Parents

"Parents wipe away tears,

They ease their child's fears,

They have unconditional love,

Their babies their blessing sent from above.

Parents help their child grow in many ways,

Through important acts like encouragement and praise,

They enable their baby to be their very best,

They can tell when their child's sick and needs to rest.

Parents teach their child to know what's right and what's wrong,

They punish for good reasons, but not for too long,

Over the years their baby becomes older and stronger,

The child eventually feels they need their parents no longer.

A parent knows they still need to be there,

Parents will forever and always show they care."

— Amanda

MARGARET'S MOTHER'S DAY

From The Thornton Tales

PART 2 OF 3

John and Margaret both sat on the bed, gazing into each other's eyes, her breath catching in her throat and tickling every strand of her nerves as she drank in his mischievous expression, one which was etched in every angular contour and dimple of that unreasonably handsome face.

'John…,' Margaret began suspiciously, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the suspense. 'What is it?' she asked, for she simply had to know. Scrambling forwards, she rose to kneel on the mattress, ready to scavenge for her reward if required, since Margaret was as excited as a child on Christmas morn.

But John in his infuriating discretion, said nothing, unflapped by her snooping, merely shaking his head and tapping his beak of a nose, as if to indicate that this was the most secret of secrets, and that the tight-lipped master would not be letting the cat out of the bag that easily.

Margaret pouted coquettishly.

'John!' she protested glibly, playfully slapping him on the arm. 'You know that I cannot bear surprises!' (A complete fib, one might add).

'Tell me, what offerings has my king brought his queen?' she demanded to know, her eyes impatiently searching behind him before taking John's large hands in hers and turning them over to corroborate that he was not stowing his hush-hush knick-knack thereabouts, which of course, Margaret knew he was not. But then again, perhaps he had secreted something in the folds of the bedclothes, such was her husband's sly scheming when it came to surprising and spoiling his wife with presents, since you see, for John, the giving of the gift was as gratifying as the gift itself.

Margaret's mind was racing with a flurry of possibilities, each new prospect as delightful as the last. Was it an item, an object? Oh! Could it be a shawl? That was certainly possible, given that Margaret was fond of furnishing her wardrobe with pretty and unpretentious layers, always keen to wrap up warmly against the bitter northern breeze that whipped up about her in Milton, nipping at her poor fingers and toes, the southern lass in her never quite able to acclimatise to the arctic conditions of Darkshire. Yes, perhaps John had designed and fashioned her a new cotton covering from the looms of the factory, a thoughtful gesture that the mill master had bestowed upon the mill's mistress before. Margaret's eyes scooted to the well-worn cream stole that lay regally on a chair beside her dressing table, the delicate fabric having been spun like strands of gossamer threads on the machines of their very own Marlborough Mills, the exquisite material then embellished with yellow Helstone roses, a generous endeavour that had been undertaken with painstaking care by the most skilled seamstress in the city, Hannah herself.

Or then again, John may have arranged for Fred to source and convey another multi-hued scarf from the sun kissed shores of Spain. That could be it, since the sister knew that her brother had recently sent John a hefty parcel, one which Margaret had somehow forgotten to enquire into the contents of, no doubt an example of her, "baby brain," as Dixon would say. She most certainly did appreciate it when Fred and Dolores posted trinkets from Seville, a real treat, the cloth of that country so vivid that Margaret often thought that while he had been varnishing the stars with flecks of gold to make them shine brighter still, God had inadvertently spilt his pallet of paint, the colourants then dripping down from above and dyeing the vibrant goods of the exotic Mediterranean lands.

Margaret chewed her bottom lip as she pondered this. If her teasing husband was going to make her solve this Mother's Day mystery, then she was going to outwit the tricky fox at his own game by guessing correctly with just one astute deduction.

However, it could be something different altogether. Oh, wait! A new journal? Ah-ha, yes, that was it! Margaret nodded to herself. That was a most plausible prediction, given that Margaret had taken to writing with her friend Mary Smith from Crampton and their mutual acquaintance from Manchester, Elizabeth Gaskell. Over the past year, Margaret had been scribbling a few modest stories about her and John's life together to pass onto their children as keepsakes from their childhood. The mother hoped that it would turn out to be a special way for their baby chicks to feel close to their parents once they had grown up and flown the nest themselves, or indeed, to remember John and Margaret once they had passed away in years to come. It was a chance for them to always maintain a link with their legacy, a bond that would tether them to their heritage, a compass that showed the way home, no matter where they would go and what they would do in this new world that was evolving around about them with such inestimable momentum.

John, ever the encouraging husband, had fully supported this idea, insisting that Margaret sit opposite him in his study as she wrote, the man's bottom rising from his chair every now and again so that he might take a sneak peek at her work. It was proving a most diverting activity, one which was fast becoming a family venture, since Maria, a talented young author herself, had been helping Margaret with this sentimental exercise, a creative project which brought both mother and daughter much pleasure and closeness as they scrawled away side-by-side.

