Thank you to all those who signalled formatting errors in this chapter. Please be kind and leave a review, otherwise it feels a lot like sending my little story out into the void!
Swiftly after the wedding, Margaret's days began to fall into a loose semblance of a pattern. She would rise at seven, and join her sister and mother-in-law for breakfast in the dining room. If Mother Thornton had callers, which more often than not she did, Margaret would sometimes briefly attend them, and thus found her gentle London manners and conversational skills called upon more often than she had expected. Lunch was a quiet affair, usually amongst the three ladies, after which Fanny took to her room to rest, and Margaret accompanied Hannah in her busywork.
It would not have been proper for a young woman still in the thick of mourning to be seen wandering about by herself, so Margaret's excursions were limited to the mill yard. She longed for the freedom to once again indulge in the long walks that took her along Milton's canal and up across the cemetery on the hill, with its adjoining park. She was hesitant even of taking a turn about the Marlborough property, as she knew she would invariably be drawn into conversation with the many workers she had grown to know and esteem. She did not know how Mr Thornton would feel about such familiarity, now that she was his wife. She strongly suspected he would not approve.
She barely saw her husband, who rose before her, and did not darken the mill house doors until dinner was usually well underway, sometimes foregoing the meal altogether. Her enquiries into his habits and need for sustenance were met with assurances that food had been sent to the mill; a tray had been prepared for his study; or that he simply wasn't hungry.
"John has always kept long hours," his mother had repeated, "you can't expect that to change just because you are here."
Margaret had felt ashamed, and had her face not been so entirely cast down, she would have noticed the hint of regret that nestled in the corners of her mother-in-law's eye.
The evenings usually found the Thornton women comfortably ensconced in the drawing room, each taken up with her own work, or reading, until it was time to retire. Twice, in the sevennight she had been in the house, Mr Thornton had joined them, briefly enquiring of all the present company how the day had been, before taking up his paper and settling himself in the large, leatherbound armchair between his mother and wife.
Margaret ached at his proximity, striving near in vain to keep her eyes trained on her work, rereading the same line over and over again until a maelstrom of feeling overwhelmed her, and she found herself forced to retire to her room. There she had collapsed into a dreamless sleep, after the maid's passage to undress and prepare her, and a lustrating ritual of tears. Keeping up the appearance of equanimity drained her, when in truth, her entire life had been upended not once, but twice in such a short space of time. She had no space to breathe. To reflect. To feel anything but a cavernous emptiness, and some primal instinct to survive this ordeal, as she had so many other hardships in her recent life.
A day or two later, just when Margaret began to fear she might run mad with a lack of fresh air and activity, she found a mysterious note beside her place at the breakfast table. She puzzled over it for a moment, the script unfamiliar to her, while her mother-in-law observed her from over her teacup.
"Well? Open it, child! Don't you want to know what yer 'usband wants with ye'?"
"Oh!" said Margaret, blushing at her own ignorance.
Fanny and Mrs Thornton watched as her eyes skimmed over the short missive. One lady curious, the other- hopeful. She had not approved of her son's approach to his marriage so far, though she did understand his reasoning. Perhaps this letter signalled that things would be different.
"Well? What does John want?" said Fanny, between bites of her jammy toast.
"He has asked me to accompany him this afternoon. We are to call at Crampton," replied Margaret warmly. A visit to her father! Just what she needed!
The minutes could scarcely tick by fast enough, and Margaret was ready a full half-hour before the specified time, and left to pace the hallway like a great, trapped animal until the clock struck the hour. She fairly bounded down the stairs at exactly the same moment as her husband exited his mill office, dragging his sleeves down his arms and replacing his frock coat. Margaret froze in her tracks. It had been a mere matter of seconds, but she had never seen a respectable man in such a state of undress before! She did not know what to make of it; the sight of that lean stretch of muscle, shaded with a fine coat of coarse-looking hair, though the heat pooling in her belly suggested she had best not think on it any longer.
