"M"
Chapter One
It was late one night that Margaret Hale –
Wait, no! Strike that from the record.
Let us try that again.
It was late one night that Margaret Thornton…
Yes, that is right, that is better, or perhaps not better, but just…right.
Oh! Confound it!
She really could not get used to it, to being called by that name.
At any rate, it was late one night that Margaret was awoken by a strange sound coming from the room next door. That is, her husband's room.
Margaret had been married now for five months, four days, and thirteen hours, and no doubt a number of minutes and seconds too, but she was too tired to count them. It is conceivable that this titbit of news regards her nuptials may not come as a surprise to some of you, but then again, perhaps you will raise an eyebrow in astonishment when you find out to whom the stubborn young lady found herself joined in matrimony. But then again, maybe not. I suppose it depends on how discerning you are, and how sharp your nose is at sniffing out a love match, even if it is buried under a deep-seated mound of misgivings and misunderstandings. The thing is, that despite all that had passed between them; the secrets, the lies, the cruel words hurled in querulous hurt, Margaret Hale had married none other than John Thornton.
She wished she could say that their marriage had been brought about by love alone, the one and only factor which should have any say in whether or not two people come together in such a sanctified bond that tethers them for life, but regrettably, that was not the case. After rumours had spread about her being seen at Outwood Station with a young man late at night, the gossip-mongers of Milton had relished nothing more than setting their acid tongues wagging, lapping enthusiastically as they were with malicious slurs against Margaret and her good name. She had been called all manner of undignified terms that I shall not, cannot, repeat, for fear that I shall have you reaching for your smelling salts. However, needless to say that after a while, it was becoming impossible for her and her father to continue living in a town that shunned them.
They could barely venture out the front door without so much as a boo or a hiss assaulting their ears, and while Margaret had just about managed to weather it with her usual air of dignity, her father, sadly, had not, and his health had begun to deteriorate rapidly. With the death of his beloved wife, the hasty fleeing of his son, and now this, the denunciation of his dear daughter, Mr Hale had near enough given up on life. He wished he could defend her, to tell everyone the truth and set the record straight, but that idea was hopeless, given Fred's precarious circumstance. The family had been at a loss of what to do, and they had solicited Mr Bell for advice, but alas, the shrewd man was far away, taken to Argentina for his own health, so the Hales found themselves friendless and helpless, trapped in a nest of vipers.
That is, until John had stepped in.
The mill master had unexpectedly turned up one day and announced that his business there was of the utmost urgency. He had lingered in the hallway before Mr and Miss Hale, his eyes moving uncomfortably between the two of them. He had not been there in some weeks, so his unanticipated visit in the middle of the day must have come across as bewildering at best, and at worst, downright discourteous. It was clear that he was undecided about whom to talk to first. Him? Her? Both at once? He was utterly unsure of himself, stuck in a stalemate of vacillation, eager to talk, but afraid of making things worse, but not for the Hales in general, no, but between Margaret and himself. But then again, could things really get any worse where their fragile relationship was concerned?
Finally, John had asked to speak with them both, and after a lot of stopping and starting, he had offered for the Hales to live with the Thorntons as his guests. He had suggested that with the town no longer having any intention of accepting the newcomers into their fold, and because it was evidently making their capacity to survive in Milton nigh on insufferable, then would they perhaps welcome refuge in his home? At least this way, they would no longer be refused at shops, as it would be Marlborough House that was being served by the merchants of the town, and nobody would dare refuse to sell to them, both out of deference to a well-respected family and out of fear of what the most influential master and magistrate for miles might have to say about it.
John had not directly said it, as he himself was a proud man and appreciated that it would be wrong to even inadvertently belittle another gentleman, not to mention his proud daughter, but he knew that the Hales were already living in reduced circumstances, and what with Mr Hale's work drying up with all his other pupils falling away, then the harsh reality was that they would likely find themselves in even more dire straits soon enough. Even though his mother had told him that as unfortunate as that all was, that was life, that is how things worked, and the tides of fortune come and go, and a man must sail with it, John had still felt uneasy. He was about to give in and accept that the Hales were not his responsibility, but then his mother had made a snide remark about it being Margaret's own fault that she and her father found themselves in hot water, and so the headstrong young miss had made her own bed, and now, she must lie in it, the underhand reference to her possible promiscuity no mistake.
