In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South

by Trudy Brasure

  He swept her into his arms when they were alone, and she laughed at his impatience to tell the world of his joy. But she also knew well the more sober concerns behind all his light-hearted anticipation. More than once she saw the flash of worry in his eyes and knew the fear that must haunt every expectant new father. For whether rich or poor, of lineage or common — all who had walked the earth for a number of years knew by relation or friendly association some heart-wrenching tale of a mother or child lost in the throes or dangerous consequences of childbirth.

  At night he talked of little else. His tentative questions about her own upbringing and her thoughts on employing a nurse let her know that her husband held no casual interest in the matters of their children. And with a little prodding, she divined that he wanted nothing to do with the traditional customs of the more elite classes, which kept children secluded from their parents and frowned upon the open commingling of boisterous youth and staid adulthood that he so craved.

  *****

  A dusting of snow covered the mill yard on Christmas morn, amplifying the uncommon silence outside. The world seemed stilled under a blanket of white, while the fire in the drawing room blazed and crackled with sweet-smelling wood.

  Adolphus Watson had been invited to join the family gathering. Never far from the object of his admiration, he wore a permanent smile that only broadened at every glance he made toward Fanny, whose fetching figure and flaxen hair were accentuated in a blue-patterned silk dress with ribboned lace and layers of flounces that rustled with every movement.

  With the decorated tree standing sentinel nearby, Hannah Thornton began to read the story of Jesus’ birth, as she had done every year, even those when her young brood had sat next to her in their humble quarters. But this time she stopped midway and passed the great worn Bible to her daughter-in-law with a nod.

  A fleeting look of surprise turned to one of grateful respect as Margaret took the book gingerly into her hands. She read the remaining well-loved passages in the clear, calm voice of conviction as her husband and father looked on admiringly.

  Mulled cider was served to all, its spicy aroma filling the room. And with warm hands and hearts, they began the exchange of simple gifts that had adorned the tree.

  Margaret’s pulse pattered as her husband pulled out the gift she had made for him from a fist-sized silk sac. A small heart-shaped pillow of deep claret, with elaborate embroidery of white and yellow roses on winding stems lay in his hand. His words she could not recall. She knew by the look in his eyes, and the manner in which he handled it, that he would treasure it. She could not help smiling broadly when he tucked it into his breast pocket, where he would keep it for many weeks to come.

  She adored the pearl-drop earrings her husband had chosen for her. They were truly elegant and well crafted, but she cherished much more the way his face had shone when she had assured his hopeful glance that they were beautiful.

  Amused and intrigued by the soft laugh John made at the gift of gloves from his mother, Margaret later learned that he received a new pair every year, but was forever leaving them somewhere and could be trusted to lose them before the next year’s replenishment.

  Margaret moved to sit next to her father as she presented him with a papered box containing sugared walnuts, a favorite indulgence that her mother had always given him at Christmas. He patted her hand in thanks and gave her a wavering smile.

  He had presented a cheerful manner this day, Margaret thought in loving admiration, although she had seen in his eyes at times that haunting longing to bring back the bygone years, which would never come again. She gave him an embroidered piece, a bookmark stitched with yellow roses like those that had bloomed in such fragrant profusion about the faraway parsonage of her childhood.

  He touched the handmade gift with reverent fingers as he recognized the hint of Helstone in the pattern and thanked her for this new addition to his collection of her handiwork.

  “Papa,” she began, laying her small hand on his. “I have another gift for you….” Margaret signaled her husband with a nervous glance and watched him take a place nearer his mother.

  “In truth, it is a gift for both you and Mother Thornton,” she added, looking earnestly to her mother-in-law a moment before addressing her father again. “Come summer … you shall be a grandfather.”

  Mr. Hale stared unblinking in momentary incomprehension, but Hannah jerked her head toward her son for confirmation of this startling news. Standing nearby, John could not suppress the beaming smile that lit his face as he caught his mother’s inquiring gaze and nodded. She reached her hand out and he took it, giving it a squeeze.

  “My Margaret … to be a mother …” Mr. Hale sputtered, awakening to the full meaning of his daughter’s words. He cupped her smooth, youthful face with his own wrinkled hand as he looked over the sweet features of the girl he remembered as a darling child. “Children are an heritage of the Lord,” he quoted with reverence. The verse from Scripture tripped easily from his tongue, while tangled emotions filled his mind with images of her childhood.

  “Yes, Father,” she choked as tears began to spill silently down her cheeks. She leaned forward to embrace him, and he clasped his daughter to him, his own eyes moistening at this precious display of affection.

  Hannah swallowed and averted her gaze from the private scene, keeping a strong rule over her own heart, which swelled nearly to bursting with pride and affection for her son, whom she knew would be a very fine father.

  When congratulations were offered to the expecting couple, and both Mr. Watson and Mr. Hale had given John’s hand a hearty shake, Fanny raised her voice to deliver a somewhat petulant proclamation of her own. “I also have something to share. Last evening, Watson asked if I would be his wife … and I have accepted! We are to be married soon!” she declared, looking from face to face with bright eagerness to ensure that all had heard.

