Margaret of the North (6 page)

She was walking towards the door
when another knock hastened her steps but before she could reach it, the door
opened.  She brightened at the sight of John standing at the door, waiting to
escort her down to the dining room.  But instead of offering his arm, he came
into the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

"I needed to reassure myself
that you are indeed here with me," he said as he gathered her in his arms.

"I could hardly be anywhere
else, could I?" Margaret smiled shyly up at him.  "If someone from
Milton had seen us at the train station, my already dubious reputation would
finally be in tatters, ruined by gossip that would now have Miss Hale not just
embracing but kissing no less than Mr. Thornton and in broad daylight, at
that."

"Quite so," he replied
with an amused laugh.  "And the perfectly honorable Mr. Thornton could not
do otherwise but marry Miss Hale to save her reputation.  What they would never
guess is how he would have gone to the other side of the world to bring her
back home with him once he knew that she loved him."

He bent over to kiss her, his
lips lingering on hers, luscious, and responsive.  He tore himself away from
her reluctantly and taking her hand in his, led her towards the door,
"Mother is fanatical about punctuality at Sunday dinners."

Dinner was livelier than tea,
sustained by conversation, mostly between John and Margaret, about impersonal
topics. 

Before coffee or tea was served,
Margaret excused herself.  "Do you mind if I leave you now?  My aunt and
Edith must not be kept waiting for an explanation of why I came back to
Milton.  I must write them tonight.  My aunt especially needs to know right
away that I am safe and if it is all right with you, I would like to send for Dixon
to bring my belongings over from London and to continue to assist me
here."

"Of course," Mother and
son responded in unison.

John made a motion to get up as
Margaret stood but she smiled at him sweetly and said, "It's all right.  I
think I can find my way."  She bowed towards Mrs. Thornton, said
"Good Night!" and left.

John, amazed that he would be
seeing her again the very next morning, watched Margaret's figure as she moved
towards the door.  At the doorway, she stopped briefly to look back at him, her
full lips barely curved into a smile.  Mrs. Thornton watched the wordless
exchange with narrowed eyes—her son, entranced, catching his breath, already in
a world with Margaret that could never include her.

**************

Margaret surmised that Henry Lennox
did no more than announce to her London relatives that she had gone back to
Milton with John Thornton.  Deeply mindful of her obligation to fully explain
her action, she sat down directly at the writing table.  The first letter she
wrote was to her aunt.  It was relatively short and direct, containing an
apology and reassurances that she was well, that her decision to return to
Milton was well-considered, and that she was staying at the family home with
Mrs. Thornton and a coterie of servants.  She promised to write back
immediately with news of when her marriage was to take place.

To her cousin Edith, Margaret
wrote a long letter:

I do not doubt, my dear cousin,
how surprise you must be that I have returned to Milton to marry John Thornton
and I am equally sensible of your certain disappointment that Henry and I did
not get together as you would have wished.  I am heartily sorry for not having
taken you in confidence before today but I was often bewildered, confused,
sometimes rather distressed by so much that happened in Milton.  I did not
quite know how to tell you about John and how he proposed to me nearly two
years ago when my parents were both still alive.  I rejected him then.  How
could I not have?  I thought that I did not like him at all when I first met
him because I saw him being too harsh on his workers, men less fortunate than
he.  I was also offended by the presumption and arrogance with which he
approached me.  In retrospect, however, I think I found it more offensive that
his mother and sister assumed that I schemed to get him to propose to me by
disgracefully and baldly showing the world my feelings for him and that I would
inevitably accept him, grateful that he condescended to make an offer to a poor
clergyman's daughter—I shall shortly give you all the details.  For now, I
shall acknowledge that my pride was bruised and I was angry!  And yet, I must
confess that there was something about John that interested me from the
beginning but I did not recognize it for what it was until later when his real
character was gradually revealed to me.  Only then could I admit to myself that
there was in that interest an attachment that had begun to develop even before
he proposed!

