LIKE FATHER, LIKE SONS

Chapter One

Margaret was a nervous nelly, as she twisted the cord of her dressing gown and wound it tightly around the sphere of her wedding band.

Did she dare?

Yes, no, maybe, hmm…

As she weighed up the pros and cons of her daring scheme, John's deep voice coaxed her back to the moment, and the conversation her husband was trying to have with her.

'Are you listening?' he prodded, with an irritated huff.

'Hmm?' she replied absently. Then noticing his quirked eyebrow and knitted temple, she promptly cleared her throat and added, 'Oh, yes, yes, do go on,' nodding her head a little too avidly.

John lingered, eyeing her suspiciously for a fraction of a second, but finally, after letting out a satisfied sniff, he resumed giving an account of his recent trip to Le Havre. 'I am not sure what to think,' he muttered. 'The prospect of this new investor from Boulogne-Sur-Mer sounds like just what we wanted, but I cannot help but feel that it will all turn out to be a shallow enterprise that will fall apart within a year or two…'

'Hmm, yes,' she agreed vaguely.

Margaret was sure that whatever her husband was talking about was very interesting, and more crucially, very important, but again, her attention wandered…

Margaret Thornton was feeling particularly jittery this evening. She was uneasy, a little queasy even, because she had a rather bold plan, which was (she thought with a gulp), to seduce her husband.

John and Margaret had been wed for seven years and ten months…my, how time had flown. Margaret was blessedly happy, in fact, she was so sinfully happy, that she often felt just a touch guilty, as if one person should not be allowed this much gladness and contentment. It was almost as if the scales of marital bliss had accidentally tipped in her direction, spilling enough joy for a hundred marriages onto her lap, whilst depriving others of their fair share.

Their union had been everything she had hoped for and more, a true bond of friendship. John was a generous, considerate, steadfast, and respectful partner in life. She often joked that he was her gentle giant, as she affectionately stroked the back of his neck as he read the Sunday papers, or attended to commercial affairs at his desk. Her heart would soar as she watched him concentrate on his task but still witnessed the subtle upward tug at the corner of his lips and the tender way in which he tilted closer towards her touch. Yes, John truly cherished her and treated Margaret with the most astonishing devotion and passion, a love that burnt as brightly and resolutely as the sun.

Indeed, passion was an ingredient that had never been lacking in their marriage. In fact, she still blushed to recall the number of times and the number of ways in which her husband had proven his ceaseless appetite for her over the years. A hand still flew to her mouth in mortification when she recalled that lovely antique table that they had broken in her Aunt's library at Harley Street after a rather audacious after-dinner rendezvous. That had taken some rather ingenious and creative explaining, in which John had miraculously managed to keep a straight face. She could also not help but giggle every time Cook served a pudding with a berry sauce, as it reminded her of a most experimental and erogenous afternoon. On this occasion, they had spent a wet and blustery day in Brighton cooped up in their hotel, rather than exploring the waterfront and its sandy beaches. After exhausting their patience playing cards and charades, (a game that John had still not quite gotten the hang of), the couple had opted to order dinner in their suite. However, the rather scrumptious raspberry pavlova had been eaten not off the plates, but off…well, somewhere else entirely.

Margaret was always astounded to find that as the seasons came and went, John's longing to be close to his wife never dwindled. Yes, if lovemaking was a hunger, then the Thorntons were forever craving a taste of each other and were not ashamed to feast on the delights of each other's flesh. It had led to much spice, elation, and (she reddened again), rather a lot of adventure in their association and of course, to the conceiving and birth of five beautiful babies…so far.

But, recently, she was reticent to admit that her husband's attentions had been wanting, and his wife was beginning to grow impatient.

It was not that John had lost his fascination with Margaret, no, it was that he had been frightfully busy. In the past eight months, Marlborough Mills had extended its property, meaning that it could now almost double its orders. The venture had been thrilling and Margaret was exceedingly proud of her industrious husband, who seemed to be an unstoppable force of nature, always growing in distinction and influence. Nonetheless, it had meant that he was working harder than ever and after his long hours toiling away at the mercy of the cotton trade or law courts, he would trudge home and collapse into bed, still fully clothed, but dead to the world around him. It was a slumber so deep, that she believed the trumpets of Heaven would still fail to revive him. She could just see it, Jesus riding through the sky in his chariot, announcing his return and the end of humanity as we know it, but the mulish and groggy John Thornton would merely bury his head in his pillow and crankily retort: 'Five more minutes.'

