"Margaret?"
The call was tinny and distant—too easily dismissed as a dream. Margaret slid herself upward with considerable effort, blinking her eyes open to mid-morning sunshine. She struggled for a moment before kicking free from the tangle of sheets constricting her ankles. It was odd that one side of the bed was undisturbed, she considered groggily. It was even odder that she recognized nothing in the room whatsoever.
She bolted fully upright, her hand nearly knocking over a glass on the table beside her.
Oh dear Lord, no.
Wrenching the coverlet off her legs, Margaret scrambled onto her knees. Her gaze darted downward, heart hammering. The last few splotches of color from her adjusting vision faded as she searched the bottom linen where she had lain.
Nothing.
The coverlet slipped from her fingers as she sank numbly into the mattress. Indeed, she scarcely knew what she should look for, other than blood. Her mother, even when well, had never dared broach matters of such delicacy. If only there had been more time with Edith, Margaret thought with regret. Judging by the abundant daylight, she and Aunt Shaw were well on their way back to London, bounding off on yet another trip abroad.
Still submerged in thought, Margaret ran her hands down the slightly damp fabric sticking to her sides. As she reached to peel it away, her fingers lingered over a faint indentation crossing her ribs. Her thumb grazed over it, spurring a dull throb.
What had happened last night? She remembered walking up the stairs, and before that...
'You'd better go and tell your mother, then.'
It was recollection enough to lift the murky veil on the events of the evening that had most shamed her. She fought the squirming impulse to dive back under the covers.
The chaise. Roaming, needing hands...
Even after whatever oblivion had befallen her, those fevered imaginings, the longing as her body had arched into his, felt all too real.
The flush that had risen on her cheeks deepened at the intruding memory of Everhart. Knowing him for all of ten minutes, she could have moved aside or excused herself despite her discomfort. Could have.
With a muffled groan, she buried her head in the pillow. For as long as she could remember, she had been an anchor of practicality. When her parents would retreat behind their polite masks, it was she who forced honest conversation between them, no matter the consequences. As other women had gossiped and fainted, she had braved the crowd on the day of the riots. More important, she had never sought the company of men, especially on the transparent pretexts that many of those fainting, giggling women were wont to do. It was for this good sense that John had esteemed her even before he had loved her.
Against all reason, last night had brought out a side of her that she could not reconcile to the other. It was bad enough that she had permitted a stranger to be so open in his affections. But the swooning wanton she had been with John, her body writhing in the throes of unspeakable fantasy, was worse. No corset could excuse the thoughts in which she had so willingly indulged.
"Margaret, will you not answer me?"
The voice from her dreams, much clearer now, was an unmistakable baritone.
"I am awake. Just one moment," she called out haltingly.
Hobbling toward a chair by the washbasin, Margaret tried not to yelp at her left leg still needling from sleep. A dressing gown of embroidered ivory and gold hung neatly over the wooden chair rail.
Slipping on the gown with haste, she clambered toward the door. Upon nearly reaching it, she caught a glimpse of her bare shoulder, remembering she'd neglected to secure the sash at her waist. It swished as Margaret knotted it into a hasty bow before pulling the doorknob, breathing through a final tremor of doubt.
To her dismay, her anxiety was only magnified at the sight of him. There he stood, fully pressed and dashing as ever. He somehow stood tall even as he hovered, gripping the door frame with hesitation. It was only upon closer examination that she noticed the faint purple crescents looping beneath his eyes, slightly dulling their blueness even in the morning light.
She encouraged him with a nod, but his white-knuckled grip held fast. He stared past the strong bridge of his nose at his feet—as though he wanted to look anywhere but at her.
"I trust you have recovered then. In truth, I did not know when you would wake considering your state."
"My state..." Margaret's voice vacillated between affirmation and question, trying to dismiss the sterility of his words. She heaved a sigh, her mind still piecing together the fragments of their wedding night.
"I am presuming, then," she said quietly, "that I did not make it far past the staircase."
"It was only after the last of the guests had bidden us farewell. You had also been fortunate enough to have fallen gracefully." His eyes darted to meet hers only to resume his fascination with the floorboards.
"After we took you upstairs, Dixon was more than able to attend to you."
"So it was Dixon who loosened my...helped me?" Her reply ended in a whispery trail as she registered the insinuation he'd no doubt perceive. She did not even know if it was customary for a husband to help his wife undress.
His jaw moved forward, as though he was about to say something of utmost importance, before his lips clamped tight. "Yes," was all he uttered.
Eyeing a pair of cuff links on the bureau, Margaret's throat went dry. It was now painfully obvious why she had not seen this room before.
