Chapter 5
"Your hand is cold, Mr. Thornton," Margaret said brightly, and she did not seem bothered by his touch. John smiled as he moved his hand back.
His head was spinning. The man at the station was her brother. John had been so very mistaken. He could clearly see the remorse she felt for the lie, though he no longer faulted her for it. No, instead his admiration swelled, and he felt in awe of the strength of her character to endure such hardships in her time in Milton. This revelation cured him of the bitterness that for months had helped him keep his passion in check. Now the passion he felt for her was renewing inside him, unabated, fiercer, and more zealous than before.
He meant what he said– she was extraordinary in every way. And he wished he had not let jealousy overtake his reason and his heart. How he had suffered! But now, she alleviated his worst fear –there is no one else– and in its place appeared a shimmer of hope that what Margaret had meant was there is no one else but you. Could it be?
John felt dazed by his thoughts, and he tried to divert his thinking back to their present situation. The gas lamp was providing a small amount of light for the room. The moon glowed in the window above them. It was growing late. He wondered if his mother and Fanny were home yet. He contemplated whether yelling for help would do any good now, but they were so far back in the mill it was unlikely anyone could hear them from the house. Still, John knew whatever his own feelings were, he needed to get her out of this situation.
"I am not sure there is a proper way to drink this," Margaret's words interrupted his thoughts. She was gesturing to the wine. "I should not have much, but I am parched. It must have been the nuts," she mused.
John marveled at her, relishing this newfound intimacy, the chasm between them filling with her sincerity and his own renewed eagerness to know her better.
"I don't mind sharing," John said and pulled the cork out with a pop. He handed it to her and hoped she would not find it vulgar.
"To your health," she said, her eyebrows raised.
"And Christmas," John interjected. Margaret smiled.
"And new beginnings," she added. Then she took a drink directly from the bottle.
They drank a few sips like this, passing the wine back and forth. It was not lost on John that his lips were touching the same place hers did. The wine warmed him from the inside out. The last time he felt this way was at the dinner party. She was a remarkable sight then, and he should have told her so.
"What is humoring you, sir?" Margaret asked, spotting the smile that was creeping onto his face.
"I was thinking about Slickson's face when you spoke at the dinner. He looked as though you had sprouted multiple heads simply for having the audacity to suggest we should look at all sides of an issue," John said, then he chuckled. "He and Henderson were gaping like trout."
"I recall that you had plenty to say. You were none too pleased and that was quite plain to me," Margaret accused. There was a huff in her voice that John so adored, especially when it came with the playful smile she was giving him.
"We disagreed, Miss Hale, but you made your points well. I was not displeased with you," he defended himself. He had admired her for her tenacity in speaking on behalf of the hands – workers – to his unsympathetic guests, and although he did not agree with her, he found her clarity and vivacity endearing.
"Well, I was certainly on my own that night. Honestly, it is difficult for me to tell when you are displeased with me or not. You are always so stern," Margaret said innocently. She straightened her spine further, making herself sit up taller, and then in an amusingly deep voice said, "'Here in the North, we value our independence.'"
"Is that supposed to be me?" John asked, smiling broadly before pretending to be offended. "You are unjust, Miss Hale."
Margaret let out a glittering laugh, like how Fanny laughed when Watson said something even slightly amusing, but without the artifice. Margaret had never laughed like that before in his company, and he felt as though he had won a prize he had always been unconsciously competing for.
"I am thankful now for your penchant for baskets," John said, offering her the wine again. She shook her head, and he recorked it. He had enough to quench his thirst and not too much to cloud his thinking, though she now had a delightful pink on her cheeks. He needed to keep a clear head if he were to remain in close quarters with her overnight, and that was the direction they were heading in. She was intoxicating enough without wine. He tasted one of the cookies instead. It was harder and chalkier than he anticipated, and he chewed and swallowed with some difficulty. He coughed and reached for the wine again, clearing his throat with a last drink. Margaret looked at him expectantly.
"Well?" she asked. John stared.
"Well?" he replied blankly.
"What do you think of it?" Margaret inquired.
"Did you make it?" he asked, cautiously. Margaret smiled.
"I am not answering that question until you tell me what you thought of it."
John now felt himself more trapped than he had all evening.
"They are…I appreciate that you made them for us," John said, and Margaret laughed. He felt triumphant again.
"How diplomatic of you, Mr. Thornton. I am not a good baker. It is more of a science than I have patience for. The fruit cake is no better, I am afraid. All the fruit is at the bottom."
"You made this all yourself?" he asked, surprised. He imagined her working in the kitchen, rolling out dough, covered in flour. It was certainly a pretty picture.
"Yes, unfortunately for you," Margaret said with a giggle.
