Jill Hughey

A New Chapter

Jill Hughey — Mon, 18 Jul 2016 14:16:35 +0000

Well, friends, I have been missing for a LONG time. A year ago I was working on an edit of “Unbidden” when a terrible thing happened. And then two months later another terrible thing happened. I’m not going into the details, but suffice it to say I was emotionally gutted, and my day-to-day life was hijacked by the needs of others. Writing was out of the question, both from a time standpoint and from lack of creative drive. (I did participate in a boxed set of novellas, Hearts Aflame, with some other Love Historicals authors. Luckily I had the story “Rowan’s Legacy” written prior to July 2015, and only had to edit to get it ready.)

Five months or so ago, in the midst of the very stressful and time-consuming task of forcibly downsizing my parents’ living situation, a wonderful thing started to happen. An opportunity for a full-time job sort of evolved in an industry I left in 2003 and never thought I would re-enter. All I can say is this path felt more clear, sensible, and stimulating than the idea of continuing to write when I can’t seem to earn the support of more than a few people who buy books. So, I’m starting this week on a new/old professional journey.

Local readers often ask if I’m working on the next book. I have a few in my head, in both my existing series and one totally different story, but writing them is another thing. The inclination exists, the love for the written word and my characters is still there. I just can’t imagine I’ll have time. If I choose to continue, it will begin again as a hobby, which is how I started, after all.

Thank you for visiting my blog and website, and for being one of the fans who enjoys my writing. I’m sure I’ll be distracted by this new chapter for awhile. Hopefully, one day, some characters will become so loud in my head that I’ll start to let them out again. And when that happens, I’ll definitely be talking about it here!

I’m a Geek about #Yellowstone

Jill Hughey — Thu, 18 Dec 2014 21:58:11 +0000

What could be better than understanding something complex? Than digging down into the nuts and bolts of “why”? I know some people don’t share my enthusiasm for science, but I’ve got to admit, I lo-o-o-ve geeky stuff.

I was logging onto my Yahoo account, minding my own business, when an article about Yellowstone caught my eye. Since my current writing project centers around an eruption of Yellowstone, obviously I had a professional obligation to read said article. And then read every article linked within said article. I even understood most of it, though the unit “microstrain” must have been invented since I graduated with my geology degree in 1989.

Many folks, when I mention Yellowstone, say something like “Oh, it’s so beautiful there, I can’t wait to go back,” or “Visiting Yellowstone is on my bucket list.” The eruption concept of my series fuels a few to admit worry about impending volcanic activity at the USA’s first national park. (They get an A for even knowing about the possibility. I recently had a reviewer who actually asked in the middle of the review if Yellowstone was really a volcano. As if I would invent that plot twist, and as if he/she couldn’t have answered that question with a five-second online search. Definitely not a geek.) For those of you now scratching your heads, here is a list of key talking points about Yellowstone. If you have geek-like tendencies, you might want to know more, which is why I’ll tackle some of these as single topics in 2015.

1. Yellowstone is, at its essence, a volcanic caldera. That’s why it’s hot and steamy, like a great romance hero.

2. The potential of Yellowstone is massive. It is part of an elite club known by commoners like us as super-calderas. There is no firm definition of what constitutes a super-caldera, but to even apply to the club, a volcano must have emitted in a single eruption at least three hundred cubic kilometers of stuff. (Picture a solid block with each edge long enough to reach from New York City to Baltimore, Maryland.) Some scientists hold the bar quite a bit higher, at one thousand cubic kilometers. Yellowstone has done all that and more, so it’s a gold card carrying member.

3. Volcanoes are just local events, right? Wrong. Remember the volcano in Iceland that screwed up air travel in Europe for several weeks in 2010? During it’s troubling second phase, it ejected one quarter of one cubic kilometers of stuff, or a cube with edges equal to something like the long side of a city block in Manhattan. That is a trifling sneeze compared to a super-caldera (see point 2.)

4. Yellowstone will probably not erupt, and is much more likely to do so in a small way, like a tiny garden wedding as opposed to the mass weddings of the Unification Church.

5. Though even Yellowstone isn’t monitored as overwhelmingly as curious scientists would like, we’ll probably have warning signs of a massive eruption, so as long as you have a go-bag for the southern hemisphere, you’ll be fine. Or you’ll at least survive longer than the rest of us.

6. Of course, Yellowstone isn’t the only super-caldera to worry about. There are at least six known on Earth. If any one of them cuts loose in your lifetime, buckle up.

Curious enough to dash down the path of geekdom? Here’s the article that got me meandering into this blog post in the first place, or you can follow my blog so you know when I post the next fact-filled blast.

And here’s a link to my Pinterest board where I collected images for my series. There are some really impressive photos of volcanic eruptions! I definitely want to see an active volcano in person some day, though I hope it is one that is sort of gurgling along, like Kilauea, not a super-caldera with the potential to end life as we know it.

Chapter 16 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton #northandsouth #sequel #theEnd

Jill Hughey — Wed, 14 May 2014 11:00:00 +0000

Last week, we saw Hannah Thornton on the mend and beginning to thaw toward her daughter-in-law, Margaret. With the crisis past, John and Margaret can now attend to other concerns, and each other, in this final chapter. If you need to start at the beginning, click here for Chapter 1.

Chapter 16 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton

John found Margaret at his desk downstairs, head bent over paper, pen poised in her hand.

“It is late, love,” he said.

“I am almost finished,” she said apologetically as she dipped the pen in the inkwell. “I’m writing the order for the butcher. I’ve only been keeping a day ahead, but tonight have managed to make an order for two days.”

“That reminds me,” he said, pulling the small sack of coins out of his pocket. “This belongs to the cookhouse.”

Her brow furrowed as she opened the bag.

“Tim Smith,” he said.

“Oh, I had forgotten. He paid!” she said, looking pleased before her eyebrows pressed together again. “He paid you?”

“No. Higgins had the honor.” At her quizzical expression, he continued. “Higgins and some of the others took offense to Smith’s treatment of you and his attitude toward the cookhouse. They decided to intervene.”

“They did not hurt him, did they?”

John gave her an unpleasant glower. “I do not think so, though I have a mind to box his ears myself.”

“Whatever for?”

“No man in England should speak to my wife in such a fashion,” he said crisply.

“I was perturbed at the time” she admitted. “His payment feels like a tiny triumph, though. Isn’t it an admission that I was right and he was wrong? That is enough for me.”

John growled.

She circled the desk to unroll his fingers from the tight fists they’d made and place his arms around her waist. “My grand knight,” she whispered as she pressed her cheek to his lapel. “It feels to me as if ages have passed, and I’m certain Mr. Smith would also rather forget the entire matter. Perhaps the master could forgive this one small slight. After all, if I am to work among your laborers I may occasionally hear words stronger than those spoken in a London tearoom.”

“That is what bothers me.”

She leaned back to study his beloved face, still fierce in his protectiveness of her. “Why should it bother you? This is my life now. The life I chose. The life I longed for when I thought I’d lost you forever.”

His arms tightened around her but he was not yet ready to dismiss his concern. “Some of the men may be too rough.”

She put her hands on his waist to shake him, though he barely moved. “I missed the people of Milton. I like being among them, and if one occasionally nettles me, that is a price I am willing to pay.”

His eyes narrowed. “The thought of you within arm’s reach of a man willing to defy you — and curse at you! — makes my blood run cold.”

“He did defy me, but I think his curses were more general than specific.” She smiled. John betrayed no humor. “John, I am happy,” she said with a firm voice. “For the first time in years, I am truly happy, and part of that happiness stems from my work at the cookhouse. Please, do not try to protect me too much. The other men handled Mr. Smith. If I ever feel truly offended or threatened, I will tell you immediately. I will rush to your office and demand that you slap him with a glove, or whatever you gentlemen do. I will tie my colors on your jousting lance and — ”

He finally smiled and tipped her face up for a kiss that lengthened sweetly. “You are everything to me, Margaret,” he murmured.

“I know, my husband, and I couldn’t be happier about it.”

His eyes glowed in the way they did only for her. “I have planned a treat for you. We have been so distracted I forgot about the most exciting event of my entire journey.”

“What was it?” she asked, more interested in sliding her hands up the smooth wool of his jacket sleeves.

“While in Liverpool, I inquired about the finest ship and best time of year for passage to Spain.”

She gripped his shoulders as she gasped, “Do you truly mean it?”

He nodded.

Margaret tried to rein in her excitement by thinking practical thoughts. “We will have to see how your mother progresses, and there is Fanny’s happy event to anticipate,” she reminded him.

“We will take all of that into account, but you must resign yourself to a trip to Cadiz before the end of the summer.”

She threw her arms around his neck. “You are wonderful! It is what I want above all things, and I did not even realize it!”

He bent to kiss her with enough thoroughness she swayed breathlessly. “Perhaps not above all things,” she amended without opening her eyes.

