~Chapter 18~
Mary finally regained consciousness after a week of fever and two days of sleep following it. She woke to find her family reduced, but all safe from fever. Cora threw herself onto Mary, burying her head against Mary's stomach.
"Seamus?" Mary croaked at Johnny, her voice thick as though from lack of use.
He shook his head grimly. So he had died, too.
"Pa?" Mary asked, suddenly terrified by what she had at first considered her father's normal absence during the day.
Johnny grinned, "At t'mill n'right as rain. He surely will be glad t'see ya' awake."
Reassured, Mary stroked a hand over Cora's silky curls, finding them tangled and oily after not having been cared for in weeks.
"Are ya' needin' anythin'?" Johnny asked, eager to provide any services required of him, so relieved was he at her recovery.
"A brush," Mary answered.
Johnny rushed across the room and back with the object that she had requested.
Once the brush lay in her hands, Mary focused all her energy on Cora, coaxing the little girl into a seated position and beginning the laborious task of untangling her hair. "Whatcha been doin', Cora?" Mary asked the unusually quiet girl.
"She willna' answer ya'," Johnny explained, taking one of Cora's little hands in his own. "She hasna' said a word since she woke." He hurriedly added, "She isna' dumb. Pa says t'is 'cause she woke to find t'others gone, for she cries out good'n loud when asleep."
Cora did not react as though she had heard any of the exchange between the two, sitting still before Mary.
"M'poor baby," Mary cooed, setting the brush aside and gathering Cora close in her arms. "Y've lost so much, havena' ya'?" Cora snuggled closer but said nothing. "We be givin' ya' some time t'recover, shallna' we?" Mary decided.
The bleeding grew worse. Margaret had to admit now that it could not be her monthly time, not only because it had arrived off schedule but also because the blood that stained her undergarments was living blood, fresh and bright. Still, she had no one in whom to confide. There was no doctor to be had, her husband would only worry and she had already caused him to worry far too much, and Mrs. Thornton, who might have some knowledge of the cause, was not the type in whom one, especially Margaret, could confide.
Thus, for two days, Margaret forced herself to act as though recovered and to dispose of the evidence of her infirmity so as to avoid discovery. She felt often dizzy and weak but played it off as a result of her recent recovery.
John watched with cautious relief as his wife continued improving daily. She still seemed too pale and thin for his liking, but brushed aside his concern whenever he revealed it through word or action and insisted that he not remain at home in order to watch over her.
"You are staring at me again," Margaret stated, looking up from brushing her hair, her exhaustion and fear causing her to use a slightly exasperated tone with her husband. Both prepared for the day in the master bedroom.
"It is your beauty that ensnares me every time," John was quick to assure her, halting in the tying of his cravat in order to kiss her brow. "Are you sure you would not rather sleep a little longer?"
"John." Margaret did not bother trying to suppress her annoyance at his words. She preferred to rise with her husband rather than remain abed alone. After all, she would merely lie there worrying over her symptoms.
John sighed, "I am sorry, dearest." He pulled on his coat and then glanced again to his wife. She still wore her nightgown. "Should I wait?" he asked.
"Nay," Margaret replied. She could not change before him. So John kissed her again and headed down to breakfast.
Once alone, Margaret hurriedly pulled off her nightdress and examined the wad of cloth from her undergarments. It was soaked in blood. Margaret knelt to pull another length from the chest of drawers that she had claimed as her own. She stood and gasped as a sharp pain tore through her abdomen. Her eyes shot to the door, relief flooding through her to find it still firmly closed, a barrier of protection. I am no better than my husband, Margaret realized with a start, I berated him for hiding his illness from me, and here I stand doing the same. I will tell him now. She dressed quickly in a plain grey dress, trying to ignore the stabbing pain, and walked down the stairs to the dining room.
"John," she called as she entered.
Edward stepped forward, "He has already left for the mill. Would you like me to relay a message to him?"
"I –" Margaret winced at a particularly strong pain.
"Mistress?" Edward asked at her expression.
Margaret felt with embarrassment a rush of warmth running down the inside of her legs. The padding had not been enough. "It is nothing," she assured Edward and stepped into the hall.
Following her, Edward frowned as he noticed a footprint on the typically immaculate hall carpeting. Was that – blood? His eyes followed the trail of footprints to where Margaret stood at the foot of the stairs.
"Mistress!" he called again. Margaret turned and felt another rush of warmth. She collapsed into darkness.
