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FIC: Sick of Shadows (North and South, by Elizabeth Gaskell) - 8
Title: Sick of Shadows
Rating: this chapter PG, overall NC-17 for explicit sex
Length: this chapter 7 K, overall probably 110 K. 80 K written so far
Characters: Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Summary: Margaret and Mr. Thornton gradually get to know each other better. With conversation, balls, politics, and Fanny.
A/N: 1. Much thanks to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hl, who made this fic better than it was. Sorry for the wait on this chapter.
Constructive criticism is welcome.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9? | Chapter 10? | Chapter 11? | Chapter 12?
Chapter Eight
“Margaret, you look very pretty!” Fanny said, as soon as she came down and saw her. Fanny’s voice sounded surprised to what would have been an insulting degree, had Margaret not know Fanny as well as she did. “I never would have thought you would wear something that interesting,” Fanny went on. “I thought you were a stick in the mud for sure.”
“I am.” Margaret laughed. She was still in a happy mood. “This is all just for show.”
“It always is,” Fanny said, puzzled as to how Margaret did not know this already. “But where are your gloves?”
“All of my gloves are entirely too practical for this silly affair. I think I can manage without.”
“Without!” Fanny was appalled. “We went to a thousand shops this afternoon! You should have told me. Come up to my room.”
To humour her, Margaret followed Fanny. In the room she shared with Ann, Fanny tossed two or three dozen articles of clothing out of her trunk, at last surfacing with a pair of dainty lace gloves. Margaret wrinkled her nose. “I thought the point of a glove was to cover one’s hands,” she said.
“You promised you would not be practical,” Fanny said, even though Margaret had made no such promise. “It is your least interesting quality.”
Laughing again, Margaret pulled on the gloves. “I suppose this makes me more a lady, never having to worry my head over anything that makes any sense. I told your brother he must not talk sense to me all evening.”
Fanny rolled her eyes. “There is no use talking to John that way. He is as like to bite your head off as anything.”
“On the contrary. He seemed to enjoy himself.”
“John never enjoys himself. The only reason he is going to this old ball anyway is because he thinks he has to. He will not even dance.”
Margaret felt quite suddenly insistent. “He does enjoy himself. He stole my fan.”
“What on earth is he going to do with that?”
Margaret watched Fanny putting back her things for a little while. “I think your brother would like to have fun,” she said. “I do not think he lets himself very much. He has so many things to worry about.”
“Like cotton and strikes and business. You do not have to tell me. He likes letting me know.”
“And he worries about you.”
Fanny slammed her trunk shut. “John does not worry about me. I can get by on my own.”
“But he does. He cares for you a great deal.”
Fanny made a face. “He is a very proper brother.” She did not appear to want to talk any more on the subject. “I am glad I have you for a sister. John went about it so slowly, I thought I would not have one. And then when Miss Latimer returned from school, everyone thought it would be her. Ann thought so too, I think. But I knew you liked him. I saw you looking. For myself, I am glad he picked you, even if I did think you were so unpolished and plain at first. That blue really does wonders for your complexion.”
Margaret did not know how to process the insult or the information. It seemed too much all at once, and Fanny did not even realize what she had said. At last Margaret managed, “I . . . thank you, Fanny.”
“Oh.” Fanny rolled her eyes again. “You have not talked to me that cold since the beginning. Are you in a fit because I said you were plain? You are not. Your looks grow on one, you know.”
Margaret smiled gravely. “I do not mind if you think me plain.”
“I bet you do not. You never care what anyone thinks. Heaven knows why. What everyone thinks is terribly important! You are not cross, are you?” Fanny sounded annoyed at the possibility.
“I am not cross.”
“Everyone is always cross with me. Especially John. Oh, Margaret! It is going to be such a lovely evening, with music and dancing and all kinds of fascinating things. You are not going to be an old bore, are you?”
Margaret smiled again. “No. I will not be an old bore.”
“And you will send gentlemen my way? I think normally they would ask me to dance in a heartbeat,” she said, so quickly that Margaret thought not very many people ever asked Fanny to dance. “But you see how I have nothing new to wear, and you look so lovely.”
Fanny’s dress was only a little better than the magenta tartan. It was yellow, which went very ill with her complexion. There were stripes involved. “I will try,” Margaret said.
“You would not need to nudge them very much. I am quite a skilled dancer. Well, I am glad I did not make you angry. It is so pleasant to have a sister. John never sends the gentlemen my way. One cannot talk to brothers about such things. He will never speak of anything interesting!”
Margaret decided not to tell her that she had never heard Mr Thornton speak of anything uninteresting.
For the rest of the time, until Mr Watson came in a carriage to escort half their party, Fanny talked about the ball, and how glad she was to have a sister who cared about such things. Since Margaret could barely get a word in edgewise, she did not bother to correct her. Instead she observed the people around herself, as she was wont to do. Ann Latimer looked very lovely in lavender. Mr Thornton did not come down from his room until it was just time to go.
Ann and Fanny, unsurprisingly, opted to go in Mr Watson’s carriage, and they took Mr Latimer with them. That left Margaret, Mr Thornton, and the Carters to go in the Carters’ carriage. Mrs Carter was the talker of that bunch. For once she had removed her little house-cap, and donned a red turban with a large feather coming out of it. Margaret found this an alarming ornament, which meant that it had sent Fanny into ecstasies.
Mr Thornton, meanwhile, was subdued. Margaret expected him to be, as Mrs Carter chatted on about sartorial matters the whole way there. She told Margaret she looked very well, and then to her surprise Mr Thornton joined in the conversation to agree. “I had not seen these before,” he added, and brushed the back of her hand with his fingers. He took his hand away, but she could feel the heat of them through the lace gloves.
“They are Fanny’s,” Margaret told him, and then wondered that he could recognize that she had never worn them, and not remember that his own sister had been wearing them for years.
“Oh,” was all he said.
“Men,” said Mrs Carter. “They do not know anything!”
*
The ball was a crush. As Fanny would have said, “they let just anyone in”, except that this was exactly how Fanny got there. It had been organized by a speculator, which meant that all sorts of people came, from lords to manufacturers. This was just the sort of ball families like Aunt Shaw’s avoided, but there were plenty of gentlefolk there who were less discerning, or else merely curious.
By the time the Carters’ carriage arrived, the assembly hall was full, and dancing had already commenced. Mrs Carter rushed about to find everyone she knew or had ever known, and to introduce everyone to her new friends. Fanny need not have worried. Within the first fifteen minutes, their dance cards were already half full.
Margaret was not terribly eager to dance. She had never been a particularly good dancer, which might have been part of why she had never liked it. While she enjoyed the jolly romps she and her father used to make about the dining room at Helstone, she was not light-footed. Edith had once told her she did everything with too much purpose to be graceful.
She also had never been particularly interested in the conversations most people struck up while dancing. If one did not know one’s partner well, comments were often restricted to the number of couples, or remarks upon the style of dance. If one was rather better acquainted, then one moved on to talk about people, and who was dancing with whom, and the sort of carriage one came in, and whether this was a good ball at all, or whether courtships would result from it.
Usually, Margaret became heartily bored of it all. But then she was not so often asked to dance, so it was not a problem. She wondered if she could stand it now.
If wives had been allowed to dance with husbands, she thought she could have stood it. She wondered what it would have been like, to dance with Mr Thornton. It felt strange to have a husband she had never danced with. She suspected she might have enjoyed it, completely in spite of herself.
It was not until Margaret was making a curtsy to Colonel Carter, her first partner, that she realized if she could not dance with her husband, he too must dance with someone else. For some reason this had not occurred to her until that very moment. She simply had not imagined him dancing at all. It did not seem to her like something he would do.
Suddenly it disturbed her very much that she did not know whether he was dancing this set or not. As the dance opened and she took her first steps, she told herself he might be. There was no reason he should not.
She wondered whether Ann Latimer was his partner.
Colonel Carter was a spry old fellow. In the carriage he had claimed to his wife he would not stop dancing. Even if he was three and fifty, he told her, he could still keep up with any young thing. He had asked Margaret for the first dance just to prove it, and Margaret had laughed and told him yes. Mrs Carter had tsked and looked at her husband affectionately, and even then, Margaret had not considered Mr Thornton dancing.
She could not find Mr Thornton on the floor. Colonel Carter was not only spry; he was very merry. He spoke to her of a man named Dawson who was over there, tripping on his partner, and how well Sally Chamberlain looked. When Miss Chamberlain had been a girl she had been so freckled—a shame for an heiress to a large fortune, he said—but she had grown up rather pretty. And Miss Thornton, Colonel Carter thought, looked exceedingly well, even in that horrid yellow. It was
the rose in her cheeks, he said, and the way she did not care what anyone else thought.
