Hello readers! I hope it was not too long a wait this time. This chapter annoyed me so much I literally re-wrote it three times and changed the whole thing. I just couldn't quite get the characterisation right, I felt. I think it is as close to what I wanted it to be as I can do, without spending a year on it. I hope you like it but it's ok if you don't. 😊 Thanks for reading.
Elle x
…
John had known as soon as he had treated her dismissively that he would live to regret it. Margaret had kept her word. In the two months since her aunt, cousin and, of course, Henry, had left, she had not run to greet him so again, or indeed really acknowledge his return from work at all and he had felt the pang of disappointment every time. No longer did he return to the house for luncheon, partly from necessity- time was in short supply at the mill, and partly because it hurt less to not have to deal with her constant distain in private and fake cheeriness in front of his mother and the maids.
He had been so angry with her that morning, so hurt, when she had flinched and withdrawn her hand from his touch as if burnt. It had been an entirely innocent act on his part and yet she had slighted him again. Unfairly, he had blamed her, his pride wounded by her rejection, despite the fact that he knew her action had been involuntary. When she had run to him, in front of her family like that, it had felt like she was mocking him- putting on a show like a child wanting to impress a parent. He knew all too well she would only push him away once again as soon as they were away from spectators, and he couldn't bear it. Like a child himself, he had cruelly wanted to make her feel what he had felt.
That evening, when he had apologised to her, he had nearly damned everything and kissed her, just to see what she's do. For one insane moment he had thought he had seen longing in her eyes, as if she wanted him to, but all too soon he had interpreted it for what it really was- fear. Thankfully, he had stopped himself, unable to bear the dread emanating from those blue orbs. Yet, for some incomprehensible reason she was still angry with him and they had barely spoken since. They had been civil of course, almost friendly at breakfast in front of his mother, but barely willing to acknowledge each other's presence at night. As time went on, he returned home later and later, partly through choice and partly through necessity, and each time he did, his 'wife' lay there in bed, her back turned towards him and the blankets clutched up to her neck, never displaying even a hint of anything lower. She was avoiding him as much as he was avoiding her.
Each morning he woke to find that she had not moved an inch in the night. Still she lay turned from him and would remain so until he had dressed and left the room, when she would wash and dress for the day and appear downstairs soon after. Since their wedding night, she had not asked him to help her undress and he had not offered. The sensible half of him was relieved and the other felt the absence of such trust like a stab to the heart. Of course, since he was arriving back so late, she was always already in bed before he returned, but never asleep. Somehow, he suspected it was not because of tiredness. Apparently, she no longer cared what the maids or his mother thought of the nature of their marriage.
In truth, he had not had an abundance of time to dwell too much on his deteriorating relationship with his wife, as the mill had demanded so much of his attention over the following weeks. Business was not improving as fast as he would have hoped. Although they were nearly up to date with their orders, many of his suppliers had not yet paid, and John knew there was trouble looming if they were not forthcoming soon. His only choice was to keep pushing through orders. Things would improve, they had to, but John knew he had a long way to go yet. To make matters worse, as November rolled around, winter had well and truly swept in and a penetrating chill had settled over Milton; production speed had inevitably decreased, with more and more of the hands were becoming too ill to work.
John raked a hand through his hair, wincing as pain shot through his shoulder, the mark of a blocked machine in the mill earlier in the week. He sighed as he looked at the mounting paperwork in front of him. Darkness had long closed in, unrelenting rain had truly taken over and the wind persistently whistled as it hurried past the windows, rattling the frames. Leaning back in his chair and glancing at the clock on his desk, John decided to admit defeat for the night and return home to face an entirely different challenge.
His mother would be waiting in the sitting room, he knew, but he did not want to see her and face her questions. She was starting to realise that there was something amiss between he and his wife and every evening asked whether something had happened between them. Every evening he fielded off her questions and went to his chamber in even more of a foul mood than when he left the mill.
That evening was no different. Wearily, he reassured the woman that her concerns were unfounded and trudged up the stairs to bed, opening the door of their bedchamber without knocking and entering to find the fire in the grate as usual but his bed undeniably empty. For a moment, John stopped and stared as if doing so would make the person he expected to see in her usual place, staring adamantly at the dressing table and no doubt plotting his demise. Of course, the space remained empty, and, baffled, John, pulling off his cravat, exited the room and returned down stairs, not caring that he was traipsing water across the carpet for the second time that night.
"Mother, where is Margaret?" He asked, bewilderment penetrating his words.
His mother, paused her sewing and looked up at him, pitying and confused.
"Is she not upstairs as usual? Hiding in her tower, rather than here waiting for your return, as she would if she had any sense of propriety?" She asked raising her eyebrows, her judgement seeping through. "As it happens I have not seen her all day."
