled on his back, one arm flung wide while the other rested on his stomach. But his breath came slow and deep; he was not yet waking up.
Her hand reached out for her chemise, lying discarded on the floor. She drew it towards her and, in carefully slow motions, so as not to disturb him, pulled it over her head, and down. This was better—more like herself again. She was not yet sufficiently at ease to let him see her in the light of day.
She drew up her knees and rested her chin on them. Her eyes returned to the man, and she regarded him minutely... To look at him—all of him—boldly and directly, was a novel experience, and it came with a strange sense of possession. "He's mine!" she thought, but then, "I'm his!" was equally true. Maybe, "We are one!" came altogether closest to what it was between them.
She looked at him, and she revelled in the sight of him.
His face was relaxed in sleep, the clear-cut lines and planes softened for once, giving her an unexpected glimpse of the young boy he had been, despite the stubble that covered his chin and jaw. She longed to reach out and touch his cheek, to feel it, soft and prickly like stiff plush. She remembered how her skin had tingled as his chin brushed by, bestowing fleeting kisses upon the length of her body. Just to think of it made her quiver. Still, she restrained herself from touching him, lest she should wake him before she had her fill looking at him.
His hair was tousled from sleep. His lashes, resting like butterfly wings above his cheeks, were dark and long. The word 'luxurious' came to her mind—they almost seemed wasted on a man.
Her gaze travelled down his neck and to his chest. Pale skinned and with a hint of caramel colouring. How different from a woman's! Not soft, smooth, and hairless, but firm muscles and sinewy strength. To feel so much power held in leash, as his arms closed around her, had been both mesmerizing and startling.
She contemplated his hand, still resting on his stomach. Strong. His palms slightly calloused from manual labour. But shapely, with long fingers. Hands that had shaken initially, indicating his own inexperience. Making her realise that, perhaps, this might be as much uncharted territory for him as for her.
As for the rest of him—he was covered by the bed sheets, and her cheeks grew hot as she remembered how, during the previous night, his body had related to hers.
Consummation. She had first overheard the expression as a young girl, at a wedding reception she attended. Turning to her brother, who at six years older seemed infinitely wiser, she had asked, 'What are they going to eat?' He had fallen over backwards into the grass, shrieking with laughter—and she had felt like an idiot, though none the wiser for asking. But the image of this ridiculous misconception had stayed with her ever since.
In hindsight it was unexpectedly apt, after all. She had been consumed—her former self—and the woman who emerged in the light of day was a different being from the girl that had retired the night before. To be capable to give and take so freely, so without restraint, had been a strange revelation.
But now, in the prosaic light of another day, what did this make her? And what would he think about her?—and did she really want to sit and nourish her sprouting uncertainties rather than find out from him? On a sudden impulse she rolled over and, stretching across his chest, her lips softly touched upon his mouth.
One moment he was fast asleep, and the very next she found him fully awake and responding to her kiss, without even an instant of uncertainty in between. Their kiss lingered on and deepened until, with a whispered, "Thank you, my love," he slowly withdrew—and then he opened his eyes, slightly squinting at her from a few inches away.
"Thank you?" she repeated, bemused.
"Thank you for sparing me a moment of existential dread upon waking," he murmured, smiling, "Of thinking that all of yesterday—and all of last night!—had only been a vivid dream and that I would find myself alone in my bed at dawn, and with my arms empty." He rolled over with her in his arms until they lay side by side, then—rising to his elbow—he looked down at her, his expression back to serious, but his eyes tender. "Are you regretful, love?"
When she shook her head in reply, he continued, "You know that I didn't intend this to happen—and a part of me still thinks that a better man should have withstood... But now that it has happened, I cannot feel sorry, or ashamed—"
"You've pledged yourself to me yesterday, just like I have given myself to you," she reminded him.
"Yes. To take effect at some time in the future—That was the point of it, wasn't it?" he softly replied.