Margaret lifted a finger to her roseate lips and plucked at them, her eyes narrowing reflectively, a pensive look which made John smirk, his heart swelling with love for this quaint creature that he was blessed to call wife.

Finally, Margaret could take it no longer. Throwing her arms around his neck, she shuffled closer and placed a tempting kiss against his ready lips. 'Enough, sir!' she asserted. 'I cannot stand it; my mind is going quite mad with delightful imaginings. I must know!' she insisted.

John dropped his chin so that he could regard her with that disarmingly dashing smoulder of his. It was an amorous attribute that John had not even known he possessed before he had met the one and only woman for him, and since then, he had only ever wanted to smile at her, his fervent passion often affecting his face to break out into an unfairly dishy simper, one which left Margaret quite weak at the knees.

Nevertheless, once the delectable deity that was Margaret Hale had consented to be his bride, the married man had quickly found that even the slightest of his smiles could disarm his dear wife, rendering her soft, supple, and sinfully satisfying as she accepted his affectionate attentions. Therefore, it was now a weapon in his arsenal which the infatuated master employed with unapologetic purposefulness, most notably whenever he wished to knock Margaret off her feet and into his ready embrace, sturdy arms which ached for her constantly, a cavity that only she could appease.

'I do not have to tell you anything, woman!' he maintained, closing his eyes and leaning forward to capture her mouth in another moist and prolonged kiss. However, his efforts were thwarted by Margaret, who stopped John's advances by laying her prohibiting fingers against his lips, the man's eyes flying open in confusion. He watched as a pair of glimmering blue orbs sassily stared back at him and his wife shook her head in rebellion, those chestnut curls framing her face like a curtain of glossy tresses.

'No!' she persisted adamantly, folding her arms to signify that she would not budge. 'No more kisses until you confess your ruse, Mr Thornton.'

'No more?!' John echoed in discontent, his mouth hanging open in dismay. 'But I shall starve, wife! I stay alive from suckling the nectar of your honeyed lips. It is what sustains me. I shall not survive without it!' he implored, his tongue extending to lick the space between her nose and mouth. 'Have pity, I am just a poor man in love, after all.'

Margaret laughed and pulled away. 'No! Not so much as a peck, and certainly nothing to do with that wandering and wayward tongue of yours, sir!' she taunted. 'So, come on, out with it, my boy, I am all ears!' she ordered, ever the master's master.

John chuckled, and the rumble which escaped his throat was irresistibly rich, much like melted chocolate dripped over a scrumptious pudding. 'Well, first of all, Mrs Thornton, I am sorely offended that you thought I would fail to remember such an important day. You are, after all, the mother of my children,' he said tenderly, his nose rubbing against hers, much like an affectionate tomcat nuzzling his mistress.

'What do you take me for?' John muttered good-naturedly, his chords strumming a low thrum that twanged at the strings of her heart. 'Have I ever forgotten before? Hmm?' John tested, tilting his head enquiringly. 'I will remind you, madam, that I am a man known far and wide for his efficiency,' he sustained, a puckish glint flashing in his blue eyes.

Margaret furrowed her brow. 'No, but I…,' she was about to contend, stating that she knew his aptitude for organisation was unparalleled. But all the same, John was a man with an expanding business to manage, a court of law to oversee, a pregnant wife to aid, and a throng of Thornton pups scampering about his feet, all distractions to keep his already laden schedule well and truly occupied. Surely to goodness, acquiring her a gift was the very last thing on his industrious mind.

Nevertheless, Margaret soon trailed off as she watched her husband slowly slip off the bed and kneel down on the floor beside her, his impish eyes never once leaving hers. With his sleeves rolled up, exposing his hairy arm, John slithered it below the frame. Once there, John began to explore this furtive nook, one which was home to a hoard of buried treasure, including a single silken shoe, a volume of Keats' poems, a rag-doll with a missing arm, and a collection of Fanny's piano music sheets, all items that Lord Ruff, the family Labrador, had hidden beneath the bed, a den which he liked to slink under and sleep in whenever he could sneak past his slumbering master and mistress.

However, it would be unfair to blame the dog for stealing the last item on that list, the music, since John was the guilty culprit in this case, the brother having constantly confiscated, censored, and concealed his sister's song sheets when she still lived in the mill house. In a state of long-suffering torment, the man had struggled to spare his poor bleeding ears from the torture of being subjected to her strident singing and God-awful playing. John cringed to recall the numerous afternoons when he had been forced to flee his house after hearing Fanny's fingers smacking down and offending the blameless keys with tasteless and talentless gusto, the amateur pianist murdering Mozart and causing the composer to spin in his grave.

As John continued his hunt beneath the bed, snorting privately at the memories of his bygone bachelor days and thanking God that he was no longer alone, the master raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment as his exploring hand discovered something. 'What do we have here, then?' he declared friskily, his fingers curling around it.

Margaret stifled a giggle. Oh! She had been sitting above her surprise all this time. How masterfully sneaky of him!