Panic replaced his bewilderment and his blood ran cold as his mind went into overdrive. Would she have just left without any warning? Where could she have gone? Returned to London to be with her family perhaps? After all they were barely on speaking terms and if she felt as he did, then he could imagine she did not feel particularly kindly towards him. Had she had enough of their stilted conversations and fabricated civility? Did she suppose that this was what he had envisioned when he had proposed to her once again? Did she think he was happy either? He did not have the luxury to just leave with no warning, yet apparently, she felt she did!
His mother returned to her sewing and John felt his panic turn to anger, with Margaret, with his Mother and her nonchalance and doubting, and with the whole situation.
"You have not seen her all day and yet you did not think it prudent to check on her?" He interrogated, his voice rising. It was the first time he had felt this angry with his mother and the look of annoyed disappointment she shot him made him feel instantly guilty for his tone.
"It is not unusual for your wife to choose to go out all day to who knows where and return without a word to me, so why should I have thought that today would be any different? I am not married to her; I cannot stop her from choosing to visit those people she so sympathises with…"
He did not need to hear his mother's words to know where she was likely to be- at the Higgins' household, helping with the Boucher children. He knew that was where she went all day, for he had seen her leaving from his window every morning since they had argued the day after their wedding, but he had no idea when she usually returned as by then he was supervising the workers. Despite his unease he had tried to be tolerant. The thought of her visiting their alone did not sit well with him but he had remained silent on the subject, knowing that asking her not to go alone would be futile. Her stubbornness was often intolerable, and he knew that without a doubt she would continue to go anyway so why ruin the shred of politeness that still existed between them. Still, surely, she was not stupid enough to be there at this time of night? Alone at this time of night? A glance at the grandfather clock confirmed it was approaching ten o'clock and the streetlamps had nearly all been extinguished. No, she would have known it was unwise to remain in the Princeton District or out in a city alone at this time of night. Why would she have done it anyway? Surely, she would stay at Nicolas' house and not attempt to walk back alone in the darkness in this weather?
Without thinking through what exactly his plan was, he turned his back to his mother and strode from the room, ignoring the rustle of skirts that told him she had discarded her sewing and was following behind him.
"Don't be rash, John. She is young and impulsive, but she is not stupid. She will be somewhere she sees as safe for the night. I am sure she knows what she is doing…" His mother cried at him, her voice becoming more and more shrill with each word as he grabbed his coat from the hallway and threw it on, barely hearing her protestations above the sound of his own heart thundering.
He ripped the front door open, sending the door knob crashing into the hallway wall and stepped out into the raging wind, the rain biting at his exposed flesh.
"John!" His mother's cry echoed in the deserted courtyard, despite the cacophony of sound already dominating the space. Violently, John burst through the mill gates, leaving them flapping open in the wind behind him.
The Princeton District was on the other side of the empty town, and past the church and grave yard where Mr and Mrs Hale were buried. Many of the street lamps had burnt out, plunging much of the streets into darkness, only illuminated by the occasional crash of lightning.
Battling through the raging elements, John struggled towards the church finally looming in the distance, the headstones filling the graveyard, jutting up intermittently inside the small stone walls. From this point at the top of the hill, he could just make out the shadows of the jumbled buildings below and hurried in the direction of his target.
Barely audible above a crackle of thunder a startled cry emanating from behind him, somewhere inside the grave yard sent a shiver straight to his heart. He turned, breaking into a run. He dashed through the open gate, dodging headstones as he went, searching for the source of distress.
On the other side of the grave yard two figures stood huddled beside a third smaller shadow. They swayed a little as they moved closer to the smaller figure, muttering something indistinguishable, their voices oddly blurred.
"Let me go!" Her voice carried on the wind, annoyance and indignance seeping through as one of the larger figures reached out towards her. Defensively, she tried to spring back.
As he ran closer, he could make out two men, in dishevelled clothing. One of them was mumbling incoherently and grasping onto Margaret's arm, whose face had adopted a concerned expression. The unmistakable and overwhelming scent of alcohol carried on the wind with each new rambling. John did not attempt to understand what was said, roughly seizing the arm that was grasping his wife and shoving the owner of the arm backwards, sending him flying to the ground.
"John!" She shrieked, disapproval lacing her voice.
Dazed the man tried to stand, the other, more in control of his sense, grappling to help him up. John moved towards them, his fists clenched, and one raised, ready to strike.
"John, don't! They're drunk and can't defend themselves."
Her plea stopped him delivering the blow he felt was necessary to teach them a lesson. Not so inebriated that they could not tell when danger was about to assail them, without waiting to see whether he would listen, they scurried away, cursing loudly as they did so.
For a long moment, he and Margaret stared at each other, neither speaking. The fission of tension created by mutual anger, as the rain continued to fall around them, rooted them to the spot.