“She says she cares,” Margaret said, eyes still scanning the tremendous crush of people.
Colonel Carter chuckled. “She tries to care! But her mouth does have a tendency to get away from her.”
“I love Fanny,” Margaret said, surprised to realize that it was true.
“I did not mean her mouth was not lovely. Though it is not nearly so wide and honest as yours.”
Margaret made some demur answer. She was unsure whether Colonel Carter meant it as an actual compliment, or an observation of her tendency towards bluntness.
She still could not see Mr Thornton among all the dancers whirling around them. Furthermore she was at a loss to explain to herself why finding him was so important, nor why finding out his dance partner seemed similarly crucial. There would be nothing wrong in him dancing with Ann Latimer. Even if he had once fancied Ann, or Ann him, there could be nothing between them now.
John was married to her.
“Who are you looking for?” Colonel Carter asked as they met again in the quadrille.
Margaret was startled.
Colonel Carter chuckled. “You think I do not see you do not care a whit for me? You are craning your neck.”
“Mr Thornton,” Margaret said, embarrassed. “I did not think to ask with whom he would dance this one.”
“What a bore you are,” Colonel Carter said. Margaret could suddenly see why Mrs Carter, who loved fun, also loved her husband. “To be looking after your own husband. I had hoped it would be a dashing count.”
“I do not know any counts.” She frowned.
“Never mind.” Colonel Carter laughed. “Your husband is just as boring. If one is going to stalk about looking like a Byron hero, one should at least have the decency to moon after some elfin fairy. Or perhaps a Russian princess.”
Margaret was momentarily startled into giving Colonel Carter her full attention. “Byron hero?” She had never heard an appellation she thought less suited to Mr Thornton.
“Yes,” said Colonel Carter. “He has been brooding this whole time we have been dancing. Really, if he is going to glare at someone, it should not be his own wife.”
“Where?”
“There.” Colonel Carter turned her so she could see. “The only spot in the whole room perfectly situated for the best view of you. It is a wonder you have not noticed him; he casts such an imposing shadow.”
It was true what Colonel Carter said: Mr Thornton was watching her, wearing a slight frown. There seemed to her a kind of space around him, as though other people feared his consternation might alight upon them.
Her breath caught. Despite his frown, Mr Thornton looked quite well. He must have retied the cravat.
“There,” Colonel Carter said. “Does that soothe your worries?”
Margaret threw her head back. “I was not worried.”
“I think that Mr Thornton is. I think he thinks that some fine young gentleman will come your way and sweep you entirely off your feet.”
Still holding her chin up high, Margaret said, “He could not think that of me. I am his wife.”
Colonel Carter laughed. “Stranger things have happened.”
“I do not wish you to speak to me in this manner.”
“You are so proud!” This seemed to delight the old gentleman. “I am sorry to have offended you.”
“I am not offended.”
Colonel Carter nodded. “Do you know why your husband does not dance?”
Surprised, Margaret finally looked away from Mr Thornton, and back to the man across from her. “No.”
“Hmm,” was all that Colonel Carter said. And then he stopped speaking of Mr Thornton, which greatly relieved her.
He was such a good humoured gentleman, that Margaret could not help but regain good spirits. By the end of the dance, she was smiling, and they parted on good terms. Then she had a dance with a friend of Mr Blakely’s, who was handsome and kind and had great clear eyes, and was also one of the silliest men she had ever met.
Margaret smiled at him, too, and sheepishly, he smiled back. She warned him that she knew a girl who was very beautiful, and remarkable for always saying exactly what everyone else was thinking, but no one else would say. The friend of Mr Blakely was very interested in this lady, so Margaret introduced him to Fanny. He grew instantly fascinated, either by Fanny herself or the shade of her gown, Margaret felt she could not be certain.
Then Margaret danced with Mr Watson, who delighted her by being utterly fascinated by Fanny as well. “She looks divine in yellow,” he said.
“That is very kind,” said Margaret.
“And such an elegant dancer!”
“She is marvellously proficient,” Margaret said. Across the room, Fanny appeared to be having the time of her life with the clear-eyed friend of Mr Blakely.
Mr Thornton, meanwhile, had a deeper frown. He still had not danced one dance. When he moved it seemed with purpose, so that he might procure another vantage point. Margaret thought that he was still looking at her—and not much else.
It made her blush. Dancing had always seemed to her like going through motions, a set of actions that had no rhyme or reason. But now she was breathless, and her heart was beating hard. She thought that she knew now what other girls meant when they said that dancing was exhilarating. Whenever she looked at Mr Thornton, she thought that it really was.
“You remember the Taj Mahal?” Mr Watson said.
“Pardon?” Margaret had to pull herself back to her partner.
“The Taj Mahal. Do you know it is actually a tomb? The man who commissioned it made it in memorial to his wife.”
“That is . . . sad.”
“I think it beautiful.” Watson sounded like a puppy. An enthralled, completely infatuated puppy, which was strange, as he was not so very young. “Imagine, a love like that, for a woman!”
“No doubt his power and skills could have been put to better use,” Margaret said.
“There is no better use than love.”
“That is very pretty.”
“Yes. It is.” Mr Watson’s eyes were on Fanny.
Margaret peeked over at Fanny, who was not looking at her very handsome dance partner at all. Instead, Fanny was looking over at Mr Watson.
Margaret’s eyes inevitably moved to Mr Thornton, as if they could not help but be drawn there. His eyes burned into her until she hid her face by turning back to Mr Watson, blocking her view of her husband with his body. Margaret did not need to look again to feel Mr Thornton’s eyes on her.
She danced two more dances, feeling a little more wild and carefree than she usually was in public. Margaret was not reckless; she could never be, but she had never enjoyed dancing quite so much. Then in the sixth number, she was dancing with a strapping, tall young man with sharp cheekbones and gold hair—just the sort of man anyone else might consider handsome—when Margaret looked and could not find him.
When she realized Mr Thornton was not watching, the rest of the dance felt dull. The strapping man seemed very attentive, even more so when she grew colder after all her heat. He asked her for another after the first was done, but she told him that she was tired, and may only dance the next two on her card. Then she introduced him to Fanny, whom the strapping man grudgingly for another dance.
Fanny’s eyes shone; her nose turned up, and she turned him down for another dance with Mr Watson.
Margaret danced the two dances she had said she would, but Mr Thornton did not reappear. She did not know where he had gone, and all the thrill seemed drained out of the dances. She could not even tell what had been so exciting about it before; all the whirling seemed so practised, none of it original or true.
Then there was a break, and Margaret would not accept any more on her dance card. She found Fanny, who was delighted beyond all measure. “So many gentleman keep coming my way!” she declared, excited. “Surely there are more than enough to make Mr Watson jealous!”
“You should not dance to make anyone jealous,” Margaret said, trying to hide her amusement.
“Oh, pish-posh, Margaret. That is what dancing is for.”
Margaret raised her brows. “Sometimes it can be to meet new people, or get to know them better. You do not know, Fanny. Perhaps you might meet someone besides Mr Watson.”
Fanny blinked at her. Her expression was utterly blank. “But why should I want anyone besides Mr Watson?” she asked.
Margaret opened her mouth. Then shut it. “I thought you would . . . Never mind. I did not mean it, Fanny. You should not.” Margaret did not want to say she had thought Fanny would not be half so interested in Mr Watson if she found younger, handsomer gentlemen who were more than half again as rich.
Fanny still looked puzzled. “You did not know I—” For once, Fanny cut herself off, and leaned in close to whisper. “I thought you knew! I have a tendre for Mr Watson.”
“I knew,” Margaret said. “I just did not . . . I am sorry.”
Fanny pulled back. “He is going to go to India to hunt tigers one day.”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “That sounds most lovely.” After a pause, she said, “Have you seen Mr Thornton? I have been looking for him.”
“Oh, John.” Fanny looked annoyed. “I knew he would be tiresome.”
“Where is he?”
“Where else? He is over in the refreshment room. He is such a tedious person! He does not dance at all. He has no interest in it; he never even watches it.”
“He was watching for a small while,” Margaret said.
“But you saw how it vexed him so! Even when you were dancing so prettily. He could not even be bothered to care! He gets so annoyed by things he thinks are pointless. I think it is pointless to be in another room when there is dancing to be had. I would hate to have a husband who stalks off in the middle of everything!”
Not long after this, the next dance started. Fanny went to the floor and Margaret went to find Mr Thornton.
As Fanny had said, he was in the refreshment room. But Mr Thornton stood far away from the refreshments, and did not appear interested in them at all. Rather his attention was absorbed by the group around him. Margaret moved closer to listen.
