SNOWFLAKES AND SNOWMEN

(The Thornton Tales)


It was Boxing Day in Milton, and John Thornton and his wife, Margaret, who had been wed but three months, sat together on the floor by the fire, curled up together like two cats, one black, one brown. Outside, a heavy snowfall that had been falling for hours now cloaked the town in a thick carpet of unblemished white. The streets, which had earlier been a throng of merrymakers, now stood desolate and deserted beneath the swirling dance of snowflakes. The wind howled fiercely, its icy breath rattling the windowpanes, as though it longed to invade the warmth within. But inside their snug drawing room, the fire crackled merrily, the golden sparks of firelight skipping and prancing on the walls like fireflies, offering a welcome solace from the wintry world beyond.

John's mother, Hannah, had left that morning to stay with her daughter, Fanny, for the next few days, with the intent of returning to them for the New Year celebrations. John and Margaret were delighted with this arrangement, as it allowed the couple to enjoy a few carefree days untroubled by guests or obligations. It was to be a Christmas unlike any they had experienced before—without any visitors, without any work, and without any of the grand festivities that usually accompanied the season. They had the house to themselves, an oasis of calm before returning to the busy, bustling life of being a mill master and mistress.

The couple had spent the entire day in tranquil seclusion, their hearts and minds at ease in the peaceful solitude of their effortless togetherness. Most of their servants had gone to join their families for a brief respite, leaving John and Margaret to savour the intimacy of their newlywed sanctuary—a special privilege they were still relishing in and growing accustomed to.

They had risen shockingly late, their morning hours spent lazily intertwined beneath the quilts, basking in the comforting warmth of each other's embrace as the soft light of the winter sun sneaked through the delicate lace curtains. As the day marched on, they ventured outside, their spirits light as the fine dusting of snow that blanketed the earth in unspoiled white. Hand in hand, they strolled through the frostbitten air, their laughter chiming like church bells in the silence, until they reached a frozen pond, its surface smooth and gleaming like polished silver beneath the pale, wintry sun. With mischief gleaming in their eyes, they donned their skates, initially hesitant, but they soon felt both their confidence and cheerfulness rise. Their skates traced arcs across the ice with wild abandon, their laughter combining with the sharp, invigorating breath of winter, as they spun and glided in carefree glee. Margaret, as light and swift as a snowflake caught on the breeze, darted ahead, her breath puffing out in clouds of frost, while John, ever eager to keep pace, pursued her with his long legs, letting out a hearty laugh that reverberated across the frozen expanse.

Their frisky, flirtatious energy soon erupted into a snowball skirmish. Racing after each other, they hurled their icy projectiles with deft precision. Behind snowdrifts and trees, they took cover, their cheeks flushed with the excitement of the chase, their eyes alight with the joy of their blithe mischief. The world around them was a swirl of white, their laughter and shouts of merriment ringing out like the sweetest music. Breathless and exhausted, they tumbled into the soft snow, their faces pink with pleasure. With light-hearted sighs, the weight of their daily lives dissolved, melting away into nothingness. Each day, they had consistently donned the roles of Mr and Mrs Thornton, Masters and Mistresses of Marlborough Mills. But today, they were free to simply be John and Margaret.

After their spirited frolic in the snow, they returned to the warmth of their home and retired again to bed to keep warm, burrowing beneath the blankets as they whispered sweet words to one another. Later, when hunger coaxed them from the cocoon of their marital bed, they dined on cold meats, rich cheeses, and freshly baked biscuits—a humble yet delicious feast. Now, as the fire fizzed and popped blissfully in the hearth, they sat together in perfect harmony, each absorbed in the new volumes of Dickens novels they had exchanged on Christmas Day, the two of them so alike in their tastes. The night outside lay serene and still, the snow continuing to fall persistently, but within the protected confines of their home, they were content to be alone, with no mill workers or schoolchildren around to steal their attention from one another. They both privately hoped that soon they would be blessed with a child, and, in the years to come, more little Thorntons would fill their home. Their family would soon be filled with an abundance of life, but, for now, they were content to be as they were.

