07 | Deliverance
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Unlike Charlotte and her overhasty entry into this world, the new arrival was biding his, or her, time. By the seventeenth of November the birth was already a couple of days overdue. Underneath the day-to-day workings of the house there was a thrum of anticipation which Thornton found rather unnerving, especially as matters with Margaret were still, basically, unresolved.
Except for the one night, when she had asked him to sleep in the dressing room, Thornton had returned to their marital bed; and they had since established an uneasy truce. Every night Margaret would go to sleep as far away from him as the width of the bed allowed, and with her back turned against him. But in her sleep she would invariably drift back towards him; and then she would wake in the night, as happened frequently this late in her pregnancy, and she would surreptitiously scoot away again. It was a constant back and forth, but by morning she would always be back asleep in his arms, curled up against him.
He, who had always been an early riser, got into the way of lingering in bed—if only to hold her for a little longer while she slept; if only to tell himself that, this time, this day, when she woke, all would be well again between them. That whatever it was that was eating at her, would finally be resolved... or that, at the very least, she might finally be able to talk about it.
Alas, so far it had been an idle hope.
That morning her awakening was accompanied by stifled groans, as she wriggled to find a more comfortable position. Thornton quickly sat up and moved to the side to give her room.
"What is it?" he anxiously asked, once Margaret opened her eyes.
"Apart from feeling like a stranded whale, you mean?" She rubbed the top of her belly. "If you must know, your son has managed to wedge his head right under my ribs." She eyed her husband accusingly. "Evidently another headstrong Thornton... It hurts."
"I'm sorry, my love—"
"Yes. Well..." she grumbled. But there was a tiny smile playing around the corners of her mouth.
A tiny peace offering at last; after he had been shown the cold shoulder for a fortnight. Dare he push his luck? Cautiously he asked, "Are you still angry at me?"
"I wasn't angry at you," Margaret said quietly.
"You weren't?" For a moment he felt completely at a loss, wondering if he had missed anything.
She raised herself on an elbow, then laboriously sat up. It took her a good while to arrange the pillows until she finally leant back against the headboard. She looked up, straight into his eyes—in that forthright way of hers. "Well, to be quite truthful, at first I was—"
"So, what has changed?"
"I have come to realise that you—your single-handed actions, more precisely—are just at the end of a long chain of effects... But you are not the cause, John. Therefore I shouldn't be angry at you; and, in fact, I haven't been angry at you in a while."
Thornton knit his brows. He felt quite as much in the dark as before. "But you are not content," he ventured.
"No, I am not. For one thing, I am tired of being pregnant, and bloated, and ungainly... If only your son would finally make up his mind to get born!" She gave him a wry smile. "However, as for my general predicament—and I should very much like to explain in full at another time!—I fear that I am tilting at windmills."
"Then I'd be delighted to be the Sancho Panza to your Don Quixote," he said, wondering if this was the right thing under the circumstances.
Margaret sighed. Heavily. "Let's bring this child into the world, and then I shall decide whether I need a white knight or a squire... or if I much rather fight my own battles, after all." She eyed him grumpily. "Shouldn't you be at the mill by now?"
"I am the master of this mill," he said with a hint of pique. "I am not required to work according to the time clock, nor am I answerable to anyone... And, unlike you, I believe that we need to talk about this. Whatever this has been, it has been standing between us for a fortnight; therefore this isn't a trifle—" He saw her squirm.
"John, would you mind moving," Margaret said urgently, "so that I can get up and..." She let the sentence hang in the air, vaguely indicating in the direction of the water closet. "Please send up Sarah to help me dress as you leave—"
"We need to talk, Margaret."
"And so we shall. Just not today—" She sat on the edge of the bed, feeling for her slippers with her bare feet.
He had half a mind to have this out once and for all, but Margaret's obvious discomfort gave him pause; that and her general look of exhaustion. It had been a particularly restless night for her.
"Tonight," he said with finality. "We shall talk tonight... Try to rest yourself during the day, my darling."
In the middle of the afternoon, Havers called at the mill office to tell his master that the mistress requested his presence at the house.
Thornton realised just how much he didn't know about a birth, when he arrived in the master bedroom and didn't find his wife writhing on the bed in pain, but standing by the fireplace with his mother, dressed in one of her ordinary maternity gowns and, apparently, quite composed. The only thing that was markedly different was that Hannah was just about to fashion Margaret's hair into a loose plait. The room was warmer than usual with a good fire burning in the grate, and there was a sense of underlying excitement.