Edward gathered the mistress into his arms, carrying her up the stairs and yelling for help, feeling with alarm a warm wetness soaking through her skirts.
Hannah ran out of her bedroom still in her nightclothes at the commotion. "What is the meaning –" She stopped at the sight of Edward carrying her daughter-in-law, whose face was pale as fresh paper but whose skirts grew dark with blood. She wordlessly followed Edward into the master bedroom. "Fetch my son," she ordered as soon as Edward placed Margaret on the bed.
Hannah leaned over her daughter-in-law. She held Margaret's chin in one hand and slapped at her cheek with the other, gently at first but growing more firm with every slap. "Margaret," she demanded after each one, "Wake up. Look at me."
John was again interrupted at his desk with a swinging door and a cry of, "Please sir, it's the mistress." This time, though, when he spun in his chair he saw Edward standing with arms outstretched in petition, his hands red with Margaret's blood.
"Oh, God, no," John begged. He pushed past Edward and ran to his wife.
Margaret regained consciousness to find her mother-in-law's face inches from her own. "Good, Margaret," Hannah soothed. "Talk to me. What happened?"
"How –" Margaret asked, tears springing to her dark eyes, "How do you know when you lose a child?"
John gained the master bedroom in time to hear his wife's question. "No!" he cried.
To her credit, Hannah did not turn for an instant to address her son's pain. She ran a hand over Margaret's brow. "The pain is here?" She placed a gentle hand to Margaret's stomach. Margaret nodded. "And you bleed similar to your monthlies but heavier?" Another nod. "Poor girl, I do believe you have lost a child, but you are young." As Molly entered the room, Hannah added, "Here. Molly will stay with you for a minute and then I will return and together we can get you out of those soiled garments."
Hannah gave Margaret's hand a squeeze and quit the room, taking her son's arm and leading him from the room, closing the door behind them. "John," she stated, and then again at his blank expression, "John!"
Startled out of his sorrowful thoughts, John responded, "Yes, mother."
Hannah took her son by the arms, "I did not want to frighten Margaret, but something is not right. Her bleeding is far too heavy. You must fetch a doctor."
Shocked and overcome by fear, John stated, "There are no doctors in Milton."
"Then you must go beyond Milton and convince a doctor to return with you," Hannah returned. "And hurry, John."
Choked up with terror, John silently entered the bedroom and kissed his wife, running his fingers over her hair and cheek. "I must go," he explained, "I will be back soon, dearest." God, he swore silently, I will never forgive you if you take her from me.
While her son bade farewell to his wife, Hannah ordered the readying of a horse. She then returned to the bedroom, kissing her son goodbye, and send Molly to heat water with which to clean Margaret. Finally, she turned to Margaret. "Let us get you out of those skirts," she decided.
Margaret could scarcely believe that her mother-in-law was the woman before her. This Hannah Thornton chatted comfortingly at Margaret as she carefully removed each garment. Margaret, for her part, kept her lips pressed tightly to contain the soundtrack of her pain and sorrow. It is my fault, her mind and heart declared as one, I have caused the death of my child through my stubbornness and ignorance. Silent tears slipped one at a time down her cheeks to soak the pillow.
John rode hard for Doctor White's home just outside of Milton. He prayed with every hoof beat that the good doctor had not taken it upon himself to further remove his family from the city. He reached the house shortly after the noon hour and interrupted the family at their mid-day meal. He was allowed into the house only after assuring the manservant who answered that he and all his household were free of fever.
"Why, Mr. Thornton," Dr. White cried, after John was announced and entered the dining room. "What brings you to my doorstep? I do hope it is nothing serious."
"I am afraid it is," John said, thinking how aptly the phrase fit this situation. He was very afraid that it was serious. "My wife requires your attention."
"James, prepare the carriage," White commanded, then turned to John and asked, "What ails the good woman?"
John looked significantly at the five children who sat at table, the youngest of whom whistled through the gap created by a missing front tooth until his mother's disapproving glare and older sister's pinch halted the exercise.
White nodded in understanding, "We can discuss it on the road." He kissed his wife and took the time to embrace each child, laughing aloud at the acrobatics that the youngest attempted in order to avoid being captured in his father's arms. Ruffling the same boy's hair, White stated, "God bless and keep you all." He then led John back out of the front door and into a waiting carriage, explaining, "We will return your horse when it is rested."
