TWO DANCING DOVES
Chapter Two
'Well, I see you are looking as grumpy as ever,' came a peevish quip from a person who settled themselves snugly by John's side, a bit too close for comfort. 'A right old stick in the mud!' they could not help but affix, followed by a mocking sound, somewhat resembling the high note of a soprano, albeit painfully out of tune.
John smirked. 'And I see you are looking as brash as ever,' he retorted, his head bobbing up and down to take in his conversational companion's appearance, her gown the same shade as a posy of pink begonias, or rather, ten bouquets all clumped together in one blinding arrangement of sheer sateen. It was a puff of fabric so enormous, that if you straightened it out, the yards would cover the ground from here, all the way to the other side of England.
'Then again, subtlety was always a word missing from your dictionary.'
The lady let out a shrill carp, his eardrum nearly bursting. 'I am the hostess, John,' she reminded him tersely, her tightly pinned ringlets of sunshine blonde bouncing off the nape of her neck as she thrust her nose into the air self-importantly. 'It is vital that I stand out,' she informed him.
'Aye right, if you say so, sister,' John mumbled, shaking his head as it ached to listen to her nonsense.
If truth be told, Fanny was regretting her choice of attire, because while she was always delighted to be the most conspicuous lady in any room, it did not help when she wished to hide from the amorous attentions of her husband – the grey old goat!
Fanny had already been forced to put up with Watson's hungry hands during the early months of their marriage, and as a natural result, she had borne him a child, even if it were just a girl. But for Heaven's sake! – was she truly expected to continue welcoming his advances with open arms? (Not to mention other open parts too). No! It was too repulsive to contemplate, and so, Fanny had taken refuge by her brother's side, because she knew that Watson, a pathetic wooden spoon of a buffoon, was secretly afraid of the imposing Master of Marlborough Mills. To be sure, with all his youth, intelligence and success, John Thornton was a mighty valuable brother-in-law for a chap to have, but a dauntingly intimidating one, all the same.
As Fanny shuffled closer to John's side, simply to ensure that all the prying eyes of the town could see that the two of them were nattering, she peeked up at the lofty giant who soared above her, her stump of a neck bejewelled by rubies stretching cumbersomely. On doing this, she discerned the way his hawk-like eyes stalked about the room, almost as if he were following something evanescent, a flitting shadow, his expression varying between pleasure and discontent. Reaching up onto her tiptoes and wobbling under the influence of four glasses of wine, (all right, five), she did her best to track his glance, and when she, at last, discovered the source of John's interest, Fanny fell back down onto the soles of her feet, her exceedingly small shoes pinching her toes, and she huffed noisily.
Of course! She should have known!
Really, was there no limit to her brother's infatuation?!
Fanny would be the first to confess that she had been shocked to learn of her brother's betrothal to Miss Hale. For a start, she had no idea that John had the capacity to entertain such feelings, the very thought most disconcerting indeed, often rendering her queasy and putting her off her food. And what was more, why on earth had he chosen somebody so drab when John could have his pick out of all the young ladies of the county? It was obvious that a liaison with Miss Hale would bring him no advantages, well, nothing more than her considerable inheritance, and Fanny knew that John, upright to the last, would not care a fig for something as small-minded as pounds and pence.
To be sure, much to Fanny's disbelief, it had transpired that his attachment to the young lady had been a long-standing one, and ever since that unforgettable day when John had proudly informed his family, (note the word informed, meaning that his decision was not to be questioned by anybody), that he and Miss Hale were to wed, Fanny had discovered the undeniable truth. She had seen it, she had discerned it in his eyes, and from that moment on, Fanny knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that John loved Margaret with all of his heart, and always would, and so, God help anybody who tried to get in the way of him doing just that.
As Fanny gave up on surveying her sibling, his lovesick gigglemug of a face enough to drive her to distraction, she decided instead to mind her sister-in-law, her envious gaze pursuing the graceful figure as she floated across the mosaic floor like a fairy, her effortless elegance gallingly tiresome. As she did this, Fanny let her observations scrutinise Margaret's apparel, and after an interval, she found herself nonchalantly asking: 'Do you like her dress?'
John, who was still watching his wife, found his brow furrowing as his eyes unconsciously darted up and down Margaret. 'Aye, I do,' he replied without a qualm. What an odd thing to ask.
Fanny nodded decidedly. 'Good,' the sister approved absentmindedly, and John thought he could detect a slight pant of genuine relief escaping her throat. 'She was so worried you would not.'
