"M"
Chapter Four
The next four days were like a tug of war, with the fever mercilessly wrenching a weakened John in the opposite directions of health and sickness, his family caught in the middle of the hellish limbo, powerless to rescue him.
After the argument with her daughter-in-law, Hannah had retreated to the parlour in a fit of outrage, but try as she might, she could not settle, even going so far as to toss her sewing aside without ceremony, a task that usually mollified any sullen mood which rattled her composure. She had paced back and forth, lost for words, lost for something to do to occupy her troubled mind and keep her worries at bay. At first, she had been bitterly offended by Margaret's outburst. It was inexcusable! The way she had brazenly asserted her authority over John had been downright rude, flying in the face of decorum and all decency, not to mention the manner in which she had challenged Hannah in front of a servant, undoubtedly demeaning her autonomy over the household in their eyes. She had seen it as nothing more than an unjustified tantrum, a petulant sulk for being told off, something the girl was most likely not used to, having been spoilt by her parents over the years.
Then again, Hannah found herself unexpectedly impressed by Margaret's confidence, her conviction of purpose, her certainty of principle, and in truth, she was relieved by it.
For all her annoyance at the way Margaret had defied her, she had seen something else, something far more fervent flare up behind her blue eyes other than a flash of rebelliousness, and that was loyalty. Margaret was not resisting her out of sheer spite or intransigence, but out of a sincere devotion to John. It was then that Hannah realised that she could not entrust her son into safer hands, and so, for the first time in her eldest child's life, she relinquished control, and in doing so, she handed it over to another woman, praying incessantly that she was doing the right thing by placing her faith in Margaret's obstinate ways, hoping that this time, Margaret's wilfulness would save John's life, because, after all, it looked as if nothing else would.
But it was more than that. If she were bluntly honest with herself, then Hannah had to confess that she was grappling with her own guilt. It was not Margaret who had let John down, but his own mother. Margaret could not have been expected to discover that John was ill. They did not even share a room, not even for conjugal purposes, Hannah knew that, it was obvious from his disappointed scowl every morning at breakfast, and so it was unrealistic to expect Margaret to have been able to discern and then diagnose his condition from the other side of a wall. No, Hannah blamed herself. John had always been a hard worker, even since he was a schoolboy, diligent almost to a fault. He had rarely seen the merit in having fun, preferring instead to being staunchly committed to studying, and after his father died, that same energy was then obsessively directed into applying himself and being conscientious in his industry.
However, while this may not have been a problem in the past, Hannah had seen how worn out her son had become in recent months, ever since the mill had begun to decline. He rarely spoke about it, and when he did, she could tell he was keeping things from her, no doubt ashamed of what he saw as his own defeat, afraid that his mother would see his father in him and fear that she was, once again, about to lose everything because the head of the family, her Mr Thornton, could not provide for her. She had watched from her window as her son had become increasingly stressed, the strain of financial and commercial instability troubling him, the uncertainty of his future torturing him. He had grown more tired, more thin, more tense, and much to her own agony, Hannah was unable to do what a mother ought and take away his cares.
Then he had married Margaret. Hannah had hardly believed it when John had informed her that he and Miss Hale were to wed. He had explained everything, and even although he spoke with objective equanimity that was devoid of apparent feeling, she could see the unrest behind his eyes, and she understood that he was afraid, scared that it was all too good to be true and that Margaret would change her mind. He knew she was only marrying him out of necessity, that she did not care for him and never would, but having her near and being permitted the privilege of looking after her, that was enough for John, it was at least half of his dream come true.
But it was not Margaret who needed looking after, not really, it was John. She was stronger than she looked, his little wife, but he was ailing, slowly but surely, and it was not helped by the fact that John was working himself twice as hard these days, namely so he could ensure that his wife had everything her heart desired, and most of all, that while she may regret her choice of husband when it came to matters of the heart, he could not reproach himself for letting her down in any other way.
Yes, Hannah had been the one to fail John, not Margaret. She had seen her son's struggles, and yet she had not helped him achieve what he longed for most, and that was not to be wealthy, or praised, but to make Margaret feel like one of them, a Thornton, and one who did not need to earn her place amongst them, but be welcomed with open arms that offered her unconditional love and acceptance.