Each night, as Margaret turned to look at John's stretched-out form, she was filled with an overwhelming sense of love at being granted such intimate familiarity, to be so near to this darling of a man. He would lie face-down, his hefty arm slung over the edge of the bed, and his mouth slightly gaping, as he breathed heavily. Margaret would chuckle, run her fingers through his thick mop of raven-black hair, and press an affectionate kiss to his crinkled forehead, that was rumpled even in rest. Bless him! He worked so hard. He was such a good provider for his family, always striving to give them the best of everything. But still, as she faced yet another night of chastity, Margaret secretly harboured a resentment that the mil was keeping him away, almost like a mistress that had stolen her man.

Consequently, it had been ninety-seven days since John and Margaret had…lain together. Margaret found that even after almost eight years, she could still not refer to their coupling with the same coarse and lewd language that her husband used, especially when he was at his most randy. Moreover, she was quite sure he found great amusement in pinning her up against the wall, her arms restrained above her head, and whispering filthy words in her ear. He would moan as she shivered and whimpered with expectation under his ministrations and carnal promises of pleasure.

It was while John had been away in Le Havre, that Margaret had received some rather unseemly advice. She had visited Edith in London and her cousin had kindly purchased her a gift. Margaret had been a tad curious as to why her cousin's eyes had sparkled with mischief when she handed Margaret the wafer-thin parcel packaged in lavender tissue paper.

Sensing the lightness of the bundle, she had ventured a guess. 'A shawl?' But Edith just shook her pretty little head. 'A scarf?' Again, no. 'Some yards of silk or lace?' No? Hmm.

Then Margaret had been even more intrigued when Edith had insisted that they open it when they were alone, without the children or Aunt Shaw around to see. It was not until Margaret had untied the ribbons and peeked at her present that she realised why.

She had removed it, looked bewildered, held it up, cocked her head, and then suddenly gasped and coloured, as she dropped it and allowed the contents to fall to her lap.

'Edith!' she had cried.

Edith merely tittered.

'What is it?' Margaret had asked, utterly flabbergasted. 'What is it for?'

Edith gave her cousin a knowing grin. It turned out that London had experienced a recent craze in women's undergarments and nightgowns. That is, these articles were not strictly practical, but more…how to put it…aesthetically pleasing. They had the distinctive purpose of not so much warming a woman at night, but rather, of highlighting her physical attributes, in the hope of stimulating her lover's…attentiveness.

Margaret had been scandalised and did not know how to respond to such impropriety. But Edith had prattled on, explaining that it was all perfectly acceptable and that it was common practice for wives to wear them when they had been married a few years and wished to, 'stoke the fire of their husband's loins.'

Margaret hazily remembered issuing some sort of pitiful protest, claiming that it was all very indecent indeed, but still, she had clutched onto the garment and packed it away in the bottom of her trunk…just in case.

So, it was on this frosty January night that Margaret had decided to be brazen. Underneath her dressing gown, she was wearing that very same saucy slip. But she was wracked with uncertainty. What would John think? Would he think her too brassy? Too promiscuous? Oh dear – too old?! Even although John had always undoubtedly appreciated her own enthusiasm in the bedroom, (and other rooms), the parson's daughter in her still fretted that her shameless sexuality might dim his opinion of her, for surely, it was not proper for a woman to welcome her husband's fervour quite so wholeheartedly.

So, as John droned on about business, Margaret pulled her robe more firmly around her slim body, debating what to do next. To seduce, or not to seduce, that is the question.

'I think I shall have to return to France in a month or two,' John stated. 'It is frustrating, I know,' he acknowledged, rubbing his brow wearily. 'I had hoped to have more time at home with you and the bairns, especially since Lizzie is only a nipper – oh! That reminds me, how is her teethin' goin'? Is she still gurgling and bleating away? I have been thinking about 'er, my scrikin' smoorikins.'

Margaret could have hugged him. For one, she dearly loved hearing his northern tongue, for his dialect was so attractive, far more appealing than her own insipid and polished vocabulary. She especially liked how when he was drowsy, his accent became thicker and less restrained. But more crucially, her chest swelled with pride at how fond a father he was. John had surprised her, (and himself), for she had always known he would be a kindly parent, but she could never have envisaged just how doting he would be, forever fussing over his brood, and taking infinite interest in all their precious personalities and their every milestone. He was never too busy to play with them or cuddle them, and Margaret glowed to think of all the nights she had awakened to her babies' wails, only to find her husband's side of the bed quite empty, for he had already gone to them. She could hear him softly shushing and soothing them, as he began to sing a lullaby in his deep twang. His voice was so comforting, that it could even send her back to sleep, as she lay listening to his sweet sounds of adoration, as he tended to their treasured little lambs.

