STOCKINGS
(A Marriage of Inconvenience)
In the heart of Milton, a city shrouded in a cloak of smog, and where the ceaseless hum of incessant industry rumbled through narrow ginnels like the belly of a great beast, there lived John Thornton and Margaret Hale. Only, she was no longer a Hale, not really, for she too was a Thornton, not that anyone would know it to look at this particular husband and wife.
The couple, if a couple is what one can call two disconnected people, dwelled in a marriage built on the foundations of necessity, an agreement forged by circumstance rather than the fires of passion, contrived from the ashes of convenience.
Their marriage was a facade, a shelter against the storm of scandal that had threatened Margaret's good name after the incident at Outwood Station. Rumour and intrigue had sprouted as the weeks followed and the Hale's had been duly disgraced, this once modest family who nobody noticed now on the spiteful tongue of every gossip for miles.
Within this tempest of tittle-tattle, John Thornton, the stern and stoic cotton merchant, had been unable to bear hearing the woman he secretly still loved condemned with such scorn. He knew not whether the charges laid at her door with true or false, whether she was guilty or innocent, all he knew was that he felt an instinctive need to defend her. Therefore, he had stepped forward and volunteered to rescue her reputation without hesitation and without any sense of mourning for what this would mean for his own standing in the city. John had therefore told his sister, who had promptly told her servant, who had quickly told the grocer, and so on, until everyone in town knew of it, that he was the man Miss Hale had been seen embracing on the station platform late at night and quite alone. At first, nobody had been able to credit it, but then again, John Thornton was honest to a fault, so he must have been telling the truth, and given that he was honourable to a fault too, that would explain why he had chosen to bind himself to the woman he had unwisely become entangled with.
With this ensuing appendix to their hopeless love story, John often wondered whether he could cope with this indenture, for he could no more bear the light of Margaret's probable indifference than he could the harshness of the daylight, but he soon found that he could not live without her, so wed her, he would.
In the aftermath of this lie, John had taken on the role of Margaret's protector, safeguarding her from the cruel slurs of society. He concealed his heart's desires behind a wall of obligation, for she must never know how he truly felt. He could not stomach being rejected a second time. The hurt and humiliation would be too great for any man, even one as abiding as he, to shoulder. Margaret, on the other hand, felt nothing but gratitude, her heart clinging to an unprofessed ache for the man who had sacrificed his happiness for hers. She wanted to be a good wife. She wanted to show him that, while he may not have truly wanted her in his life, she would be a blessing that lifted his spirits. The only problem was that she had no idea of where to begin winning over the man who was already her husband, just as he had no idea of how to woe the woman who was already his wife.
Their situation endured an inevitable gloom, yet, still, within the caverns of their hearts, a resilient flame flickered bold and bright. A flame of unspoken words, stolen glances, and the echoing cadence of emotions that dared not speak their name. Loneliness, love and longing were engraved in invisible ink upon the contract of their union. All around them, the tall chimneys of the many factories that stretched high into the skyline cast shadows on their lives as they navigated the complex and often clumsy waltz of their strange association.
As the months passed following their wedding day, winter inevitably rolled in over the Darkshire hills. Solitude, an unwelcome companion, was a third member of their marriage. The vast expanse of the misunderstandings between them seemed wider than the span of the universe, a space where yearning stretched its tendrils across the long dining room table to where they both sat in silence night after night. Nonetheless, as the evenings turned cold and dark, their home was a refuge, a sanctuary where the resonances of their desires ghosted the halls, and they each held close to their separate yet shared dreams, dreams that were too fragile to be spoken, like delicate snowflakes that melt upon contact with the hint of warmth.
When December arrived, it cast a magical aura upon the world and with it came a semblance of hope. A thin layer of frost painted the city in glistening white, softening the fringes of the harsh industrial landscape. Christmas Eve draped the city in an ethereal radiance, the icy air biting at the edges of their souls.
On that very night, John and Margaret, each in their isolation, felt a child-like excitement envelop them, and, unknown to one another, they soon began to make their own, secretive plans to bestow upon the other as a token of affection, a gesture wrapped in the custom of generations. The hour was late when they both sat on the floors of their dispersed bed chambers and busied themselves with brown paper, string and ribbons, a fond smile entertaining their countenance, all before reaching for their feet and dragging off one sock each.
Draped in the obscurity of their intentions, they both tiptoed along the corridor just as the clock was about to strike midnight, the blinking shudder of two single candles casting shadows that danced closer and closer like coupled spirits. Then, suddenly, as they were preoccupied with their private thoughts, they collided in the dimness, a gasp escaping Margaret's lips and a muttered grumble erupting from John's.
"What are you doing out here?" came John's voice, a gruff question tinged with suspicion that cut through the darkness.
Margaret, startled, her small toe aching from being stepped on, replied in a cross whisper, "I could ask you the same question."
