EH
Chapter 3: This ring, this body, and all my worldly goodsThey were married on a grey Saturday, two months later. Though arguments were made for a shorter betrothal, Margaret had insisted on observing at least three months of full mourning before celebrating the blessed event. She did not mind wearing black to her wedding, in fact she thought it rather fitting, as it did seem to match the sombre mood of the event.
Mr Thornton had called at Crampton every week of their engagement, to take tea and his habitual lesson with her father, a commitment he fulfilled with a seemingly new gravity and vigour. She, as was expected, had attended to both men, and was even permitted a few moments alone with her fiancé, when her father contrived an errand or declared he was too tired to see his favourite pupil out. Though in all truth, he might not have bothered with such subterfuge.
Scarcely twenty words had passed between them since she had agreed to his proposal. Margaret had counted. It would seem that greetings, gratitude for refreshments offered, the occasional regard sent to his mother and sister, and a promise to return the following week, was all the communication Margaret was to expect from her betrothed.
Margaret did not press him. He had already provided the means for her salvation, and the assurance of a respectable future- it would be the height of ingratitude to ask for anymore. She knew he was disgusted with her, that any soft feeling he might have believed he felt (for believe it he had, of this she had been convinced from the moment he quit her presence after his first proposal) had surely been erased, scrubbed from the warm hallows of his great and tender heart.
He thought her haughty. He thought her naive. He thought her untruthful, dishonest, perhaps even wanton! And yet he had offered himself, like a lamb to the slaughter, to be tied to her for all eternity, with no hope, no promise of affection, or even companionship. She would be Mistress of Marlborough, near enough Mistress of Milton if Thornton's star continued to rise in the world of business and trade, perhaps even beyond. And what had she done to deserve any of it? Refused a man who guilelessly offered her his heart. Committed an irreparable indiscretion, and been caught in a lie to cover it.
The wedding breakfast was an elaborate affair, which served mostly to impress more severely upon Margaret that when her new mother-in-law, Hannah Thornton, took something upon herself, she was not a woman to be gainsaid. All of Milton's society was present: the masters and their wives, bankers, lawyers, several local politicians… Margaret knew none of them. What she did know was the weight of their scrutiny, as she stood beside her husband (yes, husband!) at the door to the fine dining room, a carefully curated expression of self-possession on her face, and greeted each guest individually.
Who was this southern wood nymph, this haughty slip of a girl who was rumoured to sup with weavers and spinners; who without a penny or connection to her name had managed to ensnare the fearsome Master of Marlborough? Why the sudden wedding? What of all that talk of riots, and stones, and improper embraces? Of murder, and moonlight, and southbound trains in the dead of night?
If their prying eyes and hushed conjectures affected her in any way, she bore it all gracefully, the only sign of her fatigue being the slight dip of her shoulders which, naturally, did not go unnoticed by John, who had elevated his study of her person and movements into an art form. With a whispered instruction low at his Mother's ear, the cake was wheeled in on an elaborately decorated trolley- tall, pale and intimidating to Margaret.
The weight of the day's, nay, week's anxiety struck down suddenly upon her, and she pressed her hand against her middle, shifting behind the cake so none of the guests would see. Fearful of a faint, she was grateful when, at the touch of a steadying hand at her back, the lightheadedness began to dissolve. She leant her weight against Mr Thornton, as his other hand held her at the elbow, gentle in a way that made her feel that she was safe in the world, even if just for a moment.
Before she knew it, a knife was thrust before her, and she found herself momentarily at a loss. Once again his arm moved forward- his large, warm hand covering her own and guiding her to the lowest layer of the great pastry, thus quelling the tremble that threatened to do both the cake and herself an injury. As one they pressed down, the blade slicing through rippling white icing, fluffy white cream and dense, brown fruitcake. What a pleasant sensation it gave! In a moment the bride, her face a picture, glanced up at her groom, whose own countenance split into the most radiant of smiles at such opulent sight.
