Dear all, thanks for all the love despite my ridiculously long writers block. I had the story basically planned through the last chapter and then NOTHING after, which, as you may have noticed, worked itself out in only a little less than a year and a half. Regardless, I hope you enjoy. I'm really going to try not to disappear again despite the fact that I have only the next chapter in my head and that I really should be writing my own book with characters of my own creation – these ones are Elizabeth Gaskell's.
p.s. Don't hate me too much, I can be counted on for a (mostly) happy ending at the very end.
No miraculous recovery of mood or strength followed Margaret's revelation, but John and Hannah made certain that Margaret was enveloped in care and love. John noted every small milestone that happened over the following month: the first time she made it through a day with no tears, the first time she smiled at him, the first time she smiled and it reached her dark eyes, the first time she ventured from the house into the recovering community of her own accord – this last had not yet happened. Perhaps soon.
Ever patient, John adapted to his wife's daily and hourly mood. He encouraged his wife to venture outside the mill gates and pressed her to adopt new projects, including the redecoration of the master bedroom. Watching over the mill yard from his office, John nodded in approval at the arrival of the draper and furniture maker. A distraction was just what Margaret required. His mind made easy by their arrival, John sat to focus on his next challenge – the account books. Yet, scarcely a quarter of an hour passed before the two men left the Thornton house, their feet beating a hasty retreat on the dry, packed earth. Fear landed, a heavy stone, in John's stomach. Something was wrong. He hurried to the house.
Margaret sat in the master bedchamber, head in her hands, sobbing heartily. The outburst represented a marked downslide in progress.
"What is it? Whatever has happened?" Anger at the two men burned fierce in John's heart. He would deny them further business. He would organize a boycott.
Unable to answer, Margaret shook her head. So, John knelt before her and took her in his arms, which was all a great mill owner could do for a crying wife. When at last Margaret calmed, John offered her his handkerchief and asked again.
"Our bedchamber is not the one I should be planning," Margaret sniffed. Her husband did not understand; Margaret could read as much in his blue-green eyes and the dark brows drawn together in confusion. "I should be planning a nursery," she continued, her voice breaking on the last word.
"Oh, Margaret," John sighed, his own grief breaking over him like a wave. Standing, he ran a hand over his face, unable, despite the movement, to erase the lines that sorrow carved there.
But Margaret did not see, still consumed with her own hurt. "Fanny sent for your mother," she blurted out the true catalyst for her current state, "She asks that her mother come and stay with her as she is in the family way."
Fanny is expecting! John thought, surprised. "We must congratulate them."
Ashamed by her own failings as a wife, Margaret considered with dread, as she had since the letter arrived, the spectacle that a pregnant Fanny was certain to create throughout Milton. Months of Fanny lording her condition over her less-fortunate sister-in-law. The accoutrements of her condition – clothes, toys, crib, nursery décor – that Margaret would be expected to admire while silently enduring the failure of an empty womb. And forcing her husband to endure the same. The abyss of depression loomed large before Margaret.
She closed her dark eyes to avoid seeing his expression as she spoke, for she had determined the path they must travel to survive this time. "It would do me good to visit my cousin in London."
John steadied himself by placing a hand on the back of his wife's chair. He caught his own astonished look in her vanity mirror. "When?" John was startled to realize the voice speaking was his own.
"Tomorrow morning." The answer was fast and sure.
"So soon," John stated. "Have you no need to arrange the stay with your cousin?"
Margaret shook her head. "Edith writes always that I am welcome."
"If you must go," John finally managed to start. He carefully released his hold on the chair back and ran his hand along his whisker-roughened jaw before continuing, "Julia will accompany you."
"I do not require a chaperone." Margaret's head snapped up in surprise to meet his eyes before she realized her mistake and returned to looking at her lap.
"Your lady's maid," John appeased. "A companion, not a chaperone. I will not be seen as neglecting to provide for my wife." The last two words came out sharp, cutting at the careful calm that the two attempted to maintain.
Margaret nodded and rose, signaling the end of the conversation. "Will you have Edward send Julia up? I must pack."
"I hope the visit will do you good." John left the bedroom but leaned heavily against the outside of the door for a moment before continuing down the stairs. He could not shake a terrible fear that he had kept his wife from leaving the country only to forfeit her to the sorrow that she held close and the cousin who had never approved of him. Downstairs, he barked Margaret's order to Edward before exiting the house, finding little solace in his office except the ability to busy himself.
With Mrs. Margaret Thornton's blessing, Julia had remained at her parent's home until her father fully recovered and so was the last of the servants to return to the house at Marlboro Mills. Now she stood in the kitchen, helping Samantha polish silver for supper and receiving a thorough account of what she had missed in the last few weeks.
"The new missus is taken by sadness at odd moments," Samantha explained, rubbing vigorously at the candelabra in her lap. "You mustn't mention it either to her or to the master; for, she becomes quite cross."
"Aye," Julia responded, to voice her understanding.
"Julia," Edward called, swinging the kitchen door open with one hand. "You are needed to help Mrs. Thornton prepare her luggage for travel tomorrow. Once that is completed, you will pack your own things, as you will accompany her."
"Yes, Mr. Bates," Julia immediately responded, nodding in lieu of a curtsey to avoid dropping the large platter she held. Then she dared to add, "Where are we going? And for how long?"
"To London, Julia," Edward responded, guarding his voice to avoid giving away his distress at this turn of events. "As for the length of time, it has yet to be determined. Pack accordingly. I will have Agnes instruct you on the proper means of blending oneself into the staff of another household." He left, smoothing his mustache repeatedly, as though doing so would return order to the house in which he served.
