HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

Part 4 of 4

From Before We Were Us


'Ouch!' John snarled as he shook his index finger in response to the sharp stab of pain that grieved it. His action was so swift that his finger blurred, so it was not until he stilled and held it up for inspection that he spied the accursed problem, the source of his pain. Scowling, John found that he had slit open the skin by means of a deep paper cut, a thin brook of blood trickling down his hand.

Moaning like the rumble of thunder that brewed ominously in the distance, John snatched up the insubordinate heap of papers before him and hurled them to the side, sentencing them to be banished from his sight for their insolence. They would not do. They were not what he wanted. And they could go and hang if all they planned to do by way of help was cut him. He was searching for his insurance certificates to take to the bank, along with his list of mutinous employees to show the Chief Inspector when he arrived any minute now. Letting out a forceful sigh of frustration, John was about ready to toss the whole sorry lot into the fire and be done with it, damming them and his whole pitiful business to the flames of Hell. He had given the mill years of his life, years in which he had denied himself the things he wanted, sacrificing his blood, sweat and tears to make this demanding mistress happy, and what thanks did he get?

None, that's what.

Trying to control his temper, John knew that if he was angry with anybody, it was himself for allowing his orderliness to slip below the high standard that he demanded of himself. His papers were typically arranged carefully and neatly, so he could always lay his hands on anything he wanted within a trice, but not of late. Ever since the bloody strike had shaken the core of his small world, his mind had been as chaotic as Pandora's box. It did not help that he had carried most of his essential documents over to the house so that he could look over them from the comfort of his own home, his office not only unnecessary while production was halted, but also bitterly cold to endure in winter, even for a northerner with skin as thick as a bear's.

When he had finally sifted through the last sheet and still not found what he was looking for, John's already wobbly tolerance collapsed, and he picked up the stack and flung them across the room in a fit of rage that he soon regretted. Not only was it childish, but it was atrociously unhelpful, given that his confined working space became like a snow globe, a contained box in which it snowed, only here, it was not frozen water that fell from the sky, but a flurry of white paper. The fragments that assailed him, they were not unique and beautiful like snowflakes, but dull in their regimented similarity, all being exactly the same size, fluttering down and landing on his head and upon his floor, making a God awful mess. It was a hailstorm that scorned him from above as it rained in mockery, and the thought of this made him more miserable than ever.

Hail.

Hale.

It was always about hale. A Hale. The Hale. But never his Hale.

It was too much.

John, a man who never gave in to his mortal frailties, slumped down into his rickety chair and buried his head in his hands. It was no use. He knew what the problem was. Yes, he was outraged with them, with his workers for what they had done, for how they had the brass neck to challenge him in such a savage way, all the while calling him the beast. How dare they attack his property like this, shattering the hinges of the gate as they tore through it, ripping down the shutters of the warehouse, slashing open idle bales of cotton, and smashing windows like it was a sport?

He hardly dare assess the full extent of the damage, it was just so immense, and he thanked God that the soldiers had come when they did, because if they had delayed but a minute longer, John trembled to think what would have happened. Staying well hidden in the shadows beside an upstairs window that day, he had seen them begin to batter at the doors of the factory and the house with staggering motivation and momentum, baiting for the blood of his Irish, and the master for whom they blamed entirely for their misfortunes.

John's breath caught in his throat as he inhaled sharply, and he could feel himself shaking from the sheer memory of it, an icy shiver sneaking up his spine like a snake.

Could he admit that he had been scared?

The truth was, John had not been afraid so much for himself, but for others. As a magistrate, let alone a person who read the newspapers every day, he knew of the riots that had swept through the country and wreaked carnage from John o' Groats to Lizard Point in the past few decades, that roar of discontent in the belly of the people not yet laid to rest, and it likely never would, not until fairness in all things could be established, and men could be bled of their bitterness. It had been a dark time for England. Businesses had been devastated, livelihoods ruined, lives lost. Masters like him had been dragged from their homes, beaten along the streets, and lynched in the town squares, all through the justice and vengeance of mob law.

He ought to have gone down to challenge them, to stand up to the crowd and order that they desist and leave at once, preferably with their tails between their legs, but he had not. Part of him regretted his spinelessness, but at the same time, he knew that if he had stepped so much as one inch outside, then he would have been done for, and John Thornton would be no more.

