RIBBONS

The Thornton Tales

My Dearest Edith…

John lay back against the pillows on the bed and smiled with smug contentment. Lost in a daze of lazy-hazy serenity, his calloused thumb languidly browsed up and down a length of silken trimming which his wife had placed in his hands shortly before, bidding her husband to inspect it carefully and give his honest opinion. But for the life of him, John could not bring himself to care about a boring old ribbon.

How can any man be expected to pay attention to something so trivial when he had a woman like Margaret Hale – no, Thornton (he really could not believe that was her name), to capture and captivate his every hungry sense?

Lounging back further on their bed, sinking into its soft folds, John burrowed his arm behind his head and fixed his gaze upon her with unreserved fascination. It was a Sunday afternoon in early December, and despite the festive snow which festooned the bracing world outside, inside Marlborough House, one would hardly know it was winter at all.

I do so wish that I could come and visit you and Sholto in London, Eadie, I truly do, but John will not hear of it, he refuses to even contemplate the notion. He really does get himself awfully fractious on my behalf, my gentle giant, fussing all about me constantly, so much so that I rather worry about him too, for it grieves me to imagine that glorious mane of black hair turning grey before its time with all his fretting…

John's right eyebrow contracted just a fraction to the upper left, much like a fish on a line, this twitch happening at the precise moment he caught his wife smirking to herself, a private joke no doubt, one which was most likely about him, so he dare not enquire, for the less he knew about the witticisms the sharp-witted womenfolk in his life quipped about him, the better.

As he studied her, Margaret's hand flying nimbly back and forth across the page as she wrote a letter to her cousin at the desk, John spotted the way her free hand unconsciously rose to itch the back of her neck, her fingers unsettling the idle wisps of russet tendrils that dangled there, insubordinate strands that were too short to pin, an enthralling spot of precision on her person that he stared at often. As Margaret's lithe fingers skimmed her nape, they disturbed a droplet of sweat, a tiny ball of moisture that she punctured with her nail, affecting the condensation to trickle down and disappear behind the collar of her dress and out of sight.

John shuffled restlessly in place, oddly aroused by this minuscule phenomenon which held no relevance, nor indeed would it boast any true attraction to anybody other than him, but when it came to Margaret, every unassuming move she made had the power to bewitch her husband, body and soul.

At any rate, as he had been thinking, one would hardly know that they were entering into the depths of the year's sleepy rest, one filled with darkened hours and icy winds, not when their home was as hot as a summer house, the heat so intense that it had forced John to remove his cravat, then his coat, then his waistcoat, finally inducing him to unbutton the top half of his shirt, his dampened skin crying out for the refreshment of cool air.

You know that he never tells me what to do, he has never once tried to influence me, not in all these nine months, even though he is used to getting his own way as a master. Indeed, despite him being a man of such inherent force, both in character and form, he has treated me like a queen, he is my most humble and obedient servant. But bless him, I do not think John could control me, even if he wanted to. In fact, I should like to see him try. Still, he will insist on me staying home, no matter how often I attempt to reason with his madness. John says that the roads are too treacherous for a carriage and the trains may be delayed, or worse, so even if he came with me as a precaution, he will not hear of me risking my safety at such a time, nor put myself in a situation where I am forsaken and find myself unable to return home, not when the day we have been eagerly waiting for the day that draws ever nearer…

The cause of this unseasonable heat was entirely man-made, that is, it had been brought about by one man in particular, John himself. In the past few weeks, as the frost fairies had cast their bitter spell over Milton, the husband had begun to grow increasingly troubled that his wife would catch a chill, something he dared not let happen, not now, not this year of all years. John was not prone to nervousness, he was too level-headed to give in to such pointless mentality, but that had all changed one nippy evening in mid-November when his wife had sneezed, not once, nor twice, nor even thrice, but four times, and Lord knows how many other occasions had occurred behind his back. Alarmed by the thought that she might become ill, John had immediately set about his mission of turning the house into a furnace in an extravagant effort to keep Margaret warm. In doing so, John had intractably insisted that every fire in their home be lit, morning, noon and night, not a thought to be given to sparing the coals or wood for the hearths, the mill-house chimney a constant beacon of warmth for miles around as it puffed and coughed great billows of smoke into the grey December air. Everybody had complained, his mother included, asserting that it was ridiculous, the cost being astronomical, but he had not paid her any attention in the slightest.