She did not mean to interrupt, but Mr Thornton noticed her standing there. “Here is Mrs Thornton,” he said, unexpectedly. The group that was talking was comprised entirely of men. Mr Thornton introduced her, and said, “We have been talking of Parliament. Mr Lowell, what is your opinion on our government’s interference with wages and working hours?”
Margaret gleaned that they were talking about the Factory Acts that Parliament passed. The group heard Mr Lowell and a Sir Goodwin and Mr Knowles’ opinions, and then discussion turned to the most recent act, which apparently restricted the length of days children and women could work. There was not much dispute about the children, but there was debate over the women.
“It is a good law,” Sir Goodwin said. “We do not need women working anyway. It is disruptive to the home. Have you heard of these women workers who make more than men? And because they bring in a better wage in a factory than a man in a mine, the man must stay home with the children! This is backwards of what God intended.”
Margaret opened her mouth, and then shut it. This was not quite the same as earlier today at the Exhibition. There, various people had come to talk to her, and she had merely answered their questions in her straightforward way. Here, she would be interrupting a conversation meant for men. It was only out of politeness that Mr Thornton had included her.
But Mr Thornton must have seen her wanting to interject, because after some small comment by M. Pascal from southern France, he turned to Margaret and said, “But you were going to say something. Had we not better listen to the people of whom we are speaking? What is your opinion, Mrs Thornton?”
The small company looked at him in startlement.
Margaret sucked in a breath. “I think that a woman should have an equal chance to provide for her family as a man does,” she said. “I think that a woman deserves an opportunity to be independent.”
“Independent!” Mr Pembroke said.
Mr Pembroke was perhaps forward thinking. The others seemed surprised she had an opinion at all.
“Why should a woman need independence?” Sir Goodwin said. “Is it not the husband’s duty to provide for the wife?”
“A woman should have the right to be able to provide for herself,” Margaret said. “She should not only have to depend on a man for survival. She should not have to spend all her intelligence and capacity for good work on making designs and snares to catch a husband. She should not have to accept whatever comes along or be otherwise disgraced. It should be a choice she makes of her own free will.”
“You are married,” Mr Knowles pointed out slyly.
Margaret realized what she had just said, that the acceptance of her marriage to Mr Thornton had been under the forced terms that she had just described. She threw back her head, and answered in her steady, clear voice. “I do not disapprove of marriage. I think a person is strongest when she has others to help her, to stand by her. She is strongest when she has a partner, and friends to work with. But I think that women who are not married will have people who stand with her, and I do not think that a woman without others to support her is by definition weak.”
“That is a lovely idea,” Sir Goodwin said. “But you forget the one main drawback. A woman could not survive independently. She has not the capacity for it.”
Margaret’s head reared further back. “Do you think a woman is not a human being, then? Is she a dog which must be fed and looked after?”
“Do you not think that Mrs Thornton could survive independently?” The question was so dry and calm, it made Sir Goodwin sound giddy in comparison. The laconic voice belonged to Mr Thornton.
Sir Goodwin was startled into looking Margaret over, the proud tilt of her head, the intensity in her eyes. “Most women,” Sir Goodwin said, somehow cowed.
“You think then that parliament is wrong?” Mr Lowell asked Margaret, curious. “That it should not restrict the hours women work, because they have a right to work the same?”
“They have a right to work,” Margaret said. “That does not change the fact that women are physically weaker. They should not endure those long hard hours. I think parliament is right to set a limit.”
“Then you agree with Mr Thornton,” Mr Lowell said, “that it is financially inefficient to overwork women.”
“It may be financially inefficient,” Margaret said. “I do not argue on those grounds. It is morally indecent to force a human being to work more than she could possibly handle.”
“You forget, Mrs Thornton,” Mr Pembroke said. “These women choose to work these horrendous hours.”
“You may say that,” said Margaret. “You may also say they choose to work in dangerous environs, that they choose to enslave their own children, that they choose to breathe in the dust that will kill them with brown lungs within a decade or two. You would be conveniently neglecting to mention the fact that otherwise they would starve within a week or two. If we are speaking on the grounds of moral decency, then that is not an argument at all.”
Mr Knowles said, “If it is merely a moral question, should it not be for the individual to decide? Since when is parliament dictating our integrity?”
Margaret’s chin was still high. “Since some men lost it,” she said with those bell-tones she always used. “The government is there to allow us to live with justice, and in peace. There is no peace and justice in men driving all the life out of poor individuals so that masters might earn a few more pennies a day. That makes it so other masters who are fair to their workers suffer in the short term. They do not earn those pennies, and so their business falls behind those who are cruel, and perpetrate injustice. The field must be made even for all, if justice is to reign.”
Mr Lowell looked thoughtful. “What say you, Mr Thornton?”
Mr Thornton’s brows rose. “I say that Mrs Thornton speaks sound sense.”
“She speaks of morals, not of business,” M. Pascal pointed out.
A smile lit in Mr Thornton’s eyes. It was nearly invisible in his mouth, so Margaret thought that no one else might see it. He was not looking toward her, and yet she knew that it was hers. “I think that in this case it is the same. Mrs Thornton spoke of those who would wring their workers dry for the sake of a few extra pennies. Whether morally reprehensible or not, this does not make business sense. Workers must be healthy. They must stay alive, because industry must be healthy. Industry must stay alive. In the long run, doing what some see as our moral duty to other people will bring more profit than short term gain.”
“But should Parliament be dictating profit?” Mr Pembroke asked. “I think that is the question.”
“It is as I said,” Margaret put in. They looked at her, as though startled that she would still consider herself part of the conversation—all except Mr Thornton. He turned to her as though he expected her to speak, and welcomed it. “Government brings us justice and peace. I would add that progress is inevitable. To make sure that it happens to the benefit of all, we must have laws.”
“I agree,” was all Mr Thornton said.
“Does your wife always speak for you?” Mr Knowles was snide.
Mr Thornton was smirking. “My wife and I are not the same person. We are independent, and so our opinions differ. But out of anyone I have met in all the world, if I may not speak for myself, I would have her speak for me first.” His voice was that booming baritone.
“That is very liberal,” Sir Goodwin said uncomfortably. “Your wife may be an exception, but women generally do not know what they are talking about.”
“You may not know it, Sir Goodwin,” said Mr Thornton, “being out of this sphere. But we businessmen are often presumed unintelligent, or incapable of making a real difference. Some gentlemen think our machines and inventions are of little importance, that our ilk will recede after this little rise. They do not know that this is the future. Soon businessmen will be the envy of the world, and industry will remake it. It is in the interest of no one to look down on any other humans as powerless or empty-headed—that includes women. That includes people from all over the world. We all of us have the power to bring change.”
“You equate men in your position with women?” Sir Goodwin was surprised.
Mr Thornton’s jaw was implacable. “I equate myself with every human being. I equate myself as even equal to you, and equal to my wife.”
They looked at Margaret. She held her head up high.
The conversation rolled on. Eventually, the gentlemen did not question Margaret’s opinion, but rather allowed her to speak freely. Even if Mr Knowles remained pungent, and Sir Goodwin sceptical, the rest seemed interested. Women did not often engage in such political conversation, and the men marvelled at her as an oddity. This irked Margaret, but she was not about to let them make her back down.
The intrigue of the conversation attracted several others in the refreshment room. Eventually people moved in and out of the group, though the net effect was that the small company grew larger. This caused the dance managers some vexation. They came through with their ribbons and badges, politely inviting gentlemen back to the dance floor. The ball was such a crush, Margaret thought the floor could not be severely lacking sets, but she did think there must be many ladies in want of partners, with so many men gathering in the refreshment room.
Some of the gentlemen pulled Margaret a little away and asked her to dance. At first she thought these gentlemen meant to imply that she should not be in the refreshment room amongst such masculine conversation, until one or two of them gave her to realize they very much impressed by said conversation, or even wished to continue it. Unused to charming anybody, Margaret was embarrassed by this, but the truth was she was no longer interested in dancing. She would much rather stay, listen, and speak.
She did not know when, but at some point Mr Thornton drew her own arm through his. He held it fast against him, so that she was pressed to his side. She did not mind. She felt that he held her up, and that she held him up as well. They stood together in the centre, and Margaret had never loved a ball so well.
*
Mrs Carter scolded Margaret in a good tempered way the whole way back. Meanwhile, Colonel Carter was terribly amused by the whole scene they had caused in the refreshment room, and seemed delighted by the modern viewpoints of his guests.