“I sent Jane upstairs a half hour ago,” John said in a voice roughened by passion. “She helped Mother to bed and now I think I shall help my Mrs. Thornton in the same fashion, though with a vastly different purpose.”

She stepped back so she could slip her hand around his arm. He applied the familiar pressure of his fingers on hers as they walked, side by side, into their future.

THE END

I hope you have enjoyed this project that began as an exorcism of Richard Armitage from my brain, and resulted in a 26,000 word sequel to Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South. I write original historical romance as well so, if you enjoyed this free read, I hope you will look for my books here or at most reputable ebook vendors. Happy reading!

Chapter 15 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton #northandsouth #sequel

Jill Hughey — Wed, 07 May 2014 11:00:00 +0000

In the previous episode, we left the elder Mrs. Thornton in bed after a heart seizure, John across the channel buying cotton and unaware of her illness, and Margaret managing the household and Fanny. If you need to start at the very beginning, click here to go to Chapter 1.

Chapter 15 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton

Mrs. Thornton’s strength grew and her periods of lucidity lengthened over the next day. She did not remember Margaret at first, but once Fanny explained who she was, the memory returned and stuck.

Margaret had had no word from Le Havre, not even a congenial letter posted before Mrs. Thornton’s illness. Worry ate at her, but what could she do except sit in the sickroom, tending to all the patient’s personal needs that Fanny overlooked?

The sound of a horse thundering past the house the next evening lifted hope that climbed higher when pounding footsteps echoed on the stairs. Margaret backed slightly away from the bed, knowing he would want to go straight to the dragon — that he should go straight to her — who slept soundly after drinking a small cup of broth. Margaret tried to see her as John would, pale and frail after these few days without solid food and steady activity. Her countenance would alarm him.

The door swung back with a thud and he stood there, mud-stained, his expression wild. “Dear Mother, what have you done to yourself?” he asked in a low, tortured tone. She roused at the sound of his familiar voice, awakening fully when he sat on the bed to cradle the bony hand the rested on her stomach in his. “Mother, I am here.”

Fanny reached across the bed as she tried to hide her relief at her brother’s arrival. John shifted to envelope his mother’s and sister’s hands with his own. The three Thorntons sat for a moment of perfect unity.

Then Fanny whined, “Oh John, where have you been? She has been waking for me but then asks only for you, of course. No one else would suit her.”

Mrs. Thornton gazed up at him, proving Fanny’s jealous claim with the transparent adoration in her eyes. He leaned down to kiss her forehead. She emitted a happy hum at the unusual demonstration of her son’s affection. When he straightened he searched the room. “Where is — ah, there you are, love.” He freed one hand to beckon Margaret into a group where she was not sure she belonged. When she hesitantly reached the range of his arm, he slid his hand to her waist, drew her to him, and pressed his face into her breast. He breathed in deeply, as if collecting her scent, much as she did from him. Beneath the unfamiliar smells of travel were his soap and…him. He drew another hitching breath and she knew only she felt his trembling.

She did belong because John needed her.

She slipped her hand into his hair and pressed her face to the top of his head to murmur quiet reassurances. “All will be well, John. She is much better than she was. Truly.”

He nodded, then turned to look at his beloved dragon again, and the dragon stared devotedly at him. Margaret tried to pull away now that he had collected himself, but his arm tightened convulsively on her, keeping her with him as he spoke quiet, encouraging words to the woman who had stood by him, steadfast, for his whole life.

“Was your trip successful?” Mrs. Thornton whispered.

“Do not worry about such things,” he chided.

“Tell me,” she said.

So, as Fanny yawned, he spoke of his journey, of buying enough raw cotton to keep the mill running into the spring and whom he bought it from and how much he’d paid, until his mother dozed and Fanny eagerly escaped.

He carefully withdrew his hand from his mother’s.

“Did you get any of my messages?” Margaret asked. John shifted off the edge of the bed to lead her to a chair where he pulled her into his lap.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, flustered by his uncharacteristic behavior. He rarely embraced her outside of their private rooms. Now, to be draped all across him when his mother could see them or a servant might walk in at any time…it was simply not how John Thornton behaved.

“Humor me for a few moments,” he said on a sigh. “I have missed you for an entire week.”

She relaxed to bend willingly against him, even sliding out of her slippers so she could tuck her feet between his leg and the arm of the chair. “I love you so much,” she said.

“And I, you,” he murmured as he rubbed her arm. “I received your message in Liverpool. I was already hastening home, eager to see my bride. I hired a horse instead of a carriage and gained only an hour or two.”

She nodded against his shoulder. “I am so glad you are here. I know you are the only person who can comfort her.”

“She seemed perfectly comfortable when I arrived,” he said reassuringly. “When will Dr. Donaldson visit again?”

They spoke of the details of Mrs. Thornton’s situation while he held her cuddled against him. He closed his eyes when he had a grasp on his mother’s condition. Margaret’s weight in his lap, her warmth and willing affection for him, returned the balance that had disappeared during his journey. Oh, he’d been the same commanding Thornton his colleagues expected during his business dealings. However, when he was alone the distance from her ate at him.

He’d found it damn disconcerting. How had he survived thousands of quiet evenings with Mother and Fanny without pining for a welcoming, intimate smile meant only for him? Had he really been satisfied to retreat to his bachelor’s chamber with the forebodingly empty mistress’s bedroom next door?

No, he’d never been satisfied. Resigned and lonely, yes. Suffering, yes, when he thought Margaret’s love lay beyond his reach. In his pride, though, if anyone had asked him at any time after she’d refused him whether he desired the partnership of marriage, he would have claimed to be too busy for a wife while deep in his heart, deep where only Margaret had ever dared to tread, black loneliness and white-hot longing tore at him.

Hours alone in a hotel in Le Havre brought back those forlorn months and reminded him of the hole in his being Margaret filled. He’d wished he’d brought her with him as she’d asked. Standing on the rolling deck of a ship, sprayed with freezing seawater as he searched for the first sight of England, he’d vowed never to squander even one day of her companionship.

Of course, with the advent of Mother’s illness, he knew it was best that he hadn’t taken his wife to France. From Margaret’s detailed description of the episode and her ability to chronicle every improvement and nearly every word the doctor had spoken, he knew she’d been a constant, steadfast caretaker.

His wife tilted her head back to invite a kiss. Their lips met in a brief caress that spoke volumes of who they were together.

It was not exactly the ardent homecoming he had imagined, but it was more than enough.

Margaret approached the door with a stack of laundered nightgowns.

“If you could only convince her to leave,” Mrs. Thornton said to Dr. Donaldson as he checked her breathing.

Margaret paused in the hall, not out of sight but unviewed by the woman sitting on the edge of the bed and the man who now checked her pulse.

“Everyone hovers around me,” Mrs. Thornton said. “Just today I had to send John back to the mill. What does he mean by coming here to hold my hand at eleven o’clock in the morning?”

“They have been concerned about you, as your children should be,” Dr. Donaldson said soothingly.

“If only she would go I could have some peace. She pesters me. I am suffocated by her silly questions.”

In spite of the sympathetic indifference Margaret had cultivated since the day of her betrothal, her mother-in-law’s words stung. Did she truly want the doctor to ask her to leave? To go where?

“Then you must tell her,” Dr. Donaldson said, “since your strength seems to be returning along with your opinions.”

Mrs. Thornton released a beleaguered sigh. “I suppose you are right. I must tell her that her place is with Mr. Watson and not here weeping ‘Mamma, Mamma, Mamma’ all over me as if at my wake.”

“You might say it more gently than that, Mrs. Thornton.”

“How did I ever produce such a delicate flower for a daughter?” Mrs. Thornton asked with a grumble.

Dr. Donaldson waved Margaret into the room. “Ah, here is Margaret who will remember just how she assisted her own dear mother to walk. Mrs. Thornton is adamant that she be allowed to dress and use the water closet, but I have made her agree she will not do so unassisted,” the doctor told Margaret with a commiserative smile.

“Of course,” Margaret said, still a little lightheaded from the realization that it was Fanny whom the dragon wished to drive away, and not her new daughter-in-law.

* * *

Oh, no, next week brings the end! The final chapter will be posted here on May 14. Click here to find it!

Chapter 14 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton #northandsouth #sequel #MIL

Jill Hughey — Wed, 30 Apr 2014 11:00:00 +0000

Last week, John left for Le Havre to buy cotton and Margaret met her first obstacle in the Marlborough Mill’s cookhouse. Now she is suddenly plunged into being in charge during a household emergency! If you need to start from the beginning, click here to go to Chapter 1.

Chapter 14 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton

A bright, freezing morning greeted Margaret the next day. She had not slept well. The chill from the altercation in the cookhouse plagued her all night despite being wrapped in John’s robe and cocooned under several extra blankets.