"It's to keep my hair out of my face later-on," Margaret said.
"Does it mean that it has started?" he asked, still wondering at the scene in front of him.
"I am quite sure; I've felt it on and off since before noon, but now I'm certain that it's no false alarm."
He felt panic rise within himself, despite his best efforts. "Where is Mrs Frith? Has anyone sent for her yet?"
"It's too early to get her here," his mother interjected. "There may, in fact, be several hours before she will be needed. So, currently, it's all about keeping Margaret company."
"I haven't been sure if you'd like to volunteer for the task, considering that we haven't really spoken about it, so I thought that I should call you over from the mill and ask," Margaret said with a tentative smile. "I hope there's no urgent unfinished business that you've had to forsake." She held out her hand.
"What could possibly be more important than you?—right at this moment? You wish for me to be here, so here I am; and I am glad."
"So am I—" Her expression changed, not so much into one of pain but concentration. She was breathing slow and deep and, after a short while her face relaxed again.
He watched her anxiously, yet at a loss to see how he might be of any assistance to her in this—other than just be here. His mother, on the other hand, seemed quite unperturbed; she was busy removing the counterpane from the bed, then folded it neatly and stowed it away.
"This is what to expect for some time to come, although it will gradually get more—intense," Margaret told him. "It's quite tedious... Will you keep me company and distract me, John?"
"Of course, my love," he said. "There's nowhere I'd rather be."
"I'll leave you to it, then," Hannah announced and made for the door. "Plenty to do in the house... Jane is under orders to keep Charlotte busy and away until her bedtime, and I'll be seeing to her tea."
Once his mother had left he drew near Margaret and took her hands, kissing them one after the other. "Are you still in pain?" he softly asked her.
"For the time being I am quite well—and I'm all ears," she added in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
He gave her an appreciative smile, but then realised that his mind was an actual blank. "What is it you'd like me to tell you?" he asked, racking his brain.
"How about the case that kept you preoccupied these last few months?"
"You couldn't possibly wish for that right now, could you?" He shook his head, taken aback. "It's not that I wouldn't want you to know... but it seems hardly the right topic at a time like this."
"I wouldn't know about that! I suppose you've got plenty to say in that matter; and it is all new to me. Therefore I shall be perfectly well diverted."
He appraised his wife in quiet disbelief. "There's no talking you out of this, is there?" When Margaret answered in the negative, he sighed, "Very well—"
Thornton kept, of course, the gory details about Benedict Alban's demise from her, but other than that he gave her all the facts, tracking back and forth until he had them all neatly and chronologically aligned. It was indeed the perfect distraction and it kept them busy for a long time.
For a while they slowly paced the length of the bedroom; at times she sat astride a chair—quite a disconcerting novelty—, asking for him to see to the pain in her back, just as he had done in previous months; and sometimes she lay on their bed, resting. Margaret wasn't particularly demanding, but neither was she shy about voicing her needs.
Throughout it all she was still his Margaret, and yet she was a different being; there was a strange sense of purpose about her, something he thought might be an intuitive knowledge in women. It left him, a mere man struggling to keep on top of his fears for her, feeling inadequate. As he kept talking to distract Margaret—as had been her wish—he wondered if she felt in her heart-of-hearts that he was letting her down.
Every once in a while Hannah looked in on them, making sure that they were neither wanting in food nor drink and, when she saw that Margaret refused all of the former, she brought a jar of boiled sweets to suck. In a matter-of-fact way she asked Margaret how things were progressing, eliciting an equally blunt reply.
Sometimes later a knock at the door announced Sarah, Margaret's maid, who came with a ewer each of hot and cold water. A large shallow bowl was already waiting on the washstand that had been brought in from the dressing room. The maid quietly bustled about the room, fetching towels and plenty more cushions for the bed. Intimidated by the master's presence she didn't linger and chat, as she otherwise might have done.
Most of the time they were left alone; occasionally Margaret asked him to time the intervals in between labour pains with his pocket watch. Their conversation was getting more and more disjointed as her pains were coming more frequently and more intensely—the latter he could tell by the way Margaret stopped talking and bent over, moaning. Though she never complained the sound of it pierced his heart.
Finally Thornton drew to a close with expounding the case. "Well, that's it," he said. "Now you are in full command of all the facts. Not that I've got to the bottom of it myself. There are still plenty of questions, not least of all Alban's reasons for collecting information and pressuring Mrs Latimer into supplying him with details."
