John woke as pale light displaced the receding darkness in the small, unfamiliar bedroom of his wife’s maiden days. With drowsy deliberation, he roused himself to alleviate the dull ache in his hip, careful not to disturb the sleeper in front of him. Prickling pain surged through the arm now relieved from its ill-arranged position as blood rushed to resume its normal courses within.

He eased himself off the mattress and stretched as he stood upon a braided rug, his bare feet peeking from rumpled trousers. The crinkled cotton of his day shirt mocked the crimping crick in his neck. He passed his hand over the offending discomfort in a wincing exhalation of breath.

The house was silent. The horror of death’s dark visit had passed. Now there remained the tedious tasks to which the living must attend, walking and breathing the waking nightmare as they adjusted their lives to the loss while their minds searched the halls of memory to recall the voice and smiles of one who no more animates earth’s scene.

He gazed at Margaret with a painful longing to fill the void of her loss with all the tenderness of his powerful love. He wished her a peaceful repose for as long as it could be taken.

John put on the vestments of his position with thought to the unpleasant arrangements that must be made and the unavoidable alteration to his daily schedule. Unshaven and weary of heart, he dressed and silently slipped from the room. The chill of the morning fog seemed to penetrate the walls. He shivered in the October air as he descended the stairs.

Stepping into the parlor, Mr. Thornton noted the sleeping form of the gaunt servant girl – Higgins’ daughter, he had discovered – curled up under a gray wool blanket on the couch. A twinge of grateful sympathy softened the features of his face at the sight of her steadfast loyalty.

He crouched to start a fire in the cold room, where the family might gather before breakfast.

“I can see to that, Sir,” a wavering voice offered.

He turned to see the Higgins girl smoothing an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She was sitting upright, her tired face flushed in embarrassment of having been seen caught sleeping.

“I can manage here. Perhaps you could tend to the dining room,” he suggested gently. She sprang to follow his command, leaving him alone to set the coals glowing.

The doorbell rang a moment later, causing the girl to retrace her steps. Mr. Thornton’s ears pricked at the sound of a familiar voice in the hallway. He took swift paces to where his mother handed a large basket, laden with food, to Mary.

“Mother,” he exclaimed, in welcome surprise.

“Mrs. Hale…” she inquired with caution, the servant’s red-rimmed eyes and somber silence offering her little cause for hope.

The strong man dropped his gaze from the eager inquiry. “She is gone,” he muttered.

“When?” The whispered word was choked out after a moment of stunned silence.

“Sometime very late…in the night.”

Hannah’s heart bled for her son as she studied his weary, disheveled appearance. He would bear the burden of sorrow with strength and dignity, fighting against the forces which would try to crush out his happiness, so recently attained, in this unjust turn of fate. “And Margaret?” she asked after his new bride, uncertain how well the girl would bear up to the untimely strain of loss.

“She sleeps, for now,” he answered, his forehead creased in contemplation of breaking her restful peace.

“Do you go to work?”

He let out a long breath and shook his head in a quandary of indecision. “I am scheduled to meet with a buyer, who has been forestalled already for my wedding travels.”

“I will stay to assist in whatever way I am able. Go, if you have need. I will remain as long you are away,” she offered, receiving a nod of thanks.

“You have not eaten?” she asked, guessing the answer.

“Little thought has been given to food this past day.”

“Sustenance must be provided,” she said, brushing past him to survey the empty dining room. “There is little wisdom in starving the body at such a time. The heart needs strength. Call the house to breakfast in an hour. I will help see that it is ready,” she commanded as she turned to follow the young maid to the kitchen.

John moved to follow her firm direction, grateful to allow another to establish order in the confusing wake of tragedy. He knocked gently at the bedroom door he had so recently quitted and opened it to find Margaret hurrying to fasten on her petticoats.

“I heard the bell. Has someone come?” she asked in a fluster, prepared to forestall the morning’s oppressive gloom with needful activity.

“My mother has come to help. Do not trouble yourself,” he soothed, taking her hands into his to stay her restless motions. “She is even now preparing our breakfast.”

She stared unblinking at him for a moment before the tears began to gather in her eyes in awful comprehension of her loss. Here was one called mother, so unlike her own, who would offer comfort and kindness while her own dear mother lay cold and lifeless across the hall. Shameful jealousy stung at the realization that only one mother remained betwixt them. It was unjustly cruel – she would never have her gentle mother back again!

“Margaret,” her husband murmured as he witnessed silent tears spilling down her cheeks. He swiftly enfolded her into a tender embrace, holding her close as the first choking sobs of grief wracked her body. Relieved in some measure that her stoic stance had broken, John offered silent comfort to the sufferer until the tears subsided and she released him from his patient service.

The family was gathered for breakfast in an hour’s time. Somewhat embarrassed by his emotional outbursts the night before, Frederick attempted to meet the others with a measure of cheer but broke into tears over some remark of his sister, whose sympathetic and sorrowful gaze reminded him pointedly of their shared grief.

John spoke gently with the broken-down widower in his study afterwards, and was gladly given leave to make all necessary arrangements, Mr. Hale being neither able nor willing to make any effort towards these final steps other than to mumble a request that no grand gestures be made. He had an aversion to the pompous affectations of mortals to morbid social ritual and was certain his wife’s sure entrance to heaven required no earthly fanfare.

The newly married Master gave his wife an affectionate good-bye before heading out to accomplish several unbending tasks, with a promise to return as quickly as he could.

The hours passed with unbearable slowness for Margaret. The quiet efficiency of her mother-in-law was a mixed blessing for the mourning bride. The daily pattern of responsibility being wrested from her, Margaret yearned for some common toil to occupy the numbing emptiness of her mind and half-wished her mother-in-law away. Yet, underlying her temperamental annoyance, she found a certain comfort in the widow’s unseen presence and blinked away the fresh rise of tears at the remembrance of her soft-spoken words of sympathy and the surprising warmth of caring in her eyes.

It was both a pleasure and a hollow comfort to spend time with Frederick, who found relief in chattering away, telling her more of his past and his hopes for the future. Their eyes flashed at one another in shared anxiety when their father finally joined them in the drawing room, having spent most of the day in the closed room with the dead.

The faded light of late afternoon added to the somber atmosphere of the quiet room. The ticking of the clock on the mantle could be heard. Mr. Hale’s grave face appeared shocked into still confusion as he lowered himself onto his favorite easy chair. His children watched him intently as he drew his brows together, his eyes unfocused upon the carpet before him.

“Dixon has given me cause for alarm,” he announced, bringing his gaze to Frederick.

*****

Margaret and her brother spoke in hushed tones in the front parlor sometime later as the last light of day began to dwindle. Discussing the danger of Frederick’s stay had greatly agitated Mr. Hale and Margaret had coaxed her father to rest in his room before dinner. The siblings had not long been occupied in their new venue when a knock on the front door was heard. Dixon grumbled from some distant place as the door was opened without her aid.

A tall figure appeared at the threshold of the carpeted room. Margaret’s weary heart soared at the sight of her husband, his returning presence infusing in her fresh hope and strength in this sorest of trials. How the hours had dragged on without him! She rose instantly from her seat to greet him, suddenly glimpsing what had not been there before: around the upper arm of his coat was a band of black crape.

Tears sprang to her eyes at his gesture of unity with her family, the fresh recognition of her permanent bond with him striking her deeply. He was her husband now. She would never be alone again. He would stand by her through all of life’s trials.

“Margaret,” the returning groom muttered with agitated concern, taking gentle hold of her arms at the sight of her tear-filled gaze. “Has something happened?”

She shook her head, unable to look at him as she blinked back tears of gratitude and relief. She could not explain in words what had touched her so profoundly.

“Nothing has happened, but there is news,” she whispered, raising her face to his as she gained some control over her emotions. “The other day, Dixon encountered in the streets of Milton someone who sailed with Frederick in years past, and who knows of his history,” she related with trepidation.

John’s breath stilled. A chill of foreboding pulled his muscles taut.

“I should have let him pass by, but it was such a surprise to see a face from the south in these parts,” Dixon lamented with a shake of her head, stepping into the room. Mr. Thornton gave the family servant a look of impatient forbearance.

“You have no faith in this man’s sympathy,” John deduced, speaking to no one in particular. “What kind of person is he? What is his name?” he asked.

“The worst sort. His name is George Leonards. A sorrier sailor I’ve never seen,” Frederick answered with a flare of contempt.

