~Chapter 6~
When Margaret reached the house, Molly had just finished preparing dinner, so she hurried to wash up, thinking with regret that John would miss the meal after all. Thus, she was pleasantly surprised to find him at the table along with Mrs. Thornton. After grace, Edward offered the dishes to each of the three and Margaret smirked at the sight of John's ink stained fingers as he clumsily tried to serve himself a piece of ham. It must, indeed, have been difficult to write with his skin tight in healing. He caught her expression.
"Yes," John replied to Margaret's unspoken words. "I am afraid I really will be unable to keep up with the accounts until my fingers are more improved." He bent his fingers as far as he was able in illustration.
"I could help with the account books, John," Mrs. Thornton declared, frowning at her daughter-in-law for making light of John's injury. "Pass the salt."
"Thank you, mother," John returned, offering her the shaker. "But Margaret has already offered her services and I would be obliged to her if she is still willing." He glanced in Margaret's direction to ascertain her reaction to his query.
"Of course," Margaret assured him, experiencing both pride at being asked to take part in the world of his business and a bit of entitlement at the jealousy she knew to be coursing Mrs. Thornton's veins. The last emotion one of which Margaret was not particularly proud.
Thus, after the meal, John escorted his wife to his office and sat her down with the account books. At first, Margaret copied numbers as John instructed her, intent only on forming them neatly and placing them correctly in the columns. As she grew more confident, however, she began to notice the difference in the completed column, marked "Exp't Prof" and the one which she completed, titled "Final."
"Mr. Thornton," she braved while he waited for her to dip and blot the pen.
"John," he corrected her. "Yes, Margaret?"
"John," she started again, "Is this column expected profits?" John, his mind full just at the sight of her pretty head bent over his books, felt proud at her taking interest in the mill.
"Yes," he answered.
"And this is the final profit," she stated, more boldly this time.
"Yes."
"Might I ask why there is sometimes such a stark difference between the expected and final profits? Why take this one here." John bent so that his cheek almost touched hers in order to read the entry marked by her small, white finger. "You have made no profit at all on this, but instead have lost money on the venture."
"It is the human element of the business," John explained, recognizing at once the entry she had noticed. "Because we are dependent on a certain number of bodies and conditions, many things can go awry. For this entry, the loss is the fault of no one but myself. I put off having the storehouse roofing mended because I wanted to wait until we had more ready money. In doing so, I gambled with the safety of the completed cloth that we kept there and lost when the leaking roof not only dampened but also stained the entire batch." Margaret nodded, her concentration on the page a fascination to John, who rarely found anyone else so keen to discuss the ups and downs of the cotton mill business outside the mill owners in the town.
"And this is yesterday's loss in time after the fighting?" Margaret asked.
"Very good!" John praised her. "We did, indeed, waste money in wages during the time of the fight, but also remember the loss in product, as no one worked the looms."
"I understand," Margaret responded. And she did. As they continued through the accounts, the dictation of letters, and the working of figures, Margaret continued to pepper John with questions and comments regarding the mill and the intricacies of the business. John was so involved that it was with surprise that he heard Margaret exclaim, "Why did you not mention the hour? We will be late to supper!"
And so they were. Hannah Thornton made an obligatory remark upon the arrival of her son and daughter-in-law, whose faces and hands were still wet with hasty washing, about supper being best eaten warm, but said no more after spotting the smile that John could not keep off his face. She felt, for the first time, hope that she had not done wrong in instructing her son to marry and that Margaret Ha-Thornton might still bring her son happiness. Thus, she excused herself after supper to speak with Molly about the week's menu and left the two alone.
John and Margaret automatically retreated to the library, but once there found all the advances of the day erased by habit. They barely spoke as they sat in the room, Margaret absorbing herself again in Greek mythology and John turning the pages of Plato while watching Margaret.
"I never understood the use of Greek mythology," John finally offered, in an awkward attempt to create conversation. "Greek philosophers at least attempt an understanding of human nature and discuss the values of politics, government, and business."
