Chapter 6 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton

After the tension-wracked dinner, John took advantage of a few private moments to reassure Margaret. “We made you uncomfortable, almost immediately. I should have stopped Mother so you could enjoy more than three bites of your dinner.”

“I had hoped if I did not cower this first time, she would begin to respect me,” Margaret admitted with a shaky voice. “Now I am sure I have destroyed her opinion of me entirely. I only hope she learns to tolerate me, for your sake.” 

John gazed down at her, his heart full of sympathy. “She will do more than tolerate you, love.”

She frowned, struggling with her thoughts. “You knew the temperament of my father quite well,” she said cautiously. “It will not surprise you that there was very little plain speech in my home. Perhaps I will be allowed to sit and listen to you and Mrs. Thornton for a year or two before I engage in battle?” she finished with a brave attempt at a smile.

“It will not take that long,” he said, chucking her lightly under her chin. “Give her time to see in you what it took me two years to finally ascertain.”

She managed to hold her tremulous smile. “I do not think she will be looking quite as fervently as you did.”

He frowned at her uncertainty. He wanted Margaret to feel welcomed here. Her home in Milton — the home she remembered as having very little plain speech —had been a source of immediate comfort to him. Surprisingly, he yearned for some of the quiet camaraderie and affection he had seen in the Hale family, a yearning Mother would never understand. She would accede, however, to a direct request that she refrain from challenging Margaret so directly in the future. “I will speak to her,” he promised solemnly.

“No. Please do not,” Margaret begged. “We will work it out between us, I am sure.”

“I do not want your first days as my wife to be anticipated as a time of conflict.”

“Nor do I, but I have acted both as silent observer and as intercessor enough to know that neither role suits me.”

He cocked his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I had just begun making decisions for myself when you came to London.” She sighed, turning to study a glass-domed arrangement of wax flowers and preserved butterflies. “I’ve had a great deal of time to think about my parents, of course, and I wonder if they had ever had a forthright conversation in their entire marriage.”

The fine lines of her profile, her honesty, made his heart thud. Long before he had ever earned the right, he’d imagined the kind of marriage he would have with Margaret. She might now be offering a glimpse into what she might want from their union. The prospect narrowed his focus until there was only Margaret. He waited, trying to be patient when he sensed her reluctance to continue.

“Your father seemed to be a great communicator of ideas. Surely they talked,” he said, hoping to encourage her to talk. 

“On questions of religion or which neighbor needed a charitable basket of food, yes, they talked. They carefully avoided any topic that might cause upheaval.” She would not look at him. In fact, she dropped her chin as if what she was about to say embarrassed her, or shamed her. “I had the task of telling my mother that my father planned to leave the clergy and move us to Milton. Then, in less than a year, I affirmed to my father than my mother was dying. I think it will be much better if we adults speak up for ourselves, as you suggested at dinner.”

He inserted himself between her and the floral arrangement she had pretended to admire so he could enfold her in his arms. She laid her forehead against his lapel and pressed her hands flat on his chest. Her acceptance of his comfort incited a burst of passion in him, like a flash fire started by an innocent flame in a room of cotton fluff. He caressed her back, the only liberty he allowed himself since they were standing in the sitting room.

Despite the strength of her independent words, she felt delicate under his hands. The flowery scent of her hair teased his nostrils and he thought, I have imagined this moment, dreamed of holding her thus, so many times. He bent his head until the hair arranged in a soft wave at the top of her head teased his lips, reaffirming that she really, truly stood here, pliant in his embrace.

“My dearest Margaret. I arrogantly think I know all about you, then these little details of your past smite me.” He brushed a kiss on her temple. “My dearest love.” He noticed his mother frozen in the shadows beyond the doorway, innocently trapped there when she had been on her way to join them for what he supposed would be a quiet evening. He continued to hold his fiancée for a few more seconds in a nearly chaste yet deeply meaningful embrace. He would not shrink from showing Margaret his love in the privacy of his home any more than he would stop his mother from speaking the truth to him.

*  *  *

Mr. Thornton woke early and breakfasted with Mother, as he always did. He went to the mill until mid-day, certain that he should not abandon Margaret entirely, and even more certain that he wanted to steal as much time as possible with her. He found her and Mother at a sunny window in Mother’s favorite sitting room. They were comparing two pieces of creamy fabric, and several fashion plates lay on a table nearby. He did not exactly hide but stood back to see how they were getting along.

“Which do you think would be best, Mrs. Thornton?” Margaret asked. “I have narrowed it down to these two from twenty choices my cousin gave me. Perhaps this one is too glossy for the simpler cut of gown we chose?”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Thornton said, rubbing her hand over one of the pieces. He could tell his mother agreed but did not want to admit it. He strode into the room.

