Northern Rain

by Nicole Clarkston

  John’s breath left him. Here was the vision which had so long mesmerized him in his dreams! His devout fingers hesitated; then, gathering courage, stroked through the rippling currents flowing from her glorious crown. Her hair was spun satin, and his fingers- calloused and strong from years working a far humbler material- caught and snagged the priceless strands as he touched her. He began to quiver. She was so soft, so lush and exquisite! What right had he, a rough man from birth, to partake of such gentle, innocent wonder?

  His throat constricted and he drew back his hand. “Margaret!” he whispered in the darkness, his words trembling in genuine fear. “I do not dare… I am but a coarse, simple man! I cannot bear if you should shrink from me.”

  “John,” she called to him warmly, sliding her hands up his chest and pulling close to him once more. “You are the one I love, and you alone will I hold.”

  He captured her hands and kissed them by turn. “I am not worthy, Love!”

  “Nor am I,” she breathed, standing upon her toes and brushing a gentle kiss to his lips. “But we have been so favoured, nonetheless.”

  He pressed her close to him, his doubts subsiding under her faithful caress. More daringly this time, he combed his fingers backward through her hair and drew courage from the obvious pleasure she took in his attentions. She leaned into his hands, slightly parted lips breathing his name.

  “Margaret,” he touched light kisses over her face, his pulse hammering in longing and exhilaration. “Will you come to me? Let me hold you, and make you my own,” he pleaded.

  Her lips, etched so softly against his cheek, drew into a smile. “I am yours, John, forevermore.”

  Epilogue

  John Thornton awoke at exactly five-thirty in the morning, just as he had every single day for nineteen years. He lay awake for a moment, rubbing his eyes. While it was true that he still naturally roused at the same time, it was no longer the case that he would instantly spring to his feet. His bed had, in recent times, become a far more appealing place to linger.

  The faint jostling of his body caused Margaret to stir beside him. She rolled toward him, mumbling in her sleep with a shock of dark hair tousled over her forehead. He smiled, and settled into the pillow to gaze at her in contentment. Perhaps it would do no harm to stay a while longer. It was always enjoyable to wake his wife.

  She was still not accustomed to the early rhythm of his days, but it must not have troubled her overmuch. She had refused to even use the bed in her own room until their daughter had been born. Now, the room which had been originally meant to be the mistress’ quarters was neatly converted into a nursery.

  His eyes raised speculatively to the door between the two rooms. Little Maria had for some while now ceased to need her mother quite so often, and was not likely to wake for some while yet. Still… it would not do to disturb her. Children needed their rest, of course. He would have to be very quiet.

  Leaning over Margaret, his fingers brushed the thick locks of hair from her face. He began dusting light kisses over her brow. So gently did he touch her that her forehead only twitched as though some stray hair tickled her. His smile grew. This was a game he played with himself, always trying to determine how long he could get by with teasing her before she awoke. His prior record was ten minutes, but Margaret was quick to point out that had been hardly fair, as she had been heavy with child at the time and quite exhausted.

  He tilted his head to survey her lovely form, concealed as it was under the coverlet. Only last night she had given him the divine news that he was to be a father again! He wondered how long it would take this time before he could see with his own eyes the life of his child taking shape within her.

  The remembrance of the prior evening’s joy caused his smiling lips to bump her cheek in some impatience. Margaret started and her eyes flashed open. Her round pupils contracted almost immediately and set off the dazzling green of her irises in the pale light from the window. He kissed her again, laughing softly at the blank look on her face when she first awoke. “Good morning, Love.”

  She blinked, then scowled at him and flipped the counterpane over her head. “It is still the middle of the night!” came her muffled retort.

  “I thought you used to live in the country. Poultry crowing, and all of that?”

  “I left the country,” she grumbled good-naturedly, but still she refused to come from under the covers.

  “The steam engine starts up in half an hour,” he reminded her.

  “Then let me sleep another half-hour!” was the cross rejoinder.

  John fell silent. Perhaps it was unfair of him to wake her for his own purposes when she had just cause to be fatigued. A little sorry that he had disturbed her, he began to slink out of the bed. In another instant, however, a pair of warm arms had wrapped around him to restrain him from going.

  “I was going to leave you alone,” he smiled, turning back to pull her closer.

  Margaret’s only answer was a sleepy moan, as she closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest. He decided he could content himself with simply holding her, and occasionally stroking his fingers through the dark, lustrous hair which she kept loose at his request. He closed his own eyes and allowed himself to be at peace. Very soon, Margaret’s breathing was soft and even once more.

  It was another full hour before he rose completely, although it would be misleading to suggest the entire hour had been spent in slumber. It was a most self-satisfied grin looking out from his mirror when he finally made his morning preparations. Some things were worth the delay!

  Indeed, he reflected as he gave his cravat a final tug, he almost never kept his precise schedule any longer. It had been something of a poorly kept secret about the mill for nearly two years that if one wanted to see the master, they would do best to first seek the mistress. For his own part, he had at last found both the means and the incentive to promote more supervisors within the mill-one of whom, naturally, was Higgins- freeing himself up to greater flexibility. What work he could bring home, he always did. Rather than the isolation of his lonely mill office, his working hours were now often punctuated with welcome- though not always helpful- interruptions.

