They say it gets worse before it gets better...I'm afraid this is the case for Margaret Hale /
In the Face of Grief
When Margaret woke from a restless sleep, the next morning, her face was still swollen from her tears.
She felt utterly exhausted, drained. It was as though she had cried out every feeling she had held, to make room for complete emptiness.
A knock on the door startled her.
"Mrs Thornton?"
She groaned inwardly. She wished Jane would stop calling her that. It only served to remind her over and over again of her dreadful fate.
"There is breakfast for you, Mrs Thornton. Mr Thornton asked me to take it up to your room, as you have not been feeling well."
With an annoyed hiss, Margaret walked over and opened the door.
For a few seconds, Jane only stared at her, and Margaret realized that she probably looked a sight, with her eyes red from crying and her hair tousled from tossing and turning all night.
"Thank you, Jane", she told the girl, taking the tray out of her hands. This seemed to bring the young maid to her senses. She looked down embarrassedly, curtsied, and then dashed away as fast as her legs would carry her.
Margaret put down the tray on her writing desk and sat with a painful sigh. There was tea, milk, toast, some ham and eggs and a few pieces of fruit.
And then, there was an envelope, tucked under her plate.
She carefully pulled it out and opened it to find a single piece of paper in her husband's hand:
Margaret,
I know that there is nothing I can do, to ease your pain at the loss of your friend.
I thoroughly comprehend your anger and your wish to not see me or speak to me. It is fully justified.
I was wrong, Margaret. I lashed out and I was unwilling to listen to you.
I wish I had, for I may have realized how serious the girl's condition truly was.
The fault is mine alone, and I take full responsibility for it.
I abused my power as your husband. It is something I should never have done, and shall never do again.
I know that admitting my faults will not redeem me in your eyes, but I still feel the need to apologize.
If there is anything I can do to ease your pain, in your time of grief, please do not hesitate to call upon me.
I know it comes a bit late, but I have spoken to my mother and informed her that neither of us will interfere with you in these matters again.
You are free to go and visit any friends you wish to see, no matter who they are.
Please, take care of yourself, and do reach out to me, if there is anything I can do.
Yours truly
John
Her fist clenched around the letter, crumpling it in her hand. With hot tears of anger streaming down her face, she drew back her arm and tossed it all the way across the room, with all her might.
She watched it hit the wall, before falling to the floor near the window in a pathetic, wrinkled ball.
Seconds ticked by as she stared at it, unable to tear her eyes away.
She did not know who she was more angry at, him or herself, for letting his words actually get to her like this.
Margaret stood slowly and walked over to the window. She picked it up the letter with a trembling hand, carefully straightening the paper again, to look at the words for a long moment.
Then, she cried once more.
Bessy Higgins was laid to rest at the graveyard that same afternoon.
As Margaret stood at the grave, watching the coffin of her friend being lowered into the ground, it seemed to her as though she could never feel happy again.
Mary cried silently beside her, while Nicholas just stood, apparently in a daze of sadness, unable to make sense of his child passing before himself.
Margaret went back to Francis Street with them afterwards. She had brought a basket with food, so they could at least have a small funeral banquet in honour of Bessy, and they spoke fondly of the girl, recollecting some of the memories they had shared together.
It was almost dark, when she finally made her way back to Marlborough Mills. She met Jane in the entrance hall and asked her to bring up dinner to her room, as she was not feeling well. She was not ready to meet any of the Thorntons.
She still felt unsure what to make of Mr Thornton's letter.
She had been so angry with him, and still was. His apology had appeared genuine, but then again, maybe he just had a way with words.
It did not make anything better. It did not rouse Bessy from the dead, nor did it give the girl back those last days of her life, when she would have needed her friend by her side.
But he had apologized, she mused. It could not have been easy for a man like him, to swallow his pride and admit to having been wrong.
And no one had stepped in her way today, when she had left the house, to go to the Higgins's, so it appeared that he had been genuine in his claim to not interfere with her any longer.