Oh no! She had not meant to say that! Oh, dear!
John's head whipped around. 'What?'
Fanny wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips. 'Do not say, "What," John! It is so common,' she rebuked. Fanny then commenced smiling superciliously, returning to the crux of the discussion. 'I take it to mean, then, that she did not tell you?' she sneered, her blue eyes glinting with impish mischievousness. 'I thought you and Margaret told each other everything,' she jibed with cattish meanness.
John glowered, his features darkening formidably. 'Fanny!' he warned, a distinct snarl menacing his tenor.
Recoiling at the threat of her brother's simmering wrath, Fanny tried to regain control of the conversation without entering into a collie-shangles, a squabble she could never hope to win, not if he was playing too, her elder brother always having the final say when it came to their childish spats. Therefore, with a carefree chuckle, she attempted to sound as self-possessed as possible without digging herself into a deeper hole.
'Margaret needed a new gown, what with her others being atrociously out of date,' she started, her eyes rolling to think that the richest woman in Milton continued to besmirch her position by pigheadedly choosing to wear the dowdiest clothes ever stitched.
Fanny clicked her teeth. 'She came to me and asked if I would visit the dressmakers with her,' she explained, this statement is a revelation in itself, what with Margaret usually going out of her way to avoid such an excursion with Mrs Watson, her fortune-fated to be squandered in just one afternoon if she surrendered.
John was listening carefully, and Fanny had to admit, she relished the attention, yielding her to straighten up and orate more clearly and confidently than before, readily taking on the role of narrator.
'She was apprehensive, you see because Margaret so wanted to please you. You should have seen her!' Fanny laughed, but if John concentrated, he could tell that her taunt was not sincere, a tell-tale indication which sparked his inquisitiveness further. 'She spent more time there than I ever have!' she jested, although, John could not quite believe this to be accurate, since Fanny had lived more of her life in a haberdashery than he had passed his reading books, and there was he with a twelve-year head start on his sister.
'She devoted hours and hours to looking at cloths and patterns, not having a clue where to begin, because as you will know, Margaret and fashion are not on speaking terms,' Fanny teased, but soon moderated her tone to a more respectful one when she heard her brother's low rumble of annoyance at hearing his wife mocked, even if it was intended as no more than a harmless lark.
John knew that Fanny was not genuinely malicious, no, since beneath that exasperating bravado of shallowness and spite, she was a sincerely good sort of person at heart. It was more that in her innate insecurity, she tended to lash out at those whom she considered better than her, (a compliment to Margaret, really), and so, John could understand her performance of pettiness. But still, he could not, and would not, tolerate having his beloved Meg mistreated so unjustly, particularly not by her kin.
'It was all such a fuss, until at last, she quite gave up!' Fanny gabbled on, recounting the tale theatrically. 'It was no use, Margaret had declared, because how could she ever look agreeable enough for the Master of Marlborough Mills?'
John then sighed in realisation, because not that he would tell Fanny, but if he paused to really think about it, his sister's story made sense, a shocking reality to acknowledge, given that most of the drivel that dribbled from her mouth tended to be downright tripe.
John's unsettled mind wandered back to earlier this evening. When they had been preparing for the party, Margaret had been flustered, more so than he had ever seen her before, and after John had asked what the matter was, she had shooed him away like a vagrant cat, insisting on getting ready alone. John, having been exiled from his own bedchamber and grousing about not being allowed the privilege of seeing his wife undertake her dressing, a marital intimacy that delighted him, the unwanted husband had prowled about at the foot of the stairs, praying for a miracle and a last minute recovery for his ankle. As he had mumbled this under his breath, not paying attention to anything else other than his plight, John suddenly stopped and stilled in spellbound amazement. There, at the top of the staircase, had stood a divine spirit, a dream to behold, a goddess draped in ethereal threads spun from silvery stardust.
Eyeing him nervously, Margaret had made her way down, one step at a time, each one unsure of itself, her tense eyes fixed on his, trying to measure his reaction. When she had, at last, reached her husband, John was ashamed to admit that he had said nothing, but in abject contrast, he had just stood there, rooted to the spot in muzzled astonishment like some sort of ridiculous twit with a gaping jaw. In fact, it rather reminded him of another occasion when he had seen Margaret in a similarly striking dress, that one an icy blue tinged with green, the lady standing in the middle of his drawing room, unwittingly stealing the attention of everybody there with her inborn eminence.
