The next morning Margaret awoke to find a tea tray gone cold on her bedside table, and the heady thrum of the mill yard already well under way. It took her a moment to remember where she was, how she had got there, and what she was going to do about it, but when she did, she rose, washed and dressed. She did not want to give her mother-in-law any more faults to add to her laundry list of her own personal defects.
She found the dining room empty, with the remnants of a hot breakfast service almost completely cleared away by the servants. She took note that if she wanted to participate in family meals it would appear she would need to rise considerably earlier than she was wont. She grabbed a piece of toast from the rack, and was poking about for the butter when her search was interrupted by the sound of voices raised in tension in the next room.
"It isn't right, John! You know as well as I if the servants know, it's only a matter of time before the whole of Milton is talking about it!"
"This is none of anyone's business, not yours, or anyone beyond Miss Hale and myself!"
"Well you made it my business, when you decided to marry the girl! What am I to think? Did she refuse you?"
"She is in mourning. Surely you would not have me impose upon her under the circumstances?"
"No…" the stern lady's voice conceded, "no I would not. But I would not have you taken for a fool, and trapped into a sham marriage for the sake of a pretty face."
"I thank you for your faith in me..."
"I know you to be a man of honour, John! But I cannot forget that the girl was seen in a midnight assignation with another man! Clean bed linens will only fuel more rumours on that score!"
"You know as well as I, the verdict on the Leonards case was that Miss Hale was not at the station that night. It is unlike you to hand on the tittle-tattle of servants, Mother. Or would you also question my word as a magistrate?"
A silence signalled that her answer was in the negative.
"We both know why I married Miss Hale, Mother. I promised her father she would be given every consideration and comfort. My wife is in mourning. Now is not the time for her to be concerned with anything else."
Margaret started as the piece of toast landed on the floor beside her, jam-side down, splattering her clean taffeta skirt. She had not meant to eavesdrop, assuredly, as much as mother and son had not intended for their conversation to be overheard. But overheard it had been, and Margaret felt a hot throb of shame come over her, colouring her from her head to her toes.
In truth she had barely considered the immediate implications of her marriage, beyond her removal to Marlborough House and her change in last name. It had stung to hear Mr Thornton, her husband, twice refer to her by her maiden name, although she could not determine exactly why that would be.
She blushed furiously as she tried to imagine the act to which both Mother and Son had been referring. To lie with Mr Thornton- who could imagine such a thing? Why, the act alone seemed a complete mystery to Margaret, to whom a handshake or a proffered arm had only recently seemed intimate almost to the point of scandal. But the fact remained, now that she thought of it, that she had been remiss in her wifely duties, and that Mr Thornton had not even attempted to exercise his rights as a husband. Nay, there had scarce been even a look between them- if anything he had seemed impatient to be rid of her… although no, that was not quite fair. He had noticed her fatigue, steadied her when her steps had faltered. And of course, had arranged her living quarters so thoughtfully that she could not deny the kindness that spoke of the man behind the presence of every object she found there.
She bent to retrieve what remained of her breakfast, when beside her a door was flung open, and in marched Hannah Thornton, a veritable storm of black taffeta and lace. Throwing a chair back, she sank silently onto it, taking up a basket that had been placed on the dining table, and pulling the accessories for needlework out of it with some vigour.
"Goodmorning," ventured Margaret, after a moment's hesitation.
Mrs Thornton jumped, dropping her needle and clutching the edge of the table cloth.
"Good grief, Miss Hale! You startled me! What do ye' mean by lurking about the place like a vagabond thief in the night?"
"Forgive me," said Margaret, "I did not mean to alarm you. Are you quite recovered?"
The girl's gentle tones brought the matriarch back to her senses, and she looked upon her, taking in the clean sweep of her black dress (save the spots of jam that mottled the bottom of the skirt), the tidiness of her hair, and the evenness of her expression. And she was displeased.