Nevertheless, let no man say that the Master of Marlborough Mills was a coward, and it was true, he had not been concerned for his own skin, but he did shudder to think what they could have done to his mother and sister. John had spent years protecting them, denying himself every personal want and whim so that they could be safe and know the security of a stable life, and so he could never live with himself if a single hair had been harmed on their heads. He thanked God that nobody else was at the house that morning. Lord! Imagine if somebody had come to call. The Slicksons. The Hampers. The Latimers. The Hal ─

John dragged his fingers from his face, his calloused tips scraping along his cheeks and bumping across the bristles of his unshaven jaw.

He had thanked God every morn and night, from that day to this, that Margaret had not been here.

If she had, she would have wanted to help, to not quake behind a locked door like a weakling. She would have insisted on facing his workers head-on, attempting to pacify them with her goodwill and grace, hoping in her naively sweet way to reconcile both man and master once and for all. Bless her, John would have admired her beyond belief for it, but her wisdom would never have worked its magic spell, no matter how well-intentioned Margaret had been. His hands would have been too riled to heed her advice, and as for him, he would have been overtaken by fear for her welfare, and with his mind so disorientated by terror, John doubted that he could have made a single rational decision, and then where would they all be?

Gazing out at the mill yard, John was struck with a gloomy epiphany that came crashing into his mind, just as weightily as if he had been clobbered on the head with a mallet.

He did not care about it anymore, any of it, not if she were not to be here, by his side, enjoying it with him, reaping the rewards of what he had spent what felt like an age sewing. These cobbles, these walls, this place of cotton and commerce, it had been his world entire for five years, the driving force that got him out of bed every morning and kept him awake every night, but there was one thing that John knew now, and that was that none of it would do to satisfy him again.

Not without her to make it all worthwhile.

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and John jolted back into focus. Standing up, and with his back turned, he grabbed his jacket and cravat and attempted to tidy himself up hurriedly, his fingers fumbling. His office may have been a shambles, but that did not mean its master had to be. He knew who his visitor was without looking, it was the Chief Inspector, the useless lout having sworn he would be here a good half hour before. John could feel his mood sliding towards the dark side, and with a voice that was rough and ready for confrontation, he barked:

'Come!'

As if on cue, the door whined open under the strain of its rusty hinges, and John waited impatiently for the man to talk. Several seconds passed as he kept his back to the policeman and continued to hunt for his missing papers, yet still, nothing was said, not a peep. John could feel his blood boiling. He relished silence, but not this awkward hush that wasted time, and he could guess what it was all about. The cheeky cad was probably judging the sorry state of his mill office, not to mention the even sorrier state of its master. Well, he would not allow that.

'Good, you're here,' John said brusquely by way of starting them off. 'You took your time, I've been expecting you,' he added, an intentional note of irascibility to his remark. However, when no discourse was offered in reply, not so much as a terse phrase, John grew increasingly annoyed. God-damn it! Were Milton folk not supposed to be plain speakers who got to the point and were quick about it?

'Speak up,' he snapped, his own patience snapping in two like a reed underfoot, 'we don't have all day, and as I am sure you know, we have a great deal to discuss.'

'Yes, we do.'

As if he had been pushed, John immediately stumbled forwards, his whole body seized with shock by the unexpected sound that resonated about the room, first echoing around him, and then passing through him like a ghost, a wind that could defy all reason. The voice had been quiet, not loud, and far from being brash, it was mild, but do not mistake it for meek, for it was most assuredly assertive.

Spinning round and nearly losing his balance as he skidded on a wayward piece of paper, he regarded his unanticipated visitor with something akin to sheer disbelief, his features most likely mirroring the astonishment he felt on the inside and rendering him hideously clownish.

'Miss Hale!' he breathed, suddenly finding that something so simple as filling his lungs with air had become a task he had forgotten how to perform, and what was worse, John could not recall being instructed on how to do it, given that breathing was natural, or so they said, a fact he very much doubted at present as he felt his chest wheezing like an old man's.

'What are you doing here?' he asked, rather rudely, as it would turn out, dumbstruck by her presence, given that she was the very last person in all the world whom he had expected to see in his office, not just now, but ever.

