"So let me get this straight, Thornton. You were down there on the floor yourself ministering to the child? And letting the machine go dead, no less?"
John glared at the last mouthful in his glass rather than at Slickson. He had little affinity for drink, but the past few weeks had been trying. He had even less affinity for a host hell-bent on goading him to anger.
Throat burning as he polished off his brandy, he thwacked the tumbler on the table.
"A boy with one arm is preferable to a boy dead in my mill."
"Indeed," Slickson replied, strolling aimlessly toward the fireplace. "But a maimed boy is still a mouth to feed at your table of good and plenty."
Eyes blazing, the master of Marlborough Mills surveyed the others at the table. As was usual in the wake of Slickson's baser commentary, the masters offered little more than nervous smiles. Still, they examined John a bit too expectantly.
They wanted an outburst, an explosion of old. They would be sorely disappointed.
"You all seem keen to speculate on my affairs," he said, leaning back into his chair with deliberate casualness. "Is business really so sluggish at your mills?"
"None said that." Henderson exhaled a leisurely tendril of cigar smoke. "Just noticing that you may have bit off a bit more than you can chew, eh?"
Hamper's stout frame heaved as he chuckled. "I think what he means to say is you need to look out for yourself. Any master in your position should."
"My position is better than it has ever been."
"Aye, better indeed!" Henderson gestured to the group. "Got workers coming out his ears and nowhere to put 'em."
"You'll not forget that my warehouse is sizeable. I'd not take on workers if I'd no place to put them."
Though John was loath to boast, it was a necessary point. Or was it?
He folded his arms in frustration, his easy posture tightening to that razorback spine. The situation of space, or lack thereof, would be dealt with.
"But I'll not waste my breath explaining my decisions to anyone."
"You men of fortune never explain your decisions to us common folk," Harkness guffawed.
"Aye!"
At this, Watson, seated near the head of the table, put up his hands. "Well enough, gentlemen, well enough. I'd say Thornton's earned more than his fair share of speculation for the evening."
Henderson slapped his knee. "By George, our resident speculator has a point!"
As the group had a good laugh, a shadow crossed Watson's normally jovial face. He had not yet told Fanny—or anyone else at the table, save John—but the meeting in London had not gone to plan. He had lost thousands.
John pressed a finger to his pounding temple. If Watson's next venture failed, the man would be asking for a loan soon enough.
A spoon dinged glass, drawing everyone's attention as Henderson stood.
"I propose a toast to Thornton and his bloody good fortune. Not all of us have ourselves a fine southern woman on our arm."
"Nor forty thousand to play with!"
"Here, here!"
"I play at nothing, as you all well know," John groused beneath the round of clinking glasses. "And I'll thank you to leave my wife out of it."
He squeezed his tumbler, which was somehow full again, as an elbow jostled him. The glass was thick; too hardy to break in his grip.
"Ah, come on, just a bit of fun, eh?" Henderson jibed, bidding him raise his tumbler.
"And we all know he cannot abide that!" laughed Harkness.
"I would bet you, gentlemen, that at least one type of fun interests him."
Everyone looked up as Slickson, now silhouetted by the fire, sauntered back to the table, wholly ignoring John's warning glare.
"If my wife was half so fair—"
Chair legs scraped the floor.
"If you utter another word about my—"
"Oh Lord." Slickson rolled his eyes toward the gilded ceiling. "Keep your seat, man! No offense meant."
John flinched as the man clapped a hand on his shoulder blade, leaning in conspiratorially. "You cannot blame a fellow with my lot for looking, though."
The curl of his lip unabating, John glanced at the portrait on the far wall toward which Slickson gestured rather limply. It was a heinously oversized likeness, even for someone beautiful. As it was, the scale only made the ungenerous spacing of Mrs. Slickson's eyes and the cramped line of her mouth more pitiable.
There were worse things the woman could be pitied for, John thought darkly. Though he'd never dealt in gossip, to be a Miltoner was to hear every word. The talk of Slickson's indiscreet dalliances had been circulating for weeks.
Even with the man himself standing over him, a weeping willow of reeking spirits and ill thoughts, John would not voice his disapproval. A man's business was his own, no matter how dishonorable.
By the time John finally cleared his head, the other masters had thankfully steered back to cotton and machinery. For the rest of the evening, he had curiously little to say, though none mentioned it.
At half past nine, the guests, including Watson, thought to make for the clubs. Having only partially drained his second glass, John was more disinclined than usual to join them.
