-This story is a short follow-on from one I posted in my series, The Thornton Tales, called, "A Black Mouse With a Frilly White Cap."
-I sometimes like to dedicate my stories to my dear readers, and this story, I am honoured to say, is dedicated to Shawn.
GOD BLESS YOU, MA'AM
In the tranquil affection of an April evening, Margaret Thornton found herself amidst the calming intimacy and informality of her kitchen, delicately arranging a vase of blossoms upon the weathered wooden table. With a heavy heart, she sought solace in the simple act, finding a gentle upliftment as the flowers whispered their silent reassurance to her grieving spirit.
As a solitary tear traced its path down her cheek, landing softly amidst the beautiful contours of her wrinkled face, Margaret allowed a tender smile to grace her lips. Determined to welcome the light amidst the shadows, she gently swept aside a stray strand of silver hair, her gaze drifting toward the sun-kissed meadows beyond the window, this stretching, green carpet a reminder that nature was sovereign, always making anew from its earth, bringing rebirth to what had been laid to rest in its soil. It was as her eyes scanned this pleasant landscape, this vision of quintessential England, that they fell upon an old tree that she had sat beneath a hundred times over, its trunk and branches offering her shelter in every season of her life, and it struck her as an idyllic spot for what would soon be needed. Yes, that little spot beneath the greenwood tree, would be perfect.
In that moment of vulnerability, Margaret felt the comforting presence of someone dear behind her, a familiar warmth enveloping her soul as a strong hand tenderly brushed away her tears.
'Would you like me to come with you, my love?' John's voice was deep and resonant, the depth of his sincere support deeper still.
Leaning into the reassuring headrest of her husband's firm breast, Margaret found solace in his loyal presence. Looking up at him, she was struck by the contrast of his silvery hair, each lock glistening like threads of wisdom, intertwined with the remnants of youth—a few stubborn curls of black defying the passage of time. He was as handsome as ever; her serious, stoic, sensitive pillar of strength. Grateful for his offer of companionship, Margaret benevolently declined, her voice soft yet resolute.
'No, my darling, thank you,' she answered. 'I sense this goodbye should be personal and private, so I shall brave it alone. But I will seek your comfort afterwards, for I know I shall need it.'
Therefore, with renewed determination, Margaret gathered the flowers and left her husband to take up a bat and ball so that he could go and play cricket with his grandchildren in the last gilded hues of the fading sunlight.
Walking through the narrow corridors and angled doorways, Margaret welcomed the sun's gentle caress, its radiant beams weaving patterns of bleached beams through every open window, infusing the air with freshness and painting her porcelain skin with the genial stroke of springtime that spoke of sweet optimism, that hope of things yet to come, that courage of faith in the future.
Margaret adored their cottage, a haven secluded from the clamour of Milton's bustling existence. Within its unperturbed and undisturbed confines, there were no echoes of the ceaseless mill, no spectre of the courthouse, and no pressures of societal expectations. Here, it was just them: the Thornton family, ensconced in the embrace of their private retreat.
Throughout the years, they had frequented this sanctuary, a cherished refuge where their children could revel in the purity of unpolluted air, dance freely in barefooted joy, and harmonise with the rhythms of nature itself.
Each room she passed told its own stories, for they were a repository of cherished memories: laughter ringing out from bygone days of playful games, tears shed in moments of sorrow, and the enduring presence of anticipation and joy, wrapped in the consoling and cheering protection of family and friendship.
Arriving at a particular room, Margaret cautiously peered inside, exhaling a sigh of relief at the sight of life persisting within its confines. In the middle of the room, illuminated by a gentle cascade of sunlight, rested a bed, upon which lay a woman being pulled between this world and the next. The woman's eyes fluttered like fragile wings, opening and closing with an erratic wavering that mirrored the uncertainty of her dwindling breaths. Each inhalation was a laborious reminder of mortality, a solemn acknowledgement that these moments were her last in this mortal realm.
With demonstrative care, Margaret adorned the small table with the vibrant array of sunflowers and wildflowers, their merry shades a testament to life's enduring beauty. Taking her place beside her friend, she clasped her hand, offering whatever relief her presence could provide, their wrinkled fingers joined in fellowship.
The woman sighed jubilantly, 'Sunflowers: my favourite. Like a sunflower that follows every movement of the sun, so I turn towards you, to follow you, my God.'
