JUST FOR ONE DAY

Chapter Five

It was like a knife to his heart.

No! It was like a hundred knives to his heart.

No, no, no, it was like a thousand knives to his heart, and more.

'Yes,' Margaret snivelled, the one word he longed to hear her say to him escaping her lips and causing John's sturdy knees to buckle, since not once in all of his daydreams had he imagined he would hear her say it with such unbearable sadness. His heart slammed against his chest as it tried to break free and go to her, but he had to restrain it, reminding his faithful friend that she had not said yes to what they yearned for, more than anything. In his mind's eye, she had always been happy, more than willing to say yes to his request to have and to hold her from that day forth.

'I cannot bear to hear you affirm what you think of me, about how you must feel about me now,' she went on lamely as she studied the cuffs of her dress, the lace a gift passed down from her grandmama to her own child, and now, it was Margaret's. Oh, how the inconsolable girl wished it were not, wishing with all her might that these delicate gossamers of white were still sewn upon her mother's own gown, not adorning her shroud of cheerless black. But no, her poor mama had requested that she wear it today, and so, ever the respectful daughter, Margaret had obeyed. Still, the sight of those carefully embroidered stitches was enough to unpick her own composure and leave it in tatters, each gliding stroke of the material against her wrist felt like the insensitive stab of a sewing needle to her flesh, pricking her veins.

'I have been dreading it, and even although I know the moment must surely come, now that it is here, I cannot bring myself to face it, so please…'

John was about to turn, to run away, to pretend like none of this was happening, but then suddenly ─

'…do not tell me how much you hate me.'

Not that it is possible, of course, but John could swear, that just for a moment, his heart completely stopped dead in its tracks.

As those nine words hit him, he could feel his eardrums rupture. It was as if a steamy, sticky, suffocating fluid was seeping into his mind and stinging him, waking him up, and for the first time in God knows how long, John realised what he truly had to lose if he did not cast aside his insecurities and uncertainties, and fight for the woman he loved.

'Hate you?!' he spluttered, not caring a fig for how uncouth he sounded, his body whirling round as he stared at her in wild disbelief.

Margaret merely shrugged her shoulders. 'Yes,' she said again without a qualm, her eyes downcast in some sort of forlorn emotion, but which one, a frantic John could not work out.

Dash it, Margaret! Why was she such a mystery?!

Margaret sighed and folded her hands demurely over her stomach, something she often did, and it drove John mad to see her draw unintentional attention to that small spot. It did not bother John when any other lady did such a thing, he barely noticed, but Margaret, she seemed to do it constantly, unconsciously, and it filled him with a fanatical obsession to think that she was emphasising, boasting about, if you will, the very place, the hidden haven where she would one day nurture a much-wanted babe, and that cherished child, much to his despairing woe, would not be his.

'I know why you are here,' Margaret revealed matter-of-factly, her expression once again admirably self-aggrandising, almost as if she were about to challenge him, and John, ever captivated by her magnificence, could not help but feel a bubble of excitement brew within to see her shift from looking so feeble to so gloriously fierce.

'You are here to confront me about what you saw at the station that night,' she went on, and John could see Margaret wobble slightly, her shoulders quivering, the memory of that night clearly also causing her some unease. Keeping his mouth firmly shut, John could not deny it, since that was indeed a significant part of why he had come here, and as uncomfortable as he was to admit it, he was relieved to see her so unsettled by the mention of the matter, something which gave him hope.

However, John's musings were short-lived, as his contemplations were interrupted by the sound of Margaret's next quip, her manner bearing the strident bite of a whiplash as she lashed out at him, the latest wave of grief no doubt drowning her and leaving her feeling all at sea.

'Well I am sorry to disoblige you, sir, but I find that I cannot hear your words of condemnation at this precise moment,' Margaret told him frankly, not knowing how much the man who was used to telling others what-was-what luxuriated at being mastered by her, a woman so slight, yet so stately, the disrespectful use of the word, "sir," slipping from her alluring lips causing his red blood to stir indecently.

Then, peering up at him, his soaring stature so much taller than her own, with her pastel features fluctuating between anger and despondency, Margaret concluded, 'So, please, Mr Thornton…not today.'

John shuddered from head to toe at the sincerity he heard in her tone, this certainty of Margaret's that he was here to degrade or disown her. Knocked for six, John's jaw was nearly on the floor, his eyes wide, his breathing irregular, his pulse beating so rapidly beneath his starched shirt sleeve that he felt sure his wrist would burst through the seams.