I know well enough that I could
have lost a chance at genuine happiness so I am deeply grateful that John
remained constant in his feelings for me even through all the trying
circumstances we have endured.  And let me assure you since, indeed, I know my
dear Edith will not be satisfied unless I say this: I love John very much and
feel for him something Henry never stirred in me.  There, I said it, certain
that you will understand me, that when you meet John you will like him and
support my choice.  All is well that ends well—did we not learn that by heart
all those many years ago?  After all those past heartaches, I can hardly
believe the blissful state I am now blessed with.

After recounting the details she
alluded to, Margaret ended the letter with a plea.

Write me soon, please, Edith,
for, like you, I need reassurance that you are not unduly worried about me.

Margaret wrote three more
letters, a detailed one to her brother much like that to Edith, a short one to
Mr. Bell who had written her only once, giving his address, and the last one to
Dixon instructing her to come to Milton with such clothes and other possessions
as Margaret specified.  She finished her letters way past midnight and was too
sleepy for all her usual bedtime rituals.  She had considered borrowing a
nightgown from Mrs. Thornton but by the end of the strained dinner, she decided
her chemise would have to do until Dixon arrived.  Exhausted and shivering in
her chemise, she crawled under the covers and barely had a few moments of
consciousness before she fell asleep, cradled within the warmth of the massive
bed.

The room was still quite dark
when Margaret awakened.  She could tell it was morning only from a sliver of
light peeking through a gap between the curtains on the one window across some
distance from her bed.  When she returned to the bedroom the past night, she
had not noticed that the curtains had been drawn.  Now, she recalled that the
room had been made rather cozy, with a crackling fire and lamps lighting only
the area around the bed, the darkness concealing much of the vast icy space. 
Her eyes darted around the room, searching for pale or bright colors that
reflected light.  But nearly everything was dark—furniture, walls, curtains,
even the comforter that covered the white sheets on the bed.  At night, the
darkness did not bother her and it probably helped her sleep but, in the
morning, she craved light for the clarity it brought—revealing the world in all
its beauty and its blight—and for the inspiration that renewed hopes and fresh
beginnings.  In both London and Helstone, she had always left her drapes open.

She got up slowly and, in her
bare feet, skipped on the cold floor towards the window to open the curtains to
their full width.  The gray spring fog diffused the light that came into the
room and made it difficult to guess at the time.  Spring in Helstone greeted
her with luminous colors, bird song, and the heady perfume of roses growing
around their house.  During the first few weeks after she moved to Milton with
her parents, her thoughts on waking up in the dreariness of a Milton morning
were always of Helstone and how much she missed it.  But in time, she forced
herself to suppress those thoughts:  They came too often with sadness at the
passing of carefree halcyon days in the little village.  This morning, her
memories of Helstone did not come with sad regrets, only the detachment of
objective observation.  Somehow, it did not matter much anymore where she lived
as long as it was with John.

She glanced at the clock on the
writing table—past nine o'clock—and hurried to dress.  She hated to be late for
breakfast but she had stayed up late into the night to finish letters that
needed to be posted right after breakfast.  She wondered what Mrs. Thornton
would say at her tardy appearance and she sighed.  How long was she going to
worry about what Mrs. Thornton thought of her or whether the older woman would
ever warm up to her?  Margaret shrugged her shoulders philosophically: She
would have enough time to worry about such things in the weeks to come.

While she was dressing, Margaret
was interrupted by a knock.  She opened the door to Jane who carried a large
bouquet of red and yellow roses in one hand and a vase half-filled with water
cradled to her bosom.  "The master asked me to bring these to you, miss.  I
think he wanted to give them to you himself but he did not want to bother you
if you were still in bed."