As the darkness deepened, Margaret nestled into her husband. Her delicate fingers traced the rim of her champagne glass, the faintest smile on her lips, as they basked in the serenity of their sequestered haven. All around them, the house was still—save for the occasional gust of wind that sighed against the walls—leaving the couple to enjoy the evening in perfect seclusion.

However, it was not long before John, ever the practical man, stood and began diligently rearranging the decorations with his usual care. A string of holly, its red berries gleaming in the firelight, draped across the mantel, and the tree, though simple, stood adorned with delicate glass baubles and velvet ribbons. With fastidious fingers, he ensured these were all neat and symmetrical to the last inch. Margaret, watching him from the heap of pillows they had scattered on the floor, sat finishing her embroidered gift for her mother-in-law. Glancing up at him after every stitch, she found herself grinning at the sight of his single-minded attention to detail. She had grown accustomed to this side of him, his methodical ways that contrasted so strongly with her more spontaneous nature. Over these early months of their marriage, Margaret had learned to appreciate John's need for order since it was his way of retaining control after a life filled with so much upheaval and uncertainty. Indeed, Margaret admired John's thoroughness in every endeavour, no matter how significant or trivial, yet, she could not help but tease him about it now and again, for she adored seeing the stern mill master's scowl turn into a sly, satisfying smirk.

'Must you ensure every last bow is perfectly placed?' she teased, her eyes twinkling with amusement. She leaned back against a plump cushion, her needlework resting in her lap. She breathed freely, glad to be rid of her corset, a restricting garment that she had tossed aside the moment they returned to their refuge. 'You would tidy the very stars if they were within your reach, I daresay.'

John paused in his task, turning to her with a raised eyebrow and a shrewd smile. 'A new year approaches, Mrs Thornton. One cannot start it without a clear and organised mind,' he replied strictly, his voice steady and assured, as always, though there was more than a hint of mirth tickling his deep tones. 'There is no such thing as too much order, my dear.'

'If you say so,' she pestered, barely suppressing a giggle.

'You have your traditions,' he retorted, nodding toward the linens she methodically rearranged each December—ensuring they were fresh and repaired, ready for the new year. 'And I have mine,' he added, referring to the way he reviewed every book in his care, both personal and professional, making certain everything was in perfect order before the first of January.

Margaret's soft chuckle slipped from her rosy lips, her gaze true and tender. Rising, she glided toward him, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous gleam that never failed to captivate him. In that instant, John realised that the woman he had married was everything he had envisioned—and yet, nothing like the Miss Hale he had once known. She was still intelligent, sensible, modest, and possessed a thousand other virtues, but with him, she was also unrestrained, her spirit independent and free. In public, she remained composed and reserved, but in their quieter moments, she radiated warmth and affection. It was this exquisite fusion of gravity and grace, of sobriety and sweetness, that made him fall ever more deeply in love with her each passing day.

'Oh, dear,' she said, her tone tickled by an impish excitability, 'how dull our traditions are,' she lamented.

He leaned down to kiss her forehead while he made sure there were an even number of greeting cards on either side of the gold-leafed clock on the mantel. He grumbled to see that some ludicrous person had placed eight on one side and twelve on the other.

'Well,' said he, knowing when his clever wife had a plan brewing, 'and what do you plan to do about it, madam?'

Margaret reached up on her tip-toes to kiss his bristled cheek. 'Well, since you ask, sir, I think it is time for us to create a new tradition—one that is less about prudence and more about fun.'

John's interest was piqued, though a small trace of wariness coloured his expression. 'And what might this new tradition entail?' he asked, his lips curling in a half-smile.

Margaret's grin widened as she took his hand, guiding him toward the corner of the room where a basket of odds and ends and bits and bobs lay in disarray. 'I propose,' she began, 'that we build a snowman.'

John looked at her in surprise, a puzzled frown creasing his brow as he glanced from Margaret to the ferocious blizzard outside. 'A snowman? But it is far too fierce to go out of doors!' he protested, pointing to the heavy grey sky which now spat down a constant torrent of flint-like shards of snow. 'I might be a robust man, my love, weathered by our northern climate, but even I do not wish to be turned into an icicle,' he resisted with a theatrical shudder, shaking his head at the thought.