That had been the final straw, and John had decided there and then that he would do what he could to help them, his tenacity overruling his clarity. For one, he could not stand to hear Margaret debased and disgraced, even if her ill-advised actions had warranted it. And what was more, it had never sat comfortably with John that such a stately woman should be forced to live like that, in a poky house with no comforts of her own, being forced to fetch and carry like a servant. No, he could not abide it, and the thought of her being brought even lower was beyond the pale. At least if she resided under his own roof, John could keep an eye on her and ensure she was safe and well taken care of indefinitely.
However, while there were things he would not admit to others, there were truths that he could admit to himself even less, one being the realisation that this arrangement would not be permanent. Being a guest in his house did not prevent Margaret from meeting eligible men and courting. She would not be a prisoner there, forced to simply smile and speak for his pleasure. To be sure, she would be a woman in her own right, free to do what she wanted, go where she wanted, and spend time with whomever she liked, and John, unfortunately, was not somebody she liked. It would be fair to say that the Thorntons entertained the county's most distinguished persons, so by living with him as an unmarried lady, Margaret would have the opportunity of being introduced to countless suitors, and right under John's nose. That was horrible enough a notion, but it could be bleaker still. Indeed, if Margaret returned to London, she would almost certainly marry Lennox, perhaps not out of love, but for security, and while he could not blame her for thinking with her head rather than her heart, John could not let that happen, both for her sake and perhaps more selfishly, his own.
Therefore, at least if they came to live with him, then he could look after her and ensure that Margaret and her father never wanted for anything. He would not be her husband, he had resigned himself to that depressing fact, so he would not be in a position to shower her with everything he wished, such as his untold adoration, but at least she would not leave him, not yet, anyway.
When John had suggested his plan, he had embellished it with additional details which he hoped would serve to reinforce his rationale. He had noted that Fanny had now married and moved residence, so this conveniently offered up copious space in the house, and what was more, not that he said it, but providing for two Hales would still be significantly cheaper than providing for one sister with expensive tendencies.
John had delivered his proposal without interruption, a first time for everything, he supposed. With his head hung low, he examined the ornate foot of a table leg, trying to calculate how long it had taken the carpenter to shape it. It had been all he could do to manage to say the words at all, and he had felt unable to look either of his audience in the eye, lest he see their offence and give up on his mission altogether. When he was finished, there had been a lengthy period of suffocating silence to contend with. While John knew that the final decision rested with his tutor, his ears were pulsating to the point of rupturing as they strained in desperate wait to hear from the one person whose opinion, whose approval and acceptance, really mattered.
However, when he glanced up shyly, it appeared as if Margaret did not have anything to say on the subject. She just sat there, with her hands folded on her lap, and she gazed at the window, her eyes distant, almost as if she were disinterested in it all, her mind and mindfulness above such tawdry things.
But then Mr Hale had spoken.
With considerable hesitancy, he had commenced by thanking John for his kind offer and then continued by saying how confused he was, asking how and why his friend should judge it to be his responsibility to come to their rescue. There was no reproach in his voice, since Mr Hale, mild man that he was, was incapable of animosity. He simply wanted to understand what had compelled the fellow to become so concerned for their welfare, to take on such a momentous charge that was not his own. The learned man had sensed the insistence in John's manner, the raw fear that was not merely considerate, but profoundly personal, and it had puzzled him.
John had replied, but what he had actually said, he could not rightly recall. It had been a series of emotionless and logical explanations that were so weak, one could never hope to stand a spoon up in the fickleness of its waters. In the end, Mr Hale had thanked him kindly and most sincerely, but had said that there was no way they could accept such excessive generosity.
Then it had happened.
John could not say what brought about his outpouring of suppressed longing that day, but the next thing he knew, he was offering to marry Margaret.
That had done it.
In a flash, her head had whipped around, and the young lady had stared at him with an expression that was neither startled nor shocked, but searchingly curious. Still, far from retreating, John soldiered on, and he justified his reason for recommending such a bold proposal by saying that at least this way, Margaret would be his responsibility. She would not just be a guest in his home, but his wife, and as such, she would be entitled to everything he had, meaning that he would be obliged to provide for her legally and morally.
Again, there had been silence infused by shock, and John cursed himself bitterly for his short and stark explanation. It had sounded so appallingly dispassionate. He had often thought about how he would propose to her again if he ever had the chance, and now he had done it, his efforts had been even more pathetic than before, not to mention considerably less romantic, and that was saying something. It had not been tender in the least, but as dry and aloof as a business arrangement, making him wonder whether she had been right in accusing him of only being able to think in terms of buying and selling. John half expected Margaret to get up and storm off, saying that she hated him and threatening to never see or speak to him again for his hard-hearted offer that branded her as a burden rather than a bride.