As soon as the door closed behind the butler, Julia turned to Samantha and the two gaped at one another. "To London!" Julia sighed, "Why just two days ago I told Billy Thompson that I should never leave Milton."
"And to think, it might have been me going, should you have remained at home just two more days," Samantha teased.
"Thank the good Lord I did not," Julia returned, with a wink. She set down the platter and rag, wiped her hands on a clean rag and hurried out of the kitchen, pausing to shoot over her shoulder, "Now, I really must go and pack!"
Once on the back stairs; however, her steps slowed as she considered her good fortune. When Billy Thompson had taken her for a walk in the alley that both of their childhood homes backed, he had brushed his sandy hair to the side and asked her to sit for a minute on the brick ledge behind old Mrs. Andrews' home. Although she hadn't wanted to muss up her second best day dress, Julia had done so and then listened in amazement to her first proposal. All told, it had not been much to speak of, as Billy had stumbled his way through it, twisting his cap and clearing his throat over and over. In addition, to accept would have meant to move with Billy to a country estate where he had gotten a position as gardener. Still, Julia couldn't bring herself to laugh over it with Samantha and instead kept mum about the entire event.
"I dunno what I would'a done in the country," she mumbled to herself, allowing the dialect of Milton through as she typically did not. "Sure an' London is 'nother world from some posh country place." She rushed up the last few steps and down the hall to where her mistress sat waiting.
"Have you never been to London, Julia?" Margaret asked when they were in the midst of packing.
"No, mistress," Julia responded, curtseying as she did despite the heavy petticoats that she attempted to fold.
"The climate is slightly warmer than Milton and it rains often," Margaret explained, finding that chatting kept her thoughts from her husband and all she would be leaving behind. "Should you have any questions, I would be happy to answer them."
"Yes'm," Julia replied, curiosity bubbling forth at the opportunity. "Is London much larger than Milton?"
Margaret laughed, a sound the house had heard little since the illness first settled over Milton and not at all since – well, it would not do to dwell on that. "Have you never traveled from Milton?" Margaret asked. When Julia answered that she had not, Margaret explained, "While much larger than a country town like that surrounding my home at Helstone, Milton is not large so far as industrial towns are concerned and could be swallowed up many times over in a true city, such as London."
That night at dinner, Hannah bit her tongue almost through in keeping her silence. She looked first at her son, who had offered only the most cursory of explanations for Margaret's sudden journey. Hannah had needed no reason. Fanny's letter and Margaret's decision could be no coincidence. Now, John sat hunched as if in pain, a characteristic so unlike him and so like his father in those final days that Hannah's stomach knotted. Then, Hannah turned to Margaret, who had not offered two words together and stirred but did not eat the roasted chicken and potatoes. Would they truly allow distance between this hurt? Hannah saw the danger there. Yet, her son had asked that she remain silent on the matter. And so she would.
Excusing herself early, something Hannah typically scorned as the epitome of bad manners, she took her needlework up to her room. There, she stabbed the cloth so forcefully that she twice drew blood from her unfortunate fingers.
Margaret followed suit, retreating to her bedroom and retiring early to rest before her journey. She pretended sleep some hours later when John entered the room, changed, and climbed into bed. In the shadowy darkness, he brushed a hand over his wife's silky hair and sighed heavily before turning away to settle in for the night.
The next morning came quickly for all involved in the transaction. At Margaret's insistence, John did not accompany her to the train station. She claimed to prefer a private parting but also wondered if she would truly be capable of boarding the train while her husband looked on with sad eyes of the deepest blue.
In the end, John simply gathered Margaret close in the bedroom and kissed her softly. "Be safe, Margaret," he told her, "and come home." Such an odd turn of phrase – not 'come home soon', which Margaret had expected and for which she had even prepared a vague answer. Then it was time and John followed his wife down the carpet-clad stairs and out to the carriage for a final chaste kiss on the cheek.
Margaret climbed into the carriage, drawing her small gloved hand from her husband's despite his firm grip. John was forced to move aside in order for Julia to enter the carriage. He never took his eyes from his wife, but despite the shaded interior of the carriage, he could see that she stared resolutely forward. Julia, on the other hand, turned at an awkward angle to shoot more than one smile towards the rest of the household staff, her excitement evident at the journey ahead.
As the wheels of the carriage began to turn, John saw the back of his wife's head in the rear window. 'Look back,' John thought, in sudden desperation, 'Look back at me.' She did not.
Once the black carriage disappeared through the stone gate and his mother and the staff returned to the house, John stormed up to the mill office, slamming the door and pounding his fist into the paneled wall. Sinking down into his chair, John rubbed his left hand over his red and aching knuckles. He might have spared himself the pain, as it not only failed to distract him from the wrenching pain of his breaking heart but also reminded him of the way Margaret had worried over his bruised and split knuckles after the fight at the mill.
Margaret waited there, her face grave in concern. "Are you hurt?" she asked the instant he entered the small room, rising from his chair and moving to him.
…
He held up his right hand for her inspection and she captured it gingerly in her own, examining its surface solemnly. The entire appendage was swollen; purple bruises mottled its surface and scabs of dried blood snaked in and around the bones of the knuckles. "You should have this looked at by a doctor," she urged, turning her worried face up to him.
…
"Let us at least go back to the house where I can wrap it," Margaret persisted, tracing a finger softly over the broken skin.
…
She took first one hand and then the other in soft fingers, washed them gently, rubbed salve into the bruised and broken skin, and wrapped them carefully in strips that she tore from the rags.
"Oh, Margaret!" He ached for her presence and the touch of her soft skin. John pressed his fist to his mouth to choke back the dry sobs that burst forth.