However, the essential point to note is the real reason behind this nonsensical reason, the cause, if you will, and that is thankfully very simple, and John was reminded of it yet again today, sweetly so, as his wife lowered her hand to rub soothing circles on her belly.

Oh, Edith! I am so happy! I do hope that you will come to Milton and see our baby as soon as may be, our treasured Thornton, our bundle of most precious joy. I shall show them off to everybody, every person I pass having the chance to see my cherished child. I cannot wait to meet them, to hold my son or daughter in my arms and tell them just how infinitely loved they are by their mother and father. I am bursting with impatience, as well as pride, just to think, I am carrying his baby. Out of all the women in the world, it is I who have been gifted with this privilege. It is too heavenly to contemplate, so much so that I often wake and wonder if it is truly true and I find myself checking to confirm, only to smile and drift back to sleep in the secure knowledge that it is so…

Angling his neck so that he could regard her better, John could not help but purr with satisfaction at what he saw. Margaret was now in her confinement, ready to give birth to their first child together any day now. She was a little over eight months pregnant, or so they were told, and with every new and novel week of their blissful marriage, the husband watched in awe as her nourishing roundness grew, showing him and all the world that there, within, lay his babe, their little one, the epitome of their love. It was still incredible to him to think that they had managed to conceive within the first month of their marriage, his wife not yet having bled once as Mrs Thornton. But then again, if he really took the time to think about it, something he often did with a gratified smirk, there had been several occasions when the deed could have been done.

John was overcome with excitement, desperate for the blessed day to arrive as swiftly as it liked, but then again, not too soon, his apprehension on his wife's behalf being the origin of his overprotective pestering that now took place. And as for his darling Meg, well, she had wondered at his niggling, but when he had explained about the numerous fires, the daily clean sheets, the specially prepared food, the weekly visits from the doctor, and the expertly tailored clothes, she had said not a word, but merely smiled and pecked him on the cheek in silent gratitude. She had let John go about his business, since Margaret knew that nothing she said or did would deter him from caring for his two loves with his bull-dog like doggedness, one of his kin already here, one yet to come, fervently awaited by its doting parents.

I shall rely on your guidance as to what to do every step of the way, your last letter telling me how to recognise the beginning of my labour and how best to manage it most gratefully received, albeit somewhat frightening in certain passages. Poor John, he read part of it too and turned terribly pale. I believe I even saw his legs wobble at one point. Hannah has been a marvel, and so has Dixon, the two of them all kindness and patience, but I still have so many questions that I blush to ask, and so, I will depend upon you to keep me right, dear one. For instance, how do I feed them? I know Aunt Shaw disapproves, but I so wish to nurse my own baby from my own breast, but what if the little mite does not take to me or I cannot satisfy their hunger? I want also to bathe them, but how do I know if the water is too humid or too cold, for I should hate to scald or chill them? And what if they cry so, and I cannot understand what is wrong? I think my heart will surely break to hear my lamb bleat until its tiny lungs are sore, yet try as I might, I fear that I will find that I cannot comfort them as I ought, all because I am incompetent…

As he heard Margaret huff at herself in self-inflicted irritation, John deftly tilted over the side of the bed so that he could get a better view of her face, the sight of her pearly teeth nibbling at her pursed lips affording him a clue that told him she was peturbed. He could read her like a book, and this page was not at all one he wanted her to stew over, both for her sake and his. It had not taken long for John to realise that Margaret was anxious about becoming a mother, not when he knew her well enough to recognise her every mood, and he could see that beneath her characteristic semblance of dignified confidence, his darling girl was afraid. Well, he could not blame her for that. Childbirth was no easy feat, and if he could, he would take the dangerous burden away from her and upon himself, but alas, such an act was not possible. Instead, all John could do was offer Margaret his steadfast support, quietly and unobtrusively reassuring her whenever and wherever he could.