John tried hard to remain attentive as he awaited her reply. He stood tall and attempted to appear imposing as he leaned on his desk with nonchalant unflappability, all the while working to elongate his figure, an unfortunate skewed stance being the end result. He had no interest in intimidating her, certainly not, it was more that he wanted to look impressive, something he had never managed to do in this regal woman's presence before, and he very much doubted that he was succeeding now. John felt his Adam's apple bobbing up and down uncontrollably and stifling him as his throat tried to inform its master that he was thirsty, that all the water in his body was evaporating from him as he sweated profusely from every orifice he had, ones he had not even realised existed before. Oh dear. John could not have appeared more unattractive if he tried.

What was worse, was that she was so unduly calm. With her hand clutching the handle, Margaret stepped inside and closed the door, much to his relief, because to say that it was cold outside was an understatement. Nevertheless, John was beginning to fear that the atmosphere in here would grow chillier still, that is, if the frosty expression on her face was anything to go by. Spying his papers strewn all over the floor, Margaret eyed him for a moment in perplexity, then returned her gaze to them, trying to interpret what on earth was going on without being so impolite as to enquire. Being her typically helpful self, Margaret instinctively bent to start picking them up, but John quickly rushed forth to stop her, insisting that he would do it, but this only led to them knocking heads like butting sheep, and they both cried out.

Rubbing at her crown, Margaret stood up again, and taking hold of her skirts, she lifted the hem. It was no more than an inch or two, but John nearly choked to see her ankles, her shapely feet that had been sculpted to perfection, nestled within boots of shiny black. John was ashamed to confess that this pleasing sight excited him in ways that it should not, ways that both confounded and confused him. With her skirts hitched, she tiptoed across the room and towards a vacant space beside the window that was not cluttered with this and that.

Coming to a standstill, she dropped her charge, and there she clasped her hands in front of her, and stared out at the yard. With the winter light streaming in, John thought how angelic Margaret looked, and it saddened him to think on how he longed to see her standing there every day. She might have visited him to wish him well, to ask how their business was progressing, or to bring their children over to see their doting papa. She was like a queen surveying her kingdom, only, she had no wish for him to be her king.

Margaret, on the other hand, was thinking, thoughts that were unknown to the mill master, try as he might to decipher the enigma that was the inner workings of her mysterious mind. But thinking, she was. As her eyes fell upon the mill yard, Margaret was overcome with a feeling of pity for Mr Thornton. She had really not imagined for a moment that the magnitude of the destruction would be this severe. It was an unhappy sight, and she could predict that it would cost him a great deal to restore it to its full working order and a respectable state. It really was terribly unfair.

She could not claim to know much about Milton, nor its people, nor its ways, but in the short time that she had lived in this town, Margaret had realised that there were two kinds of masters: those who were cruel, and those who had a conscience, and as far as she was concerned, John Thornton was the only one who fell into the latter category. She had listened, she had listened carefully, and she had watched, she had watched attentively, and Margaret had established that Mr Thornton was cut from a very different cloth to his peers, a thicker, stronger, bolder, and more durable cloth, a more fitting robe for the role he had been ordained to perform.

While he was hard, there was no refuting that, he was also fair, and she truly believed that Mr Thornton did his best by his workers. Margaret was sure she was not in a position to criticise the wages he chose to give out, for while it was a pittance that hardly kept a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and clothes on their backs, he would surely have his reasons, and perhaps shillings and pounds did not stretch as far for him as others assumed.

Mr Thornton was no stranger to hardship himself, and for that precise reason, Margaret trusted that he would never degrade somebody to a life of poverty without doing his upmost to ensure they had a steady and secure income, no matter how small it might be. She had even heard reports that he employed more people than he needed in the factory. Townsfolk openly wondered why, mistrusting his savvy, but she could not help but feel that it was no error on his part, not for such a canny man, but an intentional attempt to rescue as many people in this city as possible from the abyss of despair and destitution.

But looking out at the anarchy that his workers had left in their wake, Margaret found herself becoming oddly enraged, and this caused her to check herself, to consider the basis for her unrest. She sympathised with their plight, she really did, but there was never an excuse for violence, and it was not reasonable discontent that she saw demonstrated before her, but antagonism and aggression. With disappointment in her heart, Margaret was certain of one incontrovertible fact that stood out to her clearly amidst this turmoil, and that was no matter what faults Mr Thornton may have, he had not deserved this as his punishment.

Turning round, she let her eyes comb over the man in question, and she felt a pang of concern pick away at her, and even more than that, she felt pricked by guilt. He was dishevelled, poor boy, and he looked in desperate need of a night of good, sound rest, an undisturbed haven where his mind and body could repair themselves and give him the strength he needed to see this trouble through.