"Thank you," Margaret said, "there is indeed plenty for me to ponder about—" She stopped dead, screwing up her face and holding her breath for a moment, before remembering to let go. A groan escaped her lips and sweat beaded her brow. "—though, perhaps, the pondering may have to wait a little longer," she panted, once the pain was ebbing. "Please ask your mother to send for Mrs Frith now."
While waiting for Mrs Frith's arrival, his mother and Sarah took Margaret behind the folding-screen and helped her change into a nightdress and robe. With the women taking over, Thornton felt that he had outstayed his usefulness; and as the midwife entered the room, he took it as his cue to retreat to the drawing room—and to the agony of waiting.
"I'll be downstairs, then," he awkwardly announced, hovering by the door and waiting for his wife to wheeze and groan through another contraction.
"Will you come over to me?—just for a moment, please?" she said, finally looking up, her lovely face flushed from the exertion. When he was standing before her, she leant into his shoulder, sighing.
He cautiously embraced her, kissing the crown of her head. "I don't know what to say," he whispered helplessly.
"Then don't," she replied just as softly. "Tell me afterwards... for now just kiss me—quickly."
He did her bidding until he felt her tense up in his arms. "Here we go again," she mumbled, drawing back and shooing him to the door with one hand while blindly grabbing for Hannah's with the other.
"Be well," he said as he stepped through the door, looking back one more time. It was a stupid thing to say at such a time, but he doubted that she heard him; she had already retreated to a place where he could not follow.
Yet closing that door behind him felt like the hardest thing he had ever done.
He couldn't concentrate on anything.
There was nothing to take his mind off the goings-on in the upstairs room; he was picturing—yet failing to comprehend—Margaret's ordeal from the groans and wails that filtered through the thick walls and sturdy doors of this solidly built house. Every new onset had him stopping dead in his tracks, pressing his knuckles hard against his lips to contain his own agonised whimper.
What kind of pain made women cry out like that? he wondered helplessly. How could they bear it and live?—and do it over and over again with every new child?
He wouldn't let his thoughts dwell on what could happen—what could go wrong. It didn't bear thinking about, and so, with an effort of mind, he kept those dark thoughts at bay, albeit barely. Coming downstairs he had at first retreated to the drawing room; a room with plenty of floor space to pace back and forth. But, formal and devoid of company as it was, it didn't offer him any solace.
So, next he went to the study. It was a smallish crowded room, but it had a good fireplace; Havers must have anticipated his coming here, for the fire was lit and had been recently stoked. Most of the books on the shelves and inside the cabinets had at one time belonged to Richard Hale. Many he had salvaged from the auction when Margaret had returned to London after both her parents' deaths; more had returned with her when she became his wife; and together they had added to their library ever since. He touched the worn spine of his trusty Plato, smiling in fond memory of his late tutor and friend; and fleetingly Thornton wondered, as so often before, if the old man would have approved of him as a son-in-law.
His hand convulsed as another moan from upstairs became a scream, his movement dislodging a small volume. Catching the book before it could drop to the floor, he saw that it was a collection of poems by John Donne. In the ensuing eerie quiet he opened it at random.
Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love,
And in that sophistry, oh, thou dost prove
Too subtle: Fool, thou didst not understand
The mystic language of the eye nor hand:
Nor couldst thou judge the difference of the air
Of sighs, and say, this lies, this sounds despair...
Diffidence and ineptitude. Had he not frequently found himself wanting, when it came to love? Nature's lay fool, indeed! Feeling that this was one reminder too many at the present occasion, he snapped the book shut and returned it to its place.
With his hands resting on the mantle, Thornton gazed down into the flames. He wasn't a particularly pious man, yet for once he wished he could relieve his soul in prayer, but when he tried he didn't get beyond a 'Oh Lord' or 'Holy Father'. For the first time he had an inkling why the papists called on their saints, especially the female ones; he suddenly wished that there was one he could turn to for intercession; to help protect his Margaret in her hour of need.
Later, he took a small oil lamp and went upstairs to the darkened nursery, to check on Charlotte. She was a sound sleeper, and once tucked into her cot for the night and asleep, she was lost to the world. There was little chance that the light from his lamp would wake her, or the sounds drifting in from the master bedroom on the floor below. She lay on her back with her head turned to one side and her arms flung wide. Her lips were pursed and there was a slight frown on her brow, as if her dreams required concentration.