"But then, neither of us said how long in the future—"
For some time, while the train rattled north, there were no words. Words required time and thought to form. But for the present both time and reason were suspended, and the only thing that remained was sensations—the touch of lips on lips, the taste of salt as happy tears coursed down their cheeks and mingled with their kisses, fingers shyly exploring each other, and scents, faintly familiar and yet excitingly new at close quarters.
Eventually he said, "I am being presumptuous again... I haven't even asked you." When he saw her questioning look, he added, "Asked you to marry me... This sorry state of affairs must end immediately."
He made to rise from his seat but was stopped at once by Margaret who, with an alarmed look at the less than spotless floor of their train compartment, exclaimed, "Don't you even think about kneeling in front of me, Mr Thornton!"
"All right, then," he conceded with a good-natured smile. Instead of going down on his knees he took a seat right opposite from her while he said, "I might have toppled over halfway into my declaration, with the train bumping along so appallingly—and where would that leave us?" Then he took her hand. "Miss Hale. Will you do me the great honour to grant me your hand in marriage?"
Margaret dimpled, for one moment tempted to reply, Only my hand? And what about the rest of me? But she knew that this was caused by nerves. So, when she did answer, she made an effort to do so in form. "Mr Thornton. I am honoured and pleased, and I gladly consent."
He raised her left hand to his lips and kissed the base of the finger that would one day—soon!—wear his ring.
Then he took hold of her other hand. His face was solemn. "I, John George Thornton, will take thee, Margaret Hale, to be my wedded wife, to..." He stumbled a little over the wording.
"Oh! The Rite of Betrothal," Margaret breathed, and then her eyes clung to his face, waiting for him to find his bearings.
"... to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health... to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according... according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."
Margaret gave him a radiant smile of pure happiness as she replied, "I, Margaret Hale, will take thee, John George Thornton, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth." As a parson's daughter she had quietly attended many a wedding in her childhood, sitting at the very back of the nave, and she had long since known the vows by heart.
The kiss they exchanged to seal their pledge was chaste and reverent. Then they sat, holding hands and gazing at one another—and they would have kept looking until the deepening gloom of dusk would have obscured them from each other's view...
"How long in the future?—The general idea seems to imply a wedding ceremony at church."
"If it wasn't for my perverse notion of superiority at the time, we would be married for more than a year now, John."—John. Calling him by his given name, after years of thinking about him as 'Mr Thornton', still made her feel giddy.
"So much stood between us for so long," he said, his mood turning to pensive. "And yesterday, all of a sudden, you were coming home with me, taking a leap of faith with the abandon of youth. I envy you your faith, Margaret. I am not an optimist by nature, and I have but rarely allowed myself to hope... Therefore, until you are truly mine—and I yours—I shall live in fear that something will happen to separate us. Hence the Rite of Betrothal... as strong a link as can be formed while the vows are not yet spoken in front of the altar."
Her fingers smoothed away the frown upon his brow. "Nothing will happen," she said with confidence. "My innermost feelings tell me that I am your wife already. We exchanged our vows, and last night... last night I became a woman in your arms." She blushed but didn't avert her eyes. "And while I shall welcome the blessings of the Church upon our marriage, I am indifferent to how our union would appear in the eyes of the world."
"How courageous you are," he said earnestly. "I sincerely hope that so much fortitude will never be put to the test."
"Hush," she whispered, resting her cheek upon his chest and feeling the strong even beat of his heart. "We shall be looking to the future—"
They would have kept looking at one another for as long as daylight lasted—if it wasn't for a sudden terrible screeching of metal on metal. Then the train shook violently and abruptly bumped to a halt.
"What was that?" Margaret exclaimed, alarmed. John jumped to his feet and, pulling down the sash, leant out of the window.
"As far as I can tell the engine and both carriages in front of us are not standing on the railway tracks any longer. It appears that we have derailed," he replied.
"Derailed?"
"Calm yourself, love," John reassured her. "There's not much of an embankment, and we were going quite slowly, so there was no real danger... It happens more often than one should think." He sighed, returning to his seat. "It is a nuisance, however, and—" He checked his pocket watch. "—with more than an hour to go, it being almost dark, and this train stuck in the middle of nowhere with no telegraph office nearby, we may not arrive at Milton before tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Despite being aware of the slight absurdity of her manner, Margaret couldn't help parroting his words. She was overwrought, and with all the excitement of this past day, she felt herself coming to the end of her tether.
