Chapter 3 – Margaret's Secret

The snow had come in the darkest hour before sunrise, bringing with it a creeping chill that penetrated every part of the house. Margaret was awake, and for the last hour, she had lain curled on her side, listening to the soft rattle of wind-buffeted glass.

She had never thought to find beyond her frost-bound window anything of beauty. Today, it was not the sallow northern dawn that cast its heavy pall of sorrow over her. Today, the world outside was one of twilit blueness, patterned by the paler swirl and eddy of snow, a light that leeched every other colour and the smallest sound out of everything it touched. All her life, she would never forget the magical quality of that morning, even the hand she held up to the light had taken on a soft cerulean sheen; a mermaid's palm and slim tapering fingers, turning in a sea of silence.

If only papa could see this.

Her smile faded. A tear trembling, fell round and shining on the sheets. Papa. She rose, and drawing on her dressing down, padded across the narrow landing to his room. It was exactly as he had left it, for neither she nor Dixon could yet bring themselves to strip it of all that had belonged to him in life. His slippers at the foot of the bed, pointed neatly outwards; an abandoned book, already wearing a thin coat of dust, lying open on the bedside table. For a long while, she stood by the door, absorbing as she did every morning since the day he died, the enormity of his absence.

For one more day, this shrine to his memory would remain undisturbed. Tomorrow, on her last day in Milton, she would visit it one final time; then, the door to the Past would be closed forever.

In her own room, Margaret completed her simple toilette and began the task she could put off no longer. She turned the key to the tiny locked drawer in her bureau. Edith's letters, the small childish mementoes from the South and her most treasured possession – a cameo brooch containing a braid of her mother's hair – were already wrapped and nestled in a corner of her carpet bag downstairs. The growing daylight, more prosaic than magical now, revealed her secret. From the satin-lined drawer, she removed a pair of gloves, faintly rose-scented from their long residence amidst Edith's extravagantly perfumed missives.

Margaret held them between her hands, and then with great tenderness, laid them in the small, flat box that had recently housed her own. She could not think of Mr Thornton without a pang of regret. The day after they had parted in anger, he had come again, bearing a basket of fruit for mama, and as he strode into the drawing room unannounced, her surprise was so complete that she could neither rise nor greet him. His gaze passed over her as though she had been no more than a bowl of flowers on the table. From her low stool beside her mother, he was terrifyingly close, so close that she could see with absolute clarity, the colour of his eyes. They were not grey, as she had once supposed them, but a hot and deeply-veined blue.

"I met Dr Donaldson, ma'am and as he said fruit would be good for you, I have taken the liberty – the great liberty – of bringing you some that seemed to me fine."

And papa's voice, tremulous with gratitude, "Fetch a plate, Margaret – a basket – anything." Unwillingly, she came to her feet, not quite daring to meet Mr Thornton's eyes.

Still, she saw the eagerness in her father's face, and a quick, stolen glance at Mr Thornton told her that he too had felt the warmth of friendship, unmistakable and undiminished in the firm grasp of the hand that clasped his own. If Mr Thornton was startled, he gave no sign of it; for the space of a heartbeat, their eyes met, but before he looked away, she knew that he had understood. She had said nothing to her father, and so, he too would keep his silence.

"I must go," he said hurriedly. "I cannot stay. If you will forgive this liberty, – my rough ways – too abrupt, I fear – but I will be more gentle next time. You will allow me the pleasure of bringing you some fruit again, if I should see any that is tempting. Good afternoon, Mr Hale. Goodbye, ma'am."

And without a single word to her, he was gone.

In the days and weeks that passed, her every attempt to speak with him alone, so that she might return what was rightfully his, was thwarted - by his sudden departures, Dixon's unexpected appearances, her father's insistent monopoly of his only friend's attention. At these times, Margaret found herself vexed beyond measure.

It would have been easy enough to put the gloves where he had left them; more than once, she had seen his searching gaze pass over the sideboard. Surely, it was the ladylike thing to do, to pretend that nothing had ever happened between them. Edith would have condoned it. Yet, there was a rank smell of cowardice about it, a dissimulation that her honest nature would never countenance. And because Margaret admired his courage - however unwillingly - she was determined that he should not find the virtue that shone so strongly in all that he did, lacking in herself.

Then, with Frederick's arrival and her mother's death, in the grief and anguish of the months that followed she had all but forgotten what she owed him.

Little by little, Margaret straightened the gloves in their box, noting the minute scuffs that inevitably came with use, here and there, a stitch come undone. They were worn, but not without elegance. But was not their owner too, a man scoured by experience, had he not known the vicissitudes of life? He was not perfection, but what right had she to expect such a thing in a mortal man? Kindness, integrity, compassion he had in abundance; against that, she set in the scales his pride, high temper, a certain inflexibility. Even so, the whole with all his virtues and flaws was not unpleasing to her.

Quite deliberately, she placed her own hand against the glove that lay uppermost, and all unbidden, came the familiar lines, read long ago in the sunshine of her youth at Helstone:

For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.

A tide of colour rose in her cheeks. Let this be her farewell to him; in that simple gesture she was laying to rest forever all that had passed between them.

"Miss Margaret?"

It was Dixon, her heavy step creaking up the stairs. Down came the lid, the brown paper folded over, and Margaret was knotting the string when she heard Dixon calling her name from the doorway.

"Miss Margaret, your breakfast is ready."

"Yes, Dixon, I shan't be a minute."

A shadow fell, a comfortable bulk, the warm brown scent of butter and fresh-baked bread beside her. "What is it, Miss? Come down and have some tea. I'll make up that parcel for you if you like."

Margaret shook her head. "It's done now," and with an odd little smile, cuffed a stray tear away.

A pause, Dixon's face crinkling with alarm. "There, there, child. Don't cry. Poor Mr Hale is with your sweet mama, never fear."

An impulse of affection overcame her. "Dear old Dixon! I haven't the slightest doubt of it." And bestowing a swift embrace on her stunned servant, Margaret held her at arm's length said, laughing, "Oh, look, I've got flour on my dress! Whatever will Mrs Thornton say?"

"A pretty pattern it is too," grumbled Dixon, surveying the damage. "Well, you'd best come along now Miss and have your breakfast before braving that old dragon in her den."

Author's note:

Dear everyone, my apologies for not having updated in a while, and thanks so very much for the encouraging messages! The conversation between Mr Hale and Mr Thornton comes from Chapter 27 of the novel, which I've tried to work into the narrative. The quote:

"For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss"

is from "Romeo and Juliet," Act 1, Scene 5.

Chapter 4 (the final one) is on the way, and should hopefully be up within the next few days. Thanks again for reading!