With the others already carousing in the street, he rounded the corner into the dimly-lit hallway, donning his hat with such haste that it almost covered his eyes.
"Begging just a moment, Thornton, before I join the other fine fellows."
He looked back to find Slickson leaning, rather heavily and hazily, on the entryway to the parlor.
"Surprised you are not first to Percy's," John said flatly, noting his curious lack of gloves or coat. "But I cannot delay. I will see you next week at the meeting."
"Wanted to run it by you first." The man cocked his head, bidding John into the room. "There's a scheme on American cotton that's done rather well and wanted your thoughts."
"And whatever makes you think I'm knowledgeable of any such scheme?"
"Oh come, Thornton." Slickson smiled slowly. "Though you mightn't participate in such corruption as the rest of us, you can sniff a deal better than anyone."
John sighed wearily. He'd heard this tripe from him and the others before. Always some new scheme to cut corners and costs that, in the end, amounted to nothing.
He was still reminding himself of that fact as he placed his hat on a table beside a small chair and sat down to hear the man's piece.
Elbows to his knees, he leaned forward, his shadow tilting with him. "I beg you to make this quick."
Slickson slouched against the mantle, twirling his glass idly.
"You always were an easy draw, Thornton." The smile on the hemisphere of Slickson's face in firelight was almost eel-like.
"I saw him. At your wedding."
John was grateful that when he shifted in alarm, Slickson was still entranced by the crackling flames.
"There were nigh a hundred there, Slickson. You'll have to be more specific."
"Come off it. You know damned well who."
"I've no time for this nonse—"
John nearly did jump this time when a hand slapped the mantle in triumph.
"You could not lie to a child, I swear it," Slickson wheezed between laughs, turning back to face him. He squinted then, ever the canny inquisitor despite his drunkenness.
"So, he's skulking around again like the old days. Old chap still trying to claw his way into cotton, eh?"
"I wouldn't know."
"Don't matter what anyone knows. Where Everhart is concerned, a scheme is sure to follow."
Shooting Slickson a felling look, John rubbed his arm absently, as though it would smooth the gooseflesh that had arisen. Miltoners knew Everhart as a scoundrel and swindler—some even knew of his dubious parentage. A few even knew he was the son of the man who'd brought the honorable George Thornton to his knees.
What none knew, thanks to Bell's discretion, was how close Everhart had been to taking Marlborough Mills. If John had any control in the matter, it would stay that way.
"I don't know what you're playing at, but all I can tell you is that he did not elaborate, nor did I care for him too. There was too much talk of business on my wedding day as it was."
Slickson raised his empty glass mockingly. "Glad to hear I offend so reliably at such occasions."
When he made to offer a Madeira, John almost accepted before changing to a vigorous refusal, realizing the folly of it. Slickson shrugged in reply, as though grateful for more to himself. He knocked back John's portion and then his own with disturbing effortlessness.
The man before him had become a sad portrait, John realized as the retort on his tongue dissolved. He was struggling to keep pace with American production, and he was grey and overindulged in every sense. It was too hard now to recall him, young and struggling like they both were, long before dinner parties and schemes.
Whether it was foolish sentiment or something else, the words spilled forth.
"I say this as something like a friend, Slickson. I would refrain from mentioning any woman who is not your wife."
The man reeled, almost looking about to fall, before he righted himself. John waited, hooked like bait on what he thought was a film of remorse over his host's eyes.
Then, with a sneer, the cad simply poured himself another glass.
"Chattering whores, the lot of them," he slurred. I bloody well built my mill with my bare hands. A man's entitled to his own damned affairs."
"And I've no wish to interfere any more in yours." Regret and rage singeing his neck, John rose from his chair.
It was a fool's errand to try and help a man so far gone, in every sense.
"You do not leave until we are finished."
John stiffened at the hand wrenching his forearm, almost firmly enough to hurt. With gritted teeth, he firmly unwrapped the fingers from their grip. He stood until he towered over the man that now seemed so small.
"I give a man only what he is owed."
"How about the truth that I—that all us masters—are owed?" Slickson tried to right his footing too late this time, swaying awkwardly. Beneath an unruly lock of hair, one eye gleamed wildly in the pink glow of the room.
"Not only are you stealing our workers—"
"I steal nothing and no one," John barked. "You have lost hands due to your shortsightedness alone."
"Shortsightedness! No, Thornton. Shortsightedness is permitting your wife to roam the streets of Princeton and make a laughingstock of us all."