Conscious of someone's scrutiny, Mr Thornton's step faltered as he looked up and beheld her, black and indefinite but altogether lovely form, coming towards him across the yard. He had received her reply in the affirmative, secretly storing the small scrap of paper preciously in his breast pocket- the first time he had ever received something written in her own hand. But he had not been prepared for her enthusiasm- coming out to meet him, dressed and ready and flushed at the prospect of an outing… and at his side at that! A small smile ghosted across his features, just long enough to see its reflection mirrored in her features, bright and warm, as she watched him approach.
Unsure of how to proceed, she nodded gracefully, a gesture he returned with a touch of the hat he had just swooped onto his head. They stood unspeaking, and she watched him as he waved to a pair of lads across the yard, who disappeared into the stables before returning with a horse and carriage in tow.
Her face fell upon seeing the vehicle. Leaving the close confines of the millhouse for the closer confines of a carriage, when the air was fresh and the sun still hung in the sky seemed like such a waste of an outing. Mr Thornton puzzled at the sudden change in her countenance, a myriad of thoughts assaulting his mind: she did not want to be shut up in a carriage with him; his carriage, though fine, was not the latest nor the most elegant model; she did not approve of such a display of wealth here, in amongst his workers and groundspeople…
"You are displeased."
He did not intend for his words, thus far the only ones he had said to her in over a day, to sound so cold, cutting even. But cold they were, strategically encased in a semblance of frosty indifference that he was convinced was necessary. He did not want to impose upon her by asking that she explain her sudden change in countenance. Nor did he want her to feel that she had to alter her sentiment in order to appease him.
"No!" said she, suddenly fearful of spoiling what promised to be an enjoyable afternoon, "Indeed, I am not. I have been looking forward to this excursion all day! It is just…" here she cast an apologetic glance in the direction of the stable boy and footman who were securing the bridle and dusting off the seats, "it is such a fine day, and I am in want of exercise. I had rather hoped we might walk to Crampton."
A warm, soft look came over his face as he beheld her, strong, lively girl that she was, and she felt quite sunburnt by it. Sensing her discomfort, and wary of his own guard slipping, he turned and dismissed the footmen with a curt gesture. Carefully, avoiding looking upon her once again, he turned and proffered his arm, which she took readily, grateful for the contact of which she had been deprived these long few days in the mill house.
"You will let me know if you are weary…"
"Yes sir. I thank you."
They made their way to Crampton, a slight awkwardness hanging between them, though anyone observing them could hardly tell. There was nothing in his features that gave away the sense of elation he felt at having Margaret walking beside him, his wife, his very own, and yet his figure stood a little taller, his chest protruded a little higher, and his posture was more erect for it. The lady herself, delighted as she was to be out of the house and moving her limbs, wore a look of bashful contentment on her face. Starved of affection she had been, to receive such kindness and intimacy from her husband, and the promise of an audience with her much beloved father, was a boon to her senses, and a tonic to her weary spirits.
Margaret's steps sped up as they rounded the corner that allowed for the small, Crampton house to come into sight. In truth, this new pace suited Thornton, who had had to shorten his usual lengthy stride in order to allow her to keep up with him. It gave him satisfaction to know this excursion pleased her, and he himself looked forward to calling on his old tutor, now officially a father of sorts.
He had never considered the maid, Dixon, with much warmth, but her enthusiastic greeting of Margaret pleased him so much that he could almost forgive the unsavoury curl of her lip when she caught his presence so close behind. The door closed, Margaret seemed perfectly at home once again, taking his hat and other accoutrements from him, and beckoning him upstairs as if he alone was the visitor, and not the both of them.
They found Mr Hale sitting in the parlour, an open book lying forgotten against his chest, staring absently out the window. Margaret stopped in the doorway, struck by the downcast aspect of her father, before instinct propelled her towards him, to gently take to her knees at his side. Thornton's brow creased with concern. Old Mr Hale did not look at all well.
