Epilogue
No elaborate flower arrangements bedecked the Thorntons' parish church on the fourth morning after John's release from prison, three days after the new license had been obtained. Both bride and groom had expected it to be a very private affair at such short notice. But trust Miltonians to spread the word—and who wouldn't want to be present at the possibly most talked-about wedding of the year? Therefore, the church was full to the last place with Milton dignitaries and workers alike by the time Margaret arrived.
John's eyes followed her the length of the aisle as she made her way to the fore at Henry Lennox's arm. A susurrus—quickly stifled—speaking of shock and indignation, went like a wave through the assembled congregation as they caught sight of the bride.
"You look very lovely—and very pregnant," John murmured as Margaret reached him in front of the altar. Ever since the day of the trial she had stopped wearing her corsets, and now, for the first time in public, there was a noticeable—and very telltale—bulging at the front of her fine celadon-green day dress.
"I thought we might as well admit it to the world today," she whispered back.
There was no time for further communication. Striving to put right the wrong that the young couple had so obviously engaged in prior to their nuptials, the Reverend Darrell quickly entered into the ceremony. "Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today in the sight of God..."
On their walk back along the aisle towards the porch, smiling graciously, Margaret softly said, "A little like running the gauntlet, isn't it?"
"Let's ride it out like the Royal Family; smile, wave, don't react to any gibes—and never, ever comment," John replied in a low voice, his smile reserved, but not once slipping from his face.
Outside the porch they stopped to receive the congratulations of the assembled onlookers. And come forward they did. First the men, John Thornton's fellow mill masters prominently amongst them, who offered their best wishes to an accompaniment of winks and nudges—and while John indeed refrained from reacting, his expression grew gradually stonier. The women were more reluctant, but eventually they approached the bride, their voices unnaturally high from forced cheerfulness as they commented on the wonderful ceremony, the beautiful sunny day, "So untypical at this time of year—and for Milton, too!", the lovely dress... The only question that never came up was when the happy event was due to take place.
At one point John surreptitiously drew Margaret's attention towards the right side of the square where Henry Lennox was standing in conversation with Hannah—and with Ann Latimer clinging to his arm, while Mr Latimer stood beside them, smiling benignly.
Eventually John led his bride to the coach waiting just outside the churchyard. Through the coach window they waved back at the dispersing multitude until they turned a corner and were out of sight. Then they collapsed into their seats and, after one look at each other, they began to laugh. They laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks and Margaret started to hiccup. "S-sorry," she stammered. "I k-know this is not really funny... b-but I can't help it."
"I know... nerves," he said, wiping away his tears. Then, rather more serious, "That was awful. I'm so sorry, Margaret. This was not the ceremony you deserved... You most certainly never expected anything like this in your wildest dreams."
"Well... it is a sunny day, I did walk to the church—the whole length of the churchyard—and I am quite fond of this dress. That's not too bad... So, all-in-all, things could have been worse."
"Worse?—How on earth?"
"There could have been no wedding... You could still be in prison," Margaret softly reminded him. "People didn't outright shun us, and in due time they might accept us back into Milton society... We may not get all the best invitations—but then, do we really want to spend our evenings with the Fosters and the Browns?"
"I love you," John said, kissing her very tenderly. "I love your courage, your strength, and your kindness. I love your infinite ability to see the silver linings—"
Gentle fingertips smoothed away the last traces of his frown. "Let us forget about the oddness of this day—and remember the laughter!" Margaret said as her lips returned to his.
"Let there be kisses," he murmured—and no more words were needed.
In the small hours of the night all candles were extinguished, and the fire had burnt down to embers. There was but a glimmer of light coming through the gaps between the drapes.
In one particular respect this wedding had been infinitely better than what could commonly be expected, Margaret mused as she lay awake in the warm darkness behind the drawn bed curtains. John's arms enveloped her, and one of his hands rested against her belly. The baby was awake too, more and more active by the day, and she felt its movements right under his hand. John's deep and even breath brushed the nape of her neck as he slept, his body curved against her back.
The wedding day might have left something to be desired, but the wedding night was... well... quite a thing apart.
Rather than experience pangs of bridal nerves at the thought of first marital relations, their love-making had been like a homecoming. Slow and deliberate. Fervent, and yet familiar—and what new bride could claim as much for her wedding night?
The coach had taken them to the inn at Brookford. Margaret had given a little squeal—half embarrassment, half delight—when she recognised her surroundings. "Not the attic room, is it?" she teased.
"I don't wish to see that armchair ever again. So, not the attic room... Not unless something went very wrong. Which well might have happened—knowing my luck."
It wasn't the attic room. It was, however, an attic room, albeit a rather larger one, and one fitted with a fine fireplace and plenty of candleholders. And a large four-poster bed, complete with tester and curtains. "The wedding suite," the proprietor proudly announced.