As angry as she still was at him, deep down, she had to admit that this whole situation could not have been easy on him either.
He had not entered into this marriage any more freely than she had herself, and she imagined that it must have been overwhelming for him as well, even if he tried hard not to show it.
She was sure that, in many regards, he simply did not understand her, which was unavoidable, as the two of them came from completely different spheres.
She knew he was angry at the worker's union, and at Nicholas, as one of their leaders. She was aware that the strike had caused a certain amount of damage to his business, and that was what he saw, when he looked at the strikers.
He had not spoken to them as she had, he did not know of their home lives and personal struggles. All he knew was that they had attacked his mill, destroyed his property and hurled stones at him.
Could she really blame him? He was not a bad person, she was sure. Misguided and somewhat blinkered in his views, yes, but not evil.
His apology could not change the outcome of his actions, but it was an attempt at reconciliation, and she could not help but give him at least some credit for that.
After Jane had brought up a tray with her dinner, Margaret sat at her writing desk, eating in silence. She barely tasted anything, but knew she had to force down a little bit of food, to sustain her body.
She had just finished her plate, when there was a knock on the door.
"Margaret?"
It was Mr Thornton.
She closed her eyes with an internal sigh. What could he want now?
"Margaret!", he insisted once more. His voice sounded strained, with a strange air of urgency.
"Yes?", she eventually managed to utter.
"An express courier has just come by with a note from your father", she heard him say. "He fears your mother is not doing well, and you should come by Crampton immediately."
Within a fraction of a second, she was on her feet.
'No!'
'No, no, no, no, please not now! Not so soon after Bessy! I cannot handle it now!'
She could not breathe.
She could hear her blood thrumming in her ears, as she threw open the door to come face to face with her husband.
He looked pale, his eyes full of concern, as he took in her features.
"I have called for the carriage. Allow me to accompany you there."
Unable to form a reply, she only nodded, and then quickly grabbed her coat and bonnet, and rushed down the stairs beside him.
The carriage was already waiting for them in the courtyard. He held out his hand to help her up the steps, and she took it without hesitation.
A minute later, they were on their way.
John sat in silence, as the dark silhouettes of brick buildings drifted past the windows of the carriage.
There were many things he would have liked to say, but the words would not come.
Once more, he longed to take her in his arms, hold her to him and just be there for her, but he knew that, after all, that had happened, he was likely the last person whose attention would be welcome to her.
Occasionally, he dared to throw glances at her, when she was not looking. She was white as a sheet, her hands in her lap clenching her handkerchief.
She had been through so much in these past weeks, how was she going to hold up any longer?
Before long, the carriage came to a halt, and they walked up the steps to the Hale's front door. Dixon opened. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and her face was of an unhealthy, greyish colour.
"Oh Miss Margaret", she breathed, having completely forgotten that her young mistress was now a married woman.
"You came! Please, do hurry. There is not much time to lose!"
They bolted up the stairs into Mrs Hale's bedroom.
Mr Hale was sitting by her side, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He looked up at their entrance and slowly rose on trembling knees, to embrace his daughter and cling to her for a moment, as more tears made their way down his cheeks.
Then, they both turned towards Mrs Hale, who appeared to be asleep.
Margaret sat and took her mother's hand in hers. At this, the older woman wearily opened her eyes.
"Margaret", she murmured. "Margaret – you are here. You've come."
"Of course, mamma", Margaret whispered to her, her hand tightening around the other's.
No word was spoken for a long time, as they sat together.
John stood by the bedroom door in silence, watching them. He did not want to disturb the family in their time of distress, but neither did he want to leave them.
Dixon stood near him, unable to take her eyes off her mistress, whom she had tended to for decades, and loved more than any other person in the world.
It was shortly after midnight, when Mrs Hale opened her eyes once more, taking in her husband and daughter with a weak shadow of a smile.
