Entry tags:
FIC: Sick of Shadows (half of chapter 9)
Title: Sick of Shadows
Rating: this chapter PG, overall NC-17 for explicit sex
Length: this is half a chapter. See this note, which explains why you're getting half a chapter.
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. I think she had some advice here that was way better than I made it. But hey.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9a | Chapter 10? | Chapter 11? | Chapter 12?
Chapter Nine A
The next morning, Margaret again tried to think about what had happened. She was well aware that kisses such as the ones they had shared were not innocent, and Mr Thornton had told her he would not demand consummation of their marriage. It was easy enough to piece together that this was why he had left her last night so abruptly. He had known that his kisses would become more, and he had promised her he would not go there unless she asked.
This must mean he had felt desire. She knew that desire was the motive behind such kisses, and that desire was the natural province of men. And yet, he had cast her from him. He had seemed ashamed.
He could not have sensed her willingness. He had said he wanted her to be willing; if he had known she had been preparing herself for him to take her, it could not have been what made him leave. Instead, Margaret concluded he must have sensed the strange turmoil in her body. Her inward disturbance put him off.
Yet she had no explanation for her discomfort. She knew she liked him; she thought that somehow she might have come to care more deeply. She loved to hear him speak of progress and industry and ingenuity, as he had on the way there on the train. She felt privileged to hear him speak of his family, his sister and his father. When they spoke as equals—together and apart, at the ball and at the Exhibition—she felt a strong connection to him. She had been happy in his company, yesterday.
And yet, when he had kissed her, she had felt positively disturbed. It made her ashamed to think of it. It seemed vulgar to her, that violence, that rawness in her own body.
Her heart had beat too hard and her blood filled her up too much. She had not liked those feelings; they made her feel trapped, as though she were not in control. All the poets, all the pretty passages on love, were about something pleasant. Love could be burning, yes, but it was also supposed to be tender, and enjoyable. Desire was a yearning to be near someone, and all she could think was that if she were with him right now, she would not be at peace. She would not be calm. It felt better now, in the cool morning, to not have him there.
When Margaret went downstairs, she expected to be eating alone, as she had her first few mornings there. Despite her expectation, Mr Thornton was in the breakfast room. No one else was yet awake. When she came in the door, he stood, and pulled out her chair for her. He asked, just as he always had since they had been married, “Did you sleep well?”
“No,” she said.
He nodded at this. He looked tired; there were circles under his eyes. She thought that it served him right. “I am sorry,” he said. “It will not happen again.”
She did not know if he referred to the kissing or the running away. Throwing her head back in vexation, she held his eyes. “I would speak with you. Plainly.”
“Yes,” he said, easily enough. “Not here.”
“No,” she agreed.
“The others will be down soon.”
“It can wait.” She stood. “I will fetch the tea.”
She had always been controlled, so steady. It was for this reason and for this reason alone her hands did not shake as she poured his cup in front of him, as she added the sugar, as she gave him his cup. He watched her hands, the way he always had before. She tried not to be angry at him for confusing her so.
He was right; the others came down soon enough. They were eager to begin early, as today was their last day to see the Great Exhibition. On the morrow, Margaret, Fanny, and Mr Thornton would be leaving. Mr Latimer and Ann were considering staying another several days. Margaret guessed that their decision depended on Mr Watson, who remained undecided as well.
Mr Thornton stayed mostly in one place in the Crystal Palace, speaking of machines. Though he was attentive to her, there was a distance between them. He treated her too carefully, almost as though she were fragile.
Meanwhile, Margaret felt uncomfortable whenever he came near her. She had felt this before—in the train, when she had seen his naked back, the evening at Harley Street when he had made her look up at him. She had felt it yesterday, when had smirked at her as she stood in the Crystal Palace, talking to businessmen. Somehow, then, it had not felt wrong. There had almost been a pleasure in that discomfort—and last night at the ball, and after, she had felt exhilarated, happy. That was how love was supposed to feel, she thought. Now it was almost as though the feeling of being close to him pained her.
The shameful thing was that it seemed purely a physical reaction. In her mind, her heart, she still felt kindly toward him. Recent insights into his character—his love and loyalty to his family, his opinions of the human condition, his yearning towards higher ideals—made her want to seek out further conversations with him, to know his thoughts, to stand at his side as she had at the ball. She liked to be his friend. But her body, when his own was physically present, flinched.
Margaret could see that this hurt him, and she regretted it intensely. Working to subdue her agitation, struggling to repress the inner turmoil she felt in his presence, she tried not to recoil. She tried to show him the politeness he was giving her, and to restore the calm that had been theirs until late last night.