With teasing and taunting unhurriedness, John slowly began to draw something out from his secret lair of mysteries. At last, once his hand had emerged from beneath the bed, a burst of bright colours and fragrant smells flooded Margaret's senses. With the air of a medieval knight offering a token to his lady on bended knee, John protracted an arm to bestow upon her a glorious posy of yellow, red, and white roses, the spray speckled with springs of baby's breath.

Margaret gasped.

'Oh, John!' she cried, a hand flying to her mouth in astounded awe.

'It may not be as grand as your crown, Meg,' John admitted, nodding to the regal garland of wild floras upon her head, a hint of regret to his reticent tone. 'But I hope you will still appreciate the humble sentiment, love,' he said eagerly, the man having faith that Margaret, ever his sweet and sentimental girl, would.

Margaret nodded and sniffed as a few glistening dewdrops of tears soaked her eyelashes. Of course she understood the gesture, a perfectly meaningful and romantic one. Letting her eyes scan the beautifully arranged bouquet, she took in every subtle yet significant detail of the floral shades and varieties, features which spoke of a personal and passionate history that was private between a man and his wife. Certainly, Margaret did not need to trawl her memory to recall that the relevance of these blossoms had not begun to bud during their marriage, no, it had been twelve days before that joyful union, during an unforgettable evening when John had come to the Hale's home for tea, a night which would set off a chain of events that would lead to their unexpected engagement two days later. Nonetheless, the happy occasion of their betrothal had not come before the pig-headed lovers had both inflicted and endured many a heartbroken misunderstanding, miserable muddles that were borne of their inexperienced mistakes. Nevertheless, with the shrewd mediation and wise counsel of Mrs Hale, the pair had managed to resolve their grievances, confess their feelings, and welcome their blessed reconciliation, mutually choosing to put all the hurt and humiliation of the past behind them, and move into a future stably formed on the foundations of faith, honesty, and loyalty.

Goodness! Was that really ten years ago?

Margaret reached out a hand to lightly fondle the folds of the sleek petals. Red, white and yellow roses. It was exactly the same, an emblem of that unforgettable and bittersweet night many, many moons ago when Margaret Hale had first realised that she was in love with John Thornton, only to have him dash her hopes on the doorstep, with no one but the moon to witness her broken-hearted tears.

But the night had not started out so cruelly, no, quite the opposite. Even now, Margaret could picture John's embarrassed face, even after all these years, a look of sheer mortification when he had tensely and timidly proffered her the posy in her parent's parlour, praying desperately that she would accept them and not laugh at this painfully awkward, (and oddly enough, accidental), attempt at romance. Bless! ─ how endearingly uneasy he had been, the usually calm and collected businessman who was more accustomed to working with facts and figures finding himself like a fish out of water when it came to dealing with his restrained feelings.

Margaret chuckled to recall how charmingly nervous he had been. To be sure, the poor man had near enough walloped her on the nose as he thrust out the arrangement in a panicked jerk, a blunder that had helped Margaret to glimpse the coy, profound, and considerate heart that beat beneath that grave mask of solemnity, one which she knew was just a façade to protect the insecure soul trapped inside.

Dear John! Her dear, silly boy.

With an apathetic scowl engraving his face, the mill master had attempted to salvage the last scraps of his already depleting dignity, the prideful man in him struggling hopelessly to convince her that this was merely a meaningless act of northern civility, and was most categorically not a meaningful offering of chivalry, a prince trying beyond all hope to woo his princess as if in some farfetched fairy-tale, a woman who had already decisively refused his hand and heart.

But it had not been so, for as much as he had tried to pretend that he was unconcerned to see and speak with her, unmoved by her beguiling beauty and benevolence, it had been as clear as day that this modest act of affection had been a rejected man's shy declaration of steadfast love for the woman whom he had pined for with pitiful longing all these lonely months. Indeed, the flowers had been anything but hollow in their consequence, but rather, they had been a bold statement of John's consecrated commitment to the extraordinary girl who had by some unknown means, entered into his insipid life, breached the battlements of his bachelorhood, scaled the walls of his isolation and indifference, stolen his guarded heart, and taken his soul as her most willing prisoner. Yes, these three unassuming flowers, they had been John Thornton's diffident yet decisive act of dedicated devotion to Miss Margaret Hale, the woman who he would forever worship, even if his unswerving love was doomed to be eternally unrequited and wretchedly one-sided, (or so he had presumed).

Yes, red, white and yellow.

'If I had a flower for every time I thought of you…I could walk through my garden forever,' John whispered, his voice hoarse, his resonant timber made rough by his overpowering reverence for this sweet creature who had chosen, for some unfathomable reason, to make his protective arms her permanent home.

Margaret's eyes trained up from the blossoms and John's heart skipped a beat as he saw the love shining out from those hypnotic orbs, pools of bluey-green that he could quite willingly lose himself in all day.

Margaret blushed, that adorable flush tinting her cheeks and chest, causing John to let out a small huff of satisfaction at her irresistible charm. 'How could I forget?' she replied, her eyelashes fluttering demurely.