Margaret scurried to hide the pictures and samples. 

“Have no fear, Miss Hale,” he said. “Though I make fabric for my living, I have no idea what to do with it or how to visualize it in a garment after it is made.”

She smiled and blushed. Mrs. Thornton touched the sample Margaret had preferred. “That one will do,” she said, her words clipped.

To Mother’s dismay and Margaret’s obvious delight, he accompanied them to their meeting with the vicar where they made quick work of setting a date just four weeks hence. Surprisingly, Mother then asked to meet them at home in an hour to plan the wedding breakfast, granting them a short respite to do as they wished. 

He vastly enjoyed Miss Hale’s small, feminine presence next to him as they strolled down the familiar Milton streets. She wore a pink striped gown that brought out the roses in her cheeks. He could not resist covering her hand with his own as they walked. They stopped several times among the shops and market stalls to greet friends and acquaintances eager to congratulate them. 

On their way again, he paused in front of the goldsmiths. “We will need rings,” he suggested quietly.

“Are we supposed to do that together?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, teasing her.

“Of course, how else will we get the right size?” she said.

He pushed the door open. The jeweler greeted them happily. “Mr. Thornton! Are the happy rumors I have heard true? They must be!” he decided as he beamed as Margaret.

Mr. Thornton frowned, never pleased to be the subject of gossip, even if it was the happiest gossip of his life. “We are here to look at wedding rings,” he snapped.

“Then this must be Miss Hale,” the man enthused. “Ah, yes, now I recognize you, though we have never met.”

She nodded politely. “It is a pleasure, sir.”

“Wedding rings, eh? Hold out your hand for me, m’dear.” He clucked his tongue as she did. “Something dainty for you, I think,” he muttered as he pawed through a display case. At length he produced a slotted velvet flat that cradled nine narrow bands. He pointed to a slim ring with floral working in the gold. “Try that one, I think.” He chewed on the side of his thumb as she slid it onto her left ring finger. The fit was perfect, and the delicate ring complemented her short fingers.

She smiled up into Mr. Thornton’s suddenly glowing blue eyes, saying “This shopkeeper knows his trade. Shall we see how well he does for you?”

“Mr. Thornton needs something much heavier,” the goldsmith advised as he looked at John’s long-fingered hand where it rested on the top of the case. “He is a large man, a well-respected businessman — we are all so glad to hear the mill at work again, if I may say so, sir — and a person of your distinction needs an impressive ring.”

“Not ostentatious,” Mr. Thornton warned.

“No, sir, of course not. Simple, like your Miss Hale’s, just more of it, I think.” He knelt down again to dig through the display, lifting another nine rings free. 

He had barely set the flat down when Margaret’s eye settled on one. She began to reach for it, stopping herself when her hand had barely twitched on the counter. 

The goldsmith looked at her from under bushy gray brows. “Which one, m’dear? I can see you spotted one you like.”

John’s curiosity was obvious. He gave her a slight nod at her inquiring look. 

“That one,” she suggested, pointing to a band three times wider than her own in brightly polished gold, decorated only by a tiny line of beading on each edge.

“It will need to be sized,” the merchant warned. “You have large hands but thin fingers, Mr. Thornton.”

The ring did indeed slide on too freely, yet looked at home there, shining fiercely and filling a large portion of the first segment of his finger. John cleared his throat. “Can you size it for me? Bring both rings and the bill to Marlborough Mills when they are ready.”

On the street again, Margaret asked, “Should I not have the privilege of paying for my husband’s ring?”

“Not at all,” John said. “And when the mill is producing well again, I intend to add a jeweled ring to your wedding band. I thought of it in London but cannot yet do you justice.”

“You know you need not worry about such ornaments for me, John,” she said softly, with a gentle squeeze to his arm to reinforce her words.

“It is not a worry, m’dear,” he assured her with a snort that only she could hear. “Do all merchants talk so freely with young women? The goldsmith used more endearments on you than I feel at liberty to in public.”

A housemaid returning from the cobbler’s shop turned at the tinkling of laughter, so unusual on the bustling streets of Milton. She was surprised to see such a sunny young lady smiling at the severe Mr. Thornton, though, as she studied the couple, she noticed he had his head lowered to listen to his companion’s quiet words, his hand curled possessively over the fingers on his arm, and he had shortened his normally ground-eating stride to something that almost suggested he was accompanying the cheerful lady on a pleasant stroll.

*   *   *

The next installment was posted on March 12, in which Margaret begins to be reunited with her other Milton friends. You can find it here.