'You think…you think I am here to condemn you, Miss Hale?' he asked with blatant incredulity.

No! No, he was here to comfort her. But how could it be that she did not kno ─

'I do,' she replied without a second's hesitation, and John's ears closed themselves off since he had longed to hear her say those two words together to him with just as much conviction, this wish, something that his humble heart had harboured in secret for so long, almost since the day they had met, and the southern beauty had turned his world upside down. But Lord save him, their purpose had been very different, so sinfully sweet when Margaret had uttered those coupled words in John's fantasies, the pair of them standing facing one another, hand-in-hand while they smiled like giddy fools, the lady dressed all in white.

After pronouncing this, Margaret's legs gave way to her sorrow and she sunk down on a chair behind her. 'What I mean is…,' she started, before lifting her head and regarding him with a look he had never seen on her lovely face before. It was one of naked inhibition, and by God, John loved her for it.

'What I mean, is that I am not putting up with your censure today, Mr Thornton,' she told him sharply. 'For weeks now, you have been blowing hot and cold. You have either been angry or aloof, and it is exhausting,' she rebuked, telling him off in that way that excited him through and through, she being the only woman, nay person, who could get away with it. 'You seem to be forever cross with me and your coldness is more than I can take,' she said unhappily, her eyes glistening with the misty film of unshed tears.

The slight grin which had been entertaining John's lips at the sound of her spirited comportment soon disappeared.

Had he…had he hurt her feelings?

NO! It could not be…could it?

Could it be that in his need to protect his own sorry self from further heartache, he had in fact harmed this angel? The very one for whom his chaste heart beat? The one for whom he lived and breathed? John knew that he had kept his distance. He knew that he had seen her less, spoken to her less, smiled at her less. But had Margaret, his precious Margaret, taken that to mean…

No! He had been trying to respect her wishes by staying away. He had tried to hold back and not force his attention and affection upon her. It had been her, after all, who had forbidden him to speak of them. But then again, had he just been behaving like a petulant brat who had been denied his treat, his prize, his heart's desire?

Hmm, John wouldn't put it past himself to behave so childishly.

'I know that I deserve it, God knows I do,' she acknowledged sadly, staring down at her hands, the absence of a ring there, a symbolic circle which he yearned to place on her slender finger, a sight which engulfed John with disappointment. John's eyebrow cockled as one of Margaret's petite hands slipped to her side and patted her pocket, her fingers caressing the black material that poked out, something long but not overly wide, the infernal wonder of what it was driving him to distraction.

'I…I was not kind to you, I know that, and you have no idea how much I regret my harsh words,' Margaret admitted timidly, a tender inflection to her voice, and John observed the way her eyes darted to where her hand now rested in calm stillness, covering that same stealthy hiding place. Nevertheless, John had no time to focus on this anonymous artefact, his mind too engrossed by the fact that the woman who had rejected him was now confessing that she lamented over parts of what she had said to him.

Oh! Oh, heck! Could that mean she had changed her mind about saying no?

No, surely that was a hope too far.

But John was denied the chance to ponder this further, because Margaret was not yet done with her speech.

'I know that I was terribly wrong to say the things I did to you, unforgivably so, and you must believe me when I tell you that I did not mean them! Not one bit!' Margaret insisted, her wide eyes shining with entreaty as she stared at her father's favourite pupil from across the room. 'And I know too that you saw me at the station a week ago, and that must have looked most inappropriate,' Margaret acknowledged, her cheeks flushed, all the while John's fist crumpling to recall the memory of seeing the woman he coveted in the arms of another younger and more handsome man, and one who had clearly meant a great deal to her.

'I know how it looked, but I promise you, it is not what you think,' she told him warily, nibbling her bottom lip, that little stretch of skin in danger of being worn away altogether. 'He was not…we were not…it was not like that.'

John leaned forwards in his seat expectantly.

He was about to speak, to solicit Margaret to tell him everything, to explain to him who that man at the station was and what he meant to her, for John had to know, all so that she might put him out of his misery, for by God, the truth could surely not be as sordid as the nightmarish imaginings which hounded his subconscious.

But where to start?

'Then tell me!' he found himself saying before he had a chance to consider his words, his tone a pathetic and pleading one. 'Tell me what I saw,' he appealed.