Good grief! How often had John privately thought about that gown since? How many nights had he gone to bed and fantasised about seeing it hanging in his wardrobe beside his own subdued garbs? How many dreams had been spent with his trembling hands unlacing its stays and slipping the material over her arms and letting it drop? On that evening when she had attended his annual dinner, John had hardly been able to spit out a single coherent sound, the sight of Margaret and the feel of her hand encased in his own had been too much for the fervent man to bear. I mean, how had he been expected to survive such an encounter without being completely and utterly conquered by her charms? He was only human, after all. John had not been able to believe she was there, in his undeserving presence, this beautiful angel of benevolence who had somehow tumbled down from Heaven and landed in his less-than-perfect world, somewhere she definitely did not belong, but for some unfathomable reason, she had decided to stay, right here, with him, for always.
However, tonight, on taking his dumbfounded expression as an admission of his disapproval, Margaret's wary features had wilted further into a disheartened frown, and spinning round, she had said with a miserable sniff that he clearly did not like it, and so she would go and change, at once.
In spite of this declaration, Margaret had not made it an inch before she had been halted by a strong anchor which held her firmly in place. With her breath hitching, she had peeped shyly over her exposed alabaster shoulder, and there was John, refusing to let her remove so much as one hairpin, the idea of her altering a single detail sacrilege, her husband begging her not to go. He had still not uttered a word, but moving closer, John had kissed her, once, just once, but that had been enough to tell Margaret everything she needed to know, his grip determined, his touch desperate, his lips deliciously devoted as they reassured her. Extending his crooked arm to her, John had escorted Margaret to their carriage, still wondering how in God's name he had ended up with such a celestial creature by his side.
At this point, John's reminiscence was interjected by the piercing prattling of his sister, who in her delight at capturing his curiosity, was not quite finished with describing her story that depicted the trials and tribulations of shopping, an ordeal men could never quite understand or bring themselves to sympathise with, their daily labours being far more senseless and abysmally monotonous.
'And so,' she went on, a touch sensationally, as if she were reciting the final act in a Shakespearian tragedy. 'Margaret was all ready to leave, but then I said…,' but then Fanny abruptly trailed off, her typically strident voice weakening and losing its customary buoyancy.
John peered down at his sister who had started examining the Parisian fan in her hands with single-minded focus, a strange look eclipsing her features, one which he did not recognise. Chewing her gums apprehensively, Fanny studied the half-dressed nymphs that had been painted upon the whalebone strips decorated with trimmings of delicate lace, the mythical creatures lying about indecently with their nude bodies on display, idly eating fruit in a field of lush green and gold, a most unsuitable load of hokum, John deemed.
'Go on,' he prodded tentatively, the shrewd man sensing that there was something more to Fanny's sudden discretion than she was letting on, for prudence, you see, was another word most definitely missing from the young woman's personal vocabulary.
Fanny shuffled nervously from one foot to the other, the same thing she had done when standing before their parents as a little girl when she was being scolded for getting up to all sorts of wiles and guiles.
'I…I told Margaret that you loved her…very much,' Fanny confessed softly, terribly quietly, a hint of flush colouring her cheeks and turning her ears as pink as a pig's.
John's eyes narrowed, and those brooding lines which bothered his brow when he was perplexed appeared at once. Well, that was not what he had been expecting at all. Nevertheless, John did not say anything further, but merely continued to stare at his sister, who, in turn, registered his enquiring gaze, the heat of which caused her skin to inflame and itch as she squirmed uncomfortably beneath the intensity of his perceptive scrutiny. His slick black hair and clothes, along with his pick-axe nose, made her think of a giant bird, a raven or a crow, perhaps, bearing down on a tiny insect, she taking on the part of the minuscule ant in this impasse.
'Oh, very well!' Fanny blustered, near enough stomping down with the same force as a cantankerous elephant. It was so unfair! John may still be her elder, but she was a married lady now, a proper grown-up, and he had no right whatsoever to tell her what to do, or worse, to make her feel like she ought to be in trouble. Veering around, her vast skirts twirling about her and tripping over a waiter as he carried a tray of champagne, Fanny sulked as she peeked up at John. Muttering inwardly, she felt like a naughty child who was being reprimanded by her boring older brother for doing nothing at all. Huh! John could be so impossibly unreasonable! Fanny was really not half as tricksy as he accused her of, and now, she would prove it.
