Interlude | Our Hopes and Our Fears
"Good mornin', Mistress," Daisy bustled into the large room, a busy bright little bee in a sea of black. She pulled the curtains. Lances of cheerful snowy sunshine spilled into the room.
When the first sticking snow fell, the world seemed guilded and fresh, washed of its dirt and ugliness. Even Milton. Scrubbed clean, Margaret thought. Brand new. The large house, too, felt new, decorated and fresh. It smelled of pine and cedar, oranges and cinnamon. The Christmas season carried a gentle kind of magic that seeped into the corners of dark streets, into every room, until the very air was transformed. She drew in a deep breath of the fresh heady scent and burrowed deeper into the covers, already missing the warmth of her husband. Daisy knelt at the hearth, quickly building up the fire. Even with John in the bed at night, December was still bitterly cold.
She'd been unwilling to relinquish the new comforting ease between them, and had not returned to her own bedchamber since her mother passed. She made no apology, offered no explanation, but he said nothing about it. She overheard his mother challenge him on it, two weeks after the funeral, but he'd sharply put an end to her concerns. If my wife wishes to share my bed, I'll not stop 'er. Devil take the gossips of this town. The memory of his firm insistence still warmed her in a puzzling way. It made her feel seen by him, when her mother's death had turned her into a shadow of herself.
When her dreams were at their worst, his firm solid presence became an anchor in the dark, a place to rest her floundering mind as she grieved in a sea of fear and uncertainty. He slept lightly, and would often wake when she did, her breath heaving and gasping. Sometimes she would crawl into the circle of his arms and weep until she slept again. Sometimes all she wanted was his hand in hers, to know he was still alive. And sometimes she wanted him inside her, over her, around her, making her his, making him hers. Margaret pressed her hands over her now-flushed cheeks. Slowly, the dreams had faded until she had no other reason to continue trespassing in his bed every night other than that she wished to. And still he said nothing.
"Will you take breakfast this morning, Mistress? Cook made 'er brown bread yesterday an' we've fresh butter. Won't that be nice?"
"Thank you, Daisy," she nodded and smiled. The thought of warm crusty brown bread with butter and honey...no, jam...blackberry jam...made her mouth suddenly water. She sat up. "Do we have blackberry preserves?"
"I'll ask," Daisy smiled, and fetched Margaret's black crepe dress. "There we are, Mistress. Cook'll be right pleased you're wantin' your breakfast today. Will you 'ave it with tea or coffee this mornin'?"
"Tea," Her nose wrinkled at the thought of coffee. Just when she thought she'd grown accustomed to the bitter drink, it betrayed her, the very smell turning her stomach. "It was good of you to ask her to bake my favourite bread," Margaret said, busying herself with the tasks of dressing. The staff had quickly learned their new mistress's simpler tastes, and often indulged her. She couldn't quite tell if they did this simply to please her or because they feared displeasing the Master. He was so stern with the staff, especially where she was concerned, but he meant well. "I hope Mrs Bates wasn't inconvenienced."
"Lord, what a sight that would be, me orderin' cook about," Daisy cleared her throat softly and helped her step into fresh drawers, deftly tying them at the back. "I simply said in passin' you were enjoyin' her fine bread and she took in 'er 'ead that you were wantin' it." Margaret smiled at the girl's subtly. "Cook don't mind me for nothin'," Daisy continued and slid Margaret's corset into place, lacing it quickly. "She likes ta make that bread, she does." Her small rough hands did not tug or tighten the garment like Jane. "And you must be eatin' somethin', Mistress ... especially ... especially now."
Their eyes met in the mirror. Daisy was gentler than Jane in her address and countenance, but her mind was quick and her large brown eyes missed nothing; not Margaret's increased fatigue and sore breasts, or her aversions to certain smells and foods, nor the lack of bloodied cloths and linens since October.
Margaret's heart beat unforgivningly against her chest. She folded her hands tightly over her waist. "Say nothing."
"Aye," Daisy dropped her eyes, her fingers buttoning, tying, tucking. "Not a word." When she finished, she took Margaret's hand and squeezed it. "God bless you, Mistress."