"Papa!" said Margaret, her tone taking on a coaxing lilt he knew she used only for her father, "It is me, Margaret. I have come with Mr Thornton. We have come to see you."
Mr Hale roused, as if from a slumber, and looked at his daughter, taking a few moments before registering the face he saw before him.
"Margaret my pet! You have come! You have come!"
He pressed his hand against her cheek, and she leaned in to his touch, clasping her own pale hand on top of his. From where he stood in the doorway, witnessing this moment of private affection, Thornton felt like an intruder. Yet he could not tear himself away. Not when he had gone days without hearing a complete sentence from her lips. Weeks, without hearing such a depth of feeling in her voice.
"And John? Where is John? Has he sent you here without him? It isn't proper, Margaret, to go out unaccompanied during your time of mourning…"
"I am here, Mr Hale," said John, coming forward, "please, do not trouble yourself."
He bent to shake the older man's hand.
"John! I have missed you! Come, let us have some tea, and conversation! Things have been terribly quiet, you know? Sit down, sit down! Margaret, ring for Dixon to bring the tea!"
Dixon brought the tea, which Margaret served, and soon the two men were deep in conversation. Margaret was content to watch them and wait on them, replenishing their tea and plates with Dixon's cocoa-nut cakes, though she ate none of her own. Her father remarked on it.
"Are you not hungry, Margaret?"
"No, Father. And I always feel Dixon's cocoa-nut cakes improve with time. I much prefer them a day or two after they have been baked. They are much firmer, much more satisfying. A perfect bedtime morsel!"
Her father laughed, well aware of his daughter's penchant for sweet treats. The sound was infectious to Margaret, who tittered, before catching Mr Thornton's penetrating gaze, and looking away with a blush. She then set herself to taking every opportunity to imbibe her father's presence: the sound of his voice, the gentle movements of his hands, the small twinkles and smiles he sent her way from time to time.
After a moment she excused herself, and padded across the landing to her father's study. She had run out of reading material, having borrowed a handful of Fanny's novellas that had proved as quickly read as they had assuredly been written. She took her time perusing the titles, most of which she knew by heart, though she had not read half of them. A generous pile had soon gathered on the side table, which she took up with some difficulty, and carried back into the parlour.
"What's all this?"
"I was wondering, Father," she began, knocking the door closed with her hip, a movement which raised both John's eyebrows and his temperature in equal measure, "if I could take some books back with me to Marlborough Mills. We spend our evenings much as we did here in Crampton, and I feel I would like to have something interesting to distra… to read."
"Of course, my child! Take what you like! You can always return them when you next come to visit."
Mr Hale shot a kind but imploring look at John, who took note. He had been remiss not to visit in the days after Margaret's removal. The old reverend had evidently been lonely.
Margaret, too, looked at her husband, but it was a curious expression he had not seen before. She had set four books apart from the pile, and held a hand pressed down against the topmost one, an hesitant look about her as she waited for his response. Instinctively he nodded, and she seemed easier for it, taking up the four books and placing them in a basket she had also brought forth from the other room.
Too soon their pleasant interlude was at an end, and they found themselves bidding Mr Hale goodbye, promising to return at the same time next week. Downstairs, Margaret looked for her husband, who disappeared for a moment, then returned holding a mysterious parcel in his hand. Instinctively she handed him his hat and outer coat, and had turned to unhook her bonnet, when she felt the silk warmth of her black indian shawl being draped across her shoulders. She turned to find her husband holding her bonnet out to her- he must have retrieved it a moment before she had come downstairs. With a small smile by way of thank you, she followed him out the door, taking his arm again once they had reached the bottom of the steps.
They had barely advanced two steps when a familiar, dark haired girl crossed their path, evidently having left from the servant's entrance at the back of the house.
"Mary!" cried Margaret, taking the girl into her arms in a warm embrace, "I thought we had missed you!"