Fanny searched for the right words, an exertion which was taxing for her, for she was so used to simply blurting out the first thing that came to mind, regardless of its tact or suitability. At long last, she decided that honesty was the best policy in this case, given that John would most likely ask Margaret about it later anyway, the pair of them insufferably intimate in their irritatingly perfect marriage.
Fanny took out her handkerchief and wiped daintily at her nose to buy herself some more time while she worked out how best to put it, the Thorntons being a thoroughly reserved breed who were not the most adept at expressing their emotions, what with her mother being a cold fish and her brother being a grumpy old bear. Perhaps that is why Fanny had never truly felt like she was one of them, almost as if she had been born into the wrong family by mistake. Even from a young age, she had struggled to keep her feelings to herself, her ups and downs always anxious to be set free and heard, validation being what her heart sorely craved. To compare and contrast the siblings like two contrary scientific specimens, it should be said that John could bottle things up forever if need be, nobody really ever knowing what went on behind that mysterious mask of calm and collected formality, a remoteness that sometimes left Fanny thinking he was like a castle – no! more of a taciturn fortress, one with no drawbridge to let anybody in.
Actually, the sister often wondered whether if John had been more open with Margaret about how he felt prior to their eventual engagement, rather than shyly and stubbornly staying silent and letting her go, then maybe, just maybe, they could have saved themselves a great deal of heartache and found their happily ever after much sooner. Fanny would bet that John knew this too, all too well, and it probably tormented him constantly, the distressing realisation that he could have brought his love home days, weeks, months, a whole year before he had, all that time lost, wasted, never to be recovered. But never mind, they were married now, and that was all that mattered.
'I could tell that Margaret was fretful, she was not herself, terribly ruffled and working herself up into a tizzy,' Fanny began, remembering the event, her tone now more sedate, far more sensible. The truth was that Fanny was so accustomed to being seen as the flighty one in the family, that it had rather disconcerted her to see Margaret so discomposed. The woman was always so grave and graceful, frustratingly so, like a humdrum saint. Subsequently, it had been inexplicable to witness her turn into a flapping gooseberry, and over a dress, of all the trivial things to get worked up about.
'After Margaret said she wanted to leave, I took her aside, and we had a good talk,' Fanny disclosed. 'She was anxious, you see, this being her first prominent social engagement as your wife. Margaret knows that Milton folk think her odd, what with her strange southern ways and mulish opinions. And she knows too that she is not the prettiest of women, that she is awfully plain,' Fanny continued, looking about the room and inspecting the young bit o' raspberries that cavorted about gaily, grumbling to realise that none of them, with all their luxuriant trinkets and lavish frocks, could hold a candle to Margaret's unforced beauty. As she did this, Fanny did not even notice the way John's eyebrows shot up into his hairline as he jolted at the very idea that his dear wife did not think she was the most fine-looking woman to have ever graced this earth.
'And so, she was afraid she would displease you, disappoint you, even,' Fanny surmised, letting out an audible tut, since the notion of Margaret dissatisfying John in any way was ludicrous, given that the man worshipped her almost to the point of fanaticism.
John was horrified to hear this, and his face showed it in every line and dimple as he gawped at his wife who still waltzed in the distance, her current partner inconveniently handsome. 'And what the hell did you say?' he interrogated in a biting accusation, aghast to think what his careless sister may have said in response to poor Margaret's fears, no doubt fanning them into a devastating fire with her inconsiderate jokes.
'I told her to stop being so silly!' Fanny snapped sharply, not at all amused by her brother's censorious manner. John could be so stroppy, always finding fault with her, when in truth, Fanny believed that she did not deserve half of his churlish disapproval, especially when he had his own flaws to contend with, dullness and crankiness being just two that she could name from a very long list. Honestly! He could be such a nit-picking old woman at times!
Well, as far as Fanny was concerned, this was her chance to demonstrate to her brother that she was no mere vazey whooperup, but a woman of real substance, every bit as admirable as his virtuous Meg who could apparently do no wrong in his eyes. So, clearing her throat, Fanny launched into defending herself.
'I told our Margaret that while I may not know everything, one fact I know for certain, and that is that my brother is madly in love with her.'
The expression which then took up residence upon John's face was a peculiar one, a half-smile, half-scowl, for while he adored his wife, and did not care who knew, he felt an enigmatic form of possessiveness overwhelm him to think that others spoke of it. His love for Margaret was private, something that was for her and her alone, so for it to be discussed like gossip somehow felt like blasphemy.
