Margaret of the North (17 page)

Of all that Paris offered them on
this trip, John and Margaret were most struck by the lively interest in ideas
that possessed café habitués and the zeal with which they defended their unique
viewpoints.  For Margaret, who had lived with books and had listened in on
discussions among her father and his friends, such fascination was not unusual
and she reveled in it.  But John was astounded, thrown a bit off balance.  Such
fervent interest in ideas was an indulgence he had to forego, a luxury he could
not afford in his pursuit of success in commerce.  He did not really have much
of a choice when, barely a young man, he had to work to support his mother and
sister.  Later, it was his single-minded quest for commercial success that
rendered anything that had nothing to do with his business remote and unimportant. 
Here, in these cafés, however, he saw how much the French cared about arts,
politics, and the social order, investing much energy and time thinking and
talking about them, as much, perhaps, as he did in the manufacture of cotton. 
He saw all these and he envied the French.  He envied, as well, their
spontaneity, the naturalness with which they hugged and kissed on both cheeks
not only when they greeted each other but, often, also when they parted, even
after heated arguments.  What strange concerns, obsessions and customs these
were to someone like him bred on English reserve, particularly one imbued with
Darkshire somberness.  What a world away from the incessantly whirring,
clanging machines and the swirling cloud of white cotton and, yet, it did not
seem to matter, it did not bring on the trepidation he usually felt at being
away more than a day from the work and the setting that had defined his life.

*************

Through all those varied
stimulating days of moving among Parisians, John was astonished to find that
Margaret spoke rather good French, with little of the English accent he could
detect among the young women in Milton for whom speaking French was a mark of
the fashionable and accomplished.  One night, after an exhausting day of monuments
and galleries, they had dinner at the hotel, took a short walk, and retired to
their room earlier than previous days.  Margaret, who was particularly tired,
sat in bed reading a French journal she had picked up in the lobby.

John sat on the other side of the
bed and remarked, "You and Edith must have had a truly good teacher who
taught you French.  You speak it so fluently."

"I told you earlier that
Papa had a Frenchman friend.  Actually I first learned French from him when I
was a child and before I was sent to London.  My father met him in Oxford where
he had studied English literature.  He came back to England years later, when I
was six or seven, to do translations and write a book.  Papa invited him to
stay with us and for two years, he lived with us.  He said I was at the best
age to learn a new language and talked to me only in French.  When he returned
to France, he wrote me and sent me books, all in French, of course.  He
entertained us with wonderful descriptions of paintings and drawings, even in
his letters that he sent me until he died.  I think he nurtured my interest in
art."  Her voice quivered a little and she looked away, her eyes sad and
thoughtful.

John was surprised by the gravity
in her voice and the melancholy that briefly crossed her brow.  "How
upsetting, I am sure, for an impressionable and sensitive young girl to lose an
admired and trusted friend but you must have good memories of him." 

He took the journal lying on her
lap and placed it on the table.  He inched closer to her, put an arm around her
shoulder, and pressed his lips on her temple.  She leaned on his shoulder and
was silent for a little while.

She sighed a few times and in a
sad voice, she reminisced.  "I was 13 and living with my aunt and Edith
when he passed away.  Not really a child anymore but not quite a young woman
either.  And yes, I do have good memories but I have not thought about him in a
long time.  To my admiring childish eyes, he was the handsomest creature I had
ever seen, with dark wavy hair, dark piercing eyes and a deep musical voice.  I
fancied myself infatuated with him by the time he returned to France.  I was
eight and fantasized he would come back in ten years to marry me.  But he died
young, in his thirties, I believe."  She paused, her eyes poignant with
memories of a young girl's awakening passions.  John listened in uneasy
silence, unwittingly stung with a pang of jealousy that he knew was irrational.

