JUST FOR ONE DAY

Chapter Four

There they stood, facing each other head-on, the expanse of the physical room a gulf which could easily be breached in comparison to the inner void of psychological misunderstanding and mistrust which now separated their split souls. They were two halves of the same vital spirit, a force which strained and screamed in torment to be allowed to unite as one, a connection they craved, finally allowing them to mate with their one and only mate, and at last, be whole.

With their eyes locked on one another in a state of stubborn deadlock, they were like two animals on the verge of battle, neither willing to withdraw and accept shameful defeat, yet neither prepared to suffer a further slur inflicted mercilessly at the hands of their opponent, a beast that was beautiful, yet oh-so brutal, with their words which maimed more violently than any tooth or claw ever could. Both of their hearts were now battered and bruised most pitifully, marred by the scars of vicious wounds wreaked by the only person in the whole world who possessed the power to truly hurt them.

But no more, no more….enough.

At last, John found his voice, and with a feral growl that asphyxiated his gullet, he announced: 'If my presence offends you so, Miss Hale, then I will go,' his words oozing with the festering pus of hurt and humiliation, a putrid ulcer of pain which was putrefying his lucidity and rotting his very core, the woman before him his only cure, an angel who refused to relieve his agony and be his antidote, his saving grace.

As John declared his imminent intention to depart, something flickered behind Margaret's eyes, her composure wavering for just the briefest of fleeting flashes, and momentarily thrown from his stance of self-preserving animosity, John could have sworn it was disappointment he saw lurking there, but no, surely not. It was so swift in its vanishing, that he could hardly capture it, sharp as his senses were, but it had been there, and if it had lasted even a fraction longer, that expression of regret would have exposed Margaret and given her away, telling him that his miserable assumptions about her reaction to his company this day were wrong, oh-so-very wrong.

But you know, those in love are hot-headed, their faculties are not so finely attuned, their thoughts too readily occupied with their own internal rants and rages, irrational creatures that they are. It is a kind of lovesick selfishness which is oddly counterproductive, as by looking inwardly to scrutinise their own strife, they often inconsiderately neglect to think of anything and anyone other than themselves.

Ironic, really.

Therefore, they sadly often miss what is right before their eyes, staring them right in the face, for their vision is clouded by the fog of emotive foolishness, or in simpler words, sheer stupidity.

Tragic, really.

Jutting up her chin so that she looked down her nose at him, Margaret sniffed loudly, a glassy film creeping across her eyes like evasive veils that separated her from anyone who might hope to look inside and see the true feelings that she harboured beneath her outer guise of indifference, a shell which was beginning to crack. Margaret did not wish to gaze upon him like this, she was not so spiteful, but being befuddled in the clutches of her current mentality, a mindset which was overshadowed by gloomy emptiness, she felt like she had no other way of asserting her fortitude. You see, for Margaret, the idea of Mr Thornton seeing her so frail, so small in comparison to his own unshakable strength, it was the final straw on this already dispiriting day that had robbed her of so much.

Well, she would not let him confiscate the only thing Margaret had left, her hope, for that was hers to cling onto and cherish, not his to take away.

'If that is what you want,' she replied with a cold and curt retort, her head held high in all its stately dignity, although, if you were to pay attention, you could see that regal crown of hers trembled, for Margaret's gentle heart was not really committed to this façade of apathy at all.

John glared at her. The kind of glare so rancid in its hostility that it could curdle milk while still in a cow.

How dare she turn all of this around on him! What he wanted? Ba! This had nothing to do with what he wanted, since when had she ever cared a fig for him or his wishes? No, John knew what this was all about.

It was obvious.

She was obvious.

It was offensively obscene.

She wanted to be left alone, all so that she might receive…him.

John could feel his temper rising within and whipping up like a fearsome storm. Yes, that was it. She was waiting for her man, the villain John had seen at the station that night, the fiend who had taken an immoral liberty and lured their innocent Margaret, ─ (yes, "their," since John was not letting go of her just yet, and so, he still held onto his moral right to love her, just as much as any man), out in the dead of night and embrace her so, so – so damned intimately! John could feel his fists scrunching, the tiny bones in his knuckles groaning as they turned an eerie white.

John could swing for that heinous rogue! Never in his whole life had he hated anybody more than that man, and what was laughably absurd about the whole thing, was that John did not even know his God-dammed name. How dare he?! How dare he subject Margaret to scandal? How dare he subject her to scorn? Did he not know what his irresponsible actions would do to her? Did he not appreciate that he was leaving the woman he had been lucky enough to persuade into his arms, open to debasement by acting so dissolutely?

And Margaret, what of her?