It was only when nightfall came that Hannah dared to venture back upstairs, and with uncustomary timidity, she lingered in the doorway of her son's bedroom, silently wondering whether her daughter-in-law would be willing to agree to a cessation of hostilities and call a temporary truce so that they might both dedicate their efforts to securing John's welfare. Scanning the scene, she could perceive that Margaret had everything well managed, the room arranged like a miniature hospital with all she needed to tend to her patient meticulously organised in neat order and in plentiful supply. John himself seemed more settled, his breathing having steadied for the time being, any agitated changes swiftly regulated when Margaret soothed him with her velvety voice, her words reassuring, her melodic tone pacifying.
When Margaret saw her, she once more lifted her chin with her characteristic air of noncompliance. However, after an interim of contemplation, she nodded and wordlessly invited Hannah to join her. The mother then pulled out a chair and sat beside the bed. Nevertheless, it did not escape her notice that the most intimate spot was still reserved for Margaret, the girl sitting faithfully by his side on the bed like a guardian angel, this vision only further inspired by the pale glow of her skin and the whiteness of her gown. With eyes fixed on him, Margaret studied her husband carefully for any signs of deterioration, her body perched, her mind poised, constantly ready to tend to him whenever he needed her.
It was an hour later that Margaret extended out a hand and offered Hannah a moist cloth. 'I am sure he would like to have you near,' she said quietly, proffering her enemy-come-sister-in-arms an olive branch. 'You are his mother, after all, you know what he wants and needs better than I do,' she added, a hint of sadness dampening her comment.
Hannah said nothing at first, opting to gratefully accept Margaret's overture without uttering a sound that might be misconstrued in any way amidst the fragile atmosphere that lay between them, especially given that she did not yet know what to make of this unexpected remark that affirmed Margaret's own insecurities. Leaning over her son, she lightly caressed his temple and massaged his cheeks with the cloth, the muscles beneath twitching in appreciation. It was then that Hannah realised something. John was not a boy anymore. He was a grown man. He no longer needed her protection. He no longer needed her permission. What he really needed, was her blessing, her approbation for him to be his own person, to make his own decisions, to suffer his own failures, and to live his own life in the way he chose. And, of course, that included standing back and letting him love Margaret without interference.
Gazing up at the young lass sitting next to her, Hannah could see why he loved her so. She was a strange one, was Margaret, so small and yet so fierce. She was a spirited creature, a little warrior of a woman. Many a skirt had tried to capture the notice and then affection of the Master of Marlborough Mills, but they had all failed where this newcomer had won out, and all without trying. With just one majestic look, he had been Margaret's, even without her knowing it, and John had fallen in love for the first and only time. And he had fallen hard, his mother had seen that, she had seen the pining agony in his face to think that he had, at last, found his heart's single desire, its sole mate, and yet, his own lack of self-worth had lied to him and led him to believe that he would never be good enough for her.
Letting her eyes train over Margaret, Hannah was frustrated to admit that she was a rare beauty. She was perhaps not as obviously pretty as some, still, she had a natural elegance that could easily arrest the attention of any man. The way she talked. The way she moved. The way she looked at you, it was all enchanted by a hypnotic loveliness, an enthralling refinement. Hannah had always said that a Milton girl would do for John well enough. They were his sort, they would know the ways of the north, and they would comprehend what was expected of them as a mill master's wife, but by Jove, Margaret was a true lady unlike anything she had ever seen, so it was no wonder that John, a man used to gruffness and grime, had been utterly overwhelmed by her refreshing grace.
Not only that, but she understood that John had come to appreciate and respect the real Margaret, the one that was hidden beneath her layers of aloofness. Hannah had always considered her a toffee-nosed madam with airs and graces above her station, but it was not until she had the chance to observe Margaret at close quarters, day-by-day, that she learned of another side to her, and she appreciated that, just like John, her reserved nature did not stem from indifference, but a cautious kind of shyness. For all her pretence at pride, Margaret was a good soul, one who was diligent, dutiful and dedicated, always ready to put others first and sacrifice her own wants for their comfort and care, and in this, Hannah recognised traits that defined her own dear son.
Alas, she had been ashamed to concede that in the beginning, she had chosen to instantly vilify the southern rose, preferring to zealously focus on her flaws as opposed to her many attributes. She had dreaded from the very start that Margaret would be the ruin of the sacred bond that had tethered mother and son through thick and thin, the spark of fascination and then fondness in her son's eyes unmistakable, and worse, steadfast to the last, too steady by far for a mother to undermine.
