20 | The First Year
She blinked sleepily in the soft light of the single candle in the dressing room, and listened as her husband readied himself for the day. Jack slept so fitfully, her body soon adjusted to match his patterns. She slept lightly now, quick to wake at the slightest noise. She sat up and stretched. As much as she wished to keep John at home while she recovered, the mill could not be left for so long; not even under the watchful eyes of Mr Williams, Mrs Thornton, and Nicholas Higgins.
She smiled to herself. Slowly the two men had found an odd unlikely tolerance for each other. They worked well together in spite of their differences, both cleverer than most of their peers. John had told her of a scheme to convert an unused shed into a sort of kitchen. He reserved a portion of the hands wages for Nicholas to use to purchase groceries at wholesale prices. Under Mary's skilled cookery, they were all eating better. Even John. The other masters ridiculed him for it, but he stood his ground. If the 'ands eat well, they'll work well, and that's good for masters and men. She could not think of it without a surge of pride; for Nicholas, for Mary, but mostly for her stern husband.
If being married to John Thornton had taught her anything, it was that he was a collection of puzzling opposites. Harsh but also quietly kind. A tradesman and a gentleman. A hard master but an honourable man. He kept himself hidden away from the world, and yet, he could be found in his eyes, if only a person cared to look and listen.
He stepped out of the dressing room, candle in hand. This he set on the table beside her before he sat on the edge of the bed. For all his insistence that she ought to sleep more, she knew he enjoyed their stolen moments in the morning. Some days these few minutes alone were all they had. She took his hand.
"Husband."
"Wife."
"I trust you slept well?"
"I did. In spite of my bairn's fussin' about," he rubbed a hand over Jack's back. Most nights it was easiest to keep Jack in bed with them.
"Your cravat is crooked." She slowly adjusted the length of silk. She always found something about his appearance that required her attention before he left for the mill. He never objected. "There," she smoothed her fingers over the tidied knot. "Will you come in for tea this afternoon?"
"No," He drew the word out in the particular way all northerners did when forced to repeat themselves. After almost two weeks abed, she'd abandoned their chamber and made the excursion to the parlour, insisting he join her. For three weeks he'd refused. "Not until your aunt and cousin return to London."
She pressed her lips together, half annoyed and half amused. He was correct, of course. Her family's departure was long overdue. "Aunt Shaw's not all bad. She simply—"
"Refuses to go."
"It's customary for family to keep a woman company after her confinement, sir."
"It's been two months, madam."
"I can't tell her to leave."
"And I can't spare time for tea."
"She's set in her ways," she retorted. "Much like someone else I know. Husband."
"Aye," His lips twitched. "Just so, wife."
She sighed and rolled her eyes. He would hold his own stubborn course, as was his habit. If she wanted him at tea, she must find a way to send her family home again. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, stood, and left without another word. But she heard his low velvety chuckle.
"Pour the tea, Margaret," Like her son, Mrs Thornton spoke the request more as a command. While his mother was often harsh and placid, she meant well. She'd arranged for Fanny to enjoy her tea elsewhere today and passed the honour of pouring tea back to Margaret, as a way to make her feel useful during her recovery. Margaret allowed herself a small smile and poured the first cup for Mrs Thornton in gratitude. The sharp expression softened.
"Once you've been churched, my dear, you must come to London and stay with us." Her aunt's comment was also a command and not a request.
"Oh do, Margaret. Sholto misses you so."
"That's very kind," Margaret sipped her tea, "but my husband can't stand London."
"Oh," Aunt Shaw and Edith exchanged a look. The invitation was not intended for him, then. Just her. "If he's so disinclined, he need not come. Indeed, I assumed a few months away would be impossible for a ... tradesman."
The way her aunt said 'tradesman' made Margaret grit her teeth. Like he was somehow less of a man. Mrs Thornton narrowed her eyes, but remained silent. The older woman was weary of Margaret's aunt and cousin, but she bore it without complaint.
"A few months, Aunt?"
"Two or three months would not be so much trouble, surely. Especially if Dixon comes along to keep the baby for you."
"I can't stay away so long," Margaret held her cup on her lap. "My duty is here with my husband. He'd not agree to it."
"Nonsense. You've done all that duty requires considering your situation. You've repaired your reputation and his, and borne his child. What more can he want from you at present?" Aunt Shaw smiled serenely. "Men do not miss their wives as much as we would like to imagine."
Margaret glanced at Mrs Thornton, then lowered her gaze to her lap. Her aunt continued to plan aloud. Edith chimed in, all grace and excitement. But Margaret wasn't listening. Would John miss her?
"When do you return to London, Aunt?"
"Tomorrow, if you wish."
Margaret had not visited London since Edith's wedding. The idea of a change, any change after her long confinement, was tempting. "I do wish it."
"I'm very glad to hear it. I'll ring for Dixon to begin packing your trunks."
