JUST FOR ONE DAY

Chapter Two

It was a short while later that John slowly trailed out of the church and into the cold light of day. With a slow and solemn pace, he made sure to delay and remain behind at the back of a dreary procession of mourners, all so that he could linger in the margins while he deferred and assessed the scene, the loyal lover keeping an eye on his lady to ensure that she was well…well, as well as she could be.

As he ventured into the squall of the icy winter air, the weather suitably downcast to epitomise the tone of the day, the bitter breeze nipped at the exposed skin of his cheeks, causing John to grumble in affronted irritation, the master unaccustomed to letting any element, whether it be man or nature, get the better of him. However, with a gloomy glower, John could admit that such grit may have once been the mettle of this man bred from hearty Milton stock, but not now, not now that his hard shell of apathy had been cracked asunder by a certain someone whose goodness and grace had proceeded to leak into the fissures of his broken soul and awaken it anew, setting it alight with the warmth of bittersweet love. She was a creature not of this world, one who had managed to do the unthinkable, and with just one look, one word, one touch, she had burrowed beneath his skin, her very existence niggling him like a constant itch, igniting a feverish fire in his veins that all the oceans of all the earth could never hope to extinguish.

John smiled to himself, a small and secret smile that only those who have ever loved fondly and fiercely can appreciate.

God! She was his treasure and his torment in equivalent value, but he would not change her, not for anything.

As he fiddled with the brim of his hat and twisted it round and round in his hands, at a loss of what to do next, lest he draw attention to his unwarranted postponing, John soon stood tall and straight with his eyes narrowed perceptively as he observed his tutor. Mr Hale staggered in the near distance, the man's unsteady hand with its knobbly knuckles coming to rest on the mound of soil that marked his dearly departed wife's grave. With a twinge of empathy strumming at the chords of his conscience, John was about to go to his friend and see what modest assistance he could offer, but before he had taken one step, his undertaking was suspended as another preceded him and went to Mr Hale's aid.

With his heart galloping like an Ascot stallion in his masculine breast, John schooled his features into a mask of reserved indifference, his eyes being the only window into his soul as he watched her from afar while she glided across the mucky ground like an angel, his darling girl as strong and selfless as ever.

And oh Lord save him, how he admired her for it.

With his head hung low as if he were inspecting a stray strand of cotton fluff on the cuff of his sleeve, John's dilated eyes skimmed up to inspect the wholesome sight of a young daughter taking her elderly father by the arm and patting it, a familiar action which he gawked at with an ugly rumble of mean jealousy bloating in his gut, the venom of which made him feel sick to his stomach with shame. Without so much as shedding a single tear for herself, her comportment being one of elegant dignity, the noble woman whispered a few sweet words of confidential consolation to the man, who then progressed to look up and smile at her affectionately, before himself shambling away to God knows where.

At the sight of this, John frowned, since in normal circumstances, there was nothing wrong with the concept of a young woman performing the role of crutch to her aged father, indeed, such a thing was to be commended. But still, John did not like it, no, no sir, for it bothered him more than he could say to think that Margaret, far from being allowed to be a grief-stricken child in her own right, would no doubt be expected to carry the weight of her family's worries and be an unwavering pillar of fortitude day and night, the foundations of her courage not permitted to wobble, not one bit, lest the whole Hale household crumble to dust. No, she would be alone, abandoned without a shoulder to cry on, since she had no defender to champion her cause, no partner, nobody who could help her through her grief and guide her into the light of a new dawn of hope which breaks after night is over.

As Margaret's velvety hands wrung in agitated disquiet, John found himself stiffening and turning rigid, the man fighting the overwhelming urge which surged throughout his body to march across the graveyard and gather Margaret up into his arms without a care in the world for what anybody said or thought. There he would shelter her in the stalwart sheath of his constant love, and John would never let her go, since his arms were surely made and measured to be her home.