Then, her eyes wandered over to Dixon, and eventually to Mr Thornton, who was still standing there, as he had for over an hour, motionless, and without saying a word, just being there, in case he was needed.
"Margaret", Mrs Hale whispered. "I am glad that you have found a good husband to take care of you."
Margaret swallowed hard and nodded at her mother with a sad smile.
"He is a good man", Mrs Hale murmured. "I have faith in him. I can rest assured that you will want for nothing."
The older woman's eyes slowly wandered back to her own husband, who was looking at her in painful disbelief.
"Don't cry, Richard", she whispered. "You did all you could. And I think fondly of you."
Mr Hale let out a shuddering gasp at that, taking her hand in both of his and kissing it tearfully.
"I am so sorry Maria. I never meant to cause you pain by coming here", he cried.
"Don't", his wife breathed. "There is nothing to forgive."
She drew in a last trembling breath, as her eyes drifted closed, and a moment later, she was gone.
Margaret sat in stunned silence.
It was the second time in only forty-eight hours that she had witnessed a loved one leave this earth forever, and she could not make sense of it. There were no tears, only bleak numbness.
She was only half aware that Dixon had drawn the curtains and stepped over to the clock on the mantlepiece to stop the time, as was the custom.
After a few minutes, she let go of her mother's hand and rose from the bed, suddenly needing to get out of the room.
She made her way to the door, her eyes briefly finding those of her husband.
"I need some tea", she murmured. She did not really. She needed her mother. She needed Bessy. But for lack of anything else, tea was the only thing she could think of.
She felt his hand on her upper arm.
"Let's go downstairs to the sitting room", he told her softly.
Without letting go of her arm, he gently led her down the stairs and through the door on their right, and made her sit down on the settee near the fireplace, before taking a seat next to her.
His hand slid down from her arm to take hold of her hand, and she let it happen, too weak to pull away.
His skin was warm against hers, and it had something strangely comforting, as his fingers wrapped around hers in a gentle squeeze.
"I'll see to tea", she heard Dixon's strained voice from the door, before the housemaid stomped downstairs into the kitchen, glad for a task, to occupy her mind.
Gradually, it all started sinking in. Her mother was dead, gone forever. There was no consolation, and her heart felt like it was torn into countless pieces.
A shudder ran through her, and then a sob escaped her lips. Immediately, Mr Thornton's arm was around her and he gently pulled her to him.
And just like on her wedding night, Margaret felt herself fall into his embrace.
Her cheek on his shoulder, she eventually gave in and let herself cry, as he held her. She hated that she craved his touch like this, that she found such comfort in his closeness. It did not make sense to her, but she could not help it, could not pull away.
He felt warm and firm against her, and as he tipped his head closer to her, she could feel his breath against her forehead. He rocked her softly, as his hand cupped the back of her head, and she clung to him, her hot tears wetting his coat.
This was how Dixon found them a few minutes later, when she entered the room with a tray of tea. Averting her eyes in embarrassment at trespassing on the young couple in such a private moment, she put down the tray and made for the door in a hurry.
Margaret did not know how much time had passed. It must have been at least half an hour, that he had sat patiently, wordlessly, and let her weep.
Eventually, she was able to drag herself up a little, her vision slightly blurred from crying so hard. She noticed a wet stain on the sleeve of his coat where she had rested her face.
"Oh", she breathed self-consciously, and without thinking, her hand frantically started wiping at the garment. "I have ruined your coat, I'm sorry."
He shook his head. "Don't fret about it."
Slowly, he rose and reached for the tray Dixon had left them.
"I'm afraid the tea has gone cold."
She watched as he poured her a cup and sat back on the settee, carefully holding it out to her. It was only lukewarm, but somehow it helped put a bit of life back into her.
She finished her cup in silence, while he sat close, never taking his eyes off her.
"I need to go see if my father is alright", she uttered eventually, putting down her empty cup.
"Let me go to him", he told her. "You should rest a bit."