John swallowed thickly. "Margaret knows more about the business than you could ever imagine."
"More about charity, you mean." Slickson shook his head with a careless laugh. "Gone and made you soft, she has."
His temples now pulsing, John looked at the floor. He could not pretend he was happy about her visits, but he would not stop her. Could not, he corrected. At any rate, if the other masters did not deserve an explanation, neither did Slickson.
He swept his hat from the table, its legs teetering with the forceful motion.
"Go on then," Slickson said, swiping at the air as John bowed curtly. "Can't say I blame you for leaving."
If John had walked any faster to the foyer, he might not have heard it.
"If only I could have such a bonny lass waiting and spread so willingly for me at night."
It was instinct to move; to lunge despite the quicksand of his fury. Through that pulsing red, he could already see it: the deep green bottle shattering against the wall, him gripping Slickson by the collar and slamming him into that gaudy wallpaper. One look back, and it was good as done.
It would be over in a minute, in blood and bruises. A minute of violence, followed by a brushfire of talk. Thornton at it again, feeding their gossip-starved bellies with the horrible fruits of his temper.
And then, after they'd devoured his honor, she would hear.
Then those crystal-grey eyes would judge him and remember who he was before her.
John's fists, clenched and ready, relaxed. There was no looking back.
And the drunken bastard would never know how Mrs. Margaret Thornton had saved him from the beating of his life.
"I will pretend, for the sake of my wife and yours," he muttered, "that I did not hear that."
He felt no chill as he walked into the rain. It was, as befit his mood, that maddening temperature, too warm for snow and far too cold for comfort. All the while, words echoed at his back, beneath the drumming of his pulse.
"She will be the death of you, Thornton. I swear it."
After supper, Margaret settled into what had become routine solitude. With John at the Slicksons', she had seized upon the chance to devour Owen's Address, eager as ever to learn more about the workers and their hardships.
As she read, she paused more often than usual, feeling the silence squeezing thoughts too loud to push away. Since John's injury, Hannah's presence in the sitting room was a scarcity. She had kept to her prayers and needlework with equal reserve, faithfully upholding her promise to stay away from the mill. Any discourse between she and Margaret was still painfully civil. She had asked about Fred at least, Margaret thought, before willing herself to forget again.
The tepidity of their conversation had done little to ease Margaret's roiling conflict on the question of Mrs. Thornton. Each stiff cordiality received was another reminder of those debts of apology owed. If Margaret were a banker, Hannah would have defaulted to her long ago.
This time, however, Margaret had sworn not to collect. That she'd likely be waiting until the grave for Mrs. Thornton's atonement did little to diminish her resolve.
As she flipped to the thirteenth page, she felt the rumpling press of a finger by her own.
Stale lavender.
"I am sorry to interrupt your light reading, but I've something to say to you."
Margaret looked up at the pinched expression and piercing gaze she knew she'd find.
"I went to visit Fanny this morning."
"I—"
Margaret balled a dampening fist, tucked discreetly within a fold of her gown as she tried to find the right words. It had been days since the incident at the draper's, but she'd known even then it would only be a matter of time before Mrs. Slickson enacted some malicious revenge. Rumors were likely spreading like plague all over town.
Mrs. Thornton had been, no doubt, the first to catch wind of them.
With great deliberation, Margaret placed the book down beside her as she stood. If a reckoning was to occur, best to get it over with quickly.
"I beg you to speak your piece, Mrs. Thornton." She paused again. Perhaps a hint in the right direction would not be so remiss.
"If it's to do with Mrs. Slickson, I can explain—"
"If you will let me a word in edgewise, girl."
Margaret forced a controlled breath. Her mother-in-law was in no mood for hints, it seemed.
With a protracted sigh, Mrs. Thornton clasped her hands before her. "I have come to thank you for what you did last week."
Margaret's mouth, already tightened preemptively, slackened with confusion. "Last week?"
"Do not look at me like that, child. You know well of what I speak."
"I assure you, Mrs. Thornton. I do not."
The old woman pursed her lips. "Then perhaps you had better sit back down."
Margaret did as she was bid, mostly because her jellied legs threatened to no longer support her. After a hesitant moment, taffeta rustled next to her, bidding her look to her side to find Mrs. Thornton perched, austerely as ever, on the complete opposite end of the sofa.
"I do not fault my daughter for the way she is," the woman began grimly. "After my husband passed, there were rumors of all sorts. I'll not dignify them by telling you, but you can imagine. No matter my feelings, I kept my head high on the street." Mrs. Thornton's eyes narrowed, their grey now more prominent than their green.