At this point, as her interest became distracted by a loose button on his waistcoat that she had a peculiar urge to rip off and then sew back on while he was still dressed in his present attire, Margaret realised that she had not prepared anything to say to Mr Thornton today. She had been so lost in her sea of turbulent bewilderment during her walk, that she had hardly taken the time to think. Only now that she was here, she was lost for words, a most disturbing phenomenon in its own right. She knew that she had questions, many questions, and she was not at all pleased with him, or that is, she thought she was not, but the extent of her displeasure depended on what he had to say for himself.

Taking a steadying breath, Margaret decided that it was time to make a start and take a stand. 'I can see that you are busy, Mr Thornton,' she opened, once more glancing out of the window to underscore her meaning, 'so I shall speak plainly,' she promised.

John was not sure what to make of this. He appreciated plain speaking, but Lord knows he was not so sure he welcomed it now, not if it meant she would be brusque and brutal with his already fragile heart.

Removing something that had been stashed in her pocket for safekeeping, Margaret held it up high for him to see, giving him a good chance to look at it. 'Is this from you?' she demanded bluntly.

John's eyes scanned the familiar artefact, his Valentine's card.

'Yes,' he answered straight away, since there was no disowning the fact. He attempted to sound poised and unaffected, when in truth, he was quaking in his boots.

Margaret bristled, and her eyes glistened with the mist of bewilderment, a fog that was starting to dissipate, but before it vanished, allowing her to see clearly once more, she had several more questions to go. She had been flustered by his candour, by his confidence, but she would not let her own wavering composure show.

'Why?' she interrogated.

John thrust his hands into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders like a child who had been hauled up before his nanny for bad behaviour. He was not sure what to say, of what would be safest, or what was right, so he decided that honesty was the best policy.

'Because I have feelings for you.'

The young woman gasped. It was not merely his revelation that astounded her, nor his frankness, but the tremor in his voice when he spoke the words, as if this man of might and muscle were trembling before her, she, this small woman of no significance.

However, her mood soon changed, and far from being awestruck, Margaret was suddenly angry. 'Do you seek to mock me, sir?' she challenged, her own voice tight as she sniffled to show that she was miffed, strangely aggrieved by the thought that he would treat her thus.

John's head snapped up, and he gawked at Margaret in astonishment. 'Mock you? No!' he disputed, taking an impulsive step forwards to marginally close the gap between them. He had never heard anything so ridiculous in his whole life. 'It is I who felt you would mock me,' he claimed, stabbing himself punitively in his breastbone with one finger.

Margaret could not fathom his meaning. 'What do you mean?'

Blustering, John threw his hands out and brandished them reproachfully towards the item in her hand, that stupid card that she still insisted on holding up for him to see, a blaring reminder of his own foolishness. 'For a start, you did not approve of that, you made that abundantly clear,' he nipped.

Lowering her hand that had been hanging suspended in the air for longer than she realised, Margaret studied her card once again. It was like she was seeing it for the first time, every texture, every word, every indent having taken on a fresh meaning since last night. She had found it beautiful before, fascinatingly so, but now it contained things she did not fully understand, secrets that a girl cannot hope to know, since only a woman can.

'I did not say I disapproved of the sentiments, Mr Thornton,' she mumbled softly and without any edge of reproach, her thumb stroking the two hands that held each other fast and firm in the centre of the card. John's heart raced to see her do so, his hand itching in response, as if her touch had transferred onto him. 'It is merely the way in which they were offered that I did not like. I just cannot understand why you would not tell me.'

It hurt Margaret to think that he had not been honest with her. She had few friends here in Milton, and only now did she appreciate how much she warmly valued Mr Thornton's friendship. Yes, they bickered, they quarrelled constantly, but their disagreements did not create discord between them, but rather, they were affable discussions, debates, emphasising how comfortable they were with each other, as if they had known each other for eternity. She had believed that he esteemed her opinions as much as she did his, but now, she was not so sure.

While there was no evidence to suggest that age corresponded with an increased inclination towards intelligence of character or cognition, Margaret recognised that he was older than her, wiser in some ways, what with his subtle and shy intelligence, and he had experienced more of the world. Therefore, Margaret had no qualms in trusting Mr Thornton's right to claim superiority of understanding over her in some regards, even if these were few and far between. Nonetheless, in spite of this, he never made her feel small, or silly, or irrelevant, but that her thoughts mattered as much as his, that her contribution was just as valid as his own, that he respected her as a true friend.