"On the contrary, I think I am most fortunate," John said without thinking as he put down the uneaten half of his cookie. He stood then, his legs sore from sitting so long in one attitude on the floor. He rolled down his sleeves, trying to conserve what little heat his body produced.
Margaret rose to her feet as well, walking in a circle to stretch her legs. "Are you very cold?" she asked with concern, noticing his sleeves.
"I left my overcoat in the office," John explained with a shrug. There was nothing for it, and he would survive.
"We need to keep warm, both of us," Margaret said thoughtfully, still walking in a circle. She put his watch in her pocket for safe keeping and then swayed her hands as she walked. Abruptly, she stopped and turned to face him, determined. He raised his eyebrows in anticipation.
"I have an idea! And you are at liberty to tell me this is ridiculous, but I think it will help keep us warm," she said. John stuck his hands in his pockets as he looked at her with curiosity. He had many ideas for staying warm, none of which he would ever suggest, so he waited.
"Dancing," Margaret suggested, smiling, "I have not danced in ages."
"There is not much space to waltz," John replied skeptically, but he was intrigued.
"Nonsense," Margaret replied, bending over to push the crate they had used as a table towards the wall to create more room for them. "We must stay warm, and besides, I am tired of being still," she stated resolutely before standing in the middle of the room, raising her chin up.
"Is this your idea or the wine's?" John asked cautiously. Margaret chuckled and tilted her head at him, her hands crossing in front of her.
"You overestimate the effect of a bit of wine on me, and you underestimate my boldness and how cold I am. Now, my card is empty for the next set. I would prefer not to sit it out please," Margaret said, using an exaggerated tone as if she were in a London ballroom.
John, his eyebrows raised in skepticism and amusement, inclined his head to her in a small bow and then extended his hand. She took it, but then recoiled.
"Your hand is still cold," Margaret protested, though she was genuinely worried.
"I seem to have misplaced my evening gloves," John jested as he rubbed his hands together and blew into them for warmth. "I am well, Miss Hale," he reassured as he saw her look of concern.
"Very well, and all the more reason for this," Margaret said. She could not hide her amusement, and it encouraged a smile out of John. She tried again and delicately placed her palm in his while resting her other hand on his shoulder.
John's other hand effortlessly found her back underneath her cloak. He welcomed the warmth he found there. His pressed lightly and noticed her smile waver, though he was not sure how to read her reaction. She recovered, her chin perking up, and started to hum a tune. He began to lead.
Her humming faded as her curiosity grew. Even though they were confined to a limited square, it was enough to ascertain his skill level and generate some warmth to both their cheeks as he moved them back and forth.
"Do you attend balls often, Mr. Thornton?" Margaret asked.
"No, Miss Hale," he said formally, his voice deep. "Milton does not have occasion for many balls."
"How have you become so proficient, if I may inquire?"
"Fanny needed a partner to practice with," John replied. His lips slowly turned upwards as he recollected a memory from long ago. "Let us just say she had little patience for mistakes. It was a long time before she allowed me to wear shoes while we practiced, for her own safety, and I had to be quick to dodge many a frustrated kick."
Margaret laughed, imaging a much younger Mr. Thornton moving through that dreary house with Fanny scolding him at every misstep.
"Frederick was always the much better dancer. He would let me stand on his toes until I was too old to do that. And then when I was nine, I refused to attend lessons entirely. The instructor was incessantly scolding me about my posture. And I never allowed my partner to lead. If you could believe that," Margaret shared. Mr. Thornton let go to twirl her, their fingers still entwined, once then twice. She laughed, surprised, light from spinning and the elation of speaking freely about Frederick. She had not felt so well since before Bessy died.
"You have always had a mind of your own then," John said as they came together again. If Margaret was not imagining things, he had pulled her closer.
"Would you expect anything less?"
"Never."
They were silent for a few turns. Mr. Thornton attempted to widen their path slightly, only to bump into the wall.
"Careful," Margaret said with a giggle. She tightened the grip on his shoulder to steady him, and he steered them back to the center of the small room.
The movement was warming her, and his persistent gaze was causing an unfamiliar fluttering in her stomach. The feeling was pleasant, but it unsettled her, nonetheless. She closed her eyes momentarily. She tried to give a name to the sensation inside her, but the only thing that came to mind was that she somehow felt less lonely, in this tiny room with only John Thornton for company, than she had in a long time. She was always aware of his presence in any room they were in together, but this was the first time his presence felt as if it was filling an emptiness inside her.
Margaret opened her eyes to find Mr. Thornton's face very close to hers. She could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek. Her eyes fell to his lips intuitively, and for the first time she wondered what they felt like. They seemed soft, in contrast to his usual stern face and coarse hands. Margaret's hand unconsciously fidgeted in his, and her fingers caressed a callous on his palm, and then another.