Watching his daughter in her innocent slumber calmed him. She was a marvel; and once she had become part of his world, he wondered how it could ever have felt complete without her. Perhaps, some things in life were worth taking every risk—
Eventually he found himself in the corridor in front of the master bedroom. Abandoning all pretence of decorum, he sat slumped on the floor with his knees pulled up and leaning with his back against the wall next to the bedroom door. From where he sat he could hear the women's voices inside the room in the short intervals between Margaret's grunts and guttural screams; and while he couldn't distinguish what was being said, the tone of their voices was calm. He thought that, sometimes, he even detected Margaret's amongst them. He clung to the hope that, if there was cause for panic, he would feel it so near them; near her.
He waited.
Thornton was on his feet the moment he heard an infant's mewling from inside the room. Yet it was another few minutes—minutes that felt like ages to him—before the door opened and his mother appeared.
"I thought that I'd find you nearby," she said with a smile that belied her fatigue. "They are both well. You have a son."
"Can I see them?" he anxiously asked. He could hear Margaret talking softly inside the room.
"Give us some little time to clean up and make her comfortable. But, yes, of course, you can see them." She cupped his cheek with her hand. "You look more done in than your wife. Will I have to send for the brandy?"
"I'll survive," Thornton said past the strain of his long vigil, grinning like a fool.
Except for the fact that it was the middle of the night, it was uncannily like a déjà vu when he was admitted to the room and found Margaret sitting up in bed with a neat little bundle in her arms and greeting him with a radiant smile, just as she had done when he had returned from Birmingham those one and a half years before. Only, how much more ignorant had he been then!
He carefully perched on the very edge of the bed, so as not to disturb her. He took her proffered hand and pressed it against his cheek, kissing the palm of her hand.
"You were right," he murmured at last. When he saw her questioning eyes, he added, "About having a son." He leant forward and drew away the fold that was partly obscuring the newborn's face; his son wasn't asleep, but his eyes were mere slits in a pinched ruddy face. He gently cupped the tiny head with his large hand.
"He is well, Mrs Frith assures me," Margaret said, glancing at the midwife who was packing her holdall by the washstand, about to depart, "just exhausted. Little surprising, considering that his entry into this world wasn't the most gentle one—"
"It went marvellously, for a breech birth," Mrs Frith objected. "Just you wait for half an hour and he'll get lively enough, demanding to get fed. I'll be around again tomorrow mid-morning to see how you're doing. Good night, Mrs Thornton. Sir," she said with a brisk nod towards Thornton.
"Here, I'll see you to the door," Hannah Thornton said, following the midwife out of the room.
"Are you truly well?" Thornton asked once the door had closed behind them, searching Margaret's face. "I almost can't believe it after hearing your screams throughout all those hours."
"Tired, sore, hoarse; but, yes, I am well," she smiled. "Truly."
"You are a miracle—"
"I am solid enough," she chuckled wearily, then pulled a face. "I'll be much better in the morning."
"Rest now," he said, getting ready to rise.
"Not quite yet. I think I'll have him nurse first; let's see if he's ready to latch on." She undid the front of her nightdress. "Stay with me, will you?"
"Of course."
The baby was indeed getting more restless by the moment, rooting at his mother's chest, fussing, and eventually emitting an indignant wail. It took some time and a lot of coaxing from Margaret until he finally got the idea.
A relieved smile spread across her lips as she settled back into the cushions.
"We haven't quite decided on his name yet," Thornton said, watching them. "We've agreed on his first name, 'Richard'—"
"Yes, 'Richard', after my father." She looked down at her son, then at her husband. "But I would like to give him 'John' for his middle name."
"After me?" He shook his head. "Tonight more than ever I feel that I don't merit it."
"But you are making all the difference, John!" she softly exclaimed. "Without you there would be no 'us'."
He just shook his head in quiet disbelief. "You're sure you don't want anything else? 'Adam', perhaps, after your godfather? Even your brother's name comes to mind—"
"No, I want him named 'Richard John Thornton'. You were named after your father; your son deserves to be named after you."
"As you wish, my love. Who am I to contradict you?—today of all days? 'Richard John' it is, then," he agreed at last, still reluctant. "It'll take some getting used to."
"You'll probably only ever hear his full name—Richard John—when he's getting scolded," she chuckled, then pulled another face. "For now, he seems to have fallen asleep... Will you put him in his cradle?"