But why then had he felt the need to conceal the truth from her?

However, unknown to Margaret, John was thinking the same thing. 'I thought…I didn't know how to tell you,' he admitted lamely. 'I was afraid that you would laugh in my face.'

'Why should I do such a thing?' she argued petulantly. Margaret knew that she had a flaw or two to her name, and while she could be prone to both pride and prejudice, she hoped that she was never so cruel as to taunt people.

John let out a strident laugh. 'Now you are mocking me,' he accused. 'Look at me!' he instructed, his hands slapping his chest, 'And look at you.'

Margaret's eyes dipped and then dragged over her modest figure from toe to tip, trying to work out what he was looking at, what he saw. 'I do not understand,' she divulged, utterly at a loss.

Thrown by her innocence, John found that he could no longer stand in chivalry, the fatigue of the past few months wearing him down, so he sat on the corner of his desk. He scarcely knew what to tell her. He had never found himself in this position before. It was difficult to find the words. All he knew was that the most enchanting woman he had ever known was standing before him, demanding clarity for his actions and his ardour, and all he wanted to do was hold Margaret in his arms by way of an answer, and for her to want to stay there.

She was waiting, all the while looking at him with benevolence, her lovely lips parted, her eyes sparkling with the shimmer of unworldliness, and her hair, that luscious nest of russet locks, it had come loose from her pins, most likely during her rush to get here, and it was now falling haphazardly around her shoulders. She looked divine, like Eve before she had been tainted, and God help him, she deserved more than this miserable man for her husband.

Reaching out an open palm to her, John let the sentiments of his heart flow freely. 'You are beautiful, Miss Hale,' he confessed without so much as a blink of embarrassment, his own lack of reddened cheeks well and truly made up by the appealing flush that spread across her rosy complexion. 'Not only that, but you are clever. Sophisticated. Womanly and wonderful in every way. And I am…this,' he reminded her, once again disparaging himself as he held his hands out wide, showing her what an uninspiring, provincial excuse for a man he was by contrast.

'I did not tell you because I was a coward. I was fearful that we would lose what little we had, of what we had established over these past months. I was afraid of your rejection, of your disdain if I told you how I felt about you.'

'But why me? I am not like other women, I am −'

'Exactly!' he near enough hissed in whispered veneration, his eyes ablaze with the trepidation of his passion. 'Miss Hale, I am under no illusion that I could have married long before now. I am a man of means and prominence in this town, and as unflattering as I find it, I know that half the women hereabouts would be glad to be my wife. But I do not want them. I want you, only you.'

Margaret teetered backwards as a dizzy spell came over her, and her back hit the wall with a silent thud. How could it be that he had this peculiar power over her? To leave her feeling undone, and yet so perfectly complete?

'Why?' she asked, the word hardly audible in the expanse that separated them, a cavity that either of them would have gratefully travelled and shrunken, if only they had known how the other truly felt.

On this matter at least, John did know how to respond, because he had thought about it, he had thought about it long and hard this past week. 'Because you are different. You defy me. You inspire me. You make me joyful and wretched all at once. You encourage me to be a better man, and I thank you for it, and I know I need you in my life if I ever hope to be happy. But most of all, Miss Hale, you make me feel, something I thought I had permanently forgotten how to do.'

Then, suddenly realising something, he was quick to ask: 'Is that…is that why you didn't consider that the card was from me? Because you didn't think I would want you out of all the other women in this town?'

John hoped this was the case. While it pained him to think that Margaret, this incomparable woman, felt inferior to him in any way, a laughable notion in itself, he would much rather the root of her confusion about the card be caused by a lack of doubt that society wished them to be together, rather than that destiny did.

Margaret nodded. 'I never even considered you would think of me…like that.' The reality was that Margaret had never supposed that any man could think of her in that way. She was nothing special. She was short, ordinary, wilful, and not nearly as accomplished as half the women she knew, nor did she have any desire to be. She liked getting her own way, she liked going and doing what she pleased, when she pleased, and she had always assumed that no gentleman would be willing to tolerate her independent nature, so it confounded her to hear that the most dominant man she knew did not mind her headstrong ways.

'Well you're wrong. You're the only woman I have ever wanted, will ever want, I promise you that,' he pledged, as solemnly as if they stood in church, exchanging their vows.