However, that had not been the case at all. She had sat perfectly still, her face impassive as she studied him like he were a new species she had just discovered, a twinkle of awe behind her cloudy eyes. Instead, Mr Hale had been ready to retort by stating that again, as thoughtful as John's offer was, it would be unfair for them to impose on him like that, indeed, it would be worse than his first offer, as they would be demanding more from him. Based on his initial submission, they would only be taking advantage of him financially, but with the second, he would inevitably be compelled to care for Margaret for life, not to forget that they would be robbing him of the chance of entering into a happy marriage of his choice one day. Nevertheless, Mr Hale had just been about to put this argument forward, when everyone in the room stopped still at the sound of Margaret's voice.
'All right,' she said suddenly.
John blinked. 'Excuse me?' he replied, horribly aware that this was not the first time he had uttered these muddled words in her presence, the woman too damned paradoxical for him to comprehend.
'I said, all right,' Margaret repeated plainly, and then she stood and nodded, just once. 'I will marry you, Mr Thornton,' and with that, she swept out of the room regally and left the two men behind to discuss the details.
So that is how it happened, more or less. John had proposed for a second time, even more rashly than before, and much to his astonishment, she had consented, although he could not fathom why. At least before, he could hope that she harboured the smallest degree of respect and regard for him, but now after all their disharmony, he could not bring himself to hope that Margaret could ever come to want him for a husband, much less love him.
But as unexpected as her acceptance had been, John too had accepted her acceptance, and so, the whole situation was accepted. Consequently, six weeks later, and after seeing precious little of each other in between, they were married and officially declared man and wife. Her father had chosen to stay in Crampton, but naturally, the daughter had taken up residence with her new husband, forming her own establishment, as his partner in life, if that is even the right term for what she was to him. So now, five months after that, Margaret found herself living in his house, eating at his table, and sleeping with her head seven, (she estimated), inches away from his.
As she thought this, Margaret blushed, and she hauled her bedsheets higher, clasping them close over her breast. Her skin was burning, her toes were curling, and her spine was tickling. This always happened when she thought of him, Mr Thornton, sleeping there, ever so near, but alas, in the next room.
Margaret remembered it well, the first night she had slept in this bed. Her new husband had brought her here on their wedding night, and with a voice that was uneven with embarrassment, he had shown his wife to her boudoir. It had been a pleasant room, newly redecorated with tasteful floral wallpaper and lightsome furniture, a vase of fresh lilies beside her bed. Taking everything in, Margaret had been touched to see that there were little items here and there to make her feel at home.
There was a dressing partition that she had been fond of in London and had been in her bedroom growing up in Harley Street. It was an ornate panel from China with exotic animals and plants painted on it, and it had always delighted her to think of such exciting places beyond the shores of England. It was later that Margaret realised that Mr Thornton must have written to her aunt to ask if there was anything his bride might like, and he had most likely paid for it and had it brought to Milton for her sake. Not only that, but there was her writing desk from Crampton, along with her dressing table, and most lovely of all, her dearly departed mamma's jewellery box. It had taken several days for Margaret to notice, but inside one of the drawers, there had been a small bundle of tissue paper, and when she had opened it, she had found a collection of hairpins, and yellow roses concealed inside, revealing her husband's wedding present to her.
Margaret had felt tears prick in the corner of her eyes as she looked about her bedroom that night. She knew it was Mr Thornton's doing, she could see his quiet and scrupulous consideration in every detail, but before she had a chance to comment on his thoughtfulness, she had been struck by another realisation that dampened the first. Glancing here and there, it had been evident to Margaret that there was no trace of a man's existence thereabouts. This was a woman's space, one which Mr Thornton evidently had no intention of occupying.
After gesturing to the adjacent room, her husband had been at pains to draw attention to the fact that their rooms were joined, but that there was a key, just one, and it was on her side of the door, and there it would remain. It was up to her, he said, whether she kept it locked or not, but he vowed that he would never come into her bedroom without warning, that is, not unless she invited him. That last part had been said with slow and deliberate intent to ensure that she did not miss the meaning in his words, although what the significance was supposed to be, she was too naive to grasp. After a brief pause, Mr Thornton had coughed uncomfortably, then noted that while he would never presume to invade her maidenly privacy, Margaret was always welcome to come find him in his room, for whatever reason, at whatever time, should she ever wish to see him.
