Hello Again! Thanks to all for reviewing and following and favoriting my story! Sorry I have been gone for so long, but it was necessary. So, here she is!
When Margaret, Julia Bowd, and company arrived in Milton, they found John, ashen faced and nervous looking. There were deep black circles under his eyes and his hair was in disarray around his face, giving him a gaunt, haunted appearance.
He gave Margaret a relieved kiss when they met him at the door, and then went to his poor aunt and embraced her quickly, but warmly.
"Aunty," he said, taking Julia by the arm and leading her towards the guest bedroom where he had insisted his mother stay, "please. I believe she may be failing."
Margaret paled at this, and glanced around for Fanny, whom she found sitting silently in the parlor, hands clasped tight on her lap and bonnet strings loose around her face. She had forgotten to take it off.
With gentle hands, Margaret removed the offending garment and at that moment Fanny looked up at her, those bright, pale eyes so much like her mother and burst into tears. Forgetting the bonnet, Margaret set it down and hugged her sister in law, feeling the warmth of her tears through the thin vest she wore.
Fanny sobbed for a minute, then, sniffing and wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, chocked out a little thank you.
"I feel as if she has already gone," Fanny moaned, "but I know she has not."
"What has she taken?" Margaret asked, brow furrowed.
"The doctor says pneumonia," Fanny hung her head.
Margaret held her sigh.
"Do you know how she contracted it?"
"Walking in the rain! We told her not to, but she said she was strong enough and didn't need a coach."
"Oh dear," Margaret bit her lip, "so her condition has not improved?"
"No! No!" Fanny shook her head, letting a tumble of blond curls loose on her shoulders.
"Alright Fanny," Margaret gave her a little pat on the hand. "All is not lost. I will go in and see what I can do." With that, Margaret quit the parlour and was about to enter Hannah Thornton's sickroom when she was stopped by a doctor she recognized as Smithson from the village.
"Mrs. Thornton," he said, "I must advise you not to enter the room. You would be putting your child in danger if you, too, contracted the infection."
"Oh but I must see her," Margaret attempted to sidestep him, "I may be able to help."
"It is a long illness," Smithson blocked her and crossed his arms. "She will not die tonight, nor tomorrow. You must stay away until your child is born."
"What of my husband then?" Margaret demanded, attempting a look at him though the door. All she saw was darkness but for a small lamp by Mrs Thornton's bed.
"He may see her, but must wash his hands and change his clothes before coming into any room you are in."
"How silly," Margaret's lips drew into a hard line. "Fine then, what have you given her?"
"Hot blankets, garlic and onion in honey. Bed rest too, Mrs Thornton. Tis all we can do now."
"But tell me," Margaret lowered her voice so only she and the doctor could hear, "how bad is she really?"
"Tis the old man's friend," Dr Smithson shook his head sadly, "She will most likely not live to see your child."
At that, Margaret's eyes grew wide and her voice took on a desperate edge, "no," she said, "surely there must be something you can do."
"Nothing," Dr Smithson replied, pulling at his mustache, "we must just let her sleep and we must pray for her. Hannah Thornton's a good woman, Missus. If God will take her then she must go."
"But she was so healthy," Margaret shook her head in wonderment as she heard the doctor close the front door behind him, "why now?"
Without wishing to disturb Julia or her mother in law, Margaret went upstairs into her bedroom and found, to her surprise John, changed like the doctor said, his waistcoat thrown carelessly across the dresser. His face was in his hands and when he looked up his eyes were puffy and tear streaked.
"Oh darling," Margaret rushed to his side, her heart breaking to see him so distressed, "my darling, we should pray."
John turned to her, and she took a small wooden cross from beside their bed, holding it so tight she felt the oak dig into her palm. He bowed his head, and she put hers on his shoulder, saying the words slowly and deliberately.
"Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come I will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespassed against us..." she continued on, and when she was finished, added in, "and pray for Hannah Thornton in her hour of need. May you deliver her into health and salvation."