Still, she now understood what it was that had troubled her, and that was that Margaret was perfectly suited to be John's partner in life. They were so very similar. They were each intelligent, stubborn, committed, and selfless, and they cared passionately for those whom they held dear, and there was nobody they cherished more than one another, even if their love was yet undeclared. Yes, Margaret was made to be John's wife, and so, Hannah would do everything in her power to ensure that her son had the chance to live his life, but not for the sake of the mill, or the court, or Milton, but for his love of Margaret, the only woman, the only person, who could save him, not only in body, but in soul.
'Oh, I don't know about that, I think there is someone else who perhaps knows him better than I ever did,' Hannah replied, and for the first time in the five months of John and Margaret's marriage, the two ladies smiled at each other, and it was as if something between them had changed as if a wall of animosity and mistrust had been demolished, and they were at last free to see each other for who and what they really were, a friend, and not a foe. Regardless of their disagreements of opinion and diversities of experience, they were kindred spirits with similar principles, if only they would set their differences aside.
Over the next few days, Margaret and Hannah worked together and did all that was humanly possible to look after John, continuously sitting with him and performing their roles of nurse without complaint. It was horrible to watch. He was drained of all his usual vitality, this man of strength and stamina completely overpowered by illness. John would flit sporadically between calm and chaos, his change so frighteningly rapid that the two ladies near enough jumped out of their skin, despite neither of them being the nervy type.
It is hard to say what disturbed them the most, his symptoms being many and menacing.
For one, there was a hoarse wheezing that came from his lungs, and every now and again, he would cough and splutter, discharging a cloudy mucus that the doctor did not like the look of one bit. It was as if he were fighting for breath, fighting for his very life, and often, too often, it seemed to be a losing battle.
What was more, there was the sweat that drenched him, often cold and clammy, his temperature fluctuating between ice and inferno, making it impossible to regulate. One minute he would be hot, blisteringly so, and they would be patting him with a cool cloth and wrapping him in sheets laden with expensive ice they had sourced and strived to keep chilled, the blocks of frozen water melting into pools around him. John would drop his head back against the pillows and gasp for air with a throaty cry, his body begging for hydration and quick! - his stores slipping away with every droplet of precious sweat that leaked from his sickening pores, as if leaches were sucking the life out of him.
Then the very next moment, it would be as if the ice had seeped into him and frozen his veins, his skin dreadful to touch, as unresponsive as a withered corpse, long dead and gone. During these times, they would be forced to stoke up the fire, throwing heaps of coal onto the greedy grate as it guzzled the black lumps furiously, a hot flame belching out as way of thanks. They would swaddle him in blankets, but the chattering of his teeth, the convulsing of his shaking limbs, nothing they did being enough to warm him.
Sometimes he would just lie there, almost serene in his stillness, disconcertingly quiet, as if laid out for his final rest. His breathing would be slow and unbroken, his chest rising and falling at a stable pace that was treacherously deceiving. One would be forgiven for assuming that he was quite well, but as we've seen, the signs of sickness were not hard to find.
Then a mere second later, he would change. John would begin rolling about the bed, his arms and legs flailing as he kicked and punched the air and mattress. Snatching at his clothes and skin, he would tear at himself, wrestling with himself like a wild beast as he tried to tear the fever out of him in a frenzied delirium. Being a large man of solid build, these restless fits were startling, to say the least, and his mother and wife often worried he would hurt himself or another as he channelled his strength into his spasms. They were often obliged to restrain him to prevent John from injuring himself too seriously, most notably after he had clawed at his face and scratched out several deep lines that would surely scar. At one point, he actually smacked his hand against the bedframe, and there was a terrible cracking sound, and they both feared that he had broken his bones.
Even so, Margaret was not so afraid that she cowered at a safe distance, but rather, she went to him valiantly and taking his battered hand in hers, she lulled him with sweet words, and after a while, John began to calm once more under her tender spell, and finally, he again fell asleep. Hannah was quietly impressed by Margaret's faithful care. She rarely left his bedside, and when she did, it was only for a few brief minutes, merely to douse herself in water and summarily change her clothes. She sat with him patiently, affectionately wiping his brow and whispering sweet words of reassurance in his ear, her head often bowed low, as if in fervent prayer.
