TWO DANCING DOVES

Chapter Three

An hour or so later, Margaret stood beside her dressing room table and brushed the long tendrils of her hair, luscious curls of brunette which cascaded down her back and sprawled over her shoulders. With a sentimental sigh, she thought back on the days when her mother had seen to this seemingly insignificant task, but with the woman's hands gently arranging and combing through her knotted locks with such soothing tenderness, it had been Margaret's favourite bedtime routine as a child.

As Margaret gazed at herself in the mirror, her mind drifting back between the past and present, the girl's wakefulness getting lost somewhere in between, her sleepy eyes caught sight of her husband limping beside the bed as he kicked off his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a firm torso, his sweat gleaming upon his skin in the candlelight with teasing appeal.

Margaret smiled.

How she cherished seeing him like this, exposed before her in trusting familiarity, not his formal outward self that the outside world knew, a master who was stiff in both clothes and character, but just a being of flesh and bone, her man, her dear boy. It still filled Margaret with such awe to think that she was the only person who ever saw John like this, and it never failed to remind her how lucky she was to have this privileged position as his partner, the one and only being that he had chosen to share in his life, to walk alongside him through the joys and woes of his days.

She was so incredibly in love with him that Margaret often wondered how her heart had room to bear such overwhelming reverence. She knew he had been practising his dancing for the ball, of course she did, but she had never let on, not wishing to injure his pride. Bless him, John had done so well tonight. It must have been horribly difficult for him to stand back and witness her dance with all those men. Glaring, Margaret knew that she would not have liked it if the situation had been reversed, and she had been forced to watch as her husband had been pawed over by a throng of flirtatious ladies. No, she would not have liked it one bit. Still, Margaret could confess that she had worried that John's jealousy would flare up and cause contention between them at the party, her husband's temper getting the better of him as he pushed her away emotionally to compensate for his own feelings of inadequacy. But no, he had mastered his resentment beautifully, and for that, Margaret could not have been more proud of her darling John.

My, my, how far they had come! And what made her gladder still, was to know that the best was yet to unfold, and there was no telling how their love could mature over the years, blossoming into something truly magnificent and magical to behold.

Margaret had observed John talking with his sister tonight, their conversation long and somewhat intense. She had tried to guess what it had all been about, since the two of them hardly ever spoke, avoiding each other like a bickering cat and dog, scrapping whenever they drew near, hissing at each other with inane pettiness. However, Margaret had not been obliged to ponder upon this conundrum for long, because on the way home, John had told her voluntarily what he and Fanny had been speaking about, or at least, he told his wife some of it. To begin with, he had said nothing, but stared ahead broodingly, and then, after they had trundled past the park, the sound of droplets of rain splashing against the pond rousing him, he had suddenly announced that he wanted to go and feed the ducks on Sunday.

The new Mrs Thornton was not ashamed to say that she had been startled, more than a little concerned that he was drunk, but Margaret had not seen him indulge in a glass all evening, so that could not be the cause of his nonsensical gibberish. At length, John had unexpectedly explained how he felt guilty for having neglected his sister for so many years, and how it was time he put things right while he still could, while there was still hope for them to be reconciled. At first, Margaret had snorted, declaring that John may have a few faults to challenge his character, but negligence was not one of them, his praiseworthy allegiance to his family's welfare unmatched by any man alive.

John had smiled and thanked Margaret for her encouragement by draping his arm around her and pulling his sweetheart closer, every inch that separated them an agonising expanse to him. Still, he had disagreed, wisely replying by saying that sometimes putting a roof over somebody's head and providing food for their belly was not enough, no, because people needed more than that to survive in this harsh world. Love was not merely built upon the foundations of security alone, but grounded in the cornerstone of sensitivity, and while he had been busy caring for Fanny as a practical elder brother, perhaps he had failed to give her what she needed most, what she truly yearned for, and that was his unreserved affection.

Placing his hand over Margaret's belly as the carriage trundled along towards Marlborough Mills, John had philosophised that while we all might grow up one day, an innocent part of us will remain children forever, constantly vulnerable, and permanently in need of care. Therefore, it was his responsibility to ensure that Fanny, always his little sister, felt she had the steadfast friendship of her elder brother to rely on. She may have been married now, Watson being accountable for her health and happiness, but no matter what her marriage license read, Fanny would always be a Thornton by blood.

Margaret had been tremendously pleased to hear him speak so, and leaning over, she had pecked her husband's stubbled jaw with her lips and then nestled against his shoulder, sighing contentedly to be embraced by a man who was so munificent. Yes, John, he was the finest of masters, but best of all, he was hers, her companion, her compass, her conscience, even if Margaret did not deserve his love after all she had put the misunderstood Mr Thornton through when she had first come to Milton.