John nodded in consent and they were off.
Hannah sat beside her sleeping daughter-in-law, rubbing the back of Margaret's hand with her thumb. Her thoughts, however, were far from that bedside. In between the arrivals of John and Fanny, Hannah had lost two children in miscarriages, one early and one so late that the doctor had been sure, despite Hannah's certainty to the contrary, that the baby merely came early. It was this dark time that had kept Hannah from hatred of her husband when he had abandoned the family through suicide. She still disdained the weakness of his act, but she understood the temptation of the escape from the seeming permanence of despair. Margaret would not succumb to such depths of emotion, Hannah was sure. The girl had proven herself admirably able to overcome many losses in the past year: mother, father, life, home, and – perhaps as permanently – brother. Hannah nodded, with John and herself there to watch over Margaret, this too would be surmounted.
In the kitchen, Edward warmed water over the stove, dipping out increasingly warm water with which to wash his hands. He was sure they would never again be free of the blood of his mistress. His hands shook and he spilled water from the ladle onto the floor. He selected a clean towel and bent to dry the puddle that he had created. The sound of hooves and wheels turning over gravel announced the arrival of a carriage. Edward straightened, dried his hands, and walked to the front door just in time to open it for the master and the doctor.
The combination of Mrs. Thornton releasing her hand, the door opening, and voices, woke Margaret, who was surprised that she had fallen asleep. By the time she was fully awake, John had gone and Mrs. Thornton closed the door behind him. Margaret submitted to the doctor's examination, flushing in embarrassment at this invasion of her privacy. She found she was grateful for Mrs. Thornton's presence, clinging to the hand that was offered and borrowing strength from the steady pressure that her mother-in-law placed on her hand.
"You will be fine," Dr. White assured Margaret upon completion of his exam. "Stay in bed for two days, take it easy for a week after that, and you will make a full recovery." He gave a slight bow to Margaret, "Mrs. Thornton." Then he turned to Hannah, "Mrs. Thornton." He left the room.
"How is she?" John anxiously asked.
Dr. White responded, "Besides merely miscarrying, she tore something inside, perhaps from the fall that you spoke of. Currently, the bleeding has stopped, but you must keep her as still as possible for two days and have her rest often for the week after that. Depending on the damage inside, she may never bear children."
His words were a knife to John's heart. Margaret was still in danger. They might never have a child together. He pushed aside the latter to be dealt with at a time when the former was not so pressing.
Hannah patted Margaret's hand comfortingly, "See, there, everything will be fine. I will bring you up some tea." She walked over to the door and slipped out.
As Mrs. Thornton left, Margaret heard a few of the doctor's words to her husband: "-never bear children."
John saw the doctor out, thanking him profusely, and then hurried back to his wife. Entering the bedroom, John found Margaret sobbing violently. Rushing to her side, he forced himself to wipe away her tears rather than enveloping her in his arms as he longed to do. "Come, now," he tutted. "The doctor says you shall be fine."
"Did he say nothing further in the hall?" Margaret wanted to know.
John smiled, "I do not know what he said in here." After Margaret told him, John simply nodded. "Dr. White said much the same to me." There was no need to frighten Margaret further than she already had been.
Why is he lying? Margaret cried internally. Why does he not tell me that I have ruined our chance to have children? Why does he not blame me? I blame myself.
Margaret refused dinner and ate little more than toast for supper. John wanted to force her to eat more, but his mother had silenced his plan with a simple, "She is mourning. Give her time." So instead he kissed his wife good night and headed for the guest room, far too worried about causing his wife pain or restarting her bleeding to spend the night in their bed.
He should have told Margaret. She lay awake for hours, thinking herself justified in believing that John did blame her and could not even bear the thought of lying beside her.
Over the next few days, despite the best efforts of John, Hannah, and Edward, Margaret slipped into what her husband called a "mood." Margaret felt it was an abyss. For a few seconds or even minutes each day, she would feel happiness or at least contentment, like glimpsing sunlight. But, the rest of the time, a heavy shadow of guilt and sorrow fell like a curtain between her and the world. She did not even bother to fight against it, since in her eyes she deserved such suffering.
John dutifully brought his wife each meal, watching her withdraw and shrink before his eyes. She did not eat. She looked as though she did not sleep, although it seemed the only thing that Margaret did do. After surviving the fever and the miscarriage, Margaret seemed determined to either starve herself to death or live as thought she had died. John did not understand.