But John merely cast his aspirations to the wind and snarled like a disfigured dog who had been mutilated by the savage lance of Cupid's arrow.

It was no good! She had said no, so there was nothing he could do.

Rearing his head, John saw that Margaret now stood by herself, oh-so-very alone, and he felt a stab of anguish pierce his heart to see her petite body begin to tremble like the stem of a durable yet delicate flower, but whether it be from the cheerless hostility of the gale or the tempest of her own emotions, he could not be sure. Either way, it provoked a sense of protective vexation in John, making him want to impulsively shed his coat and place it around her shoulders, all the while rubbing his hands thereabouts and muttering soothing promises of happier days to come into her ear, the ardour of his vows burning hot with such an intense passion that the heat of his breath and oath alike would surely warm her through and through.

No, it would not do, he could not behave so wantonly, she would not thank him for it, and so, standing there in the frosty November morn, John may have looked like his stern and unruffled self as he remained rooted to the spot, but beneath the surface of those still waters, his every fibre was howling out in protest at not being permitted the chance, nay the right, to be beside the woman he loved. If he could do it, if she would welcome his service and his suit, John would offer Margaret his hand in an instant, all so that he might lead her away from this sorry place and pledge her his home, his homage, and his heart, a trilogy of loyal affection that he would dedicate to her alone, himself her willing servant, committing his every waking breath to making her feel safe and satisfied, for all the days of her life.

John was about to do this, to give way to his impulsive and irrational passions, but the master bristled, suddenly aware that he was no longer a solitary statue discreetly positioned on the outskirts of a graveyard, since he now had company, his concerned brooding having acquired an unwelcome witness.

With his stooped head rearing, John saw that it was Mr Bell who had come to idly loiter beside him, the gentleman infuriatingly prim with his opulent suit from his pretentious Savile Row tailors. In normal circumstances, the master had little time for his landlord, given that he considered him a sly sort of fellow with more cheek and craftiness in his little finger than John had in all of his six feet of build and brawn. Parting the thin line of his lips, he decided to be bold in conversation, something which he did not want to do, but damn it, there were things he just had to know, and after all, Bell was the best person to petition for such familiar information.

Returning his perturbed gaze to the ground, John made a show of putting on his gloves, an uncomfortable new pair that he had purchased lately, his preferred set having gone missing most mysteriously, the garments refusing to turn up, no matter how high and low he hunted like a wolf sniffing out a scent.

'How are they? Miss Hale and her father?' he queried with formal irrelevance, the man doing everything he could to come across as appropriately detached to those of whom he spoke, opposed to what he truly was, and that was utterly devoted.

On heeding his question, Mr Bell paused, and when he did this, a faint smile creased the corners of his lips. Indeed, John's assessment of Mr Bell had been correct, or that is, it had been accurate to a certain degree. There was no denying that Mr Bell was a shrewd character, and for his sins, he could admit that he was also a tad sneaky in his impishness. But alas, unfeeling he was not, especially when it came to those of whom he was partial, and Margaret, well, she was a most singular and superior woman, and so his fondness for her knew no match.

In the interval of uncomfortable hush that passed between them, Mr Bell considered what to say since he had not missed the way that Thornton had mentioned Miss Hale before her father in his appeal to learn of her welfare, nor had he failed to spy the way that the master had spent most of the service staring at the handsome young lady with blatant and somewhat brazen longing.

With his slithers of silver streaking his greying hair, Mr Bell was a man of the world, much more so than his inoffensively oblivious friend, Hale. As a result, it had not escaped the notice of the wily fox that Miss Hale, the shy southern girl with her unpretentious beauty and charming benevolence, had managed, without any effort at all, so it would seem, to catch the curious attention of none other than Milton's most eligible, yet stubbornly solitary bachelor, the woman affecting the cage of his ribs to rattle, awakening the sleeping heart within.