"What the hell are you doing out here at this time of night?" His question bubbled over. He was shouting to be heard over the incessant splatter of rain ricocheting from the cobbled path, blood still pounding in his ears.
She frowned at his question and agitatedly swiped dripping water from her face as it ran down her forehead. Her hair was damp and curling more than usual as it tried, under the influence of the wind and rain, to escape from its ties.
"I could ask you the same thing!" she spat back, shooting daggers at him.
Incensed by her avoidance, John's scowl deepened.
Impatiently, he waited for her answer, noting the way her forehead scrunched as it did when she was trying to think quickly. Then, turning on her heel, she walked away from him towards the sheltered church doorway without an explanation.
"Margaret!" He demanded, refusing to let her avoid the question and storming after her. The wooden shelter was not the widest of spaces, a simple wooden covering over the door, but John squeezed in besides his wife regardless. Pleased that it would be impossible for her to avoid his question now, he looked down at her as she scrunched her dishevelled hair in her hands to drain some of the excess water.
"What were you thinking walking alone at this time of night in the middle of a storm?!"
For a moment he thought she did not intend to answer again. Her mouth was set in a defensive line and she continued to ring out her hair and then clothing as if she had not heard him.
"Margaret!" he bellowed at her, his temper flaring dangerously. Wincing, he rubbed his shoulder, suddenly aware of how tender it was, no doubt it had been worsened as a result of his violent temper.
Her eyes narrowed a little, clearly angry at being unable to avoid the question any longer.
"I went to visit Mary Higgins and the Boucher children. I often fill my time by visiting them and lost track of how late it was getting." She bellowed back, meeting him blow for blow. Still, behind her anger, the waiver in her voice and the way her eyes darted around her, wide and concerned, gave away her doubt.
Having finally had an answer, although in his opinion an unacceptable one, he was tired, the fight was leaving him and the adrenaline wearing off. He rubbed his temples wearily, droplets of water coming away with his hand when he lowered it.
"Just think of what could have happened if I hadn't have arrived when I did!"
"Nothing was going to happen." She responded quickly, her voice harsh as if he had made a ridiculous suggestion.
"Are you really that naive, Margaret?" he asked, his eyes shooting pins at her face.
Quietly, she tried to justify herself, "They had just been drinking and did not know what they were doing. They weren't going to hurt me, John." As she met his gaze, he recognised the way her chin was jugging forward in defiance as an attempt to make him feel his worry was unnecessary, but her voice had adopted a pleading quality.
"Besides, why should you care? We have barely spoken in weeks and you cannot stand to be near me!" Her voice had instantly adopted an accusatory tone to replace the guilty one. John flinched as if stung and studied her intently, listening to the continuing pitter-patter of rain. The first part was true, of course, but it was not that he could not stand to be near her. He longed to be extremely near her every waking moment, though not in the way she meant.
When he finally answered, it was no louder than a whisper.
"You don't really believe that. I know you don't." Her eyes flickered a little to glance at him before they snapped away and she folded her arms against her body as if to create a barrier between them, affirming his surmising. Apparently, that was the only response he was to receive, which only served to infuriate him further.
"My mother informed me of where you have been going to everyday, though I already knew, and I have kept quiet, but can you not at least be responsible and return home in the light?" It was cold and harsh with none of the sensitivity of his previous statement. Sensing his annoyance, her eyes snapped back to his at that and a fire burned there that made him gulp and tilt his body as far back from her as the small space would allow.
"You have 'kept quiet' certainly, yet you judge me none the less? And what would you have me do all day? I have nothing to discuss with your mother and she sneers at any suggestion of my helping with the housework..." The arms were unfolded now as she had used them to gesticulate wildly as she spoke, barely waiting for him to finish his sentence before snapping them back across her body.
John considered her for a moment remembering his mother's lack of interest in his wife's whereabouts.
"Is she unkind to you?" he asked, his voice still harsh.
Margaret shook her head, resentment crossing her face.
"No, she is perfectly civil, but she disapproves of me, as you well know, and we have nothing in common. We understand each other now but just because we are married does not mean that I am going to magically rise in her esteem."
John was unsure what to say to that. He knew his mother well enough to realise that she would not go out of her way to make Margaret feel welcome in private, though her loyalty to him made her act as though she wanted to in public.
"I'll speak to my mother."
"No." She replied quickly in horror, her arms dropping to her side.
"Then, what would you have me do?" He asked sincerely, despite the frustration evident in his voice.
"You promised me a partnership, yet it appears to me that your life has barely been affected by this whole situation, while mine had been thrown into turmoil and left me with an abundance of time to sit and dwell on how lonely I am without any family or anyone on my side and judgement from those around me."
"I am sorry, you feel that way," was all he could think to say. He didn't think it was particularly fair for her to insist that his life was unchanged. Her other statement was right, of course. He had said all she claimed.