"I'm sorry, Margaret," John said, taking her in his arms. She wearily rested her head against his shoulder. "I'm afraid, this is more than you bargained for when you decided to come home with me earlier today." He placed a kiss on the crown of her head, and then tightened his arms around her. "Staff will come shortly and inform us on what's going to happen."
Ten minutes later they heard the sound of compartment doors, getting opened and closed again in rapid succession, draw nearer; eventually the conductor stood before them.
"Ah. Someone still travelling with us, after all!" he exclaimed. "Evening, sir. Madam. Sorry for the inconvenience. Unfortunately we will be detained until tomorrow... We'll need a crane, and daylight for the repairs—there's quite some damage. And it's more than three miles to the next telegraph office to raise the alarm."
"The lady can't spend the night on the train—" John said sharply. He became anxious about the fact that this day, so blissfully happy until a few minutes before, was rapidly turning awry. Moreover, Margaret was exhausted; she needed to rest.
"There's a hamlet called Brookford about half a mile further along those tracks," the conductor informed him. "You may find a bed there for the night at the old coaching inn—Quite a nice place, actually, and with very decent food... Pricy, though," he added as an afterthought. But then, looking at the couple, he concluded that costs may not be a hindrance. "No stagecoaches coming that way any longer, I'm afraid. Service terminated after the railway line opened."
"Right. We'll better be on our way, then." Turning to Margaret John said, "Will you manage the walk along the tracks?"
"Of course," Margaret said, putting on a brave smile, "Anything for a decent bed."
While the conductor continued his way along the row of carriages, John alighted and, after first taking down their carpet bags, he carefully lifted Margaret to the ground and across the ditch. On the other side they found a footpath which followed the tracks. Taking their bags in one hand and circling his betrothed's waist with the other, John led the way towards what would—hopefully—turn out to be Brookford. A few isolated figures were headed in the same direction on the path ahead of them, but not as many as would give him real cause to think that all rooms at the inn would be taken by the time they arrived. Coaching inns tended to be big, or so he reassured himself.
Well, this particular one wasn't! John was quite appalled when they finally stood in front of the welcomingly lit and well maintained, albeit modestly sized, inn. They quickly entered to find the proprietor before any more stranded train passengers could arrive.
They came across the landlord in the dining lounge where the latter was serving drinks to some of the travellers who had arrived before them. At John's inquiry about guest rooms for the night he answered, "It's your lucky day, sir. And madam... Just the one room left!" When he saw their look of consternation, he added, "But it's a good one." Then his casual glance went to Margaret's hand, and to the lack of a wedding ring in place. He shrugged. "Well, take it or leave it... The choice is yours. Tonight I won't be short of guests; so if you don't want it, others will."
"No, it's all right. We'll take it." And to Margaret he whispered, "Don't worry. There will be a settee or an armchair for me to sleep on. You shall have a proper bed for tonight."
Margaret gave him a wan smile. She had reached the point where a good night's rest took precedence over propriety.
The room they were shown to was right at the top of the building, an attic with two pretty dormer windows and a sloping ceiling of criss-crossing oak beams and rafters. It was a handsome room in a rustic way, and the height of it almost—but not quite—made up for what it wanted in size.
There was a deplorable absence of comfortably upholstered seats, however. The bed at least was a fair size and was covered in crisp linen sheets—so, Margaret's needs would be met—but other than that there was only a straight-backed wooden armchair and small side table by one of the windows. John sighed inwardly at the prospect of a sleepless night; and perhaps sleepless not just from lack of comfort.
He addressed the maid who had shown them upstairs. "Could we get some tea sent up here? Right now—and some hot water and towels, to wash."
The maid curtsied. "At once, sir. Something else yo' need?"
"Yes. We'd like to take a meal downstairs in... let's say... about half an hour."
