Margaret of the North (14 page)

"No," the colleague
replied and said no more, convinced nevertheless that he and his other
associates were right that money was involved.

Nicholas Higgins and his daughter
Mary were in church for the marriage ceremony and both John and Margaret made
certain that they felt welcome.  Nicholas suffered considerable discomfort at
first about going to the Thornton house for the dinner reception.  He was
conscious that his demeanor and his unease in this crowd made him stand out,
despite the unaccustomed suit he wore that could make him pass for one of the
manufacturers.  When they walked out of the church, the bride and groom had
pointedly sought them out, a gesture that was not lost on the other guests.  John
shook his hand vigorously and Margaret embraced Mary and kissed her on the
cheek.  Higgins felt that after that greeting, he had no choice but to attend
the dinner reception.  There, John and Margaret sat talking with him and Mary
for some time before taking their places at the head of the table.  He found
the dinner as painful as he thought he would but, conscious of his role in the
couple's present happiness, he felt great satisfaction as he watched them
mingle among the other guests.

Mrs. Thornton would always recall
that Sunday as the day she lost her son to the new woman in his life.  She was
grateful that he glowed happily, appeared confident and in control of his
destiny.  But her own important role in his life had ended, curtailed by
someone she doubted she would ever like.  She smiled graciously at the guests
but she was very subdued, weighed down by weariness, and she hardly talked to
anyone, hardly left her chair.  Her son was too rapt up in his new wife to
notice her.  But she watched their every move—gazing deeply into each other's
eyes, huddling their heads together when they talked to each other, whispering
into each other's ear—and, all that time, they seemed oblivious to the crowd. 
John kept to his wife's side, leading her around, an arm around her shoulders
or a hand on her back.  Once in a while, he stopped to kiss her.  Mrs. Thornton
saw all this and was aggrieved.  She was not prepared to accept Margaret.  She
had believed it was because Margaret did many things she found exasperating.  But
that night, she admitted to herself that she resented Margaret because she had
taken from her what was most precious to her.

To John and Margaret, the
gathering after the church ceremony was a haze.  Radiant as Margaret might have
appeared on the surface, her spirit flagged and she was nearly exhausted,
barely able to conceal from John her wish that the guests would soon leave. 
The wedding celebration was larger and more elaborate than she had wanted and
it lasted longer than she envisioned.  John hardly left her side, whispering
tender words into her ear, occasionally caressing her back or the nape of her
neck as he led her around and introduced her to business associates and their
wives.  At a lull in the introductions and bland niceties, he pulled her close
to him and planted a lingering kiss on her lips, whispering, "Just a
little while longer, my love."  Margaret briefly leaned against him,
squeezing his hand lovingly.

Most of the guests did finally
leave and only the family remained for a night cap.  The London party was
returning to their hotel and Mrs. Thornton was leaving with the Watsons to stay
with them for a few months.  John did not wait for them to finish their
drinks.  "Margaret is tired and we must say "Good Night" to you
all now."

Edith approached Margaret and as
the cousins embraced and kissed each other, she said sympathetically, "You
do look exhausted, my dear.  We will see you both in London in two days.  We
leave early tomorrow."  Then, she whispered something to Margaret who
seemed amused and whispered back to her.  The cousins parted from each other in
subdued laughter.

John and Margaret ascended the
stairs to their bedroom.  Dixon was waiting for them in the hallway. 
"I've come to help the mistress out of her gown, master."

All right, Dixon, I shall be in
my study."  He kissed Margaret and whispered, "I will see you soon,
my love."

Later in his study, he heard
Dixon open the door and leave it ajar.  She left without speaking.