“He’s a ne’er-do-well and a plague to his family since he was a boy,” Dixon readily added. “I asked him what he was doing in Milton and he said he had business to attend, but he looks just as he ever did – an out-and-out ruffian searching for some scheme for easy profit.”

“He did not like Frederick, I’m afraid,” Margaret relayed.

These accounts sank heavily in John’s heart. He let out his breath in consternation at this untidy complication. His experience as a magistrate had taught him only too well how unscrupulous greed and spite could motivate men to pursue their unscrupulous desires.

“Does this Leonards know where you live?” Mr. Thornton asked Dixon. “Did you meet him close to this house so that he might have followed you home?”

“No. He took the omnibus away,” she replied. “He does not know where we abide. And not many in Milton know of us, having come so recently from the south,” Dixon added in a more hopeful tone.

Her answer did little to alleviate the weight of his concern. There might be time for some reprieve, but there could be great danger in keeping a fugitive.

“You must not stay,” Mr. Thornton decreed, looking to Frederick.

“That is what father said as well,” the exiled son replied with a sigh. “But I’ve only just arrived!” he countered in rising rebellion. “I’ve a mind to stay as long as I please. I’ll not cower at the hand of a rogue such as Leonards!”

“No,” the Milton magistrate stated firmly, noting the alarm on Margaret’s face at her brother’s words. “It is too dangerous to act with impunity. You must return to Spain as soon as possible.”

“Frederick and I were talking,” Margaret interjected hesitantly. “Perhaps Henry could help him clear his name. More light may have been shed on Captain Reed’s offenses these past years. If testimony could be gained…”

“No,” her husband reiterated without cavil, meeting her startled look with sympathy for her innocence. “The tribunal is set apart from the court systems which we rightly trust to mete out justice from reasonable evidence. Clemency is not the method of the military. Their figures of authority exact strict obedience from the leagues of men at their command. To examine the justification of individual protest would be, you must understand, uncommon.”

Margaret bowed her head in concession, nodding her reluctant accord. The spark of defiance died in Frederick’s eyes and he gazed at the floor in stark comprehension of his fate.

“I regret that England can never be your home,” Mr. Thornton continued more gently. “But from all you have told us, it seems that purpose and place await you in Spain,” he added, eliciting a small smile from the English-born adventurer. “Perhaps someday we will set sail to visit you,” he remarked auspiciously, this time gaining the hopeful smile of his wife.

The subject of Frederick’s departure was discussed once more at the dinner table, where Mr. Hale confessed he would not feel at peace until he knew that his son had safely boarded the train to Liverpool. Margaret offered to take her brother to the station, but Mr. Thornton insisted that the departure must take place after daylight and that he would be the one to ensure that Frederick was safely on his way out of the country.

Hannah Thornton sat watching all that transpired with circumspection, her eyes widening at her son’s promise to safeguard one accounted a criminal to the Crown.

A solemn silence pervaded the Thorntons’ carriage ride home that evening until John’s voice pierced the settled gloom. “It may not be the proper time to tell you, but I must not keep news of such portent to myself any longer….Mr. Bell has given me ownership of the mill and the house as a wedding gift,” he announced without embellishment of emotion.

A passing streetlamp threw light upon his mother’s astonished face in the darkness.

“You own the land and all the property thereon?” Margaret asked, surprise sounding in her voice.

“Yes.”

“How wonderful,” she remarked with quiet enthusiasm. “He is very generous; you will not need to pay rent ever again. That must be a great benefit to your position, is it not? Are you pleased?” she asked, a little uncertain after her words if he was comfortable to be gifted what might over time be earned.

“How can I not be? Yes, I am pleased,” he assured her warmly, taking her hand in his in the shadowy darkness and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Fanny Thornton hummed an airy tune as she threaded her needle in and out of her worsted work with casual precision. Not a sound came from within the great house. The drawing room wherein she sat was arranged to perfection, the objects for human use and enjoyment as cold and still as the alabaster flowers under sparkling glass.

The well-pampered girl lifted her eyes from her sewing and arched an eyebrow as her mother set aside her embroidery to take a turn around the room with listless purpose. Fanny felt no especial excitement in welcoming Margaret into their comfortable routine. In fact, she sighed to think of how dull the conversations would be with her new sister-in-law. It would have been far better, in Fanny’s mind, if John had chosen someone more attuned to the things properly of interest to a girl of privileged position in Milton society. She lamented that Ann Latimer had not caught John’s attention.

She tugged at her thread with a twinge of annoyance. Her mother had been distracted and irritable since John had departed on his wedding day. He had not been gone above three days! Yet Mother fretted over losing her beloved son, as if he would never return to this house and resume his same tedious ways!

Hannah Thornton cared nothing for what her daughter thought as she paced to a vase brimming with fragrant bridal flowers. She touched the velvet softness of a fully-blossomed rose. The creamy white petals, now edged with yellowing curls, stretched forth from the base, burst with resplendent glory for a brief reign in time. Soon, the flower would droop, the petals fall, and the whole arrangement of faded beauty be discarded.

Yet these remained, the only remnant here of what had taken place just days ago. The other flowers had been sent to a few invalid acquaintances and to Mrs. Hale, whom she knew was resting from the strenuous activity of her daughter’s wedding.

Hannah had busied herself returning the household to normalcy, preparing the rooms in which the new mistress of the house would reside. Margaret’s gowns, sent to her new home in her absence, now hung in the carved oak wardrobe in her son’s bedchamber. Her belongings were placed among the freshly arranged furnishings of a private sitting room. There was nothing to do now but wait for the exultant pair to return, securing their place as master and mistress of this establishment.

The aging widow turned to dispel the gloom that gathered in contemplation of her own future. She walked to the window with sedate steps, endeavoring vainly to evade the despairing thoughts that chased her every waking hour.

She had been unprepared for the barrage of emotions that had swept through her since her son’s carriage had last disappeared from sight. For fifteen years she had been his sole guide and solace, his one true companion. No one could tell the dark trials that they had endured, and no mother’s heart could beat with more pride than hers for what her son had become. Did the girl know his true worth?

She observed the activity in the yard below, where men carried on the regular work of the mill her son had worked so hard to raise to great success. His accomplishment was visible everywhere, never more so than when men and machines kept to their task like clockwork despite his absence.

Each man and machine to his purpose, she mused with satisfaction. But what would her purpose be? She quailed at the notion of abdicating her useful role and lapsing into uselessness, astounded to learn how much she relied upon the familiar routine and pattern of life to retain her equanimity. She dreaded the changes the girl would bring, but swallowed her selfish worry to pray that her son would be happy. She would sacrifice every earthly pleasure to see him truly content.

A jolt of anxiety quickened her pulse as a cab appeared into view and made its way to the house. She watched intently as the carriage stopped, the door was flung open, and John alighted – alone. Her heart plunged to see the dark expression written on his face, where triumph should have been. Where was Margaret? A spark of jealous relief stole swiftly as she hoped to claim him as her own once again. Had they quarreled? The fleeting elation dissipated with the sober remembrance of the binding sanctity of marriage. An uneasy feeling turned her stomach and she clenched her jaw. If something had happened to cause a rift between them, careful pain would need to be paid in the endeavor to mend it.

“Are they here?”

Her daughter’s voice interrupted the stream of Hannah’s disquieting thoughts. “Yes,” she answered distractedly, resolved to wait for John’s explanation of events before revealing anything was amiss to Fanny.

She steeled herself for whatever he had to say, feeling a lightness of spirit flutter in eagerness to offer him a mother’s devoted comfort and support.

“Mother,” he gave her a faint smile and kiss on the cheek in greeting as he entered the room.

“Where is Margaret?” she asked with measured composure, searching his face for any sign of hidden pain.

Fanny’s eyes fastened on her brother, waiting impatiently to hear how he should explain this curious development.

“In Crampton. Her mother is not well,” the returning groom answered with a deep sigh.

Mrs. Thornton let out her breath slowly, chastising herself for overlooking this possibility as her gaze fell to the floor.

“Mother, I must speak with you – privately,” he continued in grave tones, glancing at his sister’s attentive posture.

His manner sparked dread in her breast and all the disquieting musings of some breach of the girl’s devotion returned to unsettle her.

“Fanny, play for us your Brahms piece,” she directed her daughter in clipped tones.