"Oh Maggie," John's voice was tight and he found her face with his hands, as if her solid existence was the sole thing keeping him from oblivion, "she didn't tell anyone. She said she was well, but I knew she was not."
"There is still hope," Margaret insisted, refusing the believe that some higher power would not deliver her mother in law and let her see her grandchildren grow.
"What will we do without her?" John ignored her, "when we need her? When our baby asks about her?"
"Hush now!" Margaret scolded him, the fear of losing control sliding like hot irons over her soul, "she will live. We will make her live here from now on so we can watch her. There is nothing to fear."
John did not answer her this time, for it was plain he wished to believe her, but took her in his arms and buried his face in her hair, his nearness enough. They stayed like that for some time, until Margaret ordered him to get some sleep. He had had none since her leaving to London and his mother's illness, so when she had gotten him down to his tunic and breeches he fell back against the pillows and was soon thrown into a restless sleep.
Margaret left him then, going downstairs to tell Fanny to go home and see her baby. She would call if there was anything the matter or news on her ailing mother.
She called the servants, had them prepare a strong broth of garlic and onion, and ordered them to take the best care they could of their new charge. She then went to Mary, who they had kept on as a scullery maid, and told her where to put Julia's valet, Edgar for the night. Mary complied with a bow, and Margaret, not tired from the day, found solace in the vacated parlour where she sat and stared pensively at the dark street beyond the house, where the flickering gaslights cast ghostly shadows upon the asphalt.
She was surprised, therefore, when she heard the quite voice of Julia, who came to sit at her side in a fabulous white nightgown, frills and bows tucked into the sleeves and silk lining the hem. Margaret wondered idly why someone had not advised her against the purchase of such a garment, and before she could comment, Julia supplied,
"It looks a fright, I am sure, but I like the feel of the linen and lace. It was a gift from Hannah you know." There was a silence, and the old woman stared helpless into the streetlamp, the reflection glowing in her eyes.
"I knew she was sick," Julia shook her head, "but she wouldn't say so. When she was a child she caught something—I cannot recall what, but when she did the doctor warned her that this might happen if she did not stay out of the cold and rain... but who does she believe?" Julia paused and beckoned to the shadowy figure of Edgar, who had not gone to sleep but stood with a glass of wine.
"Herself and God," she took a gulp. "Always been that way, my sister."
"Is she really that poorly?" Margaret asked, a plea in her voice.
"Aye," Julia straightened out her gown with a little sniff, "that she is. If she wanted me here there would have been no other reason than to see me in her final hours. I wish they weren't—," Julia's eyes were wet now, and her little face creased with emotion, "I have seen so many loved ones go too soon. First with our brother, then his son and poor wife, and now perhaps Hannah. When shall it be my turn?" Julia turned her face to the sky, "Me, the old cripple who never married and was never good to anyone but her..." she broke off and Margaret saw the tears begin to fall, something that had begun to seem common in that new house of hers. "You better hurry up and have that babe, mind," she collected herself for a moment, "Hannah says she'll be damned if she goes without seeing the little snipe."
"I wish I could do something," Margaret put her hands on her swollen belly, "but I cannot. When the baby wants out, it will come."
"Aye, aye, darling," Julia nodded sympathetically, "it will do as it wishes. I hope she sees it."
"So do I," Margaret began to fear that her wish would not come true, "oh I wish it like I have never wished for anything before. Pray for me, Miss Bowd?"
"Call me Aunt Julia," Julia commented, "and yes, I will pray." She finished off her wine, and found Margaret's hand. "Please, let it be late," she whispered, "Hannah will not go without seeing it, and that means I may have a few more days with her."
"But the baby might not be born for weeks," Margaret said in despair. "The doctor doesn't seem to think she can hold on."
"Well he doesn't know Hannah like I do," Julia replied assuredly.
Margaret sincerely hoped she was right.
AN: so no baby yet, and some peril with Mrs Thornton Senior! R&R! (I promise this time I'll be snappy with updating—(probably) within the week if people would like more!)