If only they could have lingered there, suspended in that moment of comfortable intimacy and shared delight! Too soon it was stolen from them, snatched away by the rowdy cheer and clattering applause of all the guests who had gathered, unnoticed by the lady, all around the dessert. But the cutting of the cake did signal the end of the festivities, and so Margaret was grateful, and mustered the courage necessary to thank her guests for attending, and bid each one of them a polite farewell.
The guests who quit her presence moved on to her mother-in-law, and then to Mr Thornton, and so Margaret was given a rare opportunity to observe he who was now, before God and Man, her husband. She found herself struck once more, as she had been at the dinner party, by the air of authority and refinement he exuded here, in amongst his peers and even superiors. She felt keenly in that moment that in his many visits to Crampton he had perhaps felt uncomfortable, even unwelcome, and this was what had been at the root of the fractiousness she had come to believe was part and parcel of his character. She began to suspect that she had been very wrong on that score, and felt no small measure of guilt over it.
His carriage was proud and dignified, though wholly without condescension, as was so fashionable amongst the gentlemen of his age in polite London society. His manners were impeccable, his conversation forthright, and his movements powerful and precise. Margaret marvelled at the gentleness she had felt from his touch just moments before. That he seemed to have known, in the exact same moment she had, what she needed and how to give it to her. A man of such contradictions, of so many shades of darkness and light.
Then they were gone: guests, servants, even Mrs Thornton, the elder Mrs Thornton now, Margaret's mind supplied of its own accord. There was nothing but him, standing before her, his head cast to the side to look out onto the hallway to the staircase that would lead to the next, natural phase of their married life.
"Come."
Compelled, she placed her hand in his, grateful for his steady weight at her side. Truthfully, something about his touch, some microscopic or indeed spiritual thing seemed to give her the permission to feel the exhaustion that she had thus far held at bay, but now came upon her in waves. He lead her upstairs, steadying her with two hands, at both her wrist and her back.
Once at the top of the wide staircase, they journeyed to the far end of the house, through what seemed to Margaret an endless corridor. They stopped at the furthermost door, great and imposing, much like the rest of the building, but what a surprise when it opened! The room was bright, the papers on the wall lined with what looked like pink and teal florals and small hummingbirds that reminded her of the wallpapers they had chosen for the drawing room in Crampton. A fire crackled happily in the hearth, casting the beginnings of a friendly orange glow on the sparse, but homely furniture: a dressing table complete with a plush, upholstered stool; a wide chest of drawers, a circular looking-glass with an ornately carved wooden frame.
She followed Mr Thornton's indication through to an adjoining sitting room, where she found a small writing desk, a pair of end tables, and an oddly familiar set of low armchairs, upholstered in green silk and linen. Coming back through towards him, a question died on her lips as she beheld for the first time the large oak bed, bedecked with soft, inviting pillows and strewn with a coverlet- all pink and yellow roses set in amongst daintily embroidered leaves of juniper and teal.
"But these… these are mine!"
She took a turn then, running her hand along the coverlet she had touched only this morning, convinced in that instant that it had been for the very last time. And yet here it was, along with her dressing table, with her ivory brush and vanity set, and Frederick's old chest of drawers, and Mamma's armchairs. All her earthly things, all her comforting memories, brought here to welcome her into her new home.
"Mr Thornton, I…"
"It is early yet, but it has been a long day," he cut in, awkwardly clearing his throat, "I can ask Jane to bring you up a tray, if you would rather rest than come down for dinner. I hope you will be comfortable here. Please, do not hesitate to make any changes to any of the arrangements in your apartments. You can see about the rest of the house with my mother directly."
"Of… of course. What will you do?"
He was walking towards the door, and stopped in his tracks to turn and look at her, in truth for almost the first time since he had recited his vows, concealing his trembling reverence beneath a double portion of his habitual indifference. She was lovely, if slightly pale, standing in this new home, surrounded by the carefully curated space he had worked tirelessly to arrange for her, using every small detail he could think of that might bring her comfort.