John watched as Margaret wrinkled her nose, the unexpected passion in his manner confusing in the context of this tense interview. She had known he would be angry with her, perhaps even feeling let down by what he presumed were her moral failings and indiscreet culpabilities, but Margaret had not expected that he would behave as if her actions that night had wounded him personally, not when Mr Thornton did not truly love her.

Or did he?

No, no, of course he did not, she was silly for even fancying such a thing. Mr Thornton had asked for her hand, not because he wanted to, but because he felt he had no choice, a strict sense of duty being the backbone of his honourable character. Even although it wounded her pride to admit it, Margaret could guess that he had been relieved when she had said no, his dissatisfaction that day merely a response to her hurtful slanders. At any rate, in light of her ungrateful rebuff, his conduct towards her every day since then had been markedly distant, therefore, how could he possibly love her? Margaret sighed. How could Mr Thornton be in love with her when he could barely bring himself to look at her?

But then there had been the fruit.

But no, she should not let herself imagine such senseless things. He would not like it. Mr Thornton would not thank her for it. And Lord knew that Margaret did not want to scare him away. She could not allow herself…she would not allow herself to hope.

'I cannot,' she waned.

John's spirits plummeted.

'Why not?!' he bit back irritably, folding his arms in a huff.

Margaret squirmed in her seat like a worm on a hook. It saddened her to hide anything from him, it went against every urge she possessed, but deep down, Margaret knew that she should not tell him the truth, not just for Fred's sake, but his own. How could she claim to care for this dear man if she were willing to put his principles and his position in jeopardy by entangling him in the unholy mess that was her family's plight? No! It would not do. As much as she wanted to confide in him, it was better that Mr Thornton knew nothing because Margaret would far rather face the iciness of his derision than discredit his character by forcing a crisis of conscience upon him.

'Because it is a secret,' she professed. 'And it is not mine to tell, it is…it is another man's.'

In an instant, John was on his feet.

'Ha!' he scoffed noisily, throwing his hands up into the air, so high that Margaret was compelled to peer up, wondering whether he was a puppet being controlled by strings concealed in the rafters. 'You care a great deal for this other man, do you not?' he tested scornfully.

'Yes, I do!' she retorted hotly, the sound of her candid allegiance towards the crook ripping John's heart to shreds.

'Then why is he not here?' John demanded to know, cross-examining and challenging her like he would a defendant in the stand.

Margaret looked stunned, and for the first time since the day they had met, she looked lost for words, something which threw him more than she would ever know.

'I beg your pardon?' she breathed, since to Margaret, the question was equally unexpected as it was extraordinary. Once more, she was flummoxed by the ardent fury which he seemed to hurl about the room in a fit of self-righteous rage.

Why did he care so much?

'Where is he?' John challenged, his arms open wide as his head moved from side to side to explore his surroundings, the master searching about the room theatrically for an invisible presence, the other man of whom he spoke, the phantom who separated them, apparently nowhere to be seen. 'Why is he not here? Why is he not by your side when you need him the most? If he cared about you, he would be standing before you now,' John denounced, his itching feet edging closer and closer towards the seated woman.

Margaret's head drooped, as if the weight of the world rested upon this young woman who found her strength depleted, her will to fight on its last legs. Nevertheless, she had one thing left to fight for, and that was…

Never mind.

There was no point trying, not when he did not want her in return.

'He would if he could,' she said gently, a trace of hurt to her voice, because even although she appreciated that Mr Thornton knew not of what he spoke, the facts of the matter being concealed from him, it still pained Margaret to hear her brother disparaged so, especially when she trusted that Frederick wanted nothing more than to be by his sisters side at such a time of grief, all so that they might share in the sacred solidarity that is distinct to siblings.

'I know he wants to be here, with me, but he cannot,' she explained enigmatically. 'It is complicated,' she mumbled, embarrassingly aware of how risible her excuse came across.

Once again, John sneered, his reserves of sympathy fast running out. 'Forgive me, but I do not see what is complicated about it, Miss Hale!' he judged. 'This man for whom you risk everything, he is not even by your side in your hour of need. When you require comfort and consolation, he neglects you, yet still, you mourn him?' John ridiculed, thinking about how on the day of her mother's funeral, Margaret was bewailing the loss of some unpardonable rascal who did not deserve her, of whom her dearly departed mama would surely never have approved.

'He does not deserve your devotion, believe you me. He has deserted you, Marg ─ Miss Hale,' John corrected hurriedly. 'And yet, here I stand, willing to offer you my…'

My everything.