She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it and just nodded.
She watched him go, looking after him, even after he had disappeared up the steps to the second floor.
"Margaret? Margaret!"
A soft whisper rose her out of her slumber of exhaustion.
It took her a few seconds to gather her bearings and realize that she had fallen asleep on the settee.
Mr Thornton was crouched down on the floor beside her, his face near hers, his hand on her shoulder.
A little groggily, she raised herself up into a sitting position.
"What time is it?", she mumbled in a thick voice.
"It's almost two in the morning. Your father has gone to bed now. You should go upstairs and get some sleep. I had Dixon prepare your old room for you, since I doubt you would want to go back to the mill tonight."
She nodded slowly, looking up at him, and when her eyes met his, she found that she could not tear them away anymore.
There was such compassion in his gaze, such deep understanding, that was undoubtedly genuine.
It was then that Margaret realized that, although he did not love her, he did care for her. She almost dared not consider it, but somewhere inside, she felt that he cared deeply.
She could not fathom why he would, but the thought filled her with a strange warmth she did not understand.
When Margaret finally managed to pull herself up from the settee and started towards the door, to make her way up to her old bedroom, she was suddenly hit by a dizzy spell, and had to clutch the back of the nearest chair for support.
Within a fraction of a second, Mr Thornton was beside her, his arm around her, supporting her.
"Good Lord, are you alright?"
She could not answer for a moment. The room was still spinning as she tried to catch her breath.
It was all too much. Too much pain, too much grief, too many feelings she could not comprehend. Her knees felt weak, unable to support her weight, and her corset suddenly felt much too tight.
"I don't feel too well", she managed to choke out.
Before she knew what was happening, she sensed him draw closer and gasped when she felt herself being lifted up in his arms unexpectedly.
Her nose was mere inches from his cheek, her side pressed to his chest, she inhaled his scent and felt herself shiver against him.
Without a word, he carried her out of the room and up the stairs, his steps controlled, almost effortless, like she weighed no more than a feather in his arms.
"Which of the rooms is yours?", he asked near her ear.
"To the left."
He gently pushed against the door with his back and it swung open. A moment later she felt herself being lowered onto her bed, the movement making his cheek graze her forehead.
She felt the stubble on his face rub faintly against her skin. Then, he released her, drawing back, but still bowed down towards her, searching her face with his.
"I will fetch Dixon to help you undress. You should get out of those restrictive clothes", he told her. "Is there anything else you need, Margaret?"
She shook her head.
"I shall leave you here to sleep. I will head over to the mill, but I will be back in the morning. Try to get some rest, we will see to everything else tomorrow", he assured her in a quiet, but firm voice that gave her an odd sense of security.
She had never felt more lost, and here he was – this man, who had been thrown into her life by circumstance, against her will, and right now, he felt like an anchor. As if, whatever happened, he would look out for her.
She knew then, that she had forgiven him. What had happened between them was still very painful, but looking at him now, she knew that he had never intentionally wanted to hurt her. He never would.
And at that moment, Margaret realized that that would be enough, and that she was glad that he was here, when she needed someone so desperately.
He started rising, and without thinking, she suddenly reached out her hand to him and placed it on his upper arm, stopping him dead in his tracks.
"John, thank you!"
His eyes flew to hers at her use of his christian name.
They were both aware that it was the first time she had spoken it.
His hand came up to cover hers for a moment, before gently pulling away.
"Good night, Margaret", he whispered.
And then he was gone, leaving her drained and wondering what had just happened between them.
Dixon came in, a few moments later, and silently helped her out of her dress.
Neither of them felt like speaking. They had no words for their grief, and the moment Margaret's head hit the pillow, she fell into a deep sleep of utter exhaustion.
He was there when she came down into the sitting room the next morning, at barely seven o clock.
He stood by the window, looking out, and turned around as she entered.
"You're here already? Did you sleep at all?", she asked.
