Chapter Text
His fingertips brushed the scalloped lace edge of her heirloom veil. They stood close enough before the altar to feel the heat emanating from one another in drafty Milton Church. Despite the October chill, John Thornton felt overly warm at that moment. He smoothed a nervous hand over the cream cravat that complimented his champagne damask waistcoat.
“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will.” His baritone voice carried throughout the nave.
“Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will,” came her soft reply.
Mr. Thornton placed the gold wedding band on Margaret Hale’s hand and together they knelt to pray.
“O eternal God, send thy blessing upon these thy servants, this man and this woman; that, as Isaac and Rebecca lived faithfully together, so, too, John and Margaret may surely perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made and may ever remain in perfect love and peace together until their lives end.”
John extended his hand to assist Margaret as they stood once more and were declared man and wife. He turned to see her already watching him from underneath her veil. His pulse quickened as he gently lifted the length of silk tulle away from her face and she rewarded him with a private smile that unmanned him. Her eyes were warm and trusting and he could not help a small smile in return as a quiet happiness sunk in. His life was finally about to begin. They stood gazing at one another in newfound wonder, until Margaret tucked her dainty hand into his large one.
“Husband,” she said in a quiet voice.
—----
Mr. Thornton blinked, drawn back to the present, and tried to focus on the sermon as he sat with his family in the front pew of Milton Church on Easter Sunday. He cut a solemn and imposing figure dressed in his customary black, despite the day’s message of joy and hope. Next to him was a young boy of five, who was the spitting image of his father with ink black hair set against his fair skin and blue eyes. The boy was squeezed between Mr. Thornton and Mr. Thornton’s mother, Hannah, who was holding in her lap a little girl of no more than two years.
“I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believe in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”
Richard Hale listened intently to the priest deliver the Easter message as he sat next to the Thorntons. Even after all these years it was bittersweet for Mr. Hale to sit idly as a parishioner where he once delivered homilies from the pulpit. For every clergyman, the Easter sermon was the most important on the calendar as it marked the defining event of their faith. Margaret touched her father’s hand in silent support. When the congregation stood to sing out the final hymn, she glanced over at John and thought he seemed rather forlorn.
After the service, John and his mother departed the church with the children in tow. Mr. Hale followed and Margaret walked alongside him. They all piled into a carriage, with the exception of Mr. Thornton.
“I’ll be along in a little while to join you. I’ll come to Hayleigh directly,” he said with a hand on the carriage door.
His sister, Fanny Watson, was hosting her annual Easter luncheon and egg roll at her home in Hayleigh. Hannah gave an acknowledging nod, as though she was unsurprised by his proposal, and Margaret watched with curiosity as Mr. Thornton stepped away from the carriage and turned to make his way up a steep path adjacent to the chapel. The narrow path traced a large hill cresting high above the city. The carriage pulled away and Margaret watched his receding form through the window until they turned onto the main road leading away from Milton and he disappeared from sight.
—-------
“Aunt Fanny!” The children raced towards the house where John’s sister was waiting at the front door to meet them, with her two daughters, Alice and Louise, bouncing excitedly alongside her. Fanny had arranged a picnic-style luncheon on the front lawn, with lots of games and trinkets. The children all linked arms as they made their way onto the grass and Fanny led them in an Easter egg hunt.
As promised, Mr. Thornton arrived at the Watsons’ sprawling estate just over an hour after the rest of his family. When he approached the party, Fanny met him with a smile.
“John,” she said, embracing him. “Good, you made it, finally. Come along, lunch is nearly finished.”
He pulled away and looked into her face. “I am glad to see you, Fanny.”
They greeted each other with unexpected affection, Margaret observed, as if their sibling bond had warmed from its former coldness. Fanny placed a hand on John’s shoulder and fussed over him, noting his tired appearance. She smoothed down his windblown hair and urged him to take a morsel of food. He indulged her with a small smile and a kiss on the cheek, ignoring her pleas to eat and instead doffed his coat to join the children in their scavenger hunt.
Margaret reclined against a large oak tree in the center of the lawn, content to watch as John chased around the children with their baskets. He was a handsome man and had an easy manner with the younglings. At one point they all managed to tackle him to the ground and piled on, laughing heartily at their handiwork. When they had done with the chase, the kids settled on blankets to inspect their baskets for the many sweets they had gathered. Only the youngest among them, the little girl, clung on to her father. John held on to his daughter and Margaret saw that, for the briefest moment, his smile faltered and his expression clouded. The little girl smiled at him and he quickly recovered some, though not all, of his own cheerfulness.
—----
Later that evening, back at Marlborough House the kids were tucked away to bed, well worn out from the day’s activities. John, Hannah and Mr. Hale all sat down to dinner. Margaret sat in her customary chair at the foot of the table, although no place setting had been laid for her.