There's scarcely anything on this planet that sings the anthem of life quite like the sunflower. Its name, intriguingly, doesn't solely stem from its sun-like appearance, but from its captivating habit of chasing the sun. From dawn's first light to dusk's radiant blush and burn, the sunflower's face faithfully follows the sun's celestial journey across the sky, serving as a radiant beacon for sunshine. Regardless of how feeble the rays may be, these flowers unfailingly seek them out, embodying a remarkable tenacity. It's an act of unflinching admiration and a profound devotion.
'How are you, Bessie?' Margaret asked her maid as she gently rearranged her blankets and dabbed her forehead with a cooling cloth.
Bessie's rosy lips creased upwards. 'Heartily content,' she responded with her usual cheer, 'for I will soon be with the Lord,' she added with a serene grin, though a hint of melancholy shadowed her expression. 'Yet, I'll carry a sadness to bid you farewell, ma'am,' she confessed.
Margaret shook her head. 'Aye,' said she, using the dialect of the north that had now become so natural to her. 'How strange it will be to say goodbye, for we have not been parted these near-fifty years, old friend,' she said wistfully. 'But I would not take you away from God, not you, his most faithful servant.'
Margaret fought back the tears, feeling the weight of emotion pressing against her resolve. Bessie—more than just a maid, had been a constant presence in Margaret's life for nearly five decades. Their journey began when Margaret, at twenty-six, crossed paths with the eighteen-year-old Elizabeth. At that time, Margaret was already Mrs John Thornton, navigating the roles of wife, mother, and mistress of the household.
Though Margaret had always endeavoured to be a fair and compassionate employer, it was Bessie's arrival, with her wide-eyed wonder, that ignited a desire within Margaret to bridge the chasm of class difference and forge a bond of true kinship between them.
Bessie's journey began in the gloom of illiteracy, but Margaret served as her beacon of enlightenment. With unwavering patience and dedication, Margaret guided Bessie through the labyrinth of language, imparting the precious gift of literacy. Together, they disentangled the mysteries of letters, encouraging Bessie to not only comprehend them but also to wield them with grace and purpose.
Learning to sign her name marked a pivotal moment of empowerment for Bessie—a tangible symbol of self-expression. Under Margaret's nurturing mentorship, Bessie not only gained the ability to communicate through meaningful scribbles, but she also discovered a newfound sense of identity and independence that afforded her fresh opportunities and a sense of self-worth.
For instance, Bessie's role in the reconstruction of the old town was nothing short of indispensable. In the wake of a devastating Cholera epidemic and the groundbreaking revelations of Mr Snow's research on the interplay of poverty, deprivation, and disease, Mr Thornton had embarked on a mission to revitalise the neglected corners of the city. While he framed the initiative as a rational business move, emphasising the correlation between employee health and productivity, his wife understood the true integrity of his altruism. Indeed, for Margaret recognised that behind her husband's pragmatic exterior beat a heart brimming with compassion.
At any rate, it had been Bessie herself who had offered her services to the project. Hailing from Princeton as a child, and being intimately familiar with its challenges, she became an invaluable advisor in this ambitious undertaking. Guided by her insights, the mill master and magistrate had been able to spearhead the demolition of dilapidated slum tenements and shacks, replacing them with sturdier, more dignified homes for the citizens of Milton. Many of these structures endured for generations, a lasting tribute to the enduring legacy of their collaborative efforts in uplifting the community for generations to come.
However, no matter how instrumental Bessie was in the development of a new Milton, her true home always seemed to be with Margaret at Marlborough House. Over time, as Dixon settled into retirement from the comfort of her armchair by a crackling fire, Bessie seamlessly transitioned into the role of Margaret's trusted lady's maid.
But her devotion extended to every member of the family. When Margaret's mother-in-law neared the end, Bessie assumed the role of caregiver with untiring dedication. She spent endless hours at her bedside, reading passages from the Bible, offering comfort as her strength declined. In a touching display of affection, the once formidable matriarch softened in her final days, forging an unexpected attachment to Bessie and bequeathing her prized collection of lace—a poignant testament to the depth of her respect. Indeed, Bessie had been a constant presence throughout the generations, witnessing the miracle of birth from Margaret's children to her great-grandchildren.
Nevertheless, Bessie was so much more than a maid; she was her own woman.