Following this succinct and awkward exchange of vital information that set out the boundaries of the Thornton's marriage, the master of the house had left, closed the door, and so the two of them had retired to their own solitary beds on their wedding night. Having been left alone and feeling somewhat abandoned, Margaret was sorry to say that far from feeling relieved to not have been obligated to accept her husband's attentions that night, she was, most notably, disappointed and that in itself had been disconcerting.
However, in the past five months, she had not once entered her husband's bedroom. The door had remained unlocked, and as far as she knew, he had never been in here, just as much as she had never been in there. Well, that was not quite true, was it? There had been that one time when she had ventured in, just once, mind, and her trespassing had been both fleeting and thrilling.
It had happened one morning when Margaret had lain awake listening to her husband rise and prepare for a day of work. She did this often, lying on her back, eyes wide open, mind alert, and she followed the sound of his activities. After all this time, she knew his routine like the back of her hand, rendering his movements strangely familiar and comforting. First he would groan to declare his wake, then after dragging himself out of bed, he would shave, then wash, then dress. Lastly, Mr Thor ─ she really ought to start calling him by his given name.
John, he would collect up his papers, but then he would delay briefly, but she was not sure where, possibly wonderfully close to the door that separated them since Margaret could sometimes feel his presence, and if she concentrated very hard indeed, she could sense his hand or head leaning against the wood and applying gentle pressure as he rested there awhile. There he would stop, breathe, and sigh, all before turning round and departing out the door, ready to adorn the robes and role of a cotton merchant. It made her surprisingly proud to think that she was the only person privy to this routine, the one which transformed him from man to master.
On one such day, around nine weeks ago, Margaret had been seized by a peculiar desire to see his bedroom, and so, curiosity had lured the cat, if not killed it, merely given it a fright. She had sat up, swung her legs off the bed, and then stood, all before tiptoeing across the way. The young wife had grasped the handle, taken a deep breath, and then pulled open the door to her husband's private world, a sanctum to which she had been both welcomed and excluded.
Margaret had not been sure what she would find there, but she had been amazed by how extraordinarily ordinary it was. There was a desk. A wardrobe. A chest of drawers. A wash basin. A chair. And a bed, the last of which caught her eye and held her attention for far longer than any other artefact did as it sat through the wall from her own, divided by nothing more than a few inches of timber and plaster.
Forcing her focus away, she settled her interest on the armchair by the fire, on which sat some clothes, including his nightshirt. Margaret could not say what came over her, but she found herself picking up his shirt and holding it in her hands as if it were some sort of holy relic. She lifted it to her face and rubbed it gently across her cheek, soft cotton grooming her skin. She smelt it, and the rich, peppery aroma of sweat, soot and soap filled her nostrils like a heady scent that left her lightheaded. Margaret had the strangest desire to steal it. She had never stolen anything in her life, but she wanted to filch it away and stow it under her pillow to hold at night. It was just a nightshirt, one of many, so he would not miss it. But then again, intuition told her that John, a stickler for neatness, would notice its absence, and in the end, the truth would be uncovered, and Margaret could not have that.
If she had not been so intoxicated by the spicy bouquet, Margaret may have been better placed to pay attention to her senses, and if that were the case, she would surely have heard the sound of footsteps heading her way, steady treads that grew louder as their owner approached. Nonetheless, it was only when she heard the door into the corridor creak open, that Margaret realised that she was not alone, and dropping the shirt upon the floor, she hastily scurried from the room like a mouse and hid behind her door she did not dare close fully, lest the thud, no matter how muffled, reveal her antics and give her away.
There Margaret stood, trembling in her duplicity, and her eye peered watchfully through the narrow crack provided, and there she saw him, John, her husband, standing in the middle of his room, staring at his mislaid shirt with visible confusion. Trying and failing to control her breathing, Margaret took a sharp intake of panicked breath when he looked up, directly at her, and Margaret's heart stopped, ceasing to beat, almost as if life was suspended in this transition of time, unable to resume until he made the next move. Clasping a hand over her mouth to silence her gasp, she nearly gagged, but she could not let herself make a sound.
John watched her door for several seconds, his eyes flashing with conflicting emotions, so swift was their flitting that she could not keep up. She did not know whether he could see her, but Margaret felt sure he knew she was there, her partly ajar door being evidence enough. With a terrified thrill, Margaret wondered whether he would stride across the room, fling it open, and shout at her, and then the two of them would argue like they used to, and by doing so, they would revel in experiencing something real between them once more. No more of this politeness. No more of this patience. No more of this insufferable fakery – it was choking her! But no, he did no such thing. John simply turned and left, and Margaret willed herself to run after him and demand he return to confront her for her transgression, the magistrate dishing out due punishment to his wife. But alas, she could not bring herself to do it.