Fanny opened her mouth to protest, but gathered herself up from the sofa as she caught sight of her mother’s grim stare.

When the first tinkling notes of the piano could be heard, Mr. Thornton began his hushed discourse. “Margaret has a brother…”

“A brother! Why have we not heard of this?” The words poured out from her lips in an explosive whisper.

“He is wanted for mutiny by the Navy. He lives in exile – in Spain. But he has come; he is at the Hale’s home this instant.”

“…To see his mother,” she finished with dawning realization.

“Yes.” Shared glances revealed the gravity of Mrs. Hale’s condition.

“What can be done?” the widowed woman asked in sympathy for this plight.

“Nothing at present. Dr. Donaldson has said there may be periods of lapse and recovery throughout. There may still be time…” he relayed with hopeful fervor, although his brow was furrowed in concern. “No one must know of their visitor – no one. I am willing to risk my reputation to keep this secret.  Whatever happens, he cannot stay long; it is too dangerous. I have left Margaret in Crampton while I see to things at the mill. I will go for her after dinner.”

Mrs. Thornton nodded, somewhat bewildered by the flurry of unexpected news and arrangements. One question remained unsettled in her mind. She looked up into her son’s somber countenance. “Was your trip agreeable?”

A soft haze of light broke over his stern features; his focus grew distant. She knew the answer before he opened his mouth. “It was more than agreeable,” he answered reverently as his mouth curved into a small smile. “I would have liked to stay longer if circumstances would have allowed.”

She gave a swift nod and forced a smile to her lips. It was well he was happy, she reminded herself as she felt the throb of her heart resume its normal pattern.

****

Without the expected addition of Margaret at the dinner table, the established residents of the Thornton household ate their meal together much as they had for years, although with palpable silence this particular evening.

Mr. Thornton made no delay afterwards to take the family coach to Crampton. He joined his wife in the parlor, where brother and sister quietly shared accounts of the years spent living separate lives. He smiled to hear the siblings’ exchange of Helstone memories of centered on playful traditions and eccentric and cantankerous villagers.

Mr. Hale slumped in a chair in the shadowy periphery of the candle-lit room. His wife slept peacefully at present, but her struggle with pain and weakness drove terror deep into his heart. The voices of his children drifted in and out of his dazed consciousness, his eyes lifting to their faces at the call to mind of the indelible characters of his former life.

Frederick asked a good many questions of Mr. Thornton about his experience in trade and relayed his own eager plans to become an essential partner (and fond son-in-law) at Barbour and Company in Cadiz.

The Milton manufacturer answered with simple wisdom the conjectures of inexperience as he kept a wary eye on the despondent figure of his good friend, so recently his father-in-law. He knew by his wife’s manner that she also did not forget the one who neither spoke nor moved in his chair.

When the newlyweds prepared to leave, Margaret kissed her father and brother good-night with a solemn heart and promised to return in the morning. Until her husband had arrived, she had been absorbed in her role as daughter and sister.  She marveled at the change wrought within her, for only days ago she had been a maiden, living within these walls; she was no longer that girl, but wholly a woman who knew what it was to be loved by a man. She belonged to him.

No pang of wistfulness for the past made her long to stay behind. Instead, the stirring of excitement lifted the heaviness in her heart as she travelled with him in the carriage through the darkened streets.

A tingle of nerves set her stomach fluttering as the coach stopped by the great stone house in the silent mill yard. She wondered about the welcome she would receive from the occupants within the lighted windows and what arrangements had been made for her living quarters.

They climbed together the scrubbed, granite steps leading to the front entrance. The new bride caught the glint of mischief in her husband’s eyes a second before he whisked her off her feet. “John!” she gasped as she clung to his neck, feeling her smile grow broader at his own wide grin, neither of them forgetting that this was the place where such fateful drama had unfolded between them, midst the fury of countless strangers.

The newly married master carried his bride across the threshold and set her down in his house with great satisfaction. “Welcome to your new home,” he muttered with a swell of jubilation in his breast, giving her a quick kiss for good measure.

A smiling blush still suffused the girl’s face as she entered the drawing room on her husband’s arm, raising the sober widow’s brow.

Margaret received a kindly, if not altogether warm, greeting from her reserved mother-in-law. The requisite kiss on the cheek and polite words of concern for her mother’s health were given by both older woman and daughter.

“You have arrived in time for our evening round. It is has been my custom to read a chapter of Scripture before we all retire,” Hannah Thornton announced with practiced pleasantness, as she looked to the new mistress of the house.

“By all means…please continue. It sounds a fine tradition,” Margaret faltered, unprepared for the deference paid to her by the stern matriarch.

The servants gathered into the room while Mrs. Thornton searched for her place in the heavy, leather-bound book. After reading a few sober verses from Jeremiah, she closed the book and the servants silently turned to leave.

“Sarah will be your lady’s maid,” Fanny addressed Margaret, indicating a slender girl of similar age who made a slight curtsy at the call of her name, glancing nervously at the master’s wife.

Fanny led the way toward the stairs behind the papered walls with her own attendant and Sarah in her wake.

Margaret began to hesitantly follow, casting a bewildered look at her husband.

He gave her a reassuring smile and watched wistfully as she disappeared from view.

The proud mother rejoiced inwardly to have this private audience with her son, as they had always done. She listened to his brief account of Mrs. Hale’s condition, the stupor of the old vicar, and the brother hidden from public view.

The somber reality of the troubles Margaret would face weighed heavily in his mind as he bade his mother good-night. But nothing could stay the rise of elation he felt as he climbed the stairs to seek his wife in their private living quarters.

He hesitated only a moment before he opened the dark paneled door of his bedroom without knocking.

Margaret heard his entry and looked up to see his reflection in the mirror of the dressing-table at which she sat. “Thank you, Sarah. That will be all,” she announced kindly, dismissing the maid who had been brushing her hair.

The girl laid the brush down without a word, and escaped past the imposing figure of the master with downcast eyes.

Margaret rose from her seat to face her husband. His heart twisted at the sight of her full beauty, rendering him speechless and immobile. She looked soft and beguiling in some delicate creation of pale blue silk, her hair falling luxuriously over her shoulders. He could not breathe.

“Do you have all that you require?” he asked, discovering his voice as he stepped forward to take her hands in his, his body aching to feel the press of her form against own. The intervening hours since the morning’s blissful tryst now seemed an arduous separation.

“There is a sitting room for your use,” he continued with creased brow, a sense of doubt suddenly clouding his stubborn insistence that she should share his bed every evening.

She laid a hand on his forearm. “I am well pleased with the arrangements,” she said with blushing timidity. “Truly,” she assured him, lifting lowered eyes to meet his.

“Margaret,” he breathed, taking her into his arms, the pounding of his heart sounding the joy he felt to have her in his room at last.

“I will not…ask anything of you this evening,” he falteringly promised in whispered tones as he held her soft form against him. He detected the merest of nods from the head at his shoulder and pulled her tighter against him for a moment before slowly releasing his grasp.

He saw the weary sadness in her eyes at this acknowledgment of her sorrow. A spark of guilt cast a shadow over his blithe happiness. “Perhaps I should not have taken you to Scarborough….”

“No,” she answered, surprising him with her earnest avowal as she grasped his arm. “No matter what happens…I am resolved I shall not regret the time we spent away. My mother wished us to go…” she declared, holding her gaze to his so that he would understand.

He took her into his arms again and held her close. “Then you make me confess that I cannot regret it either,” he said near her ear, knowing he would treasure the memory of those days forever.

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 fragrant 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.

 

Note from the author: “In Consequence” is a work in progress. In order to give the author time to finish her work, this story will be updated every other week until further notice. Thank you for reading.

Mr. Thornton’s gaze followed the unclad figure of his wife as she slipped out from under the bed sheets to hastily don her white dressing-gown.

“We must dress quickly if we are to eat breakfast downstairs,” Margaret muttered, tightening the sash at her waist, her back to her husband.

The corners of his mouth lifted to observe her blushing modesty after such a spell of unhurried lovemaking as they had just shared in the morning’s gentle light. He drew a deep breath and propped himself against the pillows to luxuriate a few moments more in this dream-realm of perfect contentment. He would be loathe to leave the place where the glory and wonder of marital bliss had been revealed to him.

