My dearest, loveliest readers,
It is I, Elizabeth Hades, here once again with a short story for your delectation. Please forgive my absence, I have been working on writing and publishing poetry under the pen name Elizabeth M. Castillo ( emcwritespoetry if anyone wants to connect!), and have only recently dipped back into Milton.
I've been reading and enjoying lots of new fics by new writers, particularly ElizaG, CallMeSebastian, PhillipaHolt, and TRavine. And as always, anything by my besties TheScribblerCMB and DarkPartOfMyDestiny is exquisite!
This short piece is a bit more heated than what I usually write, and I'm in two minds about posting the final chapter describing the actual *event,* so do let me know in the comments if you enjoy this, and whether you'd like more. It is already written, just needs a spot of editing. If you like it, Part 2 will be up today or tomorrow, or maybe in the week if there's enough demand !
I'm also working on several other full-length retellings of North and South, that I might post here as I write them before possibly publishing them if I feel they're good enough. I'm looking for a beta reader, well acquainted with both book and miniseries, to help me with this project, so if that's something your interested in, hit me up! elizabethhadeswrites ~at~ gmail ~dot~ com
With all the love in my great and tender heart,
EH xxx
Part 1: The Future Must Be Met...
Just close your eyes and it'll soon be over.
Margaret had been grateful when Edith had whispered the hushed instruction low at her ear, before departing, her handsome captain at her side and her hand on her rounding belly. Although delighted in her new circumstance, Margaret felt the familiar pang of regret to see the closest living member of her family, save her brother Frederick, depart from her wedding celebration. An unexpected flood of loneliness swept over her, and she rushed to the door to wave her cousin, truly as dear to her as a sister, away as the carriage pulled out of the uncharacteristically tidy mill yard.
She could hear the bustle behind her as the servants hurried to tidy the remains of the wedding breakfast away, but for once was disinclined to turn and offer her assistance. Instead she stood, rooted to the floor, eyes trained just a few feet in front of her, to the stone step upon which she had apparently declared her love for him to all the world, before she even knew of it herself. How different would her life have been, had her pride not been stung, and had she accepted his advances in the days that followed? She could not have imagined how well she would come to love him. Well enough that the promise of a life at his side was sufficient to tear her away from every semblance of family she had ever known. Although, if she were being honest, she had come to feel much more at home in Milton than she ever had in London.
With her thumb in between her teeth she worried her nail- a bad habit she had developed during her long months at Harley Street. After almost a year of grieving both her parents and her godfather Mr. Bell, then a period of becoming reacquainted with herself and her new life as a woman of means, she could scarce believe the alacrity with which her reunion with Mr. Thornton had turned into an engagement, and then, today, a wedding.
And later tonight, a marriage.
The hum of activity all around her began to quiet, or at least it seemed that way as he appeared, smart and ruddy in his morning coat and silk cravat, coming out of one of the outhouses that gave on to the Mill yard. Her breath quickened as she watched some noise from the building he was exiting arrest his attention and he turned, arm raised in a wave, face cresting into a glorious smile that Margaret felt might cleave her heart quite in two. She wondered for a moment what he had been doing in there- the guests had all left and his mother was surely prowling about after the servants downstairs, making sure her house was returned to the militant state of cleanliness and order it had been before the party.
Her question was soon answered, as John approached the front steps to take them two at a time, as was his habit, and Margaret spied Porter, Price and Standring, the stable boys, peeking out from the outhouse, plate in hand and the corners of their mouths smeared with fluffy white cream. John stopped at the door to turn and wave once again, before turning to enter and, beholding his new bride, transforming his entire countenance into the softest reflection of a setting sun.
She loved him, oh how she loved him! But the reality of the day's events, and their implications for her immediate future had been washing over her for several moments now, since she had seen a lascivious wink John had received from more than one mill master upon departing, and had heard her own cousin's reminder of what awaited her.
She stood immobile before him.
"Are you tired, my love?" he asked, taking her hand from her mouth and lifting it to his own.
"I… I suppose I am," she replied.
He closed his eyes and brushed his lips across the delicate peaks of her knuckles, the roughness of his evening whiskers grazing pleasantly against the soft skin. Planting a gentle kiss on each, lingering longer on her ring finger, he fixed her with a look that caused a strange, but not entirely unknown heat, to pool somewhere south of her belly.
Just then a servant walked in, and John stopped his ministrations. Margaret drew in a deep breath, and looked away from him to compose herself. Barely half a minute into her attempt, the door had shut, and John was against her, arm snaked around her waist, pressing her against him. His voice was low and inflamed as he bent his head to her ear.
"Then I must get ye' to bed then, mustn't I?"
Margaret was nervous.
This day, and the culmination of all it represented– that she was safe, loved, no longer orphaned or homeless– had suddenly shrunk in its grandeur to fit into the few metres she knew lay between herself and the man who would, as she had once heard Bessie so eloquently put it, be her deflowering . And she did not know how she felt about that.
She loved John Thornton, that much was true, and undeniable. And she knew he loved her, ardently, passionately, as he had never loved before and– as he had pressed upon her once during one of their more awkward interviews– would never love again in this earthly life. And now they were married, and were, for all intents and purposes, man and wife, before the world if not quite yet before God in his more intimate prescriptions.
She was no stranger to his touch, no indeed, thought she, remembering with a blush, the many embraces that had sealed, if not cemented their bond to one another. And she had become quite familiar with that rush of heat, like a gust of wind sweeping through her body, when he had come to rest his head in the crook of her neck, or murmur something low in her ear, his voice a great, rumbling purr. She supposed that tonight, with no impediment to their proximity, she would most likely feel much the same. But did that signify that she should give into it? Give into the urge to turn and throw her arms about his neck, arch her body towards him, grant him access to all of her person? Or was that improper, and she should resist such reactions in her body? Margaret did not know, and in her anxiety she cursed herself for not arriving at this junction in her life better prepared.
Though one could not tell by observing her, Margaret startled when a soft knock at the door announced that Jane, the housemaid, had come to help her undress for the evening. Jane liked the new mistress, kind and gentle as she was, and sensed the anxiety that hung in the air all around her. Quietly, she made light conversation, remarking on the finery of her gown, the beauty of the cake, the refinement of the wedding breakfast, in an attempt to ease Miss Margaret, now Mrs Thornton's, nerves.
Margaret was grateful for the distraction, smiling and nodding at the correct intervals, and trying not to wince as Jane removed the many, many hairpins that had been necessary to keep Margaret's thick mane in the elaborate plaited and coiled structure that her cousin Edith had insisted was required on this, her wedding day. The small jabs of pain she experienced recalled to her mind the mention of another, apparently fleeting pain she would feel soon enough, and she wondered at it, taking up a hairpin in her hand, twisting it, and letting it fall back into the enamel bowl with a small clatter. Why, if it was an occurrence of natural and godly design, would it be painful?
"Will that be all miss?"
Margaret jolted back to the present, shaking her head and smiling at the maid. She rose, somewhat bewildered at what she should do next. Should she go to him? Should she get into bed? Jane sensed her anxiety, as the sweet mistress cast about the room, instinctively drawing her dressing gown more tightly around her body.
"Are ye' sure there's nothin' else I can be doin' fe ye', miss?"
"Thank you Jane," said Margaret, outwardly regaining her poise, though not inwardly, "you are very kind. There is nothing more you can do for me."
With a nod and a curtsey, the maid slipped out of the room, leaving Margaret alone with her thoughts, and the giant, looming four poster bed for company.
"Nothing more… you can do for me…" she repeated to herself, in a whisper.
