Chapter Seven
The Mislaid Teaspoon
It was true that John Thornton was a remarkably clever man, his mind as fast and fertile as any, affording him the useful ability to process information at a quicker rate than most. Nevertheless, this admission from Mr Hale was more than he could fathom. Where on earth had he heard that he was to be engaged? John was about to reply, to bark a baffled series of questions and retorts, first demanding to know who had fed his friend this heinous lie, shortly followed by a most explicit denial of the false allegation. However, unfortunately for him, John did not have the chance, as before he could open his mouth, Mr Hale spoke again.
'Oh, excellent! Here you are, my dear!' the father said, greeting his daughter and clapping his hands jovially with a single smack that echoed. John spun round to see Margaret walking towards them, his gaze tracking her until she stood wonderfully close to him, so close that he could feel the heat radiating from her body, one he tried his best not to stare at, since its generous curves had the ability to turn his mind to mince, rendering him ungentlemanly as he gawked at her with poorly disguised desire. She looked so delightfully lovely, as always. How was it possible that one woman could be this arresting? It was surely impossible, and one thing was for certain, and that was that it was unfair. How could a man be expected to be in control of himself when he was around such a divine creature? John felt sure that Margaret was some sort of enchantress, because that was the only plausible explanation, even if it were not the most rational. The most ironic detail, was that John had never been truly attracted to a woman before. Yes, he had found the occasional girl handsome enough, but he had barely noticed any of the women who paraded themselves before him, no matter how relentlessly they tried to filch his attention and claim his affection. On the other hand, when it came to Margaret, John was spellbound, and he had been, ever since the first day they had met. Could it be that years of disinterest in the opposite sex had meant that he now had a reserve of bottled-up avarice to release? Meaning that when he finally found himself charmed by a woman, John could not help but be captivated with every inch of her beautiful being?
However, getting back to the point, it was fair to say that John's joy was soon made uneasy when he detected the patent shift in her comportment as she approached. Where she had been spirited a few moments before, Margaret was now apathetic, her happy attitude disquietingly overcast. She stood before him in meek silence, her head hung low, her hands fidgeting before her, all the healthy pigment drained from her previously rosy complexion.
'Look who it is!' Mr Hale declared, gesturing towards John as if his daughter was an imbecile, as if she had not seen him a dozen times before. 'And he came, just like you said he would.'
Nevertheless, instead of glancing up to greet his gaze, Margaret's eyes remained fixed upon the floor, her lids heavy, as if weighed down by some unknown sadness.
'Miss Hale,' John rasped, initiating their discourse, his throat hoarse as he struggled to speak in her presence.
John had never claimed to possess a way with words. He was articulate enough for the likes of Milton folk, a species who were frank with their phrases and blunt with their gist, their time always harried, never their own, rendering conversation rudimentary, and only entered into when strictly necessary, opposed to being an artform that was taught in the south. In contrast, when it came to Margaret, she deserved so much more. John knew that she ought to be showered with poetry, with pretty verses that dripped from her lover's lips with dulcet adoration. But alas, he was not gifted with a silver tongue, what with having a sharp one in its place, so all he could manage were curt snippets of dialogue, each one usually punctuated by a disarray of glowers and grunts. It was a combination that must have made him appear like a boor to her, this refined woman of elegance who could simultaneously soothe and scold his soul with her mouth, a honeyed trove that he yearned to plunder with his own.
'It is good to see you again,' he added, his words as honest as honest gets, yet neither Mr nor Miss Hale would ever know how sincerely he meant them.
Margaret nodded ever so slightly, her small hands clasped before her in doleful solemnity, almost as if she were standing before him to be admonished. Her submissive bearing was puzzling to him, not to mention distressing, but for the life of him, John could not work out the cause of her subdued mood.
'Good evening, Mr Thornton,' she whispered back after a while, her typically imperious voice so faint that he would almost believe she had lost it altogether.
And then no more was said.
To say that the next two hours that passed were the most tense of John's life, would not be an exaggeration in the least. He had endured many uncomfortable encounters over the years; such a drawback could not be side-stepped when he was both a prominent master and magistrate. Nevertheless, despite his experience with the menace that was known as social uneasiness, John could never quite seem to prepare himself for the overwrought awkwardness that arose when he was around Margaret. As an self-governing sort of fellow, he was used to being his own, sole commander, to being measured by his speeches and deeds, allowing him to demonstrate to those who surrounded him that he had earned his reputation for being both intelligent and authoritative. In spite of this, whenever he was with Margaret, John found that he was useless, abysmally so, unable to form a coherent sentence, unable to say or do anything other than scowl or sulk, all because he was too darned frustrated that he did not have the same overwhelming effect on her.