'To offer you my help, and you turn me away like a stray dog. Tell me, woman, is that all I am to you, an undesirable pest?' John faltered, his throat clogging. 'Well, so be it, but I am not going anywhere,' he repeated, sitting down again as he anchored himself into the chair for the long haul. 'You may not want me, and that is up to you, but that will not stop me being here for you, Miss Hale,' he declared stubbornly, folding his arms and settling down in a state of impasse.

Margaret blinked.

'Do you not have places to be?' she inquired, suddenly feeling extremely level-headed. 'The mill? The court?' she surmised, concerned by the notion that he was being held back from his business, all because he was so reliably thoughtful. Margaret knew that he was not here for her, of course he was not, it was all for her father's sake, but still, the man sitting before her would never know how much she valued his tenacious consideration. 'I do not want to trouble you…not on my account, Mr Thornton.'

John's eyes went wide as he eyed Margaret in sheer amazement, still at a loss to how she did not know precisely how he felt about her.

Fixing his regard upon her, his heart spurting at the sight of her doleful gaze, John sighed wearily. 'I am exactly where I am meant to be,' he said firmly, his northern burr steadier than she had ever heard it.

Margaret was not sure of what to make of this unanticipated explanation, but in that moment, something within her changed course, and so, to begin with, she simply nodded.

'Very well,' she blurted out. 'I shall tell you.'

John stilled. 'You will?'

'Yes,' Margaret repeated, more assuredly this time. 'I will tell you everything about the man you saw me with that night,' she affirmed. 'But not today. Today is not the right day,' she decided, feeling her maternal instincts agitate within as she thought about the lady she had laid in the ground this very morn. Dear mama. Margaret trusted that her mother would not thank her for betraying her baby boy on the day of her funeral. 'I will tell you tomorrow,' she promised, resolved that she would do just that.

'However, I tell you this,' Margaret resumed abruptly. 'That man you saw me with, while I do care for him, something I will never disavow, I do not think of him like that. I never could,' she said adamantly, a slight blush to her cheeks, and in John's case, he could not help but believe her.

'There is…there is only one man I have ever felt that way about,' Margaret added bravely, her cheeks now scarlet.

John fell back in his chair, and as he combed his fingers through his hair, he tried to take in what this meant. So, there was another reprobate who had stolen her heart, then?

Hell's Bells!

Now there were two of them? Curses! John was just about to question his companion, to demand that she tell him everything now in an impatient strop, but as it turned out, Margaret had one final thing to say to him, her concluding words enough to bring this man of formidable strength crumbling to his knees.

'I cannot thank you enough for your enduring kindness to my mother and father, and believe me when I say that I do appreciate your humanity towards them. Still, as for me, I know that you are displeased with me, Mr Thornton. I know that I have disappointed you. I know that you despise me, even. You have shown me this every day since…since that day,' she snivelled, her hand once again plucking at the pocket of her skirt.

It was true. He had been so kind. So attentive. So gentlemanly in every way, and she, well, she had thanked him by denouncing him as no gentleman at all.

For shame!

But as genuinely generous as he was, Margaret knew that none of it had been for her, because if it had, then surely he would have told her.

But it was all her fault, it was all her own stupid fault. So now, how could she ever hope to be worthy of winning the respect and adoration of a man such as he, a master among men like no other, an incomparable gentleman such as John Thornton?

Oh, for shame.

Margaret fell back against the high back of her chair and there she slumped, her faint body worn out, but this was nothing compared to the fatigue she felt in her spirit, a piece of her which had once been so avid, now shrivelled into nothingness, perhaps never to be nursed back to health.

Not unless…

No, he would not want such a task, for who would want such a vain and headstrong girl as she?

With her head lolled against the cushions and twisted to the side so that her cheek was exposed to him, Margaret closed her eyes. 'But not today, I implore you. I cannot endure it,' she said, the sight of her muted crying the most chilling vision he had ever beheld. 'So for today, I need you to be my friend…please, Mr Thornton,…just for one day.'

After she had finished her speech, Margaret's head wilted and fell onto her lap, and there, she buried it in her hands, her heart too heavy to carry her burdens anymore.

On seeing this, something inside of John snapped.