The young Mrs Thornton even helped the servants change her husband's nightshirt, although she always averted her eyes, keenly aware that he would not wish her to see him exposed and vulnerable, so she would not abuse his wishes, nor his privacy, not even in these unorthodox circumstances. Nevertheless, there was one night when she had been forced to look after he collapsed towards her and the full heft of his sturdy frame fell on her shoulder. Pushing him up and away from her, somewhat reluctantly, Margaret's hand quivered as it slammed against his torso; a hard surface of thick muscle that glistened with sweat, stressing the distinction of the contours of his physique. She had never seen a man's body in this way, and she wondered whether all men were sculpted with such mesmeric beauty, but knowing John and his matchless yet modest impressiveness, she seriously doubted it. He was so superior in every way, that she guessed his was different, and if she were to lay her hand on the chest of every man – a shocking thought, indeed, – none of them would feel like him, and she would be able to distinguish her John from every other ordinary man who could not compare.
Oh! But it really was horrific!
John did not converse. He did not focus on anything. He did not recognise anyone. They had a devil of a time just trying to get him to eat or drink, a whole army of servants being required to haul him up into a sitting position so that they could cradle his heavy head and try to deftly slip some food or water into his mouth, the contents usually dribbling down his face, being spat back out, or being choked upon. The only time he had seemed even vaguely alert, had been during one evening when Margaret had prepared some tea beside the bed. As her small hands supervised the crockery, John's head had swiftly turned in the direction of the noise, and with his brow cockling as he tried to make sense of this familiar din, a small smile spread across his face, and he sighed, a supposedly contented sigh that reminded her of warm, melted butter. However, other than that, John was oblivious to his surroundings, the fever blurring his typically astute faculties.
Nonetheless, there was one thing John did do, time and time again, and that was utter his continuous cry for: "M,' the urgency in his voice growing ever more intense with every passing hour. Nobody knew what he meant, what he wanted, and it seemed as if he needed it to pacify him, so it broke their hearts not to be able to give him what he longed for, the remedy to his unrest.
Of course, none of this was made any easier by the fact that Fanny would arrive every day without fail in a fit of hysterics, and after fanning herself in excited agitation, she would stridently declare that her brother was dead, or if not, he might as well be, given the shocking state he was in. After seeing him on one particular afternoon when his repose was ominously spectral, she had gawked at him, then sniffed solemnly, all before announcing that she really ought to go to London at once so that she might be fitted out with appropriate mourning attire in time for his funeral, the thought of turning up in something from last season too grievous to bear.
It really was a trial for the two Mrs Thorntons, who if they thought they could count on Mr Watson to talk some sense into his histrionic wife, then far from reassuring her, or indeed, rebuking her, as her mother thought he ought, he chimed in with his own insensitive musings. With his nose buried in his luncheon in much the same manner as a pig delves into a trough, he proclaimed that Milton had lost a fine fellow and a top-rate master, hailing that he would be sorely missed by his peers, the lot of them all ready and willing to step in and take his customers in honour of his memory, given that Thornton, reliable to the last, would not want to let his customers down.
With great dignity, Margaret had said nothing to any of this, choosing to keep her back to them and ignore their nonsense, instead offering her undivided attention to her husband, who was, for now, thankfully still in the land of the living, regardless of what her sister-in-law said, and as far as she was concerned, John would be remaining there for many, many years. Hannah, on the other hand, was not so tolerant of her daughter, and after scolding her furiously for her childish hogwash, she had banished the Watsons from the house until John was well again, either that or when they could string a sensible sentence together, whichever eventuality came first. The Thornton household had enough to contend with at present, so anything or anyone that did not help aid John's recovery was not welcome.
Yes, it was a brutal tug of war, arguably between mortality and the fortitude of Margaret, the latter refusing to yield. Still, on the fifth day, the doctor had brought the Thorntons some news that was neither good nor bad, but distinctly unsettling. He told them late that evening that the fever was reaching its crisis, so tonight would be the end, one way or another. Either the end of the fever or the end of John. Before he had left, the doctor had noted that in many of these cases, it was not the high temperature that did for a man, but the dramatic drop in it. Sometimes they would become terribly cold and their bodies would shiver until they demised, those attending were often unaware of this silent killer, lulled into a false sense of security by the way the patient slowly descended into an eerie stillness, until, at last, they moved no more. Therefore, this was something they should be on their guard for.