"Do you feel warmer?" Margaret asked quietly, forcing her eyes upward towards his, her voice sounding strained. His gaze was soft, and their movement had stopped, though neither of them had relaxed from their dancing positions.
"Much warmer."
"I am glad," she said. She gazed up at him, expectation welling up inside her.
"Miss Hale…" John murmured.
"Yes?" Margaret whispered. Her breathing quickened at the sound of his voice, and she could hear her heart in her ears. She tightened her grip on his shoulder.
Their lamp extinguished, plunging the room into darkness.
Margaret gasped in surprise and let go of his hand. She stepped back and landed against a wall. He had not immediately released her, and his hand slipped slowly away from her back as she withdrew.
"Our eyes will adjust," John said quietly.
The moonlight filtered in through clouds, and it was enough to make out his features if he moved into the light. Margaret nodded before realizing he could not see her, as she had backed into a dark corner. "Yes," she agreed aloud.
Margaret was grateful for the privacy the unexpected darkness provided her as she attempted to slow the rapid beating of her heart. This room, let alone Margaret herself, was no longer large enough to contain all the feelings and questions that were rushing to the surface. Why did she care so much about what he thought of her? Why had she missed his visits to Crampton? Why did she have a new habit of speaking openly of his virtues to her father and Nicholas? Why had she braved the snow to deliver a basket? Why had she wanted to see him on Christmas? Why did she have the distinct impression that not only had he been about to kiss her, that she would have welcomed it? Her breath caught.
But it was too late for all of this, Margaret thought. He had overcome his feelings and went out of his way to make it clear to her that he no longer cared for her. Surely, she was imagining things. Did she even know what it looked or felt like when someone wanted to kiss her? He frequently looked at her in that way and spoke to her in that tone. Margaret needed to dissuade herself of any foolish romantic notions that were now filling her mind. He had said earlier in the evening that this situation would force his hand into marrying her. He clearly did not want to. Whatever this feeling was inside her, she needed to bury it.
"Are you well, Miss Hale?" John asked, startling her out of her thoughts. He had moved closer to her in the darkness, and she could barely make out his features, mostly because she knew them from memory.
"What is the time?" she asked, avoiding his question and his eyes, before remembering she had the watch in the pocket of her dress. She pulled it out to check and had to hold it up to the moonlight. Ten. Margaret leaned against the wall before sinking to the floor, holding the watch tightly in her hands. She felt exhausted and dazed.
She must have looked dreadful because John knelt in front of her. His proximity made her ache in a way she did not understand, and she wished he would either return to the other side of the room or…
"Miss Hale?"
"I am well, thank you," Margaret said and forced out a polite smiled. "I would just very much like to be home," she confessed suddenly. Things made more sense at home, and she could return to being calm, composed, reserved Margaret Hale. Why was she like this around him? He brought out an impulsive and uninhibited side of her. Running out in front of an angry mob? Openly challenging him at every opportunity, even in his own home and mill? Asking him to dance with her? She was ridiculous, and she felt her cheeks warm with shame at what he must truly think of her.
"I understand," John murmured, though the tenderness that had previously been there was now gone. Margaret could sense rather than see his disappointment.
"Mr. Thornton…" she wanted to reassure him, of what she was not sure, even when she felt a twinge of irritation at how he was quick to misunderstand her. Though she knew she had once been quick to misunderstand him, too.
"You should rest, Miss Hale," John said, and he moved to stand. She raised her hand and grabbed his, stopping him. There she went again. Impulsive. His presence was enough to undo years of well-rehearsed manners. She was all instinct now, emboldened by the darkness.
Margaret wondered if this is what husbands and wives were like in private. Her parents loved each other, though she knew their marriage had been more difficult towards the end of her mother's life. Had her mother and father felt what she felt now- an overwhelming desire for Mr. Thornton to be beside her? Was that love? Edith and Captain Lennox were madly in love, Margaret knew. Why had Margaret never thought to asked Edith what it felt like? Was she just expected to know and understand it?
"Please, sit with me," Margaret implored. "It is warmer that way," she reasoned.
"If you wish," he said and sat beside her. Their shoulders touched. That was enough for Margaret. She brought her knees up and hugged herself.
It struck Margaret that the only person who had ever spoken to her about love was right here in this very room. He knew what it felt like, for he once came to her with an undaunted heart and laid his feelings bare in such a passionate manner that she was offended by the intensity of his words. But she could not ask him to speak of love to her now. Margaret shuttered at the thought. It was too confusing- she was too confused- and she did not want to hurt him, or worse, have him directly say he no longer loved her and was disappointed by the prospect of having to marry her.
Margaret was reluctant to answer her own questions. She closed her eyes and wished for understanding or sleep, whichever would come first to still her thundering heart.