As he said this, John took a bold step closer, not caring that his well-worn boots muddied his papers. When he saw that she did not draw away, he felt encouraged, and so he took another, and then another, until they were standing wonderfully close, as close as they had stood on the night of the dinner party when they had held hands. John tried to think on what to say next, whether he should offer her the chance to come back to the house, to take tea with him and his family, perhaps? Or then again, should he get down on bended knee right here and now and ask Margaret whether she could ever consent to be his? However, his reckless plan was soon halted by Margaret herself, who shyly asked:

'Do you love me?'

She asked it so modestly, that John could have cried, his heart fit to burst with adoration for her. She looked so little before him today, like a miniature version of Margaret, and there was a softness he saw in her that she had often offered to others, but had never before gifted to him.

Swaying nervously from side to side, Margaret had placed her hands behind her back, and as she nibbled her lip, she looked up at John with eyes that were large and full of wonder, the sort of wonder that derives both from awe, but also a wonder of what is to come. He knew he should answer her question, but all John wanted to do was capture her face in his hands and kiss Margaret until neither of them had any breath left in their bodies. His kiss would contain the truth. It would convey it better than he ever could with blundering speeches. But as right as it felt, as raw and real as it would be, now was not the moment.

'I do not know,' he said at last, being brutally honest. He then noticed the way her body wilted, as if deflated by disappointment, so John felt it best to illuminate his meaning, and to do so without delay.

'I mean, I think so,' he amended in a rush, and Margaret's gaze nudged upwards to meet his once more, and their eyes locked on one another, each pair glimmering with hope.

'I have never been in love before,' he confessed, 'so I have nothing to compare it to, no schooling on the subject, but aye, I think I do love thee, dearly, sorely,' he declared, and he tried not to watch as her chest began to rise and fall erratically, and her heart palpitated, the veins in her neck shuddering as her pulse throbbed.

John then understood that what he had said was true. He had never been in love before, he had never had somebody to love until now, so he had no idea how it was supposed to work, whether there were facts and formulas to follow, or whether it was a matter of spontaneity and creativity, two qualities he was in short supply of. Nevertheless, the point was, that while this uncertainty could be disorientating for a man, it also meant that he had a clean slate upon which to learn, a chance to try and test his own methods of wooing, and to see where they took him.

Raising a terrified hand that begged him to reconsider, John let his finger stretch out before him to touch one of her ringlets that fell beside her ear. When Margaret did not quail, John shuffled nearer, and with a twitching tip, he twisted it around the curl and gently tugged. John could have groaned in uncouth gratification when he heard the breath shudder from her throat, not forgetting the way her eyelids fluttered open and closed, a momentary relapse of regal poise on her part.

With his eyes never once leaving hers, he professed huskily: 'I think about you constantly. I want to be near you. I miss you when we are parted. I wonder what you are thinking, what you are doing, what you would say to what I am thinking or doing. I value your good opinion more than anyone's I have ever met. I want it, I need it, I crave it. You are always on my mind, and it is maddening, but I would not wish it to be otherwise, for now that I have met you, now that I know you exist, I would feel incomplete without you, and so, I want more than anything, for you to gladly be mine.'

John had not intended to say so much, to admit so very much, but he had, and when Margaret did not strike him for his impudence or run away in fright, he dared to supplement it with: 'So, there, that is why I sent it, your card.'

Licking her lips and watching the way his eyes ravenously observed her doing so, Margaret could only manage a feeble: 'I see.'

'Do you love me?' John checked, acutely aware that his feelings alone were not enough, because if they were ever to wed, it was essential that she felt something for him too, something more profound than girlish fancy. Nonetheless, the reply that came was not what he longed for.

'No!' she said, far too swiftly and decidedly for his liking.

John took a step back, his face setting into a mask of stony detachment, and he huffed through his nose. 'I see.'

All the same, as he turned to leave, he felt a hand on his arm, and Margaret pulled him back earnestly, or that is, she tried to, her pitiful strength overwhelmingly endearing, enough to make him want to scoop her up into his own sturdy arms to show her how it was done.

'But I want to!' she cried out, and she was surprised by her intensity of emotion, a sincerity of feeling that she had not even known lay within her, a piece of her passionate character that had been asleep until this very instant. 'At least, I think I do. I like you. And I dislike you,' she stuttered, leaving John none the wiser and even more nettled.