Over the past few months since the Hale's arrival in the town, Mr Bell had spotted the way Margaret and Thornton had been with each other, their relationship gradually intensifying with each excitable encounter. He had witnessed the clumsy exchanges, lingering handshakes, coy glances, and heated spats, all tell-tale signs of a couple firmly in the grips of impassioned love, and, let us be honest, a simmering firestorm of lust too.

Nevertheless, Mr Bell had thought on this, he had thought on this most carefully indeed, for as much as he appreciated the attributes of his Oxford chum, he could concede that the man was completely useless when it came to understanding women, least of all his dear daughter. Therefore, in a bid to care for her like a surrogate father, an uncle perhaps, the childless dandy had decided to take a marked interest in Margaret's wellbeing and do what he could to ensure that she was well cared for in this world. She was, after all, not wealthy or connected, and she was overtly independent, all qualities that the lively fellow admired, yet it gave him much cause for concern to realise that these characteristics may well put the unworldly girl in the path of less than desirable people, men to be precise. Consequently, determined that his god-daughter should marry well and find a match that was not only advantageous but also one borne of sincere respect and regard, Mr Bell had been keeping his eye on Margaret and Thornton for some time. As luck would have it, after a lengthy consultation with his own discerning sense of judgement, he had ascertained that their attachment was not merely one of superficial and smitten attraction but was the real stuff of poets, the sort of love that should not be disregarded or denied, even by the pair themselves.

Then again, there had been that day…that day when he had passed Thornton on the street, his sculpted features like thunder, the man clearly lost in his own world, one which Mr Bell had no wish to trespass upon, not when it cast such a bitter chill about the place. And there had been the way Margaret had flinched and flushed at the mention of the master's name and the knowledge that he had sent a generous basket of fruit and other delicacies, his handwritten note one of earnest thoughtfulness. It had been then, in that moment, that Mr Bell had pieced the picture together and realised that their romance had come to a head, but regrettably, it would appear that all was not well between them, a speculation which had been confirmed when he witnessed their strained meeting on the street the following day.

And so, with the future of young love in jeopardy, the old romantic in Mr Bell was resolved to fix it, even if it was the last thing he did before…

Never mind all that nonsense now.

Returning his attention to the present and to his conversational companion, a serious fellow who was deflated in spirit by the awkward unease that afflicts a man who finds himself unexpectedly head over heels in unreciprocated love, Mr Bell, ever the amateur thespian, adopted the minor yet significant, (make of that what you will), role of meddlesome matchmaker.

Inhaling a generous whiff of the frigid northern air, Mr Bell did his utmost to sound gallingly nonchalant. 'As well as can be expected,' he said truthfully, although he knew full well that his vague response would irk his tenant, the glower which shadowed the man's face proving him right and affording him a shameful degree of amusement. Then, feeling a ripple of puckishness tickle his fancy, he added, 'Don't worry, Thornton, they have many people to look after them,' the pointed ambiguity of which was too scrumptious to describe as it bounced off his tongue.

Mr Bell observed the way his friend knitted his eyebrows, the dear man always so severe looking, which was a shame really, since his features were terribly fetching under the guise of all that sullen scowling…if only the lad would smile every now and again. Well dang it, Mr Bell was determined that before the day was out, he was going to give Thornton cause to grin from cheek to cheek, but the question was…how to play it?

'If there is anything I can do?' John solicited, and again, Mr Bell could detect the palpable tone of earnest sincerity ruminate from his core, the poor soul clearly desperate to care for Miss Hale, but sadly, not being her betrothed, he had no such reason or right to do so.

Mr Bell nodded. 'Everything's taken care of,' he puffed matter-of-factly as he leaned on his cane, the disagreeable cramp that was his hush-hush illness upsetting his organs.

'Well… not a great turnout, to be sure,' he sniffed with the gripe of one who has been personally snubbed. 'The aunt is travelling in Italy, unfortunately,' he went on, resentful of the way that woman seemed to have all the time in the world for gallivanting, but not a second to spare for her dead sister and grieving niece.