"Aye miss!" said the lass, "I forgot me shawl. The's a right chill n' th' air, so I thought I'd best go back n' fetch it."
"I'm glad you did. How are you, Mary? How is Bessie?"
If Margaret noticed the way the young girls eyes skittered between herself and the imposing Master at her side, she did not show it. It had not, however, escaped Thornton's notice.
"She's 'oldin' up as bes' sh'can," cut in a thick darkshire accent, coming up behind them.
"Nicholas!" cried Margaret, taking up the grubby man's hand with obvious affection, "Oh, how good it is to see you both!"
"Miss… Measter," said Higgins, nodding in Thornton's direction.
"Oh, Mr Thornton, forgive me! This is Mary Higgins, she works for my family, helping Dixon in the house. Mary, this is Mr… my husband, Mr Thornton. And this is Mary's Father, Nicholas…"
"I know who you are," said Thornton, his voice tight.
Higgins held his scowl a few moment's longer, and to Margaret it almost seemed that he enjoyed the challenge he found there. She felt terribly uncomfortable- such an awkward interview taking place, out in the street of all places! But she had missed her friends, and she had worried for Bessy, so she would take the time to learn how her sickly friend was faring.
"Has the coughing soothed at all?" she asked, casting a glance at John.
"No, nor is it likely t'. N' wit' th' change in th' season, she's likely t' 'ave an even 'arder time o' it."
"I am sorry, Nicholas. Is there anything that can be done?"
"I thank ye', lass. Ye were always a good friend t' our Bess. I daresay she'd welcome a visit from ye', when 'tis proper, when yer time s'over, that is."
He chanced a look at Thornton, expecting an outburst of temper, or some show of strength at least, but none came. Indeed, the Master had the most curious look about him as he watched his wife, listening keenly to everything that was being said, apparently taking a great interest.
As they took their leave, the hostility had all but dissolved in the Master's demeanour. He even touched the brim of his hat to Mary, which left Higgins puzzled and amused in equal measure. Perhaps this marriage he had worried over was a good thing. Perhaps Miss Margaret might rub off on the old bulldog, and not the other way around.
They walked in silence the rest of the way home, though Margaret's mind was so occupied she hardly noticed. Only when they had left the bounds of Crampton did Mr Thornton's question cut through her thoughts.
"Mr Higgins' daughter is ill?"
"Yes." she said, taking a moment to come back to the present, "His eldest daughter Bessy suffers from a harsh cough and a… well a sort of weakness of the lungs. She says it is common amongst those who have been exposed to cotton fluff from a young age."
"Brown lung. Very common. Terrible illness."
A moment's silence once more. Margaret pondered many things: the sympathy in Mr Thornton's voice; the state of his own lungs; the unfairness of it all…
"And she is your friend?"
"Yes. A very dear friend. I daresay the dearest I have in Milton. I wish I could see her. But she is too ill to be moved. And I…"
Her face fell, and Mr Thornton nodded at her silence, comprehending what she said, as well as what she did not.
"I am sorry."
Margaret looked away just in time for a stray tear to fall just beyond Mr Thornton's sight. She gathered herself together, nodding briskly, as they continued on their way.
She saw very little of Mr Thornton for the rest of the day, as he was gone from dinner both that evening and the next. She felt his absence keenly, as if their short excursion had somehow brought some sort of closeness between them, though Margaret knew it was hardly the case. She tried not to think of it overmuch, keeping busy in the day and looking forward to the evening when she might retire to her room, with a cup of tea and attend to her now, nightly ritual of crying before sleep- the natural outpouring of grief, loneliness and exhaustion.
Yet tonight, as Jane appeared with her habitual tea tray and small biscuit selection, she found herself interrupted in her nighttime routine, and suddenly no longer so disposed to shedding her usual tears. For there on the fine china plate sat a foursome of pale, crumbly biscuits, shaped in almost perfect circles, giving off the most heady aroma of sugar, and vanilla, and coconut flakes.