"When it happened, Fanny was a baby. When she grew older, they talked." She swallowed as though taking in poison.
"I cannot tell you how many times the girl came home sobbing."
Margaret stilled the urge to extend her arm in comfort. "I—I am sorry, Mrs. Thornton. I did not know."
"No, indeed you did not," the old woman replied crisply. "And people in this town, thinking they knew the whole, did not either. Such presumption is an ill and an insult."
The fist, still clandestine in the fold of Margaret's gown, tightened.
But you do not hesitate to presume such ills of me.
"What I suppose I am trying to say," the old woman ground out reluctantly, "is that however Fanny might complain about not going to Corfu, or wherever it is that latest strikes her fancy, you did well. A woman such as Mrs. Slickson has no business speaking of others. She needed to be put in her place, and I'll thank you for it."
For a moment, Margaret did not, could not speak. She did not know where to begin. That Mrs. Thornton could divulge any circumstances of John's father was rare. That she would relive a moment of such low spirits, such a wound to her family's pride, was miraculous. That she would approve of her insulting a lady of Milton society was ridiculous.
And she was to be...thanked?
"There is no need for thanks, Mrs. Thornton," Margaret said, her voice low with both surprise and humility. "I assure you, I only behaved as any sister might."
"Sister?"
Margaret flushed at the intrigued peak of Mrs. Thornton's eyebrow. Despite their differences, she and Fanny were, in a sense, the only peers of age that could speak freely. It was close enough to sisterhood, in a sense.
"And now that is out of the way..."
Margaret's heart sank with dread as Mrs. Thornton's visage returned to its usual scrutiny.
"The tittle tattle is all over."
"Of Fanny?"
"Of you." Hannah rolled her eyes.
"They are calling you the veritable Robin Hood of Princeton. Families receiving bread and baskets, and heaven knows what else."
Margaret closed her eyes with disappointment. Though she was sure word would travel of her visits, she was also sure Mrs. Slickson had a hand in it.
"My son has taken great pains to elevate himself—this family—once again," said Mrs. Thornton. "As such, I'll ask you to refrain from gallivanting through the dirty streets for some time."
Margaret blushed with shame and indignation. She had thought her old coat, threadbare as it was, and a borrowed hat might conceal her appearance a bit.
And, seen or not, she could go wherever she chose.
"As a rule, I do not 'gallivant,' Mrs. Thornton."
"Does my son know?" the old woman interjected sharply.
"He knows I visit Princeton, yes."
"You are telling me that my son knows you visit three times per week?"
Margaret stilled. "Well—"
The old woman snorted her condescension. "What were you planning to say to him, Margaret? To say that you are ministering to his workers? They shall come to expect such an endless font of charity that not even the Queen herself could sustain them."
Her bony fingers swept the book from the table. She rifled through the first few pages, as though having read each word a million times before. "And I venture to guess you have not informed my son that you are reading this volume of wisdom."
Margaret turned violently, shifting the cushion with her.
"I shan't need his permission on what to read, Mrs. Thornton."
"Need I remind you of the vows you made not a month ago to my son?"
Mrs. Thornton's eyes widened as Margaret snatched the volume out of her hands and stood, face reddening.
"My vows mean everything. My love for your son means everything." Margaret took in a gulp of air.
"But if you are referring to my, to my—obedience—I do not believe that he wishes me to obey. He wishes me to think for myself."
"Headstrong young woman," Mrs. Thornton gritted. "Thinking for yourself and acting with a care for the family name are two different things."
"So quickly do you forget. The mill, Fanny...I have every care in the world for this family, and I shan't need to prove it to you."
Volume in her shaking hand, Margaret strode toward the door, her mind on fire and her eyes flooding. Every step forward with this woman was two steps back.
Her shoe clicked onto the wood of the hallway when she stopped. For the past month, she had hidden. They both had.
No longer.
She stormed back into the room until she stood over a very calmly seated Mrs. Thornton.
"Do you not wish to know where he derived such a notion—that I might behave as a person of my own volition and intellect?"
The old woman raised her chin in that haughty, oracular way that was hers alone.
"From you, Mrs. Thornton. And I am proud to emulate you."
As though the wind had been knocked from her, Margaret flopped back down onto the chaise. The tears Margaret had choked back were now flowing, silent, hot, and angry.