Margaret looked up from her book but did not know what to say. Did he not realize that he insulted her intelligence by suggesting she wasted her time with her selection? "Mythology no less than philosophy is the study of human nature," she declared.
"Since when do the Greek gods bear any resemblance to humanity?" John questioned, rising to the debate Margaret offered and finding himself excited by the possibility of glimpsing more of the subtle workings of her mind.
"Are not the god merely manifestations of the strongest experiences and emotions of humanity?" Margaret responded, heating in confusion and frustration at his eagerness for a fight. "Aphrodite is love and purity. Zeus and Hera are at times love, at times anger and conflict. Dionysus is drunkenness. Ares and Athena are the emotions of war: bravery, courage, and brazenness."
"Nonsense," John replied, setting his book aside to concentrate on the debate. "The myths act as little more than bedtime stories. There are no morals to the stories of the gods. When is Zeus ever punished for his love-making?" He blushed at this and hurried on, "Or Dionysus held accountable for his drunken behavior?"
"Since when is life a moral tale?" Margaret argued, anger causing her voice to rise. "Do not some men go through life uncensured for their ill behaviors and others find themselves rebuked for actions not their own?"
She spoke of their marriage. Did she then truly consider it a trial? John found his heart had gone quite out of the debate.
"Do not good men and bad die alike?" she continued.
She spoke of their fathers. John felt then the rush of true fury at her willingness to condemn a man she had never met. He rose then, his face a twisted angry contortion that she did not recognize. Only the strength of her anger kept her from shrinking away. John opened his mouth to let loose the torrent within him.
"What madness is this?" Hannah Thornton asked, closing the library door behind her with a thwack. "Should we not cry from the rooftop that the young Thornton couple is having a spat? It would be no less likely to spread across the town than the raised voices to which the servants have been privy."
Both John and Margaret felt themselves deflated by her words. Margaret excused herself and hurried to the privacy of her room. John remained, ready to feel the sharp edge of his mother's tongue and knowing he deserved it for the foolish way in which he had coaxed Margaret into a confrontation that opened the entire family to gossip and ridicule.
"What happened, John?" Hannah asked, surprising him. "You two seemed so happy in each other's company during supper."
He hung his head but would say no more. In truth, he, too, mourned the hasty loss of the ground he thought he and Margaret had gained that day. Still, Margaret had in quick succession alluded negatively to the circumstances of their marriage and then insulted his father's memory. He heated at the very reminder. "I did and said nothing of which I am ashamed," he burst out.
"Tell me, son," Hannah begged, reminding herself to listen not with the ears of a mother but those of a woman and thinking to the early days of her marriage to the many misunderstandings that had colored those days.
John poured forth the whole of it, unburdening himself. When he finished, Hannah Thornton smiled. "Now consider it another way," she offered. "Could not your mind have made connections that hers did not? Could she not have been speaking of general examples that you took as references to your own life?"
John nodded thoughtfully. "I admit that this night I may not be fully able to consider her words a coincidence, but I will try to do so in the morning." He kissed the top of her head. "Goodnight, and thank you, mother."
Hannah Thornton waited until she heard his retreating footsteps beat their path up the stairs and then allowed herself a small chuckle. Young love was always fraught with such little spats.
A gentle knock disturbed Margaret as she prepared for bed. "Yes?" she called, thinking it would be Julia coming to settle her in.
"Margaret," John called softly through the door. "I am sorry for my angry words this night."
"And I mine," she replied, flushing again to think of her quick temper.
"Good night," John added, pressing his hand against the door.
"Good night, John," Margaret responded, unknowingly brushing her fingers against the same spot on the door.