Red roses for the passion he bore for her. White roses for the unblemished integrity of his intentions towards her. And yellow roses because of how happy he had believed they could make each other, if only she would allow it, and because he had instinctively known that yellow was her favourite colour.

John smiled nostalgically. He remembered too, of course he did, how could he ever forget that fateful night? Looking at the roses, he nodded. Yes, they were exactly the same, he thought. Well, almost the same, since the baby's breath was a symbol of something quite different, something which had come later, Margaret's first pregnancy. It had all begun when Margaret had been sitting in bed a few days after Maria, their firstborn, had been welcomed into the world. Despite her blissful happiness at the keenly anticipated arrival of their daughter, Margaret had been feeling rather exhausted by it all, constantly crying with no apparent cause and worrying that she would be a terribly inept mother. As the baby had wailed and Margaret had struggled to feed and soothe her, the new mother had felt utterly overwhelmed and had thought she would never learn what to do.

John, who had been trying helplessly to console his distressed wife and babe, had wandered out one morning before the household woke and ventured for a quiet walk so that he might clear his cluttered mind. As the sun had risen and peeked above the rooftops of Milton, the jaded husband and father had spotted a florist selling flowers from his cart, and John had brought home a bunch of floras for his girls, and amongst them, stood a freckled abundance of baby's breath, a sight and smell which brought Margaret some much needed comfort and confidence. It reminded her that she loved their Maria with all her heart, and now, whenever Margaret was with child, John would bring her them time and time again, reminding her that no matter what doubts they confronted as parents, they would always face them together.

Holding the bouquet in her hands, Margaret dipped her nose so that she could sniff the sweet aromas that wafted up her nostrils, and in turn, John felt his passions stir at this sight, his heart pounding against his ribs. There was something divinely sacred about simple moments such as these that he and Margaret shared. In this instance, he thought of all the times he had conversed with Miss Hale, irrationally desperate for this intriguing newcomer to town to like him, only to despair when the southern lass raised her chin in supercilious defiance to him, that lovely little nose of hers creasing in disdain at his uncouth ways. But here, now, that same chin and nose were lowered in love, buried in his bouquet of roses.

'I have something else,' John announced bashfully, bringing Margaret back to the moment.

She grinned, flashing a row of pearly-white teeth. 'Do tell.'

But alas, John replied with his customary shake of the head, implying that it was her turn to guess yet again.

Margaret sucked her gums. Hmm…what else could it possibly be? As she thought, it occurred to her that perhaps she had been thinking about this all the wrong way, and was barking up the wrong tree, as Mr Bell used to say. It struck Margaret that maybe, just maybe, John had made her something with his own two hands. Yes! – she thought, actually going so far as to click her fingers in eureka, her husband startling at her sudden and sprightly movement.

'Meg?' he probed.

'Shh! I'm thinking!' she hushed. 'I will work you out yet, husband, just you wait and see!'

To be sure, Margaret felt certain that she was now on the right train tracks with this idea, for knowing her thoughtful husband, that could well be it. Again, it would explain his eagerness to wet her anticipation, the man's playful determination to draw out every last ounce of excitement from his wife before he revealed his ruse.

Dear John, how he relished composing and assembling presents for his family, the visceral exertion bringing him both manly and fatherly fulfilment as he watched the joy shine from their sweet faces. Only last summer, John and Nicholas Higgins had built a treehouse for the children in the garden of the Thornton's country cottage. It was a colossal structure which had more nooks and crannies than a real house, the timber hideaway entertaining their brood for hours at a time, leaving their grateful mother and father free to enjoy some mature entertainment of their own. To be sure, a highly satisfied John now deemed the treehouse to be the most valuable thing he had ever made in his whole life…well, apart from his children, that is.

Again, Margaret thought back to the exquisite doll's house that John had constructed for his daughters after he had accidentally trodden over and crushed their previous one during one of his menacing moods. Storming out of his study in a temper over the incompetent botches of his magisterial clerk, the man's blustering steps had caused him to march straight into the path of the small building, which, unknown to John, had sat rather injudiciously at the bend of a corridor, tucked out of view from any grumpy giant who may happen upon the scene.

Alas, too irate to heed his surroundings, an irascible John's plodding feet had first collided with and then demolished the miniature yet magnificent house, destroying it until it was no more than a pile of rubble and splinters. On seeing his daughters' inconsolable faces, what with all the snotty snivelling and weepy whimpering, the remorseful father had immediately tried to repair it, but sadly, as he had picked up a flattened roof and a smashed veranda, John had quickly ascertained that the expensive, (and he had often thought extravagant), antique from Aunt Edith was unsalvageable.

John had been distraught with guilt, a sentiment which was only made worse by little Lizzie, who in her infantile heartache, had called John an ogre, even telling her father amidst a series of blubbering bleats that she would: "Never, ever, ever, ever, ever forgive him – NEVER!" The girl had then stomped off to her mother in a strop that could match one of her father's own fits of fury, refusing to so much as look at him for an entire day, her bottom lip wobbling as she sniffled, the child too upset to even let him tuck her up and kiss her goodnight, as was their much-cherished custom.