He took the warm soft bundle from her arms, marvelling at its feathery weight, as opposed to Charlotte's sturdy form, and rested his son against his shoulder. Within moments a gentle burp emitted from there. "I'll be sleeping on the daybed in the dressing room. Call if you need me." He bent to kiss Margaret on the forehead. "I love you," he whispered against her skin.
When he woke the next morning there was one crystal clear thought in his head. Surprisingly, it wasn't, 'I have a son', but, 'Foster's the key to everything'!
Margaret was still on an enforced bed rest, after a bout of heavier than usual bleeding saw both Dr Donaldson and Mrs Frith by her bedside, both ordering her to take her lying-in seriously. By day five after the birth she was feeling quite well and impatient to resume her day-to-day life, but neither her mother-in-law nor her husband would hear about it.
Therefore, with bad grace, Margaret agreed to stay in bed for another two days.
There were some visitors, although by no means as many as, from her position as the wife of the owner of the largest cotton mill in Milton, should by rights be her due. Besides Fanny, Mrs Hamper had come with her daughter, and Mrs Latimer had called, in addition to several long and charming letters arriving from London. However, they added up to not nearly enough of a diversion for the stubborn convalescent.
The night after his son's birth Thornton had slept in the dressing room, but already on the second night he was, by Margaret's express wishes, back in their shared bed; and.
That week all of his workers, down to the youngest urchin, received an extra shilling with their weekly pay, to drink to his son's health—just as he had done after his daughter's birth. Thornton came into work a little later than usual to make up for his broken sleep at night because he had made it his task to fetch their son from his cradle when the infant became fretful at night. He also returned to the house during mid-morning to keep Margaret company for an hour for as long as she was bedridden. As the master was generally the first at work in the morning and the last to leave at night, no-one begrudged him this indulgence.
"I think it is time I gave you an explanation," Margaret said one such morning. "For treating you as I did these last two weeks before Richard's birth."
He just nodded as he looked at her expectantly from his place at the edge of the bed.
"As I said before, at first I was indeed angry at you for leaving me in the dark. But it was unreasonable to go on so... I had my say after Mrs Latimer's visit, and that should have been enough. You saw my point and you were prepared to make amends in the future."
"And yet?"
"And yet I couldn't stop feeling angry—and I came to realise that, while I wasn't angry at you as a person, I was angry about my situation... Here in Milton, and as a wife—"
For a moment he could only stare at her. "Wh-what does this mean? You regret our marriage?" he said hoarsely. Then he averted his eyes, pressing his knuckles against his mouth, hard. He felt like he had been kicked in the gut.
"John, no!" Margaret said urgently, "I love to be with you—and I cannot imagine a life without you in it!"
He felt relief surge through his body; and yet he was apprehensive. Ever since Margaret had become his, he had lived with an underlying fear that, one day, she might come to regret their union; that their difference in age would prove too great; that he was too uncouth, too preoccupied with his work to live up to the expectations of a young lady of gentle birth. "What is it you are saying?" he asked at last.
"Hear me out, please... Let me tell you about the first thing that attracted me to you—Well, no, it was, in fact, the second thing... The first thing that attracted me to you was your smile; it was so open and genuine, and quite unlike the insincere smiles that never reached the eyes I so often encountered in polite society." She gave him a radiant smile of her own that took away some of the chill of apprehension. "However, the second thing that attracted me to you was the sense of power that surrounded you."
"What do you mean?" He frowned.
"I first became aware of it at your mother's dinner party three years ago, during the strike... It was the first time I saw you amongst your peers; and it was then I came to realise how much power was assembled around that table... that, however brash and new that money was, this was the power to move and shake—and, perhaps, in parts to overcome—the old system. The power to change things. For better or worse I did not know at the time—yet it spoke to me."
He raised a quizzical eyebrow but remained silent, watching her; he still wasn't sure where she was going with her reasoning.
"I was drawn to that power—I still am... and I have come to realise that, in some small measure, I want it for myself." She stopped for a moment, her eyes unfocussed; remembering. "When first I came to Milton with my parents, I hated everything about my situation; and I hated the responsibilities that were suddenly thrust upon me because my parents couldn't cope under these new circumstances; my father from being too unworldly and my mother from being too dispirited and, eventually, too ill. But I soon realised that this new situation suited me, and that I enjoyed the freedom that came with it—be it to roam the town or speak my mind."
"Both of which got you into trouble time and again," he softly reminded her.