'It is difficult to explain,' Margaret conceded, bemused by these unfamiliar wants that burned in her heart and spread throughout her like an all-consuming wildfire. 'I have never felt about a man the way I feel about you, Mr Thornton. You infuriate me. You intrigue me. You bother me. You embolden me. You are like no other. I do not know who or what I am when I am with you, but I do know that I like it, that I want it, that…that I want you.'

Margaret had said all this while matching his unflinching stare, but as she delivered those last words, she looked away, and John had to stop himself from grabbing her jaw and holding her gaze in place so that he could see that flicker of want in her eyes again. He would never be so vicious, of course, but a heady sensation always came over him when she was near. John was a formidable man, but he did not have it in him to hurt a woman, and while he knew he could never lay a finger on Margaret, there was no denying that she incited this wild and uncontrollable passion inside him, a feral blaze that devoured his every sense and charred his sensibilities.

'So what happens now?' he solicited, and her eyes slowly rose to regard him once more. Margaret seemed unsure, her eyebrows tensing and arching as she deliberated.

'Would you permit me to call upon you, then?' John braved, feeling valiant enough to ask for what he wished for, or at least, part of it, the initial part. 'Not your father or mother, but you? We could sit together. We could take tea, or read, or just talk? And we could get to know each other better, more intimately. You can ask me whatever you like, and I swear that I shall be nothing but honest with you. That way, you can see me clearly, get to know me for who and what I am, and you can decide for yourself if you could ever want me for your husband.'

Margaret smiled, and it took every ounce of self-control John possessed not to press his lips to her own supple ones that curved in approval of him, a blindingly beautiful sight that he had yearned for since they had first met.

'I would like that,' she assented, aware that it was the only time Mr Thornton had so much as suggested marriage, although he was likely unaware of his slip of the tongue. For her own sake, Margaret did not feel ready to marry, not specifically Mr Thornton, but anyone. She was young. She was inexperienced. And she did not fully know her own heart.

Still…

John felt a rush of impatient energy gush through him. 'Then shall I see you as soon as possible? Tonight?' he requested, cursing both priority and prior obligations from preventing him from taking her home right now and not leaving her side for the rest of the day. He feared that she would change her mind, that once she left and the refreshing breeze of February blew the cobwebs away, Margaret would grasp the folly of her words, regret their meeting here today, and be frantically trying to figure out how to let him down gently.

'Tonight?' she repeated in astonishment, her eyes flickering to look over the disarray that lay outside. 'But the mill…'

'That can wait,' he reassured her adamantly, his head jolting to the side as he gestured to his work. 'But this…,' he continued, tenderly taking her hands in his and clasping them there, amazed at how soft and slender they were in comparison to his own. Margaret stared at their joined hands for what felt like several minutes, until, at length, he took one of them away and held it against her cheek. Sensing her lean into his touch, John's heart took flight, and with a thumb skimming her healthy blush, he finished with: 'this, it cannot wait. I will not let it.'

Margaret could feel her knees knocking beneath her skirts, and she had no choice but to let her hand curl around his arm and cling to him, lest she fall. 'Then, yes, tonight, if you so wish,' she consented breathlessly, the pair bound up in each other's embrace, with one hand here and another there. 'I shall wait for you.'

The two of them would have stayed like this for as long as time allowed, but alas, they were abruptly brought back to the moment when they both spotted a man walking outside and heading towards John's office. The portly stranger halted by the gates, and after a brooding bristle of his bushy moustache, he squatted to inspect the damage, a task that would keep him there a good few minutes, at least. Margaret did not know him, but the master did. It was the Chief Inspector. Grumbling to himself, John was not amused. First he was late, and now he was early.

Running a hand across her flushed face, Margaret made ready to leave and stumbled towards the door in her lightheaded daze, but before she reached it, John had one more thing he had to know: 'Before you go, Miss Hale, may I ask, how did you know it was me? The card? What gave me away?'

Margaret blinked, the answer having quite escaped her. 'Oh, it was your handwriting,' she replied at last, and glimpsing his vague expression, she affixed: 'The note you sent my father, it was the same hand. You did not even try to disguise it, you silly goose,' she smirked, and John chortled in understanding. Trust Margaret to discern the comparison, his clever, clever lass.

'And, Mr Thornton, if I may, I have one last question too to ask of you,' she announced, her typical self-assurance once more returning to her. 'The poem, why did you choose it?'