On spying his disquiet, Fanny snorted, but swiftly ducked her head so that she could pat her nose again, because this time, something disgusting had unfortunately oozed out, but unknown to the hostess, in doing this, she accidentally rubbed off a portion of her carefully applied toilette, a ghastly blotch now blemishing her face with a streak of patchy skin and leaving her looking like a clown. It was a scandal that would taunt her for weeks, since greasepaints, they were to be the soul of discretion for a woman, her hush-hush confidence, never to be revealed, or worse, confessed.
'Oh, please, John! Everybody can see it!' she revealed, waving her hand about the room as if to signify that the whole of Milton was aware of his blatant and besotted love for his wife. 'The way you look at her, it is indecent! I mean, do not mistake me, it is not the manner in which some men look at women,' she corrected, saddened to think of the way she had seen her own husband greedily take in the pleasing proportions of other ladies younger and more rounded than she, a transgression which never failed to upset Fanny, even if she herself did not welcome Watson's avaricious eye.
'No, it is not like that with you,' Fanny could concede. 'But it is nonetheless…ardent,' she deduced.
Fanny and John may have been as foreign to each other as chalk and cheese, but she recognised one thing, and this was that her brother was prone to passion, a real fiery fever that rages from deep within the belly of the beast and roars. Likewise, she understood that for some men, their cravings were inspired by women, drinking, betting, or power, these hankerings of the flesh compulsions which fed their animal appetites without satisfaction. Fanny had known nothing of these depravities a year ago, but now married life had robbed her of her naivety, and she could appreciate in hindsight what lengths her protective brother had gone to in order to shield her from the vices which had corrupted the masters of Milton, he being the only man who was set apart, always distinct in his righteousness, distinguished by his philosophies and principles.
You see, for John, he did not care for carnal or lucrative addictions, no, he ached for only one thing, this being his sole want, his humble dream, his honourable desire, and that was having Margaret for his own.
Fanny cast her eyes to the floor, a solitary tear of glassy sorrow slipping down her powdered visage to think that she would never know such devotion, such sacred adulation. 'I can see it in the way your body relaxes when Margaret is near, as if all your troubles are no more,' she whispered. 'The way you listen or laugh when Margaret talks, as if she is the most fascinating thing in all the world. The way you take an interest in what Margaret likes, even if you yourself are not so engrossed. The way you rush home at night from the mill to be with Margaret, even though you used to spend hour after hour cooped up in your stuffy office, nothing being able to entice you away. The way you buy Margaret presents with thought, not just pretty ornaments, but offerings that she will unaffectedly appreciate. The way you look ten years younger since marrying Margaret, almost like a soppy schoolboy,' Fanny sniffed, articulating all the ways that a man should show the woman he adores how much he cares about her, not one of them a marital gift she had been blessed enough to experience herself.
'And, most of all, I see the way you smile at her.'
John's head tilted as he regarded his sister, bemused by her musings. 'Smile at her?' he echoed unobtrusively.
'Yes,' Fanny nodded straight away. 'You never used to smile before Margaret came along, or hardly ever, yet now you do it frequently, but only when she is by your side,' the sister assessed intuitively. 'That is why you are so bad-tempered tonight, she is not near enough for you, and so, until she is, you will be sad, but when you hold Margaret, when you are reunited with her, you will smile again, because only then, are you truly happy,' she determined as Fanny bent her head to the side so that she might subtly dry the tears that were now dampening her cheeks and ruining her complexion further still.
John was about to reply and ask if he had really been such a depressingly dull dog in days gone by, but he did not get the chance. 'So, you see, that is why I wanted to know if you liked the dress. It was because it mattered to Margaret so much,' Fanny explained, wishing with all her heart that she had somebody in her life who would like anything at all about her, even just a little, even if she were not a very likeable person.
'John?' she ventured after a while. 'Would you…would you like to go and feed the ducks with me again? Sometime soon? Only if you are not too busy?' she asked hopefully, aware that her brother's time was predictably engaged with pressing matters of business, what with the mill, the court, and his new life as a happily married man all being important obligations to keep him well occupied.
John smiled to himself. Goodness, the ducks! How many years had it been since he had taken her to see their feathered friends in the park? Too many, too many. When the Thorntons had been in reduced circumstances, John had been only too aware of how much his sister had been forced to relinquish. Fanny may have been just a knee-high wean and not able to remember much of her life prior to their father's passing, but still, it must have been upsetting for her to go from living in a big house with numerous servants to indulge her and provide all the comforts a child could wish for, only to be thrown into an abyss of penury without any explanation. Poor child, how devastatingly unsettling it must all have been.