"I am, thank you. I am surprised to see you down here. It is customary for newly married women to take breakfast on a tray. Though I expect, in your case, perhaps you do not feel the need for a few extra hours of rest this morning."
Margaret's complexion turned from milk-white to beetroot-red in an instant. She hung her head. Overhearing their conversation was one thing, being abused to her face about her failures was another.
But Margaret was not usually one to quail in the face of confrontation, and she determined right then and there that this unfamiliar situation was to be no exception. Taking her courage in her hands, she gave her response.
"You are right, of course Mrs Thornton. I have no need for rest this morning, as I slept completely alone and unmolested, as is fitting for these early days of my mourning period. I am grateful to Mr Thornton for his great courtesy and understanding at this trying time."
Mrs Thornton was not so easily bested. Assuredly not by this shallow slip of a girl, however she may have succeeded in getting her claws into her son.
"I expect, then, you'll have no desire to acquaint yourself with the household affairs, or make any changes to the decorations or menu? Since you are, as you say, still to be in mourning for quite some time."
She quirked an eyebrow in challenge, assuming the girl would show her hand, and reveal her ambitions to take her position as mistress of the house.
"Absolutely," said Margaret without guile, "I have no wish to disturb what I can only describe as the efficient running of this household, or commandeer any renovations when I can see none that need to be made. I would be grateful if you would continue as you did before my arrival, as I can only hope to learn from you as to how to best manage Mr Thornton's home."
She had said the above in complete sincerity, and yet felt a distinct satisfaction at the sudden abashed look that flashed across the elder Mrs Thornton's face. After an enquiry as to whether she wished to be accompanied in her needlework, Margaret escaped to her bedroom, requesting lunch on a tray, and only coming back downstairs in time for dinner much later that evening.
The atmosphere in the dining room had not much improved since the morning, but Margaret was grateful to note that there were four places set, which meant that her new sister-in-law Fanny would be joining them, which might prove diverting. She had scarce seen her since before their betrothal, though she felt sure she had heard her shrill voice tittering from somewhere within the house during the day.
There was a moment's awkwardness as Mrs Thornton entered the room and froze, evidently surprised to see Margaret there. Returning Margaret's bow with a stiff approximation of her own, she swept past to seat herself at the far side of the table, and gestured to Margaret that she should sit opposite. Cautiously, Margaret lowered herself into the chair. There was a calm in Mrs Thornton's eye, pragmatic woman that she was, that signalled something of an end to the hostilities.
Just then Fanny came into the room, a flurry of skirts and chatter, though she appeared unaccompanied. She stopped short, gaping, her eyes falling upon Margaret sitting in her Mother's habitual place at the right hand of John.
"Mother! Miss Hale is in your seat!"
Margaret did not miss the whites of her mother-in-law's eyes as she made no attempt to conceal the contemptuous rolling of her eyes.
"As is natural, Fanny. She is John's wife now, and mistress of this household. And she is no longer Miss Hale."
Fanny pursed her lips, and went to seat herself beside her mother, all the while watching Margaret with an air of distrust.
"About that, Mrs Thornton," began Margaret, feeling emboldened by what she could only assume was a rather dry olive branch from her mother-in-law, "I feel it might be confusing for us to both be Mrs Thornton about the house…"
"You would reject the honour of bearing my son's name?" Hannah cried.
"No! It is a worthy name! I am indeed honoured to bear it! But for convenience's sake, should we not determine a manner in which we might be addressed differently between us?"
Hannah thought on this a moment.
"Perhaps we might call you Margaret, when not in company. I daresay you might call me Hannah."
"I do not think I could manage that!" confessed Margaret, "it would feel disrespectful, somehow. I've never called a relative who is my senior by their christian name."
"Mother Thornton, then."
A gurgling, choking sound erupted from Fanny, who had just taken her first sip of wine, and was now struggling to keep it inside of her.
Margaret smiled. "Mother Thornton it is!"
The first course of their meal, a clear soup with expertly baked bread, passed in companionable silence. Margaret hardly noticed her husband's absence until she heard the front door thud open, and seconds later, he swept into the room.
