TWO DANCING DOVES
Chapter One
John Thornton leaned against the pillar in idle lethargy and commenced his grumbling with tenacious commitment. Folding his arms as a sign of marked grouchiness, his restless eyes scanned the ballroom, a ritzy scene that was nothing more than a bleary mingling of spinning figures and evanescent flashes of black, pink, blue and white, the soft candlelight blurring everything into one indistinguishable haze of tulle and tailcoats.
Huffing to himself in sulky irritation, he had to admit that Fanny had done an admirable job of making tonight the most commendable event of the season, whatever the season was supposed to be, he was never too sure, you see. John had worried that with his sister's gaudy tastes being given a free rein to run amok, then the end result would be hideously skewed in the direction of both extravagance and vulgarity all at once, two nouns which the plain man could not abide. However, much to his surprise, the brother could begrudgingly acknowledge that she had done well, and as he considered the neat arrangements which hung smartly about the place with a sparing economy that bordered on refinement, he took his hat off to her. Well, he would if he were wearing one.
What was more, John could say that he was genuinely pleased for Fanny, because even though the brother knew that his sister was reasonably comfortable in her marriage, what with having her husband wound tightly around her little finger, it was not as simple as that. Much to her mother's disapproval, it now seemed that Fanny was allowed to indulge in every whim that captured her fleeting, (and expensive), fancy, something Mrs Watson had not been allowed to do as Miss Thornton. Still, John, with his perceptive mind, appreciated that behind her carefully crafted societal smiles, his baby sister was perhaps somewhat sad.
It was not difficult to discern why. It was because Fanny, having married for nothing more than public position, financial security, and the chance to run her own house as she saw fit, had now found that there was more to marriage than simply tolerating your spouse's presence and suppressing those sensations of sickness or shuddering whenever they came near. Indeed, Fanny Thornton may have agreed to wed her ageing suitor with his portly physique and boorish manners without really realising what this would entail, and now, just over a year later, the naive girl was no longer so wet behind the ears, and finding herself bound to a man for the sake of comfort and convenience was all good and well, but one thing was for sure, it was no recipe for happiness. It had no doubt occurred to the young woman that she could have as many dresses, host as many parties, and hire as many servants as she pleased, but none of these superficial luxuries would bring her serenity, and no matter how large her husband's fortune grew to be, it could never buy her true love.
Her husband may not have been cruel, of course not, since John would not tolerate his sister being mistreated in any way, shape or form, but there is a tragic sort of cruelty, is there not, in finding oneself chained in marriage to somebody for whom your heart will never stir?
Yes, John knew all too well that Fanny was not satisfied with her lot in life, so it felt good to be able to at least see her excel socially, if not romantically, even if the former were not as valuable in his estimation. John felt that such exploits were hollow in their pursuit of contentment, and how he wished she could have a more profound marriage. But alas, she had made her bed, and so, Fanny would have to find fulfilment wherever she could, signifying that he realised that tonight would mean a great deal to her, and therefore, John would be showing her all the support he could.
As he sighed wearily, his beak of a nose flaring as he did, John slumped against the wall, making him appear rather like a great, big bear who had risen upon his hind legs and now cantankerously surveyed an unknown landscape with people he would readily claw at if they annoyed him, a sinister outcome that was not unlikely tonight. This image was perhaps not helped by the fact that John would yawn every now and again, and as he did so, his jaw would open wide, and a gruff growl would emit from his throat, not before he took his sizeable paw of a hand and scratched at his thick, raven coloured hair in boredom. It may not have been the most gentlemanly impression to give, he knew, but John did not care, not when he was being forced to stand here like a useless lemon with no purpose, no private pleasure of his own to make the night meaningful, magical, even.
With his shoulders drooping listlessly, his eyes continued to lazily observe the sea of lively merrymakers who spun around and around in orbit as they danced together like the figurines on Fanny's childhood music box, the spectacle making him insufferably dizzy. They were all moving too fast, and the room was bathed in such a dim hue, that John could hardly make out who was who and what was what amongst the throng of Milton masters and their wives, all trussed up in their fancy frocks and starched shirts. As they passed him by, the odd couple would pause and sway before him with irksome affability, the man slapping him on the shoulder and the lady waving her fan in his face, their overfamiliar greeting enough to put him in the foulest of tempers.
However, the truth was that John was not really perturbed by their salutations, since he hardly paid them any attention, no, it was more that the wrong people, or that is, the wrong person, was swooshing past and stopping to offer him their charming attention. But then, all of a sudden, John's impatient eyes stilled as that certain someone came into view and alerted his senses, awakening him as he glimpsed a most glorious vision to behold, and the master grinned to himself at long last.