Subsequently, in feeling guilty for not being able to give her the life she deserved, John had carefully saved a heel of loaf every week, and on a Sunday after church, he had taken his sister down to the pond, and together, they had fed the ducks. Fanny had loved it, running about and flapping her arms as she giggled, her demeanour bright and cheerful, giving him such comfort, such hope. In the end, when Fanny grew tired, she would rub at her eyes and then lift her arms, inviting John to pick her up and cuddle her close. Carrying her home in the sunshine, rain and sleet, John would sing to Fanny as she yawned, his rich, northern burr lulling his baby sister to sleep as he soothed her troubles along with his own. In truth, John did not know who had looked forward to those days more, she or him, but by God, how long it had been since they had spent any meaningful time like that together, just the two of them.
John beamed broadly. 'Aye, I would like that,' he agreed enthusiastically. 'Soon, I promise,' and with that, Fanny felt a ball of gladness unfurl in her tummy, since one of John's promises were worth more than a kingdom of gold.
She was so relieved he wanted to go. Fanny may have been a tottering infant when her family had been plunged into hardship, but one thing she could remember vividly, was the sight of her brother coming through the door every night as she sat waiting for him in bed, the little girl unable to settle until he had returned and tucked her in with a kiss. He was always exhausted, utterly drained in both body and spirit, but he never once bemoaned as the other boys his age went to their studies, were appointed to smart positions, or stepped out with a handsome lass. Fanny had not understood the cause of his sadness or stress, but she knew that when she snuggled into him, the stiffness in John's shoulders melted away, and he was happier, so, in her own small way, this had been her method of looking after him.
Yes, John never complained, he simply worked endlessly and selflessly to provide for his family, and so now, Fanny was more pleased than she could say to know that after so many years of self-denial, John finally had something special to come home to, someone who would make all his labours of devoted love worthwhile, and rather than be a burden, Margaret would be the one to take care of him.
Fanny felt a shiver blow up her spine like an icy breeze. What had gone wrong, hmm? She and John had been so close once upon a time, yet now, they had drifted terribly far apart, like two poles that were estranged. When had that happened? And what was more imperative, did she have any hope of earning his good opinion once more? Yes, John would always love her. He would never stop protecting her and providing for her, faithful family man that he was, and he would be the first to come to Fanny's aid if she needed it, no matter how significant or minor the crisis. But while Fanny could always be sure of his unfaltering loyalty, she knew that somewhere along the way, she had forfeited John's true respect and diluted their friendship.
It was not all down to her, of course. John had been harried, zealously committed to building the prosperity and prominence of his mill, meaning that he had no time for distractions, and consequently, his patience had worn thin and his personality had grown thorny over the years, meaning that if Fanny so much as tried to get close to him, she had been stung. He was never unkind, no, but John was not an easy man to get on with, his sense of humour and ability to have fun forgotten traits that had been mislaid along his journey from rags to riches. Maybe it was a way of him asserting control. Perhaps he was so afraid of returning to the days of old, that he had never let his shield of intimidation and indifference show a crack, otherwise, who knew what he may lose, and in doing so, John would have faced his greatest nightmare. Failure, just like their father.
Still, that was then, and this was now. John was changed, he was a new man. So, the question remained, how did she get her brother back?
At that moment, both John and Fanny were stirred as one score concluded and another commenced, and so they watched side-by-side as Margaret stepped away from Hamper, only to be met by an eager Slickson, the slimy eel as keen as mustard to couple with the shapely young lady, his eyes travelling over her with pitifully disguised rapaciousness. John tried to ignore the obvious flickering of lust in the swine's eyes, since he knew what a beast he could become if he let his jealousy run riot, and he would not inflict his quarrelsomeness upon Margaret, not anymore. It was not her fault that she provoked such feelings in the men around her, the lovely creature blissfully unaware of the power she held over his sex. Instead, he chose to focus on a small smudge of polish on his shoes that he had missed, telling himself that the dance would soon be over, and his wife would change partners again. Still, this did little to alleviate his sour mood, given that it only served to remind John yet again that he would not be the one lucky enough to hold her in his arms, that is, not until they got home, an end result which seemed far too far away for his liking.
Then, after a while, a thought came to him. 'Do you like it?' John inquired. 'Her dress.'