'I missed you tonight,' she whispered cordially as Margaret spied him groan in relief to finally be able to sit down. He could have sat all night, naturally, but her stubborn mule of a man had insisted on standing by at the edge of the dance floor, like a soldier on guard, protectively watching over his wife and babe, just in case they needed him, and in the end, they had.

John grinned and returned her gaze, his eyes awash with uninhibited adoration. 'And I you,' he countered, trying his best not to stare as Margaret removed her robe and stood before the mirror unclothed, the voluptuous swell of her breasts reflected back to him, the outline of the bones in her back rising and falling like a piece of sculpted art.

'Did you enjoy your evening?' he asked as he hauled his nightshirt on over his head and averted his glance respectfully, wishing, as always, that he and his wife could sleep together naked, but no, John did not wish Margaret to think that he was making demands of her, not after she had already had enough exertion this night. She needed rest, not ravaging, he supposed regretfully. John thought that while being Margaret's husband may have afforded him certain rights legally, he never wished to be the sort of man who put his own lascivious cravings before her comfort, because such insatiability would not only be selfish, but categorically sinful. After all, making love in a marriage bed could be done in more ways than one, something any good husband knew how to do.

'I did,' Margaret confirmed as she lifted her arms high into the sky and wiggled into her thin summer nightdress, her hips swivelling suggestively. Whistling a happy tune, she commenced to braid her strands of hair, but soon gave up, the fluffy tresses too wild after being liberated from their pins, not that John minded, for he relished seeing Margaret unadorned from tip to toe, appearing before him like his very own Eve in the inner sanctum of their bedroom, the Thornton's private paradise, their personal Garden of Eden.

Then, with a pining lilt, she added, 'But there was just one problem.'

John peered up at once, his anxious eyes scanning her up and down, concerned that Margaret meant that she had become wearied by it all or had been subjected to a more objectionable pestering from the rowdy menfolk than he had realised, and he suddenly felt insufferably angry with himself for not having insisted she come home sooner.

'And what was that?' he checked, his tone uneven in its unease.

Pirouetting round, Margaret swung her figure from side to side dreamily as she thought, the sight of her sweet and sensual swaying enough to drive him mad with want of her, John's nails gripping onto the bedding as a means of release as his pulsating body responded instinctively to her irresistible lures.

Margaret sniffed heavily as her eyes drifted up to meet his, great sapphires of blue which dazzled him, leaving John blind to everything else but her. 'I did not get to dance with my prince,' she divulged at last, a disappointed lament seeping from her pouted lips.

John chuckled in reprieve to hear that it was nothing so bad after all, her husband able to relax once more. 'Perhaps your toes were spared an ordeal,' he suggested, thinking on how Slickson was no doubt in his bed at this precise moment, nursing a brandy and bawling. Huh, served him right!

The wife shook her head and exhaled sadly as she clung onto one of the bedposts, Margaret leaning back while she rocked on her tiptoes, leaving John feeling vanquished by her candid charm, for never could he have imagined that Margaret Hale would be in his bedroom, hardly dressed, and so full of contented cheerfulness to be alone with him.

'I would not have cared how many times my prince stepped on my toes,' she told him as she returned to the mirror to inspect herself before applying the infusion of soaked camomile leaves in a bowl of tepid water to her eyelids as she did every night, just like Queen Victoria herself.

John frowned, because while he always found it captivating to see Margaret so at home in his house, he still hated it, really hated it, whenever she walked away from him, even if it were just to the other side of the room, the sight of her vanishing form reminding him of that harrowing day when he had watched her leave in helpless despair, never to return, his grieving soul begging her to look back at the wretched master who loved her more than words could say.

However, Margaret was not quite finished with her coy flirting tonight, restoring his mood once again into that of frisky delight. 'No, I would not have cared, because out of all the men there, he was the only man I wanted to dance with, the only man who matters to me,' Margaret said matter-of-factly as she twisted to the side, reviewing her small bump and glowing with pride as her hands cradled the shape of her baby, their precious baby. Margaret knew that she had a great capacity to love, she had always understood this, but deep down, she trusted that motherhood would unlock a sacred store of love within her, the thought of carrying, birthing and raising John's child anointing her with the kind of maternal passion which is both fond and fierce in its unconditional devotion.

'I love him, you see,' she said plainly, poetically. 'So he is the only man for me.'

John stood back, simply staring at her, spellbound by the wonder of his wife. 'Margaret,' he murmured after a while, his throat gravelly with veneration.