Ah…there she was!
Off to his left, several couples away, his curiosity had been filched by a twinkling light produced by a brass studded bracelet he knew oh-so-well, and as he twisted his head to follow its movements, John's heart boomed in his passionate breast when he saw a willowy stem of silver cloth whirling like a shooting stellar gliding through the dusky sky. It was a dress that had caught his eye more than once this night. It was splendid, with its pale yet vivid sheen of grey material boasting a mesh of splendid satin and silk skirts, the gown festooned with a discreet spattering of snowy pearls and frosty sequins, the hundreds of tiny gems woven intricately into the fabric of the bodice and hem to make it sparkle like a diamond.
The dress was exquisite.
But it was nothing compared to its wearer, a woman who was more striking in her magnificence than anything or anyone John had ever seen, a jewel more precious to him than all the earthly treasures known to man.
She was short, small and slender, so petite that she could easily get lost in a crowd, but not to John, no, not he, since she was his North Star, a bright and brilliant reference that brought him constancy, something that made him feel safe and steady, reminding him of who and what he was, regardless of how lost he might feel at times. She was his focal point of permanence and peace, a hope that he could always find, no matter how dark his night might be. Yes, she was a lighthouse in his life, his very own guiding inspiration, his home, his heart, his everything.
Margaret Thornton.
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night.
As John stood there in dazed wonder, punch-drunk on the enchantment of Cupid's love-laced arrow which pierced his heart, Margaret danced past him, and veering her head, she looked at her besotted admirer and smiled, her devotee returning her fond gaze in awe. For the briefest of moments, they both stood in suspended motion, simply staring at each other in a harmonious trance of clandestine adoration. However, their starry-eyed encounter did not last long, since before he knew it, her partner had stolen Margaret away, and off she went, leaving her unhappy husband behind.
John sighed.
How he wished he could be the one dancing with her tonight.
Wincing, he altered his stance and shifted his weight so that his left foot was not so burdened by the encumbrance of his vast build of tough bones and firm muscles bearing down on the tissue that was pitifully sore in its current indisposition, as tender as a bruised peach.
Heck!
John was so very disappointed.
John and Margaret had been married for six months, and until today, they had not yet attended an event together where there would be the opportunity to dance. Normally, John abhorred any occasion which required him to make such a public spectacle of himself, and the shy man did whatever he could to escape the disagreeable situation unscathed, something which was unfairly hard, given the fact that he stood out head and shoulders above everybody else, rendering him a target for every unmarried woman, and worse, her meddlesome matchmaker of a mother. One ball in particular still came to mind and made him shudder. It had taken place a good few years ago now when he had first been named Master of Marlborough Mills. The ladies had all circled him like vultures, he being the new man to want and win, the fresh meat on the market to sample. At this time, Mrs Bennet, a mother of five girls with not a pair of fine eyes amongst them to tolerably tempt him, had singled John out as her unfortunate prey, declaring to all that he had five-thousand a year, a mistake which he quickly corrected, thankfully causing her interest in him to die a death there and then.
The embarrassing truth was that John was no dancer, and that was putting it kindly. Yes, yes, it was fair to attest that he had mastered the skill of walking all right, indeed, John was rather proud to say that he had accomplished this feat when he was no more than a teetering wean, and to this day, he could stroll and stride with just as much talent and triumph as any man. Nonetheless, when it came to the much more exact, skilful and graceful art form that was moving in time to music, well, John was sorry to say that he rather let himself down.
He was bulky, he was clumsy, and he had a terrible habit of blundering into people, and even once or twice, John had been known to knock them over altogether, and like a game of dominoes, when one went down, so did the rest. He was not sure what the matter was, whether it was an issue of inadequate practice, or proportions, or precision, but whatever the blasted problem was, John was stricken by it in spades. It probably did not help that every woman from here to the moon had tried to entice him to stand up with her, the ladies always pressing their tora-loorals up against him as they swayed flirtatiously. With crimson cheeks and puckered lips, they would ogle the handsome mill master with the most unnervingly enamoured expressions, all the while fluttering their eyelashes, sighing breathlessly, and either applauding or giggling at everything he said, even if John did nothing more than grunt like a beast.