"It's game pie t'night—"
John cast a questioning look at Margaret who smiled back at him. "Right. Game pie it is. And some claret... Incidentally, we'd prefer a table by ourselves."
Within a few minutes both the tea and a ewer of hot water arrived, along with towels and soap—which led to their first moments of embarrassment as they tried to sort out the logistics of an overnight stay at such close quarters.
"I'll be over at the armchair and have some tea while you—" Margaret said brightly, indicating towards the washstand. She quickly stepped to the side table where tea was waiting. Cup in hand she proceeded to the window, assiduously looking out, even though there was nothing to see but the black of night. She heard how, on the other side of the room, water was poured into the washbasin, then some vigorous splashing which went on for some time—while she staunchly curbed her vivid imagination from supplying her with the corresponding images—until the basin was emptied in the bucket under the washstand. Eventually John stepped behind her and touched her arm.
"I'll be waiting outside, skulking at the top of the stairs." He gave her a lopsided smile. "Take as long as you need, and then call me when you are ready to go downstairs." He went outside and quietly closed the door behind him.
Once he had left Margaret went to her bag and opened it. As she stared at its meagre contents, the whole madness of her spur-of-the-moment decision to follow John Thornton back to Milton came over her. She hadn't even come prepared for an overnight stay, let alone to spend any length of time in Milton—and spend it where exactly? At the Thorntons' home at Marlborough Mills and under the same roof as John? ... But then, why not? With his mother in residence it wouldn't be entirely inappropriate, although it might cause some raised eyebrows... and maybe she could borrow some things from Fanny until her own luggage arrived.
But how to cope right now?—that was the rather more pressing question. Her bag contained some toiletries, a spare pair of stockings, and another thin white blouse (in case of a mishap). However, both pieces of clothing should better be reserved for the following day. So, there was really nothing much she could do about her appearance.
Resignedly, Margaret decided that some things just couldn't be helped—besides, she started to feel hungry—and so she drew the curtains, undid her outer garments, and washed such areas of skin which became accessible by these half measures. Then she put her clothes back on, smoothed down her hair, and rubbed a little scented lotion into her skin—and finally, donning her jacket and closing the buttons, she was prepared to meet whatever the evening in general—and dinner in particular—might hold.
"Let's go and have our meal," she said as she opened the door. From his post at the landing John beamed at her and offered his arm to take her downstairs.
Food was simple but surprisingly good; they had an omelette aux herbes as starters, followed by roasted ceps and game pie with a sauce of wild cranberries, and the bottle of claret had been opened some time in advance to let it breathe.
"To our shared future," John said as they toasted each other. They sipped at their glasses, all the while exchanging deep looks. "Sorry about the ring," he added after a moment's silence.
"What ring?" she asked, confused.
"Well, there isn't one yet, is there?—an engagement ring."
"Oh." Margaret remained quiet while she quickly considered their situation. "How long will it take to obtain a licence?"
"By applying to a proctor?—Possibly within the day, but by the end of this week on the outside, I should think."
"I don't hold with long engagements—or grand wedding breakfasts, for that matter," Margaret said. "I should love to get married quickly and quietly... and I shall infinitely prefer a wedding ring to an engagement ring." She laughed self-consciously. "Just listen to us; engaged for all but a couple of hours and already we are discussing technicalities!"
"You are right, love," John admitted repentantly. "Tonight should be reserved for us to get acquainted with each other... So, will you tell me about yourself?"
"Where to start?"
"How about... your brother?" John asked softly.
"You know about Fred?" Margaret stared at him.
"Nicholas gave me the bare bones of the story just recently—enough to make me understand how greatly I misjudged you—but I should like to hear the whole of it; if you're at liberty to tell me, that is."
"Oh... There's very little of a secret left these days. Frederick has renounced his country of birth and has settled down in Spain for good; he even changed his name. He has given up on a pardon—though I have not—and he will not try to return. The latter was the reason why I had to keep quiet about his visit; in case he had to return to consult with his lawyer. He made me promise at the time." She looked down at her hands , clasping and unclasping at the memory of past distress. "It tormented me then, not being able to tell you! I knew I could trust you, and I knew that you thought badly of me—and with every cause, too—but I had given my word, and I saw no way around it." She looked up. "I'm sorry."