Once they were back at Tavistock Square and unloaded out of the carriage, Mr Thornton and Margaret were caught up in a discussion of Mr Knowles, which was not all the serious politics they had been talking at the ball. Margaret thought that Mr Knowles looked rather like a walrus, and told Mr Thornton so. He laughed.
Everyone retired almost immediately. As they were talking of various animals they thought the company had represented, Margaret thought it most natural that Mr Thornton came into the bedroom with her, instead of his own dressing room.
She sat down at the vanity and began taking down her hair. It had been aching half the evening, the more elaborate twists she had set it in weighing on her head. Still speaking of the men they had seen, and the politics they had discussed, Margaret thought nothing of taking it down. She felt so familiar with Mr Thornton, it was like taking down her hair in front of Frederick or her father, except while speaking on subjects far more interesting than she usually spoke of with family.
But after she had got all the large loops down, and was brushing out the long, dark waves of it, Margaret noticed Mr Thornton talking less and less. He had placed the candlelight on the table for her, and not lit another for himself, so he stood mostly in shadow, leaning against the wall. His eyes, however, were bright. She could see him watching her every movement, the tumble of her hair as she unpinned it from her head. It cascaded freely about her almost bare shoulders, the silly dress less of a cover for her than the curtain of her hair.
She realized that he had only seen her like this, with her hair down, once before. It had been the evening of their wedding day.
His expression was not unlike what it had been as he stood on the sidelines of the dancing.
At last she fell quiet too, and changed the subject. “How come you did not dance?” she asked him.
He was a little while in answering. “I do not care for it,” he said at last.
“I do not either.”
He frowned. “You seemed to enjoy it.”
Margaret looked at herself in the mirror. “I think that if husbands and wives were allowed to dance with one another, I would have enjoyed it more.”
There was a slight stirring in the shadows, an even longer pause. “If I had known that, I would have asked you to dance.”
Margaret looked down at her hands. “It is not proper.”
“I do not care.” His voice was harsh.
Sucking in a noisy breath, Margaret stood up. Her hair came down to her waist, the soft waves about her face fading in with shadow. Facing him, she said, “We must rectify it. You must dance with me now.”
Those lines were still between his brows. She could not interpret his expression. “We have danced already.”
“That was just play.” She took his hand, and drew him over to where there was more space. Here the firelight cast dancing shadows on the floor. She looked up at him, waiting.
“Margaret.”
She did not know why he sounded strained. “I will lead, if you do not know how.” She pulled his hand so that one was on her waist, in a waltz pose. She wanted this. She had never wanted dancing, the way other girls did, but she wanted this. She thought of how he had stood by her, in the reception room at the ball. How he was so quiet and steady at her side. She thought of the way he had watched her dance, the way he seemed reluctant now.
She thought that he was dear to her, and as she had the night before, she wanted to draw his hand up to her lips to kiss it. Instead she took his other hand in hers, and held it for the dance.
“I know how,” he told her.
She looked up at him. “Then lead me.”
He gripped her hand, her waist. His mouth set in a hard line, he moved a step, and she followed. He moved another step, and she followed, and now they were in the swing of it—a third step. She felt whisked away, intoxicated, she relaxed in his arms. She let him lead.
As soon as she had melted into him, he stopped suddenly. He jerked her to him in one clumsy movement. All the space was gone between them; she was flush against him and he was holding her there. They were not dancing: he was kissing her.
Surprised, she could only think in the first moments that she had no idea what he was doing to her. Had they not been dancing? She had not known there could be kisses like this. She had kissed her mother and her father and seen other people affectionately kiss each other. She knew that between husband and wife, it could mean different things, but she had only imagined the touch of lips. Once she had seen a returning sailor kiss his wife, and that had been different—mouths and hunger and hands all involved—but she had never dreamed that she could be kissed like that, that she would be.
One of his hands buried itself in her hair, at the back of her skull, the other awkwardly still at her waist, gripping there so tight she could not move. Her hair was everywhere, in the way, it made a mess and it made her hot, and sticky. A loose strand were in her face, a strand caught between their lips; he moved his hand to clear her face, and he was still kissing her.
His mouth was hot, his lips capturing her own. This force, this heat, this wetness made her heart beat hard, her blood rising up everywhere to her skin. She felt uncomfortable and awkward, too hot, not knowing what to do.
Was it supposed to be like this, between man and wife? She had been led to believe kisses could be tender and sweet, or passionate and heady, but what was this—this agitation? Her instinctive reaction was to flee. Her body’s panic, its turmoil and trembling—her body responded this way without her consent, and it made her ashamed of herself. She was used to maintaining control, to choosing how she would feel and react. She did not like this confusion, her blood rushing so desperately, this heat. She needed to get away, and yet she was struck still with shock.
As if sensing this, he dragged himself away from her immobile lips, panting heavily and hard. There was colour in his face; his eyes were wild. Everywhere he touched her burned with heat, but she did not move. Both hands came up to smooth the hair back from her face, to look into her huge eyes, gone dark with confusion.
“By God,” he breathed. Something in his voice was horrified.
Then it was as if—seeing her this way, black hair askew, high points of red on her pale cheeks, her mouth bruised and red—he could not help himself; he kissed her again.
When she gasped for air, she felt his tongue. That was so wet and hot and strange, so invasive, so past all of her defences that the wild thought came to her: this was Mr Thornton. No longer a stranger: this was John, whom she had come to care for. This was John touching her, as if he could not get enough, John holding her to him, John needing her, making her a part of him—John. This heat, even as it shamed her, this was him.
Even as all of her instincts still told her to flee, she stood there, rigid. This was not duty that held her. She would not allow John to do this now because he was her husband. She would give this now because he was John, because somehow he had become dear to her, enough so that she wanted to give him what he wanted if she could.
Like a statue, she stood. Filled with fierce pride, she was ready for what would come. She was ready to accept him. Even ready to be used by him. All of her was stiff with this readiness, waiting for it.
Then he ripped himself away from her lips, his hands forcibly taken from her waist, her face. He took one step back. Two. “I must go.”
She almost did not comprehend the words. “Why?” she whispered, stricken. Shame, sudden and sharp, curled low in her. The things she had been thinking! She was embarrassed; she was mortified. Her hand went to cover her bruised mouth.
He muttered an oath. Though she could not quite hear it, it was, she thought, more than a little sacrilegious. Whatever it was, he was filled with disgust. “I cannot do it.”
I will be brave! she wanted to shout at him, but though moments before it had been true, she knew that if she said it now, it would be a lie. The look of—of repulsion, of shame on his face, made her throat close.
“You must go to sleep now, Mrs Thornton,” he told her. “I am not fit company.” Then he turned around, and practically ran for the door.
Though she often thought that Mr Thornton was a powerful figure, she never thought that he was a graceful one. He particularly lacked grace now, looking as awkward and self-conscious as she had ever seen him; it was as though he literally scrambled to escape her.
She was left alone, trembling, afraid, ashamed. The worst part was, she did not know why.
She did not hear Mr Thornton return that night at all.
Rating: this chapter PG, overall NC-17 for explicit sex
Length: this chapter 7 K, overall probably 110 K. 80 K written so far
Characters: Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Summary: Margaret and Mr. Thornton gradually get to know each other better. With conversation, balls, politics, and Fanny.
A/N: 1. Much thanks to
hl, who made this fic better than it was. Sorry for the wait on this chapter.Constructive criticism is welcome.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9? | Chapter 10? | Chapter 11? | Chapter 12?
Chapter Eight
“Margaret, you look very pretty!” Fanny said, as soon as she came down and saw her. Fanny’s voice sounded surprised to what would have been an insulting degree, had Margaret not know Fanny as well as she did. “I never would have thought you would wear something that interesting,” Fanny went on. “I thought you were a stick in the mud for sure.”
“I am.” Margaret laughed. She was still in a happy mood. “This is all just for show.”
“It always is,” Fanny said, puzzled as to how Margaret did not know this already. “But where are your gloves?”
“All of my gloves are entirely too practical for this silly affair. I think I can manage without.”
“Without!” Fanny was appalled. “We went to a thousand shops this afternoon! You should have told me. Come up to my room.”
To humour her, Margaret followed Fanny. In the room she shared with Ann, Fanny tossed two or three dozen articles of clothing out of her trunk, at last surfacing with a pair of dainty lace gloves. Margaret wrinkled her nose. “I thought the point of a glove was to cover one’s hands,” she said.
“You promised you would not be practical,” Fanny said, even though Margaret had made no such promise. “It is your least interesting quality.”
Laughing again, Margaret pulled on the gloves. “I suppose this makes me more a lady, never having to worry my head over anything that makes any sense. I told your brother he must not talk sense to me all evening.”