Although Hannah did not know the depths of guilt that Margaret took upon herself, Hannah knew her daughter-in-law's sorrow. Still, Hannah had no idea how to break depression's hold on Margaret. Hannah had overcome her own sorrows through inner strength and determination, which she possessed in abundance. She sat with Margaret whenever John was not by her side and tried to talk with her, but Margaret never spoke and usually turned away.
The breaking point came when Margaret again refused to allow John to carry her in to dinner from the library in which she hid, replying that she was not hungry. Looking into Margaret's thinning face and empty expression, John saw the certainty of death for his young wife and lost hold of his emotions, anger being the first to escape and easiest to express, despite fear's place as the strongest of his feelings.
"You must be hungry," he exclaimed, "for you have not eaten properly in days."
"I am not hungry," Margaret repeated, untouched by his outburst.
"Do not lie to me, Margaret," John snapped.
Hannah stopped in the doorway, ready to intervene, but hopeful that this exchange might be enough to extract Margaret from her self-indulgent mourning.
John's rub went straight home. "Am I the only liar in this marriage?" Margaret asked, sitting straighter on the lounge.
"What?"
"Dr. White did not tell me that I will not be able to bear children. He told you and, even though I asked, you did not tell me."
"He said you may not be able to."
"You did not tell me," Margaret persisted.
John rubbed the heel of his palm over his eyes. "I wanted you well. I was so afraid –" He corrected himself, "I am so afraid that you are going to die."
"Why do you care?"
John stepped back as though struck. "I love you."
Margaret shook her head, not accepting his answer. "My negligence and ignorance killed our child and most likely our chance to have any in the future."
John sighed, finally understanding, "Darling girl, it is not your fault."
Margaret lay back against a pillow, turning her head away to signal the end of the conversation.
Hannah slipped silently from the doorway and out of the house; she stopped in the mill to enquire something from Mr. Williams and then headed through the streets of Milton, coming to a halt before the home of the Higgins and Boucher family.
A sharp knock brought Mary to the door. "Mrs. Thornton," Mary stated in shock upon answering the summons. "What brings ya' to our 'ome?"
"Good day," Hannah answered. "Mrs. Margaret Thornton requires the presence of yourself and any children that are now at home."
Uncertain what else to do, Mary called Johnny and Cora from the back room and followed Mrs. Thornton on a silent walk to the house at Marlboro Mills.
"Margaret, Margaret, look at me," John begged, dropping to his knees beside the lounge. "Such things happen and although they are tragic, they are no one's fault."
Margaret remained silent.
"You must know how I love you," John pressed, "My life would be over if I ever lost you."
Margaret could scarcely hear her husband over the accusations of her mind. He is lying because he is kind and good, it told her. You do not deserve him. Margaret nodded in agreement at this thought. She never could.
"I never meant to betray your trust, but you must believe me now when I tell you how entirely I need you." John would have continued, but he heard from down the hall the sound of Edward opening and closing the front door for several someones. Standing, he crossed his arms, placing one hand over his mouth to disguise the strength of his emotions.
Hannah entered the library with Mary Higgins and Johnny and Cora Boucher in tow. All but Hannah stopped just inside the doorway. From her position, Margaret could not see Mary and the children. "Margaret," Hannah stated firmly, "You may not have been able to save your child, but you saved many others."
Margaret said nothing.
Hannah led Johnny over to the lounge. "Here is one." She walked over, picked Cora up, and dumped her unceremoniously on Margaret's lap. "And here is another," she stated, as Cora wrapped her chubby arms around Margaret's neck.
Reminded of her siblings' deaths by Miss Margaret's presence, Cora began to wail. Margaret tried to pull away to check that she had not injured the child, but Cora clung more tightly to her. Mary stepped forward to take the child from Miss Margaret, but Mrs. Hannah Thornton stopped her movement with a hand.
"She misses the others," Johnny explained, his own throat closing at the sound of his sister's crying. "So do I," he managed to say.
Margaret pulled Johnny down beside her on the lounge and wrapped the two children in her arms. "Hush, hush," she soothed. "This is no one's fault," she cooed, echoing her husband's words. "Everything will be all right." As she comforted Cora and Johnny, Margaret, too, began to cry. She felt for the first time that she could forgive herself for her failings. She was still overwhelmed with sorrow, but the aching emptiness was just a little weaker.