Reluctantly, he climbed out of the bed to tug on his drawers and trousers. Throwing a shirt over his head, he turned to see his wife, now in her long chemise, laying yesterday’s garments in her trunk. No longer hiding behind a screen, she went about the mundane task of dressing and tending to her clothes. The sight of it entranced him, for here was a vision of the life that now lay before him, where the common routines of their existence would blend into new harmonious rounds, transforming the ordinary into something exquisitely wonderful and precious.

She would come home with him, and live in his house. The contemplation of this simple fact caused his heart to contract in fervent longing, astounded for the thousandth time at his fortune.

He crossed the room in a blaze of ardor.

“At times, I cannot yet believe you are truly mine,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

“I believe that has been made abundantly clear,” she answered softly, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. She felt the strong sinewy lines of his forearms beneath the clasp of her small hands.

He held her closer, the implication of her answer sending a warm sense of satisfaction through every portion of his body. The joy he felt in the close, intimate bond they had created surpassed all his imaginings. He would never tire of their coming together, but feared that his own desires might overwhelm her more hesitant inclinations. “Are you happy?” he murmured with his cheek pressed near hers, wanting to hear the confirmation of his fondest hope from her lips.

She twisted about to face him. “I thought that was also plain,” she returned, lifting her luminous eyes to his.

His heart leapt up at her words. Although he rejoiced that their love had sparkled and dazzled in the bright dawn of these first days, he secretly worried that in time the life of a manufacturer’s wife would lose its luster.

Margaret’s thoughts held no such misgivings. Settled securely within her husband’s embrace, she reached up to tenderly stroke his face, her fingertips tracing the spot near his temple where the stone had struck him on that terrifying and life-altering day. “It seems so long ago…when we hardly knew one another.…” She faltered, recalling with a pang of guilt how she had once dismissed him as a heartless tradesman.

“Not so long ago,” he answered, taking her hands in his and kissing the slender fingers that had touched his old wound. He could well remember the months he had longed to gain her affection, and the thrill of hope that had overtaken him when he had seen the look of tender concern in her eyes that momentous day.  “You captivated me from the very beginning. I knew there could be none other,” he admitted with conviction.

“I find it difficult to believe, when I spoke so vehemently against you. And it was most unjust of you to come declare yourself when I had no indication of your feelings,” she accused him, pushing away from him in playful offense.

He pulled her tighter and kissed her for her teasing manner. How much he had ached to kiss those petulant, rosebud lips that day!

He loosened his hold as a question of burning curiosity recurred to him. “You were surprised at my strong feelings, yet you accepted me…why did you?”

She dipped her head to escape the inquiring intensity of his blue eyes. “I don’t know…” she faltered as she sought to explain the evolution of her feelings for him – to understand the secret workings of her heart. Now,  when the very clasp of his arms around her felt more natural and essential than any other pleasure of life, it was difficult to remember the early callings of attraction to the tradesman of such extraordinary power and determination, so beyond the pale of the staid, sophisticated gentlemen she had known in the south.

 

“Somehow, I knew that you spoke honestly…from the heart. I did not know it then…but I suppose…I believe my heart answered in kind.” She watched the creases of confusion on his brow vanish as the dawning joy of her confession illuminated his face. He took her face in his hands and bent to seal his approval of her answer with a kiss.

 

*****

The train hissed its reluctance to idly halt at a small country station. Margaret raised her head in surprise as her husband rose to his feet.

“Where are we?” she asked in confusion as he reached for their bags overhead.

“Saltaire,” he answered with a mischievous grin.

The noise of countless industrious workers, laying bricks and unloading carts, filled the air with the energy of achievement and purpose as the Thorntons were given a tour of Sir Titus Salt’s grand plans, materializing in brick and mortar around them.

The crowning jewel, the mill itself, would soon rise several stories along the Leeds and Liverpool canal. The surrounding countryside, an idyllic peace within miles of the slums of Salt’s current mill in Bradford, was marked with stakes and foundation trenches for the development of the workers’ homes and community.

The robust foreman of this ambitious project proudly showed the Milton cotton master and his wife the extent of Sir Titus’ enterprise, pointing out where the bath-house, library, hospital, concert hall, schools, almshouses, gymnasium, and boathouse would be located.

Returning to catch the next train west some time later, the newlyweds were suitably impressed at what vision, wealth, compassion, and modern industry might do to offer hope for the progress of humanity.

*****

Smoky, leaden clouds hung over the clatter and bustle of Milton’s streets as a nimble black cab steered around a lumbering cart heaped high with cotton bales. Within the private confines of the swaying compartment, Mr. Thornton grasped his wife’s hand tighter to erase the anxious look that stilled her face and made her eyes grow distant.

Margaret gave her husband a warm smile. His touch and the loving gleam in his eyes eased some of the tension that unsettled her stomach.

A litany of worries had begun to invade her mind as the train had approached Milton. If Frederick had not arrived, there would be cause for alarm. And if he had arrived, there would be need for great caution. Above all else, she hoped that her mother’s health had remained stable during her absence.

The coach stopped in front of the last terraced house on a crowded Crampton street. The newly married couple mounted the stairs together and rang the bell. The corners of Mr. Thornton’s mouth lifted in irrepressible exuberance as they prepared to present themselves as a married couple, even as apprehension dogged his hope that they would be given continued reprieve from any unpleasant or complicated family affairs.

The door was opened a crack and Dixon’s blotchy face peered out from the shadows.

“Oh, it’s you, Miss!” she exclaimed in relief. She flung the door open to admit them, giving the Master a cursory nod of acknowledgement. Caution flashed in her eyes as she cast her gaze toward the stairway, the lines of her face plainly etched with some distress.

Margaret’s smile froze. The tension of foreboding stiffened her muscles and sank her sanguine hope that she would find all at peace in her parents’ home. “How is mother?” she asked, determined, yet afraid, to discover the truth.

“Margaret! Is that you?” An eager call came from the upper floor.

Margaret glanced up at the smiling figure peering down from the upper landing, the familiar tenor of the long-absent voice quickening her spirits. “Frederick!” she breathed.

A lean young man with pleasant features, ruddy from the Spanish sun, came clambering down the stairs. He took his sister’s hands into his own. His eyes twinkled in mirth as he wonderingly appraised her. Seeing the gleam of incredulity in her own careful assessment of him, he let out a breathy laugh before haltingly enfolding her into a welcome embrace.

Mr. Thornton smiled to witness such a reunion, although his hopes for enjoying a quiet evening with his wife were dashed.

Glancing at the tall stranger patiently looking on, Frederick loosened his grasp on his sister to approach his new brother-in-law. “Mr. Thornton,” he declared with an outstretched hand, “I’ve heard much about you. My father speaks very highly of you.” A glimmer of curious uncertainty crossed his features as he endeavored to discern for himself the qualities of character he had heard lavishly praised in the appearance of the staid and well-mannered manufacturer. “Congratulations on your recent marriage. I wish the both of you very happy.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Thornton answered, catching sight of Margaret’s timid smile.

“When did you arrive?” Margaret asked, in haste to know all.

“Just this past evening, in the dark of night. I believe I gave Dixon a fright rapping on the door at such an hour,” he answered, returning to his sister’s side as he gave the faithful servant a grin. “I would have come earlier, but Dolores – oh, but I should tell you of Dolores; you would love her – she had more sense than me. I would have sailed straight away, but she begged me not to arrive at the very time of your wedding, when so much attention might be trained upon my father’s house.”

“Indeed, she is wise. And how is mother?” Margaret inquired, assured in part by her brother’s smiles that there could be no dire news.

“She lies abed but she converses, if weakly,” her brother offered with that tone of youthful hope that refuses to heed the whispers of doom.

“She took to her bed after you left…and hasn’t risen since,” Dixon added, meeting Margaret’s gaze with a painful reluctance to convey a more somber account.

“Come, she has been awaiting you,” Frederick declared, inviting the returning bride into her own home.

Margaret turned to her husband. Beckoned by a mere glance, Mr. Thornton closely followed the pair upstairs.

Mr. Hale greeted his son-in-law with a handshake by the foot of the bed while Margaret leaned over to kiss the wan face of her mother, who appeared small and frail against the arrangement of pillows that carefully propped her up.

“He came!” Mrs. Hale chirped. Margaret saw the fleeting glimmer of light in her eyes as she spoke of her son.

“Yes,” her daughter replied, fighting back the tears that sprang up at her mother’s dim smile of satisfaction.

“You trip…” the feeble voice inquired.

