by EJourney
Though it was a relatively warm day, Margaret shivered a little. She resisted an urge to run out of the room in search of John, to seek warmth in his embrace once more and calm the unease that she felt about this house and his mother. Instead, she looked around the room for her valise and found it on the low table by the fireplace. It was easy to miss in the large room. She sat on an armchair, opened the valise and took out a shawl that she wrapped around herself, relaxing in its comforting warmth. Exhaustion now came upon her and she leaned back on the chair and closed her eyes, partly to prevent tears that began to moisten them. The incipient tears perplexed her. Despite the chill and vague apprehension she felt being in this house, she was aware that she was happy, that she reveled in knowing that she loved and was loved. But, it had been a long, rather eventful day. She had just been through a range of opposing emotional planes—from hope to regret and dejection, to hopeful incredulity and, finally, joy that nearly made her heart burst. Then, there was the distress at the impossibility of explaining herself to Mrs. Thornton.
With that one act of turning back and going home to Milton with John, Margaret had indeed followed her heart and charted a course for her future. What lay ahead of her was less predictable, perhaps less tranquil, but also more adventurous than if she had stayed among London relatives and friends who cared for her and with whom she was familiar.
She was certain that her cousin Edith would be shocked upon learning about her decision from Henry Lennox. He would walk into the Harley Street drawing room that evening to announce, in the direct and impersonal manner he assumed as a lawyer, that Margaret had abandoned London for Milton and gotten engaged to John Thornton, a manufacturer from there.
Born into wealth and ensconced in luxury and fashionable society in London, Edith would fret, probably cry, in the arms of her handsome husband, Captain Lennox, Henry's younger brother. She would lament her cousin's action, aghast to imagine that Margaret, her companion and confidante of ten years, chose a filthy industrial place to find her happiness in. How could Margaret, beautiful, keen of mind, and now the heiress of a large fortune, marry a man in the trade? And how could Henry who Edith had marked for Margaret, share this news with equanimity?
Together from age nine, Edith and Margaret received instruction in the arts and skills of accomplished young women, shared each other's tears and dreams, learned to anticipate each other's desires and reactions, and thus, nurtured an affection for each other as close as two sisters could have. Edith would naturally expect a letter from Margaret that would explain the particulars of this unforeseen decision.
Edith's mother, indulgent and generous Aunt Shaw, would be dismayed but would merely shrug her shoulders and remind herself that Margaret was, after all, of age, rich and, therefore, independent, free to do as she wished. She would tell Edith about meeting Mr. Thornton—a tall gentleman, handsome in a dark sort of way, with an air of quiet authority—who bade Margaret a solemn, even mournful, farewell when she left Milton. Mrs. Shaw attributed his lugubrious air, at the time, to mourning his friend and teacher, Mr. Hale. But Henry's news presented her with a new interpretation.
Mrs. Shaw and her daughter, both languid in temperament, knew enough of and accepted the independent streak in Margaret's generally good judgment. They would be inclined to believe—once the letter was read, the likely groom described to Edith, and the shock passed—that Margaret was in love. A defensible reason, they would agree, the only one that could compel anyone, especially Margaret, in need of neither beauty nor fortune, to return to a place like Milton.
Margaret now openly acknowledged to herself that she came back to Milton that morning because of John. Intuitively, she knew that it was with him that life could be happy in a way she had never known and stimulating in challenges she would be facing for the first time. That Milton would be the place in which this future life would happen seemed inevitable. She could not imagine John in any other setting. Although her own preference would have been a town that also had the endearing attributes of Helstone, she no longer felt the attachment she once had to the hamlet where she grew up. Margaret slowly slid into much needed slumber, her thoughts dissolving into vague random dreams which were immediately forgotten when she awoke an hour later.
**************
John had wanted to retreat to his room and be alone with his thoughts. But he knew he had to talk to his mother and ease her mind about questions that he sensed were distracting her usual demeanor. He did not know quite how to explain to her where he had gone and what happened during the fateful stop at the train station. He hesitated, for the first time, to give her even a glimpse into the deep love he had for Margaret and all the agony, hope, and bliss it occasioned. On the way home, relishing the wonder of having Margaret nestled in his arms, as if she had always belonged there, he had neither the time nor the inclination to rehearse what he should say to his mother.
Mrs. Thornton sat without a word, occasionally glancing at John who knew she was waiting for him to explain the events of the last two days. He began, "Mother I am sorry to have left without a note or word about where I was going. I know it must have worried you very much."
He paused and faltered a little, "I needed to be alone and away from here to think more clearly about what I must do next. I took the first train going south towards London." He stopped and looked away, unsure how to proceed.
Although taken aback, her curiosity was piqued "London! Did you go to see Margaret there? Was it about the mill or about her?"
"Well, in fact, I went to Helstone."
"To Helstone! Had she moved back to that place?"
Mrs. Thornton's voice had grown more agitated and John decided that straightforward was probably the best way to talk to her. But how could he explain the turmoil he had been through or the ensuing happiness that eventually overcame all the heartaches that came before?
"I went to Helstone because it seemed the farthest away in spirit from Milton as I could go."