Oh, God! John felt bilious as the repellent churn of something foul curdled away in him, cooking up his insecure fears afresh. This was it, this was the problem, the very thing which had gone round and round in his head until he was so dizzy he could retch. The question was…how culpable had Margaret been? Had she been forced out that evening? Had she been manipulated or manhandled in some way? Had the man bullied her? Bribed her? Bought her, even? I see you shake your sceptical head, but these were not unreasonable insinuations for the shrewd master to make. John knew that the Hales were in reduced circumstances, so had the man somehow got a scheming hold over Margaret, and as a result, she felt unable to say no? Surely the blackguard must be some sort of vulture, since John, ever the honest and honourable gentleman, could not conceive how somebody who loved Margaret, who truly cared for her welfare, could gamble with her virtue so casually.

So, the difficulty of this uncertainty came to John again. Had Margaret wanted to be there with him?

And why so late? It had all been most peculiar. John could only think of one reason. If they had gone in the day, then yes, they may have drawn attention to their affiliation, their assignation. However, to go at night, under the concealing cloak of darkness, that was risky, but it would have afforded them a greater degree of privacy. Still, to feel the need, the want, to do such a reckless thing, there could only have been one reason…

NO!

It could not be!

Margaret was not spoiled. She was not corrupted by such earthly things as all that. She was pure. She was wholesome. She was ─ she was…John's heart sighed…

…She was Margaret.

But then…why?

And why there? Why a train station, of all places? That had been the strangest part of all. Why would a furtive pair choose a public place that had incessant footfall, even at midnight? It meant that anybody could stumble upon and discover them, something which John himself had done, much to his regret. It had been curiously far from Crampton, so why had they felt the need to go to Outwood at all? Had she been saying goodbye to the gentleman? I sense you pause and furrow your brow in confusion at this remark, but gentleman is and was the right term, for even John, consumed by envy as he was, could tell that the man had the bearing of a gentle man, even if his conduct had been far removed from gentility. At any rate, if it was all above board, then why could Margaret not have said her fond farewell at her house? Would she really miss him so much that she felt obliged to go all the way to the station with him? What a risky and somewhat puerile decision, a characteristic that was not in Margaret's nature at all.

Then again, could it be that she had wanted to run away with him? That would explain the location. John turned ashen, a paler hue than even his beloved cotton. Heaven forbid it. John could see the horror unfold before him, and the very thought nearly made the master let out a guttural moan of distress. He could imagine it now. The devil would have enticed her to come with him by means of sweet promises of a life of unblemished love, (Milton being a squalid perdition that would surely only pollute her happiness), only to use and abuse Margaret, before casting her aside and abandoning her while he moved onto his next unsuspecting victim. And oh, Margaret! His darling girl. What would become of her? She would be alone, misplaced, probably too ashamed to come home, and even though John would hunt high and low for her across every inch of this despicable world, not resting until she was found, it would be no use. After John had brought Margaret back with him, keeping her safe and sound in the shelter of his own arms, her new and protective sanctuary of a home, it would perhaps then all be too late, and she would already be lost, not just to him, but to herself also.

No.

Margaret was wise. She would not elope like that. She would not leave her father and mother, not Margaret, not this abidingly dutiful woman and devoted daughter who perpetually put the needs of others before her own.

So then, what had it all been about?

John snarled.

There was still one problem.

As much as he wanted to avoid this dilemma, despite all his obsessive rationalising, John could not get away from the one outstanding piece of evidence which proved Margaret's feelings for the man.

And that had been the way she had looked at him.

John knew that look all too well since it was how he gazed at her every time she was not sneering at him in return. It was a look of enduring devotion, and no matter how many times he tried to banish it from his mind, he could not negate the fact that whoever that man was, whatever he meant to Margaret, she truly, truly loved him.

So that was that.

That must have been why Margaret was so troubled to find her undesirable visitor standing before her this afternoon. It was not sorrow but frustration which had riled her this day at the sight of him, her uninvited mill master, the unfavourable contender for her hand and heart. John's presence must have been a nuisance to Margaret, his attention unsolicited, his affection unwelcome, his aid unwanted, and so, she was asking him to leave. And being Margaret, her decree was far from polite, but punishing.

Well, so be it!

John would go, he would go now, and he would not be back, not ever again, since he refused to stay where he was not wanted. What was more, as much as he genuinely valued Mr Hale's friendship, the truth was that John had long since stopped coming to this house for the sake of his lessons. While the pursuit of his scholastic enlightenment may have once been the uneducated master's driving force, he now found that it meant nothing to him at all, not when the only reason he really came, the only reason he really did anything these days, was to be close to her.

But damn it! – Margaret had never felt so far away as she did this day!