Fanny bobbled her head sagely. 'I do,' she settled without a moment's hesitation. 'Margaret looks well this evening,' she conceded through the thin line of her tightly buttoned lips, the endeavour of complementing another woman's good looks rather a strain, a bitter tang her venal tongue could not quite digest. 'We chose it together, and I did my best to hold back and let her decide on the details for herself because goodness knows that nobody can tell Margaret what to do! Besides, it is evident that she and I are quite different when it comes to these things,' she critiqued, Margaret's taste for simplicity too inexcusable for Fanny to endorse.
John smirked. Ha! She could say that again! And thank God for it!
Nevertheless, John could not help but notice the way in which Fanny's voice began to crack, almost as if she were holding back a tremulous emotion which was threatening to shatter her composure, leaving her in pieces.
'She chose well,' Fanny proclaimed again, only this time, there was something marked about her words as if they had been chosen with conscientious precision. 'Yes, the dress may not be as remarkable as some, but despite its lack of conceited lustre, the whole thing has an undeniable self-assurance to it,' she continued. Still, as John watched her, he was sure her eyes were not fixed on Margaret, but pensively staring off into the distance.
'While some do not last, this one is strong, durable, reliable, and it will stay with her for a lifetime. It will keep her safe and warm, always, because that is the sole purpose for which it was created. And it will not only serve her well, but it compliments her too, it suits her perfectly, as she does it. Moreover, I know that Margaret will take good care of it in return, never doing it any harm, always being so very gentle, as some parts of it are fragile and need her tenderness, parts that are hidden away that only she can reach. I know from the bottom of my heart that she will look after it with affectionate dedication, and what is more, I truly respect her for that,' Fanny concluded at last, her heart beating so unsteadily beneath her corset that she could hardly finish.
'Yes, they are made for each other, anyone can see that.'
John felt tears prick behind his eyes.
Oh, Fan! She was no longer talking about the dress, was she?
Swallowing thickly, John tried to regain his equanimity, a stabilising characteristic he was not accustomed to being without. 'It means the world to me that you like it,' he said hoarsely.
Fanny inclined a smidgen to the left and lightly came to rest against him, a sister leaning on her brother in more ways than one, just like she had done every day, over ten years ago. Looking up at John fondly, she laid her gloved hand on his arm and gently squeezed it.
'She could not have chosen better,' Fanny smiled, and John, taking her fingers in his, patted them tenderly, this being perhaps the most profound moment they had shared as siblings since they had curled up in bed as children on the night their father had died, the two of them holding each other in steadfast support as they wept for all they had lost on Earth and in Heaven, silently thanking the Lord that they still had each other, a bond that they would never let the tempests of life breach or break.
Moving apart, the two of them snuffled, attempting to shake themselves out of their mawkish stupor, overt displays of emotion not being something the Thorntons were adapted to indulging in.
'And, of course, it is very flattering,' Fanny chattered on, returning her attention to Margaret, the woman unaware that she was the subject of their discourse, because if she had, the embarrassed blush on her cheeks would have been so deep that no amount of scrubbing in the bath could have taken it away.
'One would hardly know that she is exp ─' Fanny was about to finish her sentence, but she soon bit down on her tongue to stop the cat from springing out of the proverbial bag. Snooping about her, she lifted a hand and held it up like a partition between them and the rest of the world, then with a conspiratorial wink, she added, 'Well, I suppose there was more than one reason why she required a new dress.'
As John's eyes trained up, he smiled furtively. Aye, it was true, Margaret was with child, their first, and the man was over the moon. He could still hardly believe it, and John had to regularly pinch himself, just to make sure that this was no dream since he had fantasised about their life together as man and wife for so long, never allowing himself to hope that it could truly come true. Margaret, his clever girl, was only a few months along, and her belly had only recently begun to swell, just a little, but the sight of their budding babe was enough to bring this strong master to his knees, and it had, time and time again, as he had knelt before his wife and kissed her stomach, marvelling that Margaret, that wonderful woman who could have chosen any man she wanted, was carrying his child.
Fanny was right. That would explain why Margaret had needed a new dress, since in normal circumstances, she would never have thought to buy herself something novel, the frugal lady considering such expenditure a decadent misuse of her fortune, especially when the money could have gone to a charitable cause. Margaret was not yet large with child, as already noted, but her breasts and hips had already started to flourish, her womanly arcs growing, something which John certainly did not complain about. Therefore, she was now finding that some of her clothes did not fit as they once had, particularly those that had been snugly tailored around her bosom, her bluey-green dress being a prime example. John recalled with a smug smirk that Margaret had tried it on only a short while ago, and the fabric had hardly been able to contain her, the mother-to-be bursting from the seams of her bodice. As for John, well, he had hardly been able to contain himself either, he too bursting through the seams in a certain region, and after one thing had led to another, the impractical dress, no longer of use, had been discarded on the floor.
