In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (55 page)

They kept silence for a few precious moments. Slowly, he released her and invited her to his bed with a gesture of his hand.

She moved to take the side he indicated as he returned nearer his own space and began to undress by the wardrobe that had stood silent witness for years to his solitary routines. Nothing would be the same as before. It was a scintillating pleasure merely to have her in his room.

He snuffed out the light and crawled under the vast bedcovers in darkness. His ears pricked as a rustle of sheets broke the stillness and his heart leapt for joy as she sought a place in his arms and nestled her head at his breast.

“Margaret,” he rasped with emotion as he clasped her body close and rubbed his chin rapturously against the silky softness of her hair. All the vicissitudes and vagaries of mortal sorrows vanished in this moment. Here was all he needed of heaven, the divine promise of love undiminished, distilled into the presence of one who had been sent, he was certain of it, to satisfy the needful clamoring of his soul.

He still held her, long after her breathing had slowed and she had slipped into peaceful slumber. His arm wrapped around her in joyous wonder at his privilege until, at last, sleep crept in to loosen the grasp of waking contentment and coax him into the realm of dreams.

*****

A clank of metal and a dull roar sounded in Margaret’s ears, filtering through the haze of consciousness to slowly rouse the drowsy sleeper. Someone stirred within this room. She heard the faint slosh of water and an abrasive scraping not far away.

John stilled his hand as he detected movement from the bed. He laid his razor down beside the water basin and held his breath as the waking sleeper turned her head. He stepped toward the bed at the first motion of her arms.

“You’re up,” she noted groggily as he sat down on the bed beside her.

“Yes,” he answered softly, enchanted by the restful flush of her face and the careless way her hair tumbled over shoulders and pillows. It had taken every ounce of his willpower this morning to leave the blissful warmth of his bed. “Did I wake you?” he asked, lines of concern gathering on his forehead.

“No … I don’t know … the mill … work has already started?” she answered in sleepy confusion.

“The steam engines are started early. They must be at full power by the time the men arrive. Did the sound awaken you?” he asked with the haunting fear that he had selfishly stolen her from some destiny more serene and comfortable than that of a manufacturer’s wife. All the raw noise and uncouth environs of industry that he took as a matter of course would be new and unfamiliar to her. The pang of unworthiness that had plagued him from the first moment he had dared to dream of her began again to insidiously creep through his veins.

“Perhaps … I believe so….”

His frown deepened. “There is a room down the hall, near Fanny’s, that is farther from the noise.…”

“No … no,” she interrupted, sitting up to face him. “It is a faint noise.  It’s merely strange to me at present. I’m certain I shall get used to it,” she assured him.

Her reply did much to calm her husband’s rising distress. “You should go back to sleep, it is early yet, while I have much to attend to,” he gently urged. “I will tell my mother that you mean to spend the day in Crampton. You are not obliged to stay here,” he reminded her with some reluctance as he took her hands fondly into his own.

“You are very kind,” she answered as her gaze drifted over the shape of his firm form beneath gauzy cotton, falling with fascinated interest upon the base of his flexile throat which rose as a bronze column from the white fabric draping open at his chest.

The spicy aromatic scent of him, freshly shaved, aroused her senses. She longed to be near him at this moment, to feel the comfort of his strength this morning. “I feel a little selfish today,” she murmured, moving her thumb distractedly over the ridges of his fingers as she struggled to explain something of the conflicting emotions of desire and duty that wrestled within her breast.

“Selfish?” he echoed with taut expectation, striving mightily to restrain the urge to taste and feel all that his eyes roved over of her loveliness and inviting tenderness.

“I am glad to be home again in Milton (
how sweetly those words sounded to his ears!
) … but a portion of me wishes to be back in Scarborough,” she finished, feeling the warm blush come furiously into her cheeks. She could not look at him.

The boundaries he had firmly set for himself shifted at this utterance. The power to speak left him for a moment as a racing, eager hope dared to imagine that her secret longings mirrored his own.

“Not selfish,” he murmured as he reached to raise her blushing face to his. “Not selfish at all,” he affirmed, looking into the depth of those eyes that gleamed with beautiful timidity and pleading hope.

He brought his mouth nearer hers. The mere brush of lips — tentative and slow, as if it were the very first time they had met thus — made his body shudder in aching longing for the tender passion they had shared before. It was his right; she was his wife.

Her kisses, sweetly mingled with his own restrained ardor, were yet edged with a faint urgency that turned his blood to fire and unwound the bonds of measured expression. His kisses grew more fervent.

She returned his passion. A small hand skimmed the curve of his shoulder to clutch about his neck, shattering every pretense of constraint and sending the scorching impulse of need through his veins. How much he had longed to take her as his wife in this very bed!

He pressed her back against the soft cushion of pillows to show her — if it were possible in one act of loving — what she meant to him and would mean to him the remainder of his days.

*****

It was nearly nine when, after having patiently allowed the young ladies’ maid to assist her into her dress, Margaret stepped onto the crimson-patterned carpet of the still hallway.  She crept down the stairs, conscious that this was the first time that she had done so, although her husband had trod the same passageway countless times. She slowed to study with curiosity the portraits and framed silhouettes along the wall.

She entered the empty drawing room with the nervous hesitation of a visitor and stole to the window for a moment to stare at the movement of men and carts below, a testament to the industry of the great brick mill behind. She lifted her gaze to the factory with a soft smile of pride and sought for the window that might be his, surprised at her pang of longing to go to him. A rush of emotions swept over her — love, excitement, uncertainty, gratitude, sorrow. But gnawing fear encroached upon the happier feelings that might have been hers today, were circumstances different.