At the age of twenty-two, she had defied tradition by marrying a footman, and she became Mrs Shawn. In response, and in a bold departure from convention, Margaret chose to retain Bessie as an employed, married woman within the household, and the two of them had never once regretted it, their interlaced lives.
Goodness! How far they had come.
Gone was the image of Bessie as a timid mouse, hidden beneath a frilly white cap. In its place had emerged a woman of remarkable courage and strength, her spirit unshackled from the confines of expectation.
'I want to ask you something,' said Bessie suddenly.
Margaret turned her soft blue-grey eyes upon her.
'Why me?' Bessie asked.
Margaret furrowed her brow.
'I mean,' Bessie went on, her speech strenuous but determined, 'you have always been unfailingly kind to everyone, but you have conferred upon me a kindness that is beyond words. Why?'
Bessie let out a groan, her limbs aching, though she was too tired to mind. Drawing near, Margaret, lightly draped a shawl around the woman's shoulders, for her skin grew cold. The shawl, a delicate blend of cream interwoven with intricate threads of brown, red, silver, and gold, had once graced Margaret's youthful shoulders. However, many years prior, she had bestowed it upon Bessie as a gift, and she had treasured it ever since.
As the dusk drew close and the day approached its inevitable conclusion, in that space where words are few and silence speaks volumes, Margaret recalled the simple earnestness of Bessie's final wishes. In her modest will, Bessie had made one request—to be laid to rest wearing the shawl that had been a token of their enduring bond. And so, with reverence, Margaret would honour her maid's simple appeal, ensuring that Bessie departed this world as she had lived in it—wrapped in warmth and adorned with the gossamers of their shared history.
Still, Margaret pondered on the question that had been posed, and, at last, she discovered her answer.
'Because of her,' she said in all honesty, her words cryptic. 'I had a friend once,' she continued, thinking of Bessie Higgins, 'who deserved so much more than life gave her. I wished with all my heart then that I could save her, that I could grant her all the happiness and hope that every one of God's children deserves. But I could not. And so, when I met you, I wanted to make amends. I wanted to use my good fortune of wealth and gladness to enrich the lives of others in whatever humble way I could.'
Bessie smiled at this. 'In that case,' said she, 'I will greet your friend at the pearly gates and tell her all about the life you've lived, and I trust that she will be profoundly proud of the woman you have become.'
Margaret sniffed, and gazing out of the window at the sprawling fields surrounding the Thornton's cottage, she observed a heartwarming scene unfolding before her.
In the golden stream of sunset, the laughter of children echoed across the fields and between the brooks and trees, mingling harmoniously with the rustle of the breeze. Here, beneath the vast expanse of the open sky, Margaret's descendants played alongside Bessie's own kin, their mirth and joy binding them together as brethren, spanning the breaches of age and background.
It was a representation of concord and unity, where the boundaries of lineage and social status dissolved, leaving only the pure essence of common childhood delight. As Margaret witnessed this stirring occurrence, she felt a swell of pride and gratitude for the lasting ties that connected their classes.
John always said that he hoped one day the world could be bled of its bitterness, and Margaret prayed for this too. She had seen the changes that had arisen in her lifetime, the progress that had been made. They were crawling, slowly but surely, towards equality, and while she doubted that pure parity would ever exist, she now knew how it was to be achieved.
True equality, Margaret believed, could not be legislated into existence nor achieved through charitable acts alone. Instead, it was cultivated through the everyday actions of ordinary people. Small gestures of empathy and the honest forging of bonds among individuals were the undeniable catalysts for creating a fairer, more compassionate Utopia. In this envisioned paradise, this Heaven on Earth, distinctions between maids and mistresses, masters and men blurred, paving the way for genuine friendships to blossom across societal partitions.
'You have served me so very well,' Margaret wept, sensing the end drawing near. 'I can only hope that I too have served you well in turn.'
Bessie nodded as she drifted off to sleep. 'You did more than that, Mrs Thornton,' she assured her, the tight grip of her hand waning. 'You loved me for who I was and saw me as more than just a maid.'
Margaret quietly fell to her knees beside the bed and kissed her on the cheek, her fingers tenderly stroking the woman's grey hair, much like a mother does for her darling child.
'And you loved me for who I was and saw me as more than just a mistress.'
Bessie closed her eyes, and floating away into the peaceful bliss of eternal rest, she whispered: 'God bless you, Margaret. God bless you, ma'am.'
The End