  A soft giggling sound caused him to turn. Margaret had entered, with a bubbly, bright-eyed Maria snuggled to her hip. She was tickling their daughter as she walked, and the child’s round cheeks were pink with glee. Laughing, he took her and tossed her high in the air, eliciting a squeal of delight. Margaret always cringed when he did so, but he insisted solemnly that it was his fatherly duty to properly frolic with his daughter.

  Thus played out his mornings of late. Margaret and Maria would breakfast later, but before he went downstairs, they would spend a precious few moments together in privacy. He cuddled his little girl close, kissing the downy softness of her dark curls. She looked to have her mother’s rich hair, but the sparkling dark eyes were all his. Every other feature and expression, even his mother avowed, was somehow a perfect blend of them both.

  “Did you know, my pet,” he whispered into her dimpled cheeks, “that you are to have a little brother next summer? What shall we call him?”

  Margaret was shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “You are so certain, are you?”

  He looked up, feigning hurt. “Naturally! We could not possibly have another daughter so enchanting, so a son it must be. What do you think, Little One?” he turned his attention back to the child and resumed the lilting croon he often used to tease her. “I think we should call him Thomas, after your mama’s godfather.”

  Margaret stepped closer, blinking now. She rested a tender hand over his. “That would be a fine idea, John. I do miss him so!”

  He wrapped his free arm about her. “I know, Love,” he soothed. “I think your father also would be pleased.”

  She nodded wordlessly, a few tears threatening to spill. How glad she was that she still had her father, at least! His health was yet fragile, but he soldiered on for the sake of his da
ughter and her growing family. Mr Hale had been visiting his old friend Bell in Oxford when the latter had contracted that last, fatal round of pneumonia. His lungs had not been strong for years, and he had succumbed while Margaret was still recovering from Maria’s birth.

  Mr Hale had returned to Milton and quietly taken up abode in his son and daughter’s home. A spare room had been converted to a private study for him, and he still saw one or two pupils each week. His evenings he often spent in spirited debate with his son-in-law, or simply admiring the warmth of the fire in the company of his granddaughter. He seemed content, and for that, Margaret was profoundly grateful.

  Maria had begun to squirm restlessly, so John set her down to crawl about their feet. She was very close to walking, he noted proudly, and each day she tested her limits a little more. He tugged Margaret under his chin as they watched her some while together. With regret, he at last acknowledged the clock. “I should go, Margaret,” he murmured, but his manner did not correspond with his words. He held her even more tightly to his chest, nuzzling her cheek.

  Margaret sighed. John would not be John without his work, but parting from him in the morning was her least favourite part of the day. She had found many ways to occupy her time, not the least of which was helping with the mill accounts, and had quickly discovered herself to be quite as busy as he.

  A portion of her day was set aside for managing the household- a much larger task here than it had been for the little home in Crampton. She still left much of it to Hannah, citing, as she said, the growing demands of the hospital charity upon her time. John also, while not wishing to deny Margaret what was so important to her, desired his mother’s help to lighten Margaret’s burden as much as possible. In truth, she thought, her mother-in-law was only too glad to find herself very much needed.

  “What do you have planned today, my love?” John wondered aloud, just as she had been pondering that very thing. “Are you going out at all?”

  She pressed her lips, deliberating. “I should stop by the hospital. Dr Donaldson is talking about creating a separate wing for the children, and he asked me to come.”

  He curled his arms more snugly around her and whispered- demanded in her ear, “Go tomorrow. Spend the afternoon with me today, Margaret.”

  She turned to look at him curiously. “It is Friday! Do you not have work in your office, and then your Masters’ dinner this evening?”

  “Not on our anniversary. Today, I am all yours after I see to some matters at the mill.”

  She quirked a cynical brow. “Our anniversary is in February. I ought to know, for Maria was born in November.”

  He treated her to that mischievous grin which never failed to melt her. “Do you not remember what today is, then?”

  Her face clouded as she thought for a moment, and then her eyes widened in contrition. “October the seventeenth! Oh, John, I am so sorry that I had forgotten! Are you well?”

  He laughed freely. “You mistake me, Love! It is not a day for sorrow, but for rejoicing. Two years ago today, you found a poor lonely soul cursing his miserable fate, and extended to him hope. You have redeemed this day, my Margaret, and every day since has been more blessed than the last. I wish to commemorate it with you today.”

  Her lips quivering into a tender smile, she caressed his freshly-shaven cheeks. “You never mentioned this last year,” she mused, fondly touching the deepening laugh lines crinkling near his eyes.

  “You were not able to enjoy long walks at the time, as I recall. Do you not remember that Wednesday when we simply lingered in bed, reading to one another?”

  Her face washed in wonder, she smiled and nodded. “I had no idea! You did not go…?”

  He shook his head. “And I shall not do so today. Let us take a long walk today, Margaret. After we have chilled ourselves thoroughly, I shall have Dixon draw a hot bath for you in here, and then we shall spend the remainder of the day naked before the fire.”