The two women had understood, and glancing at each other soberly, sadly, they mutely agreed to put aside their differences on that night, if only for John's sake.
After days of vigilant nursing, Margaret had been so very tired, and feeling sympathetic, Hannah had insisted that she go and rest a while. Margaret had been about to protest, but her weary limbs, grumbling stomach, and fatigued head all implored her to take some much-needed respite. Therefore, after securing Hannah's solemn promise that she would fetch her as soon as there was any sign of a change in his condition, Margaret had taken her leave. Returning to her rooms, she had slipped into the bath, swallowed some food, and relaxed her head on the pillow, just for a little while, mind.
It was not until she opened her eyes, that Margaret realised with a startle that she must have slept for hours. It was now dark outside, and her room was frightfully chilly, with no fire having been lit. She was angry that she had allowed herself to neglect her duties for so long, so yanking away the covers and pulling on a shawl, she made her way into John's bedroom through their adjoining door. When she entered, she found Hannah sitting by his side, sewing away while he slumbered. Without saying a word, the mother and wife looked at each other and conveyed all that needed to be said.
Nothing had changed.
He was no better.
But thankfully, he was also no worse.
Margaret nodded her head and took up her usual position nestled on the edge of his bed, and Hannah watched as the girl lifted a hand and gently swept away the feral wisps of black hair that hung over his forehead, her fingers skimming his temple as she hummed a pretty tune. Hannah smiled to herself. She thought again how harshly she had misjudged Margaret and on so many accounts. She truly cared about John, and for that alone, Hannah was willing to forgive her all her past transgressions.
A few hours later, Hannah yawned and her eyes started to close, so she said that she would take her own advice and go to bed for a little while, but that Margaret must be sure to tell her if John worsened. Margaret agreed, so Hannah left.
Alone at last, and for the first time since this distressing ordeal had begun, Margaret shuffled closer to her husband and lifting her doleful eyes, she gazed upon him with unabashed fascination. He was so handsome, his profile sharp yet soft all at once, a most beguiling combination. Taking a hesitant finger, she ran it slowly from his hairline, down his face, tracing a path across his eyelids, his nose, and then his jaw. There she discovered a hedgerow of thick bristles, and she knew that her habitually well-turned-out husband would not approve of his unkempt appearance, but while she had been tempted to try and shave him, she had not dared, fearing that one sudden jerk on his part would cause the razor to slip and slice him good and proper. At any rate, Margaret liked it. It made him appear less austere, and so she did not mind his unkempt features, her finger stroking in small circles around his mouth until it floated down towards his heart. When she reached that caged spot, she found her finger trembling, and she started to cry.
'John,' she whispered into the silence, her voice wobbling as she prayed for him to say something – anything! She wanted him to show that he could hear her, even though she knew he could not, and she wanted him to assure her that he would recover, even though she knew he might not.
When he did not respond, Margaret bent her head and hovered over his heart so that she could hear it beat. It was a reassuring rhythm that brought her hope; the hope of his survival, but never hope that it would beat for her. She was not so foolish as to hope for such a thing as that.
With tears welling in her eyes, Margaret let her fingers descend further, and after it skimmed the length of his arm, she grasped his hand tightly, her grip unrelenting.
'Please, John…don't…,' she cried.
Still, nothing.
Fighting back the tears that became trapped in the creases beside her eyes and stung those crevasses with their salty water soaked with sorrow, Margaret had never felt so afraid in all her life.
'I know…I know I do not make you happy,' she admitted into the darkness, this cloaked confidant eavesdropping upon this awful certainty, the most painful truth to ever escape her lips, the words slipping out with a serrated edge that cut her. 'But please…do not go,' she pleaded. 'I will not let you!'
Sitting up, Margaret sniffed as her palms ran along his bedsheets and smoothed them down, trying to occupy her hands so that her mind was not left free to rush about chaotically.