Letting his Darkshire burr wash over her, Margaret swivelled around to inspect him as he unpacked his bags. God! She adored him! In many ways, John was such a simple man. He did not have a valet and always insisted on unpacking his own things. He had stated that if a man needed a valet, then he was either a complete ninny, or his clothes were too fussy for the fellow to be taken seriously. John was also adamant about seeing to it the instant he got home, whereas Margaret, much to his exasperation, would gladly leave her trunk for days, if she could get away with it. Dixon would usually persuade Margaret into getting on with it, but lately, the matron's time and energy were entirely taken up with rounding up and regulating the increasing pack of rather spirited Thornton cubs. One day, Margaret had entered their bedroom to find John handling her corsets and stockings, unapologetically lecturing her that she had been fairly warned and he could not abide them being left a moment longer…she had only been home an hour. At least the light-hearted argument had led to a rather playful encounter, one which had seen both their clothes scattered across the room in a haphazard fashion. She recalled that one article had accidentally made it out the window. Honestly! He could be most hypocritical.

As Margaret studied him this evening, she had to bite her lip, for she grasped how unfair he was being, for he really did look downright delicious. He was partly undressed and stood only in his trousers, leaving his upper half exposed. In the flickering firelight, she marvelled at the contours of his taut muscles and the way they twitched as he shifted. Furthermore, his face was more stubbled than usual, due to his travelling, giving him a rough and roguish look. It caused a stab of desire to stir between her legs, as her starved eyes took in his delectable and dishevelled form. As she watched him pair up his socks, one by one, she pouted, for even though she usually found her husband's fastidiousness endearing, tonight, it made her want to strangle him with one of his own cravats.

He glanced up at her as he hung one of his jackets in the wardrobe and paused, taking in her odd expression. 'You all right, love?' he questioned, his temple furrowed in concern. 'You seem a bit agitated th' night?'

'Yes,' Margaret answered straightaway, although her stomach was full of fluttering butterflies and her high-pitched lilt threatened to unravel her.

He gave her another puzzled look but soon reverted to his task.

Well, Margaret determined, it is now or never.

When John turned again, this time to fold his shirts, she swiftly yanked the cord of her dressing gown, pushed it over her shoulders, and let the heavy drapery fall to the floor in a muffled thud.

All she had to do now was wait and see if he took the bait.

'Anyway, I'd like your opinion,' he went on, still facing away from her. 'After all, the mill is yours and I want all decisions to go through you,' he said with a mixture of sincerity and sport, for his wife always rolled her eyes at his insistence on referring to Marlborough Mills as hers, even although her inheritance was now his by the rights of both law and love. 'Besides, you are always so canny sweetheart, honestly, I think you've got more brains in that clever head of yours than all us Milton masters put together…well, not that that would be difficult,' he acclaimed with a smirk, his rich voice rumbling through the room and making her swoon. 'So, what do you think, Meg?'

She purposefully did not respond, for cotton and commerce were the last things on her mind.

John noted her silence and frowned; it was most unlike his wife not to have an opinion. After all, it was one of the main reasons he had fallen in love with her.

'Meg?' he persevered, still busying himself with his unpacking.

Still nothing.

'Margaret, my love, are you sure nothing's wro…?'

John spun around and instantly froze. The shoes in his hands immediately fell and hit the floorboards with a clatter. He stood stock-still, his eyes bulging, his mouth agape, his breath hitched, and his eyebrows nearly receding into his hairline.

He gulped gruffly as he let his eyes rake over the erotic form of his wife.

Oh, boy!

If truth be told, John Thornton still frequently pinched himself, for he could not believe that God had gifted him with such a woman as Margaret Hale. His wife was so perfect in every way. She was generous, she was compassionate, she was brilliantly intelligent, and of course, she was the most beautiful creature to have ever graced this mortal realm. From the moment Margaret had agreed to marry him, he had known that he would be the happiest of all men, but he could never have dreamed just how ludicrously happy he would be.