It was not the conversation itself that had been the last straw, but that cloud which had always hovered. Her mother and Dixon—even her father—had always favored Frederick. It was plain, but she'd accepted it, and adored Fred no less for it. It was simply a fact, quietly borne.
But somehow, to know that Mrs. Thornton and she should be in such permanent opposition was almost worse.
From washing curtains to watching words—to strive so hard for nothing. This was no different.
A shadow moved, lingering at the corner of her eye. Margaret sighed with doleful relief that Mrs. Thornton would just leave. There was no bravery left to muster.
When she felt the cushion depress beside her, she swiped at her eyes, keeping them to the floor.
"Far be it from me to ignore a commendation."
Still, Margaret could not look up; could not trust it.
"And far be it from me to not say when I was wrong."
Margaret's nostrils flared. That was indeed not true.
"I have never thanked you, properly, for coming back. For giving us all of this again."
It was the gentle touch of a smooth, cold hand on her own that bid Margaret face her mother-in-law, despite the tears shining on her face.
The expression of sternness she knew well was still there. So too was the smallest hint of hope. Perhaps forgiveness, if Margaret searched hard enough.
She coughed hoarsely, wiping at her irreparably wet cheeks. "You have thanked me, in as many words."
Mrs. Thornton smiled wryly. "I've never had many of those."
Margaret wanted to say that the apple did not fall far from the tree, but she held her tongue. On that measure at least.
As for the rest of her thoughts, the temptation to mend the past for John's sake, and perhaps her own, was too great not to say what she had to.
"Mrs. Thornton, I have been meaning to speak to you about our conversation...on the day after the wedding."
The old woman pulled her hand away awkwardly only to raise it in protest.
"There is no need. I should not have spoken to you in such a way."
The way the words were said, the raw pride and shame in Hannah's eyes, spoke well enough. It was the apology, or something close enough to it, that Margaret had been waiting for. Should she trust it? No, of course not. The only mother she had now was like ice, thawing only to freeze again, stronger and more impenetrable than before.
She should not trust. But would she?
The weariness at the prospect of such misery, of decades of them at odds, was enough to make Margaret's decision for her.
"And I suppose that," she replied softly, "without explanation, one could make assumptions."
"Assumptions, indeed." Mrs. Thornton's lips quirked promisingly. "You seem to have a particular talent for finding yourself in those situations, do you not?"
At this, Margaret could not resist a grin. "I suppose I do."
Hoping Mrs. Thornton was not watching, Margaret swiped her clammy hand on her gown. "There is something else, Mrs. Thornton..." It would be twisting the knife all over again, but there was no leaving this room until it was finished. She took a shuddering breath in the vain hope of encouraging herself
"I did not just come back for him you know."
Her mother-in-law's steely gaze narrowed on her.
"I knew that there was more I could do for the hands, for the people of this town who suffer hardship. You know I cannot stop visiting Princeton."
"Oh, indeed?"
Margaret swore the ensuing silence was created purely for her torture. Then, to her bemusement, something like a smile threatened to tug at the corner of the woman's line-etched mouth.
"If all the city were ablaze, I'd not doubt you'd save them before the lot of us," she said with a sardonic laugh.
"I am not sure about all that, Mrs. Thornton." Margaret sighed through her smile, remembering something Mr. Hale once said.
He giveth and taketh.
"But I promise you to be more circumspect about my visits. I shall go once a week."
Mrs. Thornton nodded, with what Margaret perceived as a small measure of thanks. "I cannot say I dislike a bit of conviction, willful as it might be. Though mind you, I am surprised we have any food left in the place."
"Dixon does well at the market."
"Hmmph. Perhaps it explains why my son is nearly licking his plate clean at supper for the first time in years."
Margaret's mouth rumpled, forgetting whatever she had meant to say as Mrs. Thornton stood.
"Now, you know of the dinner we plan."
With a beat's hesitation, Margaret nodded. "Yes, of course."
"Since we did not have it earlier this year, we would do well to have it now."
"Why yes," murmured Margaret reflexively. To her way of thinking, the wedding had been enough of a display. On the other hand, it would do no harm to proceed as normal, whenever possible.
"You will need to write out the envelopes soon," Hannah said. "And, since I've nothing better to do these days, I shall help you."
Margaret smiled, because and despite of the tartness returning to her mother-in-law's voice.
"That is most kind of you, Mrs. Thornton."
