THE BEST THAT EVER WAS

Chapter One

'Well?'

John Thornton's eyes squinted upwards, just a fraction, to follow the sound of the voice that had just addressed him.

Without looking, he could already deduce many facts from that four-letter word, simply by the way it had been said.

One: It was a woman who had spoken.

Two: The woman was not from Milton. (John frowned at this). No, he did not like that. She was from Milton. She was a Milton woman through and through, it was just that she had not been born here. Something that could hardly be called her fault, so he would overlook this particular point.

Three: Her voice was lyrical and lovely (partly because she had not been born in Milton), so maybe he should not overlook it after all. Very well, point two was once again reinstated.

Four: Her pitch was puzzled. Pointedly so.

Five: Behind the soft tones of her native tongue, he could tell that she was challenging him. Well, that was not new, and he was used to it by now.

Six: It was a voice he knew well.

Seven: Her voice was his favourite sound in all the world.

Eight: He was madly in love with her for all the reasons above.

John barely lifted his head, only raising it a few inches so that he could regard her from below the hood of his eyelids, a flicker of annoyance flashing across those flints of blue to find himself being questioned, because despite his adoration of her, he was, to this day, not accustomed to being told what to do in his own mill office. Still, John could not help but allow an inkling of a smile to twitch at the corner of his mouth as he observed the way she leaned against the post of the doorway, showing herself to be all at ease in his workplace and at home in his company. All the same, that did not stop him from returning her show of familiar affection with prickly petulance.

'Well, what?' he replied gruffly, a little too brusquely, a mistake he regretted at once, for not only was it an unforgivably rude way for a man to address a woman, not to mention a husband to address his wife, but knowing her, she would read into his curtness and scrutinise his mood, all before coming to understand his motivations after a mere few seconds of pondering, frustratingly perceptive woman as she was.

That was the problem with being married to a woman like Margaret. While John was grateful to have someone of such intelligence and intuition by his side as his partner in both life and commerce, her prudence and sensitivity astounded him anew every day. It was maddeningly inconvenient to find that she could read him like a book, every essence of his being an open page for her to study and learn to the highest degree. It was not that John wished to hide anything from his wife, of course, since his every thought, feeling and feat were hers to share in, and his every action, down to his every breath, was grounded in her and what she would wish. Nevertheless, it made it damned difficult to conceal the emotions he was less than proud of, emotions that plagued the darker and more feral parts of his mind, a landscape of weeds with their stubborn roots that no gardener had the skill to dare tackle.

Nonetheless, John grinned, his expression gleaming with pride, not that she could see it, mind, his head being stooped over his work, so closely that his nose was nearly dabbed in the ink. Margaret, bless her, she was wonderful at managing him, even if he was not always the easiest man to manage. Then again, for a man who had never previously answered to anyone other than the moral compass of his own conscience, it had not taken long for this unworldly lass from the south to master this lad from the north, his sole purpose in life, his single passion, now being to make her happy.

However, his sharp tongue from moments before did not seem to deter her in the least, and folding her arms before her, atop her comely white cotton dress, Margaret's main concern still seemed to be his reluctance, or refusal, perhaps, to leave his seat.

'Are you not coming?' she asked him, that trace of confusion still persisting as she tapped her foot with irritation. When he did not answer her, Margaret pursed her lips. 'John?' she pressed. 'They are waiting,' she repeated, turning her body so that she gestured toward the mill yard as if he needed reminding where his outbuildings were.

Grunting through his parish-pickaxe of a nose, John muttered, 'I will be along shortly. I have work to finish first,' he added, jerking his head toward his desk and all the documents it contained.

Margaret was not impressed by her husband's impassive attitude, and she demonstrated this by pushing herself off the wall and striding about the place crossly. While she could tell he wanted her to drop the subject and pay it no heed, she had absolutely no intention of doing anything of the kind. If there was one thing Margaret had discovered about John, other than that he was the dearest man who had ever lived, it was that when he acted disinterested in something, it was all a pretence, and his feelings were quite the opposite, only, he did not want anyone to know. The very same thing had happened after he had seen her at Outwood station. He had pretended to care nothing for her, telling her by way of his cold shoulder and even colder words that he was indifferent to her, when, in truth, the repressed mill master had burned for want of her.

As her eyes followed his movements and her gaze landed upon the various piles of neatly stacked papers on the large wooden desk, Margaret crooked an eyebrow. She was not convinced. The problem was, that after years of helping her husband with mill business, the two of them sitting side-by-side in esprit de corps, never liking to be parted if they could help it, she had grown to know his routines and methods like the back of her hand.