"But I don't understand. Why did you want to get away from Milton? Your life has been here, your trials, your successes, those who have supported you." She stared at him, unable to hide the hurt in her eyes behind the skeptical tone of her voice.
He clearly saw her worry, sensed the impatience in her manner but he was reluctant to confront her reproach. He hurried on to describe what happened. "On the way back this afternoon, my train stopped to let the London-bound train pass. Margaret was on it and when I saw her again, I could no longer deny that to be with her was what I wanted most. I am not a great believer in fate but, perhaps today at that train station, it did favor me."
When John first confessed his sentiments for Margaret, Mrs. Thornton felt as if a dagger had been thrust into her chest. Now that she was certain of being displaced in the primacy of her son's affection to a woman she disliked, hearing him reaffirm that attachment pierced deep into her heart. Suddenly overwhelmed by what lay before her, she felt the toll that exhaustion had taken on her spirit from days of worrying and coping with unexpected, unpleasant events. She could only respond with a noncommittal "Yes, well, that was quite a coincidence meeting at a train stop."
Then, not ready to accept the waning of her influence, she said, "I did see Margaret at the mill this morning. She must have thought a lot about what I had said to her because she admitted I was right that she knew nothing about the kind of man you were when she rejected you."
If Mrs. Thornton had meant to remind his son of a mother's wisdom and constancy, her attempt would appear to have been futile. John scowled at her with questioning eyes. Dismayed, she irritably explained, "Mrs. Hale asked me, before she died, to give counsel to her daughter when I judged her to be acting inappropriately so I went to talk to Margaret about the rumors of her improprieties at the train station."
Suspicions of what exactly his mother might have said to Margaret vexed John vaguely but he also thought it more important, at the moment, to restore the effortless familiarity of past interactions. She looked wor
n out and he did not believe anything more needed to be said about what happened that afternoon. He smiled warmly at his mother and said, "I understand. I am glad that she was honest and frank with you."
With his change in tone, they both relaxed, almost regaining the intimacy they used to share. His eyes glowing with wonder and joy, John said, "Mother, I love Margaret very much. That she loves me as sincerely as I had wished for has made me happier than even I imagined."
"Then, that is all I could hope for. I was aware that you remained attached to her." Mrs. Thornton answered simply, unwilling or unable to reveal anymore of her apprehensions. She was exhausted with having endured so many explanations in one day and was merely desirous then of being alone and getting some respite. "I am happy that you are happy. You deserve to be after all you have been through."
She got up and gently laid a hand on his shoulder, "We've both had a long day and it's not over yet. You need to freshen up and I need to lie down and rest for a little while."
John was uncertain if his explanation allayed Mrs. Thornton's anxieties. She did not exactly seem satisfied with what he told her but he thought he could do no more. What else was there to say? All his mother really needed to know was there for her to see. He knew, however, that acceptance was going to be very difficult for her. So much had happened in recent weeks that exacted a heavy toll on both of them and for her, the coming of Margaret was, perhaps, devastating on top of the closing down of the mill. He had faith, however, in his mother's resilience and strength and he was certain that, eventually, she would adjust and be at peace with her changed world. In any case, he was, too full of Margaret and this unexpected state of joy and exhilaration to concern himself with his mother for too long.
Alone in his room, he marveled at how differently he felt and how his outlook and his future changed almost abruptly from early that morning. He had quit this room restless and despondent. While there was, in fact, much that could not be predicted about his future in cotton manufacturing, he was not truly deeply apprehensive about it. In fact, he felt a certain excitement at the challenges he would be facing with beginning anew, as late in life as it was. No, what had earlier disquieted him was not so much about his rising again from his fall but the prospect of the rest of his life without Margaret. When working to save the future of the mill occupied his time and energy, he had not much time to think of other things and Margaret intruded into his consciousness only in the hours before sleep could take over. When the mill closed down, she invaded his thoughts much more despite his belief that she could never be his.
This evening, Margaret was separated from him only by a couple of doors, probably resting, in the room intended to be his marriage chamber. Still in the throes of happiness so new and, only yesterday, so improbable, he felt he could not yet endure being away from its source for too long. He ached to be with her, to hold her, to kiss her warm, yielding lips once more. He stared at the door a long time, thinking how easy it would have been to open it and go to her. Instead, he walked restlessly back and forth until finally, he headed for the washbasin. Later, he changed his shirt, and went out for a short visit to the mill. Perhaps, Williams was still around.
**************
Margaret was roused from her nap by a knock from one of the servants who came in to ignite the fireplace and light the lamps on the bedside and writing tables. It had gotten dark and, glancing at a clock on the writing table, she found she had less than a half hour to freshen up for dinner. She had more than enough time. Without a complete change of clothes, her toilette was going to be relatively simple and brief. She walked into the adjoining bathroom and splashed water on her face a few times, welcoming its bracing coolness. Then, she pat her cheeks and pursed her lips enough to bring color back to her face. After rearranging the recalcitrant wisps of hair back into her chignon, she felt she was ready to face this new and, as yet, strange household.
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.