Consequently, faced with such unbearable estrangement from his little girl, John had resolved to make amends for his careless and cantankerous ways. Therefore, the very next night, John had rolled up his sleeves and commenced work on a new house for his three daughters, one that was bigger, finer, and more beautiful than before, working tirelessly through the night to saw, assemble, and paint the various pieces. It had been damned arduous work, his tradesman's hands taking a right battering, his already calloused palms red-raw with the effort of his carpentry. Once he was at last finished, John had crept into the nursery in the small hours of the morn, careful not to wake his children. There, he had laid the house on the floor and meticulously arranged the dolls in their new home, his long fingers crooked as he propped them up in their chairs and beds. After that, John had sighed wearily and retired to his own chamber, slipping into his warm bed beside his sleeping wife, the master snatching a brief half hour of rest before he was forced to rise for work.

It had been a few hours later, when John had been busy conducting a meeting with a potential buyer, that his office door had flown open with a crash, and before he knew what was happening, the master could feel something enveloping and tugging at his legs. Peering down in flustered fright, John had seen a pair of big green eyes peeking up at him from his shins. Lizzie?! Picking her up, John had frantically looked about him, alarmed that his two-year-old monkey had seemingly managed to escape the house and venture into the mill grounds unattended, a hectic circus of commerce where any accident or injury may have befallen her. However, his parental concerns soon melted away when she draped her arms around his neck and snuggled into the crook above his shoulder, before whispering: 'Fank-eww, Dada! I lubs you forever, and ever, and ever, and ever – AND EVER!' Well, that had been all John had needed to hear, and needless to say, that priceless item of hand-crafted architecture still sat in pride of place in their nursery, something that his Lizzie-Lu played with every day. And one day, when she was all grown up, Elizabeth's own children would play with it too, their grandfather helping them to prop up their dolls.

Margaret smiled. Yes, darling John! What an incredibly fond father he was. To be sure, Margaret thanked her lucky stars every day that such a man was the father of her children.

'Hmm…tell me, darling, have you made me something?' she deliberated at last, her fingers caressing the coarse stubble of his cheek.

John grinned mischievously. 'Maybe….maybe not,' was all he would commit to say, sloping into her touch, her fingers now raking through his dense hair that was as black as the coals that filled the fireplace.

Tutting at his lack of cooperation, Margaret relaxed against her plump goose feather pillows, her mind wandering back to the most precious present John had ever given her, well, apart from their children, of course. Indeed, when it came to Margaret, John had truly made her something special, exceptionally so. It had been five years ago now, that John, without breathing a word of his plan, had created Margaret a humble tome for her twenty-fifth birthday. He had even gone so far as to accumulate and bind the pages himself in a coat of yellow leather, her favourite colour, the fastenings entwined with blue string, his preferred shade. Margaret had awoken one morning to find the volume resting beside her on John's pillow, intriguing her into wake as she shambled across the bed to eagerly examine it.

She had not known what would be inside, but Margaret could never have prepared herself for such raw and real love as she found contained in those pages, her breath snatched from her in just one glance at the sentiments enclosed within.

The book was an anthology which contained various verses penned by her husband's own romantic hand, his slanted scribbles a scratchy pattern she would recognise anywhere. With her eyes avidly scanning from left to right, Margaret discovered that it was a testament to John's passion for her, the elegies not necessarily possessing the skill of a great poet, but still, in their humble and honest words, they embodied an abundance of unwavering love. As the scholarly master had said himself: 'At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet,' his hand resting on her late father's volume of Plato, his mind flooding with fond memories of days long ago spent in the company of his knowledgeable tutor, faithful friend, and benevolent father-in-law, a surrogate paternal figure whom John missed more than he could say.

To be sure, Margaret had instantly understood John's intentions in giving her such a romantic manuscript, for without a doubt, the compilation of writings served not as an off-the-cuff assortment of lines and lyrics, but as an ardent love letter from an enamoured husband to his wife. It was something private for her eyes and hers alone, something which Margaret could pick up and put down whenever she wanted to, knowing that she could keep his love close, no matter how near or far he might be in body, for John's soul was always with her, always, for they were twins, you see, a bond which no man could ever hope to sever.

Nevertheless, that was not all the birthday book had contained.

Margaret's eyes drifted to a large pile of splattered parchment that lay on a table near the window, a chaotic heap of wax pastels and pallets of dry oil paint sitting on the top.

She smiled to herself, Yes, the book, which now rested beside her glass of water on the bedstand, also held a collection of delightfully informal sketches, portraits which a besotted mortal had drawn of his goddess when she was not looking. John, ever the proficient artist, would sit in stealthy silence, that untamed mane of black hair bent over a scattered stack of parchment, his piercing eyes darting up and down to study her with penetrating focus as his hands moved with fevered swiftness. With fervent concentration, he would grip his pen, brush, or chalk, carefully outlining every curve of Margaret's form, every rise and fall of her face and figure, one which he knew better than his own. John had always been a keen artist but had never had the leisure or confidence to pursue his interest or share his efforts with others.