"I could be of help, with the mill. Is there not something I can do to help improve the lot of the workers?"
His heart dropped a little at her words. Apparently, her obsession with the rights of his workforce had not dimmed, and she had remembered the one part of their agreement he was struggling to fulfil. He could not deny her wish, since he had promised that very thing, and yet the shame of her knowing how much of a struggle managing the mill's finances had become would be too much to bear. The troubles would pass, of course, but not quickly and he had not even told his mother of just how behind in the bank payments they had become. He had truly been planning something he knew Margaret would love, but the dire state of the mill's finances had halted such plans and they had actually been all but discarded. Yet if she had something to occupy her time, perhaps she would stop visiting places where she was likely to find herself in trouble.
After seeing the desperation in her eyes, his anger cracked and without considering the financial repercussions he spoke, "I have been speaking with Nicholas about opening a kitchen for the workers, a way to 'improve their lot' as you call it, whilst also improving productivity. Now that winter has set in, so many are off too ill to work, and I fear some of the problem is that they are not well fed, and their bodies are unable to battle the cold as a result."
"You intend to feed them from your own pocket?" she asked disbelieving.
"I am not doing it out of kindness, Margaret!" he clarified, infuriated at her constant wish for him to help the workers out of the goodness of his heart, when as an employer that would help neither they or he.
"Production has slowed with the winter drawing closer. I hope it can increase productivity and lessen the number of workers becoming too ill to work over the winter months." She was watching him sceptically as he tried to stress the practicalities.
"Surely, you care a little for their health and not just about the benefits for business? You cannot be unaffected by the plight of those poor starving children?" she asked incredulous, and he rolled his eyes a little at her persistence. How was it that even when he had given her something she knew she wanted, she felt the need to push him and push him to make it all seem as though it was for her purposes?
"It does not give me pleasure to see anyone's suffering, but that is not the reason for my proposal." He stated firmly. "Perhaps you could help Nicholas to sort out the logistics and find someone to cook in the kitchen?"
Still she regarded him for some time, her eyes narrowed as she appraised him, and he was beginning to feel extremely self-conscious at just how ridiculous he must look with rain still dripping from his soaked hair onto his clothing, when she finally nodded her assent a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"In return, please promise me you won't stay out so late as to find yourself walking home alone, in the dark at ten o'clock at night, Margaret!" He added, gesturing around him at the chaos in the darkness.
Looking slightly bashful, she nodded again. Lightning flashed around them, illuminating the dark headstones and they both jumped. His eyes returned to her face as hers hurriedly moved to sweep the graves, her teeth biting her lower lip, displaying her worry, her pale skin contrasting prettily with the raven darkness of her gown. Even when utterly soaked from head to foot with her hair falling haphazardly from its pins she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he was reminded of what he already knew, that no matter how much time passed and no matter how long he stayed away from her, she only unwillingly made him fall more in love with her than ever. Somehow, when she was the one who had behaved unfairly, he was the one who had bended his finances if not his will to give her what she wanted. At least they were talking now. If only they could get through an entire day without shutting off their channels of communication, they might even be able to live in relative harmony with each other.
Sighing, he tried to distract himself from the small flush that had risen to her cheeks.
Scoffing at himself his self-deprecation managed to leak through into his words as he admitted, "I thought you might have left me, when I found you gone."
Her eyes remained trained on the spot she was carefully studying, where he knew her parents lay, but her eyelids flickered slightly. Slowly, she shook her head, her teeth still worrying her bottom lip.
If he was hoping for her to reassure him that she would never leave, it seemed he was not going to get it. John's, eyes snapped to her hands, which she was rubbing together to warm up, focussing for a moment on the spot where under normal circumstances a wedding ring would sit. Of course, as a gentleman and particularly one involved in trade he was not expected to wear a ring at all, but he would have liked her to have worn one. Perhaps she would have if he had asked her, but her abhorrence of his first proposal and her suggestion that he wanted to possess her had prevented him from asking her to wear one, knowing she was likely to think he wished to mark her as his. In truth, he did wish to mark her as his, but not his possession, he wanted her to want people to know she belonged with him, not to him- even if that was only in friendship. He could not ask her- perhaps one day he would but she was not ready for it and would undoubtedly reject the suggestion.
Looking around him as the rain fell, he was struck by the absurdity of having argued in a church yard at close to midnight and turned back to the woman next to him, with curiosity.
"What were you doing in the church yard exactly?" He asked.
She sighed, her chest rising and falling as a sadness filled her posture.
"I was walking home when I felt so completely alone that I wanted to visit the last tie to my parents. The darkness and rain didn't seem particularly important." Margaret dropped her gaze to her cold, red hands as she continued to rub them together in attempt to warm them.