Still, even although John could concede that he and Margaret had shared countless self-conscious meetings over the past year, nothing compared to tonight. After she had convened with her father and his pupil by the front door, Mr Hale had ushered them all upstairs to enjoy some tea and cake beside a hearty fire. Margaret had accompanied them dutifully, but while she had descended the stairs with energy and enthusiasm, she ascended them with listless lethargy. It was almost as if she had lost interest in the whole night and would rather not be part of it. John had found himself constantly turning his head furtively to look at her as she trailed behind them, if only to check that she was still there. When they entered the drawing room, it was a reprieve to find that she did indeed join them, that is, eventually. This interval of uncertainty had been the longest ten seconds of his life, waiting for her to catch up with them, wondering if she would make her excuses and continue up to her bedroom. In the end, much to his relief, Margaret did no such thing, but rather, she sat down in a chair at the other end of the room, and there, the lady of the house took up her sewing. Disregarding his initial gladness, John was far from pleased with how the situation was progressing, because he did not like it, not one bit. For a start, the seat she had chosen was so far away, that it may as well have been at the other side of the county, the country, even, he north, she south, the two of them to be eternally divided. There were plenty of other spots to nestle herself, all much closer to him, but she had opted to remove herself from him and erect a barrier of cold indifference known as distance between the pair of them. What was more, the demonstration of her sewing implied that she had no intention of joining in their conversation tonight, and John was near enough ready to get up and storm off, declaring that if she were not to talk, then it was pointless, since he had no interest in listening to anything that was said unless it came expressly from her. Even so, John tried to reason with himself. She was here. That was a start, at least. It was a vast improvement on past weeks, stagnant and suffocating as they had been, even if tonight did not offer all he wanted, for now, anyway. Still, he would wait. John may have been well-schooled in self-denial, but the second most practised string to his fiddle was forbearance. Yes, he would let her be, and do his best just to be grateful that Margaret was here at all.
Over the next two hours, Mr Hale talked about this and that, the gentleman far more garrulous than John had known him to be for some time, and while he was delighted to see his tutor's former verve restored after his months of vanquished grief, he felt guilty for not paying him due consideration. John tried to be attentive, he really did, but it was hard when his awareness was constantly devoted towards minding what Margaret was up to. For the first forty minutes, she did not even glance up from her work, not once. She kept her head bent diligently over her sewing, and John was mesmerised by how skilfully her fingers floated back and forth as they pulled the needle through the material of whatever it was she was embroidering. However, as homely as this was for him to watch, it would not do. It was just like it had been on his last visit, or that is, the last visit on which she had graced him with her presence, and they had sat together in this room, and John would not stand for it. She had been like this before, strangely timid, and John hated to see Margaret thus, not this woman who ought not to be confined to a corner in silence, but one who should be the heart and soul of whatever room she was in, governing it with her wit and wisdom. He was so accustomed to having her challenge him, to hear her blistering remarks of admonishment or abhorrence channelled his way, that John found he sorely missed her chastisement. Ha! It was ironic, given that he had tried his hardest to win her over for months, craving so much as a morsel of approval, and now, all John wanted was for Margaret to scold him like she used to.
Turning in on himself, John ignored Mr Hale's comments about the latest pamphlets on philosophical discourse that had been published, choosing instead to try and work out the cause of Margaret's altered disposition. She had most definitely been agreeable enough when he had arrived not four and forty minutes before. If his memory was correct, she had been singing and laughing in her bedroom, he had seen her with his own eyes, ardent eyes that had watched her with more attentiveness than was right and proper. After that, she had hurried down the stairs to join them, her voice high in its genuine gusto. So then, what had happened to make her so forlorn? Allowing his paranoid thoughts to cloud his judgement, John even began to worry that Margaret had not realised it was him who was visiting, that she had assumed it was somebody else, perhaps her lover from the train station. Then, when she finally came face-to-face with her companion for the evening, she had felt cheated and disenchanted, leaving her miserable with her second-rate consolation-prize. Indeed, it was conceivable that Margaret had mistaken him for somebody else. A tall man in a hat could be confused for another man of a similar nondescript variety. John's heart sank to think such an unhappy thought, but then he soon pushed it aside as common sense annulled his mistrust.