John tapped the door to the
bedroom lightly a couple of times.  He did not wait for a response but he
wanted Margaret to know that he was coming.  He had waited in his study with an
anticipation that peaked as he opened the door with trembling hands and walked
with measured steps towards where she sat.  The room was illumined by only two
gas lamps, one of which was in front of the dresser and the other, on a
nightstand on the other side of the bed.  The light rendered into view only the
areas around the bed and the dresser, and merely hinted at the huge space
within.  John smiled to himself, somewhat amused at the arrangement.  It
appeared, to him, rather like a stage set where everything was thrown into
darkness except for the scene before them that the audience was compelled to
focus on.  He thought that Dixon need not have bothered; his mind and all his
senses had already been engaged all day in imagining his first night with
Margaret.

She sat facing the dresser,
calmly brushing her long hair down her shoulders, the light casting a glow over
her that brought out gold highlights in her dark hair and a faint flush on her
ivory skin.  The room was warm enough that she wore only a light lacy robe on
top of a silk nightgown.  Stripped of layers of clothing and her hair unleashed
from clips and pins, John thought she looked very young and fragile—quite
unlike the young woman with flashing eyes who chastised him for beating a
worker; or the alluring lady in an elegantly simple gown who finally captivated
him, only to cause him chagrin for openly challenging his beliefs in front of
his guests at dinner.

Under half-closed lids, Margaret
had followed his figure on the mirror as he approached and stopped so close
behind her that she could almost feel the heaving of his chest with every
breath he took.  She smiled at his reflection but the smile was fleeting and
her eyes were shifted quickly away when they met his.  She did not speak and
continued brushing her hair.

John stood still a few seconds,
rested his hands lightly on her shoulders.  He gazed at her reflection with
eyes dark and intense beneath his brow, overcome with feelings so strong that
they made him tremble and hesitant to speak for some time.  Margaret went on
brushing her hair, occasionally stealing glances at him.  Mostly, she stared,
as if riveted, at the objects on the dresser but, in fact, she was attempting
with little success to still her confusion.  She wondered how long he was going
to look at her in that way.  The flush on her cheeks deepened and she breathed
through barely parted lips.  She was somewhat startled when she finally heard
him speak, his voice tremulous with emotion.  "You are really here,
Margaret.  My love, my life, my wife."

He bent over and pressed his lips
on her shoulder.  Then he straightened slowly and his eyes wandered around the
room, catching bits of color and shapes gleaming in the dark.  After a minute
or two, he resumed, his voice a little steadier, "The night before I went
to Helstone, I never imagined you here.  I came into this room.  It seemed so
empty and forlorn, all the more so because it was so large and so cold and it
made me sad that it would never be used.  Not for what it had been intended. 
Not even as a room for guests."

He was silent again for a long
moment, smiling at her tremulously.  She wondered if she should say something
but she was at a loss for words.  All she could do was hold the brush firmly in
her hand so she could busy herself with the only activity that steadied her
fluttering breast.  She was almost relieved to hear him speak again.  "How
different it feels in here now.  Your presence alone has given it such warmth
but the small touches you have scattered in the room have made it inviting.  It
is………."  He paused, glancing at her and searching for words,
"intimate, enticing—a sanctuary."

Without raising her face from its
semi-bowed attitude, her shy eyes, luminous and large, met his in the mirror
once more.  She remained silent and she cast her eyes down again, flustered. 
She continued to glance at him sideways every once in a while, her mouth curved
up beguilingly at the edges and the lower lip thrust into a sensuous pout. 
Through all this, she did not stop brushing her hair.  He stood behind her for
some time, delighting in her nearness, her unusual beauty so irresistible to
him, and the droll and lively intelligence that enlivened those large blue eyes
even in her agitation at being admired so ardently.  Entranced by the
deliberate and rhythmic motions of her arms and the repetitive passes of the brush
over her luxurious hair, he picked up a handful of her locks and, with his
thumb, caressed it, the back of his hand grazing the bare flesh on the nape of
her neck.

Margaret stopped brushing and
laid her hands on her lap.  She met his blazing gaze on the mirror, the pupils
in her eyes rounder and darker blue as they glowed from within, her lips
slightly parted, her breath gushing through in a steady pant.  John took the
brush from her hand and realized then that she was trembling.  He took a step
closer and laid the brush on the dresser.  Grasping her arms, he slowly turned
her until they were face-to-face. 