This close to the winter solstice, daylight was on the wane by the time they had taken a light meal and were retiring to their room. In their absence someone had stoked a good wood fire, drawn the curtains in front of the dormer windows, and lit a candle beside the bed. The sounds from the tap room below died away as soon as the sturdy door closed behind them, and the room felt like a world of its own—intimate and cosy.
"I have one regret," John began.
"More regrets?—surely not!" Margaret softly chided him.
"Yes, one particular regret... I never saw you that first night, not when we made love, and not afterwards, while you slept in my arms. It was pitch dark throughout it all... And the next morning you were awake well before me."
He went to the mantelpiece, picked up a taper, and held it to the flame. Then he walked from candle to candle and lit every single one of them. "This time I want to see you... We shall leave the lights on," he said as he blew out the taper and returned to her side.
"For the last couple of days I've been wondering what I could give you as a morning gift," John said reluctantly. He lay warm against her side, both of them bathed in the pale light of a ray of winter sun that seeped in through the east-facing window, and, under the blankets, his hand gently followed the lines of her arm and body, to return, time and again, to the taut swelling of her belly. "Especially after you have given me so much—"
"Oh. Have I?"
"Yourself, the mill—a child," he said softly. "I am blessed with riches... And there I stood, with my matter-of-fact mind and my lack of imagination, and all I could come up with was—this." He twisted and reached out for a large, fat envelope lying on the bedside table, and passed it over to her.
"What is it?"
"Open it up... But before you get too excited, it's not a piece of..."
"... of bad poetry? What a shame! I was looking forward to that," Margaret teased, opening the flap. Inside there was a sheaf of papers. She sat up to have a proper look.
"It's not for lack of trying. I did try, but it turned out just that—bad. Really bad, I mean... I could have dedicated my treatise on worker-and-master relationship in the cotton industries to you, but it's not yet finished, and once I've discussed it with Higgins, my ideas will lie in tatters, anyway. So..."
"John, you're gabbling." Margaret rifled through the papers, stopping ever so often to take a closer look.
"I know—"
She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Those are wonderful... And they are all—me!"
"Yes. I started to draw you—your face—whenever I was despairing in my cell... It started out clumsily enough, but eventually I felt that I caught some of your essence... It was a solace."
She stared at the portraits, fanned out on the bed. The perspective was ever so slightly unusual... it was the way he saw her from his superior height. The way she was in his eyes.
"They are beautiful," she breathed. "Far more beautiful than the real me... John, you have turned me into an idol! And now I shall be afraid that I won't live up to your expectations."
"Sometimes, in the dark, it needs a beacon to guide you on your way. But now that I've returned to you, I infinitely prefer the softer glow shining from your eyes."
"So you'll make do with my imperfections, and all?"
"Most of all with your imperfections—they tell me that you are real... That this is life—"
—
The End
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Check out my brand-new sequel to this story (also to be found here at fanfiction dot net): A Tissue of Lies
A/N:
Thank you all for reading, and for the support you gave this story. Your reviews frequently made my day!—especially in this trying time and age. Although this story is complete now, please keep commenting. I regularly check up on my older stories and am delighted when I find that there's yet a new review.
As for the story itself...
If there ever was such a thing as a 'bucket list story', this one was mine back in 2018—when I first wrote this piece (However, this here is a recently edited version). Items on said list were:
- a crime and/or courtroom drama
- a kiss-to-wedding continuation, but with a twist because I'm no good at the straightforward romance stuff
- a scandalous wedding
- make Margaret and Mrs Thornton bond over a common goal
- let someone unlikely (i.e. definitely someone other than Mr Thornton) save the day
- a bedroom scene chapter
As for the crime/courtroom drama... 'Beware of what you wish for,' seems appropriate in hindsight. This story was a challenge in many respects: The continuity of an inquiry and court case proved to be quite a logistical nightmare, complete with spreadsheet and timeline. I can just hope that it turned out to be more or less conclusive, and that I didn't give the game away too early. And don't get me started on the English judicial system pre 1972! I tried to do my research on it—I really did. But the source material was vague in some cases and downright contradictory in others... So, eventually, I gave up on trying to understand it and made it up as I went along. Apologies for that! Please don't hesitate to point out any glaring mistakes.
Regarding the bedroom scene in the beginning... I don't write actual sex scenes (because you need to have a knack for it - which I don't), but I absolutely wanted to include a juicy, though still T-rated, bedroom scene. At first, when I was toying with ideas before I started with this story, I contemplated going full 'Death Comes to Pemberley' mode and have Mr Barlow die. But then, I didn't feel up to taking the whole thing to the assizes in York and see through a murder trial. On the other hand, I didn't want Margaret to just shrug it off ('Pooh... what's another five years?'), so I came up with the idea to raise the stakes by introducing 'consequences'... So, you see, my opening scene wasn't entirely gratuitous—and also not just included for the, admittedly, great fun of writing it!
And finally... Margaret's imperfections: A cheeky reader (at the now closed-down forum where I first posted this story) pointed me towards sonnet 130. This is what The Bard has to say about imperfections, LOL...
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)
William Shakespeare - 1564-1616
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.