After her normal breakfast from a tray in her room, she sought refuge again in her husband’s office downstairs. She scraped a layer of frost from the window to reveal the bustle of activity that caused the now familiar sounds in the yard. The workers’ exhalations puffed like steam from locomotives as they hurried across the cobbled pavement, some seeking the relative warmth of their workrooms, others, recognizable by layers of coats and scarves, kept outside by their duties.

Margaret turned away to attend to some business correspondence with Mr. Lennox before beginning a soothing letter to Aunt Shaw in which she declined the invitation to visit for The Season. She tried her best to address Aunt’s concerns that she would soon become a complete heathen if she did not return to the civilized social whirl of London for at least a few weeks each year.

An unusual thump distracted her from her task.

She looked at the wall shared with the drawing room, expecting to hear additional sounds that would indicate a maid was sweeping beneath furniture or cleaning the hearth. The resumption of the normal stifling stillness within the house should have reassured her, but did not.

She rose and continued to listen attentively as she sneaked across the rug. She poked her head into the hall, but could see nothing amiss. She tiptoed a few steps to peer into the next doorway. “Mrs. Thornton,” she cried when she saw the figure in a black gown sprawled inelegantly on the floor. She knelt down to grip one of her mother-in-law’s hands and patted the back briskly. “Mrs. Thornton,” she whispered, braced for the woman to rear up with a scathing retort, but there was no response. “Mrs. Thornton,” she pleaded.

She had seen the face of death on her own dear mama, so knew the woman still breathed, yet the dragon would not rouse to consciousness.

Margaret ran to ring the bell then rushed into the hall to call for Jane in a shrill voice that would shock Aunt Shaw to no end. By the time Jane and a maid careened into one another at the door, Margaret was again kneeling beside Mrs. Thornton. She stroked her cheek and begged with her to awaken while the servants wrung their hands together.

After another half minute, Margaret ordered them into action. “Jane, give me that pillow so we can make her more comfortable, then bring a blanket to cover her. Sassy, go fetch my cloak and muff, then you are to stoke the fire in this room and Mrs. Thornton’s bedroom. I must find Dr. Donaldson.”

Margaret had rarely felt such relief as she did an hour later when Dr. Donaldson took charge of Mrs. Thornton’s care. After a brief initial examination, he helped them move the unconscious figure to her gloomy bedroom. She and Jane exchanged her constrictive clothing for a white cotton nightgown.

She sent Jane out in the hall while the doctor undertook a more thorough examination. As he looked in eyes and ears, and tested reflexes, her thoughts spanned all the possibilities she might soon confront and what action she should take for each, twitching her mind through a maze of abrupt turns and frightening dead ends.

His diagnosis pushed her into immediate action. “Mrs. Thornton has suffered a heart seizure,” he said. “Her survival of the initial shock bodes well, though I am concerned that she has not regained her senses yet.”

Margaret nodded her understanding.

“Has Mr. Thornton been sent for?”

“He…he is in Le Havre and not expected home for three days or more. I will go to his clerk and have word sent immediately. And I will send a message to Fanny, of course. Tell me, Dr. Donaldson, what should I say?” She bit her lip. “How grave a warning must I give?”

Having seen her through her own mother’s illness, he well knew Margaret’s steady temperament and inner strength. “Say that Mrs. Thornton is still in danger, but, barring another attack, I would expect her to regain consciousness along with all her faculties.”

Margaret startled poor Mr. Chives. He’d been deeply immersed in correspondence from today’s post that he must either hold for his employer’s return or take action on when she burst in without so much a cloak or gloves protecting her from the frigid weather.

“Mr. Chives,” she said breathlessly, “I must send messages to Mr. Thornton, however and wherever you think best so that they might intercept him. Can you help me? How many should I write?”

He gaped at her before recovering his wits. “Yes, of course, there is only Liverpool and Le Havre.” He tapped his finger on his lips. “Two for Le Havre. There is the hotel and his agent’s office.”

“Very well,” she said, striding to her husband’s desk for paper and pen.

Dearest,

Your mother has taken ill. Dr. Donaldson says she has had a heart seizure. She is unconscious now, so in no discomfort. Do not be overly alarmed. Dr. Donaldson expects her to regain all her faculties. Please come as quickly as possible. I know you will provide comfort to her as no one else can.

I am so sorry to send such distressing news.

Your loving wife,

Margaret

She wrote something similarly stilted to Fanny, without the endearments. After entrusting all four notes to the clerk and imploring him to send them in the quickest way possible, she hurried back to Mrs. Thornton’s bedside to begin a vigil as loyal as the one she had held at Mrs. Hale’s two years ago.

Margaret unpinned and brushed out the dragon’s hair, still a glossy brown with only the first streaks of gray at her temples to suggest her age. Her face, on the other hand, looked old and creased as if she’d aged ten years in one morning, her brow furrowed as if she concentrated on a vexing problem.

Fanny arrived after dark in a storm of panic, blowing into the room with her cloak billowing behind her and her waist noticeably thickened since the wedding. “Mamma,” she cried, shattering the softly lit silence. She pressed her cold-pinkened cheek to her mother’s papery skin.

“Mamma,” Fanny cried again. “Oh no, what are we to do?”

Margaret placed a comforting hand on her back. Fanny stiffened and jerked away. “How did this happen? Where is John?” she asked accusingly.

Margaret described how she had found Mrs. Thornton and repeated everything Dr. Donaldson had said. Not surprisingly, Fanny asked the same series of questions several times as if Margaret was withholding information or could be found responsible for the collapse, then stamped her foot in frustration when told for the third time that Dr. Donaldson did not know when her mother would return to normal, though he was confident she would.

“Has my bedroom been prepared?” Fanny finally whimpered. “I must go lie down to calm my nerves.”

“You know it is always kept ready for you,” Margaret said calmly. “A maid will have lit the fire when you arrived.”

Fanny swept back out of the room, leaving Margaret to return to the chair by the bed. She rested her head wearily on the back, content to resume her solitary vigil.

In the morning, Fanny strolled into the sickroom and ignored Margaret to immediately plead with her mother. “Mamma! Mamma, please, you must speak to me.”

Mrs. Thornton’s head rolled on the pillow, the first sign of awareness in nearly 24 hours.

“Look! Look! She hears me! It is me, Mamma, your dear Fanny, here to take care of you.”

Mrs. Thorton stilled. Fanny sulked.

Margaret tried to reassure her. “That is a wonderful sign, Fanny. Of course your mother knows you are here.” She rose from the chair and pressed her hands into her aching lower back. “Perhaps you would like to stay with her until lunch. I am still wearing yesterday’s clothes.”

Fanny pouted but did not refuse. Margaret returned a few hours later after a short nap and a quick bath. She was not surprised to find Fanny pacing like a caged cat.

“I am not meant for the sickroom,” Fanny declared as she flounced out the door.

Margaret held Mrs. Thornton’s hand and talked to her for a quarter hour before turning to gaze blankly out the window.

The slate gray sky did not bode well for traveling. She doubted John could have gotten any of her messages yet, in any case. She wished she could will him here. His voice would reach through Mrs. Thornton’s fog as no one else’s could. It seemed unfathomable that he was in France or on a ship, still unaware that the women in his life were in such dire need of him. Yet that is how it had been when Fred had been in danger in the Navy and later, when he hadn’t known Mother was dying. Loved ones separated by such distances did not sense one another’s suffering.

Fanny returned to the room at dusk. “Mamma!” she demanded.

Mrs. Thornton’s eyelids fluttered. “Fanny,” she whispered.

“Oh!” Fanny shrieked as she clutched at her mother’s hand. “Did you hear, Margaret? She woke up for me.”

“Fanny,” Mrs. Thornton whispered again. “What do you want?”

Fanny’s lip trembled and tears pooled in her eyes. “Oh, Mamma, I want you to get well. You’ve scared me to death,” she said amidst what Margaret thought might be the first true show of emotion she’d ever witnessed in her sister-in-law.

“What happened?” Mrs. Thornton breathed. Her head lolled to one side as she slipped back into senselessness.

“Mamma,” Fanny repeated several times. She looked, with wet wide eyes, across the bed at Margaret. “She did speak. That must be good news. And she knew me!”

“Yes, Fanny, it is all wonderful news. I am certain the doctor will agree. He should arrive soon for his evening visit.”

Her mother’s response encouraged Fanny’s attention, and they were both in the room long after Dr. Donaldson had come and gone, when Mrs. Thornton stirred again.

“Fanny,” she said. Her hand groped along the bed covers.

“I am here, Mamma,” Fanny said as she held her hand.

Her eyelids fluttered as she struggled to focus. “Fanny. Yes.” She fought to look around the room, her gaze finding Margaret. “Who are you?”

Fanny tittered nervously, drawing the dragon’s attention back to her.

“Where is John? I need to talk to him,” she said. Fanny’s smile faded.

Margaret leaned forward. “He is coming, Mrs. Thornton. He is coming as quickly as he can,” she promised, hoping fervently that she told the truth.

* * *

How quickly will John return, and what will the dragon be like as an invalid? Chapter 15 will be posted here on May 7. Click here to go to Chapter 15 after that date.