"And don't I know that! Yet I felt it worthwhile... Anyway, I'm getting to the source of my resentment—of my recent anger: I had a small measure of power while caring for my parents here in Milton; I had quite a bit more when I became Mr Bell's heir; and I relinquished most of that power when I married you—"
And thus his spirits fell again! Rapidly. This was a veritable maelstrom of emotions. "So, you do have regrets about our marriage!" Thornton rose abruptly from his seat by the bed and strode to the window, staring outside, so that he didn't have to look at Margaret. "What is it that you miss? Is it ownership of the mill?"
"No, John. Never!" Margaret cried, taken aback. "I'd never want it back! You deserved to own this mill; you've worked for it all your life—and besides," she added with a weary chuckle, "I already proved that I'd make a poor custodian. The combined efforts of Makinson, Williams and Higgins, in addition to myself, couldn't prevent the mill from barely scraping by while you were in gaol! But—" She paused.
He regarded her over his shoulder. "But?"
"What I did then as your unmarried landlord, I could not do now as your legitimate wife—These days I could not save the mill, unless I dug into my settlement. I could neither access your accounts, nor make decisions about the mill... We don't share a property! It is yours, and yours alone; and afterwards, it will be our eldest son's."
With quick steps he returned to her bedside. "Margaret, I wished it could have been differently. But we both knew that it would be 'either-or' when the marriage contract was drafted. There was no choice of shared ownership."
"No, you don't quite understand! This is not about ownership... I chafe at the fact that the law has made me a possession—"
"I never wished to possess you, Margaret!"
"And yet you own me! All husbands do," she cried. "Under the law I stopped being a person in my own right when I became a wife."
They stared at each other, for the moment rendered speechless by her stark pronouncement.
Thornton was the first look away, rubbing his temples with his fingertips as if, by that motion, he might infuse fresh thoughts. "What is this about, Margaret?" he eventually said.
"What are you asking?"
"You've said you wanted power. What kind of power?—if not ownership?"
"I want..." She faltered, looking down at her hands she was wringing in her lap. Then she looked up sharply. "I want to be someone to be reckoned with... I-I want to create something; something that endures... I didn't speak the truth when I told you a few months ago that Milton society can go to blazes. I was merely trying to convince myself that I didn't care. But I do! In spite of my wealth I cannot be a force for change all by myself! No man is an island, entire of itself—What I want is to be an influence here in Milton—"
As if Milton will let her! He had always known that Margaret would not be content with being a housewife. His Margaret was ambitious; and there were no bounds to her ambition when it came to doing good. He felt like cursing.
"—to have an impact for the good of all of society, but most particularly for the poor. And the children—"
"You have come up with the school scheme," he softly reminded her, picking up her hand and cradling it in both of his. "Others may copy it eventually."
"But the school is here, in the safe space of Marlborough Mills, and essentially under your patronage. Oh, John! I have so many ideas—if only Milton society would accept me and hear me out! That's the power I should want." Her face fell. "I feel so impotent... and this is essentially why I lashed out at you. In my anger and impotence I did turn a molehill into a mountain, and you had to bear the brunt of my frustration!"
He heaved a sigh. "Well, it all happened at a rather trying time—and we both have a temper, don't we?"
"And by turning into a veritable harpy, I managed to make it so much more trying for the both of us," she admitted with a tired smile.
"What can I say, Margaret?—except that I am truly sorry? As for my own person, remember that I have promised you to make amends; and I don't take my promises lightly... I only wished I could do anything at all to change your situation here in Milton."
"I know, John," she murmured, bringing his hand to her cheek and leaning into him. "You have said so time and again, and—of course!—I don't doubt you." All of a sudden she felt exhausted.
Noticing her drooping eyes he stood immediately. "I should let you rest now." He bent to softly kiss her brow.
In the doorway he turned again. "However, it occurs to me that, with the recent scandals, there will be some changes afoot and along with those Milton may, perhaps, reconsider their opinion of us... of you eventually." It was cold comfort, but it was all he could truthfully give her. He had made a promise; there would be no more white lies or concealments between them.
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A/N (June 2022):
During the last couple of days I have edited and extended this chapter extensively because I was never particularly happy with the way I originally dealt with Margaret's issues in this, namely her anger at John for withholding information, and why she kept being angry for so long...
I hope you - same as me - like this chapter better now that Margaret has some solid reasons for her grievances other than just peevishness.
If you want to find out just how restricted a married woman's life really was in England in the 1850s, check out Wiki "Women in The Victorian Era" - and you will find that JT's "I don't wish to possess you; I wish to marry you because I love you!" was a nice sentiment, but factually untrue. ;)