"I showed him my drawings
and he said that I had an artist's eye, that he could tell from the way I chose
colors and drew a line.  His remark made me so happy and proud for days. 
Later, I began to doubt what he told me because I struggled at my drawing
lessons with our London governess.  I did find sketching with charcoal and
colored chalks quite absorbing but I probably believed those chalks had a
certain magic because they were his gift to me, sent over from Paris.  In
Helstone, I used to take my basket of art materials when I went out for walks
so I could draw or do watercolors when I saw some interesting views and
objects.  As I grew older, other interests beckoned and, in London, Edith also
drew me into grown-up feminine pursuits that occupied more of my time.  Since
leaving Helstone, I have had neither time nor inclination to paint."

She sat up and turned to face
him, her pensive eyes had brightened somewhat.  "But, you know, these last
few days of going to all these art shows have reawakened my interest.  The arts
seem to be such a serious preoccupation with the French.  They flock to shows in
big crowds, write about them and debate endlessly."

He smiled, glad for the change in
her mood and in her shift from the past to the present.  "I do not know
how much art one can find in Milton.  We certainly do not have interesting
subjects for it, unlike Helstone with its lush landscapes."

"No, but it's not only
landscapes that interest artists.  Remember the paintings and drawings of
workers and farmers that we saw done by artists like Daumier and Millet and, of
course, that one by Manet that everyone is talking about?"

He shook his head, smiling at her
enthusiasm.  "I do not remember any artists, much less tell one from
another."

She pursed her lips and glared at
him in mock annoyance, "I thought you were getting as much pleasure as I
was from those pictures."

"I did find the pictures
quite interesting, particularly that picnic painting but my pleasure came more
from watching you and the many varied expressions on your face as you looked at
them."  He lifted her face up to his and planted a light kiss on her
lips.  "I keep learning new things about you that I sometimes wonder how
much I really know of the woman I married."

"Oh?  I am still me. 
Anyway, it is a bit too late to change your mind now, isn't it?"

"You are right, of
course," he replied, grinning.

He held her closer and she laid
her head on his shoulder.  After some minutes of silence, he said softly. 
"If you would like to draw and paint again, then you should do so. 
Perhaps, we can set up a place for you to paint in and that way, you will have
no excuse not to."

"I would like all that, but
all in good time.  I think I have many things to learn and adjust to as your
wife and, for now, those will occupy much of my time."

He smiled, conjuring up a very
pleasing image of her as mistress of his household.

"I will confess, though,
that I much prefer sketching to needlework.  Do you suppose people would think
painting an inappropriate occupation for a master's wife?" She lifted her
head and faced him.  She paused, searching her memory for the proper expression
and, in a quivering high-pitched voice, imitated a woman gossiping with
another.  "Did you see Thornton's wife?  Her face is smudged and her apron
is stained with paints.  Scandalous!  Can she not embroider or play piano
instead?"

She giggled self-consciously at
her bad mimicry and he laughed at both her unsuccessful attempt and her
embarrassment.  "It seems acting is not something you will attempt,"
he said.

"No,"  she answered,
bowing her head and pouting in mock shame.

He was entranced by her flirtatiousness,
and amused at himself for being so.  She did learn feminine wiles, after all,
and could use them when she wanted to.  He had never seen her wield them until
after they became engaged, certainly not when they were newly acquainted nor
thereafter when everything seemed hopeless between them.  Her artlessness was
one reason he fell for her and yet, now, he tingled and willingly succumbed to
all the flirtatious, seductive gestures she directed at him.  If she so chose,
he could be putty in her hands, he who prided his will, strength of mind, and
imperviousness to influence especially of the feminine kind.  She had
thoroughly penetrated that special spot in his heart and he felt himself
vulnerable to all the joy and pain she was capable of giving him.  Still, he
thought, the greatest pain he could imagine would come from losing her, now
that he knew the bliss of living in their love for each other.

He was about to clasp her closer
again when she raised her head and said coyly, "I'm glad you did not marry
me for my reputation because, with all the gossip I seem to inspire, it is
probably in tatters by now."