Scoffing, John spun on his heels and made to escape this pitiable spectacle, but before he had even reached the door, he came to a grinding halt, his whole body, immense form that it was, juddering at the sudden cessation, and there he hesitated, his figure stooped in the frame of the doorway like a menacing spectre.

Margaret, who had been doing everything she could to convincingly feign a lack of concern for his demonstrative movements, found her bleary eyes darting up to the side so that she might secretly watch him.

What was he doing?

Her heart was beating so rapidly in her chest that Margaret could hardly focus, her whole mind a haze. It was so raucous as it thrashed against her bones, so violent in its laborious pace, that it was a wonder Mr Thornton could not hear her faithful heart call out to him. Margaret was not herself today. If truth be told, she had been at a loss of what to do from the moment she had first discerned his attendance not five minutes before.

Goodness, had it only been five minutes?

The grieving woman had been shocked to see the master standing there, silently watching her while she wept, that much was true, since she had assumed that he would never come here again, not after everything that had passed between them. It had been an unfortunate ugliness, most of which had been of her own making, Margaret was sorry to say. Mr Thornton, he was an upright man, one who did not look kindly upon those who insulted his highly esteemed principles of decency and discretion. Consequently, what must he think of her, first for sullying them, and then for acting like such a silly little fool for crying like a babe?

How he must hate her.

So, why was he here then?

Margaret felt her heartache in sorrow, the little ball of muscle attempting to hide away behind her ribs, too ashamed in its youthful innocence to face him, and as her most vital organ did the impossible and struggled to flee from its immovable stance, much like a soldier deserting his post to avoid the bloodshed that would surely come, she felt her whole being throb in anguish.

She was no fool. She knew why he was here.

There was only one reason why he would be.

And, God save Margaret, it near enough killed her!

Margaret was about to speak, but to say what, she knew not, and how to put it, she knew even less. However, before she got the chance, the woman who was not accustomed to being muzzled, was in fact hushed by the loudest and most impressive sound that had ever struck her ears.

'NO!' came a brash boom, one that was so ferocious, Margaret jumped back, several feet, actually, almost tripping over her skirts.

The air around them seemed to shudder in fright at the clang of the harsh and heavy rumble of his solitary syllable, but then it vanished, the coarse vibrations of his impassioned northern twang evaporating like the roar of thunder dissipating over the stoic hills of Darkshire.

Then, there was nothing, the echo of their beating hearts all that was left to bear witness to this scene.

Licking her lips in a most unladylike way, since all the moisture thereabouts had deserted her when she had involuntarily sucked in her breath moments before, Margaret's voice vacillated. 'Excuse me?' she asked, her oration terribly quiet, the woman all too aware that she had just echoed the same phrase he himself had used in bewildered dismay on that very day of which she could not bring herself to mention.

But her visitor merely shook his head aggressively, his neck fretting that it would topple off its thick perch.

'No!' he repeated, his dispirited manner now bearing testimony to the exhaustion which dogged the worn-out master, his tenor so low that Margaret worried his throat would grouse in scratchy discontent, and it did, for John could hardly stomach saying that word to her, not when every minuscule fragment of his being had been made with the sole intent of serving her.

Facing away from Margaret, John screwed up his eyes and cussed under his breath, because he knew that what he was about to do would no doubt defame him in her eyes still further, but the devil take him, it had to be said, it had to be done. Gradually, ever so slowly, he turned, and Margaret was forced to clasp a hand to her abdomen just to stop herself from collapsing at the sight of his marred countenance, that handsome face that was so full of affliction that her heart shattered, since you see, she could never endure to see anybody sad, not a single one of God's creatures, but oh my, how much worse it was when it was somebody you lo ─

…When it was somebody who mattered to you.

John swallowed. 'No,' he issued one more time. 'It is not what I want,' he proclaimed gruffly, his head lowered so that his heavy-lidded eyes were hooded, the weight of his emotions weighing them down like shutters of lead.

Then, much to her surprise, John abruptly grabbed hold of a large wooden chair, and dragging it across the floor with no effort at all, he deposited it squarely in front of the door, a partition which he now closed with one resolute swing of his arm, cutting them off from the outside world, just as he had done on that fateful morning only a few weeks before.

Only this time, he would not walk away from her.

Keeping his eyes securely fixed upon Margaret's face, just so that he might read and study every changing twitch of her unfairly beautiful visage, John lowered himself so that he was seated, and with his elbows resting on his knees, he leaned forwards.

Margaret tried to catch her breath. 'Wh─what are you doing?' she questioned, a curious chill sneaking up her spine and making her tingle. It was thrilling.

John huffed. 'As much as it injures my pride to admit it to one who clearly abhors my presence, but you are wrong, Miss Hale, I do not want to go,…I want to stay.'

Margaret gulped.