Fanny rolled her eyes. “There is no use talking to John that way. He is as like to bite your head off as anything.”
“On the contrary. He seemed to enjoy himself.”
“John never enjoys himself. The only reason he is going to this old ball anyway is because he thinks he has to. He will not even dance.”
Margaret felt quite suddenly insistent. “He does enjoy himself. He stole my fan.”
“What on earth is he going to do with that?”
Margaret watched Fanny putting back her things for a little while. “I think your brother would like to have fun,” she said. “I do not think he lets himself very much. He has so many things to worry about.”
“Like cotton and strikes and business. You do not have to tell me. He likes letting me know.”
“And he worries about you.”
Fanny slammed her trunk shut. “John does not worry about me. I can get by on my own.”
“But he does. He cares for you a great deal.”
Fanny made a face. “He is a very proper brother.” She did not appear to want to talk any more on the subject. “I am glad I have you for a sister. John went about it so slowly, I thought I would not have one. And then when Miss Latimer returned from school, everyone thought it would be her. Ann thought so too, I think. But I knew you liked him. I saw you looking. For myself, I am glad he picked you, even if I did think you were so unpolished and plain at first. That blue really does wonders for your complexion.”
Margaret did not know how to process the insult or the information. It seemed too much all at once, and Fanny did not even realize what she had said. At last Margaret managed, “I . . . thank you, Fanny.”
“Oh.” Fanny rolled her eyes again. “You have not talked to me that cold since the beginning. Are you in a fit because I said you were plain? You are not. Your looks grow on one, you know.”
Margaret smiled gravely. “I do not mind if you think me plain.”
“I bet you do not. You never care what anyone thinks. Heaven knows why. What everyone thinks is terribly important! You are not cross, are you?” Fanny sounded annoyed at the possibility.
“I am not cross.”
“Everyone is always cross with me. Especially John. Oh, Margaret! It is going to be such a lovely evening, with music and dancing and all kinds of fascinating things. You are not going to be an old bore, are you?”
Margaret smiled again. “No. I will not be an old bore.”
“And you will send gentlemen my way? I think normally they would ask me to dance in a heartbeat,” she said, so quickly that Margaret thought not very many people ever asked Fanny to dance. “But you see how I have nothing new to wear, and you look so lovely.”
Fanny’s dress was only a little better than the magenta tartan. It was yellow, which went very ill with her complexion. There were stripes involved. “I will try,” Margaret said.
“You would not need to nudge them very much. I am quite a skilled dancer. Well, I am glad I did not make you angry. It is so pleasant to have a sister. John never sends the gentlemen my way. One cannot talk to brothers about such things. He will never speak of anything interesting!”
Margaret decided not to tell her that she had never heard Mr Thornton speak of anything uninteresting.
For the rest of the time, until Mr Watson came in a carriage to escort half their party, Fanny talked about the ball, and how glad she was to have a sister who cared about such things. Since Margaret could barely get a word in edgewise, she did not bother to correct her. Instead she observed the people around herself, as she was wont to do. Ann Latimer looked very lovely in lavender. Mr Thornton did not come down from his room until it was just time to go.
Ann and Fanny, unsurprisingly, opted to go in Mr Watson’s carriage, and they took Mr Latimer with them. That left Margaret, Mr Thornton, and the Carters to go in the Carters’ carriage. Mrs Carter was the talker of that bunch. For once she had removed her little house-cap, and donned a red turban with a large feather coming out of it. Margaret found this an alarming ornament, which meant that it had sent Fanny into ecstasies.
Mr Thornton, meanwhile, was subdued. Margaret expected him to be, as Mrs Carter chatted on about sartorial matters the whole way there. She told Margaret she looked very well, and then to her surprise Mr Thornton joined in the conversation to agree. “I had not seen these before,” he added, and brushed the back of her hand with his fingers. He took his hand away, but she could feel the heat of them through the lace gloves.
“They are Fanny’s,” Margaret told him, and then wondered that he could recognize that she had never worn them, and not remember that his own sister had been wearing them for years.
“Oh,” was all he said.
“Men,” said Mrs Carter. “They do not know anything!”
*
The ball was a crush. As Fanny would have said, “they let just anyone in”, except that this was exactly how Fanny got there. It had been organized by a speculator, which meant that all sorts of people came, from lords to manufacturers. This was just the sort of ball families like Aunt Shaw’s avoided, but there were plenty of gentlefolk there who were less discerning, or else merely curious.
By the time the Carters’ carriage arrived, the assembly hall was full, and dancing had already commenced. Mrs Carter rushed about to find everyone she knew or had ever known, and to introduce everyone to her new friends. Fanny need not have worried. Within the first fifteen minutes, their dance cards were already half full.
Margaret was not terribly eager to dance. She had never been a particularly good dancer, which might have been part of why she had never liked it. While she enjoyed the jolly romps she and her father used to make about the dining room at Helstone, she was not light-footed. Edith had once told her she did everything with too much purpose to be graceful.
She also had never been particularly interested in the conversations most people struck up while dancing. If one did not know one’s partner well, comments were often restricted to the number of couples, or remarks upon the style of dance. If one was rather better acquainted, then one moved on to talk about people, and who was dancing with whom, and the sort of carriage one came in, and whether this was a good ball at all, or whether courtships would result from it.
Usually, Margaret became heartily bored of it all. But then she was not so often asked to dance, so it was not a problem. She wondered if she could stand it now.
If wives had been allowed to dance with husbands, she thought she could have stood it. She wondered what it would have been like, to dance with Mr Thornton. It felt strange to have a husband she had never danced with. She suspected she might have enjoyed it, completely in spite of herself.
It was not until Margaret was making a curtsy to Colonel Carter, her first partner, that she realized if she could not dance with her husband, he too must dance with someone else. For some reason this had not occurred to her until that very moment. She simply had not imagined him dancing at all. It did not seem to her like something he would do.
Suddenly it disturbed her very much that she did not know whether he was dancing this set or not. As the dance opened and she took her first steps, she told herself he might be. There was no reason he should not.
She wondered whether Ann Latimer was his partner.
Colonel Carter was a spry old fellow. In the carriage he had claimed to his wife he would not stop dancing. Even if he was three and fifty, he told her, he could still keep up with any young thing. He had asked Margaret for the first dance just to prove it, and Margaret had laughed and told him yes. Mrs Carter had tsked and looked at her husband affectionately, and even then, Margaret had not considered Mr Thornton dancing.
She could not find Mr Thornton on the floor. Colonel Carter was not only spry; he was very merry. He spoke to her of a man named Dawson who was over there, tripping on his partner, and how well Sally Chamberlain looked. When Miss Chamberlain had been a girl she had been so freckled—a shame for an heiress to a large fortune, he said—but she had grown up rather pretty. And Miss Thornton, Colonel Carter thought, looked exceedingly well, even in that horrid yellow. It was
the rose in her cheeks, he said, and the way she did not care what anyone else thought.
“She says she cares,” Margaret said, eyes still scanning the tremendous crush of people.
Colonel Carter chuckled. “She tries to care! But her mouth does have a tendency to get away from her.”
“I love Fanny,” Margaret said, surprised to realize that it was true.
“I did not mean her mouth was not lovely. Though it is not nearly so wide and honest as yours.”
Margaret made some demur answer. She was unsure whether Colonel Carter meant it as an actual compliment, or an observation of her tendency towards bluntness.
She still could not see Mr Thornton among all the dancers whirling around them. Furthermore she was at a loss to explain to herself why finding him was so important, nor why finding out his dance partner seemed similarly crucial. There would be nothing wrong in him dancing with Ann Latimer. Even if he had once fancied Ann, or Ann him, there could be nothing between them now.
John was married to her.
“Who are you looking for?” Colonel Carter asked as they met again in the quadrille.
Margaret was startled.
Colonel Carter chuckled. “You think I do not see you do not care a whit for me? You are craning your neck.”
“Mr Thornton,” Margaret said, embarrassed. “I did not think to ask with whom he would dance this one.”
“What a bore you are,” Colonel Carter said. Margaret could suddenly see why Mrs Carter, who loved fun, also loved her husband. “To be looking after your own husband. I had hoped it would be a dashing count.”
“I do not know any counts.” She frowned.
“Never mind.” Colonel Carter laughed. “Your husband is just as boring. If one is going to stalk about looking like a Byron hero, one should at least have the decency to moon after some elfin fairy. Or perhaps a Russian princess.”
Margaret was momentarily startled into giving Colonel Carter her full attention. “Byron hero?” She had never heard an appellation she thought less suited to Mr Thornton.
“Yes,” said Colonel Carter. “He has been brooding this whole time we have been dancing. Really, if he is going to glare at someone, it should not be his own wife.”