An irascible melancholy settled deep within as she thought of the painful truth that must be faced. She turned with a sigh to find her way to the breakfast room.

Margaret trod softly as she peeked around each new corner, slowing her steps as she caught sight of the dark-clad figure of her mother-in-law, sipping a cup of tea at a square table draped in cream linen.

“Good morning,” the new bride ventured, calling out in a politely cheerful tone.

The older women turned her head, her agile eyes appraising at once. “Good morning,” she returned, the trace of a smile softening the rigid line of her lips. “Did you sleep well?” she asked, endeavoring to match in the girl’s demeanor the same contented deportment that she had discerned in her son this morning.

“Very well, thank you,” Margaret answered her mother-in-law’s expected inquiry, blushing to tacitly acknowledge her complacency in sharing a bed with her son.

Both women were relieved for a moment from conversation as the maid entered to bring Margaret a breakfast of poached egg and toast with marmalade.

The young bride sipped her tea and tasted a bite of her egg before renewing communication. “I’m sorry I shall not be able to spend the day learning some of the regimens of this grand house, but I.…”

“John has explained all to me,” Mrs. Thornton interrupted gently. “It is well for you to attend to your mother. There will be time enough to learn the workings of this house.”

“Thank you,” Margaret replied, feeling a small burden of apprehension lift from her shoulders.

They talked very little while Margaret finished her breakfast.

“I hope you will find your mother improving. If there is anything I can do to be of aid …” the older woman offered as Margaret excused herself and rose from the table.

“I thank you for your kindness,” the girl gratefully replied.

Fanny entered the room at this moment with her traditional morning languor. Obligated to make her appearance before ten by her mother’s rules, she felt it was entirely unfashionable to be up at the same early hours kept by a servant or common laborer.

“Good morning, Fanny. I’m sorry not to join you for your tea, but I was just leaving. I believe you know my mother is not well,” the new Mrs. Thornton relayed.

“I’m sorry your mother is ill, how unfortunate a time … will you take the carriage? It is a long way to
Crampton,” Fanny encouraged, assuming her sister-in-law would take every advantage now available to her.

“I’m sure there is no need. The walk will do me good,” she answered with an uncomfortable smile.

The walk did indeed give Margaret time to gather her thoughts and renew her strength. Immersed in the bustle of human activity outside the pleasant walls of domestic tranquility, she felt her own purpose draw clearer. Grateful for the ready help promised by her new relations, she faced the future with renewed fortitude.

She was full of bright confidence to offer sustenance of spirit to her family when she arrived within paces of her parents’ home. She looked up in time to see Dr. Donaldson’s tall figure exit the door, black bag in hand.

Margaret froze in fear for a moment. She studied the grim lines of his face with fainting heart as the family doctor descended the steps.

“Dr. Donaldson,” she called out as she resumed her approach. “My mother … how does she fare?” she asked with a forced calm that belied the turbulent beating of her heart.

“I’m afraid your mother took a turn for the worse last evening,” he gravely declared, knowing the girl would demand the truth. “Morphine gives her sleep for now. But if she should have such a spell again.…”

“I understand,”
Margaret answered in a tight voice, the color drained from her face. “Thank you for your care,” she offered with a brave nod as the kindly old doctor tipped his hat and continued on his way to his next patient.

Gathering the remaining fragments of her courage, Margaret climbed the same steps to face the inevitable.

*****

Mr. Thornton briskly walked his rounds among the humming weaving machines to ensure that all hands were at their stations and work proceeded apace. Passing by the women and men who worked for him throughout the day, he was unaware that he himself was the object of scrutiny of every pair of eyes.

The Master returned to the relative quiet of his office, and sat to attend to the correspondence that awaited his hand. But his distracted thoughts that deafening industry and activity had kept at bay clamored to be heard in the stillness. Would Margaret find her mother improved this day? He fervently wished his mother-in-law had been too disparaging of her condition, and that she might yet continue for many months longer. And what of Frederick — how long could he be kept a recluse in this town?

Such were the swirl of restless questions that beset him until he was at last impelled to set down his quill and rise to turn to the window.

The house he had lived in for years stood sentinel across the dirt yard, a testament to his determination to establish for his family a place of dignity and purpose. It now housed his wife as well. She would be in it at this moment, waiting for his return, if disease had not taken this importune time to strike at the happiness that had accumulated so long in their favor.

The enticing memories of those unforgettable days and nights in Scarborough began to drift into his thoughts.

“Thornton.”

The intruding voice, instantly recognizable, caused him to pivot from his listless peering.

“Mr. Bell,” he declared in some surprise. “You’re still in town?”

   His visitor could not suppress a satisfied smile, amused to have caught the newly married man gazing out the window like some besotted lover. “I have had some papers drawn up which require your signature,” he announced, pulling out a portfolio from under his a
rm and handing it to the young master.

Mr. Thornton sat at his desk, withdrew the documents from the leather case, and pored over the contents. He looked up after a few moments’ silence, his face contorted in confusion. “This is the deed to the mill,” he stated, fixing his landlord with an uncomprehending stare.

“Precisely. I have signed over ownership of the mill and its surrounding properties to you. I should like you to consider it a wedding gift.”

Mr. Thornton shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what to say….”

“A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice. It pleases me to think that Providence guided me to send the Hales into your care. Hale is my oldest friend, and Margaret my goddaughter. It was ever my intention to make Margaret my beneficiary upon my demise. You have saved me much worry. It does my old heart good — and Richard’s as well, I can assure you — to know that you will take good care of her.”