However, as Margaret lay awake this night, she did so with a crumpled brow, because she was extremely confused. She would usually be asleep at this late hour, in fact, she had been, but she had been awoken by an intermittent and irregular noise coming from her husband's bedroom. She listened to it for a while and tried to find a pattern, but there was none to be had. The commotion consisted of an erratic series of bangs and scuffles, their sporadic timing and volume muddling to her. Then, at last, they ceased. The inquisitive woman in her remained primed for some time after that in the hopes of hearing more, but the disturbance had definitely concluded. Huffing to herself, Margaret was not at all satisfied with the situation, so slipping out of her bed once more and letting her feet kiss the cold floor that was swept by the current of the cool night air, she determined to hazard into John's bedroom, no matter how wrong it may be.
She crept across the floor, frowning as every tattle-tale floorboard announced her manoeuvres like an informant. Margaret then took hold of the handle, and clutching it so tightly that her fingers cracked, she turned it, holding the wood close to her stomach to try and stifle the noise. As the door groaned open, as if it were galled that she should wake it while it slumbered, Margaret was grateful to see that the room was lit by a solitary candle, so at least there was already light, and so she would not need to intrude upon the scene further by casting a disturbing flickering upon a darkened landscape.
Finally, she reached out a foot and set it down on the other side of the door, and by doing so, she committed herself to the crime of interloping. Taking a deep breath, Margaret let her second foot follow to join the first, the two of them standing side by side in comradely delinquency, and then she repeated the action, one step at a time, each pace quickened by a trice, until, at last, she came to stand beside her husband's bed.
Gazing down, Margaret's eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light as she tried to ascertain what all the ruckus was about. She had not even begun to think what she might say if she were caught, of what excuse she could employ to appease his temper. Margaret half imagined that if John roused and saw her, he would bellow at her in his deep northern burr, annoyed to not only have been disturbed, but to have had his privacy violated. Well, no matter. If he did, Margaret would simply hoist her chin into the air in that way she knew he secretly liked, remind him that he had said she could enter his rooms whenever she chose, and then leave again with no further explanation, acting as if she had every right to roam where she pleased and when she pleased, much like a queen surveying her kingdom.
Nevertheless, John did not stir. He just lay there, perfectly still, his breathing subdued as he sucked in and blew out rhythmically. She was baffled, to say the least. Surely just a few minutes before, she had heard somebody moving around, but no, he was fast asleep, as cosy and content as a babe. Margaret was tempted to prod him with a finger, possibly just as a pretext for touching him at all, but she thought better of this silly idea.
It was then that she realised why she had come in here at all. With a sharp pang in her heart, Margaret understood that she had feared John was not alone, that in fact, he had company, female company, and the very thought had distressed her so much that it had caused her to wander into a man's room and demand that he account for himself. She knew their marriage was a sham, that they were not truly married, not in that way, but she still felt like she deserved her husband's fidelity, even if she could never hope for his fondness. Nonetheless, she had been wrong in her unfounded accusation and anxieties, and for that, Margaret was heartily ashamed.
Pulling herself together, Margaret had been about to leave, but then she had noticed him shiver, just a little. Slanting her head, the wife watched her husband a while longer, and a quiet smile regaled her lips. He was so stern, was John Thornton, that she often forgot there was a tenderness to him, carefully concealed deep within, even if he did not care to bestow it on her. He had endured a hard life full of sacrifice and sorrow, so Margaret could well understand why his outer shell had become hard and prickly over the years, even if the yolk beneath were softer.
Feeling her throat clog with a mixture of pride in her husband and self-pity for herself, Margaret took the edges of his blankets and gently dragged them over his shoulders and waited until his shuddering waned. Contented, for now, she let her trembling fingers reach up to push away a thicket of black hair that had fallen over his brow, and as she did so, her skin was soaked with sweat, the heat of his fervent body dripping onto her, so the wife drew away, for fear of being burnt by that very passion.
Only then, did she go. Only then, did she leave him alone, something she knew he longed for. How he must wish that she were not here, not just in his bedroom, but in his house, always an unwanted inconvenience, a dutiful affliction that he could not rid himself of until death do them part, a release that would not come until many years from now. Well, at least he had one consolation, and that was that while Margaret may have taken up residence in John's home, she would never manage, try as she might, to find a home in his heart. Taking a step backwards, Margaret slowly retreated from the room, closed the door that divorced them, and returned to her bed, a little mollified, yes, but still as mystified as ever.
But the banging had stopped, that was one thing, at least.