  The young girl preened proudly at the surprised felicitations that came from Margaret and her father and chattered on to her sister-in-law about Watson taking her to the jeweler’s to select a ring. Mother and son also gave their blessing to the match, taking care to sound appropriately enthused, although John had warned his mother of the coming proposal after Watson had come to him a few days earlier to officially ask for his sister’s hand in marriage.

  A spirit of festive excitement and promise pervaded the atmosphere when the small company gathered later at the gleaming crystal- and china- laden table for a Yuletide dinner of roast goose and all the trimmings. Mr. Hale requested the privilege of saying grace before the first course was served.

  Normally reluctant to take on any role that approximated the authority of his former vocation, the ex-vicar on this occasion delivered a short homily on the blessings of family and the unifying love of Christ. His speech touched those that discerned the great gratitude which moved the widower to speak with such simple elegance.

  When the gray light of day had long faded into the blue-black darkness of a winter’s night, the family assembled around the piano in the glowing lamplight of the small rose-colored parlor. Fanny’s fingers commanded the keyboard with middling skill as she played and sang with shrill exuberance all the familiar carols of the season. Margaret’s harmonizing alto voice joined in as she sat next to her sister-in-law, turning the pages when required.

  The rich baritone sound of John’s voice carried over the toneless but merry squawking of the newly engaged bachelor. The aged widow added her pleasant voice, as did the elder parson from the South, who both looked upon the future with greater hope for new-born happiness. And so, for a time, the walls resonated with the joyful voices of Christmas singing.

  *****

  The weeks and months that followed were filled with the chatter and bustle of preparing for Fanny’s wedding. On more than one occasion, young Ralph Thompson awkwardly begged for pardon as he ushered himself through the drawing room to Mr. Hale’s upstairs study while piles of fabric and lace had transformed the common living
quarters into a private fashion salon.

  Margaret marveled at her mother-in-law’s patience as Fanny vacillated and halted over every detail in her determination to oversee the creation of her wedding dress and the grand assortment of other garments constituting her trousseau. And beyond this, Fanny wavered upon all the other sundry but vastly important decisions, including the matter of the flowers, the proper guest list, the attendants, the menu for the wedding breakfast, and every possible contingency for the elaborate pageantry of this one gala day.

  So much thought was put into the arrangements for the ceremonial matters of the occasion that Margaret often wondered if there was room in Fanny’s contemplations to consider the type of marriage she wished to create in the years that followed. Margaret knew by her mother-in-law’s despairing glances and quiet sighs that she was not alone in worrying how well Fanny understood the nature and seriousness of the lifelong commitment she was about to embark upon.

  Margaret remained mystified by her husband’s actions in this one matter: Fanny’s ability to obtain all the frivolous accoutrements she desired from so temperate and prudent a brother. Although he had iterated a few authoritative limitations to his sister’s concocted dreams in exasperation, he was generally content to let her have anything she desired. Margaret did not remark about the cost such a lavish wedding must certainly entail, for she discerned by careful watching that the expenses did weigh upon John’s mind, although he shouldered them without complaint.

  However, she did not feel the twinge of jealousy she supposed that any other new wife might as she silently sewed tiny, simple clothes for her babe while the parade of Fanny’s extravagance continued from day to day. Nor did she feel the impulse to caution her husband regarding the financial impact of his tacit acquiescence to Fanny’s ostentatious wishes.

  No, she loved him all the more for his weakness in spoiling his sister, for in such forbearance she saw his great desire to give all to those under his careful protection. He had been more a father than a brother to the girl who for years had taken her wealth and security for granted. His heart was larger and deeper than any casual observer could suspect. No, she loved him more for all his faithful loving.

  At last the scheduled April day arrived, much to the relief of everyone abiding at Marlborough Mills. For indeed, Margaret was afraid her father would take to remaining in his rooms once again if the family were made to endure Fanny’s endless comments concerning wedding preparations for many more weeks.

  Margaret sat in the front of the church, waiting for the ceremony to begin. A light spring rain had wet the streets, roofs, and dirt of Milton earlier in the morning. The smell of dampened earth and stone wafted into the church to blend naturally with the scents of the garlands and grand bouquets of roses adorning the solemn interior.

  Fanny had fussed and fretted that the heavens would be so unkind as to spoil her day, but Margaret had found great comfort in listening to the steady pattering sound of nature outside while Dixon had aided her in fastening her dress and coiffing her hair.

  The sky had since brightened to its usual gray luster, and now the sanctuary was filled with well-dressed members of Milton’s more elite society, who awaited the arrival of the bride.

  A majestic strain from the organ turned the gathered company’s attention to the back of the church, where Fanny appeared on the arm of her brother. Although Margaret surmised that all other eyes must be fastened upon the bride, hers were drawn to the man who walked beside her. The young wife smiled at the manner in which Fanny’s fashionably voluminous hoopskirt seemed to keep her escort at an awkward distance. But her face shone as she watched her husband carry himself with the confident dignity and purpose that would always stir silent homage in her soul. Even after these long months of marriage, the sight of him, magnificently handsome in his formal attire, stilled her breath and roused clenching sensations that stupefied her with their power. That she was bonded to such a man — that she alone knew him as no other — caused her heart to twist and swell with the pain of desire to love him as no one else ever could.

