"M"
Chapter Two
At exactly three minutes past twelve the next afternoon, not a second less, not a second more, that was when everything as Margaret knew it changed.
As per usual, Margaret and Hannah were sitting together in the parlour, the younger Mrs Thornton reading while the elder sewed, the two of them content to put up with each other's insistent presence with a polite silence and degree of acceptance that bordered on companionship.
However, on this particular occasion that teetered on the cusp between morning and afternoon, both women had not been content to go about their unassuming tasks, as per usual, instead, their time was much more tensely occupied as they both nervously peered at the clock more times than they had fingers to count. As their eyes darted to inspect the object that ticked at them jeeringly, ticking them off with its relentless march, they were quietly questioning why the man they loved equally but differently had not yet arrived for his noon tea.
In the past, it had been an infrequent thing indeed to see the Master of Marlborough Mills return to the house during the day, that is, not unless he required some papers or a reference book from his study, but this in itself was rare, given that he himself was a living, breathing encyclopaedia on all matters relating to the cotton trade. Nevertheless, according to his mother, in more recent months, her son had developed a habit of taking refreshments with the two ladies whenever his responsibilities at the mill or the courthouse permitted it, and, on many occasions, even when they did not. Hannah had been under no illusion as to why he did so, even if she deemed it a pointless waste of his precious time. Still, she appreciated the opportunity to ask him how things were faring at the mill, and while he did answer with dutiful courtesy, she could not help but sense that his attention was never fully offered to her, but rather, he constantly stole sideways glances in his wife's direction.
Margaret always sat in the same seat, that is, at the left-hand side of the settee that John had lain her on after the accident, (if one could call it that), which had resulted in him feeling obliged to offer for her hand prematurely, not that she had been grateful for his privileged proposition, the hoity madam. In former days, John had habitually chosen to sit in his armchair by the fire with no more than a newspaper for company, but ever since Margaret had shown an inclination for her current position, he had spontaneously developed a similar preference for that same settee, and as for the newspaper, it had been forgotten about altogether.
He would sit along from her, always leaving a space between them after that time John had first sat down right next to her, causing Margaret to flinch with fright at his intimate proximity as his knee chafed hers and his arm grazed her own. John had been wordlessly sorry for his intrusion and had retreated a few paces back, a look of pitiable melancholy on his face as he was forced to do so. Hannah had since thought that the space which now separated them was strangely symbolic. It was just big enough to represent a person, as if somebody unconsciously divided them, an invisible force that was naked to the human eye, when in truth, the only person, or persons, keeping them apart, were the young Mr and Mrs Thornton themselves with all their reticent feelings that they refused to share with one another.
Poor John, how he pined for his own wife. It was absurd to think that he had waited so long for this, for her, and now that he had her, he found that he still had to win her over and woo her like she were a perfect stranger sitting on his settee. But how was a man to even begin such a task as persuading his own wife to fall in love with him? Well, there was one thing for sure, and that was that there were no reference books on John's shelf to help him this time.
Hannah would observe the way his eyes trained over Margaret each time they sat down to tea. Brimming with admiration, they were appraising her and taking notice of everything that contributed to her appearance that day, right down to the number of pins he could count in her hair. While his features were usually severe, especially if matters at the mill were not going his way, she would see his mouth twitch and then hitch upwards as a very small and secret smile entertained his lips, his eyes shining with unshed adoration to see the woman he so sorely loved sitting in his parlour, living in his house, making it a home for him by simply being there with him.
John had never before paid much attention to his mother's domestic arrangements, but ever since he had become engaged, she had noticed a definite and most maddening shift in his interest. For a start, he had marched around the house the day after Margaret had accepted him with an irksome frown, constantly sighing and sniffing at everything he saw, as if he had never laid eyes on any of it before, and now he had noticed it, he was not at all pleased. At long last, he had announced, rather formally, she thought, that he felt they should make some changes. What changes, she had asked? Homely ones, he had said. Hannah had been affronted by this, the very suggestion that her house was not inviting being enough to make her spit feathers. Why! – her home was the most finely turned out in the whole town, she took great care to confirm it was just so. However, John had asserted his point, suggesting, nay, stipulating, that they acquire brighter wallpaper, softer cushions, lighter drapes, and above all else, flowers, this final point being of particular importance to him.
His mother had reminded him that Marlborough House did boast flowers, plentiful arrangements displayed neatly in the public rooms, but John had shaken his head at this with a dissatisfied groan, saying that dead and dried exhibits locked away in glass jars would not do. Every room in the house was to be filled with the beauty and fragrance of fresh flowers daily, only the most pretty and sweet-smelling blooms would satisfy him, and he himself would ensure that this was carried out.