He had lost count of the number of nights he had lain with her in his arms, her head cradled against his chest as she slept, and his fingers would idly stroke her wedding ring, furtively verifying that their sacred bond of romantic and legal harmony was indeed a reality. He had often feared that his new-found paradise was no more than a cruel hallucination that would dissipate with the breaking dawn, an occurrence that so often shattered even the most pleasant of dreams, which held the secret to the dreamer's most hallowed desires. But, alas, night after night, the ring was there, resting on her slim, warm finger and he would smile, breathe a sigh of relief, and draw her close, content in his overpowering joy. Yes, he could still not work out why such a divine deity had chosen him, but here they were.

Over the years, John had marvelled at how readily Margaret had acquiesced to his ardour. In the early days of their marriage, he had worried that he was too eager, too demanding, for indeed, he would quite willingly have spent every waking minute in her embrace. As it turned out, his thirty years of celibacy had caused him to build up a rather extensive reserve of vigour, and after an initial investigation, he had found that he had a great deal of stamina to release. Still, to his amazement, his amenable wife was more than willing to accept him with open arms...and legs. Truly, she had more than consented to his zeal, intreated it even.

Yet, in recent months, he knew that their lovemaking had been neglected, most regrettably so. That was one of the downsides of trade, that it kept him on his toes, and often, away from the very people he worked so hard for. Yes, John knuckled down not just for himself, or to make a mark on Milton as a profitable manufacturer and a pragmatic magistrate, but to furnish his family with every luxury they may need or want, (not that they were spoiled), and to prove to his dear wife that she had chosen well. He wanted her to trust that her husband was a man of substance, success and stoicism. At night, he would slog back at an ungodly hour and would yearn to touch her, to nestle his nose against her fragrant neck and let his hands wander. But no, it was not fair, it was so atrociously late, and she would not appreciate his nocturnal entreaties. No, as much as he would like to clamber on top of her and rouse her most rudely, it was not the gentlemanly thing to do – damn it!

Then in Le Havre, he had thought of nothing else but her. Of her porcelain skin, her honeyed lips, the twinkle in her lovely eyes, the soft, warm feel of her…

As John let his gluttonous gaze slowly comb across his wife, he raised a finger and thumb to his wrist and pinched himself yet again. She was standing before him in the most sensual and suggestive garment he had ever seen. It was a thin negligee, that left little to the imagination. The dress was shorter than her usual attire, the hem resting with tantalizing torment just above her knees. It was also mouth-wateringly tight, accentuating her ample curves. But most notably, her husband was transfixed to see that the delicate apparel was teasingly translucent, acting like a sheer and silky veil, which barely hid her body from his ravenous eyes. To make things even more enticing, the material was a clean, pure white, which made his darling wife appear before him like an alluring angel, an analogy that would surely see his soul damned for all eternity. Still, with Margaret looking so lusciously tasty, he knew that nothing could stop him from sampling the forbidden fruit of Heaven this night.

Margaret was trying to stand straight and confident, but beneath her serene surface, her heart was beating like a drum, for she was utterly terrified. Her bravado was not helped by the slight shiver that crept up her spine, as she was not appropriately dressed for the winter weather, which was now making her feel a smidgen foolish. Yet, as she peeked at her husband from underneath her long eyelashes, she was tickled to detect the slight upward curl of his lips and the unmistakable glint in his eyes. As he let out an animalistic grunt of approval, she knew her ruse had worked a treat.

'Well, Mr Thornton,' she began coyly, spinning in a slow circle, which afforded the onlooker the generous opportunity to take her in from every angle. 'What do you think, will it do?' she inquired with mock doubt. 'After all, sir, you are the expert on textiles here,' she finished with a sassy simper.

As Margaret twirled so pleasingly, John noticed that her chemise had tiny glints of glitter woven into the gossamer threads. He smiled warmly, for the sight of it transported him back eight years. It reminded him of another sparkling dress. He recalled being invited to the Hale's home one evening, seven weeks after Margaret had rejected his proposal. Unknown to him, Mrs Hale, (God rest her soul), had deciphered his feelings for her daughter and had planned a ploy to bring him and Margaret together.

Miss Hale had appeared in the most beautiful of gowns, so lovely, that John felt blessed and cursed all at the same time, for the privilege of seeing her look so magnificent, so exquisite, so utterly otherworldly. The dress had been a wholesome white shade that shimmered as she glided, and of course, John could never help but watch whenever she moved, like a man bound by an enchantress's spell. He remembered it so clearly. John had wept inside to realise that she looked like a bride, but he believed he would never have the sacred honour of standing next to her at the altar, vowing to cherish her for all the days of his life. But unknown to John, less than two weeks after that catastrophic evening, Margaret would be standing before him in that very same dress again, here, in this very bedroom, as his wife on their wedding night.