No, that was not possible. While John appreciated that he knew Margaret's face and figure better than she did his, given that he had made an infatuated study of her every infinitesimal inch, that is, those that were not frustratingly concealed by her clothing, it was still logical to infer that she would recognised the sight of him too. Surely Margaret knew him well enough to distinguish John from any other man she met. For pity's sake, he had held her in his arms on the day of the riot, her petite body pressed against his solid frame, her nose scraping his own, their hot breaths mingling in the tight space that separated their lips, a marginal gap that grew ever closer as they had spun in circles as one in their dizzy dance of terror, fearing for the safety of one another. She knew him! She knew his face. John refused to accept any contradiction on the matter. And there was not only that. They had watched each other intently not half an hour previous, their gazes lingering in a suspended daze, and if John were not so doubtful of his own worth in her estimation, he could have sworn an oath in court that he had witnessed a light in Margaret's eyes when she had noticed him standing in the street on his arrival. She had spotted him. Recognised him. Smiled at him. And then invited him inside. All of that had happened, it most indisputably had, and nobody would ever discourage him from clinging to this fact, or persuade him otherwise. What was more, Mr Hale had called out John's name to her, letting his daughter know that it was the mill master who had come to call upon them this Christmas Eve, and she had heard him, she had replied in acknowledgment.
So what had changed?
Pondering on this, John lifted his teacup to his mouth and readied to take a sip of refreshing liquid to nourish his senses with a jolt of warm inspiration, the fusion of spices promising to invigorate his wits. But as he did this, he glowered to discover that his cup was empty, and so he lowered his arm in tacit frustration. He was just about to stand up and fetch some tea for himself, what with it being an informal occasion that would allow for such familiarity, but then an idea came to him. With the edge of his lip curling mischievously, John picked up his spoon, and with a deft flick of his wrist, he threw it across the floor, and there it landed, just a few paces away from her feet.
His trick worked a treat.
All at once, Margaret looked up with a startle, her eyes landing upon the mislaid teaspoon with a quizzical expression. She glanced first at it, then at John, and the cords of his soul thrummed and twitched to at last be able to look into her eyes, those blue orbs that were the most soothing shade, so precise in their perfection, that no artist could ever recreate it with his paint palette. She could do that, work him like a puppet on a string, and while John could never allow himself to ever be conquered by another man, he willingly submitted himself to her mercy.
Margaret continued to inspect the spoon upon the floor, but she made no move to stand and retrieve it, and John revered her for this. While many women would be deferential, servitude was not in her nature, her character far too stately to permit her to stoop so low as to oblige John by picking up after him like a mother does for her child. Margaret was a caring person, and while she would gladly bend and scrape to help a needy soul, John knew that it would take a great deal to convince her that a mill master required, or rather, deserved, her consideration. Instead, she folded her hands on her lap regally, and she narrowed her eyes to him in defiance, daring him to get up and fetch it himself. Needless to say that John sprang out of his chair like he had just been booted from it, his over eagerness painfully plain for all to see. Kneeling, he picked it up and held it out to her. It was a peculiar act. John had no need to bend, his sprightly limbs were well-oiled enough for him to be able to crouch to collect the mislaid artefact, this prop in his theatrical performance, but for some reason, he wanted to do more than that, he wanted to make a greater show of himself. Bowing before her on bended knee was, to John, a man of chivalry, like a knight lowering himself before his lady, and as absurd as he may appear, lessened in both body and dignity in the Hale's drawing room holding a silver spoon, it felt absolutely right.
As she studied him with an air of discreet astonishment, Margaret could not help but smirk, a slight snort escaping her nose as she giggled, and it was the most beguiling sound he had ever heard, even if he knew it had not been consciously intended for his amusement. However, she soon regained her composure, and standing, Margaret took the spoon from him, and much to John's regret, their fingers did not brush when she did so, for she was careful to ensure that the tip of her dainty digits remained several inches away from his in modest partition, lest they accidentally encounter one another, sending intoxicating ripples throughout them both. With him still kneeling before her, Margaret walked around their visitor like he was nothing more than an inconsequential obstacle in her path, and she continued to the small table upon which the tea things were laid without comment.
Left alone and neglected, not to forget feeling very much like a court jester, John rose to his feet, straightened his jacket, and returned to his chair, pretending that he had not just behaved like an abominable twit in front of the woman he loved. Nevertheless, thankfully for John, the designated table was in fact situated deliciously near to his armchair, so without having to make a mockery of himself twice, he was allotted a top-ticket seat in the fascinating demonstration that was Margaret's tea pouring. He watched in carefully disciplined awe as Margaret picked up and put down first a teapot, then a cup, then a saucer, and then a set of tongs, reminding him of how, on the first time he had seen her perform this uncomplicated yet calming ritual, he had longed to take her fingers and use them like delicate pincers, even if he had never been one for sugar before. Letting his eyes rake over her, John could not refrain from admiring her like a portrait, a liberty he took rather too often, much to his niggling shame. Her dress really was exquisite to behold. He was so used to seeing Margaret in muted colours of browns and creams, but this cloth, this cut, they could not have been more different. Although John had always respected her unassuming tastes, approving of their unadorned simplicity, it was novel to be able to admire her in something bolder, more befitting of her character. It was red, a deep, wine red, with a hint of cherry-hue blended in to give it a lightsome sheen. The sleeves were tight and tapered to her shoulders and arms, creating a structured poise with material that moved down and fitted snugly around her waist, elongating it until the skirts fanned out at her hips, the design conceiving a most pleasing shape. Around her middle, was tied a thick, green ribbon, its ends coiling teasingly as they hung about her impishly. When Margaret twisted to manage her task, John grinned as these same tails swayed and swished, and it took every ounce of self-discipline he possessed not to reach out and grab them, allowing him to tug at her sash and pull her towards him playfully. John often thought about the ways in which he and Margaret would flirt if they could, the pair of them descending into childishness as these two serious-minded people gave way to their youthful light-heartedness.