"I shall take supper in my office. I have some work to go over before I retire. My chambers are just next door."
Her eyes widened as they followed his gesture to the door that separated her room from his.
"The door bolts on your side. I will have Mother send Jane up to attend you. I bid you goodnight."
She heard the door close gently, but resolutely, and the action reminded her of him. His treatment of her was exactly that: gentle, kind, attentive, but resolute- his kindness exercised at a safe distance, his protection surrounding but never actually touching her. She swallowed thickly, her mouth suddenly full of sand. How was she to bear it?
She didn't notice the servant come in until she felt the weight of her crinoline leave her, as the cumbersome vestiment was lifted over her head and scurried away to some place of safe-keeping. Jane was a gentle girl, and had a kindness about her. Indeed, as she met with the new mistress' eyes there was a flash of understanding there, of one who had also loved, and suffered cruelly for it.
Before she knew it she was sitting in her nightgown, her familiar woollen dressing gown secured over her shoulders and fastened at her waist. Her hair was down and she could see two faces in the mirror, one that looked very much like her own, though paler and more care-worn, and the other, the pointed features of the maid who was attending to her hair with the devotion of one trying to soothe an invalid.
"Master said ye'd be wanting some supper, Mis… I mean Ma'am."
Margaret cleared her throat.
"Yes. No! I mean, I would like some tea. I don't think I could eat anything just now. Thank you Jane."
"Yer' welcome Mis… Ma'am. I'll be back shortly."
True to her word Margaret felt scarcely seconds pass before the maid returned. She bore a tray laden with a fine china tea set, almost identical to the one her Aunt Shaw used in London when she received morning callers. There was also an assortment of biscuits and buns, and a small selection of sandwiches, at which Margaret's brow furrowed.
"From the Master, Ma'am. 'e said to bring ye' somethin' light in case ye' changed yer' mind, and were 'ungry after all."
Margaret nodded, noting a sudden pang in her stomach that accompanied a rather loud gurgle, as if on cue.
"I do love custard creams…" she mused, taking up one of the pale, yellow rectangles with wonder.
"Master said they were your favourite. He had cook bake 'em this mornin'."
"How did he…" began Margaret, the question dissolving in the air when she realised the impropriety of revealing her innermost thoughts to a servant in a house of which she was now mistress.
Seeming to understand, Jane set about pouring her new mistress her tea, stoking the fire and drawing the curtains across what was already a very dark, evening sky. What time was it? Margaret had no idea.
"'E's a kind man, the Master," said Jane, answering her question that had not been finished, "There's not much escapes 'is notice. 'E's ever so attentive to 'is womenfolk, and fair and just wit' all the servants. We're all very 'appy for 'im, down in the servants' 'all."
Margaret listened, gathering warmth from the soothing smoothness of the teacup she clutched in both hands, high to her cheek. She did not consider the impertinence of the servant speaking of her master, of her husband so liberally. She only thought that here, again, was further proof that the man she had married was in no way a man she could claim to know.
Jane quit the room with a polite curtsey, and Margaret was left on her own. After polishing off several sandwiches, tiredness overwhelmed her, and she set the cup down on the tray with a clatter, before stumbling to the bed frame and burrowing beneath the plush pillows and covers, revelling in the familiar scent of lavender- Dixon's secret ingredient to the laundry soap they used at Crampton.
So deep was her slumber she did not hear the floorboard outside her room creak under the heavy weight, as an ear was pressed against her door. She did not hear the low thud of footsteps, that quietened to to a shuffle when the owner removed his shoes to ensure his footfall didn't disturb her rest through the walls. She was oblivious to the large hand that pressed against the adjoining door, closed and bolted on her side of the room, just as he had said, or even the heavy sag of a weary body, as he pressed his tired brow against the thick, oak panel, and sent a silent supplication, to God or perhaps even to her, that dissolved, like so many other words unspoken, into the silence of the night.