“Where?”
“There.” Colonel Carter turned her so she could see. “The only spot in the whole room perfectly situated for the best view of you. It is a wonder you have not noticed him; he casts such an imposing shadow.”
It was true what Colonel Carter said: Mr Thornton was watching her, wearing a slight frown. There seemed to her a kind of space around him, as though other people feared his consternation might alight upon them.
Her breath caught. Despite his frown, Mr Thornton looked quite well. He must have retied the cravat.
“There,” Colonel Carter said. “Does that soothe your worries?”
Margaret threw her head back. “I was not worried.”
“I think that Mr Thornton is. I think he thinks that some fine young gentleman will come your way and sweep you entirely off your feet.”
Still holding her chin up high, Margaret said, “He could not think that of me. I am his wife.”
Colonel Carter laughed. “Stranger things have happened.”
“I do not wish you to speak to me in this manner.”
“You are so proud!” This seemed to delight the old gentleman. “I am sorry to have offended you.”
“I am not offended.”
Colonel Carter nodded. “Do you know why your husband does not dance?”
Surprised, Margaret finally looked away from Mr Thornton, and back to the man across from her. “No.”
“Hmm,” was all that Colonel Carter said. And then he stopped speaking of Mr Thornton, which greatly relieved her.
He was such a good humoured gentleman, that Margaret could not help but regain good spirits. By the end of the dance, she was smiling, and they parted on good terms. Then she had a dance with a friend of Mr Blakely’s, who was handsome and kind and had great clear eyes, and was also one of the silliest men she had ever met.
Margaret smiled at him, too, and sheepishly, he smiled back. She warned him that she knew a girl who was very beautiful, and remarkable for always saying exactly what everyone else was thinking, but no one else would say. The friend of Mr Blakely was very interested in this lady, so Margaret introduced him to Fanny. He grew instantly fascinated, either by Fanny herself or the shade of her gown, Margaret felt she could not be certain.
Then Margaret danced with Mr Watson, who delighted her by being utterly fascinated by Fanny as well. “She looks divine in yellow,” he said.
“That is very kind,” said Margaret.
“And such an elegant dancer!”
“She is marvellously proficient,” Margaret said. Across the room, Fanny appeared to be having the time of her life with the clear-eyed friend of Mr Blakely.
Mr Thornton, meanwhile, had a deeper frown. He still had not danced one dance. When he moved it seemed with purpose, so that he might procure another vantage point. Margaret thought that he was still looking at her—and not much else.
It made her blush. Dancing had always seemed to her like going through motions, a set of actions that had no rhyme or reason. But now she was breathless, and her heart was beating hard. She thought that she knew now what other girls meant when they said that dancing was exhilarating. Whenever she looked at Mr Thornton, she thought that it really was.
“You remember the Taj Mahal?” Mr Watson said.
“Pardon?” Margaret had to pull herself back to her partner.
“The Taj Mahal. Do you know it is actually a tomb? The man who commissioned it made it in memorial to his wife.”
“That is . . . sad.”
“I think it beautiful.” Watson sounded like a puppy. An enthralled, completely infatuated puppy, which was strange, as he was not so very young. “Imagine, a love like that, for a woman!”
“No doubt his power and skills could have been put to better use,” Margaret said.
“There is no better use than love.”
“That is very pretty.”
“Yes. It is.” Mr Watson’s eyes were on Fanny.
Margaret peeked over at Fanny, who was not looking at her very handsome dance partner at all. Instead, Fanny was looking over at Mr Watson.
Margaret’s eyes inevitably moved to Mr Thornton, as if they could not help but be drawn there. His eyes burned into her until she hid her face by turning back to Mr Watson, blocking her view of her husband with his body. Margaret did not need to look again to feel Mr Thornton’s eyes on her.
She danced two more dances, feeling a little more wild and carefree than she usually was in public. Margaret was not reckless; she could never be, but she had never enjoyed dancing quite so much. Then in the sixth number, she was dancing with a strapping, tall young man with sharp cheekbones and gold hair—just the sort of man anyone else might consider handsome—when Margaret looked and could not find him.
When she realized Mr Thornton was not watching, the rest of the dance felt dull. The strapping man seemed very attentive, even more so when she grew colder after all her heat. He asked her for another after the first was done, but she told him that she was tired, and may only dance the next two on her card. Then she introduced him to Fanny, whom the strapping man grudgingly for another dance.
Fanny’s eyes shone; her nose turned up, and she turned him down for another dance with Mr Watson.
Margaret danced the two dances she had said she would, but Mr Thornton did not reappear. She did not know where he had gone, and all the thrill seemed drained out of the dances. She could not even tell what had been so exciting about it before; all the whirling seemed so practised, none of it original or true.
Then there was a break, and Margaret would not accept any more on her dance card. She found Fanny, who was delighted beyond all measure. “So many gentleman keep coming my way!” she declared, excited. “Surely there are more than enough to make Mr Watson jealous!”
“You should not dance to make anyone jealous,” Margaret said, trying to hide her amusement.
“Oh, pish-posh, Margaret. That is what dancing is for.”
Margaret raised her brows. “Sometimes it can be to meet new people, or get to know them better. You do not know, Fanny. Perhaps you might meet someone besides Mr Watson.”
Fanny blinked at her. Her expression was utterly blank. “But why should I want anyone besides Mr Watson?” she asked.
Margaret opened her mouth. Then shut it. “I thought you would . . . Never mind. I did not mean it, Fanny. You should not.” Margaret did not want to say she had thought Fanny would not be half so interested in Mr Watson if she found younger, handsomer gentlemen who were more than half again as rich.
Fanny still looked puzzled. “You did not know I—” For once, Fanny cut herself off, and leaned in close to whisper. “I thought you knew! I have a tendre for Mr Watson.”
“I knew,” Margaret said. “I just did not . . . I am sorry.”
Fanny pulled back. “He is going to go to India to hunt tigers one day.”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “That sounds most lovely.” After a pause, she said, “Have you seen Mr Thornton? I have been looking for him.”
“Oh, John.” Fanny looked annoyed. “I knew he would be tiresome.”
“Where is he?”
“Where else? He is over in the refreshment room. He is such a tedious person! He does not dance at all. He has no interest in it; he never even watches it.”
“He was watching for a small while,” Margaret said.
“But you saw how it vexed him so! Even when you were dancing so prettily. He could not even be bothered to care! He gets so annoyed by things he thinks are pointless. I think it is pointless to be in another room when there is dancing to be had. I would hate to have a husband who stalks off in the middle of everything!”
Not long after this, the next dance started. Fanny went to the floor and Margaret went to find Mr Thornton.
As Fanny had said, he was in the refreshment room. But Mr Thornton stood far away from the refreshments, and did not appear interested in them at all. Rather his attention was absorbed by the group around him. Margaret moved closer to listen.
She did not mean to interrupt, but Mr Thornton noticed her standing there. “Here is Mrs Thornton,” he said, unexpectedly. The group that was talking was comprised entirely of men. Mr Thornton introduced her, and said, “We have been talking of Parliament. Mr Lowell, what is your opinion on our government’s interference with wages and working hours?”
Margaret gleaned that they were talking about the Factory Acts that Parliament passed. The group heard Mr Lowell and a Sir Goodwin and Mr Knowles’ opinions, and then discussion turned to the most recent act, which apparently restricted the length of days children and women could work. There was not much dispute about the children, but there was debate over the women.
“It is a good law,” Sir Goodwin said. “We do not need women working anyway. It is disruptive to the home. Have you heard of these women workers who make more than men? And because they bring in a better wage in a factory than a man in a mine, the man must stay home with the children! This is backwards of what God intended.”
Margaret opened her mouth, and then shut it. This was not quite the same as earlier today at the Exhibition. There, various people had come to talk to her, and she had merely answered their questions in her straightforward way. Here, she would be interrupting a conversation meant for men. It was only out of politeness that Mr Thornton had included her.
But Mr Thornton must have seen her wanting to interject, because after some small comment by M. Pascal from southern France, he turned to Margaret and said, “But you were going to say something. Had we not better listen to the people of whom we are speaking? What is your opinion, Mrs Thornton?”
The small company looked at him in startlement.
Margaret sucked in a breath. “I think that a woman should have an equal chance to provide for her family as a man does,” she said. “I think that a woman deserves an opportunity to be independent.”
“Independent!” Mr Pembroke said.
Mr Pembroke was perhaps forward thinking. The others seemed surprised she had an opinion at all.
“Why should a woman need independence?” Sir Goodwin said. “Is it not the husband’s duty to provide for the wife?”