Margaret beamed a smile at Jane
and nearly snatched the flowers from the maid's hands, delighted at the
surprise she brought her.  Now, she had more light and cheeriness.  With
half-closed eyes, she kissed every flower and inhaled its fragrance deeply.
Then, she stopped, suddenly, as she caught a glimpse of Jane staring at her
with undue interest.  It irritated her: Margaret knew that, after the riot during
the last strike, she had been the object of much gossip among these servants
who saw her stand between Mr. Thornton and the rioters.  She did not doubt that
her unexpected arrival at the Thornton house occasioned even more talk.

"What a bother," she
thought.  "Have they got nothing better to talk about among themselves? 
And, yet, what could I do?"  She shrugged her shoulders once more:
Perhaps, gossip came with being John Thornton's fiancée, one of those things
she needed to get used to.

In the present instant, at least,
she could deal with Jane.  Margaret raised her head from the flowers, fixed her
eyes on the maid, and with an engaging smile, said, "Thank you, Jane,
please place the vase on that table over there."  The flowers still in her
hand, Margaret went to open the door and held it open, leaving Jane no choice
but to hurry out of the room upon depositing the vase on the table.  Margaret
placed the flowers in the vase and arranged them to her liking.  Then, she
headed for the dining room with a wry smile on her face.  Her new life in
Milton was off to an interesting beginning.

John and Mrs. Thornton were at
breakfast when Margaret came into the dining room.  John had been a little
restless waiting for her, surreptitiously eyeing the door while giving his
mother the impression of his full attention.  He had been impatient through the
night to see her again and he sprung up from his chair as soon as he saw her. 
Mrs. Thornton, momentarily startled, became aware only then of Margaret's
presence.  John walked around the table to pull a chair out for her and as she
sat down, he caressed her back briefly.  As light as it was, his hand sent a
wave of warmth all over Margaret and she looked up at him, smiling shyly.  They
exchanged a barely noticeable nod of unspoken intimacy, oblivious of his
mother.

Mrs. Thornton watched the brief
exchange, her lips compressed and her eyes clouded with a scowl.  Her scrutiny
and faintly masked disapproval was not lost on Margaret who felt suddenly ill
at ease and hesitant.  Forgetting that she had not greeted Mrs. Thornton, she
turned her full attention to pouring tea in her cup and serving herself toast
and butter. 

John, still gripped by the
unexpected wonder of Margaret's presence there having breakfast with him, hovered
behind her chair and enticed her with other dishes.  "How about some eggs
or, perhaps, some fruit?"

With an uneasy glance at his
mother, Margaret turned towards John to smile her refusal.  He started to bend
down to kiss her but Mrs. Thornton arrested his movement with an elaborate
clearing of her throat.  He straightened slowly, smiled with a little
embarrassed scowl at his mother, and went back to his chair—but not before he
had tenderly grazed his hand across the nape of Margaret's neck. 

Mrs. Thornton's throat clearing
reminded Margaret of her manners and she realized that she had neglected to
give her a proper greeting.  But it was too late to rectify her omission and
all Margaret could manage then was a wan, reluctant, and apologetic smile.

Mrs. Thornton gave her a barely
perceptible nod, got up and in a cold voice, announced, "I will leave you
two to finish your breakfast.  I have things to attend to."  Then,
addressing Margaret, she added, "Breakfast is always ready by seven in the
morning but it will wait for you if you are a late riser."  She smirked as
she finished and turned to leave the room in a rustle of stiff fabric. 
Margaret bit her lip as she watched Mrs. Thornton walking briskly out of the
room.

When they were alone, John
reached across the table and grasped Margaret's hand in his.  She turned
towards him, her lips curved up at the corners to force a smile.  John sensed
her unease and stroked her hand as he spoke, "I hope it did not feel too
strange sleeping in that room.  Were you comfortable enough?"

This time, she smiled warmly at
him.  "I confess I found the room a little too grand but the low fire at
the hearth made the room warmer and the bed covers were also nice and warm. 
Anyway, after writing many letters, I was quite tired and fell asleep right
away."

"Did you finish all the
letters you needed to write?"