Margaret's laughter bubbled at his misunderstanding. 'Not that kind of snowman, my love,' she joshed, her hand curling around his arm in that way that still made him quake with the thrill of it. 'I propose we create one of our own—using only what we have here in the house.' She gestured toward the room, her eyes flashing with anticipation at the idea of turning their cosy space into a winter wonderland with the simplest of objects.

John hesitated for a trice, unsure of this unorthodox idea, but then, with good-natured resignation, he allowed himself to be drawn into the spirit of her suggestion. The challenge intrigued him, and though it was far from his usual methodical approach, he could not resist her. After all, he would do anything to make his darling wife happy.

As for Margaret, her motives for the plan ran deeper than he could ever imagine. She loved John with a passionate, protective tenderness, but there was more to it than that. Beneath her affection, there was a quiet sorrow for the years John had sacrificed to both restore and then secure the fortunes and good name of his family. She admired the tireless dedication he poured into his work, but she could never forget how the untimely death of his father had stolen his youth. Forced to bear the weight of manhood far too early, he had missed out on the carefree joys and light-hearted pleasures that should have marked his younger years.

It was for this reason that Margaret longed to see her John indulge in those innocent, childlike moments he had never fully experienced. But there was more to it still. A secret fluttered within her, an inspiring suspicion that she might be with child. The thought filled her with hope, for she knew that by the next Christmas, they would be parents. And she resolved that when that time came, they would embrace parenthood not only with love and care but with the same exuberance and good humour she longed to share with him now. The world could wait for the responsibilities ahead. For today, she wanted them to simply be happy, to reclaim the joy and wonder of their youth together.

The game began uncertainly. At first, John's approach was cautious and systematic, as he searched for objects that might serve as the foundation for his creation. He reached for a porcelain teapot, intending to use it as the head, and selected a pair of neatly folded towels along with some firewood, which he hoped could be shaped into arms. But Margaret, ever imaginative and instinctive, was already several steps ahead. She had taken a bright red scarf from the basket and draped it around a stout candlestick, fashioning it as the snowman's neck. A broomstick was added with a flourish to one side, proudly labelled as his magical staff.

John watched as Margaret continued her impromptu design. She placed a tomato before the candlestick, declaring it the snowman's nose, and tied a matching ribbon around the broomstick to serve as a makeshift broach to please Milton's fine society. There was no regularity to her concept, nor any attempt to impose a conventional shape or size. Yet, despite the apparent disarray, it was undeniably charming—an embodiment of the uncontrived spirit of the woman who had so wonderfully brightened his life.

'Excellent work, Mr Thornton,' Margaret praised in a mock Darkshire accent that mimicked his own, her expression approving as she stood back to admire the result. 'I daresay, this is the most extraordinary snowman Milton has ever seen.' She then went to a vase of roses and snapped off a small stem to add to his ensemble, and indicating to the thorns, she said, 'There, he is part of the family now, a true Thornton.'

John, though flustered, smiled at the sight of their whimsical creation. 'It is rather fine, is it not?' he conceded, though with a hint of pride in his voice.

As they stood side by side, their gazes fixed upon the peculiar figure before them, their conversation naturally drifted to past Christmases. Margaret began, recounting stories of her childhood in London, the streets teeming with well-dressed, fashionable folk, her aunt ever insistent on the strictest adherence to prim and proper perfection. She then spoke of her time in Helstone—a far more homely affair. With a wistful smile, she remembered her dearly departed parents and the warmth that had pervaded their home, despite the fleeting nature of their family's income and social position.