“A woman should have the right to be able to provide for herself,” Margaret said. “She should not only have to depend on a man for survival. She should not have to spend all her intelligence and capacity for good work on making designs and snares to catch a husband. She should not have to accept whatever comes along or be otherwise disgraced. It should be a choice she makes of her own free will.”
“You are married,” Mr Knowles pointed out slyly.
Margaret realized what she had just said, that the acceptance of her marriage to Mr Thornton had been under the forced terms that she had just described. She threw back her head, and answered in her steady, clear voice. “I do not disapprove of marriage. I think a person is strongest when she has others to help her, to stand by her. She is strongest when she has a partner, and friends to work with. But I think that women who are not married will have people who stand with her, and I do not think that a woman without others to support her is by definition weak.”
“That is a lovely idea,” Sir Goodwin said. “But you forget the one main drawback. A woman could not survive independently. She has not the capacity for it.”
Margaret’s head reared further back. “Do you think a woman is not a human being, then? Is she a dog which must be fed and looked after?”
“Do you not think that Mrs Thornton could survive independently?” The question was so dry and calm, it made Sir Goodwin sound giddy in comparison. The laconic voice belonged to Mr Thornton.
Sir Goodwin was startled into looking Margaret over, the proud tilt of her head, the intensity in her eyes. “Most women,” Sir Goodwin said, somehow cowed.
“You think then that parliament is wrong?” Mr Lowell asked Margaret, curious. “That it should not restrict the hours women work, because they have a right to work the same?”
“They have a right to work,” Margaret said. “That does not change the fact that women are physically weaker. They should not endure those long hard hours. I think parliament is right to set a limit.”
“Then you agree with Mr Thornton,” Mr Lowell said, “that it is financially inefficient to overwork women.”
“It may be financially inefficient,” Margaret said. “I do not argue on those grounds. It is morally indecent to force a human being to work more than she could possibly handle.”
“You forget, Mrs Thornton,” Mr Pembroke said. “These women choose to work these horrendous hours.”
“You may say that,” said Margaret. “You may also say they choose to work in dangerous environs, that they choose to enslave their own children, that they choose to breathe in the dust that will kill them with brown lungs within a decade or two. You would be conveniently neglecting to mention the fact that otherwise they would starve within a week or two. If we are speaking on the grounds of moral decency, then that is not an argument at all.”
Mr Knowles said, “If it is merely a moral question, should it not be for the individual to decide? Since when is parliament dictating our integrity?”
Margaret’s chin was still high. “Since some men lost it,” she said with those bell-tones she always used. “The government is there to allow us to live with justice, and in peace. There is no peace and justice in men driving all the life out of poor individuals so that masters might earn a few more pennies a day. That makes it so other masters who are fair to their workers suffer in the short term. They do not earn those pennies, and so their business falls behind those who are cruel, and perpetrate injustice. The field must be made even for all, if justice is to reign.”
Mr Lowell looked thoughtful. “What say you, Mr Thornton?”
Mr Thornton’s brows rose. “I say that Mrs Thornton speaks sound sense.”
“She speaks of morals, not of business,” M. Pascal pointed out.
A smile lit in Mr Thornton’s eyes. It was nearly invisible in his mouth, so Margaret thought that no one else might see it. He was not looking toward her, and yet she knew that it was hers. “I think that in this case it is the same. Mrs Thornton spoke of those who would wring their workers dry for the sake of a few extra pennies. Whether morally reprehensible or not, this does not make business sense. Workers must be healthy. They must stay alive, because industry must be healthy. Industry must stay alive. In the long run, doing what some see as our moral duty to other people will bring more profit than short term gain.”
“But should Parliament be dictating profit?” Mr Pembroke asked. “I think that is the question.”
“It is as I said,” Margaret put in. They looked at her, as though startled that she would still consider herself part of the conversation—all except Mr Thornton. He turned to her as though he expected her to speak, and welcomed it. “Government brings us justice and peace. I would add that progress is inevitable. To make sure that it happens to the benefit of all, we must have laws.”
“I agree,” was all Mr Thornton said.
“Does your wife always speak for you?” Mr Knowles was snide.
Mr Thornton was smirking. “My wife and I are not the same person. We are independent, and so our opinions differ. But out of anyone I have met in all the world, if I may not speak for myself, I would have her speak for me first.” His voice was that booming baritone.
“That is very liberal,” Sir Goodwin said uncomfortably. “Your wife may be an exception, but women generally do not know what they are talking about.”
“You may not know it, Sir Goodwin,” said Mr Thornton, “being out of this sphere. But we businessmen are often presumed unintelligent, or incapable of making a real difference. Some gentlemen think our machines and inventions are of little importance, that our ilk will recede after this little rise. They do not know that this is the future. Soon businessmen will be the envy of the world, and industry will remake it. It is in the interest of no one to look down on any other humans as powerless or empty-headed—that includes women. That includes people from all over the world. We all of us have the power to bring change.”
“You equate men in your position with women?” Sir Goodwin was surprised.
Mr Thornton’s jaw was implacable. “I equate myself with every human being. I equate myself as even equal to you, and equal to my wife.”
They looked at Margaret. She held her head up high.
The conversation rolled on. Eventually, the gentlemen did not question Margaret’s opinion, but rather allowed her to speak freely. Even if Mr Knowles remained pungent, and Sir Goodwin sceptical, the rest seemed interested. Women did not often engage in such political conversation, and the men marvelled at her as an oddity. This irked Margaret, but she was not about to let them make her back down.
The intrigue of the conversation attracted several others in the refreshment room. Eventually people moved in and out of the group, though the net effect was that the small company grew larger. This caused the dance managers some vexation. They came through with their ribbons and badges, politely inviting gentlemen back to the dance floor. The ball was such a crush, Margaret thought the floor could not be severely lacking sets, but she did think there must be many ladies in want of partners, with so many men gathering in the refreshment room.
Some of the gentlemen pulled Margaret a little away and asked her to dance. At first she thought these gentlemen meant to imply that she should not be in the refreshment room amongst such masculine conversation, until one or two of them gave her to realize they very much impressed by said conversation, or even wished to continue it. Unused to charming anybody, Margaret was embarrassed by this, but the truth was she was no longer interested in dancing. She would much rather stay, listen, and speak.
She did not know when, but at some point Mr Thornton drew her own arm through his. He held it fast against him, so that she was pressed to his side. She did not mind. She felt that he held her up, and that she held him up as well. They stood together in the centre, and Margaret had never loved a ball so well.
*
Mrs Carter scolded Margaret in a good tempered way the whole way back. Meanwhile, Colonel Carter was terribly amused by the whole scene they had caused in the refreshment room, and seemed delighted by the modern viewpoints of his guests.
Once they were back at Tavistock Square and unloaded out of the carriage, Mr Thornton and Margaret were caught up in a discussion of Mr Knowles, which was not all the serious politics they had been talking at the ball. Margaret thought that Mr Knowles looked rather like a walrus, and told Mr Thornton so. He laughed.
Everyone retired almost immediately. As they were talking of various animals they thought the company had represented, Margaret thought it most natural that Mr Thornton came into the bedroom with her, instead of his own dressing room.
She sat down at the vanity and began taking down her hair. It had been aching half the evening, the more elaborate twists she had set it in weighing on her head. Still speaking of the men they had seen, and the politics they had discussed, Margaret thought nothing of taking it down. She felt so familiar with Mr Thornton, it was like taking down her hair in front of Frederick or her father, except while speaking on subjects far more interesting than she usually spoke of with family.
But after she had got all the large loops down, and was brushing out the long, dark waves of it, Margaret noticed Mr Thornton talking less and less. He had placed the candlelight on the table for her, and not lit another for himself, so he stood mostly in shadow, leaning against the wall. His eyes, however, were bright. She could see him watching her every movement, the tumble of her hair as she unpinned it from her head. It cascaded freely about her almost bare shoulders, the silly dress less of a cover for her than the curtain of her hair.
She realized that he had only seen her like this, with her hair down, once before. It had been the evening of their wedding day.
His expression was not unlike what it had been as he stood on the sidelines of the dancing.
At last she fell quiet too, and changed the subject. “How come you did not dance?” she asked him.
He was a little while in answering. “I do not care for it,” he said at last.
“I do not either.”
He frowned. “You seemed to enjoy it.”
Margaret looked at herself in the mirror. “I think that if husbands and wives were allowed to dance with one another, I would have enjoyed it more.”
There was a slight stirring in the shadows, an even longer pause. “If I had known that, I would have asked you to dance.”
Margaret looked down at her hands. “It is not proper.”
“I do not care.” His voice was harsh.