'You know, when I first knew you, I thought you were the last man on earth whom I should wish to marry,' she told him with a small laugh, wondering how she could have been so silly as to think such a thing, blind to his worth and even more blind to her own growing feelings for him. 'But now I find that you are the only man on earth I cannot live without. You are the only one I want. You are the only person I will ever need, I would not care if you were the only one I ever saw or spoke to ever again, for you are enough for me. In fact, I often wonder if you are too much for me, you overcome me so, John Thornton, but I do not reproach you for it, because I have never felt more myself since I've known you, nor happier than to be by your side. No, I do not regret it, and I do not regret you, even if our marriage is not real. So, you see, I will miss you if you leave. My heart will break. So, please, stay with me.'
Still, nothing.
Margaret gulped and closed her eyes as she readied to say the very thing she had been holding back, having prayed relentlessly that it would not come to this.
'Or…or if you wish it, I will leave,' she breathed, her voice so quiet that it could hardly be heard.
With her head faltering and falling upon the bed, Margaret's shoulders heaved as she sobbed violently against his covered body. She had been unforgivably selfish, she knew that. When John had first approached her and her father all those months before about coming to live with them, Margaret had been intrigued, but she had not shown it. She knew his suggestion would be a resolution to their unfortunate predicament, and it would certainly have solved their immediate problems, but for how long?
The Thorntons could not be expected to house and defend Margaret and her father forever, and eventually, they would have to leave. Margaret could hardly bear that idea, the thought of being so close to John, physically, if not emotionally, living their lives side-by-side, sharing in so much, only to be taken away from him again, the upheaval more excruciating than ever after she had come so close to what she wanted, even if the illusion was a pretence, a lie. No, it would not do. She longed to be near him, she ached for him, but total separation would be preferable to having that ache satisfied in part, only to have it torn asunder altogether, leaving a gaping hole of grief inside of her that could never be patched up.
Naturally, there was another difficulty. What if he fell in love? And not with her, but with another? She would have to sit there and watch as the man she loved gave his heart away to somebody else; offering her at first his attention, then his affection, and then his unreserved adoration. Margaret knew John, and she knew that he did not dabble, so where he loved, he would love wholeheartedly, his devotion an immovable force that could not be shaken by man nor tide.
It would be more than she could stand, but she would be helpless to escape, helpless to turn back time and make him love her again. It was too late, and so Margaret would have to welcome a new Mrs Thornton into her provisional home and stand aside like an idle pawn in a chess set while John fell ever more deeply in love with his wife, their old flame burning ever more dimly as she faded into the background and into obscurity until it was snuffed out forever, extinguished by her own failure to recognise his honour and her heart.
No, none of it would do, so while a part of Margaret would have gladly gone to live at Marlborough House, both for practical and personal reasons, she had held back and feigned disinterest, if only to safeguard her already fragile feelings. But then it happened, the very thing she had least expected, and he had offered to marry her. Despite her usual restraint, Margaret had been unable to hide her curiosity, and her head had whipped around so that she might study his face and learn her suitor's motives.
However, he had been frustratingly difficult to read, preferring to stare at the floor rather than face his perspective fiancée and look her in the eye like a man. Still, there had been a real earnestness to his manner, informing her that he meant what he said, that he would not retract his proposal, even if he lamented it later. She had even dared to let herself hope that part of him, even if it were the tiniest of parts, genuinely wanted to marry her, and Margaret had felt a bubble of joy grow and thrive inside her at this wonderful notion.
But then he had spoken again, and it had burst.
The way he had explained himself, it had been insufferable. It had been impersonal, to say the least, utterly formal in address and distant in feeling. He did not love her, she knew he could not. How could a man who had been so passionate before in his apparent want for her, in that very room, now be so wholly dispassionate in his disinterest of her? His reason was clear. It was all a means to an end in which he would sacrifice himself for the sake of another, exasperatingly selfless, as always. She could have screamed at him. He was not doing it for her, but for his regard for her father. Well then, why not marry him?! What use did he have for her? Oh, she was furious, and worse than that, her pride was bitterly wounded.
Margaret had been about to stand up and march out of the room, telling the taciturn mill master that she wanted to marry him even less now than she had before, threatening never to see him again out of reckless spite, but she could not bring herself to do it. The truth was, she wanted to marry him. She wanted to be his wife. She wanted to be Mrs John Thornton. And here he was, giving her the chance to be. So before she could think better of it, Margaret had accepted John's proposal, and in doing so, she had made a private oath to herself that she would be a good wife, and over time, she would convince him that she was worthy of his hand and his heart, and if God was good to her, he would eventually come to love her, despite the way she had hurt him time and time again.