Nevertheless, since marrying Margaret, his creative spirit had sprouted wings and taken flight. Consequently, an infatuated husband now found that his eyes constantly searched for his wife, his muse, hungrily craving to drink her in, and in turn, his fingers itched for her insatiably, either to touch her, or on other occasions, simply to sit back and draw her from a respectful distance.

John had even been known to reach for his portfolio late at night when he could not sleep, and by the light of a solitary candle, he would take the undisturbed opportunity to practice while she slumbered by his side. In a frenzied paroxysm of inspiration, the man would often obsessively sketch and shade until the first shafts of daylight broke over the granite rooftops of the mill, reminding John that an unrelenting world of business awaited the master outside of the cosy borderlands of his marital bed.

These portraits of devotion and fascination were usually pencilled when Margaret was at her most beautiful in John's mind, that is, when she was unassumingly going about her day as a wife and mother, exceptionally beautiful in her enchanting simplicity and sweetness. Many of his illustrations were of wonderfully intimate scenes, such as her tending to the children, their little lambs curled up on her lap while she nursed their grazed elbows and knees, the mother always so gentle as she wiped their tears and kissed their bruises, taking away the pain with her soft lips. Others were of Margaret inconspicuously reading a novel, her slender legs bent beneath her as she huddled by the fire in John's study while he worked late at night, the dim flush of the flames casting a bewitching glow on her porcelain skin. Then again, many more were simply of her dreamily staring out of the drawing-room window at the bustling world of cotton and commerce below. With serene curiosity, Margaret would watch the workers buzzing around like busy little bees, unaware that the master himself was perched on the sill of his office window across the yard, looking up at the angel who sat high above the scene, furtively drawing his wife surveying her kingdom.

Needless to say, as soon as Margaret had understood his message, she had dressed as speedily as her fumbling fingers would allow and raced from the house, nearly forgetting to lace her boots and tripping down the stone steps with a succession of graceless slips and stumbles. As she had scurried across the courtyard, ignoring the questioning eyes that observed her, Margaret had dashed into the warehouse, and looking across the vast granary, her vision impaired by the wisps of stray cotton that snowed from the sky, she had seen him, standing there, Mr Thornton, her John. She had not moved, not wishing to disturb her husband at work, not when he appeared so enthralled in his domain of trade. All the same, John had somehow sensed her presence from afar, and glancing up, the seemingly stern master had stopped, stilled, and smiled. Gazing at each other for no more than a few heartbeats, the lovebirds had told each other everything that they needed to know. With that, Margaret had nodded and unobtrusively made to leave, content that their subtle exchange had conveyed the contents of their hearts.

On returning home, the wife had awaited her husband patiently, (or perhaps impatiently), pacing back and forth as if an army of ants were running amok in her stockings. But then, on the stroke of six and not a second later, he had arrived back, and John had skidded into the parlour, snatched her up in one powerful scoop, and then carried Margaret to their bed whilst muttering how much he had missed her. The couple had spent a blissful period in each other's arms, both heartily content. John had recited Margaret some of his poems in that baritone tenor that made her shiver with desire for him, and in turn, she had drawn his portrait, a picture that was mortifying in its poor proportions and perspective, but alas, he had venerated it, and the master still kept the haphazard sketch of his profile in a drawer in his desk, a reminder of his lover's endearingly adorable nature. There they had stayed in their private paradise until they were interrupted by the pitter-patter of tiny feet outside the door an hour later, reminding them that it was time for the family to have dinner together and for the parents to return to their responsibilities.

Yes, there were so many possibilities, each as darling as the last.

It was as she was thinking on this, that Margaret noticed her husband's eyes flit to her bedside bureau. Following his gaze, her attention fell upon a certain bracelet which lay in a copper dish, the circular trinket minding its own business. Ah-ha! That was it!

'Jewellery!' she snapped abruptly, her eyes lighting up.

John chortled.

'I am right, am I not?' Margaret pressed. 'You have…oh, John!' she exclaimed, suddenly sitting up straight. 'You haven't…goodness! Darling?! You haven't had something made for me again, have you?' she asked, her eyes wide, her voice betraying the excitement that bubbled inside her.

With a roguish wink, John once again rummaged below the bed, somewhat like a magician reaching into his top hat full of treats and tricks. Then, with one dramatic sweep of his arm, John retrieved a long box of blue velvet and handed it to Margaret, his hands trembling slightly, for he was always nervous when he gave her jewels, worried that she would not like his modest and male offerings. Or worse, that Margaret would pretend that she did and then feel obliged to adorn them for his sake.

Stroking the soft material, the sapphire of her engagement ring matching the shade of the box, Margaret tentatively pushed open the lid.

Margaret took a sharp intake of breath.

'John,' she blew, hardly able to form the words. Lifting her eyes, a single tear trickled down her cheek, which he swiftly wiped away with his thumb, his gaze frantically studying her expression.