He, in turn, was kind towards her, though most of the day he was too busy to give her his undivided attention. It was their last day in London; he had some investors, and wanted to settle business. But he frequently looked toward her; he asked after her health too many times. He seemed almost skittish, in his way of being almost too solicitous, as though she were dangerous, or might fly into a rage.
It could be that he felt guilty, as though he had behaved wrongly toward her—perhaps he had. She still had no idea how man and wife were truly supposed to behave. Either way, she thought that, like her, he wished for the contentment she thought had been theirs yesterday. Gradually, through the looks they shared and little conversations, Margaret began to feel more steady. It became easier to feel calm.
During all this time, Mr Latimer was also all business. Even Mr Watson participated in some business talk with other manufacturers, which disappointed Fanny greatly. But in the afternoon, Mr Thornton came towards Fanny while Margaret was attempting to placate her.
His eyes slid from Margaret’s surprised ones to Fanny’s annoyed ones. “Really, John!” Fanny said. “Are we going to spend all day talking nothing of machines? This is our last day here, and you are determined to make it as dull as possible!”
“I heard that you were interested in marmosets,” he said, in a cool voice.
“Marmosets?” Fanny squeaked.
Mr Thornton tilted his head, making the angle of his tall hat long. His face was inscrutable. “From Mozambique.”
Fanny’s own face turned hard. “I am indeed, but of course I will never see them. You must go on and on and on about nothing but finances! Can you not see that there is more to life than business?”
John’s expression twisted. Margaret could see that Fanny had hurt him. Yet instead of turning away, as he would ordinarily have done, he said quietly, “I will find the gentleman from Mozambique, if you wish it, Fanny. I believe I met another gentleman who can help us find him in here.”
Fanny’s mouth dropped open like a guppy. “You—what?”
“I can leave for a small amount of time.”
“For marmosets?” she squeaked again.
He held his head at that same stiff angle. “Yes.”
Her eyes were as large as sixpence. “What—what is a marmoset?” she asked at last.
Mr Thornton smiled faintly. “It is a monkey, Fanny.”
“Monkeys,” she breathed. “And you are taking me to see them?”
“Yes,” he said again.
“Watson!” Fanny shrieked. “Watson, Mr Watson! Johnny’s taking us to see monkeys! From Mozambique!”
Mr Watson was talking to some businessmen, but he hurriedly broke off to attend to Fanny. While she screeched to him her excitement, Margaret met her husband’s eyes. His expression was utterly unguarded.
She had to look away from the depth of emotion she saw there.
He was thinking of Fanny; she knew that. He was thinking of what Margaret had said, about showing Fanny attention. But that meant that he was thinking of her, also. He was trying to make things right again between them.
“Thornton, old fellow,” Mr Watson chuckled, coming up to Mr Thornton. “We have been asking everybody where the marmosets were, so I could take Miss Thornton to see them. Never thought to ask you! Thought you would not be concerned with trivial matters, you know.”
“Monkeys! Mr Watson!” Fanny did not seem to differentiate which of these two things was more exciting.
“I believe the man is this way,” Mr Thornton said.
“Oh, John.” Fanny waved a hand kerchief at him. “We are going to find monkeys! You may come along if you like!”
Mr Thornton shook her head at her ridiculousness. She swept away before him on Mr Watson’s arm, and John was left looking down at Margaret. He offered her his arm.
She threw back her head in the old way, gathering herself. Taking a deep breath, which filled her with poise, she took his arm. They followed behind Mr Watson and Fanny at a more dignified pace, until John had to tell them all where to go.
It was Lord Washbourne who was acquainted with the gentleman from Mozambique. The gentleman in question was named Fakhir Nasar. He spoke perfect Portugese, which was translated by his merchant friend, and he very kindly showed Fanny both of his marmosets. She held one on her arm, and for the first time in Margaret’s memory, she heard five minutes of silence issue from the general direction of Fanny Thornton. Fanny’s eyes were wide and full.
Once the marmoset had travelled back (for its own protection, Margaret surmised) to Fakhir Nasar’s shoulder, Fakhir Nasar himself was very much surprised when Fanny thrust out her hand, and began to shake his most vigorously.
Women did not do this in Mozambique, the translator told them. Then Fanny tried to apologize. Fakhir Nasar looked rather amused, and told Fanny he was glad that she appreciated the marmosets. When Fanny began to wax eloquent about marmosets, Mr Thornton told her this was quite enough.
“Johnny,” said Fanny, suddenly teary eyed. “Thank you!” She threw her arms around him.
Mr Thornton looked surprised, and then all of the sudden, his arms were about his sister. He held her to him hard and very briefly, and then set her away.
“You are not as boring as you always try to be!” Fanny told him. “Mr Watson, is he not a fine brother?”
Mr Watson laughed. “Ho, Thornton? I always said he was the savviest master in Milton.”