Chapter 13 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton #sequel #northandsouth

Jill Hughey — Wed, 23 Apr 2014 11:00:00 +0000

In the last chapter, Margaret’s frustration at her empty days overflowed into an argument. Today she visits John’s office where he will propose a solution. If you need to start at the very beginning, click here to go to Chapter 1.

Chapter 13 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton

The large hand of the ticking clock pointed to one minute before the hour when Mrs. John Thornton appeared in the anteroom of her husband’s office.

“Good morning, Mrs. Thornton,” Mr. Chives said as he popped his short, wiry frame to attention. He turned on a heel to tap lightly on the paneled wood door to his right, then opened it to usher her forth. Margaret drew in a deep, restorative breath before following. How silly to be nervous about a meeting with her own husband, a man whose bed she’d crawled out of not four hours ago.

Of course Margaret had been in John’s office before, but the industriousness, the contained energy of enterprise, struck her anew. Ledgers filled shelves along the wall. Correspondence and reports waited in two tidy piles on the corner of her husband’s massive desk. Samples of raw fiber overflowed several small boxes on a table behind which a draped display of Marlborough Mill’s fine cotton cloth shone pristinely white from the wall.

Nothing hinted about the occupant himself, no clues about hobbies, no portraits or knick-knacks, though anyone who knew him understood the very lack of personal items told a great deal about John Thornton. The blood of commerce coursed through his veins as thick as the blood of family.

“That will be all,” John said to Mr. Chives with a dismissive nod to the young man. He dragged a chair around so Margaret could sit beside him rather than across the desk where his visitors usually perched. “Sit here. I must show you some accounts for all of this to make sense.”

Margaret swallowed, feeling even more out of place than she had. Accounts? She’d helped Father and Dixon with the running of the household, but the accounts John managed ran for pages and pages. She slipped into the chair, internally chastising herself for making such a fuss last night.

John began to explain his idea. “When Higgins and I organized the cookhouse, I ended up, by default, as a sort of steward. I am charged with supplying the food, and originally, with finding the matron, though Mary has stepped into that job well and no longer requires any guidance from me. There is, of course, the money from the hands that must be tallied. As you know, I do not want the meals to become charity, so the income and expenses must be kept properly for review by my bookkeeper.” He waved his hand over a pile of papers on centered on the desk. “The job requires too much of my time.”

He looked at her with the glow in his eyes. “You have been trained, I believe, to run a household in London at least as grand at your aunt’s. I have no doubt of your ability to manage Marlborough Mill’s cookhouse, if you are interested.”

“Manage it?” she croaked. “Do you mean I would be responsible for all those tasks you just listed? That I would help Mary Higgins to plan the meals, and then order the food and account for the money?”

His stern nod assured her that he would, indeed, expect her to perform the job, and do it well.

She clasped her hands in her lap, then glanced about his office to make sure they were unobserved before she all but leapt at him, locking her arms around his neck and whispering as effusively as she dared. “I would like it above anything. Oh, do you really mean it?” A fearful thought stilled her. “Do you truly believe I can do a good job?”

“I will help you for as long as you need. And I think Mary Higgins will, as well, don’t you? I am certain she would much rather deal with you than me.”

She nodded into his stiff collar, gave him another hard squeeze, then sat back down. “Show me,” she demanded, searching the stack of papers for the cookhouse accounts.

He unexpectedly put his hand to her cheek as he drank in the vision of her eager face. “There she is,” he said, lowly but exultantly. “There is my spirited girl.”

She flushed even more and turned her head to kiss his palm, overcome by her stunning love for him. He slid his fingers behind her neck to pull her to him for a kiss the likes of which neither of them ever expected to indulge in while in his office.

He pulled away with a throaty moan to gaze down at her luminous face. His voice was gruff. “The next time we are in London I would like to have a small likeness of you painted. I will sit your portrait here, on my desk. Try to remember the exact expression you wear right this minute, for that is how I wish you to always be looking back at me.”

Just four days later, John prepared to sail for his journey to Le Havre. Margaret barely had her feet under her at the cookhouse but promised none of his workers would starve in his absence. She clung to him one last time in their sitting room before he departed for Liverpool in the middle of the night. “Please, hurry home as fast as you can,” she whispered as they descended the stairs. The dragon waited in the entryway to say her own restrained goodbye.

Margaret threw herself into her new work. She checked orders for the week with the butcher and the grocer. She made sure Mary had enough help. The least enjoyable task required approaching the few hands late in paying for their meals, though she checked with Mary first to determine if any of the delinquents were in financial distress due to illness or some other problem.

All but one paid on the day after her request. On the second day, she approached the recalcitrant Timmy Smith at the table where he hunched protectively over a steaming bowl of mutton stew. His lower jaw jutted out when she stopped in front of him. He wore a black cap at such a jaunty angle it completely shielded his left eye from her view. “I dinna have your money,” he growled, peering up at her face in obvious challenge.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Smith, but you must bring it tomorrow,” Margaret said, “or you will not be given a meal.”

He scowled at her before shoveling an enormous spoonful of stew into his mouth. He grumbled something unintelligible to his neighbors when her back was turned.

The next day, she waited just inside the door, her stomach aflutter with nerves. “Mr. Smith,” she said when the familiar black cap bobbed under the low doorframe. “Are you prepared to pay your debt?”

“No, mum, I am not,” he said. He moved as if to proceed to a table.

“As I had mentioned yesterday, we will not continue to feed you if you refuse to settle your bill.” She tried to sound forceful despite her breathlessness. The convivial chatter in the room died quickly away.

He squinted down at her, the centers of his eyes like bits of coal in the winter gloom of his face. “I work hard at the warehouse, I do. I think the master can afford to fill my empty belly better than I can. What d’ya say, mates?” he said, looking around for support.

The other hands studied their feet or concentrated on the rarebit and dark crusty bread on their plates.

“That was never the agreement, as you well know, Mr. Smith. You are not required to eat here, but if you choose to, you are required to pay just as your fellow workers do.”

He took hold of the two sides of his jacket as he leaned back to peruse her condescendingly. “I dinna choose to pay, but I do choose to eat.” He turned his back to her to find his way to a table.

“See here, sir,” she said, not sure what to do now. How might he react if the serving girls refused to give him a meal?

Two large blokes rose to block his path and several other men stood up at the rear of the dining area. “Oy, Timmy! That’s no way to talk to her ladyship,” one of them called.

Smith turned sideways as if to pass between the two workers. They each caught an arm. When he began to resist, the men in back stepped up to help drag him out the door. His curses made Margaret’s ears burn. She hadn’t heard such language since waiting in a carriage near the London docks several years ago. Her stomach churned with disappointment at having such an altercation so early in her tenure. Fear that the man might become truly violent drove her out the door behind the scuffle.

The biggest man shoved Smith toward the center of the yard. “That’s no way to talk in front of Mrs. Thornton and these young girls. Go home t’ eat until yo’re ready to pay yor shot and show some respect.”

Mr. Smith wiped his hands down his front and checked the angle of his cap as he glared at the men, then he stalked away with more foul words trailing behind him.

“Sorry fer that,” one of her saviors said as they re-entered the cookhouse.

“Thank you,” she breathed, repeating it again to each of the five who had stepped up in her defense.

“I like havin’ a hot meal every day,” the last one said with a shrug. “Leave it t’ Smith t’ try t’ put a fly in me soup.” Subdued chuckles wafted through the room, carrying the tension away, at least for the workers.

Margaret did not linger. She scurried across the yard to curl up on the chair at John’s desk at home, wondering where he was and what he was doing, how he would have handled Mr. Smith, what she should do differently to avoid such an uproar if she found herself in the same situation again. After a quarter-hour steeped in glum thinking, she sat up straight and turned her mind to sorting the cash and receipts for Marlborough Mill’s bookkeeper, determined to be productive until her presence was required at a somber dinner with the dragon.

Margaret briefly considered sharing the dilemma with Mrs. Thornton over the soup. She decided against it, worried that the woman would have Mr. Smith fired or, even worse, give him a raise in pay for defying her daughter-in-law.

* * *

Next week, Margaret must unexpectedly see the household through an emergency. Chapter 14 will be posted on April 30 here. Click here to find it.

Chapter 12 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton #sequel #northandsouth

Jill Hughey — Wed, 16 Apr 2014 11:00:00 +0000

Will this marriage survive? A few misunderstandings are to be expected in a new marriage, and one can only hope that love is strengthened by their resolution. John begins by contemplating a journey to Le Havre, and ends by finally tackling the problem of Margaret’s need for meaningful duties. If you need to start at the beginning, click here to go to Chapter 1.

Chapter 12 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton

“Why must you go?” Margaret said as she snuggled closer into John’s side on their new, comfortable sofa.

“I must buy the right quality of cotton at the right price. There is not an agent in England or France I trust to do that for me.”