He could not stand it a moment longer, and before he knew what he was about, the master really was on his knees, because without any conscious thought, he had instinctively risen from his seat and come to kneel by her side in one swift movement. There, John lingered for a while, his arms suspended in the air and flailing about like two useless tree branches in the breeze, since he could not determine where to place them, unsure of which fringe of propriety he should land.

At last, John decided that he did not care, and bending down, he crouched by her legs, his head near her own as it lay flattened on Margaret's knees, her mood so jaded that she could not bring herself to glimpse up and take note of his astonishing proximity. And as he did this, John's eyes fell upon Margaret's skirts, and at last, he saw what she kept there, obscured by maidenly secrecy, and in that instant, it all made sense.

Oh! Good God! Could it truly be true?

Sighing to himself in sweet contentment, John could hardly bring himself to behave like a grown man, his feelings too much like an elated schoolboy on Christmas day. With a grin so broad, it was a wonder his face could contain it, John bowed even closer and whispered into her ear, his hot, feverish breath trembling.

'Miss Hale, I am sorry, but I cannot give you what you ask,' he informed her.

Margaret moaned, surprisingly vociferously, her body seized by a fit of emotional spasms. Then, all of a sudden, her head whipped up, so fast that she almost smacked John in the face, a few of her hairpins scraping his nose. Staggering backwards, still on bended knee, John was confronted by the sight of his beloved Margaret looking more than a little worse for wear, her cheeks rosy with the stain of tears, her eyes watery, her nose runny, and her pretty lips pouted into a sulk, making it near enough impossible for him not to lurch forward and kiss her there and then for being so intolerably lovely.

'Why not?!' Margaret sobbed in fractious dissent, her dispute adorably rebellious. 'Am I not good enough, even for that?' she asked, scrubbing at her face with her palm. 'Have I not earned it? I have served you tea night after night. I have listened to you talk about cotton for hours on end. I have withstood your critiques of my naive southern ways. And I have borne it well, I think, just as well as any other lady could have. So I say, Mr John Thornton, am I not worthy of your friendship, even just for one day?' she argued, and John found himself beaming with pride as his darling girl challenged him, for he would have her no other way.

After her impassioned speech, Margaret masked her face in her hands once more, only this time, she did not collapse her head upon her knees, but remained sitting upright. John was so dammed in love with her at this moment that he thought he might go mad. Reaching out a shaky hand, John touched her tenderly, first on her ring finger of all places, the initial encounter of his rough dermis against her own silky skin enough to set his soul on fire, so breath-taking as it was. As he did this, John tried to control himself, lest he give way to his tactless hankerings and scoop Margaret up in his arms there and then, such an act not only being inappropriate, but enough to scare his unworldly sweetheart away for good.

Patience, man, patience.

Cautiously, ever so gently, John cupped her head in his large hands and lifted it so that she faced him, but darn it, it was no use, for she would still not look at him, her eyes tightly closed, Margaret's shame too overwhelming to dispel that easily. Placing one unsteady hand on her back and the other at the base of her neck, John's fingers curled around the unfastened locks of her chestnut ringlets, his whole body twitching in pleasure to know her so intimately.

'Margaret,' he began, this single word so tender upon his lips that the angels of Heaven themselves could not have composed such a melody, and all at once, she relaxed in his hold, her whole body calming, almost as if it were under his spell.

John took this as a sign from above.

Rubbing soothing circles on her back, John continued in his modest hopes of wooing her. 'Take care.-If you do not speak-I shall claim you as my own in some strange presumptuous way.-Send me away at once, if I must go;-Margaret!'

Then, as carefully as he could, John turned Margaret towards him and laid her head to rest on the secure rim of his shoulder, her tears at once soaking his jacket and seeping below onto his shirt, his clothes as proud as punch at being permitted to be the ones to dry up her sorrows. However, much to his disbelief, she did not fight him, she did not complain, instead, Margaret just allowed him to care for her. It was too delicious to feel her soft cheek against his, for him to wish to see either deep blushes or loving eyes. He clasped her close. But they both kept their silence. At length, she murmured in a broken voice:

'Oh, Mr Thornton, I am not good enough!' she wailed.

'Not good enough!' he laughed. 'Don't mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness.'

'Margaret, look at me,' John requested after a period of delectable hush. Taking her head in his hands, his thumbs skimming her jaw, he studied her with such warmth of adulation that his muse could hardly breathe. 'Margaret, I love you,' he told her simply.