His heart hurt a little at her words and the droplets of rain that clung to her dark eyelashes distracted his attention again. Her eyes were glistening but whether it was from the rain or unshed tears, he could not tell.
"Perhaps we could visit them together sometimes." He suggested. Smiling softly, she nodded.
It could have been his imagination but as another crack of thunder roared above them, he was sure she was beginning to lean into him and as he caught the smell of lilac, still evident despite the rain dampening everything. His thoughts turned to how she had let him hold her to him here once before; his arms ached to find their way around her waist and pull her into him. How easy it would be, and in her gratitude and worry she might even let him.
Ashamed, John had to force himself to look away from her, for fear that his foolish feelings and inability to control himself would ruin the work they had barely begun to mend their fractured friendship.
She shivered dramatically as a particularly violent gust of wind whipped around them and John came to his senses. It was pointless to wait for a storm like this to pass; it would not for hours yet. As matter of factly as he could, he grasped her arms, running his hands up and down them in the hope that the friction would warn them a little. His mother would still be awake and waiting for them to return and although he was still angry at her for her lack of empathy, he did not wish to punish her further. Checking up at the sky once, he grabbed his wife's hand, warming it with his own and pulled her out from under the shelter, pushing the throbbing in his shoulder from his mind as much as he could, and together they began to run through the rain.
…
By the time they reached the gates of Marlborough Mills, both Margaret and John were out of breath, once again soaked through to the skin, and struggling to keep running towards the safety and warmth of the house.
He had promised her she could help him in feeding the workers and no matter how hard he argued that it did not stem from kindness, she knew it was there behind all his business sense. Perhaps it was because of his promise to her tonight- or more likely how cold she felt, having now been out in a torrential downpour for at least an hour, that she found herself gravitating towards his physical warmth. He was tentative in his actions and for that she was grateful, but his arm had gradually made its way around her waist as they ran together; his height was angled towards her so as to shelter her from some of the downpour and instinctively she leaned into his protective stance, not stopping him from pulling her a fraction closer. The heat from his hand imprinted on her side, through the material of her corset where it rested. Despite the ferocity of the rain, the atmosphere between them was no longer frosty but it still held a heaviness. They had barely spoken, too focussed on getting home and with nothing more to say, yet he had asked her whether she was alright at numerous points throughout their journey and she was feeling considerably for favourable towards him. Instead of clinging to her anger at his treatment of the men who had been too blind drunk to know what they were doing and his chastisement of her, she felt kindlier towards him than she had done since their wedding day.
Dripping wet, both fell through the front door and squeezed into the dark entrance hall. Margaret's heavy skirt created a waterfall effect on the wooden floor as a cascade fell from the hem of her petticoats and she cringed as she thought of her mother-in-law's likely reaction to her reckless behaviour.
Mrs Thornton was standing in the sitting room and had clearly been waiting for their return. Silent and disapproving, she held her head night but refrained from speaking.
"I am sorry for worrying you, Hannah. I lost track of the time." Margaret apologised sincerely, prior experience telling her it was better to apologise now and hope for the best. She would never admit it to John, but her experience this evening had scared her enough for her to be able to see that walking home alone at that hour had not been her finest idea.
Margaret waited for the reprimand she knew she probably deserved, but it never came. Instead, her mother-in-law's gaze was focussed on her son's hand grasping Margaret's waist. The urge to keep up the pretence in front of the woman was so ingrained that Margaret tried to act as though she barely noticed what Hannah was focused on or, indeed, that fact that his hand was there at all. In the absence of any verbal response, she bid the woman goodnight, relieved when the sentiment was quickly reciprocated and climbed the stairs towards their chamber, noting the absence of heat on her side as he withdrew his hand and waited to speak to his mother.
"Be careful, John!" was the only thing she heard Mrs Thornton say, before her husband, bid her goodnight, without acknowledging the comment, and the speed of his footfall on the stairs implied he was eager not to have to comment on it at all. Margaret had no idea what John was supposed to be careful about, but she suspected it was likely to be aimed in some way at her, in which case she did not wish to know.
The glow of the fire Martha had lit in their chamber, flickered, caressing parts of the room, coating the space with a warm golden glow. It created a stark contrast with the thundering rage outside and the bullets pelting the window behind the bed and for the first time in this house, Margaret thought how good it was to be home.
John cross the room to close curtains and shut the storm out and Margaret found herself looking at him more closely than she had in a long time. He looked tired and dishevelled and somehow softer than she had remembered. Physically softer as well as emotionally. No, no matter how he tried to deny it, Margaret knew in her very soul that his plan to give the workers food was about more than productivity. It had to be. The man she had thought he was would have not cared who did the work, only that it was done and with man men out of work in the aftermath of the strike, he could find other men in need of work if he wanted to. He wanted to help them as much as he wanted to help the mill; Margaret knew it and would not be persuaded by all his protestations.