Gazing at her now, with just as much awe as he had felt eight years ago, John marvelled at the miracle that Miss Margaret Hale was now Mrs Thornton. Gawking with fascinated fixation, he watched the fairy princess before him pirouette, inviting him to make love to her. God! She looked like a glittering gift, one made just for him, and with his body and soul overflowing with lust, but more profoundly, with love, John had every hope of unwrapping her tonight.

John cleared his throat. 'Will it do?' he asked, his words coming out in a croak. He then proceeded to undo his trousers and pushed them down with a purposeful shove.

Allowing her glance to flicker below his waist, Margaret knew she did not need any further clarification, for indeed, the evidence of his approval was hard to miss…extremely hard.

She bit her lip and blushed. 'Well, bonjour monsieur,' she giggled, suggestively rolling her tongue along her teeth.

John groaned.

Margaret felt her thighs quiver, as John suddenly kicked off his trousers. Then, while he was as naked as Adam in the Garden of Eden, her husband sunk to his knees. Next, moving forward, he got on all fours and with his predatory eyes locked on hers, he began to stalk forward like a tiger.

'John!' Margaret scolded in faux censure, although she could not help but laugh. 'Stop it!'

But it did not deter him, for slowly, very slowly, he prowled across the floor, creeping towards her. He made little noise, other than the odd rumble, revealing the beast that lurked within. Margaret played his game of cat and mouse, edging away and retreating towards the door. Still, she could not tear her eyes away from his and she could see his shoulder blades shifting, as his sizable muscles tensed and flexed as the hunter closed in on his prey.

Margaret gasped as she felt her back hit the wall. She was trapped, there was no escape. But then again, she was no coward.

Eventually, John reached her and gripping her legs with his powerful hands, he began to pepper her with light and sensory pecks of his lips, that sent sparks shooting through her from head to toe. He began at her feet, anointing each in turn, then he moved to her calves, her knees, her thighs, her hips, her stomach, her breasts, and her neck. Then finally, he stood, towering over her, his body pressed firmly against her own, his arousal digging into her side. Margaret took in his colossal form; he was like a mighty tree, one which she was more than ready to climb.

Panting heavily, he let his desirous gaze drag over her one more time, gave her an impish wink, and then crushed his mouth against hers, taking her in a frantic kiss. After many such rough and ready encounters, Margaret should have been well used to her husband's heated attentions, but alas, his potency still succeeded in knocking her for six and she felt her knees turn to jelly. But it mattered not, for his sturdy arms were always there to catch her and clasp her close.

As John greedily let his large splayed hands make a survey of every inch of her velvety skin, he suddenly lifted her up and threw her over his shoulder like a bale of cotton. He was so strong, that he did not quake under her weight, but proceeded to carry her away like she was no heavier than a feather.

'John!' she chuckled.

But in return for her cheek, she was rewarded with a firm spank on her bottom and he huskily growled, 'If you will insist on being naughty, Mrs Thornton, your master has no choice but to punish you.'

Margaret laughed. She knew that John could never hurt her. He never had and never would. He had never so much as raised a harsh finger to her, but sometimes, just sometimes, they both revelled in a touch of racy roleplay, in which the position of ruler of the roost was readily embodied by both man and wife alike. As he flung her on the bed and pounced on her like an insatiable animal, Margaret did not care who would win the title of overbearing master tonight, for she was just relieved to have her John back at last.

John and Margaret were caught in a tangle of limbs, tumbling around their bed in a frenzy of pent-up passion. It had not taken John long to divest his wife of her limited clothing and with all final barriers abandoned, they were free to sample the delicacies on offer.

It was several minutes later, as John lay on top of Margaret and his tongue was unhurriedly scraping along her inner thigh, that the true excitement of the evening began to unfold. Mid lick, John glanced up and abruptly stopped. Margaret jerked, her heavy-lidded eyes flying open. He seemed to have completely halted as if suddenly turned to a pillar of salt…perhaps God really was taking his revenge for the sacrilegious mill owner biting the juicy apple of his angel's cheek.

'John?' she asked, her voice hushed.