“Scarborough was very lovely,” the young bride recounted softly, feeling a warm glow at the deeper implication of her words while her husband stood nearby.

Brother and sister sat by the bedside, speaking in turn to their mother for some time until Mr. Thornton leaned to whisper near his wife’s ear.

“The cab awaits…I must go….”

“Wait…I would speak to Mr. Thornton…alone,” Mrs. Hale called out with determined strength as she stretched out a hand toward him.

Surprised glances were shared about the room, but the occupants quietly filed out to obey the request.

When the door was shut, the strong manufacturer gently stepped forward to sit by his mother-in-law, curious as to her intentions.

“I know I am not long for this world,” she pronounced with wraith-like breath.

Mr. Thornton opened his mouth to speak, but closed it at the sight of the watery eyes that focused upon him with conviction, fear, and the desperation to be heard.

“You will take care of Margaret…”

“There is nothing more important to me than her happiness and well-being,” he answered truthfully.

Maria smiled wanly her approval and opened her limp hand for him to take, giving his a faint squeeze when he did so. “My son risked his life to come to me,” she continued.

Mr. Thornton drew his brows together in solemn resolve. “I will do all in my power to see he is returned safely. Do not trouble your thoughts.”

She nodded her head faintly and closed her eyes in silent thanks as a tear escaped one corner. She opened them a moment later with a look of penitence at her husband’s friend, her daughter’s husband, and her family’s own strong savior. “I have been thoughtless, seeing fit to complain all these years. What I would not give for those years again, in Helstone!” she confided, punctuating her anguish with a wracking sob.

Seeing his discomfort, she composed herself and, casting an unseeing stare upon the bedcovers, continued her whispered confession. “Richard will be devastated. His heart is tender and can bear no hurt.” She turned a pleading gaze to the man who understood her husband well. “Will you tell him…when I am gone….that I bore him no ill will? He was ever gentle and patient with me. I know it now…” The wavering voice lapsed into silence.

The Master swallowed, the crease of his brow deepening at the reflection of the charge she placed upon him.  “I will tell him,” he promised gravely. He pressed her hand gently before retracting his own.

She closed her eyes and nodded her grateful thanks, her energy visibly spent.

Mr. Thornton studied the pale, unmoving figure of this southern woman with compassion. The careworn lines of her face appeared more relaxed, now that she had unburdened herself of the twining clasp of accumulated resentment.

Reverently, he raised himself up from his seat and left the slumberer at peace.

He detained his wife in the hall, scanning the innocent hope of her bright features with a heavy weight of sorrow in his breast. “She is asleep at present. Stay here with your family. I must go; I will return for you later this evening,” he dictated, holding her hand firmly in his.

She assented with a grateful nod, receiving a brush of his lips against her cheek in response before reluctantly allowing him to depart.

The newlyweds lingered in the blissful sanctuary of their gold-tinged room the following morning. With no schedule to hurry them, they indulged in the luxury of rediscovering each other, taking pleasure in the newfound delights of the marriage bed.

Tomorrow’s return to Milton would come soon enough. Both Master and wife knew that the time spent in this magical world where obligations and routines were suspended would be cherished forever as one of the most sublime experiences of their lives.

The morning sun shone brightly when they emerged from the grand hotel to explore the surrounding gardens.

They crossed once again the iron Cliff Bridge with its panoramic views and sauntered through the sylvan parks and pleasure gardens in the gorge below, stopping for a time at the Rotunda Museum which housed a great collection of fossil specimens and rock.

The Foreshore promenade kept them in sight of the sea and harbor. They stopped to listen to a brass band for some time and then turned to meander the streets of the town. Margaret stepped into a bookshop to purchase one of Anne Bronte’s books, The Tenant of Windfell Hall. They continued their walk nearly to the Old Town again, where they had explored the quiet, winding back streets the day before.

After eating a light luncheon at a rustic old inn along the harbor, they returned to the South Sands and sat down upon a dry spot to enjoy the activity and beauty of the wide beach. The surf rolled gently over flat expanses of wet sand, washing away the footprints of paddling children.

A few young boys scampered busily nearby, engaged in building a moat and connecting canal for their castle of sand.

Entertained by their industrious antics, the newlyweds observed them with detached interest until the youngsters began to exclaim in consternation at their canal’s collapse.

Margaret was surprised as her husband got to his feet and began to help the lads dig a better trench. Amused and heartened by his natural impulse, she watched the tall, dark figure of her husband crouched down amongst the children, plying a spade in the engineering task of child’s play. She smiled at his involvement in demonstrating his technique and laughed to hear the lads shout out a few directives of their own to the Master of Marlborough Mills.

He flashed her a dazzling smile and she nearly stopped breathing.

If she hadn’t loved him before, watching him drop all serious comportment to become the boy of his youth was enough to pierce her heart and make her fall in love with him more deeply than ever.

He would make a splendid father. The thought of bearing his children made something within her twist and ache as a blush spread to her face.

As she stared at him in dazed enchantment, the angle of his stooped position and a persistent west breeze gave her a glimpse of his lean physique beneath the traditional covering of his long frock coat.

A frisson of heat rose from her belly at the thought of how intimately she alone knew his flexile form. Images of the morning’s amorous activity flashed through her mind. Her breathing slowed at the sensual memory of his skin against hers.

She startled to suddenly find him coming near. His face shone with open joy as his tall, lithe figure approached her with a relaxed confidence. Her pulse pattered in her breast and she blushed profusely at the recognition of her desire.

“Are you warm?” he asked, a crease of concern wrinkling his brow as he sat down beside her.

“No…yes! Perhaps a little…I’m just a little tired,” she stuttered, ashamed and confused at the strong yearning to hurl herself into his arms to feel the press of his body against hers.

“We should go back, then,” he determined.

She could only nod her head, feeling even more flustered to have won a step toward her motive with a faint fabrication of the truth.

He helped her to her feet and she threaded her arm through his. His apparent content to amble juxtaposed awkwardly to Margaret’s anxious state. She followed his pace with a determination to enjoy the pleasant scenery around them, disconcerted by the faint throb of longing that persisted within her during their long, unhurried walk to the hotel.

They climbed the great staircase to their room in silence. Mr. Thornton turned the key and opened the door, allowing his wife first passage through the threshold.

Margaret set aside her bonnet and walked straight to the long window, seeking refuge from her distracted confusion, afraid that one look at her face should reveal how her heart fluttered inside.

Mr. Thornton laid down his hat and took off his coat in the warm privacy of their room. He walked softly to where his wife stood, framed by the light, and deftly wrapped his arms around her from behind. “This is a glorious place, is it not?” he asked in that deep Darkshire voice which seemed to vibrate into her very being.

She nodded faintly, unable to speak as she melted against his firm chest, closing her eyes as a resurgence of longing washed over her at this close contact.

He closed his arms around her more tightly and nuzzled near her ear, aroused and mystified by her reaction. She made no move to repel or chastise him but instead inclined her head obligingly to the side as he began to place kisses down the soft column of her neck. The scent of her filled his senses and the warm feel of her skin under his lips tantalized him to the edge of endurance. His hands grew restless at her waist.

“Tell me now if you truly wish to take rest,” he whispered a warning in her ear, his muscles quaking in restraint.

She twisted around in his arms and shook her head, boldly meeting his gaze in helpless honesty.

His eyes darkened at the recognition of her longing. The pleading look in her soft blue eyes sent scorching heat to every nerve ending, fueling the flame of desire ever latent within him.

He kissed her to discern the truth and found it in her hungering answer. With vice-like strength, he clasped her to him so that she would know the unyielding ardor of his own potent desire.

She emitted an indiscriminate sound and held to him tightly.

Still kissing her soundly, he slid one hand over her curves to begin unfastening the buttons of her fitted jacket.

Her knees buckled at his haste. She felt dizzy in the expectation of what was to come.

“I…cannot walk,” she mumbled weakly, grasping at him for support.

He appraised her predicament with one comprehending glance and swept her off her feet to carry her to their bed. He set her down upon the edge and knelt to begin unlacing her boots with businesslike precision.

 

All power to move drained from her as she watched him. A tumult of anticipation raged within her belly as he slipped one boot off and then the other. The touch of his hands sent fire racing over her skin as he tremblingly traced a course from her ankle to her knee in search of the rim of her silk stockings.

“I… can manage the rest… on my own,” she stuttered, desperate to halt such perilous seduction before she fell into a swoon.