Sucking in a noisy breath, Margaret stood up. Her hair came down to her waist, the soft waves about her face fading in with shadow. Facing him, she said, “We must rectify it. You must dance with me now.”
Those lines were still between his brows. She could not interpret his expression. “We have danced already.”
“That was just play.” She took his hand, and drew him over to where there was more space. Here the firelight cast dancing shadows on the floor. She looked up at him, waiting.
“Margaret.”
She did not know why he sounded strained. “I will lead, if you do not know how.” She pulled his hand so that one was on her waist, in a waltz pose. She wanted this. She had never wanted dancing, the way other girls did, but she wanted this. She thought of how he had stood by her, in the reception room at the ball. How he was so quiet and steady at her side. She thought of the way he had watched her dance, the way he seemed reluctant now.
She thought that he was dear to her, and as she had the night before, she wanted to draw his hand up to her lips to kiss it. Instead she took his other hand in hers, and held it for the dance.
“I know how,” he told her.
She looked up at him. “Then lead me.”
He gripped her hand, her waist. His mouth set in a hard line, he moved a step, and she followed. He moved another step, and she followed, and now they were in the swing of it—a third step. She felt whisked away, intoxicated, she relaxed in his arms. She let him lead.
As soon as she had melted into him, he stopped suddenly. He jerked her to him in one clumsy movement. All the space was gone between them; she was flush against him and he was holding her there. They were not dancing: he was kissing her.
Surprised, she could only think in the first moments that she had no idea what he was doing to her. Had they not been dancing? She had not known there could be kisses like this. She had kissed her mother and her father and seen other people affectionately kiss each other. She knew that between husband and wife, it could mean different things, but she had only imagined the touch of lips. Once she had seen a returning sailor kiss his wife, and that had been different—mouths and hunger and hands all involved—but she had never dreamed that she could be kissed like that, that she would be.
One of his hands buried itself in her hair, at the back of her skull, the other awkwardly still at her waist, gripping there so tight she could not move. Her hair was everywhere, in the way, it made a mess and it made her hot, and sticky. A loose strand were in her face, a strand caught between their lips; he moved his hand to clear her face, and he was still kissing her.
His mouth was hot, his lips capturing her own. This force, this heat, this wetness made her heart beat hard, her blood rising up everywhere to her skin. She felt uncomfortable and awkward, too hot, not knowing what to do.
Was it supposed to be like this, between man and wife? She had been led to believe kisses could be tender and sweet, or passionate and heady, but what was this—this agitation? Her instinctive reaction was to flee. Her body’s panic, its turmoil and trembling—her body responded this way without her consent, and it made her ashamed of herself. She was used to maintaining control, to choosing how she would feel and react. She did not like this confusion, her blood rushing so desperately, this heat. She needed to get away, and yet she was struck still with shock.
As if sensing this, he dragged himself away from her immobile lips, panting heavily and hard. There was colour in his face; his eyes were wild. Everywhere he touched her burned with heat, but she did not move. Both hands came up to smooth the hair back from her face, to look into her huge eyes, gone dark with confusion.
“By God,” he breathed. Something in his voice was horrified.
Then it was as if—seeing her this way, black hair askew, high points of red on her pale cheeks, her mouth bruised and red—he could not help himself; he kissed her again.
When she gasped for air, she felt his tongue. That was so wet and hot and strange, so invasive, so past all of her defences that the wild thought came to her: this was Mr Thornton. No longer a stranger: this was John, whom she had come to care for. This was John touching her, as if he could not get enough, John holding her to him, John needing her, making her a part of him—John. This heat, even as it shamed her, this was him.
Even as all of her instincts still told her to flee, she stood there, rigid. This was not duty that held her. She would not allow John to do this now because he was her husband. She would give this now because he was John, because somehow he had become dear to her, enough so that she wanted to give him what he wanted if she could.
Like a statue, she stood. Filled with fierce pride, she was ready for what would come. She was ready to accept him. Even ready to be used by him. All of her was stiff with this readiness, waiting for it.
Then he ripped himself away from her lips, his hands forcibly taken from her waist, her face. He took one step back. Two. “I must go.”
She almost did not comprehend the words. “Why?” she whispered, stricken. Shame, sudden and sharp, curled low in her. The things she had been thinking! She was embarrassed; she was mortified. Her hand went to cover her bruised mouth.
He muttered an oath. Though she could not quite hear it, it was, she thought, more than a little sacrilegious. Whatever it was, he was filled with disgust. “I cannot do it.”
I will be brave! she wanted to shout at him, but though moments before it had been true, she knew that if she said it now, it would be a lie. The look of—of repulsion, of shame on his face, made her throat close.
“You must go to sleep now, Mrs Thornton,” he told her. “I am not fit company.” Then he turned around, and practically ran for the door.
Though she often thought that Mr Thornton was a powerful figure, she never thought that he was a graceful one. He particularly lacked grace now, looking as awkward and self-conscious as she had ever seen him; it was as though he literally scrambled to escape her.
She was left alone, trembling, afraid, ashamed. The worst part was, she did not know why.
She did not hear Mr Thornton return that night at all.
no subject
Sick of Shadows
(Anonymous) 2011-07-03 06:21 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
I can hardly believe how much glee I'm getting from this in some ways totally conventional, predictable romance plot. It's partly because it's you, and your enthusiasm sparks my enthusiasm, and your writing is yummy, and I like the characters so much and there's more to them, with all their chewy conversations, than your average bodice-ripper protagonists, but god, I'm just eating this up. Hee hee. More more more!
no subject
I'm glad you didn't hate it. It totally is conventional and predictable, which just makes me look at it and wonder why I'm writing it, but yeah. It's sure fun. Thanks--I'm glad you like it. <3
So amazing!!!
(Anonymous) 2011-09-04 01:58 am (UTC)(link)A very devoted fan of the story ;-)
no subject
I love how you've made Fanny a sympathetic character, which I would not have imagined possible -- her genuine enthusiasm and enjoyment is something I can really appreciate.
I love how you haven't shirked from the conversations about the moral and social justice issues that the book was working at addressing, and coming at both Margaret's and John's perspectives from a position of respect, and showing the issues complexly.
I love how Margaret so clearly is feeling sexual attraction to John but doesn't understand how to parse it because she isn't well-versed in these things (since she's never had the chance to lear).
I love how Margaret and John's story clearly takes place in the context of a larger world that is important, and I love the ways in which the narrative focuses on them too.
And I just love Margaret and John themselves -- they're both such honourable and passionate and intelligent people, and I could happily spend time in their (fictional) company for ages
And there's so much else to love about this fic too, that I can't hope to encompass in one comment!
(so I have to ask: has it been abandoned? I see it hasn't been updated in months, and if it has been abandoned that would be pretty tragic because this fic! -- but even if you have no intentions of writing or posting any more, I am happy to have been able to read even this incomplete version of the story.)
no subject
I love how Margaret so clearly is feeling sexual attraction to John but doesn't understand how to parse it because she isn't well-versed in these things (since she's never had the chance to lear).
That's exactly what I'm going for, and it's what's taking so long, actually. I totally wrote this huge sex scene where they fall into each others' arms etc, etc. It's not perfect, except it totally is. Then I realized what I really wanted to write was PEOPLE NOT KNOWING HOW TO DO SEX, and it's much more difficult (and uncomfortable) and thus the delay.
I'm glad the issues discussions work for you. They were my favorite parts to write, and it's why I love this story so much :o) Thanks so much for this comment!
Awwwwww....
Just have to say: I enjoyed your story immensely. But I'm a little disappointed that it ends where the... ehm... really interesting part begins. I'm hoping for an update. *keeps fingers crossed* You have already done an incredible job and it would be a shame if the story never was finished.
Thanks.
Clementine
Update?
(Anonymous) 2014-08-02 08:07 pm (UTC)(link)pls don't abandon this completely!
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 08:16 pm (UTC)(link)Re: pls don't abandon this completely!
(Anonymous) 2013-05-16 10:19 pm (UTC)(link)Re: pls don't abandon this completely!
(Anonymous) 2013-05-29 10:31 pm (UTC)(link)Re: pls don't abandon this completely!
(Anonymous) 2013-08-13 08:41 pm (UTC)(link)Re: pls don't abandon this completely!
(Anonymous) 2014-01-14 11:13 am (UTC)(link)Waltz
(Anonymous) 2014-05-21 09:47 am (UTC)(link)Needless to say, historical accuracy here would ruin the scene quite spectacularly. I've absolutely adored this story so far! I just couldn't keep nested from making a comment about the waltzing; dancing is a common plot device in fan fiction, and it's virtually ALWAYS done wrong. Looking forward to reading the smutty bits in nine!