"But, of course, I
did," he replied, chuckling.  "When I met you I realized I wanted
someone unlike the ladies I was acquainted with in Milton, a lady with an
uncommon beauty but also a mind of her own that sometimes got her into a bit of
trouble.  Was that too much to ask?"  He reconsidered what he just said
and asked, raising a dark eyebrow mischievously.  "Are there many like you
in London?"

Margaret glared at him and thrust
her lower lip, pretending displeasure.  She retorted with a haughty lift to her
chin, "What if there are?   You have been spoken for and you can never go
back to the way things were."

He appeared hesitant for a second
but she broke into a bewitching smile, wound her arms around his neck, pulled
his head down, and kissed him.  "But bless your heart for being constant
through my inexperience and confusion."

He smiled and said nothing but he
lifted her face and kissed her.

She leaned against him and spoke
again, slowly, "You asked me once if Henry Lennox had ever proposed to me
and I did not answer.  I was grateful then that you did not press the matter. 
I felt remorseful about Henry because I believe I hurt him twice.  Years earlier,
before we left Helstone, he did propose.  I think he misunderstood a remark I
made at Edith's wedding."

"You rejected him then?  I
am glad to know I was in good company."

She gave him that half smile. 
"In London, after my parents died, I believe he was waiting to renew his
proposal.  I like Henry.  I have known him for a long time and I feel at ease
in his presence.  He is clever and sophisticated and with his ambition, he will
go far."

She looked down, thoughtful,
before continuing.  "But Henry did not make me feel the thrill, the
fluttering in my breast that I did, even at such a naive age, with my young
Frenchman."

Again, that pang of jealousy hit
John and, for a moment, he compressed his lips and scowled but he was smiling
once again when Margaret said, her eyes fixed on his earnestly, "It was
not until I met you that I felt that way again."

"Yes?"  John's face
lighted up.

"It did take me some time to
see it.  After our early encounters, I convinced myself that I did not like you
but, later, when I finally admitted it to myself, I realized I had been
attracted to you long before I saw it.  Anyway, it was the sort of attraction I
could not deny for too long.  It was certainly no longer just a child's
fascination."

John's whole being was suffused
with a pleasurable warmth but he remained silent, his jealousy flung aside as
silly.  He hoped she would say more.

She went on, her eyes cast down
once again.  "I think I have changed since I met you particularly these
last few weeks that we have been together.  You have awakened so much in me,
stirred up memories and feelings that were dormant all these years.  I had
actually buried those memories of Monsieur Fleury rather deeply, maybe because
he was the first loss I suffered of people I cared about and I was then so
young."

She raised her face, looked
deeply into his eyes again.  "With you, I learned what love is.  Do you
know that you actually began to interest me not too long after we met."

"At my mother's last dinner
party?"

"Yes, certainly," she
replied and then, in a saucy tone, added "but even before that, I thought
the shadow your scowl cast on your eyes made you seem dark and mysterious. 
Dark and mysterious always arouses my desire to know more."

He laughed, a spontaneous merry
laugh that had been relatively rare for him.  "I knew that scowl would
eventually attract the woman I would want to marry."

It delighted Margaret to see him
in such mirth.  He seemed more spirited and younger despite the deeper lines
around his mouth and his eyes.  Since the day they married, she found him
evolving before her eyes in many wonderfully complex ways.  For a few more
moments, they smiled quietly, happily at each other.  Then, she said, "But
seriously, I thought we started out so far apart in our beliefs that it seemed
impossible, in my mind, that I could ever like you.  Later, after the riot,
that was what I told myself.  In any case, I would never marry just for money
or to save my reputation."

"I don't blame you for
rejecting me that first time.  When I look back at my behavior then, I am
heartily ashamed.  I did expect you to accept me and was convinced that you
could not do otherwise.  I was arrogant—no, insolent—and did not really listen
to what you had to say.  I interrupted you several times, concerned only with
what I thought and certain that my perceptions mattered more.  But the irony
was, hurt as I was by your rejection, you made me look more closely at you, at
myself and I came away from that unfortunate meeting painfully aware that I
loved you even more."