"Where did you sleep, then?" she inquired meekly.
"In Fanny's old room. I thought it improper to join you while you were so indisposed."
Dread weighted Margaret's chest as he appraised the state of the bed, particularly its untouched right half. The disheartening truth was plain enough, but her forthright nature compelled her to confront it.
"Then we didn't—"
Something, pain or anger, flashed in his eyes.
"No. We did not."
Margaret reached forward for him, her limp fingers barely touching his sleeve as he stormed toward the window. Upon arrival, he leaned his elbow onto the high windowsill, head in hand.
She stared at his back in vain, needing to analyze the internal struggle she knew would be plain on his face. I am still your Margaret, she wanted to profess. Each passing moment of silence did little to inspire much-needed eloquence on her part.
"I never meant to behave as I did, John," she finally blurted. "You must know that."
She listened to the subtle rattling of the window glass in the breeze until she could no longer bear waiting for the response that would never come. She walked to the mattress and sat down with a dejected flop.
With her uncharacteristic lack of sense and impropriety, she had made a spectacle of herself. Worst of all, she had failed her husband at the first chance to prove her devotion in their marriage. If she could even, she pondered with despair, truly call herself his wife at all.
She almost did not notice when the mattress depressed slightly beside her.
"You know well it is I who need to apologize, Margaret."
Margaret looked up from her folded hands and turned toward him. His cheeks were drawn severely, as they did only when that rare temper was fanned aflame. It was an expression so wholly at odds with his eyes, earnest and contrite, that she could not help but voice her perplexity.
"Apologize? I do not understand."
"I did not...consider you in the way I should have," he stammered. "I did not even question if my attentions would be wanted given your state." His neck stiffened, as though tensing for the executioner's axe. He fixed the bedpost with a glare that threatened to gnaw holes into it.
"I've no doubt that I am no longer a gentleman in your eyes."
She had felt his restraint the night before, how his eyes caressed her though his touch had not. He was undoubtedly thinking of her in a way that any man would his wife. Even so, she thought with shame, there was no possibility that, with his honor, his thoughts could have rivaled the baseness of her own.
How shameful that her husband now rued his affection due to yet another misunderstanding.
The frustration of this last thought launched Margaret to her feet. She walked a few steps until her dressing gown brushed against his trousers. Giving herself no time to rethink, she laid a reassuring hand just above John's knee. She could not remember ever touching him below his waistcoat, making the words she spoke a bit unsteady.
"You will always be a gentleman," she assured. "Especially if you still think me a lady in return."
Margaret watched with baited breath as John gently removed her hand and rose. He cupped her cheeks in his hands, bidding her to look into his eyes. Unlike the night before, no expectation darkened them now.
"I could never think you anything less."
Despite her misgivings, she was not brave enough in that moment to disagree. Instead, she silently vowed silently to never again behave in a way that made her unworthy of him.
He brushed back from her forehead an unruly curl that had escaped. "I can only hope every day will be as perfect as yesterday. Though perhaps quite a bit quieter—and perhaps without letting Fanny lace you in."
"I agree wholeheartedly, Mr. Thornton."
"John, you mean."
She flushed, her smile bashful. "John."
A look of profound intention settled in his eyes as he pulled Margaret closer, still careful to maintain a small pocket of space between them. It was as though he was about to request her hand all over again.
"I also want you to know," he began, "that should we not share the same bed tonight, I could never think less of—"
"But I could not possibly—"
"Please let me finish, Margaret, or I'll not have the heart to say it again."
She nodded.
"When we are together, whether it is tonight or tomorrow or ten Sundays from now, I wish it to be because you are ready and under no other circumstances."
"Please know that I would never have shirked my duty." The flush that had temporarily ebbed flowed back over Margaret's cheeks. "I also would not have you think me so passionless."
To her surprise and vexation, a fox-like grin spread across on his face. She did not possibly see what could move him to humor under the circumstances.
"I know you, Margaret Thornton," he said, wrapping his arms tighter around her waist, "to show passion in almost everything you do."
Though her head was still half lowered, she cracked a most master-of-Marlborough Mills-like smirk, hoping he might see it.
"Except for dancing, of course."
He chuckled heartily. "No, never that."
Just as Margaret had begun to enjoy his warmth again, she felt him tense again. She straightened, their moment of intimacy gone.
"What is it, John?" His slightly guilty look did nothing to relieve the nervousness inching back up her spine.
"Considering your state last night and the thought that we would be otherwise engaged this morning, this is Mother's last morning as hostess of Marlborough Mills."