  As the bridal party neared, she saw the flickering nervousness of the bride. Her heart went out to Fanny, whom she hoped would find half the wedded felicity that she herself had found.

  When John had played his part in giving his sister to the beaming groom, he turned to take his seat. Margaret saw the fond communication that passed in a flashing look between mother and son and rightly counted herself an outsider for a moment. For truly, no one but they two knew the cost of bringing Fanny to this moment.

  Margaret smiled at her husband as he sat next to her and took her hand in his. Seated between him and her father at this sacred family event, she was supremely content. She had found her place and purpose — she was home, and felt a buoyant sense of joyful gratitude to know it.

  John listened intently to the vows being uttered, the force of feeling he had known on the day he had repeated those same promises returning to him in amplified measure. Every word of them he had meant and would keep as sacred covenant until his last dying breath. He grasped tighter the small hand in his and saw in her loving glance the steadfast return of all his devotion. His heart beat strongly in silent allegiance to the depth of their bond.

  She had arrived in his life as a crack of lightning. Her voice of disdain and reproach had thundered through him, shaking the very foundation of his ordered existence. Passion, struggle, and torment had crashed and poured in upon him until he had nearly drowned in the furor of his longing to have her as his own.

  With her acceptance of him, the tumult of the storm clouds had passed. Now, the words from her mouth and the touch of her hands were raindrops of serenity, refreshing the tired and hardened landscape of his soul with renewed vigor of purpose and compassion for all.

  He was certain that it had been heaven’s bestowal — yet a miracle to him — that placed the girl from Hampshire in his care. As she sat beside him in this church, her belly swollen with his child, he could not contain the humbling gratitude and soaring sense of immense joy that filled his chest to bursting. Years of ripening, unbounded promise lay before him. He could not ask for anything more.

  Epilogue

  John sat in his shirtsleeves at the walnut secretary in the corner of the master chamber. His hand smoothed over the map that lay before him. The broad light of early afternoon illuminated the surveyor’s paper as his gaze measured vale and plain still largely untouched by man’s building. Soft, low humming sounded from the bedside behind him. Well he knew that the drifting melody was meant for the babe at his wife’s breast. The gentle sound filled the room, softening the master’s tightened features and soothing the strain of anxiety that arose at the thought of his sweeping plans.

  “Oh dear, I don’t believe he will take his nap after all,” Margaret declared, punctuating her frustration with a sigh.

  Mr. Thornton’s chair scraped the floor in swift reply. He shrugged on his coat before stepping to his wife’s side. A dark-haired babe of nearly five months peered up at his mother with bright eyes, his tiny hand clutching tight to the fabric gathered at her breast.

  “No matter, give him to me.” He smiled at his son’s resistance to follow schedule as he scooped up the tiny lad.

  With the babe secure in his grasp, John bent to kiss his wife. The touch of lips, lingering and tender, banished for a delicious moment any extraneous thoughts of a world beyond and kindled the embers of the burning love constantly within. Time had not diminished the stirring thrill of claiming her as his. The strong sense of what she was to him had only grown more profound as time had passed. Motherhood had not dulled her allure but burnished her beauty into something even more vibrant and holy to him.

  Reluctantly, he rose from the bliss of the simmering contact, his gaze lingering upon the rosy blush on her porcelain cheeks as the curl of long lashes fluttered in reciprocation of feeling. She lifted eyes of absolute adoration to his a moment before glancing at the wriggling child in his grasp. />
  “I’m certain Mother will not mind caring for him,” he assured her. The proud father was convinced of his pronouncement as he admired anew the perfect beauty of the child of their love’s creation.

  Margaret admitted to herself that his judgment was very probably correct; however, she could not help feeling a pang of guilt to oblige her mother-in-law to care for the babe for several hours. If only Dixon were here! But she could not begrudge her long-time servant one afternoon of freedom from her weekly duties. Although Dixon still sometimes grumbled about her mistress’ choice to nurse her own child and keep the baby’s crib in the master bedroom, Margaret knew the supercilious maid adored caring for her young offspring and went well beyond the tasks of a lady’s maid to also attend to the nursery. She knew, too, that the tradition-bound servant from the South had come to greatly respect her mistress’s husband, despite the clash of stubborn wills that occasionally reared between them in the form of dagger-fierce looks or muttered oaths.

  Mr. Thornton paced around the room, gently pointing out to his son the objects in the room while his wife dressed for their outing. Jealous of the fleeting opportunity in which he could hold the growing infant in his arms, he knew that such moments were hallowed time that would quickly become mere memory as the months and years hastened on.

  Once Margaret was ready, John followed his wife’s descent to the drawing room, still holding the cooing baby.

  “Johnny would not sleep. I tried …” Margaret blurted in explanation as the threesome passed through the entryway into the open living space.