But now that time had passed, and the dust had settled, Margaret could see how stupid she had been. She realised that it was impossible to make someone love you back, no matter how much you wished for it. She had no real idea of how to be a wife, of what that title entailed, nor indeed of how to be his wife. He had not let her. He had not asked anything of her. And while she knew he was being maddeningly noble by setting her free of his expectations, she hated it, his suffocating kindness, when all she wanted was a marriage, an authentic marriage, one with all its joys and woes tied up in a relationship that was theirs, just theirs, to do with as they liked, to nurture or break however they saw fit.
Yes, Margaret did not know how to be married. All Margaret knew was that she wanted to love John without restraint. She wanted to smile at him, talk with him, support his efforts, comfort his sorrows, applaud his victories, champion his character, but she did not know where to begin. But most of all, Margaret now understood how self-seeking she had been. By marrying him, she had stolen away his chances of finding contentment in life by binding him to a woman he did not really hold dear, let alone even like. Oh, he would be faithful to her, she knew that loyally providing for her and upholding his wedding vows every day of their lives together, but with each of these passing days, she was slowly killing him inside, destroying his hopes of happiness, and for that, Margaret could never forgive herself.
With a heart heavy with remorse, Margaret was ready to say sorry, even if her husband was deaf to her sincere apology. She had told him about Fred already, or that is, she had told him everything while he slept. She had practised what she would say, rehearsing her story and getting the facts straight, ensuring that she missed nothing out, including why she had lied to him, of how it had been an act of service to protect his character and his conscience. However, she would tell him again once he woke, and she would explain all, even at the risk of incurring his permanent disappointment in her, but for now, she had something more pressing to apologise for.
'I was selfish, John, I admit it. But if it will make you happy, if it will give you something to live for, then I will go. I will pack my bags and leave for London, or Spain, and you need never see or hear from me again, you have my word! It will be as if we never met,' she went on, thinking back to that unforgettable moment when she had first noticed him standing on that scaffold, his striking presence forever imprinted on her memory, never to be erased.
'I have seen how tired you are,' she said, a thumb scoring the dark circles beneath his eyes. 'You work so hard. You try so very hard. You give your all for everybody else without complaint and without reward, and it exhausts you, and here I am, making your already burdened life a misery. If you want me to go, John, then just give me a sign, and I shall. You will finally be free of me,' she pledged, 'and then you can finally be at peace, my love.'
All of a sudden, John began to move, and once again his head tossed from side to side, as if he were searching for something.
'M,' he muttered thickly, his hand reaching out into the void as it restlessly sought its missing friend. 'Mmm – M!' he repeated, the sound hoarse as he bit it out, almost like it hurt to say it, the desperation in his voice agonising to hear.
'What is it, John?' Margaret asked anxiously, her shadow leaning over him, his hand soaring as if to touch it. She knew full well that he could not tell her, but she was just so desperate to help relieve his distress. 'Is it your mother? Do you want her? Or the mill? Do you wish to be there? It is well taken care of, I promise you, dearest, you have nothing to worry about there.'
But his head seemed to shake from side to side as if he were saying no, and so Margaret had no notion of what to do or say.
As his writhing became increasingly agitated, Margaret took his wrist to monitor his pulse, only to find that it was racing. Not only that, but he was cold, deathly cold. Leaping up from the bed, she went to add some coals and wood to the fire, stabbing at it forcefully. She thought she had better fetch Hannah doubly quick, but then she fretted that leaving John alone, even for a matter of minutes, might prove fatal. Returning to the bed, she took off her shawl and tucked it around his shoulders before finding whatever spare blankets she could lay her hands on and threw them over him haphazardly. Reaching under the bedsheets, Margaret took one of his feet at a time and rubbed them vigorously, hoping to warm him. When she had done all that, she felt his skin once more, but it was still horribly cold.
John himself was growing ever more erratic, ceaselessly crying out for: "M!"
Margaret was all in a panic, her arms flapping about at her sides in indecision. She did not know what to do. She felt helpless. But then, an idea came to her. When she had been very little, she and Edith had encountered a bitterly cold winter, the memory of which had always stayed with Margaret, chilling her very bones. Afraid that they would not live the night, the two children had hugged each other tight in their shared bed to abate their shivers. It had been all they could do to keep warm, and thankfully, it had worked.