"Sorry I'm late, Mother," said he, his voice a low rumble that set something in Margaret's breast to fluttering. He straightened from pressing a kiss to his mother's forehead, and stopped, stock still, upon observing Margaret sitting not a metre from him, observing him with an odd sort of blush about her cheeks.
"Miss… Ma… Forgive me, I had not expected you would join us for dinner. I would have come earlier."
"It is no trouble," said she, swallowing thickly, "I see no reason why I should continue to take my meals in my room."
He hesitated for a moment, glancing between his wife's seat, and his mother's. He looked to her, and Margaret observed a curious thing: an entire conversation telegraphed between the two of them, the twitch of his brow answered by a slight shake of her head; a tightening of his eyes, a slight purse of her lips. Communication so intimate they had no need of words. Margaret sighed. Mothers and sons.
John forewent his first course, and soon the small family was tucking into a sumptuous roast beef, complete with parsnips and carrots, and most excellent boiled potatoes. Margaret savoured every morsel. She had not realised how famished she was.
She noted with interest that all three Thorntons finished their meal right down to the last crumb- her husband even breaking off a crust of bread to mop up what was left of the beef sauce. Margaret, as was her habit, had left a carrot and half a potato in her plate. In London, and with her mother in Helstone, it was always considered the height of bad manners to finish one's meal completely. But now she longed to, and would have relished a second serving, if anyone had offered it.
"Is the meal not to your liking, Miss… Margaret?" asked Hannah stiffly.
"Oh no!" she replied, "it is most delicious!"
"Then why aren't you finishing it?"
"I…" Margaret hesitated, fearful of causing offence. Then again, thus far her mother-in-law had been civil. Perhaps she too could make an attempt at northern candour.
"In my Aunt's house, on Harley Street, we were taught to always leave something in our plate. Aunt Shaw said that to finish one's meal entirely implied an unladylike voraciousness of appetite, and signalled to the host that their repast had not been sufficient to quell one's hunger."
To her right, she heard Fanny gasp, and set down the last bit of parsnip she had been about to pop into her mouth.
She chanced a glance at the present company. John was chewing thoughtfully, not looking in her direction. Hannah had fixed her with a most curious, disapproving look, which Margaret instantly understood.
"Wasteful airs and graces!"
"I quite agree!" agreed Margaret, "I am grateful to my Aunt Shaw, she was in many ways like a mother to me, but I confess I often found myself chafing under that particular rule. I always left the table so hungry!"
She speared the remaining vegetables with determination and ate them, stopping short of imitating her husband and mopping up her sauce with her bread. Instead she was content to butter the crust that remained on her plate, and pop it into her mouth emphatically.
"Then perhaps you would like some more?" said Hannah, gesturing to the butler, "John, have another helping. I like to see young people eat well. It is a sure sign of a healthful constitution."
Margaret smiled at her mother-in-law, and the butler as he piled her plate high once more. For an instant her gaze met with John's, and she found a curious look of wonder there. It did not hold, however, as he broke away and firmly turned his attention to his own heaving plate once more.
Margaret sighed, bereft of the meagre attention, nay, acknowledgement from her husband. She caught an expectant look from across the table, and tucked into her second portion, satisfied at the slight quirk in the corner of her mother-in-law's mouth. At least there was one Thornton warming to her.
The feeling of victory waned as she made her way up to her bed chamber. Pleasant as it was, at night the room felt large and empty. She found herself longing for company, any company, and stalling even when Jane arrived, feigning a need of this or that just to have the warmth of some human interaction once more. Yet once undressed and washed, watered and prepared, she knew she would have to face the long stretch of night ahead of her. Margaret had often worried she would prove to be a coward, but at this junction in her small, overturned life, she could not help the tears that overwhelmed her- tears without object beyond her exhaustion, nervous tension and great, gaping loneliness.
That night, the first of many, she cried herself to sleep.