Yes, as John eyed her thoroughly, he could not help but approve.
As he did this, he found himself smiling in peaceful relief. Ah, so she was not with child, then. Or that is, she could be, theoretically, especially if she had met with her man from the station since that night, but the contour of her slender figure said otherwise, the lack of a swelling bump testament to her intact virginity. Well, that was something, he supposed. John had never truly believed it to be to the contrary, not in his heart of hearts that still trusted Margaret's honour implicitly, but all the same, it was a weight off his troubled mind. John continued to stare at her midriff indelicately for goodness knows how long, as his judicious eyes confirmed his theory. It was only when he sensed her gaze upon him that he peered up, and there he saw Margaret watching him, a furious blush to her cheeks to see the way he gawked at her and grinned to himself with satisfaction. Heartily ashamed, John removed his attention from her at once and chose instead to pick at an invisible thread on the sleeve of his cuff, waiting patiently like a respectable human being until she handed him his cup of tea. However, such a happy event was not to be, and John was deprived of the chance to revel in this simple yet sacred ritual between them when he heard Margaret sigh.
'There is no more tea,' she told her father without so much as batting an eyelash in John's direction to acknowledge the problem this posed to his thirst. 'I shall away and fetch more,' she decreed, and with that, she turned and left, her skirts rustling behind her as she went.
John's shoulders crumpled as he collapsed back into his chair. He was devastated to see her go. What if she did not return?
From John's glum position, he followed her every move, and his brow furrowed as he spied Margaret halting in the hallway. She dawdled there for a trice, unsure of herself, but then she put down the tray on a sideboard with one decisive motion before swiftly scurrying upstairs. John lurched forward and nearly shouted out in churlish dissent. No! Where the devil did she think she was going? The kitchen was downstairs, not up, so she had better not be planning to retreat to her bedroom and forsake him for the rest of the night. John sat there sweating, beads of anxiety trickling down his neck and wetting his shirt. Twiddling his thumbs at a dizzying speed, he could feel the dryness in his throat worsening as his dehydration increased, and he could sense his glands closing in as they thickened. For what must have been no more than a couple of minutes, minutes that were no longer or shorter than any other, since I have been expertly informed that such a thing is impossible, John was nothing more than a bag of nerves, engulfed by a fear that he had somehow insulted or upset Margaret, and that she was now making a point of refusing to see him. It may have been that he had offended her with the spoon. She could have seen it as an act of ridicule on his part, insinuating that it was her role to oblige him by tending to his every need, as if she were a maid and not a magnificent creature who was too good for this world. Nonetheless, hardly any time had passed before John heard the sound of somebody coming down the stairs, and there Margaret appeared again in the frame of the doorway. The master let out an audible sigh of reprieve, grateful beyond words that she was at least once again on the same floor as he. She now had something in her hands, a brown package wrapped with a blue ribbon. John wondered whether this might be the same parcel he had seen her wrestling with earlier when he stood outside, but he did not have time to inspect it further, because Margaret hastily tucked it under her elbow, collected up the tea tray, and then vanished down the next flight of stairs. John clicked his teeth. Well, it certainly looked as if she planned to come back, and that was better than nowt.
With his mind clear from the oppression of doubt, and now being content that his night was out of immediate danger from being entirely ruined, John returned his disgracefully erratic attention back to his host. Poor Mr Hale had been speaking all this time, but about what, John could not even pretend to offer a plausible guess. Still, he was relieved to find that his tutor had not seemed to notice his discourtesy, and had himself filled in the gaps, most likely assuming his friend's lack of responsiveness was down to nothing more than his lethargy after weeks of travel. Even so, despite John reproaching himself for his rudeness, and reminding himself that he should try harder to be more civilised, he found himself yet again breaking the rules of polite society when he recalled something Mr Hale had said earlier this evening.