"A little. How are you feeling?" He took a few steps towards her, but then stood, a bit unsurely.
"I brought some fresh bread. It's in the kitchen, Dixon will bring up breakfast shortly."
She managed a sad little smile at his attentiveness.
There was an array of things she longed to say to him, but all that came out was: "Thank you".
She sat down on the settee, and he took a seat on a chair near her, not daring to move too close. He had been there last night, when she had needed someone, but now that the first moment of utter grief was over, he was unsure of whether she would still welcome his touch and did not wish to force himself on her.
"If you will permit me, I would see to the funeral arrangements", he told her carefully, not wanting to cause her pain by mentioning what was inevitable after her mother's death, but needing to address the issue all the same.
"I think your father has other things to worry about at the moment."
"You would do that?", she asked in a quiet voice.
He looked at her earnestly. "Margaret, you need not ask."
Margaret nodded quietly. Then, after a moment, she said: "I would like to attend. I know it is not the custom for women to do so, but I feel I should."
"Of course", he replied simply and she released a relieved little breath.
Dixon appeared at the door, telling them that breakfast was ready. They found Mr Hale in the dining room. He looked a shadow of his old self, thin, pale and tired as he was.
They ate mostly in silence, and it was only after they had finished, that the two men exchanged a few words concerning funeral arrangements.
Margaret declared that she needed to go back to Marlborough Mills, to freshen up and change clothes. She would head back to be with her father afterwards.
"Would you like me to call for a carriage?", John inquired. "No, I think I would rather walk. The air might do me some good."
Fifteen minutes later, they were on their way down Crampton Road, her arm once more linked with his. It felt like she was gradually getting used to it, feeling less uneasy every time she did it.
"I need to get back as soon as possible", she mused aloud. "I would not want to leave father alone for too long. He is in very low spirits." He nodded, before turning to her.
"Margaret? I do not want to appear presumptuous, and I could understand if this offer is declined, but do you think your father would like to move into the mill house with us?"
She stopped walking and searched his face questioningly.
"Why?"
He shrugged lightly. "It was just a thought. Since he would be all on his own in Crampton now. Won't it be a bit lonely, especially as he will be grieving his wife?"
Margaret took a moment to consider his proposal. She could see where the idea was coming from, even though she doubted that her father would want to leave Crampton.
She suspected that the mill would be a bit too noisy for his liking, and if he were to move, he would have to part with the furniture and many family possessions he would not be able to bring along.
But still, the fact that Mr Thornton – 'John', she reminded herself – was offering such a thing, seemingly without much hesitation, made her wonder about him once more.
"It is kind of you to offer", she replied honestly. "Although I doubt that he would want to leave his home. And would your mother not dislike it?"
"I'm sure she would be forthcoming under the circumstances."
He resumed walking, pulling her along with him gently.
"I'm sorry my mother and you have had so many disagreements. She is not an unkind woman, it's just not in her nature to show too much affection, and this whole situation has been challenging for her as well", he told her. "Maybe it will become easier for both of you, once you have grown more accustomed to each other's company."
Margaret was silent. She doubted that she would ever find much to like about Mrs Thornton, but she did not want to be impolite.
When they reached the mill, he accompanied her to the entrance hall, and then excused himself, stating that he had some work to do at his office. She was free to walk or take the carriage back to Crampton any time, and he would join her there in the evening.
With that, he turned and left the house, while Margaret ascended the stairs, longing for a few moments of being alone, to put her thoughts and emotions in order.
The funeral was held three days later at St. Thomas chapel, near the graveyard where Margaret was so fond of walking, when the weather was fine.
It was a small but elegant procession, every detail, from the invitations to the funeral carriage, and the floral decorations, had been taken care of by John.
He had even made sure to have a traditional wreath of boxwood placed on the front door of their home. A small gesture, but meaningful to both Margaret and her father.