'Do you not like them, Meg?' John asked, a depressive wilt to his typically thick twang. 'You do not have to say you do if you do not, sweetheart. You do not have to wear them,' he comforted, concerned by the way Margaret began to hiccup amidst a series of sobs that had overtaken her previously calm breathing.

Oh dear! John could not have her like this when she was so heavily with child. Dang it! He was hopeless when it came to choosing his wife jewellery. John would have taken Fanny with him to help select something more suitable, but I mean, a man has only so much patience to get him through the day, a precious commodity in a house with seven, nearly eight Thornton toerags running wild. Besides, if it had been up to his sister, then John would have returned with the most tawdry and tasteless bauble in existence, and his modest Meg would certainly not have thanked him for that ─ no sir!

However, Margaret hastily rose to her knees once more and flung her arms around his neck, the force of her embrace nearly knocking John over. Encircling her, he rubbed pacifying circles on her back, her muscles and joints no doubt aching, something they always did during the later stages of her pregnancies, her petite frame struggling to carry the weight of his heavy Thornton babes.

'Hush now, my love,' he soothed, peppering her forehead with gentle kisses. 'There is no need to cry,' he promised her. 'I am not cross that you do not like them. Don't be daft, my lovely lass,' he chuckled.

Margaret had been with child often enough now for John to have learnt a thing or two about conceiving, confinement, and childbirth, and he definitely knew that it did not take much for the floodgates of his wife's tear ducts to open, and for a river of tears to pour out, the trick being discerning how to close the gates again.

But Margaret shook her head firmly, her hair tickling his chin. 'They're beautiful!' she breathed against his shoulder.

John stilled and let out a trembling sigh of relief, one that he had not even realised he had been holding in.

'Truly?' he murmured against her ear, that suppressed trace of insecurity always lurking in the more vulnerable recesses of his heart.

Margaret giggled like a schoolgirl as his hot breath amused her lobe and affected the hairs on her neck to bristle into alertness. Elevating her gaze to meet her husband's, Margaret's heart melted to see the nervousness in his features as he surveyed her closely, searching his wife to uncover the sincerity of her approval, part of him always afraid that she was merely pretending for his sake.

'Truly,' she reassured him, her lips skimming across the exposed collar of his neck, her husband letting out a gruff moan of gratification at her virtuous contact. 'They are so unbelievably magnificent, that is why I was so moved,' Margaret praised, scraping a hand along her ruddy cheek to quell her silly crying. 'You took my breath away, my love, something that you somehow manage to do so very often, yet still, I never seem prepared,' she explained. 'You would think I would be now after all this time, but I find that I never am.'

Margaret crouched back on her heels to inspect her present more closely, so that she might offer both the gift and John the attention they both deserved. Peering inside the box, she found that swathed in a bedding of ivory silk, there lay a gathering of delicate hairpins. They each had long stems, the stalks intertwined in a fine braid of gold and silver as if the two metals were mating. At the peak of these branches, sat the most pleasing part, a series of decorative heads, each containing a cluster of precious stones, all cut into tiny shards, forming bright bursts of colourful buds.

Margaret recognised the design at once. Leaning over to collect her bracelet, she compared the two and nodded, yes, they shared an identical motif. Her new ornaments had been made to match the bracelet that John had given her several years ago, each luxurious stone an emblem of their family tree, every pigment symbolising the birthstone of one of their beloved babes. There was diamond for Margaret's birthday. Ruby for John's. Garnet for Maria's. Amethyst for Richard and Daniel's. Tanzanite for Nicholas'. Sapphire for Elizabeth's. Opal for Fred and Hannie's. And soon there would be a further one added for their latest and last little lamb. Eight jewels for eight tiny and fervently treasured Thorntons. And of course, just like with her bracelet, there in the centre of each pin, ruled a bigger stone which rested within the core, attentively watching over its smaller friends. It was aquamarine for March; the month John and Margaret had wed, the month their relationship, their union, their sacred bond had been blessed by a holy trinity of spiritual, legal and romantic sanctification. It was from this enduring rock that the joy and hope of all the others surrounding the mother-stone were born.

'I ─ I thought…I wanted you to have something to go with your bracelet, and I…,' John stuttered huskily, his throat dry, unsure of how to articulate his emotions, always feeling like such a bumbling, lovesick fool when his wife looked at him with such tenderness, even after so many years of sharing each other's lives. 'I thought of the hairpins you wore when I took you to the first Milton bonfire night two years ago. Do you remember? You wore those splendid silver gems in your hair. They…they quite bewitched me. I know you think I do not notice details like that, darlin', but I do,' he said seriously, always eager to prove himself a husband who appreciated everything about his wife, including what she said, how she felt, even what she wore.

'They sparkled like shooting stars…you…oh, Meg!' John huffed, half in frustration at his inelegance, half in awestruck love for this incredible woman who held such an inexplicable power over him, this divine creature who possessed this natural and otherworldly ability to tug at the strings of his very soul. 'You looked so magnificent. I was so proud to have you on my arm, my wife, my Margaret, my world. I thought…,' John faltered apprehensively, his eyes blinking rapidly in that way they did when he was on edge. 'Do you like them?' he asked at last.