However, when it came to John, he was not the least bit concerned. That is, deep down, in a pessimistic chamber of his consciousness that he wilfully refused to visit, he was terrified of what might happen to her come the time, of what tragic fate may befall both his wife and child. instead choosing to hide it away in a shallow grave of denial, In his darker moments, he thought on how amidst a ritual of screams, it would all go so hideously wrong, and he would be left alone in the world once more, only, he would exist in eternal grief, for would have known, for too short a time, the ecstasy of pure happiness, only to have it snatched away again so cruelly. Nevertheless, he could not let himself think such a hellish thing, so he chose instead to hide it away in a shallow grave of denial, suppressing it and burying it beneath the soil of non-acceptance. No, John had to trust in his Margaret. She was a tower of strength, that she was stubborn in her fortitude, and God helps anyone who tried to take her away from him or their baby, because not only would John not allow it, but she too would staunchly refuse to go. Still, once all of that was said and done, John had never been more sure of anything in his life, (apart from his immeasurable love for her), that Margaret would be the most gifted mother who had ever lived.

He knew that his wife longed to go to London, to see Edith and learn all she might from her more experienced cousin, and while he would gladly take her, just so that she might feel calm again, John knew that it would be negligent of him to do so, not when she was so close to her confinement. Margaret had pouted in that way she did when she was denied her own way, not that it happened often, but he could tell that she understood his reasoning, that she agreed, and so, with very little fuss, she had yielded, allowing him to be her comfort in these uncharted times.

John says that I do not need any advice on how to be a good mother, for he knows that I shall take to it like a duck to water, a caring maternal nature being the matter which makes my very bones, or so it is according to him. He believes that I will be the most competent and compassionate mamma that ever did breathe, and while I am touched by his unfailing faith in me, I am still uneasy. I should so hate to do anything wrong. Goodness! Imagine if I dropped the baby!...

Perhaps this would be a good time to tell Margaret that he had written to Edith himself not a fortnight before, to suggest to her that she could come visit them, Marlborough House always being open to her. John had heard back from Edith six days ago, her enthusiasm evident in her untidy scribbles as she gladly accepted his invitation and promised she would come as soon as it could be arranged, possibly within the week. John was aware that the captain was away on service, and so too was the aunt abroad, somewhere she always seemed to be, her Harley Street residence less her home than her luggage trunk was. Therefore, with Mrs Lennox being alone and most likely lonely, she would presumably appreciate the company, sociable soul that she was, so John was in no doubt that she would be with them as soon as she could. But no, he would not breathe a word of his plan, since he wanted it to be a pleasant surprise for his wife to discover her cousin in her parlour, a giddy grin on Edith's face to have pulled such a hoax, their laughs ringing throughout the house. Besides, for all he knew, the lady was already on the northbound train at this very minute.

'I hope you are taking your task seriously, Mr Thornton,' came a disapproving reproach from across the room, the hint of playfulness in her voice impossible to miss.

John chuckled as he obediently returned his eyes to the ribbons in his hands, his fingers twisting around the spiralled strips of pink, green, yellow and red, each band of colour a burst of festive cheer.

'Of course, Mrs Thornton, I would not dare disoblige you, not when I have seen what trouble that brings,' he retorted with a good-humoured murmur, amused to think that the discord of their past was now so resolutely laid to rest that they could begin to laugh about it, or at the very least, make light of it. Nevertheless, John finished by stating a fact that had been as incontestably true then as it was now. 'I am, as always, your willing servant, my love, you know I am.'