With a curt nod of her head, Hannah crossed to the small desk at the other side of the room, leaving Margaret to digest what was, as she reflected much later, a most remarkable conversation. It was likely not the last misunderstanding between them. But there was no harm, she supposed, in hoping that it might be.
Though too overwhelmed to think, Margaret scooped up the book again. She had reread the same paragraph twice already when the front door groaned open.
"Mother, Margaret." John bowed as he rushed in. Fresh splatters of moisture shone on the overcoat he began to shrug off. He stretched his shoulders, shaking off the rigors of the day as a servant whisked in and out to relieve him of the article.
Hannah darted a benignly chastising look at him. "You are later than expected. Did the dinner run late?"
"Slickson was speaking with me."
Margaret looked over worriedly at Mrs. Thornton, wondering if she might broach any of their aforementioned conversation.
"I am sure," she said, looking quickly to her daughter-in-law and back, "that the masters had much to say."
"Enough brandy and Madeira should do that to anyone, I suppose, Mother."
"Well," retorted Hannah, "thank the good Lord that you do not suffer from such intemperance."
"Indeed." John winked at Margaret to which she squinted and then smiled. Indulge he did not, but she would swear his eyes were slightly glazed over.
She flushed, realizing only then that he'd never before winked at her.
As he folded his hands, Margaret noticed a small streak of black on his palm. It was shiny and freshly smudged. Her eyes narrowed.
"Though I am sure, husband, that none of you were writing contracts at this dinner."
John followed her gaze to his hands, looking at once guilty and impressed.
"You miss nothing. I stopped at the office for a few minutes." He smiled at her warmly before a now-familiar weariness stole over him again.
"There is a shipment of almost eight thousand bales next week."
Margaret nodded, trying to ignore the spasm in her stomach. For the past week, John had begun returning home well after supper, eyes red and strained. He had last hired new hands not weeks before, and already it seemed they were overworked—and the mill overcrowded. He had assured her that conditions would remain good, and better than at any other mill in Milton. It was a fact that she could not deny despite her reservations.
Still, she'd been disturbed by what she'd seen as she continued to work in John's office, overlooking the floor. Looms threatened to jab workers no matter which way they turned, the coughs of children rising above the cotton.
The industry had always been at odds with the beliefs her father had so ingrained in her. Her duties to uphold them and to respect her husband were not always easy to reconcile.
Regardless, John had asked her to analyze, to form opinions. And opinions she had.
Before Margaret could beg a word of him in private, John ticked his head toward the door. "It's nearly half past ten, Mother." His tone was gentle yet compelling. "I hope you've not stayed awake on my account."
"On your account I did not, my son." Hannah's pupils glittered like onyx as she glanced sideways at Margaret.
"But you two may go on ahead."
John nodded at Margaret. That glaze, and the intention beneath it, stirred her. Their discussion she decided, less regretfully than she should have, could wait until tomorrow.
"Good night, Mrs. Thornton. And thank you again for the envelopes."
"If you do not stop thanking me, I might change my mind."
They each kissed Hannah goodnight, Margaret feeling an unexpected spark of affection when it was her turn. She did not look back as John grabbed a lamp and walked with her into the hallway. He hooked her arm tighter as he raised the lamp higher over the stairs.
"You and Mother seem to be getting on exceptionally. I do hope neither of you has taken ill."
"Honestly, John." The grin on Margaret's face was well-hidden as she minded her footing. With a soft chuckle, he curled his arm around her waist, his hand stopping just above her hip. He smelled of rain and cold, enticing her to warm his body with hers.
"I admit it is to some surprise we are getting on well, but I am grateful. She has certainly been of help managing the house..." Margaret looked about the hall, shivering at the hollow grandeur of it as her words trailed away. As silent as it was now, it would be abuzz again on the morrow, the snaps of crisp linen and the clinking of china preceding each meal she orchestrated.
"And you are doing it beautifully, Margaret."
She smiled, leaning into the hum of his voice. "For a woman who is not your mother, you mean."
"No," he whispered, his hair brushing her cheek as he kissed it. "For anyone."
When he pulled her close, Margaret both relished and cursed that thudding longing between her legs. With a red and harried face, she bid Dixon help her change while John waited in their bedroom.
When she opened the door between their rooms, all Margaret could do was sigh with a frustrated smile. There on the bed, lie her husband, still done up save for his shoes, and sprawled out atop the linens.
She placed a cloth under his hand, still stained with ink, before lying down beside him. Nudging her body toward his warmth, she pulled the coverlet around them both, kissing his forehead softly before her eyes closed.