Tossing modesty to the wind, Margaret knew what she must do. Ignoring the boundaries of her marriage, she lifted up the sheets and nodding fearlessly, she crawled into bed beside her husband. Awkwardly navigating her way around his squirming limbs so as to not get thumped and knocked for six, she wrapped her arms and legs around him in a vice-like grip, refusing to let go. Clinging onto him for dear life, Margaret pressed herself up against John, and in doing so, she let the heat from her body radiate and transfer to him. She gasped to feel her chest compress against his, the outlines of their distinctive yet intrinsically paired bodies meeting at first with spine-tingling intimacy for the first time, before then melding as one, and it felt wonderfully natural. It took a moment, but John abruptly stilled. At first, Margaret gulped, fearing that she had hurt him, or that he had rapidly grown much worse, or even…
Shivering with fear, Margaret was too scared to look at him, but then all of a sudden, she felt a pair of strong arms encircle her and tighten on her back until she lay flush against him. The feeling was incredible. She had never felt so safe in all her life. She was about to look up and see how he faired, but then John's body shuddered as he let out a breath, one which it seemed he had been holding in for a long, long time. And as a hand came to rest on her cheek, with a tremor, he whispered:
'Margaret.'
At that moment, everything became crystal clear, and Margaret wept like she had never before. Burying her head against his chest, she made a home there for herself, not caring a fig for how unladylike she must appear to him with her snivelling nose. So, he had been trying to say her name all along. He was asking for her. He was searching for her. He did not want her to leave him after all. And now she was here, now he held her in his arms, he was at last at peace.
Blinded by a torrent of tears, Margaret clung to him tighter still, and she rubbed her cheek against his nightshirt, a few unruly hairs that poked free of his clothes tickling her. 'Yes, John,' she whispered. 'I am here, my love, I am here, and here I shall stay.'
Even though he did not say anything in response, Margaret felt her husband grunt in approval, his hands moving across her, the fingers of one hand becoming entangled in her hair, the other gripping her waist. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, she could sense him taking in the smell of her, and with his lips drifting sleepily across her eyelids, they kissed her ever so softly. All at once, his body loosened, and it was as if the spirit of sickness left him and vanished into the night air, the Master of Marlborough Mills safe once more, even if he was still terribly tired and in as much need of her nurturing as ever. Pulling her close to him, and with his head concealed in the crook of her neck, John fell asleep, and it was the most serene slumber he had ever known, at last trusting that his wife was here to stay, in his bed, in his arms, in his life.
It was not until dawn broke the next morning that Hannah returned to her son's bedroom. When she first opened the door, she felt a pang of fear struck her. Where was Margaret?! There was nobody sitting by his side, John was quite alone. Making her way to him with steps quickened by alarm, Hannah could see her son lying on his side, perfectly still. Gulping, she reached out to touch him, and then she gasped again. Good Lord! He was…he was alive!
Amazed, Hannah could see that his fever had broken and that he had indeed decided to stay in the land of the living. She thought at first that Margaret had perhaps witnessed his revival, and so had decided to not disturb her mother-in-law, but instead retreat to bed herself now that the war was over. Grumbling to herself, while Hannah knew this decision would have come from a place of consideration, she could not help but feel frustrated.
She was about to go in search of her daughter-in-law and demand she account for her heedless decision, but then she saw John's arms lock in a circle and squeeze. Cocking her head, Hannah realised that he was lying in a strange position, and it was then that she saw the mass beneath the covers next to him. Carefully lifting them, she found what she was looking for, and it explained everything. There, curled up in her son's arms, was his wife, the two of them fast asleep in an intimate embrace.
At first, Hannah was too surprised to feel anything else, but then she smiled to herself. Yes, it was right. Margaret was exactly where she belonged. Letting the covers fall into place and protecting their privacy, Hannah slowly backed out of the room, her heart overflowing with pride and peace to know that John, her dear boy, was not only well again, but more importantly by far, he finally had what he passionately wished for, what his tender heart truly desired and deserved, the very thing no man nor misfortune could ever hope to take from him:
His M.
Notes: A final epilogue chapter will be added later this year