Even although her back was turned to him, John could see the edges of her jaw crease and her cheeks dimple as she smiled affectionately in return. 'Good,' Margaret replied succinctly, teasingly. 'That is what I like to hear.' Collecting up a decoration and lifting it towards the light of a nearby lamp, she considered the hue, the dusky pink of its quality making her wheeze a pant of nostalgia, because it was the exact colour of the dress she had worn at Edith's wedding, only weeks before she had first met her own beloved husband, a misunderstood man for whom Margaret had denied her feelings for, for far, far too long.

I thank you for the ribbons you sent me with your last letter, and yes, I most assuredly do recall when you wrote to me all those years ago when I had first moved to Milton to ask which would best suit Sholto. My-my, it feels like only yesterday, and how much has happened since then to both you and I. Oh, I almost shudder to recall my narrow-mindedness then towards this innovative town, its noble people, and a man, who, in spite of myself, I could not help but feel irresistibly drawn to. I can only hope that I have become a more patient and considerate woman since then, growing steadily in both wisdom and tolerance. Now then, if I remember correctly, I said that I did not know which option would do for your son, given that it was difficult to say without seeing the boy and matching the choices with his colouring. Sweet Sholto, how big he is now, and I hope he shall delight in having a cousin to play with and shelter under his wing…

John was distracted from his all-important charge by the sight of Margaret squirming in her seat, her hips swivelling agitatedly from side to side as she writhed in a bid to get more comfortable. John frowned. She was too hot. That was what the sweat had been all about, and as he looked, John could see more beads forming on the exposed area of skin peeking out at that juncture where her back met with her magnificent neck. He had suggested that she undress, that she wear her nightdress or chemise instead, either that, or she could put on the lightsome gowns he had ordered for her from the dressmakers with the express purpose of giving Margaret the dual benefit of respectability and relief during the day while her body stretched under the heft of its increasing load and groaned in anticipation for the undertaking it instinctively knew was to come. This was not an unusual recommendation of his, given that Margaret often took to lying down for an hour or so each afternoon these days to give her aching bones and muscles some respite, the state of impending motherhood being both a pleasure and an affliction for any woman to bear, no matter how resilient she may be. John would usually help Margaret to remove her layers of heavy and restrictive clothing, mutely listening to her mutters of discomfort, impatient in his hurried desire to help her be free of such a senseless imprisonment, permitting his wife to finally find refuge wrapped up in nothing more than his tender embrace.

However, Margaret had mulishly refused to lie down this day. She had too much to do, or so she said, his wife forever a busy little bee who buzzed about the place with relentless energy and industriousness, so much so that she frequently made John feel shiftless, a ludicrous thought, what with him being the most unremittingly diligent man in Milton. Still, she was having none of it, since today, Margaret was engaged with neatly writing out notes filled with warm Christmas wishes from the Master and Mistress of Marlborough Mills to all their esteemed workers. She had also taken it upon herself to arrange a small basket for each family with a few modest preserves and decorations that they could enjoy, such as jam, coal, holly, and cake. John and Hannah had counselled Margaret, saying that it would be futile for her to assume such a chore, that the hands would not thank them for it, seeing it instead as charity, an offending act in a town where people valued their independence.

Nonetheless, Margaret had shaken her head adamantly before pursuing her intentions with more obstinate tenacity than before, vowing that her humble townsfolk would welcome it, and what was more, it would help them to see the generosity of their master, a man whom they had all now grown to respect, and over time, this would lead to assured loyalty, and so, she argued that it would promote greater productivity and probability in the long-term.

John could not help but beam merrily at this. Meg, his benevolent, ingenious girl, how bright she was in both mind and spirit. For a start, it was a treat to hear her call Milton her town and its folk her people. What a transformation since she had first arrived here almost four years before, a rosy cheeked lass with no notion of what a harsh northern city entailed. Now look at her! She was a master's wife by choice, and not only that, she was the most adored mistress of the city, the citizens accepting her as one of their own, her integrity of decency too compelling to disregard.

