15 | The First Ball
"What," he scowled at the ball of greenery suspended from the ceiling as he stepped further into the large entryway of the Hamper's home, "is that?" He'd not noticed it hanging there, and unceremoniously walked right into it.
"That, dear husband," she replied, "is mistletoe. You ought to know it. The custom's been quite popular in London for years. Surely Fanny's mentioned it to you before."
"Fanny mentions a great number o' things I've no time to remember." There was so much greenery festooned about the place, it was proving difficult to keep free of it. He brushed an errant twig from his hair, scowling back at the offensive hanging specimen. Hamper ought to have hung it a good foot higher. "What's it for?"
"Well, it's for..." his wife glanced away, but he caught the edge of her blush. "It's for kissing."
Kissing, was it? Surely he would remember Fanny mentioning that. Margaret brushed at the yellow roses in her hair, then adjusted the single yellow bloom pinned to his black frock coat. The roses were his true Christmas gift to her. A small offering fetched from town, but worth every penny for the bright smile they brought to her pale face. He took her hand, arresting its continual fussing.
"Shall we pass muster, do you think?"
"You ought to have worn the burgundy cravat and your gold waistcoat instead of this black."
"A new husband dresses to match 'is wife," he replied. "Or so Fanny tells me. I've no intention to outshine you tonight."
Society demanded she wear black to honour her mother and so too would he. She raised her chin in that regal gesture which had so often sparked his temper in the past. Now he recognised the nervousness she was trying to hide. "A gentleman does not tease his wife, sir." Her voice dropped to a soft murmur so they would not be overheard as they approached their hosts.
"This gentleman does."
He was saved from a reprimand by Mrs Hamper's shrill welcome. Margaret's company smile settled on her face, erasing all trace of nervous anxiety. She curtsied and thanked the proud couple for their hospitality. John nodded and shook hands. As the guest of honour, Margaret was immediately detached from his person. He put a hand to her elbow before Mrs Hamper swept her away, and lowered his mouth to her ear, "Save me a dance, wife."
"Is that a command, husband?"
"It is."
"You'll be so busy dancing with the other ladies in my absence, you'll forget me." Gentle humour shone in her eyes. She knew he'd little patience for social gatherings and even less for dancing. Teasing him, then.
"Never."
"Which dance would you claim from me, sir?
"The waltz, madam."
"Come now, Mr Thornton," Mrs Hamper scolded. "You must share her with the rest of us, you know."
A strange prowling possessiveness stirred in his chest, but he managed a polite nod. It seemed he must share. Margaret's lips pressed firmly together, that not-quite-proper smile threatening to break free, "I'll try," she squeezed his hand, rose on tip toe, and whispered, "No promises, mind."
It was said with so much blunt frankness he couldn't hold back the flash of a smile. He kissed her hand and watched her be led about the room, presented to and peacocked over by any number of people who weren't him. Tonight theirs would be a silent camaraderie of private amusement and patient endurance until they could retreat, their duty to society complete.
"How was your dance with Fanny?" They'd stolen a moment at the refreshment table.
He blew out a hard breath and rolled his eyes. "I don't think she drew breath for twenty minutes."
"And what engaging topic kept her so animated?" She pressed her cup to her lips, eyes dancing. "She looked very pleased."
He met her eyes over his own cup, "Mistletoe."
"How very festive."
"And informative." He stepped closer, enjoying the blush slowly creeping up her neck and cheeks. "Accordin' to the custom, a man may claim a kiss if 'e catches a lass standin' under it." He leaned closer. Perhaps too close. "It seems you owe me a kiss, Mrs Thornton."
"You may certainly have a kiss, Mr Thornton," she inched up on her toes, her mouth dangerously close to his. He had the sudden urge to kiss that mouth. And not in a proper way. "But first you must catch me."
"Thornton, there you are."
Only years of practiced courtesy allowed him to swallow the curse itching to slip from his tongue when Watson thumped him on the back. Margaret slid easily away, fingers pressed to her lips. But he heard her laugh, a low sultry sound.