“But I mean brother,” Fanny said. She was a very light touch indeed, and Mr Thornton—much like Fakhir Nasar, who looked glad to no long be the centre of Fanny’s attention—seemed overwhelmed by all of this.
“Yes, Thornton,” Watson agreed, and pounded Mr Thornton on the back. “You are a fine fellow! Marlborough Mills is the biggest mill on the west end!”
“Men!” Fanny cried. “All of you are tedious!” She seemed delighted to no end at all this tediousness. “Margaret, are not they all tedious?”
“Only some,” Margaret said, in her honest way, but she was looking at Mr Thornton.
He smiled.
After that, Mr Thornton really did have to go back to business. Margaret went with him. Over in that section Fanny happened to catch sight of the Lennoxes, who had come for their first day to tour the Crystal Palace. They had Aunt Shaw with them, and Henry.
As the Lennoxes were coming to dine that night at Tavistock Square, Margaret supposed it was just as well anyway. Still, she feared that Fanny’s ecstasies might overwhelm not only Signore Nasar and Mr Thornton, but all the Lennoxs. Indeed, Fanny instantly began to speak of marmosets.
It turned out that Captain Lennox was delighted by the idea of marmosets. “Now there is something in which to dabble! I know so many girls who would like a pet monkey.”
“I have one,” Edith said meaningfully. She was convinced that monkeys were dirty, loathsome creatures, though she seemed half eager to be convinced otherwise by someone else’s exhortations.
“Listen to how she speaks to me,” Captain Lennox said.
“I should like a monkey,” Fanny told Watson just as meaningfully. Margaret thought that Fanny had not caught the undercurrent of the conversation. Then again, maybe she had, and was only being sly.
Either way, Mr Watson had not caught the drift at all. “It would be difficult, getting monkeys as pets. They do not come out of Africa, which would be hard enough. Signore Nasar says his comes from the Amazon.”
“The Amazon.” Fanny sighed, her eyes dreamy.
Margaret need not have worried about any severe social faux pas—at least in this company. She rather thought there were probably severe faux pas being made to native Brazilians, but she did not know anything about native Brazilians, and had no way to know, so she only tried to curb some of Fanny’s more fanciful notions.
This was Aunt Shaw’s and the Lennoxes’ first day touring the Exhibition. Despite grousing about having to be around machines all day, Fanny was more than happy to appear knowledgeable about everything there was to see in this exhibit area. Edith and Captain Lennox were interested to hear Fanny’s ever so decided opinions. Her descriptions tended more towards fanciful than anything that was actually around them, but Edith had never been practical. Captain Lennox beamed at everybody. He thought Fanny was, “Refreshing, by God! These Northern girls have spirit!”
“I suppose that is why Margaret went North,” Edith said. “She always did have spirit.” The comment was classic Beresford, even if Edith had never been a Beresford. She had ceased to think of any unpleasant reason Margaret had moved to Milton, preferring to content herself with the happy thought that Margaret in fact belonged there.
“If all the spirit removes to the North,” Captain Lennox said, “whatever shall we have here in the South?”
“Fashion,” Edith said, and everyone laughed.
To save themselves the bother of suspecting that Margaret might be unhappy, Edith and Captain Lennox had firmly agreed upon the idea that the North was pleasant also. While Henry was still ironic about everything, Edith and Maxwell were determined to be delighted by everything, unless their friends told them they should be otherwise. If someone told them they should be concerned, they were, and ardently, and if someone told them they should not be concerned, they were not, which saved them both a great deal of trouble.
Initially, Edith had been predisposed to think that Milton was a filthy, cold, unfeeling and coarse place, but that was because everyone had told her that it was. She had had no reason to think any differently.
But here was Fanny, and Edith was determined to be delighted by her, too. It was very difficult for Edith to maintain a prejudice against anyone, a trait upon which Margaret had looked down in years past. Edith simply could not believe in bad men when they smiled at her, or that any woman could be dishonest if she complimented her on her hair or attire or way of walking. Edith believed anything, and so she believed even Fanny’s air of pretension.
Instead of thinking that this was foolish, as she might once have done, Margaret was glad of it. She had always admired those who had strong opinions, and stood by them. Her own steadfastness, her scruples, the impossibility of swaying her from her convictions—all of these had been the virtues she prized most highly in herself. But while she still prized these qualities, and held them most dear, she was beginning to find less fault with those who were flighty. In fact, though it had seemed in the past to be highly reprehensible, Margaret began to think being a little bit of a silly person might be a good thing. And perhaps it was not so silly after all, not to be too unforgiving.
Fanny and Edith did not run into any of the friction between ideals Margaret had felt so strongly in Milton. Margaret would still never be turned from her own ideals, but there was something pleasant in seeing people be friendly to each other, without the bias of strong opinion. Mr Watson and Captain Lennox seemed to similarly lack any heat between them.