“But it is winter. Won’t the crossing be dangerous?”

His fingers played with the locks of her hair they had just finished unpinning. “I will be perfectly safe, and kept warm by the knowledge that you are here, waiting for me.”

“A week or more, you said! It is an eternity.” She peered up at him. “Can’t I come with you?” The days of his absence gaped in front of her like a deep, dark cave.

“You do know how to tempt me, love.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Not this time. I cannot be away from here long, which means I will be travelling hard. My overseer is a good man, but he misses the details that keep the mill running efficiently enough so that I can soon begin to pay back my debt to you. ”

She shifted to put her cheek against his shoulder again. “Is the debt what drives you to work from before dawn until after dusk?”

“I have always worked long hours, despite the unions’ claims otherwise.” After a few moments of silence, he pressed, “What is it, Margaret? I can tell you are unhappy with my answer, even if you hide your face.”

When she shook her head, he put his hands on her shoulders to lift her away from him. “I need your honesty, love. Please. Do not hide from me.”

She stared at him, so very in love yet so very, very lonely. “I think that I am a missed detail, most days.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You are never here.”

“That is not true.”

A small groan escaped him when she walked to the fireplace, needing some distance to be able to give voice to thoughts that would make him unhappy. “You are gone all day. We sit together for a short time each evening, then we are…we are intimate, and then we sleep. Soon you will leave on your trip, for a week or more.”

“I make this journey and I work long hours so that we will have a comfortable living,” he retorted automatically, the echo of his days as a poor draper’s assistant lurking in the reply.

She cocked her head. “I do not covet the comforts of money above time with you. You saw my parents’ home in Crampton. You’ve visited Helstone. You know I was not raised in luxury, nor did I ever seek it.”

“It is not only for your comfort,” he argued. “The money itself — your money — is still at risk. I must see the debt to you repaid.”

“I do not care about that,” she said. She could not think of anything she cared about more than having the bright light of his presence, even for the few waking hours they shared each day.

“You say that now, but if it were gone….”

She pursed her lips. She’d never heard her parents in a conversation like this. Was it normal? Should she curb her thoughts to match his?

Of course, he immediately sensed her hesitation. “Honesty, Margaret,” he demanded.

“You say you want me to be honest, then when I tell you how I feel you tell me where I am wrong,” she retorted.

His mouth opened and closed. He looked down at his hands and turned the wide gold band on his finger. “Very well, then, Margaret. Tell me exactly how you feel and I will endeavor to listen instead of correct.”

A shiver passed through her. As much as he begged for the truth from her, he had not always received it well, just as he wasn’t now. Speaking of this could not be wise tonight, when she felt so useless and adrift, with no worthwhile activities to fill her days, with no friends except those who labored at the mill where she was unwelcome. “It is nothing,” she whispered.

He stopped twisting his wedding band. “Have your feelings for me changed so materially that you can no longer speak of them?” he asked.

The injustice of his words pushed her shoulders back. “My feelings for you? Nothing has changed about my feelings for you.” She paced a few steps in front of the fire before facing him again. “Every other part of my existence is unrecognizable to me except for my love for you. Can you claim the same?”

“Obviously not. I know you have been uprooted, as all new brides are. What would you have us do? Move to Helstone, or London, perhaps?”

“Where we live is not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” He raked his hand through his thick hair, pushing the locks into disarray.

“The point is that your concern for Marlborough Mills overrides everything else.”

“The mill requires most of my time, Margaret, but that does not mean it is where my affections lie. I work to protect our future and the inheritance you entrusted to me!”

She blinked against the prickle of threatening tears. “I believe you give Miss Margaret Hale’s fortune more import than you give Mrs. John Thornton’s affections.”

His eyes flashed up at her as his face went pale. He did not speak, his jaw as rigid as it had been on the day of the riot in the yard. His brow furrowed as he turned his head away.

She had said more than she had wanted to say, more than she’d even realized she felt.

Only two choices presented themselves. She could go to him or she could leave the room. She could not bear to stand there as a muscle clenched and unclenched in his cheek.

John struggled to keep his temper in check. The only times he had loosed it on Margaret, the result had been a complete misunderstanding of one another. His legs twitched with the instinct to burst off the settee. Only by tapping his toes inside his shoes could he force his indignation into submission.

As his guts churned in a froth of anger and fear, she slipped away to close the door of his dark bedroom behind her. Her accusation remained in the room, an unwelcome visitor on a frigid night.

He jerked his head forward again to stare at the fire while he struggled to grasp the unfair words echoing inside his skull. He gave more import to her money than her? Is that what she had said? He could not swallow the suggestion. The injustice of it stuck in his craw. He would like nothing better than to fritter his hours away with her in this room or in his bed, but there was work to be done. And, thinking of his bed, why had she gone in that room just now?

He rose to lean on the mantle. Of course he would spend entire days alone with her if he could. Wouldn’t he? He frowned.

Wouldn’t he?

He tried to imagine such a day, the rumbling of the mill and the smoke from the engine room flowing outside the house while he sat ignorant of the workings, here, with his wife. The very thought agitated him.

But certainly, if they took an afternoon away, or stole a few days London, he would be content with only Margaret’s company. Honesty, he said to himself, recognizing the lie. In those months when Margaret had given him her heart but still lived in London, he’d felt divided. A piece of him was always at the mill, and a piece of him was always with Margaret. Only when those two pieces were as one, both in Milton, both under his direct care, did he feel whole. Whole, except for the damnable debt like a velvet noose around his neck.

He rubbed his hand over his forehead. God help him, Margaret might be right.

Margaret pulled the coverlet up to her nose. She had shed her gown and slipped into bed in her underclothes without stoking the fire. The mattress stretched wide and cold without John’s weight beside her.

She feared she had said too much even if he had demanded her honesty. She did not doubt his love and would never willingly give him cause to doubt her love for him. She only wondered what she was supposed to do with their marriage.

When a floorboard creaked in the sitting room she looked hopefully at the door, then nearly called his name as his footsteps retreated, downstairs. She had, indeed, said too much, she thought, as their conversation repeated in her head like a blaring symphony played out of tune. Her fingers worried a loose thread on the hem of the sheet for a long time.

The bedroom door abruptly opened. The glare of a candle hovered before John’s stark face.

She sat up so he would know she was awake.

“It is freezing in here,” he chided as he leaned down to revive the fire. He lit a candle on her side of the bed then sat his own next to it. After wrapping the robe that was always draped at the foot of the bed around her chilled shoulders, he drew up a chair so he could sit down and face her. “You are right, to a point,” he said, as if three quarters of an hour hadn’t passed since she’d last spoken to him. “I do not fixate on debt as much as you think, but I do despise it. My father’s inability to manage debt, or perhaps his unwillingness to cope with it, killed him. That deep wound has shaped the whole of my life.”

His perspective shamed Margaret. She’d thought only of her loneliness and not the trials John had endured. Her hand curled around his in a feeble attempt to convey emotions that refused to form into words.

“I have always been driven,” he continued. “I cannot blame it entirely on your loan because I have acted no differently when free of debt. The work is part of me just as you are part of me. I do not know how to split any piece away. I can only promise that you are first, here, in my heart.” He pulled their joined hands to his chest.

She nodded, still speechless.

“I also understand that where I fill my days with labor, you have been brought, as my wife, into rather empty daylight hours.” As she stuttered a denial, he lifted a finger to her lips. “Hush. I am not completely blind and I have seen this, even before tonight. My mistake has been in hesitating to help resolve the problem. The good news is that I have an idea,” he added. “I wonder if I might schedule an appointment with you for tomorrow at ten o’clock to discuss a business proposition?”

“Of course,” she said, willing but unsure of what he could possibly want from her.

“At my office, then, ten o’clock sharp.”

He glanced at her face with an unusual tentativeness, and she suspected, despite the confidence of his words, he might be as unsettled as she by their argument.

She flattened her palm over his heart and leaned forward to capture his lips in a kiss that quickly burned hot.

“I love you,” she whispered, her relief at their reconciliation prompting her to repeat it again and again as he lavished reassuring kisses over her face and neck. “I love you, and nothing will ever change that fact.”

Her tugging insistence settled him over her when he was barely disrobed. He swept her hair back from her face as he looked down at her. His eyes glittered in the wavering light. “I am clay in your hands, beloved Margaret. Never doubt my love or my devotion to you above all things. Promise me you will never doubt it.”

* * *

Next week, Margaret has her ten o’clock meeting and John’s trip to Le Havre looms on the horizon. Chapter 13 will be posted here on April 23. Click here to find it!

Chapter 11 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton #northandsouth #sequel #motherinlaw

Jill Hughey — Wed, 09 Apr 2014 11:00:00 +0000

Margaret Hale was one brave woman to become Hannah Thornton’s daughter-in-law. In this episode, their relationship begins to form and they are not destined for happily-ever-after. If you want to start at the beginning, click here for Chapter One.

