Hello! I hope you're having a lovely December. I know I've been a bit quiet on the whole posting front, but I promise I have been busy in the background scribbling away.
As some of you will know, I posted this story earlier this year, comprising of 6 chapters and almost 39,000 words. I have been working on it lately, and it is soon to be published into a book on Amazon, which will be ready over the festive period. It will contain an extra 8,000 words, including an additional epilogue chapter at the end.
I have taken the original chapters down from here, and will add about half of the updated/edited chapters over the next couple of weeks for anyone who wants to read and hopefully enjoy them to do so before Christmas. Then, when the book is published as an e-book and paperback, I will sadly only be able to keep the 1st chapter and a tiny bit more online, as per the rules, and will notify anyone interested that the full version is available.
I hope that makes sense, and most importantly of all, have a very Merry Christmas! And a Happy New Year!
Chapter One
And Then He Was Gone
Breathing heavily in a state of anxious anticipation, Margaret Hale was careful to ensure that her fingertip alone, the most miniscule of measurements, was sanctioned to pull back the edge of her lace curtain as she peered out onto the street below.
Her chest was tight.
Her stomach was churning.
Her head was light.
Her skin was burning.
She felt ill, she felt dreadful, she felt alive!
Margaret could sense it, that oh-so familiar feeling that only ever happened when –
What was that?
A voice?
No, she thought not.
A shuffle?
Perhaps.
A cough?
Most likely.
Oh! Why was it so hard to tell?
She shook her head, for it was her own fault, of course it was.
Margaret would be much better placed to learn all she wanted to know, if only she would go –
There!
There it was again.
It was unquestionably a sound of some description, one that had interrupted the silence which had previously deafened her ears. It was a positively conspicuous noise, yet at the same time, it was a hopelessly indistinctive one, something she could make neither head nor tail of. With her body stiffening, Margaret made sure that she stood as still as a statue, not a bone, nor a muscle, nor a nerve being permitted to so much as twitch. Here she waited. She…
No! This would not do. This would not do at all.
Twirling round on her left foot, because every detail is imperative at a time like this, lest one put a foot wrong and spoil everything, Margaret came to face the door of her bedroom, a door that was firmly closed, she had made sure of it. Sucking her bottom lip, she thought carefully, very carefully, and then, finally, after the briefest of moments spent in nervous calculation, Margaret took a deep breath and nodded resolutely.
Yes!
She would go. There was no other way around it.
Striding across the room as if it were the most ordinary thing to do, even if it were the most ordinary thing to do in normal circumstances, of which this was anything but, Margaret snatched the handle of her door and flung it open purposefully, all before she sneaked out into the corridor, her every intrepid move just that little bit more hesitant, even if they were somehow more hopeful by contrast. Creeping towards the landing, Margaret was wary of the floorboards that creaked, threatening to give her position away with their betraying Judas squeaks. Reaching out, she took hold of the railing, and there she leaned over, her hands coming to rest on the ledge, her knuckles turning white as she unconsciously gripped it for dear life. With ears as astute as a rabbit's, she listened, every groan the house proffered a clue that Margaret's senses soaked up and analysed, and at last, her recklessness, her bravery, if you will, they were rewarded.
'Thank you for coming,' came a voice, one she knew extremely well, but it was not the one she was eager to hear, prompting her nails to tap impatiently on the lacquered wood of the handrail and score tiny marks of irritation in the russet varnish.
No reply…
Come now! They had to be talking to somebody – anybody! Although, not just anyone would do, it had to be a certain someone to satisfy Margaret's curiosity. But still, there surely must be a second person, because it was inconceivable that one would be thanking oneself for attending one's own house. That would be quite mad!
Still nothing…
Ah-ha! There it was. She was sure of it.
Tilting a little further over the ledge, Margaret crooked her head so that she could catch more of the conversation, even if the angle was terribly uncomfortable, the rung digging into her ribs and causing a welt to take up residence, evidence of her absurdity that she would need to either conceal from or explain to Dixon next time the maid helped her dress. Margaret was not accustomed to being nosy, so all of this prying felt most unnatural to her. She valued her own privacy, and therefore, she likewise respected other people's, she always had. Still, there were some occasions that cried out for a little audacity, and this was most definitely one of them.
So why would they not speak up?
They were doing it on purpose. To vex her, to annoy her, to…to hurt her.
Margaret felt her heart spasm in her chest in retaliation to such a cruel thought.
But no, they would never be so unkind, since callousness was not in their nature, for it did not correspond with the honour of their character.
That is, he would not…would he?
Surely he did not know she was here. Or, that is to say, he probably knew she was here, but not that she was here. As in, he would know that Margaret was in the house, that much was permissible, this fact could not avoid being divulged. However, what he did not know, and more critically, what he could not be allowed to find out, was that she was closer than he thought, on the very next floor. Only, this time, she was standing right above –
'Oh!'
Margaret gasped and clapped a smothering hand over her mouth as she hurled herself backwards. Tripping over her skirts, which became bunched hazardously beneath her feet as she faltered, she stumbled, albeit quietly, and then she curled up into a ball and huddled, hiding as she knelt beside the skirting boards, her clothes promptly becoming covered in dust.
Had he…had he seen her?