John was grateful that Fanny had thought twice about publicising this titbit of gossip to the entire ballroom, his sister aware of the fact that the couple had not yet announced their news to the whole of Milton. However, as appreciative as John was for her discretion, Fanny was not about to admit that her motives had not been quite as noble as he supposed. In this case, it would be accurate to say that Fanny had felt more than a little sympathy for her sister-in-law, as she herself could remember giving way to floods of tears over the slightest misfortune and mishap. This had been one of the main reasons why Fanny had been supportive of the newlywed when Margaret had searched for a dress, the married lady understanding all too well the erratic highs and lows of pregnancy.
Nonetheless, Fanny's delicacy had not been so much about defending Mr and Mrs Thornton's privacy, but more about promoting her own prominence, for you see, as much of an expert rumourmonger as Mrs Watson was, she did not fancy her brother's joyous news becoming the main event that everybody remembered about her highly successful evening. Tonight was about her, after all, let us not forget that.
Nevertheless, Fanny was stirred from her vain ruminations as she heard her brother growl under his breath. Startling and glancing up, she saw Margaret come into view, the woman's face contorted into an uncomfortable grimace as her dance partner's hands began to wander down her back, creeping ever closer to her bottom. Pulling away diplomatically, Margaret's hand left his shoulder and darted behind her to elevate his arm into a more appropriate position higher up, much higher up.
John stood up straight and folded his arms, eyeing them carefully in case he should need to step in, (despite his ankle), and rescue his wife from the randy lout. However, it would appear that Margaret did not require a knight in shining armour to save her from Slickson, because when his arm next slid towards her pert rump, she lifted her foot, and with all the vigour she possessed, she stomped on his toes, clomping them with her heel.
In an instant, Slickson reeled backwards, yelping like a pup, and Margaret, in a pretence of concern, lurched towards him, and whoops, tripped the man up, causing him to fall flat on his boil-ridden backside in front of his sneering peers.
Whirling around to face the wall, John and Fanny covered their mouths to conceal their hysterical hooting, their shoulders juddering as they sniggered. Oh! Was there anybody quite like Margaret? At long last, they calmed themselves, and returning their attention to the ball, John sighed.
'I think it is time I took my wife home,' he decreed, because not only was it late, and the gentlemen were getting a mite too frisky in their drunken roguishness, but his poor Margaret had been on her feet for hours. She did not tire easily, not his hardy lass who was made of sterner stuff than even he, but she was with child, so John judged it sensible that they should make their polite excuses and escape before she wore herself out.
Before hobbling off to encourage his wife to call it a night, John turned one last time to look at Fanny, and lifting her hand to place a chivalrous kiss upon it, he smiled warmly. 'Well done, sister, you did well tonight,' he praised. 'I am so very proud of you.'
Fanny gulped, her feelings quite undoing her. 'Thank you,' she replied in a splutter. 'You have no idea how much that means to me, brother,' she said, welling up. 'And I am very proud of you, too.'
The two of them jumped as they heard a squeal of scorn resonate off to their left, then saw Watson approach, his portly presence hard to miss as he elbowed his way through the crowd like a rhino charging at an alarming speed. The fellow mill master's eyes were sprightly in the candlelight as he drew near, his grey orbs twinkling with vulnerable longing as he extended his hand out to his wife and invited her to dance, hoping she would consent and spend some time with him, because he had missed her this evening, he really had. She was young, he was old. She was pretty, he was ugly. She was fun, he was unexciting. She was refined, he was bristly. Watson knew all of this, but it did not stop him from adoring Fanny, his outstanding girl who was like nobody he had ever known, and how he wished with all his might that his wife would let him show her just how much he doted on her.
Fanny shyly held back, unsure of what to do, her heart torn.
'You know,' John whispered, jutting his head towards Watson, the man still keeping a respectful distance from the siblings, 'maybe you should give him a chance.'
Fanny blinked in astonishment. 'Do you really think so?' she asked, her nose crinkling sceptically.
'Yes, I do,' John avowed most assuredly. 'After all, she gave me a chance,' he said, his gaze instinctively returning to land upon his own dearly beloved wife. 'And I thank God every day that she did.'