"It is for me to apologise. Rather than go by appearances I should have trusted in your character." He reached out across the table to take her hand. "Instead I let jealousy get the better of me."
"Was it simply the fact that there seemed to be another man?"
"No. It was that you were prepared to lie for him... that this appeared to be some shameful secret relationship, so utterly unworthy of you, but one you seemed to prefer, regardless."
"It was so confusing at the time... My brother is a good man—during the mutiny he acted on behalf of those who couldn't protect themselves—but his deeds got him on the wrong side of the law. In order to protect someone I love from prosecution I had to lie to the police. But I'd do it again and bear the shame and consequences... Given the same circumstances, I would lie for you, too," she added quietly.
"Hopefully this will never become necessary," he replied, his eyes shining with emotion. To lighten the mood he said, "And since I don't meditate a career in the Royal Navy, chances of finding myself in a mutiny are slim, thank goodness."
"Are you a good sailor?" she asked, entering into the spirit of things.
"An untested one, I'm afraid. Apart from the occasional Channel crossing... Why?"
"One day I should like to sail to Spain with you, to visit my brother. Do you think Marlborough Mills could cope without you for a few weeks?"
"Not right now as a honeymoon... Not while I—while we—bring the mill back to business, but eventually, yes, of course!"
"Something to look forward to, then," Margaret smiled.
"Amongst other things?" he teased her.
"Amongst many other things."
Over the main course John spoke of his chequered relationship with his sister Fanny. "It's not just that we are so many years apart, we are also diametrically different... It would have been good to have a more sympathetic sibling during my... well, my difficult youth. Instead I felt like a surrogate father, but one who was constantly failing in his duties. I must admit that it has come as a relief in my most recent troubles that Fanny is taken good care of now."
"From what I understand, you had quite enough to deal with in your youth, even without such an added burden as being a father figure to an infant sister."
"At least I was lucky to have my mother—"
Margaret nodded, but refrained from comment. Coming face to face with Mrs Thornton on the morrow was the one thing she quietly dreaded. At least for this night she didn't want her apprehension about the forthcoming encounter—and about their future life under the same roof— taint her pleasure in John's undivided company.
Instead she told him about her recent life at Harley Street, and about Mr Bell's unusual decision, some three months before, to make her his heir.
Dessert consisted of pears and Stilton—the latter declined by both—but the pears reminded Margaret of her father's favourite pear tree in the garden of their Helstone parsonage, which in turn begged the next question.
"Why were you in Helstone today, John?"
He toyed with his paring knife, looking introspective. "To find closure, perhaps... To find some way to move on after having failed with all my aspirations." He sighed. "I couldn't come to see you.. and to be honest, I wouldn't have wanted to see you—not after having been defeated so completely!—but the love I've felt for you, even though I knew it would never happen, has been like a thread of gold in my life... and I guess I wanted to connect with it—with you, rather—by visiting the place that I've so much associated with your person."
"And how was it?" she softly asked, remembering her own disappointment when she had been there with Mr Bell.
"Beautiful... Serene." He smiled sadly. "It is almost inconceivable to me that you can contemplate living in Milton after Helstone."
"It is beautiful," she admitted. "A beautiful empty shell—My heart is somewhere else these days... So don't you worry that I shall be pining for the South! ... Anyway, we can go visit if we like; it's not another planet."
"Not sure about that, actually!" he retorted, and they both laughed. Eventually he said, "It's been a long day, and it's quite late already. Time for you to go to bed, don't you think?"
John reached out for his pocket watch.
"How late is it?" Margaret asked.
"A quarter past seven... We quite overslept."
"Are we supposed to be anywhere at any particular time?"
"No. But I generally get up well before six in the morning," John said. "Anyway, we should try to find out when there will be a train to take us to Milton."
"I wished we could stay," she said wistfully. "Once we are in Milton things will be different. We will be different, with the outside world resuming its existence and mundane matters vying for our attention."
