16 | The First Christmas

No bells, nor happy shouts from the street beyond the mill gate, wakened her that cold Christmas morning. She groaned and rolled over. It was far too early for her to be awake like a small child antipating a visit from Father Christmas. But it wasn't that either. There were no presents under the tree or treats waiting in her shoes. Nothing to make her jittery with nerves and anticipation. Yet she was awake. Her hand skimmed across the cold cotton sheets. The other side of the bed was empty.

She sat up, "John?"

An ember in the ashes hissed and fell. She pushed herself from the bed and tiptoed to the window. She pulled the drapes aside. Milton lay in a bright grey darkness of snow and stone, glowing under the setting moon. Sunrise would not come for another hour at least. She pulled on another pair of socks and wound her shawl tightly around her shoulders. The great house softly echoed back her footsteps in the biting cold air. She found him in his study, sitting in his shirtsleeves, trousers, and old dressing gown, staring at the small fire, his fist pressed to his mouth.

"Husband," She spoke barely above a whisper. Still her voice seemed too loud for the small, hushed room. "What are you doing?" He didn't seem to hear her. She shifted, the cold seeping through her thick socks. "John?"

"I couldn't sleep." His reply was rough and graveled.

"Why not?"

"Somethin' Hamper said last night caught in my mind." He dropped his hand into his lap, fist tightening. "I've been thinkin' and countin'."

"Counting?"

"I'm sharp with numbers. Always 'ave been," he replied, eyes still on the flames. "I could work the draper's till in my 'ead when I were a lad." He looked up, his eyes burning in the soft light. "Margaret." And it was as if he suddenly saw her, at that precise moment, shivering in her shawl and shift, "You're cold."

"No—yes. Just my feet." She moved to sit. His eyes followed her with a new fierce intensity. She cleared her throat, suddenly nervous. "What on earth did Mr Hamper say at the ball that has you thinking and counting on Christmas morning?"

"Four months," he took a slow breath. "He said, 'You've 'ad her four months'." His face stilled. "Four months isn't much time, but I reckon it's enough."

"For what?"

"If I'm coutnin' right, it's been almost three months since your last course." She did not interrupt, hands clenched around her shawl. She'd wondered if he would notice. He was an observant man, but still just a man. He did not look away. "I'm no doctor, but even I know what it means when a woman don't bleed after beddin' a man."

She blinked and fixed her eyes on the knitted fabric twisted in her fists. She didn't know why but she couldn't look at him. But she wanted to.

"Margaret," His voice sounded strange. A tangled mess of emotions snarled into a rough heap. "Are you carryin' my babe?"

"I don't know." She hated how uncertain her voice sounded. Small, lost. "Perhaps."

"What else could it be, if not—"

"I don't know," she interrupted. She shook her head, hands trembling. "I've never been with child before." She forced herself to raise her eyes. He looked ruffled and frayed, like a ribbon snagged and pulled to bits. Had he slept at all? "I wanted to...I thought to ask your mother about it, but—"

"But?

"I didn't want...I wished to speak with you first...but I didn't know what to say. I know we must call a doctor but even so I'll have to wait to know for certain and—"

"How long?" He stood and began to pace. "How long do we wait?"

"I don't know." Tears filled her eyes, turning him into a blur of movement. "John, I—" She broke off, wiping her face. He stopped pacing. "I don't know and...I'm afraid." Her hands trembled. She could not read his face.

Then he nodded, "Wait 'ere."

"John, what's the meaning of this?" Mrs Thornton followed him into the study. Despite the early hour, she looked well rested, dressed in her usual black. She seemed surprised to see Margaret, but she kept her questions for her son. "What's 'appened?"

He didn't answer. Margaret knew he was waiting for her to speak first. A warm fondness for his courtesy curled in her chest. She straightened her shoulders, and cleared her throat. "I...I've missed my...normal time."

Mrs Thornton nodded and she turned on her son, "Have cook to make us some tea. We'll fetch you when we're done."

"No," He straightened to his full height. "I've my own questions to ask."

"It's not proper for you to be 'ere."

"I don't care," He raised his chin, daring her to reprimand him. "It's proper enough for me to bed 'er as I wish."

"John!" Mrs Thornton's expression sharpened into flint. Margaret felt an odd urge to laugh at the two steely expressions. "There's things I must ask that you've no business—"

"If my wife's carryin' my babe, then it's my business as well as hers, Mother. Devil take proper."

Mrs Thornton opened her mouth, but Margaret cleared her throat, "Please. Ask what you will. I...I want John here."

"Very well." She turned her attention to Margaret. Perhaps it was the firelight, but the flint-lined face seemed to soften. "How many times 'ave you missed?"

"Two. Almost three."

"Are you normally timely with them?"

Margaret nodded.

"Do your..."Mrs Thornton slid a glance at her son, and raised her chin, sighing, "do your breasts ache?"

She dropped her eyes, "Yes."

"And do some foods or smells turn your stomach, where they'd not before?"

Margaret nodded.

"Are you bilious?"

"Yes. In the mornings. And some evenings."

John began to pace again, his face dark. "You've said nothin' of this."

"O' course she didn't," his mother retorted. "There's a great number of inconveniences women must keep to themselves. As men must keep their own, I'm sure. Be still, son, or leave." The hard matronly mouth twitched when he ran his hands through his hair, like an agitated child. "Are you thicker about the waist?"

"Some yes," Margaret admitted. "It's sore sometimes too."

The older woman nodded.

"Well, Mother?" He was pacing again.

"I'm no doctor, John. Call one in, if you must, but you can't be certain of anythin' until she grows larger and the child quickens."

"But you think there is a child?"

"Aye," His mother rolled her eyes and stood, "There's not much else it could be." She raised a hand before he could say anything. "Mind this, both o' you. Some babes will stay, and others will go. Best make your peace with that now. Birthin' is as sorrowful as it's joyful."

Her words hung in the air, stark, harsh, and terrible in their truth.

"Thank you, Mother."

The study door shut with a firm click, and she watched him sink into a chair, as if he were a marionette whose strings had been cut. She didn't know how long they sat in the small glowing circle of the cheerful fire in silence. She fiddled with a ribbon on her nightdress. Words refused to come, yet she felt something must be said. A bell tolled in the distance, followed by a cheerful rousing shout.

"It's Christmas."

He lifted his head. Again it was as if his thoughts had dragged him leagues away, but her voice brought him back to himself. Back to her. "Aye," the familiar almost-smile tugged at his mouth. "That it is. Christmas day."

She stood, her arms wrapped tightly about her. His eyes followed her as she stepped towards him. She held out her hand for him to take, "Church."

He stared at her, blue eyes shining. Tears filled her own eyes again at the unrestrained warmth and happiness spilling onto his face, even without his smile. She'd never seen him look like that. She imagined he might have looked this way on their wedding day, had they married for love, instead of duty. It made her sad, and happy, all at the same time. His hand grasped hers, rough and calloused, his eyes never leaving her face as he stood. Then he gathered her into his arms, and held her tight. "I'll take care of you." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "I swear it."

She nodded, and smiled into his shirt. "Merry Christmas, John."