Chapter 11 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton

Margaret did, indeed, love her husband. For the first week, with the dragon out of the roost, the novelty of the new marriage allowed the couple to be blissful, even if John returned to the mill on the second day. Margaret spent that afternoon exploring the public areas of the house. She tried to force a familiarity with her new home that she did not feel. The next day she went to the upholsterer’s shop, eager to make her decisions about her bedchamber before the matriarch’s return. She and John decided to hire the man who had hung the wallpaper in her parent’s Crampton house to paint her room a cheerful yellow, and their sitting room warm gold.

By the time Mother Thornton descended, the bedchamber had been stripped of all decoration and its bare walls waited for transformation. There was no turning back.

The dragon never uttered a word about it though Margaret had no doubt she was aware of the gutting. In every other way, in every other corner, the original Mrs. Thornton picked up the reins of the household as if a second Mrs. Thornton did not exist.

She could not destroy Margaret’s happiness. Just the thought of John being a quick walk across the millyard spurred Margaret’s pulse, though she did not make that walk, knowing that he was busy from dawn to dusk and would not know what to do with her standing in his office.

She wrote notes to their wedding guests, supervised her decorators, and adjusted her wardrobe back to Milton expectations. When she had no correspondence and their sitting room shone like an autumn sunrise, including a cozy, heavier sofa for she and John to share — though they seemed to always be downstairs in the evenings now — she resumed her regular walks around Milton to fill some of the hours of her days.

She asked once to accompany Mrs. Thornton on her daily inspection of the mill and was reluctantly towed along. But Margaret’s habit of chatting with instead of haranguing the workers did not suit the dragon. Margaret excused herself after being chided for the third time in the second workroom. The dragon let her go.

Several deep breaths returned enough calmness that she could walk across the mill yard without betraying her disappointment in both herself and her mother-in-law. She wandered until a tempting smell drew her to the cookhouse. The mouthwatering scent gave way to the sight of poor Mary Higgins elbow deep in dishwater while a full table of workers waited impatiently for meals.

“How can I help?” Margaret asked as she pushed up the sleeves of her brown wool gown.

“Oh, no, you mustn’t, Mrs. Thornton,” Mary said, horrified. “Two of the girls are sick at home but we’ll make do.” Margaret looked around until she found an apron and a towel. She dried a dish then carried it to a rotund woman who appeared to be just as overwhelmed with cooking and serving. She continued helping Mary until each worker had received a meal on a clean dish, then she alternated chopping potatoes for the cook and serving new arrivals.

Hours later, a silence fell over the last few hands who were eating late in the afternoon. Margaret glanced around to see what had subdued their companionable chatter. “Mr. Thornton,” she cried when she saw her husband’s silhouette at the door. She patted her hair self-consciously as she walked to him. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Looking for you,” he replied, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Oh?” She stepped outside since he did not seem inclined to come in. He also did not seem inclined to expand on his reason for being at the cookhouse. “Did you need me for something?”

He had been searching her face but now looked away across the yard. “Mother came looking for you at the office. She said she had…discouraged you in the carding room today. When she went to the house you were not there, nor had Jane seen you.”

Margaret frowned. “I have never before told Mrs. Thornton what I am doing or where I am going. Why did my absence cause enough concern today that she bothered you with it?”

The hint of a smile curved the corner of his mouth. “It has been hours since she last saw you. I think she was afraid she had run you off. Or perhaps that you’d gotten trapped in a warehouse.” When she didn’t reply, he looked down at her, the suggestion of humor replaced by anxiety. “In any case, her concern led me to worry, so I came to find you.”

“I am sorry for that,” she said, truly upset when she saw that he had, indeed, been worried. “It felt so good to be out and doing something useful that I lost track of time.” She smiled up at him. “Yet you knew just where to find me.”

His eyes softened and glowed in that private way that showed his adoration.

“I am glad you did not send your mother,” she added.

“She knows she should not have spoken to you so sharply in front of the hands.”

Margaret twisted her fingers together. “I am only a distraction in the mill,” she admitted. “I do not have a talent for urging the hands to strive harder.” She lifted her chin. “I am able to help here, though.”

“You cannot spend your days washing dishes in the cookhouse, love.”

The gently delivered endearment caught her attention more than a true scolding would have. She was always “Mrs. Thornton” when they were within earshot of people other than family.

He could see her disappointment, so he added, “Miss Margaret Hale was not raised to serve stew to mill hands, and it is not appropriate for Mrs. John Thornton, either.”

She untied her apron with a brisk jerk. “I could help when they are short handed, like today.”

“Perhaps,” he said slowly. “I would hope Mary Higgins does not find herself in this predicament often.”

Margaret returned to the low-ceilinged room to hand her apron to Mary who scrubbed the now-empty tables. With only a few hours left before the end of the workday, all of the hands were busy in the mill. “Send for me if you ever need help again,” Margaret said.

Mary studied the floor as she nodded, and Margaret knew she would never receive such a summons. John still waited at the door. He did not mean to be overbearing. She knew he did not. Yet she could not help feeling as though the newly discovered wings she had been exercising since their wedding had just been clipped somehow.

“I will go to the house now,” she told him. “I have kept you from your duties long enough, I am sure.”

John watched her retreat, knowing that a shadow, a first hint of strife, had just passed between them, not entirely unexpected considering the adjustments she was being asked to make, but very, very unwelcome.

Six weeks later, John sat at the breakfast table with Mother. Frigid winter darkness pressed against the windows, so black and heavy that even the lamps and coal fire could not completely defeat the chill. Margaret had watched him from his bed less than an hour ago, as she did each morning when he reluctantly slipped away to his dressing room. She’d smiled dreamily when he kissed her on his way out, as if she were a lady of leisure who would roll over to sleep the morning away, yet he knew that by now she was preparing for the day with Jane’s assistance.

A maid passed by the dining room door with a tray. Mother’s eyes fixed on her like a hawk on a mouse as the girl carefully climbed the steps. “Your wife becomes melancholy. What does she mean by having a her breakfast delivered every morning?”

A hint of anger stabbed him. He pushed it away. “Margaret asked about our household routine. I told her about our breakfast conversations, when Fanny was always hours from emerging. She suggested that we both might prefer to continue. If you would like her to join us in the future, I will be happy to invite her.”

Mother stirred her tea then set her spoon on the saucer with a clack. “Whatever suits you, John.” She ate several bites of toast before continuing, as he’d known she would. “You must see, though how she tends to be like her mother, brooding about with a shawl around her shoulders.”

Anger flashed again. “She is not like her mother whom, you will recall, ended up dying of what you dismissed as ‘low spirits.’”

“She sits for hours with a book in her lap.”

John clenched his teeth together. He knew this. He’d been drawn to the house by her unrest. He’d find her at the desk in their sitting room with a blank piece of paper in front of her, or curled in a chair in his office downstairs — the only public room in the house she occupied when he was absent — with an unread book or some untended piece of sewing in her hands.

She was always glad to see him, and the love in her welcoming smile wrapped around him like an unexpected warm blanket in the midst of a blizzard. He was happy beyond his dreams, yet knew the source of all his happiness did not share his complete joy in their new life together. Worst of all, he and Mother were partly to blame.

He wiped his mouth before setting his napkin aside. “You have given her no responsibility in the house. We have both discouraged her from involving herself with the mill, and last week you acted the matriarch when she had a few of my colleague’s wives for lunch.”

“Every new bride must find her own way,” Mother said, offended. “I told you when you first showed your interest in her that she would turn up her nose —″

“Stop,” he said sharply. “Margaret is not putting on airs.” It would be pointless to explain to his mother that his wife was as open to him as the account book sitting to the left of his fork. Before the luncheon Margaret thought she was hosting, she admitted to a hope she might be able to be friends with Gormley’s wife, a young woman she remembered from their wedding. After the event, when he’d asked about the lady, she’d indicated they did not suit after all. She had not been an open book to him at that moment. She would not tell him what had changed her mind about the friendship.

He leaned toward Mother, his expression questioning. “What happened at that lunch between Margaret and Mrs. Gormley?”

Mother shifted in her chair. “You know your wife would wear one of her London dresses for the lunch. I suspect Mrs. Gormley felt a little put out by not being the most fashionable. She has begged Mr. Gormley for a shopping excursion to London since they were married, and that has been at least three years.”

John leaned back. “How would Mrs. Gormley know Margaret’s dress was from London?”

Mother frowned as she picked up her teacup.

“This will not do,” he said warningly. “You cannot accuse her of acting an aristocrat while sabotaging her chances to be part of our set and criticizing her interactions with the hands.”

When she scowled at her tea, his voice firmed even more. “I am in earnest. She must be allowed to fit in somewhere. Our peers know you did not favor the marriage. Your position on the matter has been duly noted by everyone and strongly felt by my wife, I assure you. I am asking you to let go of your resentment at least enough that she has a chance to make the friends she chooses. If you will not support her then at least stop undermining her.”

