Roses and Lace

Chapter 11

After John returned from securing the funds from Margaret's bank, he had hardly sat down with Mrs. Shaw and Margaret in the drawing room before Edith bustled himself and Margaret out of doors for the couple to go on a stroll unsupervised.

So there he was, John Thornton, walking through a small London park with dappled sunlight glowing golden through the trees, small dogs barking, various Londoners going about their business or taking their own promenades, and Margaret Hale on his arm.

Margaret Hale walking step by step beside him, her hands clasped around his arm.

Her gloved hands that he had held in his own, palm to palm, only this morning. Her breath passing over lips he had kissed.

Margaret Hale who had not only saved his business but had agreed to be his wife.

He could hardly believe it. He laid his hand over her hand where it rested on his arm and squeezed it compulsively. She looked over at him and smiled, and John felt like he could drown in her eyes.

They slowed their pace, and Margaret pulled him toward a pond just off the path. John had a sudden urge to loosen Margaret's bonnet so he could see the sun shining on her auburn hair. He settled for gently tracing his fingers over one of its satin ribbons.

"I can hardly believe that this is real," he confessed. "It's what I've wanted for so long. I never thought I would attain it."

Those eyes again. John had to remind himself to breathe.

"I've wanted this as well, John." She held his gaze long enough for him to remember exactly what it felt like to kiss her before she dropped her eyes down. "It was such a dark time when I left Milton. I lost so much there. ...And I believed that I had also lost your good favor."

"When? When did you know that you loved me?"

She smiled at the frankness of his question. "I can't say precisely when my feelings changed ... But I believe I began to realize it after the incident with that unfortunate man dying after... after you saw me with Fred at the station. I still feel almost ill when I recall how I... how I lied to the police inspector. And then knowing that you knew I had lied..." She searched his gaze. "I can't imagine what you must have thought of me. How low I must have fallen in your regard."

"Nay... I never thought poorly of you. I knew Margaret Hale must have some virtuous reason for keeping such a dread secret. ...But I was furious with you. And furious with myself. Because I was jealous."

"Jealous?" Margaret laughed softly. "Jealous of Fred?"

"How could I know? Even now, I hardly know aught of it. Tell me, then, is it true that the man was your brother?"

"...Didn't Mr. Bell tell you?"

"He tried to tell me something, but at the time I was of no mind to listen. No, it was Nicholas Higgins who mentioned that your brother had come to visit when your mother was ill."

"Nicholas?!"

"He said that his daughter Mary worked at your house for a while, and she saw things. She wasn't spreading gossip. She only told her father, and he only told me in confidence, because... well, I believe because he knew what a miserable state I was in, between your leaving and the mill closing, and he took pity on me. He's an observant man."

"Indeed! Well, it is true. Fred... Frederick Hale is my brother." She turned toward the pond spoke softly, with a pained, wistful glance. "I was the one who wrote him to beg him to come. Because I knew that my... my mother was dying, and she longed... more than anything else, she longed to see him again." She turned again to face him, speaking simply and with conviction as she always did when she had to say something difficult. "He was involved in a mutiny. As the highest ranking officer, he was the leader of the mutiny. I do believe that his cause was just, for the captain they served under was not just cruel... His wickedness not only cost the lives of several sailors and young boys but endangered the very souls of his men." She had spoken with conviction, but here she heaved a deep sigh. "But I know now, after discussing the case with Henry and going over all the evidence at our disposal, that there is almost no chance he could ever earn a pardon. If he had been caught, if that man had been successful in turning him in, then he surely would have been hanged."

Then she shivered and glanced around, as if some passerby might be listening.

John finally spoke in a low voice. "I imagined he was a lover. A soldier, perhaps, going off to serve. But you, you and your family, you carried a much heavier burden than I ever knew."

She smiled shy and squeezed his hand, then looked back over the pond and breathed deeply.

On the walk back to her home, they spoke little. There was some more teasing from Edith and Captain Shaw during dinner, but mostly the men spoke of business while Edith speculated dreamily about what sort of dress Margaret should wear for the ceremony. Aunt Shaw inquired after the needs and preferences of Mrs. Thornton and Mrs. Watson, whom she would be inviting to stay before the wedding.

Afterwards, the family contrived for the pair to have a corner of the drawing room to themselves while everyone else conversed around the piano.

John leaned in close to Margaret. "We can still head straight for Gretna Green tomorrow," he murmured in her ear.

She smiled up at him. "I do long for it," she spoke softly, and his heart skipped a beat. "I long to return to Milton. I never imagined myself saying that, but it's true." She laughed gently at herself, and John had to remind himself that her longings were naturally less carnal than his own. "I don't know what I shall do with myself with four weeks left in London, doing nothing but... sew silk roses onto garments, and I don't know what else. I'm sure Edith will instruct me," she said wryly. "...But it will be good to spend more time with Edith and the children. It will be good not to make another hasty goodbye."

"And there will be much work in getting the mill back underway. I'm afraid that even after a month I'll not have much leisure for a honeyed week, much less a honeyed moon."

"I have no desire for a grand tour. I believe I shall be happy simply to be where you are."

She had done it again. With her look, her smile, her words, the simple goodness of her heart, she had taken his breath away.

"...I shall write you, if I may," he promised. "Though I may not have much time for it, and I've never been one for romance or for poetry."

"I shall welcome any letter you send, John, and I shall write to you as well, though I may have little more to speak of than cuts of satin and lace."

"Surely you know of my deep interest in textiles."

She smiled broadly at that, and then he had to kiss her, and it was only Edith playing a loud and elaborate finale to her piano piece that brought them back to the world around them.