Margaret woke with a start in the night from a dream in which she had at first felt herself pursued and then found herself falling from a great height. She lay for a moment shivering in her bed, trying to ignore the way in which the shadows of the night transformed her cheerful room. Her heart twisted at the thought that just a few months ago, even at the matronly age of almost twenty-three, she might have tiptoed into her parents' room and listened to the calming sound of their sleep-slowed breathing. Now she had no one from whom to take comfort and so headed for the only place in the house that she really felt was her own, the library. When Margaret had almost passed the last bedroom and reached the edge of the crimson carpeted floor, which in the dark looked as black as the sky from her window, she paused. Perhaps if she merely stepped inside the master bedroom for a moment the company of another human being would soften the fear and loneliness that enveloped her. So she gripped the doorknob tightly, twisted it, and eased the master bedroom door open just wide enough to slip inside.
Mr. Thornton lay in his bed, as was only fitting at this time of night. His sleeping form from her vantage point appeared an inhuman lump, but the soft sigh of his breath did comfort her. Step by step, she crept closer to the bed, wanting only to feel near another person and ignoring the warning bells in her head. Finally, she stood over him, staring down at the strangeness of his sleeping form, which she had only a few occasions of observing. In sleep, the sharp lines of his face relaxed as they did when he smiled or laughed. His body, likewise, did not have the same disciplined form. Tonight, one arm was flung above his head on the pillow and a foot peeked from beneath the navy coverlet. Margaret tugged the blanket back into place and then, when he did not react, traced her first finger over the knuckles of his nearest hand, feeling in the dark that the skin had begun to knit itself back together. Mr. Thornton stirred. Margaret flew across the room to the door as fast as she quietly could.
"Margaret?" John asked. In his sleep-hazed state, he did not doubt that he had felt her touch his hand.
Margaret froze. Ashamed at having been caught, she walked back to the foot of the bed. Growing more awake, John realized the strangeness of her presence in his room, sat up, and fumbled to light the candle on his nightstand. In the glowing light that followed, John inspected his wife's appearance. Margaret's long hair, tousled from sleep, as usual acted as a distraction for John, who longed to tangle his fingers in the silken mass. He quickly noticed, however, that her face was as pale as the simple, white nightgown she wore. "Margaret," he asked, "Is something wrong?"
Margaret shook her head, then hesitated, and finally nodded. John waited. "I-I had a bad dream," she offered, looking away for shame.
John reached out and captured her hand in his own. "Would you care to talk of it?" he asked. She lifted her chin in a distinctly prideful move so he waited silently, smoothing his thumb against the back of her hand. When Margaret glanced down, John watched her with pity and something like kindness written plainly in his eyes, which in the candle light shone as soft blue as waves tossed upon a rocky shore. Setting her pride aside, she nodded. "Come," John commanded, patting the spot on the bed beside him; so she sat. "Did the dream frighten you?" he asked, squeezing her hand, which he still held.
"Yes," Margaret replied, honestly, "yet I would have been fine had it not also made me homesick." A lump formed in her throat but she pushed it down, lifting her chin, this time to fight off the tears that threatened to follow. Interpreting her expression correctly, John pulled his wife onto his lap and encircled her in his arms as if she were a small child.
Margaret started at his brazenness, having never been so close to Mr. Thornton with so little clothing between them. After a moment, however, she accepted his action for what it was, a movement to comfort her. Margaret rested her head against Mr. Thornton's shoulder, listening for a moment to the thrum of his heartbeat. "I miss my parents," she admitted in a small, choked voice.
John sighed. "I know. I wish I could say that it eases with time." Margaret remembered at his statement that her husband had lost his father while still a young boy. She felt a sudden kinship to him in their shared loss.
Emboldened by the feel of Margaret relaxing against him, John reached up and brushed a hand over her hair. Margaret said nothing, so he continued the movement, enjoying the luxurious touch, almost tickle, of her hair against his palm. "Would you like to stay the rest of the night here?" he asked, barely able to breathe while waiting for her response.
"Yes," she whispered. Margaret stood, walked around the bed and crawled into the other side. John also lay down, carefully remaining still while Margaret arranged her pillows and blankets.
"Good night, Margaret," he whispered, when he thought she had settled. A small hand captured his own on top of the coverlet. He drifted off to sleep with a smile, holding fast to the hand that had taken his.