Furthermore, his Margaret was so full of gentleness and grace that it was a wonder she did not float above the ground like an angel. She was too good for him, he knew that, but she was his, and so John would let her be, so long as she was happy. He had promised to go with her tomorrow and hand out the gifts to his workers, and if truth be told, the appreciative slants of their mouths, tipping of their caps, and nods of their heads, would all be merit enough, but none of it would match the sparkle in her eyes, that look of sheer and selfless joy at being able to give to others in celebration of Christ's birth. This, her delight, this would be John's recompense for any money Margaret had spent on this bountiful endeavour. Good Lord, how he loved her! And how fine it would be if they were blessed with a baby girl who was just like her mother in every way.

I am quite convinced that the baby shall be a girl. Every time the little love moves, I discover more and more of who they are, this person in their own right whom I have never met. With every kick, with every wriggle, I get to know my child better, and I can just feel it, I can sense it, I am carrying a girl. I am so thrilled, Edith, the thought of meeting her is too wonderful to describe. I confess that I have worried at times that John will be disappointed if I am proven right and our firstborn is a girl after all. I know men prefer boys as a rule. Males are seen as better, as stronger, as more worthy, and besides, a father can have confidence that his name will live on a while longer, that they will be custodians of his legacy, a sentiment I can faintly understand. But I have faith that such fears are unjustified, as John is a man of such genuine fairness and fondness that he will not even notice what sex his babe is when it sees the light of day and greets him, so long that it is both happy and healthy. And what is more, he cares for me so very much, that the thought of a person woven of both our beings will be enough to win him over, and so I am certain that he will love our girl unconditionally, the abundance of adoration in his faithful heart a precious essence that is unshakable…

As he observed her raise the assortment of tickertapes into the air and compare each one in turn, her head cocking and her nose wrinkling as she scrutinised them most seriously, John let his eyes train to the spray of seasonal flowers that rested by her elbow in a Spanish vase. Margaret had struggled with being out at church today, her back and legs pinching and prickling, but she had not complained, not once, but sat in serene silence, listening attentively to the sermon, wondering what her father would have made of it. She had taken the carriage home with his mother, John opting to walk after lingering to talk with some fellow masters, the frigid air blowing away his cobwebs. On the way home, he had purchased her a posy of heather, winter berry, honeysuckle and rosemary, spurts of purple, white, green and red that spoke of Yuletide, the cluster complimenting the tyrian gown Margaret wore with its stitched ribbon of jade green encircling the circumference below her breasts, a present from Mary Higgins who had found work as a seamstress, all thanks to her friend, even if Margaret refused to take any credit due.

'Will you not come to bed, love?' he asked, yearning seeping from his loving lips. For a man who never sat about idly, John had grown accustomed to their occasional afternoons in bed, his arms now pining for her, bewildered as to why she did not lie snugly between them here and now. Sometimes she slept while he worked by her side, sometimes they both indulged in sleep, sometimes they talked, and sometimes, they made love, but only when she wished it.

Margaret sighed regretfully, her arms extending out to her east and west as she stretched. 'I would like nothing better, dearest, but I must get on. There is so much to do, and so little time left, especially when I do not know when I shall be obliged to lie down for days or weeks at a time. I must move about, while I can, and keep busy, or else I shall go mad and feel unforgivably useless,' she explained, and John understood her completely, lethargy being a trait he too could not abide, not that anybody could accuse his wife of such a fault.

Giving in to her wishes, John lay back against the pillows and allowed his eyes to flicker shut. He had been working hard himself lately, more so than ever, fastidiously trying to put preparations in place for when the baby came, all in the hopes of being able to take some well-earned time away from the mill to spend it with his family, his undisputed priority. John was particular and precise, he always had been, so it would not do to leave a single task unaccounted for if he wanted to dedicate his full attention to his home life and not worry about the mill for a period. Not only that, but he had been getting up earlier than usual, sometimes at three in the morning, the oppressive bleakness of winter enough to suffocate his soul and drain him of his energies and willingness. But he would not give in, not when he had loved ones to provide for and demonstrate his devotion to.