Margaret could feel her palms sweating as she refused to let her hand slip from her mouth, for fear of making so much as a peep. As vigilantly as she could, she slanted her body closer to the railing, letting her eyes peer below.
Nothing. Nobody.
But she was sure she had just seen…she could have sworn that…
Ah! There it was again. She had been right.
A shock of thick, black hair came into view once more in the hallway below. That is, the hair was not alone, not unaccompanied, of course not, for such a thing would be ludicrous, because hair does not just wander about by itself.
Oh! Margaret could have scolded herself for even entertaining such a silly thought. She was a grown woman, a sensible person, so why was she behaving like such an inexcusable fool? However, Margaret did not have time to think about this, because at that precise moment, the hair moved again, and this time, a face appeared instead, glancing upwards, looking towards her, directly at her. She backed away for a second time, the spindles of the banister casting vertical shadows across her like black, branded tarnishes, and Margaret could not help but feel they were mocking her, implying that by hiding away here, by confining herself so, she was creating a prison for her sorry self to languish in, an irony that was all too true.
'Is something the matter?' the first voice asked, the only voice, really, since that was the only one she had heard thus far, even if she knew that another did indeed exist.
'Aye,' came a reply, and that single sound alone felt like the provoking exuding of melted chocolate dripping inside her, the warmth so delicious as it seeped into her every crevasse, sticking to her bones, sliding down her nerves, stimulating her through and through.
'I thought…,' but then the second voice, the far more thrilling voice faltered, unsure of itself.
What came next, was an excruciating hush, and Margaret dreaded that her heartbeat, so loud and intense, could be heard booming throughout the house. Even although Margaret could see nothing, she could feel everything, a pair of penetrating eyes boring through the structure of the Crampton dwelling as they searched, combing every inch of timber and brick, scrutinising the very spot upon which she knelt.
'Never mind,' was the final verdict, one that was delivered sharply, and more than a mite gruffly, and from what Margaret could tell, the head had moved once again, the face no longer looking upwards towards her, but instead, it was forward facing, towards the door, no doubt towards an uncharted future, a future she had been told she had no hope of featuring in.
But there was no time to think about that now, not when the two voices were back at it, talking once again. Only now, they were drifting, they were shifting away from her, further and further away, and so, she was forced to stand up, and this time, Margaret's daring was even more dauntless, causing her to tiptoe along the passageway and take a few stealthy steps down the stairs. There she sat, her knees tucked beneath her as she crouched like a cat in wait, and there she would stay, for now, anyway. It felt like an age of nothingness, only a few wispy words floating into her ears every now and again, their accuracy difficult to discern and all-too easy to discredit.
'I cannot find them anywhere. Have you by any chance seen them?'
'No, I am sorry, I have not, but I will let you know if I do. In the meantime, can I not lend you something? You must let me, or else, my dear man, you will surely freeze.'
A lightsome laugh was conjured, one she had rarely heard before, and not for some time.
'Do not worry, I am hardier than I look.'
Then it all died away, their exchange infuriatingly indiscernible. But then, all of a sudden, Margaret perceived the patent sound of the front door closing, and as quick as the snap of a finger and thumb, she was up and off. Dashing back towards her bedroom, Margaret made her way to the window, and there, throwing caution to the wind, she tore back the curtain in full, the sunlight blinding her for a moment, leaving her quite dizzy and disorientated. Finally, once her vision returned to its full clarity, Margaret found herself staring out at the busy metropolis which still went on out there, without so much as a passing care for what happened within that obscure house, which stood at the end of an obscure street, putting up, and putting up with, a family that Milton judged to be obscure with all their supposedly fine and foreign ways. It was strange, because she knew that nothing had changed, not really, not in the grand scheme of things, but as far as Margaret was concerned, nothing would ever be the same again, that is, not unless her whole world was returned to order and set right, and only one person could do that, but whether they would, was an entirely separate matter. Feeling a seed of sadness scatter and sew in the recesses of her heart, Margaret sniffed. It was true, everything had ceased to matter the very moment he had –
Margaret leapt back, the net cloth falling back into place as she relinquished her quivering hold, and she held a hand to her belly, the butterflies within fluttering so frantically, that she could scarcely draw breath, their tiny wings leaving her feeling faint with their incessant flapping, a disconcerting sensation for a woman who was typically unflappable. Even although she had withdrawn, Margaret could still see through the thin veil of her curtain, the delicate material like a shrouded screen that gave her a concealed view, whilst at the same time denying anybody on the other side the same furtive right.
Yes, there he was.
He was standing there, just standing there, on the steps, looking up towards her, snow falling all around in a cluster of a thousand snowflakes. He could not observe her, for Margaret knew that nobody could see in, because she had tried and failed before to see into her own bedroom from the street when the curtain was drawn. Nonetheless, there he stood all the same, for quite some time, his eyes fixed, his expression blank, and yet the steady rising and falling of his masculine chest was enough to tell her of the unrest he felt, that chaotic turmoil that lives not on the surface, and is never shown on one's face, but is confined to writhe and war within.
Well, at least she could still make him feel something.
He had sighed, his shoulders wilting, and after putting on his hat, the man strode off along the street and out of sight, never once glancing back, even if her gaze never once deserted him, forever remaining loyal to his retreating shadow.
And then, just like that, he was gone.