John smiled. Ah, well, that was simple enough. 'I do not have a way with words, Miss Hale, as you have likely fathomed already. I am a stark speaker, and as much as my heart may sing with poetry for want of you, my lips do not manage to follow suit so easily. They cannot keep up with all the thoughts I have of you, they cannot articulate how eagerly I adore and admire you. I am a humble mill master, you see, nothing more, and do not pretend to be. Therefore, I simply chose my favourite, because it reminded me of you.'

'I see. I had been wondering why the sender chose it. It is just that…,' Margaret hesitated, but she was soon bolstered by the way he watched her with steadfast patience, tolerance and tenderness overflowing from his eyes, a window into his soul that she had not until this day realised was brimming with such kindness as she had never known. 'It is my favourite too,' she told him, and with that, Margaret opened the door and departed.

Alone again, John was left feeling like a new man, a man who had found hope and happiness after years of emptiness. They were gifts he had no intention of squandering, and as he bent to collect up his papers, his thoughtful mind was already planning how best to spend this evening with the woman he loved. Today had marked a shift in their relationship, and a spring of optimism had most definitely taken root, but things were far from settled, and so John must try his darnedest to convince Margaret that he was the man for her. However, no more than a few seconds passed when Margaret unexpectedly popped her head around the door-frame once again, only this time, her message was short and sweet, and it gave him all the courage he needed.

'Oh, and Mr Thornton,' she said merrily. 'You may call me Margaret.'


Later that night, Margaret slipped into her bed, and reaching towards her bedside table, she propped her card up against a vase of yellow roses and let it stand there tall and proud for all her other possessions to see. She had read and re-read his card, her card, a thousand times today, the poem forever etched into her heart.

The young lady blushed to recall the way that she had opened the door this evening, and there he had been, with the very same flowers held out to her, a look of such cheerfulness on his handsome face, and more than that, Mr Thornton had been more calm and content than she had ever seen him, as if by coming here tonight, to her, he had come home. It almost felt indecent having his present of a posy in her bedroom, something he had chosen and touched watching her sleep, but what felt more deliciously shocking still, was the idea that she liked it, she liked thinking that he was near at hand.

Margaret had been nervous about Mr Thornton's visit, unsure of how it would go, worried that the revelations they had spoken this day would make everything frightfully embarrassing. Nevertheless, she could not have been more wrong. For a start, her parents did not seem at all surprised when she had coyly confessed that Mr Thornton, her father's tradesman pupil, had asked to come to see her personally and privately, and they had exhibited no qualms about leaving the two of them alone in the parlour, even if the door was always open with a vigilant Dixon strolling past every few minutes.

When Margaret had shown him in, she had assumed he would sit at the other side of the room to her, as per usual, but instead, Mr Thornton took up a seat by her side, and there he remained in loyal attentiveness. She had been anxious that they would have nothing to say to each other, their conversation already exhausted. However, they had sat for hours, talking about everything and nothing, their conversation easy, their companionship effortless. All the past animosity and awkwardness of their early acquaintance had left them, just like the wind had carried it away, and her cheek still burnt fiercely to remember the way he had watched her with such smouldering intensity and interest, never once breaking his gaze, as if she were the most fascinating thing in all the world.

It had saddened her to see him go, but when they had said their goodbyes, he had promised to come again the next night, that is, if she would have him. Margaret had agreed without a second's hesitation, and as her suitor made ready to leave, there had been a brief moment when she imagined that he might kiss her. He had towered over her, her neck slanted to look at him, and as he watched transfixed as her eyes twinkled in the candlelight, Mr Thornton, John, he had touched her cheek once more, and as if by some magnetic force, their lips had inched closer and closer. Margaret had been afraid, but she had also never felt more alive. But sadly, her first kiss, his first kiss, their first kiss, it had not happened, not tonight, because Dixon had appeared and given them one of her disapproving grunts.

Laughing and feeling duly mortified, they had stepped apart, but all was not lost. Instead, he had lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed it, and in turn, she did the same with his, and she could tell he appreciated the reciprocated gesture. She had then helped him with his coat and hat, and before he walked out the door, John stopped, turned, and whispered in her ear: 'How do I love thee?' and from that precise moment, as his breath shuddered against her skin, warm and wonderful in its unshakable love, Margaret knew that she was his, body and soul, and always would be.


How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.