It was then, in the joint bewilderment of their clandestine missions, that the truth slowly emerged as their eyes grew accustomed to the faint light. The realisation dawned upon them like the first light of day, gentle and illuminating. They stood in the passageway, barefoot and clad in no more than their sightings, two souls entangled in the enigma of shared secrets, begging to break free. In hushed whispers, they unravelled the mystery, only to discover that their actions mirrored each other's. They had both planned to leave a stocking at the end of their spouse's bed, their own knitted socks filled with trinkets of affection, a tradition passed down by both their grandparents when they were young, a tradition they clung to in the hopes of weaving a fibre of connection between them, something more profound than mere responsibility.
Their eyes met, and as a mutual amusement swayed between them, the tension of the moment dissolved into combined laughter.
He spoke with slow deliberation—
"It seems we have the same idea, wife," John confessed, a rare smile gracing his lips.
Margaret, too, chuckled sweetly. "So it does, husband," she concurred. "Perhaps we are not so very different, at heart," she suggested with a blush and droop of her eyes to the floor.
He nodded. "Shall we...shall we open them together?" he invited with a trembling shyness.
"Oh, yes please," Margaret replied, her head jutting up and nodding keenly.
They were about to decide on what to and where to go, the parlour seeming the most appropriate place, but on seeing Margaret shiver in her nightdress, John offered her to come to his room and bask in the warmth of the fire. At first, she was surprised, taken aback by this offer of intimacy, even if it simply meant being in the same room alone at night, but she soon agreed without hesitation.
With an unuttered agreement, they walked side-by-side to the master bedroom, stockings in hand, the weight of unexpressed emotions palpable. The room, tenderly caressed by the glow of candlelight, became a haven for the unsaid, a canvas upon which the poetry of their hearts unfolded.
Sitting on the end of her husband's bed, as if it was the most natural place in all the world for her to be, the wife unwrapped a delicate pair of earrings that matched her blue evening dress and a set of cotton gloves woven at the mill. In turn, John traced the lines of a thick scarf that would warm her in the winter chill and a book of poems written by a man from Milton who had raised himself from nothing to become a widely respected writer. As they surveyed their thoughtful gifts, they timidly glanced at each other, and for a fleeting second, the barriers between them crumbled. The room, which glinted restlessly by the light of the lively fire, seemed to hold its breath as if savouring the sensitive bonding of two twinned hearts.
As appreciation and warmth swirled about them, they found themselves on the precipice of vulnerability, unsure of what to say or do, utterly lost for guidance on how to adequately express how they felt. In the quivering twinkle of love's awakening, Margaret's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and John, strong to the last, found his heart tethered to hers in a faithful promise that no man or hardship could sever.
"Thank you," Margaret murmured, her voice a graceful melody that delighted his ears. He knew what she meant, and that that she was thanking him for so much more than what he had given her tonight, but thanking him for giving her his home, his hand and his heart.
John, his gaze unwavering, reached out to stroke her cheek, his fingers tingling as her eyelashes trembled to feel his touch, and huskily breathed, "No, thank you."
She had nothing to be thankful for, after all. She had agreed to marry him and had been true to her word in every way, every day. John knew he cared not for riches or power, for everything he wanted, everything he needed, was right before him.
"Do you feel at home here?" he asked hopefully, praying that she could, one day, feel content, even proud, to live her life by his side.
Margaret nodded slowly, a glistening tear trickling down and splashing his hand.
"I have a notion," Margaret spoke in a voice that trembled with unvoiced emotions, "that his heart is turned towards home already."
In that instant, John could not help himself. He leaned forward and pulled her to him in a passionate hold, her arms reaching out to encircle him in turn. And there they sat, for longer than they could say, entwined in an ardent embrace.
In the hushed awe of the moment, they both wordlessly moved up the bed, lifted the sheets, and crawled beneath, their toes sweeping to rub their stockings that also rested together. The night deepened, and the chill of winter settled over the city like a quiet benediction, but in their marital bed, the coldness of duty melted into the warmth of shared peace. They need not talk tonight, they would talk in the morning, this Christmas miracle expressing everything that needed to be said for now. In the humble exchange of gifts, they discovered the depth of their interwoven history – offerings that were a testament to understanding, of conversations that had transpired a hundred times over, if only they had paid attention. With an unspoken accord, they nestled into the covers, the space between them narrowing until their souls touched in the intimate poetry. The bed, once a chasm of loneliness, became a sanctuary for two hearts yearning to beat as one. In the tender darkness, they lay side by side, a silent acknowledgement passing between them.
As the clock ticked away the hours of Christmas Eve, the city of Milton slept, unaware of the romance blossoming within its heart. The world outside thundered with a hunger for self-interest, but within the cocoon of their marriage, John Thornton and Margaret Thornton discovered the essence of something more meaningful: love returned.
His arms were around her; each hand held the other. He looked down into her eyes, and there was a quizzical light in them, and a laughter—a pale, watery gleam of mirth.
With a tender embrace, they succumbed to the pull of slumber, the starkness of the night softened by the warmth of their interlaced bodies. As they drifted into dreams, a new chapter unfolded, the first pages of a love story written in the placid prose of their hearts.
And so, in the serenity of this Christmas night, love unfolded its wings, soaring above the smog-laden city and fluttering all the way to the Milton moon.