“It is almost Margaret’s birthday,” Mr. Hale said.
John’s head shot up. “What?”
“Little Maggy, my how quickly she has grown.”
“Oh, of course,” John replied, flustered. He took a sip from his wine glass to recover himself. “Aye, she’s nearly two now.”
Hannah saw her son’s discomposure. “I’m sure Fanny would love to arrange a party for her, John,” she said.
“Aye, I’m sure she would.”
“And Fanny’s girls, how they dote on her. It would be a fine occasion for Maggy.” John did not respond. “So I’ll speak to Fanny about it, then?” Hannah pressed.
John looked at his mother. “Of course,” he said, before adding, “A tea party, perhaps. Maggy could dress up with all her dolls.”
“Good, that’s a fine idea,” Hannah replied.
“Margaret always loved putting on imaginary tea parties in our rose garden in Helstone when she was a little girl,” Richard reminisced.
John looked at his father-in-law with the same cloudy expression but made no comment. That was not something he knew about his wife but he could well imagine it: her directing Frederick about while she poured tea for him and any invited squirrels or other sundry countryside creatures under a tree shade, meticulous about the number of sugar lumps. He managed a tight, uncomfortable smile at Richard’s nostalgia.
An awkward silence fell over the table. After a moment, he turned back to his mother. “I’ll speak to Higgins and invite the Boucher children. The youngest ones, at least, might enjoy a child’s tea party.”
Mrs. Thornton opened her mouth to object, but thought the better of it. “Very well,” she replied with diffidence.
If John noticed his mother’s change in tone, he successfully ignored it. The Boucher children always got on well with his own children. And anyway, it is what she would have wanted.
After dinner, John called for the carriage to take a fatigued Mr. Hale home. He and his mother sat up a little longer over tea in the drawing room.
Hannah hesitated before speaking again. “Did you visit Margaret’s grave today?”
John looked down, clearing his throat. “Aye, I did.”
“And?”
He sighed. “I am fine, mother. You needn’t worry about me.” She looked skeptical but did not press further.
“Well we ought to take the children to visit their mother’s grave, as well, perhaps before Maggy’s birthday? Arthur is old enough now to understand. I, too, would like to pay my respects. It’s been a while since my last visit. It would do good to go as a family.”
He nodded. “Thank you, mother. I think she’d have liked that. As would I.”
They finished their tea in mostly quiet conversation before standing to retire. Hannah placed a gentle hand on her son’s forearm. He gripped her hand for a moment with a grateful squeeze before clearing his throat.
Margaret stood at the top of the landing on the second floor as John and his mother made their way to their respective bedrooms. John looked on as the elder Mrs. Thornton disappeared into her room at the end of the hall. He stood in front of his own bedroom door and hesitated.
Margaret thought back to the moment outside the church. He had tapped the door to the carriage then stepped away. Only then had she noticed the small bouquet of flowers he carried in one hand. He took the upward sloping path, walking a long distance until he reached the summit. He removed his hat just as a northwesterly wind swept through, blowing his hair off course, the flat panel of his trousers clinging to him against the wind. There he stood, hat and floral offering in hand, his eyes taking in the stone before him.
Margaret Elizabeth Thornton
October 6, 1830 - April 10, 1856
Beloved mother, wife, daughter, sister.
John laid the flowers and let his calloused palm rest a moment over the cool dirt. In truth, there were days when he wanted to lay down this mortal coil and crawl into the earth alongside her. But Maggy and Arthur were his life’s blood. He could never let them, or Margaret, down. He trod the lonely path stretched out before him as stoically as he could manage, yet the melancholy clung to him as a man still absorbing a great shock. Despite his best efforts to go about life with his usual reserved dignity, everyone knew the master had dearly loved his late wife and that she had loved him, in turn. How much greater they pitied him for his cruel loss.
John stood with a pained expression outside the bedroom door, his hand hovering over the knob. In his mind’s eye he could still hear her uncertain whisper, “Mr. Thornton,” as he held her close in the back library of her aunt’s London townhouse where they came to a tender understanding that set them on a new path together. The mingled breath before their first kiss in the privacy of the northbound train as it hurried through the approving wolds onward towards Milton. The vulnerable sigh that caused his chest to tighten when he brought her home as man and wife and made love to her for the first time in this bedroom.
He glanced down the hallway, in Margaret’s direction, for a moment, as if he were waiting for something. Then his eyes fell and he released a quiet, resigned sigh. He turned the knob and walked into their room alone, closing the door behind him.
Gentle shade that she was, Margaret retreated, bereft to do naught but observe how life went on without her.