"Come, you'll catch your death of a cold, if you don't change into something dry!" he declared, and Margaret jumped a little at having been caught standing doing nothing in the doorway.
He was right, the cold had crept into her bones and she could not stop shivering despite the heat from the fire. It was the first time they had really undressed in the same room together since the night of their wedding, and Margaret was momentarily panicked at the thought of changing in front of him again.
Still, regardless of her discomfort, Margaret could not very well stand in her wet garments any longer. Her gown, thankfully, was fastened with small buttons down its front and Margaret was able to turn from him to face the fireplace and carefully unbutton it without needing to ask for help or show skin to the man across from her. Sneaking a glance over her shoulder, she could tell that he had removed his jacket and cravat and although turned away from her, was working on the buttons on the front of his shirt.
For a moment, he paused and glanced over his shoulder to her. They both blushed as they realised they had gone as far as they could without waiting for the other to undress or being completely immodest.
Margaret sighed. It was ridiculous to go on as they had. That first night, it had broken the ice when they had put their embarrassment aside and just got on with it, so, summoning her courage, Margaret slipped her arms from her dress and grasping the material which pooled at her hips, forced the skirt over her to the floor before stepping out of it. Despite the mortification of a man seeing her in her undergarments, at least they were particularly pretty ones- white with delicate flowered patterning in baby blue. Although damp and cold and making her shiver, they were less see-through than they could have been, which Margaret was innumerably grateful for.
As she had removed her dress, John had not even pretended to look away, his eyes roaming quickly over her body. Intertwined with total mortification, Margaret, absurdly, felt a flicker of satisfaction that he wanted to stare at her. Self-consciousness soon took over and she drew her arms around her waist, willing him to look away but he didn't seem to be able to.
Finally, his eyes swept over her once more before he seemed to notice her embarrassment and he gulped, his Adam's Apple bobbing violently before he looked away. Turned from her, he seemed to be gathering his own courage as his hands gripped the bottom of his shirt tightly. He inhaled deeply and drew it over his head and left it to pool beside him on the floor. Curious, she watched his actions as she pretended to be concerned with turning the blankets down on the bed, rather than do the decent thing and turn completely away. She had never seen a man's back before, not even her father's or brother's and she could not help but study it, despite the very real danger that he knew she was staring as he had.
Carefully, he hung his jacket on a clothes hook that had been resting on the chest at the end of the bed and his cravat with it and Margaret silently watched as the muscles in his back contracted with each movement. After placing them in the wardrobe where her journal and her Papa's books were hidden, he met her gaze, close enough to reach his arms out and touch her now, and for a moment they stared at each other, Margaret trying with all her might to keep her eyes on his face, rather than looking down at his broad chest.
To her annoyance, she could not do it, and they flickered down to the hard panes of his chest. Instantly, she knew it been a mistake. It was too intimate and intrusive and not part of their agreement. It had been clear what would and would not happen between them and all at once those lines had been blurred and her nerves rattled. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt against her ribcage as her eyes roamed over his body curiously, knowing she shouldn't and that it had been a mistake to let him do the same to her. His shoulders were not as broad as she had expected, but there was still a defined layer of muscle and as they swept across his shoulder, her eyes lingered on a deep purple bruise just below his collar bone. It was an alarming shade of purple and flecked with dried blood from an angry, red cut in the centre. When had he gotten that? Had anyone attended to it? Certainly not her, which made her stomach squirm uncomfortably.
Wordlessly, she reached out a hand to his collar bone to touch it, trying not to pay attention to his expression or how his mouth gaped at her shaking touch as she tenderly brushed her fingers over the flaming skin. His flesh was still cold from the water which had soaked through his shirt, and rough from whatever trauma had assailed it.
Sharply he inhaled as she tenderly touched a spot close to the cut and Margaret quickly withdrew her hand away from it to a spot closer to his shoulder, where she could feel the hard muscles beneath his skin. As if it would somehow ease his pain, with trembling fingers she traced the fading line of colour where it was starting to heal by his collar bone, and where his Adam's Apple bobbed as he swallowed deeply. Her eyes roamed over the rest of his chest to his collar bone and across to the muscles at the top of his arm and down, her hand following with feather light touches that made her stomach flutter. His eyes fluttered closed as he swallowed thickly, the sound echoing above the rage of the storm, and as she placed a hand on his chest to feel his heart hammer against her palm, he shuddered under her touch, his breath ragged and uneven.
Then he was touching her in return- Mr Thornton- John- the man she had married to escape from a worse fate- his own caress so delicate it was almost painful as the pads of his fingers stroking down her arms as he mirrored her actions and she shivered at the foreign intimacy. Caught up in the moment, she had forgotten to breathe completely, and now that she remembered she needed to, she couldn't seem to work out how; her chest rose and fell as she tried to take in enough air and dizziness gripped her as it had on their wedding night. This time, though she did not run from it- could not run from it. Involuntarily, she allowed her eyes to close and shut out his scrutiny as his touch reached her wrist and as he so tenderly swept his hand across the inside of her arm, she was helpless to stop a whimper from passing her lips at the sensation.