Mother had the grace to look chagrined, though no admission of wrongdoing passed her lips.

She ate in silence while John set aside personal musings, shifting his focus to his daily review of Marlborough’s orders. One large contract would be fulfilled and ready to ship today or tomorrow. He would begin to pay back Margaret’s principal by the middle of next year, if all went well. To continue working at this capacity, unfortunately, he would have to journey to Le Havre to buy raw cotton soon. Very soon. He’d considered taking Margaret with him, but rejected the idea, preferring to hurry across the channel, conduct his business, and return as quickly as possible.

He sifted through the papers, pausing at the accounting for the cookhouse. Margaret had been happy helping Mary last month, almost as vibrant as she’d been when handing cake to the workers the night before their wedding. The numbers on the paper disappeared as he remembered her serving “his people,” as she’d called them. He must think on it in the hopes of finding some direction for her well-meaning energy, and quickly.

* * *

Next week, a tiny argument as Margaret begins to assert herself. Chapter 12 will be posted on April 16! Find it here.

Chapter 10 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton #sequel #northandsouth

Jill Hughey — Wed, 02 Apr 2014 11:00:00 +0000

I partly started this writing exercise to work out in my head how John Thornton and Margaret Hale would function as a couple. In this segment, I explore not only the beginning of their marriage, but what those moments must have been like for a young woman who had been raised to be demure and virtuous.

If you need to start at the beginning, you can click here to go to Chapter One.

Chapter 10 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton

She held John’s arm as they ventured from his side of Milton to the Crampton street where she’d once lived. The familiar walk cleared her head and steadied her. They shared a lighthearted conversation that would have eluded them in the early days.

Twilight tinged the sky when they returned to house. Cook brought a tray of food to the sitting room. She assured the new Mrs. Thornton that a large kettle of water for tea would simmer on the stove all night and a cold breakfast waited in the pantry. She excused herself so the newlyweds could have the house to themselves until luncheon tomorrow.

They ate soup and biscuits in front of the crackling fireplace, the anecdotes from the day eventually dwindling to silence. John leaned on the mantle for several minutes, staring into the flames. He turned. “I would like to retire now,” he said in his direct way.

Margaret nodded and took his hand to rise, willing yet terrified, feeling exactly as Edith had warned her she would feel. When they were upstairs, he indicated she should go to her room then meet him in the sitting room again.

She donned the long-sleeved satin nightgown Edith had insisted she have made. The V-necked bodice clung too tightly to her breasts. The waistband accentuated her hips scandalously. “Trust me,” Edith had said. “And let your hair down. He will never look at you the same way again once he has seen you in this.”

Margaret stared at herself for a long time in the glass. She brushed her hair over one shoulder, as she imagined courtesan might, the long black curls harsh against the silky white fabric. The gown gleamed through the darkness of the room, casting her as a forlorn ghost with bare feet poking from under the bottom ruffle. She smoothed her hand down the front. The gold of her wedding band flashed. She remembered her husband’s countenance as he had placed it on her finger. The memory braced her. “He loves you,” she whispered to herself. “You love him.” She forced her legs to carry her to the sitting room, ridiculously remembering Captain Lennox’s encouraging words as she slipped through the door. “Time for the charge.”

* * *

John rose to stand formally, as if the Queen had entered the room to find him as he was, without jacket or waistcoat, his shirt loose at the collar, neck cloth discarded. He seemed to be rendered momentarily speechless by the sight of her.

She, too, was a little surprised. Her gaze slid down to his feet, wearing socks but no shoes. He did not say a word. What must he think of her audacious display? His hands flexed. She was about to apologize for her boldness when he finally spoke.

“Margaret,” he said reverently. “You are so beautiful. Certainly more beautiful than a man like me deserves.”

She smiled, still not able to look at his face. “I think I am underdressed,” she said.

“Not at all,” he assured her. “When I wear a night shirt I could be mistaken for a water bird. All legs. I was afraid you would run for the train and never come back if confronted by that vision.” His teasing calmed her nerves a bit. He held out his hand. “Come, sit. You might enjoy some sherry while we talk for a moment.”

She sat on the edge of the deep-seated settee, feeling ridiculous as the hem of the indecent gown rode up to the middle of her shins, though the sight of his shoeless feet next to her bare ones encouraged her a little. He pressed a goblet in her hand. She took a fortifying drink, letting the warmth burn to her stomach as she glanced nervously around the room, noticing a small writing desk flanked by an upholstered chair that might be more comfortable for reading a book than the seats they now occupied.

“I have never spent much time up here, so I hope you will make whatever you want of it. These rooms are yours and mine, where we can be private as husband and wife, man and woman. Behind this door I ask you to speak as you will to me, to do as you like, to dress as you wish. You may be Margaret and I may be John, and neither of us will expect more or less than that.”

The solemnity and trust implied in his unexpected speech rivaled the vows they had spoken in the church. She set her glass carefully aside so she could reach for his hand. “I would like that,” she whispered.

He leaned in to kiss her. The hand that at first cupped the back of her head soon followed her long fall of hair, combing through the silken waves. He pulled back for a moment to look at the strands splayed across his palm. “Beautiful,” he murmured. He resumed kissing her, eventually dropping his fiery lips to her neck and collarbones. His arm supported her back as he arched over her. He pulled away again, his eyelids heavy. A finger traced the edge of her neckline, stopping at the quivering softness of her breast.

When he stood, she began to follow him but he leaned down to lift her in his arms. “I wish to bring you to my chamber tonight. To my bed. After this first night, we will nest wherever you prefer, but tonight I need you here.”

She digested no detail of the room except that it smelled like him, which made it much more familiar than the stranger’s room next door. He laid her in the middle of a large bed that already had the linens folded toward the foot. She felt merely foolish, there by herself, until she realized he was stripping his clothes off, silhouetted by a low fire in the hearth. She didn’t know where to look so she closed her eyes until the bed sagged with his weight. He flipped the sheet over them, covering them both up to their waists.

He began to kiss her again, exploring her mouth as his hand travelled down her arm then up her side. She inhaled sharply as his thumb traced the peak of her breast. He took his time there, and moved to the other side then began to slide down, down, across her belly to her hip and thigh. His slow exploration made her restless. She was wondering what to do with her own hands when she felt him drawing her nightgown up, thankfully stopping at her waist. His hot palm touched her bare knee and she thought she would die from embarrassment.

Then he became even more personal. She turned her face into his neck.

“It is all right, love,” he murmured. “It is perfect. You are beautiful. Beyond beautiful. You are exquisite.”

She did not think she ever would have felt ready. He was loving, gentle, careful, but not even Edith’s encouraging explanation could prepare a woman for that, could it? Still, when he was over her, so intensely focused on their coupling, she could sense the beauty of it poised just beyond her grasp. She could feel a hint of the unity Edith described, though, at least for tonight, newness conquered wonder.

* * *

John woke before the sun, as he always did, instantly aware that today was not like other days. He would not do some figuring at breakfast then arrive at the office before anyone else. He would not rush from task to task and crisis to crisis.

He turned his head to see his beloved Margaret, her hair in a wild raven tumble across the pillow, a breast still beautifully molded in the nightgown that had nearly brought him to his knees last night. He hadn’t dared remove it for fear he would be unmanned.

He rose to light the fires in all three of their rooms. When he returned to the bed and reached across her for the heavier coverlet, she moved into his side without waking. She put her head on his shoulder and curved her hand across his ribs.

He nuzzled her hair. “You have made me so happy, love,” he whispered. He had said the same thing last night, afterwards, when she had been silent and overwhelmed, and so warmly pliant in his arms.

He lay there as dawn brightened the room, content to feel her cozy weight beside him as he absently caressed her shoulder for an hour or two and the sounds of the mill escalated outside.

Her head jerked up when she woke. He waited to see if she might settle back down to sleep. She glanced around the room before finally looking at his face. Her eyes widened. She stared at him for a half minute, until he lifted his head to kiss her. She met him halfway. She seemed more abandoned, less analytical this morning. Greedy as he might be, he needed this with her again. Soon he ventured to lift the nightgown over her head.

“Oh, Margaret,” he whispered after admiring pale skin and perfect female curves, “you’ve struck me dumb again.”

Her nakedness had reminded her to be shy. Her cheeks blushed furiously under his stare. She curled her hands in the sheets. He gently pried one loose to press to his bare shoulder. “Touch me as I touch you.”

“Are you sure?” she asked tremulously.

“Quite.”

She bravely followed his lead until they were both panting. “Put your hands back on my shoulders,” he ordered gruffly as he moved over her.

She soon became very brave. She slipped her hands down his back until she could feel the powerful flex of his body. “John,” she whispered. “Please.”

“I know, love. Stay with me. Look at me,” he groaned, undone as she urged him on with her touch.

She broke, curling up into him until her lips were pressed to his chest. He had never experienced anything like it. He had never expected the body of the woman he loved to welcome him so generously. Hoped, yes, but never allowed himself the expectation.