He halted at once and, giving her a scorching look, moved to the other side of the bed to undress.

He returned minutes later, wrapped only in his silk dressing-gown, to help her remove the clothing still bound to her form. His fingers worked urgently to loosen her corset and slide it off her body. Not an hour had passed since the morning’s lovemaking that he had not longed to feel the press of her silken skin against his once more. His pulse hammered as he tugged at the thin cotton shift that remained a barrier between them.

She shivered to stand exposed before his ravenous gaze and sank down onto the bed to receive him.

Casting aside his covering, he deftly moved to cover her body with his. Gentle, fervent kisses grew more tempestuous as each yearned to prove how adamant was their affection. His hands stroked the fullness of her flesh in rapturous awe that she should give herself so freely to him while her fingers grasped at his back to bring him ever closer.

The realization that she wanted this as much as he drove him into a delirious agony of longing to love her with furious abandon.

He pulled back and, seeing only the hazy look of desire in her eyes, thrust into her with rapturous satisfaction.

He made no delay and little restraint in loving her, his pace and fervency impelled by the blinding need to be melded to her in body and soul.

His pleasure was magnified by the soft sounds of her delight and the manner in which she clung to him.

Their bodies moved as one, giving and yielding in a symphony of movement that was unrehearsed, yet as natural and beautiful as any expression of the wonder of life on this earth.

Their eyes met at intervals, revealing the depth of their emotion, all their desire and unwavering need laid bare before the other.

The undulating fervor of their passion increased, culminating in that crescendo of ecstasy that wrung a cry from both their lips and left them exhausted and blissfully satiated.

There was no need for words afterward as they lay entangled in each other’s arms. Their eyes conveyed the stupefying wonder at all that had been said in the power and glory of their intimate bonding.

The time being too precious to be spoiled by any other diversion, the lovers spent the remainder of the afternoon in bed – quietly talking, touching, and loving. It would be a leisure seldom afforded them once they returned to Milton.

The declining sun coaxed them at length from the secluded comfort of their bed. One last evening, they dressed for six o’clock dinner and descended the stairs to join the other hotel guests in the elegant surroundings of the opulent dining room.

The Thorntons chatted amicably with the familiar faces gathered at their table. Margaret’s face lit with enthusiasm at the invitation to join several others at the theater later. Her eyes flew to her husband with demure but hopeful inquiry, tempering her zeal to abide by his wishes. He answered with a brilliant smile and accepted the offer at his wife’s behest.

Margaret returned his smile, thrilling at the warm glance meant for her alone. Thrust into countless social gatherings during her days in London, Margaret neither craved nor loathed them. It was a particular pleasure on this occasion, however, to be surrounded by a host of relative strangers while communicating silently with the man who knew her best. She observed with pride how well he spoke and moved among the higher classes without the benefit of a similar upbringing. She found it endearing that although her husband commanded the respect and admiration of those around him, he was a very private man, preferring thoughtful, quiet evenings to the more mindless chatter of any social gathering.

With their arms linked together, the newlyweds walked with the distinguished company down the winding paths of the South Cliff to a great rocky ledge. Here, overlooking the bay at the ocean’s edge, near the Spa Wells, was an entertainment hall built in the romantic style of a medieval castle. The stars began to appear above a darkening sea outside as they entered the stone structure and took their seats in the large concert hall.

The production of Much Ado About Nothing enchanted Margaret and Mr. Thornton oftimes struggled to pay attention to the players when the view of his wife’s animated countenance gave him such pleasure.

When a witty line in a battle of words caused Mr. Thornton to throw his head back and laugh, Margaret observed the flash of his smile with poignant joy. It was his smile that she had first admired in her father’s pupil, the first symbol of his genuine nature that had pierced through her clouded vision of him as a stern and unforgiving man.

During a quiet sequence in which lovers declared their passionate devotion, Margaret smiled to find the gloved hand of her husband reaching secretly across her lap for hers. She placed her small hand in his and he clasped it warmly in silent affirmation of their own unshakeable bond.

Much discussion of the performance followed as the theatergoers returned uphill toward the hotel.

Margaret still chattered about the complexities of the plot as her husband ushered her into their dark room. He lit a bedside candle and doffed his hat as she declared what a terrible misfortune it would be for true lovers to be separated by such an aggregation of misunderstanding.

The sparks of fiery dissent and attraction portrayed on the stage had only served to call to Mr. Thornton’s mind the tumultuous history of their own brief courtship. With calm resolution, he took her in his arms and silenced her speaking with a kiss.

She wrested her lips free from his after some delicious time. “It’s late,” she weakly protested, ensnared by the pull of her own desire.

“Yes, it’s time to bed,” he murmured, the sultry sound of his voice sending a shiver down her spine as his lips continued their sensuous intent up the length of her neck, his arms firmly locked around her waist. It had been a pure delight and a lingering torture to watch her sparkle and glow in the midst of social conversation and cultured entertainment while at every moment he had grown more impatient to have her to himself once again.

“If we are to catch a morning train…”she whispered in dutiful reminder of their plans before her limbs lost all strength to steady her.

“We are at leisure to do as we please. I care nothing for timetables and schedules at present,” he fairly growled near her ear, longing for a sweet reprisal of their afternoon passion.

She nodded in dizzy accord and offered her lips to his in complete surrender.

*****

Margaret hugged her dressing-gown closer around her naked form as she stood at the window in the black darkness of the early hours, gazing at the shimmering glow of the starlit sea beyond. Woken inexplicably from her sleep, she had carefully extracted herself from the cozy spot next to her husband in a nostalgic urge to look out upon the place that would forever be magical in her mind.

In the silent stillness, she could her the distant roar of waves. Astounding in power and beauty, the ocean was unfathomable in force and depth, unstoppable and flowing from an endless source. It was just so with his love. Although upon the surface it might crash and roil with turbulent fury, their lovemaking astonishing her with its intensity; there was beneath an underlying calm and strength – a constancy that would buoy them through the coming storms.

A profound sense of peace rose from her heart and swelled to pervade the room. She could not imagine a more perfect contentment than what she felt at this moment. She looked to the heavens in grateful thanks for the man who slept quietly in the bed nearby.

It seemed a thing incredible to her that she should feel so at home so many miles away from any place she had ever lived. But this was home – wherever he was – and she knew it would always be so from this time forward.

A faint rustling of sheets sounded in the darkness behind her.

“Margaret?”

She heard the trace of panic in her husband’s sleepy call and rushed to allay his confusion.

“I’m here,” she whispered softly as she reached the bedside. “I only wished to see the view at night.”

“Are you troubled?” he asked, his gravelly voice laced with uneasy concern. Perhaps he had assumed too much concerning her happiness.

“No, no. Everything is as it should be,” she declared as she climbed under the covers to nestle against his warm body.  “I have all that I could wish for.”

He gathered her closer in drowsy agreement and they fell asleep in each other’s arms as the sea beyond sounded its infinite refrain.

 

Shafts of sunlight from the eastern horizon shone through the sheer curtains at dawn, bathing the room in shimmering beams of golden light. John opened his eyes and took in the vision as an altered being waking to a luminous new existence.

She was there, beside him. No longer would he wake to the dull ache of loneliness.

A small hand still clutched at his waist, and luxuriant tresses of auburn hair spilled over her shoulder and into the space between them. Long lashes brushed her cheeks and her lips parted in innocent slumber. The curve of her hip, still prominent under a swath of sheets and bed covers, drew his gaze to the womanly shape of her body as she lay on her side to face him.

Did she know with what force of feeling he loved her? A paradox of uncommon strength and fragile femininity, she was fire and gentle rain – perfect refinement and bold rebel – everything fascinating and endearing in the anomaly of one southern girl.

He was under her power, and had been from the moment such beauty had spoken to him with self-assurance and dignity.

She had accepted him: a wonder he would never relinquish. And he had loved her and would love her with all the power of his being for as long he drew breath in this world.

He wished above all things that it would be his love, constant and true, that would enable her to walk in glorious sunlight midst the darkening trials of life and the uncertainties of daily existence in the drab, toil-filled town that would be their home.

 

He had for years been an authority over hundreds, and was accountable for the success of a vast enterprise that affected the lives of hundreds more. But as he drank in the sight of his young wife in peaceful repose, he marveled at the responsibility of keeping her happy and safe in his care.

He reached out to carefully brush away a strand of hair that lay across her face.