"No," She looked out the window as the end of shift whistle blew. Perhaps she'd fulfilled her duty in the eyes of society, but her marriage to John was more than mere duty now. Perhaps too, he would not miss her if she left for a time. But I would miss him. She'd rather have him than all of London. "I belong here." With him.
He came to tea every day for a week after her aunt's departure, a hidden mischievous smile playing about his eyes and mouth. She rolled her eyes, and sweetened his tea far too much. He drank it without complaint, and even pretended to listen to Fanny chatter on about London, the latest fashions, and the coming harvest moon ball. Margaret reveled in the warm feeling of content which settled in her chest.
"It was so nice to have London company," Fanny pouted. "Mrs Lennox was so very fine and elegant. She knows all the best people in London. I shall miss her."
She'd repeated this very sentiment so often that Margaret barely held back a sigh. John, too, hid his own exasperation, but only just. Mrs Thornton didn't bother.
"I shan't." Mrs Thornton quipped. It was a harsh statement. "She talked too much and gave 'erself airs. "
John turned his focus to Margaret as he sipped his tea. His expression was both defiant and smug. You're as glad to be rid of them as I am. She pressed her lips together. She had the sudden urge to kick him, as if he were Fred.
"You're woolgatherin', wife." She looked at his reflection in her vanity mirror. He'd removed his coat and shoes. He returned earlier from work on Saturday nights, as was his habit.
"I was thinking," she set down her hairbrush, "about tomorrow."
"What of it?"
A special blessing would be given her at church in the morning, offering thanks to God for her survival. It would be her first official appearance in public since her confinement. It marked the end of her recovery and her return to society, to normal life. She'd been eagerly counting down the days.
She turned to face him, "It's Sunday."
"Aye," His forehead wrinkled with a small frown. "And?"
"I...well, I miss Sundays," she felt her cheeks flush as she slowly rose from her seat. "Our Sundays, I mean."
"Do you?" They stood an arms length apart, as they had on their wedding night.
She shivered at the low rolling timbre of his voice. She stepped closer, "Don't you?"
"I would that every day were Sunday," His hands paused, his waistcoat hitting the floor, as if forgotten, "and not just so I could bed you." His eyes held hers. "On Sunday, you're mine, and I don't 'ave to share." His expression was one of care, concern, and duty, of course, but also...she smiled in sudden understanding.
Love. He loved her.
She took another step, unable to look away from his gaze. Now that she saw it, it was the most obvious thing. I love you. In just three days, they would be married a year; a year of his hidden smiles, expressive eyes, and dry humour; a year of sharp tempers and sharper words; a year of bedding him, exploring his pleasure and her own, until she craved him almost as much as he desired her; a year of struggling to learn how to live with this man until she found she could not live without him. "John," Her soft exhale fell between them.
And then she was in his arms. He clutched her face in his hands, stealing her breath, as he explored her mouth with his, drinking her in as if she were whiskey and water. She clung to him, surprised, eager for the taste of him on her tongue, the feel of him on her skin. Doctor Donaldson had hinted privately that they ought to...wait until after her churching before joining once more. I'll not wait for Sunday. Margaret giggled as his hands circled her thighs. He lifted her up and pressed her against the wall. She slung her legs firmly around him, unwilling to relinquish what was hers. This man was hers, hers to bed, to love, and to cherish. And she was his, till death parted them.
"John," his name fell from her lips to his, but there was no breath to say more.
Some days his skin smelled of engine grease and soot, and others of ink, paper, and tobacco, and still others of sweat and mud. They were delicious hints of how he'd spent his day. She nuzzled her face against his chest. She could imagine the heavy cotton bales he'd spent the afternoon tossing with the hands.
"That tickles," his hand tangled through her hair and held her still.
She looked up, brushing the backs of her fingers across his cheek. His lips moved into that small half-smile.
"Do I please you, wife?"
"Aye," she swallowed, her voice thick and hoarse. "Very much. You're no David, but," She pushed herself up so she could look down into his face, "I love you, John."
She'd seen him smile dozens of times since they'd been married. But they were all sharp, mischievous, teasing expressions of amusement or pleasure. Even so, they were reserved, controlled. This smile was different. This was the smile she'd been searching for since that first hour in the carriage.
"Margaret," Her name was a gruff rumble in his chest, velvet and satin falling from his mouth, wine and spices, sunshine and fire. "My Margaret." It was love softly rising, like the sun breaking over the world, sudden and delicate then fierce and blazing. "I love you."
Dear Reader,
Merry Christmas! Know that 'Love Softly Rising' is dedicated to you. Thank you for reading this story and all our stories this past year. The most powerful thing for me, as a writer, is to witness how words on a page can bring hundreds of people together over the differences of distance, time, and culture. Stories like North and South are truly a kind of magic. Thank you for sharing this magic with me.
Sincerely, Pippa