In contrast, John's voice was steady and measured as he shared his own memories. He rarely spoke of his life before his father's death, but when he allowed himself to lower his guard, he would occasionally open up to Margaret, trusting her with fragments of a past he often kept locked away. His wife could see how it was a cathartic release—a long-suppressed outpouring of bittersweet remembrances. He spoke of his father's buoyant and optimistic nature, how he would fill the house to bursting with presents and all manner of extravagant surprises. But then, all too soon, his father had died. John's tone grew quieter as he recalled the more sombre Christmases that followed in Milton. For many years, he had toiled and saved, struggling to restore his family's wealth and repay their debts, setting aside what little he could so that his mother and sister might enjoy some semblance of the Christmas they deserved. Later, as the Master of Malborough Mills, his Christmases had become solitary affairs—save for dinner with his mother and sister. He would spend the remainder of the season absorbed in his work, the world beyond his study seeming distant and unattainable.

But now, he was married. Now, Christmas would never be the same again. It would be wholesome and hopeful, something to look forward to. Margaret too felt relief flower in her heart. No more would she be shunted here and there, to feel like a misplaced ornament. Now she would have a permanent home and family, a sense of belonging, and would be secure in the knowledge that she was where she was meant to be.

In these sedate reflections, they acknowledged the depth of their growth together, how their contrasting backgrounds had been welded to complement one another in the life they had built—and the one they would continue to shape. Through their distinct experiences, they saw that they had not only created a home, but a solid partnership rooted in love and a sincere respect for both their similarities and differences. It was a true union of north and south, a bond strengthened through both joy and hardship, a love that exceeded the divides of their pasts, paving the way for a brighter future.

As the clock's hands drew closer to midnight, John and Margaret found themselves standing beneath the mistletoe, a delicious silence settling between them. The snow outside had calmed and drifted down sleepily, its soft touch transforming the world into a crystalline dream. The town, swathed in white, held the night in a trance. With gazes that burned for one another, the young Mr and Mrs Thornton looked at each other, the treasured other half of the hearts—their eyes filled with a depth of adoration beyond the reach of words—and in that sacred space, with only the tender flutter of their breaths, they drew closer. Without a single utterance, their lips met—wet, lingering, a kiss brimming with vows, a kiss that spoke of everything they had become and all they would one day be.

Without ceremony, John dug into the pocket of his coat and retrieved a small, carefully wrapped package. With a shy smile, he handed it to Margaret. 'Happy Christmas, my dear.'

Margaret unwrapped the gift, revealing a drawing he had created from memory—a portrait of her parents, rendered with such exquisite accuracy that, for a minute, she could almost hear their voices in the faithful strokes of his pencil. The gesture was deeply moving, a way for her to preserve the memory of those who had passed but had borne witness to the early days of their relationship. Her fingers hovered over the lines, her eyelashes moistening at the thoughtfulness of the gift. Her heart swelled with gratitude.

'I have something for you as well,' Margaret confessed as she reached into the folds of her dress to reveal a petite, hand-carved wooden box.

John opened the box slowly, his breath catching as he uncovered an intricate pocket watch. Its silver face gleamed softly in the candlelight, and the inscription, For the moments we share, was etched into the metal. He immediately recognised the sentiment. He had often spoken of the pocket watch passed down from his father, now growing too fragile and worn to serve its purpose. This was no mere replacement—it was a symbol of new beginnings, a token to mark their combined future.

John held the watch with deep reverence, his chest tightening with emotion. He was speechless for a moment, overcome by the strength of her love and the simple yet significant message behind such a gift.

As the following days came and went, there were no grand celebrations, no raucous revelry. Instead, it was simply the two of them, alone in their home, content, wrapped in the peaceful assurance of their love. As they stood together, staring out at the snow-draped world, they recognised that this unadorned Christmas—without flourish or fuss—was exactly what they desired: a chance to celebrate not merely the season, but the steadfast promise of who and what they intended to be as a couple. This Christmas was their cornerstone.

Yes, they had enjoyed being alone, knowing full well that they would not be alone for long.

And yet, they were not entirely alone, were they? Their gazes turned to the snowman, huddled in the parlour, and they both smiled, satisfied that he, too, was safe and snug in their care. He was part of the family now, and they promised to build him again next year.


This story will be part of the second edition of "The Woollen Olive Branch," available by the 29th of Dec 2024.