Her eyes fluttered open and he watched, transfixed, as the light of recognition crossed her features and she gifted him with a waking smile. “Good morning,” she said groggily.

His heart turned over at the look of love that beamed from her eyes. “Good morning,” he answered in kind, incapable of speaking anything further, so profound were the emotions swelling in his breast. He brushed the back of his fingers along the silken expanse of her cheek.

In her drowsy happiness she stretched out her hand to touch the skin at his chest that appeared so enticing at the open collar of his untied nightshirt.

He stilled as her fingertips lightly stroked him until they caught against the draping fabric. She withdrew her hand as if suddenly aware of the brazenness of her act.

John sat up swiftly in alarm and divested himself of the offending garment. Lying down beside her again with the sheets pulled to his waist, he grasped her hand and placed it over his heart, his eyes imploring her to continue her discovery of him.

He closed his eyes as she hesitantly renewed her exploration, at first following the line of his collar bone with tentative fingers, and then more boldly running her palms over the smooth, molded surface of his chest.

Something began to stir deep within her, wakening every nerve with tingling energy. Increasingly aware of the power that she held over him, her whole body pulsated with anticipation as she listened to the pattern of his breathing grow low and uneven at her sensual touch.

When he could no longer bear it, he pulled her roughly to him and began his own exploration of her womanly shape.

A twinge of thrilling fear raced through her to witness what her gentle ministrations had unleashed, but she welcomed his amorous assault and shivered as his hands glided over her shoulders, waist, and hips.

The sensuous feel of her supple curves beneath his palm made him nearly delirious in the desire to know all of her.

He slid his broad hand over the soft mound of her covered breast, eager to claim as his own that intimate softness that so enchanted and seduced him – that seemed the essence of all feminine allure and comfort.

Her breathing deepened as he continued his exploration, hindered in accessing the whole of her bare flesh by a fine stretch of cotton and lace.

She disengaged from him without a word and wriggled in the attempt to free herself from her nightdress. With his help, and not a little awkwardness, she managed to slip out of the restraining garment.

He drew in his breath as his eyes roved over the vision of her uncovered form. The hue of her creamy skin pinked under his hungry gaze as she nervously lay down beside him.

He let out a low sigh in incredulous wonder of all that was offered to him. Marble and canvas had been inadequate to capture the full glory and beauty of the female form, which now lay before him.  He brought his mouth to hers to kiss her, valiantly struggling to contain the furious urge to devour her whole.

He caressed the tender skin of her breast with hands and fingers and then, much to her surprise, with his mouth.

She gasped and gripped his neck, delving her fingers into his dark hair. An explosion of sensations left her breathless. All power to resist or deny ebbed away as he ravished her until she arched her back in utter surrender to his amorous possession.

Enflamed by her response, he sought her mouth again and kissed her hungrily, pressing the weight of his body upon her in growing desire. She wrapped her arms around him in rapturous accord, the burgeoning need to pull him closer banishing all maidenly inhibitions.

His need could no longer be suppressed. Lifting himself from her, he gave her a desperate look of love as he slowly entered her the second time.

His tender communication dissolved the fearful tension she had held. In incredulous wonder of what they were doing, she slid her hands helplessly down his back. The world beyond disappeared. She was lost, her senses engulfed in the bliss of receiving his ardent affection. He was above her, pressed to her, and loving her, arousing in her feelings she had never known.

She tried to catch her breath as his gentle, fervent rhythm pulled her deeper and deeper into unknown suspension. Her body was under his command, craving for something that was just beyond her reach. She clutched at him tighter, dimly aware of the faint sounds that were her own gasps.

Electrified by her amorous reaction, his ardor increased. He bound himself more boldly to her, transported to a place beyond the grasp of reason and at the very edge of ecstasy.

His passionate lovemaking consumed her. The rising ache to be one with him was answered in the strain of his own fervent yearning until they reached that place where all barriers between them were broken and she cried out as wave upon wave of crashing sensation flooded through her.

He cried out above her in echoing rapture as her body quivered in the ebb of release. Silence ensued for a moment before he brought his face to hers.

“I felt it, too,” she quietly confessed in innocent wonder, her eyes searching his.

He let out a breathy laugh in the joyous discovery that she would find equal pleasure in their union and bent to reward her with a rain of kisses over her flushed and glowing face.

He collapsed to the bed and she nestled into his arms. They touched and adored in the unhurried luxury of their first morning as husband and wife until a sharp rap at the door startled them both.

Holding the covers tight to her breast, Margaret was astonished and perplexed to watch her husband climb out of bed to swiftly pull on his trousers. Donning a shirt without bothering to tuck it in, he headed for the door.

“John!” his wife called out in horror, not only for his own shocking state of undress but for her own.

He merely grinned at her outcry and opened the door.

Much to Margaret’s relief there was no human figure in the hall; instead, her husband rolled in a tea cart laden with a tray of covered dishes and fine china tea service.

“I thought we might like to eat breakfast alone,” he stated, the corners of his mouth still edged upward in a mischievous smile as he looked to his surprised wife. She could only blink as a smile slowly formed at his thoughtful foresight.

“Will you please recover for me my nightgown? I believe it has slipped to the floor,” she asked with timid embarrassment.

“And if I should not oblige?” he teased as he approached the bedside, taking devilish delight in her helplessness.

Her face pinked at his taunt. “Then I shall be forced to remain in my bed,” she declared in brave defiance, recognizing at once her mistake as a wicked grin stole over his face.

He gathered the abandoned garment from the patterned carpet and held it out to her. “Take care, or I shall be obliged to keep you in bed all day,” he warned in sultry tones, his eyes boring through hers with an intensity that sent shivers over her flesh and roused heat from the pit of her belly.

She turned her flushed face from him. “The tea will be getting cold…” she murmured in distraction as she clutched the recovered gown to her breast.

Reluctantly, he stepped to the small table to set out their breakfast, his back to her. He would allow her to set the boundaries upon this new arrangement of intimacy between them, for he was certain that if all was left to his instincts, they might remain in this room all day.

She dressed quickly and, tightening the sash around her dressing-gown, joined him at the small table near the door.

She studied him in mute amazement as he poured a cup of tea and reached out to hand it to her. “Thank you,” she mumbled, blinking her confusion. How was it that the Master of Marlborough Mills was serving her tea? She peeked at him over her cup with new adoration. A flood of feeling swelled in her heart. There would be no formal boundaries to constrict how they should care for each other.

She took a long breath of deep contentment to have been matched to such a man.

*****

The early morning mists had cleared, and golden sunlight chased away fading patches of gray as the lovers stepped out to explore the sights of the harbor town.

The beauty of nature surrounding them burst forth with exhilarating energy. Lush green grass spread to the cliff’s edge where the wide open sky reflected the sea in vibrant blue.

A brass band played on a rounded stand built in the center of the front esplanade as patrons took their morning walk in the salty air. Mr. Thornton and his wife joined the small crowd at the bandstand for a time before sauntering off to take the path to the cliff.

The strains of a ballad followed them as they reached the magnificent view of town, sea, and sky. To the left was the town of Scarborough and her harbor. Beyond rose a towering cliff where the ruins of an ancient castle stood prominent guard over nature and man below.

To the right, lay unmarred grass-covered cliffs which curved to gather the sea in silent splendor.

The newlyweds bid good morning to other strolling guests as they continued their pleasant walk. Mr. Thornton beamed his contentment. The corners of his mouth were lifted in buoyant happiness and could not be constrained this day. But Margaret kept her eyes lowered as she nodded her greeting upon each encounter, discomforted by the notion that every stranger could divine by the blush of her face what had transpired in private last evening and again this morning.

Her gaze lingered on other women led about by their husbands, marveling that she now shared the secret of what it meant to be a wife. Did all new brides feel the same tingling warmth and exuberant joy that she did this day?

On their way to Scarborough, they crossed an iron pedestrian bridge which spanned a verdant gorge. Spectacular views of the city, sea, and arbored gardens below surrounded them and they stopped to take in the sights before reaching the other side and wending their way down through garden pathways to the foreshore promenade along the sandy beach.

A few water carts stood near the wet sand not far from houses and lodgings that arose six floors from the sea. Brick and stone structures lined the shore of the town rising up to the distant Castle Hill.

They strolled toward the far harbor, where a lighthouse stood at the end of a curving pier and the masts of fishing boats of all sizes cluttered the skyline. Several herring girls worked by the docks, gutting the day’s catch and tossing the shiny fish into barrels according to size.

