Roses and Lace
Chapter 12
Edith and Aunt Shaw gave Margaret a full day to herself after John Thornton left for Milton. Margaret was able to keep to her room while she sat by her window and ruminated on every moment she had spent with him, every word, every touch. Even Dixon only peeped in on her and for once kept her comments to herself, merely casting brooding looks at her young mistress while taking trays of food in or out.
Margaret remembered the feeling of his lips against hers. Her boldness in earning his gift of the Helstone roses. She blushed and wrapped her arms around herself. How it had felt to be held in arms. The slow, quiet certainty of his smile. Something so tender in his look and his touch, for all that she knew him to have enormous strength of character and determination.
She had believed him to be a hard man, and he was a hard man. Firm in his convictions. Uncompromising. Harsh and strict. But also willing to learn and willing to concede and possessed of a pure and gentle heart.
And that heart, his heart, was hers for the taking. She knew that now. His love was constant and true, and for her part Margaret had grown to love him with her whole heart.
She almost couldn't bear to wait to see him again, to see his face, hear his voice, feel his touch.
How dull London seemed to her, for all its music and gaiety, and how good it would be to be reunited with her friends in dreary grey Milton.
She was even looking forward to seeing Mrs. Thornton and Fanny, almost as much as she was dreading it. To have refused Mr. Thornton once only to change her mind... Mrs. Thornton would surely having something to say about that. But Margaret felt confident that with time the older woman would come to see how much Margaret truly loved her son.
If only Bessy were alive. Margaret would have relished the chance to speak with her friend before her wedding. She could only imagine the sly, teasing remarks Bessy would have made at Margaret of all people coming to fancy the stern yet oh so marriageable master of Marlborough Mills. And then she would have fallen into a moment of wistful quiet, perhaps regretting the chance to have her own beau, before the wracking cough took her breath and and shook her body and went on and on and on... If only Bessy could have had the strength and health to become a bride herself, some day.
But Bessy was gone, and her parents were gone, and how strange it would be to walk those familiar streets as John Thornton's wife.
The very next morning, when Margaret came down to breakfast, as if she couldn't hold it in a moment longer, Edith beset her with urgent questions related to gowns and flowers and colors and trimmings.
"It really is unnecessary, Edith. You know that I have already acquired almost an entirely new wardrobe since I came out of mourning, one that is more than adequately fine and to my tastes. I really have no need for a new gown."
Edith heaved a great sigh. "Very well, Margaret. Indeed, with such haste there is hardly time to craft a proper wedding gown," she added with a pointed look. "But think of your trousseau! Margaret, it must be really fine. You will never have another time such as this! And I would wager that you have not a single garment already prepared for this purpose."
Margaret blushed. Indeed, she had never been the sort of girl to yearn and prepare for an imaginary suitor. And in the short time since her engagement to Mr. Thornton, she had not even thought about what she would wear in the... in their bedroom.
She could feel heat creeping up her neck and to her cheeks, and there was Edith, sweet and simple Edith, just watching her with a raised eyebrow.
Edith, already married and mother of two children.
"Is it really necessary?" Margaret asked in a small voice.
"Yes. It is a symbol of what you bring to the marriage."
Margaret looked at her askance. She sincerely doubted that underwear and nightgowns would be the epitome of her marital contributions, but Edith was still talking.
"...you must have something lovely and new. Something special. And if nothing else, it will keep you occupied. Otherwise you will spend the entirety of the next few weeks doing nothing but sitting in your room or going on walks, and reading and writing love notes, and sighing, and it simply will not do."
Margaret did sigh at that. "Very well."
"Just so!" And then Edith paused in contemplation. "You know... It still seems rather plain to me compared to silk, but with enough lace... what do you think about cotton?"
"Well, I... I believe that would be appropriate. And I suppose I could write to Mr... to John's mother, Mrs. Thornton, for her advice."
"Margaret, you blush just to say his name," Edith remarked with a gentle smile, and then she sighed her own sigh. "Oh dear. At least Milton isn't so very far away."