He lifted her face up to his, his
eyes held hers so steadfastly that she could not look away.  "My
love," he whispered.

He grasped her shoulders, raised
her from the chair, and pulled her close to him.  He kissed her parted lips and
then his mouth brushed lightly against her chin and down her throat where he
took little nibbles of her smooth ivory flesh.  On the day they were introduced
to each other in her father's study, he could hardly take his eyes off her.  As
his eyes wandered from her face to her throat, he had wondered what it was like
to kiss that defiant mouth, to bury his face against that neck and feel its
pulsating warmth.  Now, he could do as he desired and it thrilled him more than
he had imagined.  When Margaret arched her head back and rubbed her cheek
against his, his mounting passion became harder to restrain.

He slipped the robe off her
shoulders and down her arms.  Her body, supple and pliant under her nightgown,
melted into his arms.  His lips roamed over every inch of her face until they
found her mouth.  She received his kisses, tentatively in the beginning but as
his kisses became more insistent, she wound her arms around his neck and clung
to him, returning his kisses with an increasing ardor that fueled his even
more.  There was, for John, such exquisite wonder in this moment of passionate
surrender, a moment that only a couple of weeks ago, he had despaired would
ever happen.  He scooped Margaret up in his arms and carried her to the bed. 
She nuzzled her head against his neck and the breath from her slightly open
mouth tingled his skin with moist pleasurable warmth.  He felt her tremble once
more.

He was, himself, trembling as he
laid her down on the bed, but he moved deliberately, taking his time.  He had
waited so long and he wanted this night to last.  At the train station, when he
first kissed her, Margaret had responded with an eagerness that amazed him,
that held promise for what it would be like for her to return his feelings. 
Now, in this room when it seemed they were all alone in the world, he made love
to her, tenderly and unhurriedly at first, attuned to her responses and guided
by them.  She yielded to his every move, shyly in the beginning, her eyes
closed.  But her whole being was drawn into the sensations of those moments,
meshing with his, her excitement rising along with his.  As his caresses and
kisses grew more intense, he felt her sweetly straining against him and
responding with a passion that, because he had not anticipated it, surprised
him, but only for an ephemeral moment.  Then it incited him to heights of
pleasure heretofore unknown, unimagined, and now unleashed in wondrous waves. 
Much later as he fell asleep, recollecting the past hour with some residual
exhilaration, he knew he would never forget it.

When, finally, John pulled the
sheets over their bodies, Margaret buried her face, flushed and moist, on his
shoulders.  Shy once again, she concealed from him her eyes, brilliant with
lingering excitement.  Everything that just happened was all so new to her and
she wanted time to comprehend it.  She had had no inkling how she would respond
and she had felt anxious at her inexperience.  But alone with John in their
bedroom, she found herself reacting spontaneously and artlessly.  She had been
exhausted by all the goings-on of the day.  By the time she sat in front of the
dresser that evening, she felt herself wilting, uncertain of how she would hold
up but when she heard the tap on the door, she sat up, a certain agitation
infusing her with a second wind.  When John came in, she felt confused,
anxious, and yet expectant; she could no longer think, she could only feel. 
She allowed her mind to submit to her feelings, to her instinct and her
impulses, to whatever her body willed her to do.

Margaret dreamily nudged closer
to John as she drifted off to sleep, marveling once more at how tender he could
be.  This husband of hers was as intense in love as in anger, at least when
provoked by the threat of danger, as he had been by a worker he caught smoking
inside the mill.  How remote that seemed to her now, how like an alien dream. 
As sleep finally arrested consciousness, Margaret was still in the middle of an
increasingly foggy reverie about her tender, intense, complicated husband.

John lay awake a little longer,
stroking her hair, relishing the memory, the wonder of how naturally she
responded to him.  He turned toward her sleeping face and kissed her closed
eyelids and slightly parted lips.