"I appreciate her thoughtfulness." It was true. After yesterday, Margaret could not fathom jumping straight into domestic responsibilities.
"The Watsons are to dine with us as well."
"The Watsons?"
John shook his head sardonically. "You were not the only person indisposed last night. Thankfully, Jane put Fanny to bed in the guest room before she made a laughingstock of us all."
"Thankfully indeed."
Though she could not say it, it was the last news Margaret wished to hear. Fanny had been irksome enough yesterday, and the very idea of spending more time with her was intolerable. The prospect of dining with Mrs. Thornton was downright insufferable. Their interactions had been conspicuously infrequent the evening before, if only to keep up appearances. There was little doubt that for every insult Margaret had been spared yesterday, there would be two awaiting her today.
John was already frowning, as though she had spoken her fears aloud.
"I know that had you married someone else," he said in a low voice, "we would have the house to ourselves. I understand that is a sacrifice you have willingly made."
"It is no sacrifice," she assured, hoping the admission would not sound as forced as it was.
He eyed her with mild disbelief, but continued. "Many months ago I had asked both Mother and Fanny to befriend you. While I know you've not seen eye-to-eye on many a matter, I would very much like for you all to get along."
Margaret offered a polite smile, not trusting herself to disguise her reaction if she spoke. There was not much she could refuse him when he looked at her with such vulnerability that he showed no one else.
No one except the other Mrs. Thornton, a nagging voice in her head reminded.
"I doubt Fanny will be ready anytime soon." John surveyed the empty hallway as if to confirm his assumption. "Nevertheless, Mother will likely expect us within the half hour."
"I shall be ready by then." Margaret manufactured the most pleasant expression she could.
His reciprocated smile, she thought with a guilty heart, was nothing less than genuine. "I will tell Jane to have our places set."
He bowed, his shoulders relaxing as though the world's problems had melted away. The door shut behind him almost soundlessly.
With a pent up heave of her chest, Margaret eyed the washbasin. At least it would only be an hour and not an entire day, she consoled herself.
As she pulled on a fresh camisole some minutes later, she barely noticed Jane breezing in to fetch her garments and the linens. She was similarly unaware when the young woman scurried out almost as soon as she had entered.
"For heavens sake, Jane! Where is that cold pack?"
Fanny raked her knuckles over her forehead as Margaret occupied herself with her fried potatoes. To her amusement, Mr. Watson was doing the same—several portions over.
Hannah eyed Fanny for only a moment before returning to her meal. Margaret watched discreetly as the woman took bird-like bites of cake, much as she did whenever she ate. The sickly yellow-green light of the sky filtered in from the nearby window, doing little to soften the deepening lines at the corners of her mouth.
A worried Jane scuttled in and handed Fanny a small compress wrapped in cloth, only to be swatted at like a pesky fly. The young woman slackened back in her chair in relief.
"I must say," she commented, making a great show of wincing as she applied pressure to her right eyebrow. "It was quite the celebration, even if there was not nearly so much champagne as at our wedding."
John's knife scraped his toast loudly. "I am glad it met your expectations, Fanny, especially as you are so discerning in your indulgences."
His sister opened one eye like a disgruntled owl, scrabbling to right the compress that was now pitifully lopsided. Margaret forced herself not to look at John else she might burst into laughter.
Watson side-eyed his wife with the expertise of a man schooled in diffusion and the regret of one unwillingly parted from his potatoes. "I say, Thornton, it was a rare showing. I think we saw every master from Milton to Devonshire." He wheezed out a half-chuckle, half-cough as he cut into his puddings with gusto. "No doubt all wanting to get a piece of you."
Quietly alarmed, Margaret tried to mind her plate. She prayed he was talking about Slickson rather than Everhart—whom she had pleasantly put out of her mind again until now.
The instant drain of John's smile betrayed what was likely a similar thought. "Slickson was the worst of them, actually."
"Surely Watson was not referring to Slickson, John." Fanny sniffed, jabbing at her cold eggs as John regarded her.
"I saw that Everhart poking about," she continued coyly, "as did half the room, to be sure."
Margaret's fork scratched the plate. With no small effort, she refrained from dignifying the pernicious gaze she felt upon her—one originating distinctly from Mrs. Thornton's direction.
Fanny waved a dramatic hand, plunking the pack down on the table now that she'd secured everyone's attention. "He looked such a ruffian in those trousers. And that jacket was from five years ago, at least!" She shook her head self-righteously. "And never mind what money he might have given us, I still do not see why he was—"
This time, the look Hannah shot Fanny was one of undeniable condescension. An unbearable minute later and Watson's vociferous chewing was still the only sound puncturing the silence.