He said nothing, but grimaced, for his wife's discreet utterance of his name was not quite how he had hoped it would fall from her sweet lips tonight, neither in terms of volume, nor enthusiasm. John just continued to stare towards the window, his features contouring into a foul scowl. He did not move an inch and his eyes narrowed and focused, as he glared past his wife. But what concerned her the most, was the cloud that passed over his face. It was a brooding storm, one which she knew well, which contained many winds, including anger and fear, which were now visibly stirring within him, ready to erupt.

To any bystander, the scene may have appeared comical, for the pair of lovers must have looked like the most explicit of statues, depicting a scene of the rudest profanity. It was like a Greek God and Goddess trapped in a lewd embrace, one too shocking for public presentation. It was a most acrobatic jumble of body parts, with her slender leg hooked over his shoulder, whilst her spare toes were pinching a set of dangling plumbs. Her fingernails were digging into his torso and right bicep, for after all, when riding, one did need something solid to hold onto. John did not seem to mind her claws puncturing his flesh, on the contrary, they rather seemed to drive him on, like a stallion being kicked by spurs. The steed himself was poised in a most precarious pose, with his mouth dangerously close to certain private parts of her person, while one hand groped a pert breast and the other was entwined in her chestnut hair.

'John?' she probed again, shaking him. 'What is it?' she demanded to know, for she was growing anxious.

As quick as a flash, John pushed himself up and darted towards the window in one energetic leap. Yanking the curtains open, he glowered out into the shadows that cloaked the city in its shroud of eerie black. Wearing no more than his birthday suit, the master stood tall by the glass panes, his body angled towards the mill, and certain other parts of him standing to equal attention, also pointing most determinedly in the direction of the courtyard.

'John!' Margaret screeched, scrambling up as quickly as she could. With no time for feminine elegance, she grabbed a pillow and hastily thrust it to the front of him, shielding the innocent world from the sight of her husband's well-endowed frontage. John winced as the cushion whacked and squashed his erect extremity, but it made little difference, for any intentions he might have had of bedding his wife were momentarily wilting in both mind and matter.

Margaret scampered away to get dressed, throwing on a much more suitable nightdress and reclaiming her robe. However, before she had the chance to join her husband in his peculiar and rather unorthodox vigil, he let out a sigh of exasperation and grumbled: 'I don't bloody believe it!' his head shaking in disbelief. Hastily, he pulled on a shirt and trousers, then fled from the room, almost sprinting as he scooted off.

'John?!' Margaret called out after him, none the wiser.

'You'd better come down,' he shouted back from the head of the stairs, 'I'll need you!' But with that, he sped away and she heard the heavy front door swing open with a forceful heave and bang.

Margaret swiftly skidded across to the window and peered out into the starry night. In the pale moonlight, she could see the intimidating form of her husband stalking across the mill yard, his solid legs taking long and purposeful strides. He looked rather ridiculous, for he was hardly dressed, his shirt buttons half done up and no coat to speak of. Still, despite his slapdash appearance, he was obviously a man on a mission and wild dogs could not deter him from his quest. As she watched him stomp into the main outhouse and disappear from sight, she pressed a shaky hand against the glass, her heart pounding, her stomach clenching, her mind frantic.

What was wrong?

Even though Margaret was not typically a skittish woman, this night, she had to confess that she could feel the sickly prick of panic in her chest. She pondered on what the matter could be. Did they have a trespasser, an intruder? No, it appeared not, for the mill gates were still securely locked. Had John spotted some rats? She knew that he had suffered an increasing problem with them during the recent cold months, and they had a nasty habit of chewing through and spoiling the cotton orders in the warehouse. No, surely not, for he would never have been able to see them from the bed, nor make them out from that distance under the cover of darkness. What else could it be? Maybe he had detected a low hum, a vibration, a sound that implied that a machine had been left on unattended? But again, no, she would have heard that too, and why then should he need her assistance?

But Margaret did not need to speculate for long, for after a mere minute, John reappeared at the mill door. He somehow seemed taller and more daunting than ever, as he glanced behind him and down towards whatever had caused him to abandon his wife so impolitely and abscond into the bitter January air. He stretched out a prolonged arm, in which he formidably pointed back towards the house.

'OUT!' he bellowed ferociously, so loud that Margaret even jumped and flinched.

She paused with bated breath, watching, wondering, waiting.

Then suddenly, the cause of his anger appeared, and Margaret exhaled, allowing all the hot air in her lungs to escape in a cloud and mist the glass before her.

'Ah,' she sighed, nodding her head sagely, 'of course.'