Not many people had come – the Hale's had not been acquainted with too many families. However, Margaret noticed Nicholas Higgins and Mary in the back of the church, paying their respects to her family, which, in her eyes, was worth more than a hundred people belonging to Milton's high society.
She walked to the grave with her arm linked with that of her husband, and as she watched the coffin being lowered into the ground, she unconsciously clung to him with a bit more force than she had intended, almost leaning onto him, as she bit back tears.
Mr Hale had been invited over to the mill house after the service, to have dinner with them, and Margaret noticed that Mrs Thornton seemed to have dropped her chilly demeanor, and was making polite conversation with him.
Even Fanny did not say much, and had the dignity to look somewhat downcast at the loss of her sister-in-law's close relation.
A carriage was called, to take Mr Hale back to Crampton, and Margaret promised that she would visit him the day after, as she kissed him goodbye on the cheek.
It was too early to retire to bed, so Margaret decided to join her husband in his study, where he was working on some papers, undoubtedly something to do with his mill business. He rarely ever took a break, it seemed.
"Do you mind if I join you?", she asked, as she entered. "I will not disturb you. I will just sit here for a while and maybe read."
He looked up with an expression on his face that almost looked like pleased surprise, as he motioned for her to take a seat by the fireplace.
"You are welcome anytime."
She walked over to the bookshelf and, after letting her fingers wander along the rows of book spines, she picked one – a volume of sonnets by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
She carried it over to one of the chairs and sat down with it. Her eyes skimmed over the letters, but her mind could not follow what she was reading.
She listened to the quiet sound of his quill scratching across the paper, while he was writing and jotting down numbers. After a while, she slowly lifted her eyes to gaze at him inconspicuously from beneath her lashes.
He had removed his coat and had rolled up his shirtsleeves, as seemed to be his habit whenever he was in the private space of his home. A dark curl of hair was falling across his forehead.
He looked tired. She knew he had not slept much more than she had herself, these past few days, being so busy with both, the mill and the consequences of her mother's death.
She was so lost in thought, that she did not realize that he had stopped writing, and was only startled out of her daze when his eyes met hers.
"Margaret, are you alright?"
She shrugged. "It has been a long few days", she confessed. "So much has happened."
"Of course."
He put down his quill and leaned back in his chair, looking at her. "You have been through a lot these past months", he told her in a soft voice. "It's no wonder you are not feeling well."
She swallowed hard.
"Does it ever get better?", she then whispered, almost afraid to ask. "Losing a loved one? Does the pain ever go away?"
She saw him drop his gaze, making it impossible to read his countenance.
"It never goes away entirely", he confessed. "But the pain becomes less. Life has to go on. It does not stop for one's grief, I'm afraid."
She was still unused to having any sort of conversation with him, that went beyond the exchange of ordinary pleasantries by two people who did not have much to say to each other. It felt strange to speak of such personal matters with him.
"Do you still think about your father often?", she blurted out, only realizing that he might not want to talk about this, after the words had left her mouth.
"Aye, I do", he stated simply, and then added gravely: "He left me many things to think about."
She sensed what he was implying, and for a moment, she was unsure of whether she could ask him about it further.
Then she decided that, however unwillingly, he was her husband, and they had made an agreement to speak openly with each other.
"Papa told me of the miserable circumstances of your father's death", she admitted, before her courage could falter.
If he was surprised at her confession, he did not show it. He only sat in silence, still looking at her earnestly.
"I imagine it must have been hard."
"It was", he said. "It was very sudden, we could not have foreseen it."
He breathed a little sigh, rose from his chair and started pacing the room.
"Father never spoke much of his business affairs. We had no idea he had partaken in various speculations with a business partner in London. We only realized what had happened, when it was too late. He could not live with the shame, I think. Maybe that is why my mother keeps such a close eye on the mill now. I think she blamed herself for a long time, for not asking more questions."
She watched him walk about the room in a slightly unsettled manner, as though the topic caused him some distress, but he still seemed willing to share it with her.