Hannah had been beyond disgruntled. She had ventured to say that the house was perfectly good enough for the likes of Miss Hale, who, after all, did not come from a background of great prosperity or property herself, her current home much more humble by far. John had merely scowled at her for this remark and insisted that it had nothing to do with his fiancée, but a mother knows, and even if she had doubted it, the sight of John at an ungodly hour reorganising furniture and bouquets of roses in the bedroom designated for his new wife the night before their wedding had confirmed her suspicions.
Sighing inwardly, Hannah knew that her son was not a man to be disputed, especially not when he had a bee in his bonnet, and she knew for a fact that he had well and truly been stung by the stab of love since meeting that woman, so there was no use in her arguing with him. Therefore, the house had been renovated in a matter of weeks to welcome his bride, and despite their dwindling funds to spare, furnishings that had suited them very well for years had been removed, and new ones erected in Margaret's honour, and so Hannah supposed it was good and proper that he should at least return to it now to do more than simply eat, sleep and wash.
But now that she was here, the mother was finding that her son was also becoming part of the furniture as he visited them every day at noon on the dot. Every afternoon, John would ask Margaret how her day was from behind the rim of a teacup that he never actually drank from, enquiring as to what she had been doing and whether she had enjoyed herself. The inhibition in his voice, in the way he regarded her, it was enough to break his mother's heart. She could not understand how a man of such might could be reduced to such trembling mildness before a mere slip of a girl, but alas, he was not the first, and he would certainly not be the last, to find himself first captivated and then conquered by a pretty face.
In turn, her daughter-in-law would startle, look up, and then stutter something incoherent before blushing and burying her head in her book once again, unable to meet his attentive gaze. As for John, his next part in this repetitive script would be to sigh, put down his cup with a defeatist motion, and get up to leave and return to the mill, but always with a lingering glance backwards to where Margaret sat, the longing in his eyes the saddest thing she had ever seen.
His mother often wished the two of them would find a way of overcoming their shyness and realise what was right in front of their noses, which was that they had feelings for each other, whatever those feelings might be. In spite of being a staunchly reserved woman herself, believing that to freely express one's emotions was a sign of feebleness, the elder Mrs Thornton would much rather her son and daughter-in-law said something, anything, that would break the spell of insufferable civility that shackled their hopes of finding both romance and even more profoundly, marital friendship.
She half hoped that she would hear them shouting and screaming at each other over some petty trifle of a matter, as was their past norm, no doubt a mask for the confusing attraction they felt towards each other. It would be a disdainful display and most shocking for the servants to hear their arguments, but it would be worth it, if only it would clear the air of the undercurrent of friction that jolted between them, sending sparks flying hazardously in all directions, the thunder of their quarrels just the thing to ignite and then consume the pressure that stifled the atmosphere, ridding it of this intolerable tension once and for all.
Nonetheless, much to her frustration, John and Margaret never seemed to move past their tongue-tied encounters and self-conscious exchanges, none of it helped by the difficulty that they deliberately never spent any time alone together, so she resigned herself to the fact that time and patience were the only remedies to manage their predicament. While she was surprised to hear herself say it, Hannah half hoped that one day, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a month, a year, a decade, she would walk into this room at noon and find the two of them sitting together, talking, laughing, or God help her, even embracing, and she could leave them to it, displaced from her parlour, but fulfilled to know that her son was finally happy.
However, that was all very well, but the point was that on this particular day, he did not come, leaving both ladies privately wondering why they had been forsaken. It was then at three minutes to the hour that Jane came in, lumbering from side to side in that way she did when she was hunched up, the nervousness that took over her cramping her shoulders and legs.
'Forgive me, Madam,' she began timidly, picking at the trimming of her apron with a thumb that had been dirtied from polishing the silverware, 'but I have Mr Williams here.'
The Thorntons did not have a butler, not since Hannah had discovered them to be a tiresome breed with airs and graces above their station, who thought they could run her home better than she did. As a result, the task of showing people in and out had fallen on an unwilling Jane, a jittery creature who lacked both the fluency of tongue and formality of manner to be any good at her commission.
Stepping aside, Jane made an awkward bobbing motion that was presumably meant to be a curtsey and then swept aside to reveal a man who was so slender of build and unassuming of character, that it was no wonder nobody had noticed him before, even in the presence of the mousey servant with her mousey hair and mousey nose.