"There's that," he admitted. "And such will be our life, henceforth; busy, and with many demands on our time and care... Maybe we should keep this place our secret, and return on occasion whenever we need to remind ourselves who we are as a couple."
"Promise?"
"Yes. I promise."
His lips traced the outline of her face to her earlobe. "I love your scent," he murmured as he nuzzled her neck. "What is it?"
"Sweet almond milk," she replied, a trifle breathless.
"You must never change it." He placed a line of fleeting kisses on her shoulder, easing away the fine batiste that covered it. "I..."
A clatter outside their door rudely interrupted him; a moment later followed a knock at the door and a brisk voice calling out, "Mornin'! 'Ere's the 'ot water. Breakfast in twenty minutes, if yo' want some."
"Thank you," John called back, "Just leave everything outside the door." Turning to Margaret he said wryly, "So much for discreet service—"
"Quite a call to 'rise and shine', wasn't it?" she said, adding rather more self-consciously, "Would you mind turning around, so as not to watch while I make my ablutions?"
The crash of the rickety side table falling over roused them both with a start. He must have dislodged it while turning over in the uncomfortable chair, in his attempt to find a sleeping position which would at least be bearable for another half-hour.
After a little fumbling for the matches, Margaret managed to light a candle. Blinking dazedly under a cloud of tousled hair, she sat up in bed. They mutely regarded his situation in the flickering glow. Eventually she said, "The bed is quite wide enough. Why don't you sleep on one side, while I move over to the other?"
"I don't think this is a good idea," he gruffly replied. The idea to stretch out his tall frame on a proper bed had its appeal, more so the longer he remained seated in this torture chair. Straight backed, with carvings that poked into his back and spine, and not even his coat enough to cushion them. But could he trust himself, so near her?
"Have you slept at all yet?" Margaret asked, concerned. He shrugged. "So, you haven't... It might be better if you came over and got some rest."
The road to hell is paved with good intentions, John thought, but he plodded over to the far side of the bed anyway. Tiredness was gradually sapping his will. He took off his waistcoat, loosened his cravat and undid the buttons of collar and cuffs. Then he took off his shoes and socks, and covering himself with his coat, he stretched out on top of the blankets. Bliss.
"Let's go back to sleep now," he murmured. "Good night, Margaret."
As soon as the candle was extinguished, the darkness was so absolute it had a texture of its own.
John Thornton lay perched on the edge of the bed, lest some part of his body was to touch any part of hers, and stared into the velvety darkness ahead of him. Sleep still eluded him; too much was he aware of the soft mattress tilting towards the middle. Margaret seemed to have returned to sleep within moments, and within minutes she turned over and lay right in the middle of the bed. So close that he could feel the warmth of her body, no matter how much further he edged away.
He wondered if she had any notion of the devastating effect of her thinly clad person on him. But he doubted it. While she was mature beyond her actual years in many things, she was remarkably innocent in others. Despite her loveliness she had never stricken him as sensual. And so she was artless and trusting with him in ways a more 'aware' woman would never have dared; all the while he was clinging to his resolve.
Exhaustion must have taken its toll eventually. Because, when he woke the next time, she nestled against him, sleeping; her head rested at his shoulder and her hand pressed against his heart, inside his shirt. While his mind still tried to make sense of the situation in the pitch blackness, his body reacted with appalling promptness. He groaned in frustration.
She stirred as he tried to slide out his shoulder and arm from under her head. Her lips found the place below his ear and sleepily kissed him there. "Hmm... stubbly," she mumbled, and her hand caressed his cheek.
"Margaret. Please, don't—" he pleaded, arresting her hand.
"You smell of the meadows at Helstone... of fresh-cut grass," she whispered as her lips traced a path along his neck to the hollow at the base of his throat. He felt the flicker of her tongue. "But you taste like the sea—"
It was his undoing, tearing down his last defences. One day soon I will have to pay a price for this, was his last rational thought before he shed his remaining clothes and slipped between the sheets—then he let her presence engulf him.