"But you did manage to repay his creditors eventually, did you not?", she asked.
He stood by the fireplace, reached for the poker and started jabbing at the burning chunks of wood with some force, and when he opened his mouth again to speak, his words came out a bit harshly.
"I did. It took me years to do it. Years that we lived on watered oats, in a tiny one-bedroom flat on Sherborne Street, with me working sixteen hours a day and my mother doing needlework on the side, until her fingers bled, whilst still taking care of Fanny."
She could hear the pent-up frustration in his voice, and he kept attacking the firewood vigorously as he was speaking. Eventually, he released a shaky breath and looked up at her.
"I'm sorry. I got carried away", he stated, putting the poker back in its place.
"Don't apologize", she said quietly. "There is no need."
He clasped his hands behind his back and straightened himself up a little. "I do not mean to blame my father. I used to be angry with him, but it was a long time ago, and I understand now that he had his own demons to fight."
He was putting up a brave front, but somehow he could not fool her.
He had looked just the same, when she had first seen him, standing up on that platform inside the mill, looking down at his workers with that stern expression.
He had also looked like this, when he had stood on the wooden landing outside the mill house, faced with the angry mob of strikers.
And as she studied his face now, Margaret realized something:
'It is a façade.'
She looked at him in wonder, as it suddenly became so plain to see, that she did not know how she could have missed it all this time.
Somewhere underneath his stern brow, there was an injured young man, a boy, who had had to grow up too quickly, hiding away his fear and sadness behind the mask of a hardened businessman.
'I suppose he is only human after all' she mused with a slight pang.
Now, that she considered it – was this look on his face not a mirror image of his mother's? Her cold and sometimes harsh ways of conducting herself – could it have been self-preservation, after what her family had gone through?
Margaret had never considered it, and yet, now that she did, it seemed not too far-fetched.
She did not know where this realization left her. Only that she felt that maybe she had judged both of them a bit too harshly.
"He would be proud, I think", she said in a quiet voice.
"I beg your pardon?""
Your father. I think he would be very proud of you. You worked hard to raise your family from poverty. You undid his mistakes with your very own two hands. Such a thing must have taken a lot of strength."
She saw him swallow visibly at her words, and he quickly looked away, gazing into the flames a bit too intently.
She had never seen him lose this tight grip he usually kept on his own emotions. It was quite a revelation, and for a moment she had to fight the urge to reach out her hand to him.
She would not do that, she told herself. She had clung to him far too much over the course of the past days, and she did not want to give him the wrong impression.
"I should go and get some sleep", she murmured, rising from her chair. When he turned towards her, he had successfully managed to school his features back into a look of indifference.
"Good night, Margaret."
"Good night."
With that, she turned, and a second later, the door fell closed behind her.
He stood, unmoving, trying to make sense of his feelings.
He had hoped she would call him by his first name once more, when she had bid him good night, but she had not.
Maybe her referring to him in this way had only happened in the spur of the moment, after her mother's death.
But she had come to him tonight. It was the first time she had voluntarily entered his study, fully knowing that he was there.
And the way she had spoken to him, praising him for his achievements, with this strange sympathetic tone in her voice – it had touched something inside him that he could not name.
John closed his eyes and slammed his fist against the mantlepiece with a small, frustrated groan.
It made him fall in love with her even more and, by God, he could not afford that.
NOTES:
Some of the customs mentioned, like stopping the time in the room where a person had died or placing a wreath of boxwood on the front door, to signal to everyone outside that a family member had passed, were real mourning traditions in Victorian England.
Women would usually not attend a funeral. This is mentioned in the book, where Margaret defies convention by going to her mother's burial. The BBC version strays from historical accuracy here, by also including Dixon, Mrs Thornton and Fanny among the funeral goers, which would definitely not have happened. (This should not take away from the fact that the adaptation is perfect in its own way and generally most definitely more accurate than most recent period drama adaptations!)