Suddenly, all the embarrassment she should have felt all along returned and her still shaking hands faltered. Then dropped to her side.
"John, I…" she stammered, her voice shaking, and her eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal, but her mind could not form a coherent explanation quick enough and she stepped back, distancing herself from his heat, desperate to retreat. Horrified, she stared down at her state of undress and back to John, her heart still screaming at her against her rib cage as if trying to break free of its prison.
"I'm…" she started again, still failing to get across her incoherent thoughts, that begged to form an apology.
"Please don't say it." He pleaded, his own voice horse and his eyes desperate as they bored into hers and she knew he had understood that she was trying to apologise, to take it all back.
As if to silence her, he reached out to grasp her waist with both hands and pulled her close- not completely flush against him, allowing her to bury her face against his bruised chest as one hand held her waist firmly and the other continued to trace the faintest of patterns onto the skin of her arm. For a moment, her limbs were frozen, completely powerless to move, but when she had caught her breath, she tentatively rested her cheek against the smooth skin of his chest, feeling him shiver again and release a shuddering breath against the top of her head. That same smell of soap mixed with sandalwood infiltrated her senses and her heart fluttered at the intimacy of recognising something so personal. Against her flaming cheek, his heart raced loudly, and she closed her eyes to focus on the sound. Her small hands tentatively made their way around his body, wanting to reciprocate the comfort she knew he was trying to give her. Clinging to him, she softly placed her hands against his back.
His soft caress continued as he leaned his head down to softly kiss the top of her head, pausing for a moment to bury his face into her hair, breathing her in.
Suddenly, he stilled.
Without warning, the hand that had been tracing her arm was in her hair as he kissed her temple, more urgently and yet more tender than her head, the other hand splayed on her lower back as he pulled her lower body flush against his. Instinctively, her hand made its way up to his neck and he released a deep groan as her fingers laced into his hair to grip him to her. His lips traced a path down from her temple to her cheek, then jaw and lingered at her neck, making her gasp each time they made contact with her exposed skin. Her legs had begun shaking and she grasped his elbows tightly to stop herself from falling over, vaguely aware that her finger nails must be piercing his arms. Again, and again, he placed small kisses at the top of her neck, just below her ear and Margaret's heart fluttered more each time, making her feel funny, and she froze, her head spinning as she both wished he would stop and became more and more convinced that her heart would break if he did.
To her dismay, he stopped, bringing his forehead to rest against hers and releasing a shuddering breath. Margaret's heart felt surprisingly cold and empty at the loss of contact, though her skin burned in all the places where his lips had been as if scarred.
"Do you want me to stop?" He asked shakily.
Margaret had no idea what she wanted him to do! Her mind was so in turmoil that she didn't even know what answer he wanted her to give. For a moment, she paused, trying to control her breathing and get her mind to focus on what her was asking her. Slowly, her mind started to clear, and embarrassment crept back in. She did want him to stop, didn't she? Her mind did, but her skin seemed to want something different entirely. Everything was a muddle. What on earth had possessed her to start whatever they were falling towards in the first place? She honestly hadn't meant to and couldn't understand how it had happened.
She knew what her answer needed to be and knew that he was going to hate her all over again.
She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly before voicing what she wished.
"Perhaps we should go to sleep?" She phrased it as a question, but, despite the crack in her voice, her tone implied a statement.
After a moment, she heard him swallow and felt him nod against her. Without a word he released her waist and walked away, to a basin of water on a dresser, taking a flannel to clean his wound. Margaret collapsed onto the edge of the bed, bringing a hand to her chest as she struggled to swallow her fears and odd disappointment in herself. Shaking her head a little she looked around the room at the discarded clothes on the floor and blushed at the impropriety of it all. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she finally forced her still shaking hands to release her escaping hair from the few pins that had held on, despite the weather and John's fingers raking through it. In the mirror, she saw her face flushed at the memory sighed at the loss of the feeling that came with the memory.
When all of them were released, he still had not spoken or acknowledged her at all, and Margaret was starting to panic. Without a doubt, he was going to hate her now more than ever. They were just beginning to mend that broken glass thread between them and now because of her inability to behave like a normal person with propriety and decency, she had crushed it again.
She wanted to make it right, no matter what it took.
"John?" She asked tentatively.
"Hmm." He replied, and relief flooded over her.
"Please don't be angry with me." She whispered.
"I'm not."
Finally, he turned, composed, other than the slightly red tinge to his eyes, probably from lack of sleep. Wringing her hands nervously, Margaret waited, wondering whether he would refuse to help her undo her corset and what she would do if he did.