Margaret looked upon their splattered aprons and dreary appearance with a pang of sympathy. Doubtless the gruesome work would help feed and clothe their families, but she could not help but feel hope well up that they would someday be able to give up such employ.

The couple turned to follow winding cobbled streets through the Old Town, past terraced brick houses that had weathered years of sun and storms.

Treading gradually uphill, they at last reached the stone stairs that led to a small medieval church with blackened spires. Mr. Thornton carefully assisted his wife up the steep, worn steps to the open graveyard where the newlyweds could look back over the harbor to the green South Cliff where their hotel stood.

Margaret spent a few moments of solemn contemplation at the grave of Anne Bronte, whose promising young life had been cut short only two years ago. Then, after wandering a while on the lonely church grounds, they continued up the lane to the castle beyond, through the arched entryway to the long abandoned domain of earls and kings.

Tall stone walls stood in crumbling testimony to a majestic medieval keep, ravaged by the wages of time and civil war. The newlyweds followed the ancient fortress walls, high above the harbored town below, as they continued to walk the grassy summit where nobles and sentries had trod through the centuries.

The occasional sound of a gull overhead pierced the windswept silence of the desolate plateau. Mr. Thornton stopped to examine the astounding integrity of the stone walls, built so long ago, while Margaret ambled toward the cliff’s edge.

Mr. Thornton turned from his distraction to see the solitary figure of his wife standing on the vast horizon, her skirts swaying in the breeze as she looked out over the endless ocean.

Framed against the open azure sky, she was the commanding queen of all living things and the innocent girl from the quiet Hampshire countryside. He hastened to bring himself to her side, his eyes riveted to the sight before him.

The ambition of barons and kings, the lure of industry’s power and wealth, were naught compared to the force he now knew moved the spheres in alignment with the divine. To love with all your being and to be loved in return – this purpose and pleasure of life had the power to lift the misery of this world into the light of heaven.

It was an exalting freedom to love her without restriction. The memory of the morning’s amorous beginning was never far from his mind, filling him with a joyous peace he had never known. He counted himself blessed beyond measure to be forever linked to one who radiated goodness.

He studied the beauty of her rapt countenance as he drew near and observed the glow of happiness fade to a sterner contemplation.

“You’re thinking of your family,” he mused, not forgetting the serious circumstances from which they had escaped for a time.

She gave him a fond smile before retuning her gaze to the horizon. “I cannot help but think of Fredrick….and mother. Perhaps he has already arrived, since we departed,” she suggested.

His brow creased at her anxiety. “Do you wish to go back?” he asked softly, albeit with great reluctance.

“No. No, it is just that we have this time together…alone,” she answered, looking to him with eyes of sparkling honesty.

No other soul being in sight, he took her face into his hands and gave her a tender kiss. Then, taking her hand in his, they both turned to the open sky and sea below.

******

“Did you say cotton mill? Why, you’re in the textile industry,” declared a white-haired gentleman to Mr. Thornton upon introductions at the dinner table that evening. An elaborate mustache and lengthy beard lent the animated man – Lord Whillougby of Leicestershire, as he had announced – a distinguished air.

“Yes,” the Milton manufacturer answered tentatively.

“Then you have heard of Sir Titus Salt’s venture to build his very own town here in Yorkshire, a mill town with decent houses and all manner of facilities for the edification, enrichment, and general health of his workers. ‘Saltaire’ he has called it.”

Margaret listened with great interest and looked to her husband, curious to discover his thoughts on such an idealistic enterprise.

“I’ve read something of it in the papers,” the reserved Master replied, aware of the surrounding attention drawn to this conversation. “Sir Titus has the advantage of great wealth. He has the luxury of combining his philanthropic aims with the  more unforgiving and tedious principles of business. Unfortunately, I have neither resources nor time at current to accommodate such ideals, as worthy as they may be,” he explained, stealing a cautious glance at his wife, who looked to  him only with steadfast admiration.

“The problem of the working masses is troublesome,” interjected a lean middle-aged man with thick reddish hair, a retired captain of the Bengal Rifles. “It is a subject that Prince Albert has put his mind to.”

“I’ve not seen it yet. Construction has just begun this year, but it’s on the rail line. You might take time to tour it on your return to Milton,” Lord Willougby suggested.

“Perhaps they may, but I’m quite certain the Thorntons are here for their leisure, Charles,” his wife politely countered her husband’s eager sway, her eyes twinkling at Margaret in sympathy. The seasoned lady of leisure had perceived the secretive aura about the young couple from Milton, and was confident she knew the celebratory reason for their stay at this seaside hotel.

****

“Will you want to visit this Saltaire?” Margaret inquired thoughtfully from behind the paneled screen as she dressed for bed later that evening.

“I don’t know,” the soft-spoken answer came from across the room.  “Do you wish to see it?” It pleased Mr. Thornton to think that she would share with him her opinions on matters that interested her.

“I…only wished to know if it was of interest to you,” she stammered in deference to his authority.

Margaret emerged from her dressing place to find her husband tending to the coals in the fireplace. He wore a paisley patterned dressing-gown of crimson silk that shimmered in the glow of the firelight.

She padded toward the small sofa behind him with hesitant timidity. Trousers still peeked from beneath his more casual wrap, while she wore only her nightdress and ruffled dressing-gown.

He turned suddenly, sensing her approach. The appraising gleam in his eye caused a warm blush to spread through her whole body.

She took a seat. “Scarborough is lovely. What made you decide to come here?” she asked, turning their conversation to more casual subjects.

He settled down beside her. “My father used to talk of it with great fondness. He spent summers here as a young boy. I believe my great grandmother was from York.”

“I can imagine that this place would suit children well with the sea and the sand, the boats, and the castle.”

He smiled at her reply. They watched the dancing flames of the fire in silence for a few moments.

“What was he like?” Margaret asked, her voice small and tentative.

His eyes flashed to hers in cautious surprise, but her face only glowed with a yearning to know more of him. He turned to the fire again and drew a slow breath.

“He was a happy man, at least from what I could tell.  He had a ready smile and was always hopeful that things would work out for the best,” he offered. “Perhaps he was too trusting…”

Margaret reflected on this and wondered at the great contrast between the cheerful vision he painted of his father and the rigid solemnity of Mrs. Thornton. “It must have been very hard on your mother,” she offered weakly after some time.

“It was…but it was not the first time she had met with tragedy,” he revealed, his brows knitting in some solemn memory. He was suddenly compelled to share with her a long-ago grief, almost forgotten but sore to his child heart.

“I had a sister, before Fanny, but she died when she was only a few months old. I had the fever as well…I was seven or eight…but she did not survive it. My mother was devastated, but tried to bear up well for my sake.”  He spoke to the fire, in hollow recollection of the grip of death that had first withered his mother’s soul and left a small boy in uncomprehending grief.

Moved by his evident pain, Margaret put a comforting hand to his roughened cheek. “What was her name?” she whispered.

“Emma.” He took her hand and kissed it before setting it down upon his lap, firmly in his grasp.

“I am very sorry for your loss. It is a terrible tragedy that is wrought on many families,” she uttered in solemn sympathy.

“I pray we will be spared such a hardship,” he stated gravely after some time of silence. “It is my hope we will have many children.” He brushed his thumb languidly over the back of the delicate hand in his lap.

“Many?” she faltered in a high-pitched voice. A spread of warmth rose up from deep within at the thought of bearing his children.

“Several?” he amended, his lips quivering with amusement at her bashful trepidation.

“You will want a son,” she muttered, averting her gaze from him.

“I will. But I confess I should very much like to have a daughter. I am curious to see if she will learn to speak her mind freely and blithely devastate all her admirers in due course with her lofty airs,” he said with a mischievous grin.

She smiled at his teasing description. “And if you should have a son perhaps you will observe him learn to stubbornly cling to insufferable logic to hide a tender and caring heart,” she returned, her eyes sparkling in loving challenge to his accusation.

Her words arrested him with their poignant honesty. He pulled her face close and clasped his mouth to hers as his fervent reply.

She grasped the fabric at his chest, quivering at the unbridled passion in his kiss.

He drew her closer, and she clung tighter to him in answering desire.

A muffled groan sounded from his throat. He would wait no longer. He lifted her into his arms with one swift motion and carried her to their bed.