Hannah and John locked eyes before the old woman shoved her half-eaten plate away.
"I understand you and Fanny are to leave for London today, Mr. Watson."
Watson dabbed at his mouth hurriedly, making little progress with the smear of egg on his lower lip. "Forthwith, Mrs. Thornton. We are off on the train in not two hours, in fact." He nodded sheepishly at Margaret and then at John. "I fear we have already too long imposed on your hospitality."
Fanny groaned in oblivious protest, clutching her fork as though it were a harpoon. "Nonsense. I've barely had a bite of my scone! And Mother enjoys my company, at least." She huffed, searching the room in vain for sympathy. "I do not see why we could not have caught the later train."
"Dearest, you know I meet with Mr. Tomlinson at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow. And I am sure that Mrs. Thornton and Mr. Thornton would appreciate some time before their own trip."
"You are, of course, most welcome to stay as long as you like, Mr. Watson," Hannah interjected. Margaret looked up to see what she read to be a challenging expression on her face.
"Why certainly, Mr. Watson—Fanny." Margaret acknowledged them both, again evading Hannah's gaze from the corner of her eye. "Please do not leave on our account."
Watson nodded before darting a pleading glance at Fanny. "No, Mrs. Thornton," he replied, turning his eyes again to Margaret. "I thank you, but I insist. We mustn't tarry a moment longer." His chair screeched on the floor as he tottered upward to push out Fanny's chair.
"Such a stick in the mud," Fanny groused, not quite under her breath. Watson narrowly dodged a stubbed toe as his wife, now remarkably recovered, abruptly rose of her own accord.
The inhabitants of Marlborough Mills bid the Watsons goodbye, Margaret doing so with well-disguised disappointment. Regardless of Fanny's rudeness, their departure made direct interaction with Hannah all but unavoidable.
"I must say it is good to see you well again, Margaret," the old woman said as the three Thorntons sat back down at the table.
Margaret sputtered for a few unbearable moments, downing a sip of water to wash down some dry toast. She peeked over the rim of the glass as John raised an eyebrow at her, equal parts concerned and questioning.
"I trust the weather will be pleasant on your journey," Hannah continued, unmoved by Margaret's obvious struggle.
Determined to croak out a reply, Margaret put a hand to her throat. "I believe it shall be. My brother and Captain Lennox have assured us that the seas are most passable at this time of year."
The old woman's fingers spindled on the table as she weighed her daughter-in-law's answer. "No doubt you cannot wait to escape Milton's chill."
For the second time today, Margaret watched as her husband's lips parted only to close and say nothing.
Thankfully, the bustle of servants clearing away the dishes ended what promised to be the first stretch of awkward quiet since Fanny and Watson had departed. While Hannah was otherwise occupied scolding a servant, Margaret tried to catch John's eye. He now seemed obsessed with the pattern of the tablecloth, though his frown of frustrated acceptance suggested he'd seen her from the corner of his eye. Mending the strained relationship between the two women would take more than a single breakfast. She silently rejoiced as he placed his utensils down over an unbuttered piece of toast.
"Mother, if you do not mind, I think Margaret and I might walk the gardens." Margaret followed John's prompting gaze. The sky in the window behind him was already striping with slate-colored bands of cloud.
"There's going to be a storm later."
Hannah beamed with rare affection as she addressed her son. "Of course. I trust you'll be back well in time for afternoon tea."
"I doubt the weather will hold for even the hour, Mother." John stood, smoothing imaginary creases in his trousers. "We both thank you for the breakfast."
"Yes, thank you. It was lovely," Margaret added, trying not to rise with undue exuberance.
John was already halfway out of the room by the time Margaret bowed her head, secretly giddy at her imminent release. No sooner had her hem brushed past the last chair before the doorway when cool fingers grasped the crook of her arm.
"I'd like a word, Margaret."
Margaret's and John's eyes met, in an instant exchanging their resigned agreement.
"A word," John repeated, staring straight at his mother.
"Certainly, Mrs. Thornton," Margaret replied, grateful for her husband's firm response. She silently counted each step John took away from her until the door clicked shut.
Hannah was already pacing, circling one of the chairs like a ravenous crow. She stopped with sudden purpose, gripping the wooden chair rail as though she meant to wring the life from it.
"I will get right to the point," she said tartly. "I was told that the linens did not need changing this morning."
Crimson blazed on Margaret's cheeks, as much from anger as yet another foolish blunder. Remembering Jane's insistent feet clopping away, there was no doubting how Hannah had come upon this information.