At supper he ate little and said even less. He took more pleasure in watching his wife, seated on the opposite end of the table, than in any of the flamboyant holiday offerings before him. Even in black silk and lace, simply styled, she looked every bit a queen. The yellow roses in her hair only added to her simple splendor. Her eyes met his, briefly, the polite facade fading for a moment. She suddenly seemed strangely fragile, tired, and delicate. But he did not know why. Then her posture straightened, the moment passed.
"Thornton, you've not 'eard a word I've said." Directly on his left, Mr Hamper's voice boomed over the waltz, drawing the attention of all the men gathered about.
"Why would 'e when 'e 'as something prettier to occupy 'is attention?" Henderson chuckled into his third glass of port. "She's a picture, make no mistake. A stroke of luck it were, you two bein' wed so quick. My wife swore up an' down for two weeks it were an impropriety as forced your 'and. I let 'er talk, I did, but I knew better."
John frowned, eyes fixed on the dancers. A London gentleman, Mr Arthur Graves, had secured Margaret for the waltz immediately following supper. She'd accepted, unable to refuse the man without giving offense to the Hampers.
Henderson elbowed him expectantly. "I'd be lyin' if I didn't say we were sure you'd 'ave an announcement for us by now, eh Thornton?"
"What announcement would that be?"
"Well," Hamper laughed, "you've 'ad her almost four months, 'aven't you?"
"And?" John interrupted. He turned to face the small knot of men. "What of it?"
"Come on, Thornton, we all know 'ow these things go," Slickson waggled his eyebrows. "If you've not put a babe in 'er by now, I'd say you'd best think on gettin' one elsewhere."
John blinked, "A babe or a woman?"
"Why not both?"
Watson fell uncomfortably silent as John set his drink aside and raised his chin. Slickson, Hamper, and Henderson all laughed loudly, as if at a good joke.
"Let 'im wait a year, Gerald. It's a bit soon to be despairin' of an heir."
"She's not turnin' you down already is she? Women'll do that, they will, if you're not stern with 'em."
"I wouldn't mind spenin' my evenin's fillin' that pert young lass, whether she wanted it or no—"
"Enough," John's voice was hard and deep and cold, like steel on gravel. "I don't recall requestin' your opinion on the frequency, satisfaction, or success of my beddin' my wife." The music continued, swift and luxurious. "You'll keep such thoughts to yourself. Or I'll knock 'em out of you."
"You're very quiet, sir." The carriage was dark, lit only with the soft glow of moonlight. "Was the ball so very bad?"
"I'd gladly go ten year without another."
"But it's Christmas Eve." A small smile in the dark.
"Christmas Day," he countered. His fingers fumbled at his waistcoat for his watch, out of habit. He tugged off his gloves. "Only just."
"I suppose it is." Her gloved hand found his in the dark. "I'm sorry about the waltz." He waited too long to answer. Her hand tightened on his, "Something's bothering you. What is it? I saw you speaking with the other masters—"
"It's nothin' that bears repeatin'," he interrupted. Too sharp, too hard. "Leave it alone." Her hand dropped. It was his habit to bluntly command and hers to silently demand the courtesy due to her as a proper lady. He sighed. "Forgive me."
"Is it the mill?"
"No," The masters were simple foolish men with simpler, if sometimes base, minds. But something about the exchange stuck like a burr in his boot. "The mill is safe."
"For now."
"Aye, for now."
"The debt to the bank?"
"We'll be paid up in full before the summer's end." He frowned into the dark. Her worry over the mill had increased of late, in spite of his assurance. He'd given her complete freedom to read the records and ledgers on his desk any time she wished. He knew too, she understood them. If their luck held, they would fully recover by next Christmas. Still she worried. That too stuck in his mind. Fanny's soft snoring mingled with the clatter of the carriage wheels. He almost missed what she said next.
"My roses are lovely."
"Do they please you?"
"Aye." That one word, spoken like a true northern woman, pierced through the cold, melting the tension between them. "That they do."
He smiled into the dark, hoping she would hear it in his voice. "Good."