John eyed her curiously from beneath the obscurity of his depressed eyes, his appearance oddly savage and soft all at once, almost like a wolf who sat at the feet of his Achilles, a beast that could only be tamed by one master.

Why was he doing this, one may ask?

He had his reasons.

If John was right, then Margaret was waiting for her…her…he could not bring himself to say lover, the word choking him like poison. If Margaret's friend was expected, then surely he would turn up, and in doing so, by falling into the master's trap, John would confront him and force the cad to take responsibility for what he had done. Do not misunderstand, because the idea of actively assisting another man in having Margaret for his own was something which John reviled more than mere words can express, but he would rather die than see her unhappy. Therefore, if compelling this man to accept his role as her partner was what she wanted, John would have to settle for being her protector, and if marrying that reprobate brought Margaret sincere joy, then God help him, John would be dragging him down the aisle. Not that it would likely make an honest man out of him, but John would be there, always, to make sure her undeserving husband did right by her, even if it killed him to watch, his own desires and dreams destroyed.

So, in this excruciating interval, while he waited for his rival to come knocking, John had some work to do, and that involved learning the truth from Margaret once and for all, no matter what unpleasant shape or form it took.

John had thought about this, he had thought about it long and hard.

There were only two outcomes.

One, he had been right all along.

It may be that as much as John loathed accepting such a verdict, perhaps what he had seen at the station had been exactly what it looked like. It was possible that Margaret really had become embroiled with another man, and, either through coercion or affection, she had behaved wantonly with him.

John vomited in his mouth.

But wait! There was another option.

Two, he had been wrong all along.

John had gone over that disturbing scene time and time again, even though it upset him to do so, his mind begging him to stop and give up for the sake of his already unravelling sanity. Every horrendous time he raked it across the coals, he tried to discern new clues and piece together alternative facts, all in a desperate bid to acquit Margaret of her indiscretion. For all he knew, she had good reason to be there, and the bond the master had witnessed between man and woman that night had been friendly and not libidinous, the entire state of affairs harmless. Yes, the hour had been late, their clothing dark, their demeanour guarded, all quantifiable traits which smacked of guilt. What was more, their startled expressions had told him that they had wished to remain hidden and bemoaned being caught, but in reality, the objective magistrate in John knew that all of these details were circumstantial, and none of them necessarily proved that they were doing anything wrong.

John felt the sapling of hope blossom in his breast.

Lost in the all-consuming uproar of his own muddled thoughts, John hardly noticed the way Margaret was watching him. While John had been busy worrying about his own concerns, he had neglected to discern the clout his declaration had cast over Margaret, of how his determination to remain had both frightened and fascinated her.

'Then stay,' she whispered at long last, her invitation piercing the stifled air between them, and John's head shot up. With the edges of his lips jerking upwards, the master felt a tiny sprout of optimism begin to take root and unfurl in his gut, because somewhere in her words, buried deep, there was a slither of something, call it what you will, and it effected upon him the birth of a silver lining in his disillusioned heart. It was something John had never heard Margaret utter to him before, and it was the sound of gladness thrumming the strings of her sweet southern lilt.

Could it be that she wanted him to stay?

John was about to reply, but he paused as Margaret's eyelashes were doused in a wave of fresh tears, and as she crumpled her eyes tightly shut as if in distress, the prospect of those lovely lakes of mesmerising blue disappearing from sight was nearly enough to make him cry out in protest.

'Just…please do not say it,' Margaret beseeched, her teeth biting down on her bottom lip to stop it from wobbling of its own dissenting accord. She said this with a whimper so weak that it broke his heart since John could not stand to hear his valiant girl, this warrior of a woman, so enervated. 'I beg you, do not speak of it.'

John was dumbfounded.

'I do not understand,' was all he could expel, his throat tightening as his head and heart fought each other, his passion and his perspicacity wrestling one another like competitors in a ring, only one of them being allowed to claim victory over him, autocracy over his next actions, their spoils. They tugged him in two conflicting directions, one side judicious, imploring him to stand back and adhere to the manacles of respectability, the other pleading with him to give way to his itching compulsion and go to her, to comfort her, his only fear being that he might smother Margaret with his overwhelming love. Feeling his body convulse under this indecision, John could sense himself shaking, his sagacity now at war with itself.

John was puzzled. 'Do not say what?' he checked. 'What may I not talk of?'

Love.

'What do you forbid me to say?'

That I do love.

'What can you not bear to hear?'

That I am in love with you.

'Is it…is it what I feel…about you?' he queried wretchedly, his words tainted with the bitter aftertaste of hurt and humiliation, a disconcerting flavour that was always on his tongue when around her.

And always will be.

And, much to his horror, Margaret nodded.