Though her skin was still hot, Margaret's reply was cold. There was little excuse for being accosted by such an inquiry, whatever its intent.
"I did not think our activities were to be so closely monitored."
"I've no interest in meddling in your marriage bed." Hannah's head jerked as if to dispel the disturbing idea she might have conjured for herself. "But," she warned, her accent lengthening the word, "It concerns me greatly that you have not been able—or willing—to fulfill your duties as a wife."
To the point, indeed.
"It was the corset, Mrs. Thornton," Margaret responded in a measured tone. "It was tied far too tight and I felt a bit faint. I take full responsibility for my condition."
"Which condition, exactly?" Hannah's lips snaked with disapproval. "Though it appears my son did not, I saw you last night."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know well what I am talking about—and who I am talking about. I do not have to tell you that it is unseemly for you to be seen sitting so close to a man who is not your husband. Indeed, I had never understood why you'd refused my son after your exhibition during the strike."
"Though I think," Hannah finished, her black taffeta swishing with purpose, "I now might have an idea."
Margaret's mouth formed a small, silent 'o,' her legs barely supporting her. She could not deny that Hannah's scornful reproach sounded much like her own thoughts earlier that morning. Neither could she deny how Everhart's lover-like gestures must have appeared in a low-lit corner of the room. It was a crude portrait of her and that horrible man, no matter how much she had wanted to rebuff him. In spite of all of it, it somehow did not make admitting to her mother-in-law her blame, even for the smallest transgressions, any easier.
With the last of her reserves, she took a calming breath. She could still be civil, without giving Mrs. Thornton the satisfaction of taking her bait. "And I think—"
"Think all you like," Hannah cut in, "but I know what I saw with my own two eyes."
"Seeing is not everything, Mrs. Thornton." Margaret felt as though steam were about to pour from her ears as Hannah looked wistfully out the window.
"My son still regards you as a good and constant woman, Margaret. I would hate to see any...impropriety lower him from his esteemed position." Hannah paused, chin raised haughtily as she drew herself erect.
"And I would hate all the more for you to break his heart."
And there we have it, Margaret thought, chagrin roiling within her.
Through the window, Margaret regarded what appeared to be John's increasingly pensive expression. She inhaled deeply, resolved to answer with as much equanimity as possible. Some equanimity, at least.
"Mrs. Thornton, I will say for the last time that I am unaware of your implication. If you are referring to whomever it was that visited, that..." Margaret paused, almost triumphant that she'd temporarily forgotten his name. "...that Mr. Everhart, I know nothing of the man. I also did nothing I was ashamed of, save for donning that ridiculous corset your daughter insisted upon."
A cryptic expression briefly interrupted Mrs. Thornton's glowering. When she returned to form, a newly fierce protectiveness glinted in her eyes.
"I would not want to imagine what my John must think of you."
"I've no need to imagine anything," Margaret snapped. "He was concerned only about my condition and if he saw anything, he did not speak of it. In addition to being a gentleman, he is always exceptionally considerate."
The faintest smile crossed Margaret's face at Hannah's chastened expression. If the old crow was determined to provoke her, she would reap what she sowed.
"I believe also," she added softly, "that he is my John now."
The crease between the old woman's eyebrows deepened as her shoulders slumped. The silently visceral reaction sent the briefest pang of regret through Margaret. She was debating going to her side, spite and all, when the old woman clasped her bony hands together, her brow returning to its usual domineering height.
"My son's concern, or his foolish willfulness to ignore your inappropriate behavior, has no bearing on your actions, or how they appeared." The elder Mrs. Thornton inhaled sharply, as if to underscore the importance of her forthcoming wisdom. "I am sure the servants saw. Some of whom, as you know too well, quite easily get the wrong impression."
Seething clarity washed over Margaret as Hannah's sneer curled. Hannah had long known the truth of the night at Outwood Station. John had never brought it up again, wanting to spare them the relived pain of that terrible misunderstanding. And here was his mother, so heedlessly reopening a wound that had caused such unnecessary suffering. Only she, this insufferable woman, could so test her pity.
"And, as we all know," Margaret replied through her teeth, "some too freely meddle in others' affairs."
John's eyebrows were knitting with concern as she eyed him through the window the second time. It was more than the cue she needed to escape what had become an irreparable was no reasoning with such pure, unadulterated spite.
"You will excuse me. We should be off before the rain."
Margaret turned on her heel, not caring to wait for whatever vicious barb might next assail her. If every day were to be like this, she would walk the whole of Milton until her feet bled.