Undeniably, it would seem that while some men relished such poorly disguised fawning from a flock of waggish females, their efforts had been fruitless, counterproductive even, as all their coquetry had only served to make a reserved John feel darned uncomfortable, and far from being seduced, he had been aghast by their lally-gagging. Therefore, over the years, John had employed every trick in the trade to avoid the horror that was the polka, schottische, or two-step. He had feigned fatigue, entered into mind-numbing discussions, pretended he had to leave to attend to business, and once, he had even taken up smoking a cigar and running off to the billiard room, just so that he could evade the persistent attentiveness of Miss Hamper, the man coughing with a polluted chest full of smoke for the rest of the week, but still, it had been worth it.
No, John had never enjoyed dancing, it was his Achilles heel, but you see, now that he was a married man, well, that changed things. Consequently, when Fanny had announced that she was going to be holding a ball, far from protesting and planning to be conveniently out of town rather than attend, John had leapt at the opportunity to confirm that he and his wife would be attending, the master thrilled to have the chance to properly play the part of a gentleman and dance with his darling bride.
He could just imagine it, that enthralling creature with her appealing contours, warm body and velvety skin wrapped up in his tight embrace. He would hold her close, and every brush of her tantalising form against his would be too delicious to describe, and what was more, he need not hold back, he need not conform to the shackles of propriety, no, he could give way to his aspirations, because she was his wife, and so, they could dance together however they pleased. With his dear Margaret secure and snug in his strong arms, John would gladly dance from dusk to dawn, the two of them whispering sweet and sensual sentiments into each other's ears like smitten lovers. Margaret would then blush beautifully at being spoken to so fervently, and peering up at John with that bewitching smile of hers, he would be lost to her. With her lips parting, her eyes glittering, and her chest palpitating, his wife's endearing charms would be like hooks for John's soul, her comeliness enough to make the master fall madly in love with his beloved Margaret all over again, only this time, she would not be Miss Hale, an unattainable dream that was beyond the humble hopes of a tradesman like he, but his very own Mrs Thornton.
At any rate, as soon as his sister's invitation had been extended, John had wholeheartedly accepted, much to her distrust, and with his study door firmly shut and bolted, he had set about preparing himself, determined to prove to his accomplished Meg that he was no ungainly ogre after all, a man who may have been outstanding in size without being exceptional in aptitude, but a true gentleman who was worthy of his lovely lass. Day after day, John had diligently set aside a half hour, and behind his closed door, he would bow, lift his arms, step forwards to join with his invisible partner, and after an awkward jerk of his hips and stretch of his legs, he would begin to dance.
As the weeks had rolled on, John would like to say that his proficiency at rotating rhythmically had improved for the better, but unfortunately, he feared that far from progressing, he had somehow become catastrophically worse, a stumped toe, a clouted elbow, and a thumped knee, all parts of his person which had been pampered to a bump or a bruise along the way.
Mercifully, for John, he was not aware that his antics had become the talk of the servant's quarters, because much to the confusion of his domestics, they had each wondered what all the banging was about, the less green of his household guessing that the master and mistress were in there together again, since such noises were not uncommon when the pair were left alone in locked rooms, the two of them emerging sometime later with suspiciously satisfied smiles. However, this assumption had fallen flat on its sniggering face when a cluster of maids had all congregated outside his study, pretending to sweep and dust, only to gawk like a gaggle of astonished geese in puzzlement as the young Mrs Thornton sauntered right past them, very much on this side of the door.
Still, after a great deal of training, his fortitude had finally paid off, and John was ready.
However, all of his enthusiasm had come to nothing, since it would seem that John had leapt a little too much at the thought of wooing his wife with a waltz, because only yesterday, after an incident in the mill yard involving a cart, a horse, a devilish stray cat, and one almighty rumpus, the master had somehow ended up with a bale of cotton tumbling down and clipping the side of his foot. Needless to say, after a lot of stumbling and staggering, as well as a regrettable amount of shouting and swearing, John found that he could hardly walk in a straight line, let alone stand unaided, his ankle unquestionably sprained. And so, with his spirits as crushed as his hapless limb, John had been forced to accept that his fantasy of romanticising his wife would not be realised. Alas, alack, he would not be the lucky man to whisk the princess away at the ball, the two lovebirds dancing the night away.
As John scrunched up his face while his ankle creaked, whinging about the fact that it was not properly elevated upon a chair, John slumped against the pillar once more, the man sniffing with an air of self-indulgent self-pity. It was bad enough that he could not dance with Margaret, but what really vexed him beyond belief, was that everybody else was able to do it, since you see, his beguiling wife was proving to be the most popular partner of the evening. With a sneer and a scowl, John could admit that he was just a little bit jealous. He had waited for so darned long to be her man, and now that he finally had the chance to show her off and swan about like a sentimental fool with his bride on his arm, he was denied such a delectable treat, and instead, he had to watch as every Tom, Dick and bloody Slickson took his place and enjoyed the pleasure of Margaret's captivating company in his stead.