When he had collected himself, he held her tightly, one hand cradling her head, the other draped possessively over her hip. Stupid, sated man that he was, he did not realize she was crying until she hiccupped.

“Margaret, what is it?” he asked, trying not to sound alarmed even though he knew she could feel every muscle in his body tense.

“You must be appalled. I mean, should I have done that?” she asked in a rush. “Was that correct? It is not very ladylike….”

He rolled her to her back so he could look down at her. His fingertips brushed the tears from her passion-flushed cheeks. “It was perfect, and I am the farthest thing from appalled. In fact, I would wager every penny I have ever earned that I am the luckiest man alive this morning.”

She blinked up at him, wanting to believe yet still worrying.

“Remember what I said last night? In these rooms we are man and woman. I love you. My body is made to show you that love.”

She lifted a hand to his stubbly cheek. She had never imagined that the privilege of seeing Mr. John Thornton with disheveled hair and no shirt would make her heart feel like it wanted to burst. “I love you, too, John, even more than I did yesterday at this time. Isn’t that a wondrous thing?”

* * *

In the next segment, to be posted on April 9, Margaret tries to fit in, especially after the return of the dragon. Click here if it is after April 9, 2014.

Chapter 9 – Becoming Mrs. Thornton #northandsouth #sequel #wedding

Jill Hughey — Wed, 26 Mar 2014 11:00:00 +0000

In this chapter of the North and South sequel, we are going to a wedding! And not just any wedding, the wedding! If you need to start from the very beginning, click here to go to Chapter 1.

John’s sister, Fanny Watson, had been disappointed to be excluded from what she viewed as the house party preceding the wedding. Her petulance failed to create enough guest chambers to accommodate Mr. and Mrs. Watson in addition to the London visitors, so she had had to leave for Milton from her own home in Hayleigh at the first hint of dawn, and in her delicate condition, she kept reminding everyone. Her arrival an hour before the ten o’clock wedding demanded the entire household’s attention to make amends.

The diversion left the bride, already dressed in her gown, and Edith, her fashionable matron of honor, free to talk quietly in Margaret’s room.

“Dearest, are you quite sure this is the family you want?” Edith whispered as Fanny’s persistent voice penetrated the walls like a needle stabbing repeatedly through cotton cloth.

“I am certain Mr. Thornton is the husband I want,” Margaret assured her. “The rest will work itself out.” John’s wedding band rested reassuringly on her gloved thumb. She twirled it around and around, wishing again that the time to leave for the church would come.

“He is rather distinguished,” Edith admitted. “And he adores you, no matter how chilly he is about showing it.”

“Edith!”

“I know. You explained last night that I should have no worries about his lack of passion. But truly, he could have spirited you away for a few minutes after that spectacle of fruitcake. Heaven knows the Captain spent a few reassuring moments with me the night before our wedding.”

Margaret would never tell Edith about the exquisite kisses she’d enjoyed in the shadows of the front steps last night. “Mr. Thornton is a gentleman,” she said. “He would not risk any impropriety, especially knowing that the Lennoxes view manufacturers as something akin to barbarians.”

Edith laughed with chagrin. “He has succeeded in being gentlemanly, then. Thank goodness his mother will go to his horrible sister’s home for a visit so that you can settle in here,” she whispered. She turned her face toward the window. “Oh, I hear the carriages now. Come, let me check your hair one last time.”

Margaret stood before a long looking glass, hardly recognizing the woman who stared back at her, her sleek, dark hair in remarkable contrast to the froth of veil over her bonnet. The simple gown had a fitted bodice topped with a layer of fine lace, long tight sleeves, and a full skirt of ivory damask. She wore a coral pendant and matching earrings that had been her mother’s.

Unexpected tears assaulted her as she touched the necklace. “My parents should be here,” she said to Edith.

“Yes, they should,” Edith replied, hugging her from behind and putting her chin on a lacy shoulder. “You said your father liked Mr. Thornton, didn’t you?”

Margaret nodded, heartened by the recollection. Father would have approved. “Thank you, Edith. I know this is not what you wanted for me.”

Edith sighed dramatically as she handed the bride her nosegay of roses and orange blossoms. “Sholto and I will miss you so, but how can I deny you what I found with the Captain?” She reached up to pinch some color into Margaret’s pale cheeks.

A knock sounded, followed by Jane. “Your carriage is waiting, Miss. All the others have gone. Oh, you do look beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Captain Lennox had stayed to escort them. The day took on a dream-like quality as Margaret walked to the carriage that waited at the edge of the bustling mill yard. The few workers who were outside stopped to stare. They cheered as the driver urged the horses toward the gate.

The familiar stone church wavered in her vision, its entrance seeming very far away when she alighted at the end of the short path. When Edith entered the narrow door ahead of her, Captain Lennox had to place Margaret’s hand formally on his arm to urge her forward. “Time for the charge,” he said encouragingly.

The delicious dream continued with the handsome, distinguished John Thornton waiting near the altar. For her.

This was really happening.

He stood with almost military stiffness. He might be accused of frowning, even glowering at her from under his fine slashing dark eyebrows, but she could see the glow in his eyes that Edith apparently could not. How could anyone consider him chilly when that intense expression on his face nearly melted her?

She remembered nothing of the ceremony, only the moment John slipped the delicately worked ring, warm from his coat pocket, onto her finger and looked at it there, fiercely pleased. He lifted her veil to kiss her and suddenly it was done.

Miss Hale, now Mrs. John Thornton, had enjoyed handing out cake last night much more than the wedding breakfast where Fanny competed with Edith, and Aunt Shaw silently disliked everything. Some of the other mill owners had come to the ceremony, making the men’s conversation after the meal lively, while Mrs. Thornton gravely introduced the new Mrs. John Thornton to the manufacturer’s wives without attempting to hide her displeasure at the task. Margaret struggled to remember their names, wishing she could clear the fog in her mind as the women welcomed her to their social set.

The only thing she seemed to be able to concentrate on was John. His proud voice carried across the drawing room. His possessive gaze often turned to her, though the sight of her looking back didn’t seem to scramble his words like hers, which, when she tried to speak, were mixed up like eggs for a fruitcake.

Suddenly, the small reception was done, too. The Londoners rushed to catch their train, and Mr. Watson bundled his unwilling wife and mother-in-law into his carriage, eager to get home before dark, just as the other local guests were.

Mr. and Mrs. John Thornton stood alone in the entryway. It was 2PM. The enterprise of the mill clattered around the house in workday normality. The cook and maids were heard cleaning teacups and pans below stairs.

Margaret frowned at the door. “I am not sure I comported myself well. I’ve already forgotten the names of most of your friends’ wives.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “They will undoubtedly forgive you. Are you exhausted? Would you like to rest this afternoon?”

“I’ve been feeling like an exotic animal on display at a circus. What I might like above all else is to take a walk. Will we make too much of a spectacle to go out on our wedding day? Of course, you might wish to go to the mill,” she realized suddenly.

He shook his head. “No mill, not until this time tomorrow, perhaps. If my wife wishes to take a walk, then a walk she shall have.”

Margaret rushed up to the room that had been hers, eager to prepare for a calming walk in the fresh air. She found her room has already been stripped of her belongings. She rang for Jane who led her down the hall, through a small sitting room, and into a corner bedchamber as severe as the rest of the house, with walls painted such a dark gray they were nearly black. Her pastel gowns looked frivolous and out of place in the heavy mahogany armoire. Burgundy velvet curtains and damask bedding provided just enough gothic horror to make Margaret certain she would never sleep a wink.

Jane helped her into a day gown. Margaret was glad to have Jane. Though flighty to be sure, the maid was accustomed to the house and thus provided a steadying force in this foreign land. Dixon, who had by default become Margaret’s maid after her mother died, had chosen to remain in London where she would seek a new position. Her fierce loyalty to Mrs. Hale had not transferred to Margaret, and the idea of returning to the town where her lifelong charge had died had been more than she could face.

Jane tied a heavy cloak under Margaret’s chin. “Your clothes are a pretty sight, Miss…Mrs. Thornton. Will you still go to London for your wardrobe?”

“I don’t know, Jane. I hope that is not necessary.”

She hurried out her door, so intent on not keeping John waiting that she nearly plowed into him in the sitting room. He had also changed into every-day clothing. “I see you have found your chamber,” he said as Jane scurried away. “You will want to redecorate. I had hoped Mother would show it to you when you visited before, so you might have the work done by today, but she thought it more appropriate to wait.”

“Was it her room?”

“No, we never lived here when my father was alive. However, she finished it in her style which I know is not yours. You must not worry about hurting her feelings. You must do with your bedroom and this sitting room as you would like.” He pointed to an open door behind him, at the corner opposite her door. “My chamber is there.”

Her face grew hot.

He gestured toward the hall. “Shall we walk?”

* * *

Chapter 10 will be posted on April 2. Find it here. Wedding night jitters and….