Lifting his quivering hand, Margaret lightly placed her lips against his knuckles. 'They are perfect, my boy, perfect! You know me so well. Thank you!' she commended, bumping her nose along his jaw, something which she knew made him feel as warm as melted butter inside.

With his eyes cast upon the medley of colours bursting forth from the pins, John said with a frolicsome lilt to his voice: 'I thought you could wear them on our anniversary.'

Margaret's head bucked up, and she grinned like a Cheshire cat, an innate and childish innocence to her that her husband adored.

'Why? What will we be doing?' she asked, her eyes twinkling, since she knew that her husband had something planned for their tenth wedding anniversary that was to fall in a few short days. Margaret had been combing for clues for weeks, even going so far as to artfully interrogate Hannah, Dixon, the children, and even Fanny's Watson, but none of them seemed to know anything, either that, or they refused to give the game away, no doubt being bribed into silence by John. It was at times like this, that Margaret wished she had her mother's aptitude for puzzles, a shrewd skill which had allowed the ailing woman to bring Margaret and John together in the last weeks of her life, one which had sadly been cut short prematurely by illness.

John shook his head and clicked his teeth. 'Never you mind, young lady,' he retorted. 'You'll just have to wait and see.'

'I shall not be young for long,' Margaret sulked, her eyebrows knitted in contempt. 'I shall be thirty in a few weeks,' she exhaled noisily, suddenly feeling terribly old, her pinkie absently rising to trace the thin lines that had begun to form beneath her eyes.

'Had-yur-wheest, woman!' John bit back with a mock look of offence on his debonair face. 'Thirty is nothing. I will remind you that I turned forty last year, and you don't hear me complaining.'

Margaret chuckled. What a lie! If her memory served her right, John had grumbled endlessly at the thought of becoming old and grey, but she was not about to evoke that grumpy beast of vanity, not for anything.

'Yes, but we are quite different, lover,' she defended. 'For you see, while women grow haggard as they age, men grow more handsome, and I do believe, sir, that you are a testament to that unfair fact,' she went on, a finger reaching out to smooth the crinkled lines of his brow. 'How is it that my Mr Thornton only seems to grow more delicious with every passing year?' she sighed rapturously.

John let out a hearty laugh, the deep rumble of his chords reverberating around the room. Kicking off his shoes, he carefully clambered over Margaret before settling by her side in the bed. As he assisted her to lie down with him, John pulled the covers up around her and gently drew Margaret close into his affectionate embrace, her head resting on its customary pillow of his chest. 'Now then, Mrs Thornton,' he whispered. 'You are more beautiful than the day I met you. In fact, I find you more beautiful with every passing day that we are wed.'

'Oh, hush!' Margaret chastised, kicking him affably. 'You talk such nonsense, husband of mine!' she jested, humming contentedly as she closed her eyes and relaxed against his strong physique, the grooves of which she knew how to nestle into with cosy precision, her body moulding perfectly with his. 'How I ever thought you a dull dog is quite beyond me….a bulldog, yes, but not a dull dog.'

'Oye! Enough of your insults,' John guffawed, slapping her thigh. 'And I am not talking nonsense!' he dissented, his Darkshire accent pleasantly throaty. 'I think you more enchanting every morn that I gaze upon you, Margaret Thornton.'

However, when she merely laughed and dismissed his quixotic flattery, John playfully tickled Margaret behind her knees, causing her to giggle yet again.

'It is true!' John maintained. 'And I will tell you why,' he pledged, towing her closer, his chin sitting on her shoulder. 'It is because with every new day that we are man and wife, I get to know you better, and the more I uncover the depth of your sweetness, your intelligence, your generosity, your compassion, your motherliness, and your abiding love for me, the more fascinating and alluring I find you,' he confessed raspingly, his reverence for her getting the better of him.

'So, my darling girl, it is true, for while I found you unbelievably beguiling the day I first met you…even if you were harshly condemning my character…I now find that you take my breath away day, after day, after day. And, my love, that shall never change,' he swore, his arms wrapping tightly around Margaret, his nose buried in her wealth of hair, the scent of peaches drifting up his nostrils and thrilling his senses.

Margaret felt a tear glisten in the corner of her eye, and she snuggled closer into John's arms, his hands coming to rest on the bump of her belly.

'Well then, my darling husband,' she baited, teasingly chafing her bottom against him in that way that drove John wild. 'Since you clearly love me so much, will you not please tell me what we are doing for our anniversary?' she joshed, trying her luck, revelling in the low growl of amusement he let out against the base of her neck, his splayed fingers gripping her hip.

John chuckled darkly into her ear, his tongue briefly licking the inside, a shrill delight which sent a sensual shudder down his wife's spine. 'Nice try,' he murmured. 'But you won't play me that easily, wife of mine.'

With that, John's mind wandered to contemplate his already formed plan to celebrate and commemorate their tenth wedding anniversary, a romantic and relaxing idea which he prayed his sweet Meg would adore.