Margaret panted, an undignified gust of air shooting out of her mouth and causing him to blink as it hit him squarely in the face like a shot of gunpowder. Nevertheless, while Margaret flushed, John merely chuckled, the man just overjoyed to be close enough to her to be assaulted in such a way.

'So, you see, dear heart, I cannot give you my friendship for one day alone, because as it turns out, my darling, you have my friendship, my fondness, and my fierce faithfulness this day and every day, for the rest of your life, whether you wish it or not, because it is yours,' he promised her.

John took Margaret by the shoulders as his penetrating eyes trickled into the caverns of her very soul. She was lost to them, floating in an ocean of blue, awash in the bottomless depths of his passion for her. She gasped as she felt his spirit couple with her spirit, and all the emotions of his heart poured from those eyes, gushing through her every string and strand that God had used to knit Margaret together in her mother's womb.

'You…you love me?' she asked, her hand extending out to touch him, and then herself, just so he knew exactly to whom she referred.

'Aye, you heavenly creature not of this world, I do,' he confirmed, brushing his nose against hers before lightly kissing her tip. 'With all my heart.'

Margaret whimpered and hid her head against his chest, her face burrowing into a nook she found there that seemed to have been sculpted perfectly to welcome her specific shape and size. 'Oh, praise be!' she called out joyfully, near enough giggling as she coiled her fingers around the sleeves of his coat, her nails inadvertently scratching him in a way that was more delightful than any human contact John had ever before experienced. 'I cannot believe it, it is just as I prayed this morning,' she confessed.

John let out a groan to learn that while he had watched her from afar this morning, fearing that his own burning love would be forever denied, she too had wished for him, although, perhaps not quite as much, because it was impossible for another person to love somebody, anybody, as much as he treasured Margaret.

'As did I,' he professed as he nuzzled his head against her own and kissed Margaret's temple, his lips landing not far from her scar, the wisps of her hair smelling of cherries. 'As did I.'

Clasping her tight, John gently rocked Margaret in his arms as her crying gradually calmed and ceased. After a while, as he grazed his mouth against her ear, he quietly asked, 'Tell me, love, is it truly as I prayed? Will you consent to be mine? Will you be my Margaret? Just as assuredly as I am your John and always will be? Please, I must know, will you marry me, will you be my wife?'

There was a brief spell of delicious silence while John's heart raced with anxious anticipation. Then, all of a sudden, he felt his heart burst with an eruption of pride and pleasure as John heard a low yet confident reply drift into the air. 'Yes, please,' she answered.

With that, he pulled her close and wrapped his arms securely around Margaret, determined that he would never let her go again, both man and woman savouring the steady beat of their steadfast hearts.

'John,' she whispered.

'Margaret?' he responded.

Margaret opened her eyes and she gazed at his masculine breast, her palm lifting to lie against the firm flesh and bone she found there, a testament to the might of this master, her man, but not just in body, but in character too, the woman confident that he would forever be her temple of strength, her source of solace. It was indecent of her to do such a thing, but Margaret did not care, and nor did he, the two of them united now as one, never to be torn apart again.

'He was my brother.'

Margaret stilled as John did. She could not see his expression to learn of his reaction, but then, as she listened, he let out a shuddering sigh. At long last, when she heard his heart ease and slow to a steady and satisfied pace, Margaret closed her eyes again, relieved to know that he finally knew the truth, and what was more, he had accepted it, just like that, because he trusted her, he believed in her.

Just like she would always believe in him.

It was a short while later that Mr Hale, having felt contrite for forsaking both his daughter and friend, quietly made his way down the stairs towards the study. But as he was about to enter the room, he halted, because there, before him, was the most wonderful picture to behold. It was the sight of two very dear young people held firm in each other's arms, the couple not marred by misery, but hopeful with happiness.

Lifting his eyes to the Heavens, Mr Hale's grave face cracked into a soft smile as he thought about his own dear lady, an angel who was now at rest. Well, well, well, this day he may have lost a wife, but in doing so, he had gained a son, a most loving and loyal man to be sure.

Leaning against the frame, the old gentleman exhaled in liberation, reassured to know that the grief of this ordeal had sewn the seed of something serenely beautiful, for you see, death had not won, but life had prevailed, faith had flourished, and the sprouts of love had blossomed, the roots of which, no tempest could ever shake.

His son was safely back in Spain. His daughter was in love. His friend was now part of the family.

All was well in the end.

And not just for today.

But for every day, for the rest of their lives.

The End

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