'Yes, dearest?'

John's eyes flitted to her dress which lay carefully strewn over a chair, the beads glittering in the rosy radiance of the fire that crackled in the grate, embers which refused to go to sleep before they did. 'You looked so lovely tonight, my love.'

Margaret's stilled and her mouth quivered, unable to look at him. 'Did I?' she asked nervously, unsure of the sincerity behind his compliment.

'Yes, you did,' he affirmed boldly, walking towards her, not caring that his ankle flinched under the strain of his ill-advised efforts. When he reached her side, John's hands searched for his lover, and with splayed fingers, he captured her willowy waist, tugging Margaret close. Lowering his head so that his temple bumped against hers, he took in a deep breath as he tried to steady his nerves, the thrill of being so delectably near to Margaret still enough to make John giddy, even after months of marriage.

'I wish you knew how perfect you are to me,' John beseeched, the thought that she did not know this truth hurting him like a physical pain.

Margaret shuffled further into his hold as she nibbled her lip. 'But John, I am not like those other ladies. I am not…'

John dipped his head and kissed her, just once, and like it had earlier this evening, this marriage of their mouths had been enough to silence her doubts and tell Margaret all she needed to know, disclosing to a wife exactly how her husband felt about her.

With one hand stroking her cheek and the other sifting through her silken hair, John brushed his nose against hers. 'You have a splendour that is irresistible to me, Margaret. Your goodness is the most glorious marvel I have ever encountered, a brilliant sunlight which warms my soul, and for that, you will always be the most enchanting woman in the world to me.'

As John's hands slid down Margaret's sides and over her hips, a hungry spark shimmered in his eyes that he could not hide. 'While I may admire your body, while that may have attracted me to you as a man wants a woman,' he said, his fingers gripping her bottom in a way that the snake Slickson could never hope to, 'I fell in love with you because of something far more important.'

Margaret looked confused. 'And what was that?'

John grinned to himself as he peppered a kiss upon her head. 'Your mind,' he started. His lips then coasted down to her breast. 'Your heart,' he seconded, depositing a moist caress there, Margaret's chest thumping as she moaned breathlessly. Then, finally, taking her face in his hands, John stared deep into the pools of her eyes. 'And your soul.'

Margaret could not bring herself to blink, the wife transfixed by her husband's romantic devotion to her.

'So, my love, I will always be fascinated by you. And it does not matter if your body changes,' he promised, touching her stomach with such tenderness that she nearly swooned, 'for so long as that trinity of which I speak stays faithful to you, then so shall the loyalty of my love for Margaret Thornton endure.'

Margaret gasped. 'Oh, John!' she breathed, hardly able to catch her breath. 'How I love you!'

Sensing her shake and lose her stance, John bent down and whisked his wife into the air, her legs spontaneously separating to wrap around him as she straddled his midriff.

'John, stop it! Put me down!' she tittered, playfully slapping him on the arm. 'You cannot, dearest, your ankle! I am too heavy!' Margaret protested, afraid that he would harm himself further and be laid up in bed like a cripple for weeks.

However, John did not heed her disapproval but chortled knowingly. 'Come now!' he argued, his mouth sucking her own. 'Surely by now, you must know, wife-of-mine, that you do not weigh me down, but rather, you take my burdens away, and make me feel as light as air, all simply by loving me in your own endearing way,' he told her.

At these words, Margaret gave in and collapsed against his shoulder, her arms wound tightly around his neck, her husband groaning in gratification to feel her hold him so.

Standing there for a minute in harmonious tranquillity, the couple swayed from side-to-side, and then slowly, John began to move, dancing on the spot. Throwing her head back and laughing, Margaret started to hum, a pretty tune that her mother had sung to her in the nursery, a song she vowed she would sing to her children and grandchildren over the years to come.

They remained like this for a while, gliding about the room as one, spinning in slow circles as they hugged each other, John finally got his wish and was granted the honour of dancing with Margaret, his hours of rehearsing paying off.

When at last his ankle could take no more, he stopped, and catching a glimpse of themselves in the mirror, Margaret giggled and pointed at their white nightclothes. 'Look, John!' she cried gleefully, elevating her arm so that her snowy sleeves fanned out fully and floated like the wings of a bird. 'We are like two dancing doves.'

John beamed and kissed his wife once more before bringing her to their bed where they belonged at this late hour, laying her down as he carefully clambered on top, Margaret's arms opening wide to welcome him.

'Aye, that is what we be, Mrs Thornton, two dancing doves, you and me.'

The End

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