Then, with a rascally glint in his eyes, he slipped in one more outwardly harmless comment, but one which he felt sure would hit the mark and make Thornton sit up and pay attention. 'I'm surprised Lennox didn't turn up, though,' he affixed as a seemingly casual afterthought, his roguish features beaming to detect the way that Thornton's jaw constricted, his shoulders hardened, and his eyes darkened. Prickling, the master loomed larger than ever in the way that all men do when they are squaring up to an adversary, but in this case, the besotted man's nemesis was an invisible foe, and his name was Lennox, an alternative and much more appropriate suitor on paper.

But not feeling satisfied with his teasing, Mr Bell opted to stir the pot of his love-tonic potion a little further and expounded, 'Henry Lennox. Closely connected to the family. He's a lawyer. I hear he takes an interest.'

John grimaced, and through the gritted clench of his pearly teeth, he cursed his rival. 'Yes, I know of him,' he seethed, recalling the day the London gentleman had humiliated him in public and tried to cut him down to size, the lawyer with his brains and breeding evidently offended that a lowly tradesman like John could ever dare to dream of wooing and wedding a woman as fine as Margaret Hale. John felt the hot coals of anger bubble and blister away inside him. What a rogue Lennox was! It was one thing having that smug scoundrel looking down his nose at him, John had put up with such pig-headed snobbery before, and would doubtless do so again. No, what he could not stand, what really got his blood boiling, was the way that the cad had behaved so possessively towards Margaret, as if he had some sort of grasping claim to her, almost as if she were a prize to be won, an object to be owned.

Hell!

Did the devil not know that she was no trophy, but a person in her own right? One who ought to be treasured and not controlled or constrained like some sort of mindless doll to dress up and dictate to. What was worse, John could just see a rake like Lennox slowly squashing Margaret's self-governing spirit and crushing it over time, conditioning her until she was no more than a dull bauble to be dangled upon the arm of her husband like a pretty ornament who could not think or feel for herself, her sole function to perform her part as a parrot who mimicked her man's will. John felt ill. No! Not Margaret, not that regal woman who should never have her wings clipped, this rare bird who ought to be set free, and if her husband treated her right, and if she truly loved him as he did her, then this seraph would return to him, for that choice was hers to make of her own free will.

No, John knew that money could not buy Margaret, nor would prestige or power sway her affections, since nothing could persuade her to give her hand away and gift her heart to a man other than the most profound of love. Yes, Margaret was a person, and a precious one at that, one whom neither man of north nor south could ever hope to be worthy of calling wife.

But then again…Lennox was not the man John had seen…no…it had not been him she was with that night.

As John was mulling over these most weighty thoughts, Mr Bell was studying him, and he grinned to himself to see the embers of genuine warmth which blazed behind the young man's eyes at the very thought of Margaret. You see, one may be forgiven for thinking that Mr Bell was behaving most diabolically, without mercy even, but in actual fact, that would be an unwarranted vilification. The truth is that the scholar was no fool, and as a result, he knew exactly what he was doing, and that was reminding Thornton of what he had to lose if he did not get a move on and marry Margaret before some other jammy sod slipped a ring on her finger. At any rate, Mr Bell was about to continue, but then all of a sudden, he felt a sting of contrition nit-pick at his scruples, for far from looking narked by the mention of Lennox, Thornton looked downright miserable.

Had he gone too far?

Crinkling his weather-beaten temple, the gentleman attempted to remedy his faux pas. 'But you can be sure I'll let you know if your help is needed,' he assured a brooding John, and then, just as he was about to leave, Mr Bell turned back to say one final thing.

Clearing his throat, he announced with the impression of a true friend offering a comrade some sage and sincere advice, 'You know, Thornton, you could always go and ask them yourself,' he suggested. And then, tapping the mill master on the arm, he leant in closer, and with a fraternal murmur, he concluded, 'I know she'd appreciate that.'

And with that, Adam Bell tapped his hat, winked, and was gone.