Hannah put down her sewing at once and eyed the mill supervisor with a chary glower. She was not at all impressed that he was in the house. It was not his place. It was not his right. And what was worse, he had traipsed muddy footprints right across her grandmother's Persian rug, a capital offence, to her mind.
'What do you want?' she asked brusquely, her countenance one of stony superciliousness.
Margaret, on the other hand, felt more sympathy for the man who looked shaken to his core to be in the lair of the dragon. Margaret knew what all the workers thought of Hannah, she had heard them talking about it often. It was funny really, but while most of them were feart of her husband, and with just cause, the master stalking about his kingdom with a snarl that could intimidate a wolf, he was a lamb compared to his mother. She was known by many names, each one as foreboding as the last and none of them fond, but one thing they did all agree upon, was that Hannah Thornton was as fearsome as they came.
Holding his cap in his hands, Williams wound it round and round slowly as he licked his lips, the tip of his tongue burnt from his morning tea that he had drunk in a hurry. The supervisor had undergone a harried day thus far, tending to business as best he could and scratching his head as often as he breathed as one predicament after another came trundling along like an omnibus to greet him. He had tried putting off coming here today, telling himself over and over again that there was no need, but now that it was nearing noon and the two hands of the clock had married and merged, as his old man used to say, he could no longer dither and delay.
'Beggin' your pardon, Mistress,' he replied with a diffident mumble, embarrassed by his blunder in not remembering there were now two mistresses, or maybe just one, but who that was meant to be, was anyone's guess. 'It is just…I was a-wondering…'
'Yes?! Well, get on with it!' Hannah snapped, rolling her eyes. She had no time for wishy-washy people who could hardly string a sentence together.
Poor Williams nearly jumped out of his skin, but as if jolted into life, he quickly spoke up, his words stumbling out of his mouth. 'I was wondering if you know whether the master will be in today?'
All at once, both Hannah and Margaret froze, the two of them sharing, for the first time, more than a name as they exchanged a puzzled expression, the lines of concern beginning to etch their features, settling in the wrinkles of one and the dimples of the other.
Hannah was about to speak, but she was cut short by her daughter-in-law, who tossing her book to the side with uncustomary inattention, sat forward and said with her usual gracefulness, 'Do you mean to say, Mr Williams, that the master has not been seen all day?'
Williams was more than a little relieved to be addressed by the kinder of the two Mrs. He liked the master's wife. She may not have been a Milton woman, but that could not be helped, and besides, she was a good sort, and it was a fine thing to see the master married at long last after years of people wondering whether he ever would. It was grander still to know that it was a contented match since it was obvious from the way the two of them looked at each other that they were head over heels in love with one another.
Put at ease by Margaret's gentle manner, Williams did not mind nodding in confirmation. 'Aye, Miss ─ I mean, Mam. I ain't seen him all day, and I never heard him say nowt about going away. He always tells me when he's goin' off somewhere, he's considerate like that, and he's awful particular about what he wants done when he's not about. I just wondered see, well… I wondered whether he might be taken ill,' he ventured to guess hesitantly, his eyes darting between the two women.
'Stuff and nonsense!' Hannah retaliated instantly, incensed by the very suggestion that John, her son, a born and bred Milton man with grit in his marrow, could befall such human frailty as to be ill. 'My son is never ─'
But Hannah did not get to finish, because, at that precise moment, Margaret leapt to her feet and sped out the door, knocking over a small table on the way and causing a teapot to smash, its brown liquid seeping across the rug and sinking into the fibres, taking up residence as a stubborn stain.
Margaret did not stop to apologise for her mishap or explain her hasty departure. A chance would have been a fine thing! She was gone in a flash, so quickly that she appeared as nothing more than a blurry colour in her blue dress as she left an alarmed Williams, amused Jane, and angry Hannah in her wake.
Gawking with their mouths open like landed fish, they could all hear Margaret racing up the stairs and along the passageway above, their necks bent back as they tracked her movements. Her mother-in-law was beside herself with exasperation. Really! What had possessed the wretched girl to make such an unseemly show of herself? These womenfolk from the south were clearly prone to more than low spirits, but flighty moods too, so it would seem. She had been about to reply to Williams, to assure him that there must be some oversight, that her son would sooner have set sail for the moon than been ill.
However, what came next chilled her to the core and rattled her bones as the whole house rang with a shrill scream as Margaret cried at the top of her lungs:
'JOHN!'