At any rate, it was because of this intimacy, that Margaret could see at once that something was not right. For you see, when it came to her husband, John was a creature of habit, and one of his many norms included keeping all of his current records to the left of his person, but once he had finished with them for the day, he would take the invoices, rotas, orders, or whatever it might be, and move it to his right to reflect that it was now done and dusted. Therefore, today, when Margaret saw that every single piece of paper had been placed most decidedly on the right-hand side of her husband's elbow, she knew that he was fibbing by means of fabricating fictitious work.

No, there was something bothering him, and she was determined to find out what it was.

Watching him carefully, she let her eyes scour the expanse of his form so that she might detect any tell-tale signs that would reveal what was going on inside that handsome head of his.

Was he distracted? Aggravated? Worried? Stressed?

Then, suddenly, it dawned on her. With her mouth opening to make an oval shape of surprise, Margaret nodded her realisation. 'Oh, I see!' she began, 'You're nervous.'

Without looking up, John let out a blustering huff that puffed through his nose.

'What?' he snapped hotly, his skin burning to feel her keen observation of him, leaving a red ring around the rim of his shirt collar.

With a playful puckering of her lips, Margaret walked slowly towards him, her tongue playing with her teeth.

'Why, John Thornton, I do believe you are a bag of nerves,' she ventured to quip, the wife teasing her husband with a light-hearted jest.

As she came to stand before him at the other side of the desk, Margaret placed her hands on the wood and leaned forwards, her eyes fixed on his bowed head. She refused to budge until he met her gaze and explained himself. Finally, dropping his pen, John let his head slowly rise to acknowledge her, and as he did so, he was struck anew with how beautiful she was, of how right she looked standing here, and yet, how out of place she was, this fine country flower who had decided to live her life in a smog-ridden town with a thorn. It never failed to fill him with awe to wonder why she had chosen to marry him, of all men, but then again, John was not one to complain.

Seeing the flirtatious glow that brightened her cheeks, John could not help but smile.

'Why, Margaret Thornton, I do believe you are talking nonsense,' he rebutted, his words slipping from him slowly, because John never missed a chance to relish the sound of her new name, her proper name, her eternal name, rolling off his tongue.

'It is most unlike you, madam, and does not become you, so I would not make a habit of it if I were you,' he joshed in return.

'And why not?' she laughed.

'Because you are not a silly woman – thank God!' he replied with no small measure of genuine relief. 'And men of sense, if you will recall, do not want silly wives,' he affixed, citing one of Margaret's favourite books, one she was currently reading to their eldest daughter before bed.

Nevertheless, this would still not do. Flattery was all well and welcome, but while it may have made Margaret feel giddy to hear her husband whisper sweet compliments or words of affirmation in her ear while he held her close in his arms, she was quite ready to defend herself against his adulation now.

Margaret was pleased to see he was willing to indulge her game. All work and no play, did, after all, make John a dull boy. Still, she was not satisfied with her husband's vague reply that smacked of avoidance. However, painfully aware that the small hand of the clock was about to strike the hour of three, she knew she did not have the time, nor the luxury, to dilly-dally or shilly-shally in polite extraction. Therefore, she got straight to the point. Milton folk, after all, were born with a candid tongue, just so long as the tip was never blunt, but decidedly to the point.

Thankfully, for Margaret, directness had always been her forte.

'No, I mean, why are you uneasy? And do not say you are not, because I know you better than you know yourself, and I say you are,' she averred, her eyes sharpening shrewdly.

But once again, John fell into silence.

This time, his wife felt her patience beginning to wear thin. 'John, come now!' she insisted. 'They are already gathered. They are looking forward to it. You were looking forward to it. So, that begs the question: what has changed?'

John said nothing. He only creased his brow as he picked up a stack of papers and shifted them aimlessly from one spot to another, although, to be fair, Margaret admired how much effort he was putting into his charade of being busy.

Then he did it.

Not that he knew he was doing it, of course, but he did it all the same. Just as Margaret was about to chide him yet again, she noticed the shadow that danced across his face, and as it passed, in its wake it left remnants, settling into his features in a manner that was menacing, and she did not like it one bit. There was the way he gritted his jaw, the way he clenched his hand, the way he shook his leg, and the way his eyes gleamed both dark and bright with the familiar cinders of insecurity. It was at that moment that Margaret felt heartily ashamed. John was not delaying because he was being difficult. He was delaying because he was afraid of something.