"John, I can't get this undone alone."
To her relief, he did not refuse, simply nodding and moving his hands back to her waist to turn her around and begin work on the laces. His worked faster the second time around, with an idea of how to do it but his hands still shook a little, making her heart leap strangely.
This time, he turned from her as she quickly removed her remaining clothes, giving her privacy to change into her night gown and climb under the covers. She afforded him the same courtesy, screwing her eyes tightly shut, so as to make it obvious to him that she was not looking, as if it would make up for her mistake earlier. He climbed into bed beside her and she did not turn from him as she had done for the last month.
The fire had not yet extinguished, though it was beginning to crackle and dim, and they both watched the shadows it cast onto the high ceiling.
Now that the room as silent except for the now steady patter of rain on the window pane and soft crackle of the fire, Margaret tried to make sense of what had just happened. She knew one thing for sure- she was a terrible person. What else could have possessed her to behave as she had and be so completely unfair to John, and to herself? What on earth had made her cross the boundaries they had so carefully constructed between them? She had been so angry at him for weeks, so angry that she had visited her parents' graves despite the time, paying him no heed at all. Was that what had made her do it? Was it revenge for the crushing sadness she had felt?
Well, what had possessed him? He knew how she felt, he knew the terms she had agreed to in marrying him! Yet to think that she had let him do those things to her- had, if she was being completely honest with herself, encouraged him by starting it! She had truly never considered that anyone would ever do that to her, even when she had contemplated the concept of marriage and the act necessary to have children.
What on earth would her parents say if they knew? What would Edith say? She blushed as the reality that Edith believed she had already let John do far more to her than that hit her.
Thinking about it was beginning to make her head hurt and her cheeks burn. Frustrated, she shook her head and buried her face in her hands, rubbing her temples.
Everything in her was begging her to apologise, to try and explain herself but his words as he had begged her not to stopped her. She chanced a quick glance towards his hardly moving figure. Still he faced the ceiling, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
No, she needed to forget about it and not let it happen again. She needed to move on and work with Nicholas to make the kitchen for the workers a success. She had already decided that Mary should help her, and she could hardly wait to tell her tomorrow. The relief she felt at finally having something to do did not quite outweigh the shame of what had happened between them, but it certainly softened it.
"Are you angry at me?"
It took her a minute to realise he was talking to her. So, caught up in her own thoughts, she nearly didn't register at all, only shaking her head when she finally comprehended his question.
"If I bought you a wedding ring, would you wear it?" He directed his question to the ceiling and again Margaret nearly didn't register what he was saying at all. His question surprised her. She had truly not given much thought to the fact that she did not wear a wedding ring, but as she looked down at the finger where one should sit, it did seem rather odd not to do so. Had they discussed one before? She didn't think so. Perhaps she should wear one; it would certainly help to keep the true nature of their marriage hidden from public view, she supposed. Why on earth would he have thought to ask that when she was still barely able to think properly.
"Do you want me to wear one?" She asked, allowing her confusion to show.
"I understand if you don't want to." He answered, his voice a little quieter.
She assumed that meant he did want her to. Of course, it might be nice to have something to show off when Fanny visited and paraded the numerous jewellery items Watson had bought her. Equally, if Edith visited as she had promised she would, she would be extremely pleased to see she had one.
Yet, as she truly thought through his trail of thought, she could not help but think that his question was somehow not about a ring at all. She had a suspicion it truly had something to do with the way she had clung to him and he had kissed her neck, which made her want to instantly say no. But her true answer certainly wasn't about wearing a ring either- not really. Regardless of their unconventional marriage she was upset that he had been hurt and not told her. She could have cleaned it for him and yet he had not even mentioned it. She wanted him to trust her enough- to know she meant her side of the bargain too- that she wasn't going to leave him.
"Did you tell your mother, you had been hurt?" She asked, her voice demanding.
"No." He answered simply, without pausing to think about it and she knew he was telling the truth.
"I want to wear one." She uttered quietly to the ceiling, shocking herself a little, with her answer. He did not respond, but his release of breath confirmed she had given the response he had sought.
Margaret's eyes were beginning to close to quell the ache in her head and, tired of dealing with her scattered thoughts, she didn't want to fight sleep any longer. Unable to bear seeing him any longer, reminding her of all that had transpired between them and could not be taken back, she turned onto her side to face away from him and closed her eyes.
"Goodnight, John." She whispered.
For a moment he did not answer, and she knew he was debating on saying something else, but then she felt his body turn away from her as he whispered back, "Goodnight, Margaret."
Together and yet some distance apart, they watched the patterns cast onto the walls by the ever-dimming light until finally, the fire spluttered and died and the darkness won, and Margaret surrendered to it.