John frowned like a petulant brat, a look which did not become him, frightening any onlooker well away, and leaving him alone to stew in his displeasure. He knew he should not complain. It was not his darling Margaret's fault that she was so damn sensational, nor should he be grousing that he had been fortunate enough to wed such a rare woman as she, a truly extraordinary partner in life who was unequalled in every way. What was more, John appreciated that Margaret's status as the most sought-after acquaintance would most likely be short-lived, since it was evident that the fine people of Milton, ever a disingenuous lot, were merely fascinated by her. They were like children, playing with her as if she were a new toy, and while they all waited with bated breaths to see what she would do and say next, they all clapped and cheered as if she were a pretty doll that would entertain them all.
Ha! A doll, indeed. How little they knew her!
It may have been an egotistical thing to think, but he could also understand that part of the lure was that people wanted to get a closer look at the woman who had finally got John Thornton, the eligible bachelor who had always been stubbornly married to his mill, to take that all-important trip down the aisle. Behind the mask of their raised champagne glasses, they would each be speculating as to what spells and schemes the girl had concocted to catch him, all of them secretly tittering under their breath as they recounted the old scandal of the riot and the way she had flung herself at him most wantonly.
With a nettled mutter, John could guess what they were thinking, and that was that they could not quite understand the attraction, he a brusque northern manufacturer, she a sheltered southern flower, the two of them as different as day and night.
Of course, Margaret was beautiful, any blind fool could see that, and she had an exceptionally sophisticated quality to her every word, her every move, as per her London breeding which had instilled in her a trait of poise and natural grandeur, a gravitas which had thrown John at first, because for a man who had never yearned for fine things before, he had soon found himself desiring the finest entity God had ever made.
Nevertheless, after an initial assessment, the Milton townsfolk would no doubt have judged the new Mrs Thornton quiet, shy, and perhaps even a little dull, for she was not a chinwagger like Fanny, because Margaret, ever the dignified lady, thought more than she spoke. It would have riled the men, you see, to tell their coarse jokes and crow about their business conquests, only to find that their attractive companion did no more than mildly smile and nod, rather than congratulate them as Gods, the woman not the slightest bit impressed by their ill-gotten achievements. In turn, the ladies would be miffed to discover that while they all prattled on avidly about fashion and festivities, the new addition to their circle was not duly riveted by either, her areas of interest in books and charitable works far more moral and consequential, leaving them feeling terribly small in the shadow of her stately presence.
Therefore, when they had finished conversing with her, every man and woman would walk away feeling just a little bewildered, for as acceptable as Mrs John Thornton might be on paper, they deemed her no real prize worth winning, because as far as they could tell, she was not remarkable in any way. But, oh! How wrong they were, for perfection is in the eye of the beholder, and to John, his unpretentious Meg, she was clever, she was compassionate, she was capable, and by God, how he loved her for it!
Yes, to everybody else, Margaret Thornton may have been modest, but to her husband, she was as impressive as a queen. And, while they did not know how, when or why this young lady had managed to succeed where others had failed and steal the heart of the solitary cotton master, little did they know that he had been hers from near enough the first moment John Thornton had clapped eyes on Miss Margaret Hale and his life had changed in an instant, the man unaware that he was standing before his world entire, his future wife-to-be.
It was just then, as John was privately thinking on this and congratulating himself on how far he and Margaret had come since their first disastrous meeting many moons ago, a sentimental smile entertaining his lips, he bristled as he felt something brush against his arm.
John's head snapped round as he readied to challenge whoever or whatever had so rudely dared to intrude upon the reminiscing of his happy memories, the bulldog preparing to bark, perhaps even bite if need be. However, when he saw who it was, he held back.
Darn it! It was her. He should have known that she was bound to show up sooner or later!
This story has some Victorian slang weaved in along the way, so here are the words for your reference, just so you feel a bit less lost when they show up on the page:
Lally-gagging: Flirting.
Tora-Loorals: Female bust or décolletage .
Wooden Spoon: A thick head, an idiot; someone who displays astounding stupidity.
Gigglemug: Perpetually happy face.
Collie-shangles: Argument.
Bit o' Raspberry: Pretty girl.
Vazey: Stupid, often in a ridiculous way.
Whooperup: A second-rate singer who produces noise rather than music. While this term may not relate specifically to Fanny, it could also be used to talk about a woman who, when she speaks, produces mindless noise, opposed to anything of real substance.