Just like with Sholto, I am unsure of which shade would suit the baby best, as it depends so entirely on their own complexion. Oh! How I hope my darling dove will take after her father. Can you just imagine it, Edith? To think of his hair as black as night and his eyes as blue as the deepest oceans also belonging to our baby, it is such a delightful picture that I hardly dare think of it in case it does not come true. Hannah jests that northern folk are made of stern stuff, Milton mettle, as she calls it, so their blood runs thick and true, giving me hope that our daughter will resemble her papa in appearance and nature alike. If only I could compare −

Stopping abruptly, Margaret twisted round and peered at her husband, who slept soundly on their bed, a rare spectacle indeed. She giggled at the sight of him, his long legs stretching out for miles, his shirt undone, his arm propping up his handsome head. She was glad he was resting, he deserved it, dear boy, he worked so hard, too hard, but oh how she admired him. Returning her gaze to the collection of tapers before her, Margaret chewed her lip thoughtfully as she reviewed each one last time. In the end, she bobbed her head in approval, and picked up just one, before slowly rising from her seat and creeping across the room.

When she reached the bed, Margaret leaned over her husband and held a ribbon of cobalt blue up to his features. With tender carefulness, she rested the material on his face, the silk streaming across him like a great river upon a country of tanned brown and pale white, lands that were shaded by the seasons of his life, one imprinted by the triumphs and trials of manhood. His cheeks were like extensive rugged planes, his nose a high mountain, his eyes a pair of lakes of unexplored vastness, his bristles forming a forest of black stems. He had tiny cuts on his neck, jaw and ears that had been inflicted by machines from over the years, accompanied by black patches of tiredness, and red blotches of dryness, all evidence of his times of toil and trouble, but even more so, of his bravery. Reaching out a single finger, Margaret traced a feathery line down his face, marvelling at all the intimate landmarks she saw, her heart fit to burst with veneration for every inch that made up John Thornton, her husband, her friend, the other half of herself.

As she did this, John's eyes flashed open and closed as fast as can be, her husband drifting between wakefulness and slumber, unsure of where to settle. As his eyes opened for that briefest of moments, she caught sight of them, those mesmerising spheres of blue, and so Margaret grinned in private acknowledgment.

Yes, that would do, that would do splendidly.

Tip-toeing back to her chair, Margaret sat down and picked up her pen once more, pleased that she had settled on her choice and made up her mind on what ribbons Edith would use for the christening frock at long last. Humming quietly to herself, she was ready to finish her letter, and with any luck, it would be on the last train south tonight, meaning her cousin would likely be reading it with her breakfast the following morn. With confidence, Margaret nodded as her pen kissed the paper beneath her fingertips.

Yes, I have decided. The blue ribbon would be perf –

But she was unable to conclude her missive, a splodge of spilled ink the only mark that was left to punctuate the end of the incomplete sentence, for a split second later, Margaret had been whisked off her feet, stolen away to bed by a mischievous man who had only been pretending to sleep, a ribbon of blue still clutched in her hand.

I hope you enjoyed that shortie. As you will likely gather, it is supposed to mirror that brief scene in episode 1 of the 2004 series when Margaret and Edith write to each other, discussing ribbons for Sholto. There are many readings of that scene, but to me, I think it speaks of Margaret's loneliness and isolation in Milton initially, how she feels so far away from her extended family and places of origin both physically and psychologically. She longs to confide in Edith, to tell her the truth of her struggles, but does not know how. But in this story, time has passed, and so much has happened since. Margaret is now happy, having found her home, and is in love, a new wife, and a new woman, soon to be a new mother too.

This story is dedicated to my husband, Scott, and our first baby, Arabella, who is due to join us in May. We already know her name, as last week we were able to find out we were having a girl, so it helped me to feel closer to Margaret when writing this.