  She sputtered in surprise. “John!”

  “I was going to put out blankets, of course,” he shrugged defensively. “Ever since you so callously insulted my bedclothes….”

  “John!” she pleaded. “You are positively scandalous!”

  “Only with you, my love,” he assured her. “I think the rest of the world is still convinced that I have some dignity left.”

  “What will they think when they discover it all a sham?” she asked with mock seriousness.

  “They will think that I am the luckiest man alive.” Once more flashing her that magnetic grin, he tipped low. Softly at first, then with growing passion, he worked his persuasive abilities on her. When he parted from her several minutes later, it was only far enough that he might admire the darkening of her eyes and the breathless daze playing over her features. He lowered his mouth to hers again. “Come walk with me, Love” he whispered against her lips.

  She began to nod in silent agreement, but as she did so, her eyes caught the sheets of rain pelting against the window. “John,” she smiled, tilting her head in that direction.

  “Ah, I have the solution to that,” he winked. Releasing her, he walked to his dressing closet and returned with a long item wrapped in a red bow. “I thought you might like to have your own, rather than borrowing your father’s all of the time.”

  “My own umbrella! Did you happen to purchase one for yourself?”

  “My darling, what do you take me for? I would much prefer to share yours!”

  “By which you mean that you have misplaced yours again?”

  “I know precisely where it is. It is safely locked in my office at the mill, where it cannot interfere with my plans for the afternoon. I am afraid you have no choice but to come to my aid, Margaret.”

  “I suppose I can hardly refuse!” she laughed. “I should be grateful that you only asked for a walk- or have you any other dastardly schemes which I shall be forced to accept?”

  “Well,” he circled his arms about her again, a playfully reflective expression on his face. “I have given some thought to hiring a piano master… for Maria, of course.”

  Margaret pursed her lips, nodding agreeably. “That sounds reasonable. And when were you planning to tell me about the large section of paving stones you planned to have pulled up in the centre square of the yard?”

  He froze, caught. “That was supposed to be a surprise, Margaret. How…?”

  “Nicholas, of course. He told Mildred, who told me.”

  “I’ll fire him,” John growled. “Him and that chatty wife of his!”

  “And I will hire them back. So, John, which colors shall you be planting in the new rose garden?” She reached to poke his ribs, having discovered early in their marriage a secret that he had for years preserved even from his mother. John was intensely ticklish, and could not long bear such torment. She was exquisitely talented at wringing information from him.

  “Foul!” he cried, clamping his upper arm down upon her wicked fingers and writhing away from her reach. “As to colours, madam, you shall have to be patient. Spring is months away, after all. As you have long made a habit of keeping me in suspense, I shall do the same!”

  “That is hardly gentlemanly, sir!” she turned away in a mock pout.

  “That is what you get when you marry a cotton manufacturer, my love,” he returned seriously. “I could have warned you, but I decided not to.”

  A smile flicked on her face, but she remained resolutely turned, her arms crossed. She waited patiently, and she was not disappointed. The little dimple on her cheek puckered into his view as he stepped closer to her.

  His arms slid around her from behind. “Red,” he whispered in her ear. “Every single one of them. Deep, crimson red, for your mother’s roses, and your ruby lips. A single shade of deepest red for the one love who holds my heart and for the vivid colour she brought to my life. Even on the greyest of days, I always feel your warmth, my Margaret. No other colour would do.”

  “Those Helston
e roses,” Margaret turned, smiling sweetly, “tend to have rather sharp thorns.”

  “I have been pricked a time or two!” he laughed. “But for their softness and beauty, for the fragrance they give and the delight they bring, I can tolerate thorns.”

  “Then I can do no less than to tolerate a little rain,” she answered, rolling up on her toes to kiss him lightly. “It is good for the flowers, after all.”

  “And rather convenient for me! I shall be forever grateful for one particular rainstorm.”

  John Thornton, one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the city, never made it to his office that day. Instead, he with his wife wandered aimlessly in the downpour, having no particular object in mind but to mark a date which had changed his life more than once. A few passersby were heard to comment later that Master Thornton seemed not at all the same man, and that he never bothered to look in any direction save at his laughing young bride.

  Fine

  About the Author

  Nicole Clarkston is the pen name of a very bashful writer who will not allow any of her family or friends to read what she writes. She grew up in Idaho on horseback, and if she could have figured out how to read a book at the same time, she would have. She initially pursued a degree in foreign languages and education, and then lost patience with it, switched her major, and changed schools. She now resides in Oregon with her husband of 14 years, 3 homeschooled kids, and a very worthless degree in Poultry Science (don’t ask).

  Nicole discovered Jane Austen rather by guilt in her early thirties- how does any book worm really live that long without a little P&P? She has never looked back. A year or so later, during a major house renovation project (undertaken when her husband unsuspectingly left town for a few days) she discovered Elizabeth Gaskell and fell completely in love. Nicole’s books are her pitiful homage to two authors who have so deeply inspired her. Northern Rain is her third published work.