The whole four of them got on famously. Fanny began to speak of the exhibits that were here from far off places. This inevitably got around to the Alhambra and Mozambique. Here Watson interjected a myriad of notions regarding the Taj Mahal and India, and the two of them went on in their normal way of none of these places being differentiated from the other. Margaret began to worry, but when Edith could get a word in edgewise, her delight matched theirs exactly in her speeches about Corfu.
Indeed, everyone at once—that was Edith, Fanny, and Mr Watson—became suddenly and irrevocably obsessed with Corfu. Greece was all the rage. If Margaret had mentioned to Fanny that she had said she never liked anything Greek, Fanny would have denied it categorically. Margaret could only stand back and marvel, for she had not seen Edith so taken with anyone since Sholto.
Amidst all these raptures over the delights of Corfu, Captain Lennox broke away from the party and sought out Mr Thornton. Before Margaret could prevent him, Captain Lennox said, “I have been trying this business of not dabbling, per your suggestion, Mr Thornton. It is proving excessively difficult. I have been trying, but there is so much to interest me!”
Mr Thornton glanced Margaret’s way. She could tell he was annoyed, but she could also tell that no one else would know it. “You must work toward a goal,” Mr Thornton said at last, turning back to Captain Lennox. “If you keep it in mind, then you will not become distracted.”
“What goal? That is the question.”
Mr Thornton shrugged. “You must decide.”
“How did you decide?”
Mr Thornton answered in his straightforward way, so simply that it made Margaret’s heart ache. “My father died when I was quite young. We became quite poor, and my family owed many debts. Choosing a goal was very easy, because there was no choice. First, I wanted my family to survive. Second, I wanted to pay those debts. Last, I wanted to restore our position. But I think that once one is comfortable where he is, that is the hardest part. That is when one must look up, and find higher things toward which to strive. It is not easy, Captain Lennox. But I believe that if we do not look up that way, we defeat our purpose down here on earth.”
“I try to look up.” Captain Lennox gave a half smile. “I just get distracted by the clouds.”
Mr Thornton said something polite and moved away. Margaret could see that he was not interpreting Captain Lennox correctly, just as he had not correctly interpreted some of the people he had talked to at the Great Exhibition the day before. Captain Lennox played it off as self-deprecation, which Mr Thornton did not appreciate, but Maxwell was truly thinking about what he had said. Captain Lennox did not look chastened, or seem at all subdued, but Margaret knew him well enough to know that he was pensive.
Meanwhile, Aunt Shaw was startled and a little enchanted by the Carters and their quick, jolly talk, and Henry Lennox seemed to get on well with Ann Latimer. Margaret thought that this made sense; it seemed the latter few were the only ones to make any sense in this whole strange conglomerate of people. Edith, meanwhile, was explaining the delights of Turkish coffee, and Fanny wanted to know how many Moslem palaces there were in all the Ottoman Empire.
That evening at Tavistock Square was a similar success, so much so that Margaret began to wonder why she had thought the Lennoxes and Thorntons might clash at all. In the end, neither of them seemed to really care for the differences between them. Even Captain Lennox and Mr Thornton seemed to come to an amicable relationship, when Captain Lennox came up to Mr Thornton after dinner.
“I know that you do not take me seriously,” Captain Lennox said.
Mr Thornton was beginning to look hunted, with all this excessive talk of Corfu, and the Carters and Aunt Shaw going on endlessly about the militia, and Henry having gone to talk industry and banking with the Latimers, as though they were matters that concerned him. “I take seriously those who act seriously,” Mr Thornton said carefully.
Captain Lennox laughed. “That is certainly not me! But Mr Thornton, with the trouble with the Russian Empire brewing, one day, I must become serious. And I wanted to say that even if it seems as though I am making fun, I admire you. I think that you are right. We all must strive to work toward something. In Crimea, I hope it will be peace.”
Mr Thornton blinked. “Thank you, Captain Lennox.”
“Now, about this dabbling.” Captain Lennox grinned. “Do you know what Ottoman rugs are made of? Do you think I can get Turks to invest in this cotton business? Or can I get you to invest in Ottoman rugs? They fly, they say, and I hear you have an interest in all things higher up . . . .”
Then Edith mentioned the special fireworks display outside the grounds of the Crystal Palace that evening, set to begin at nine o’clock. The display was said to be Brock’s, and everyone said Brock’s were the finest quality. She took a survey, which saved Mr Thornton losing his temper with her husband, Margaret thought, and found that most of the company had never seen fireworks before. Edith declared them all such a merry party, they all must go.
So it was that the dinner-party turned into an evening out. They all piled into carriages, and went back to the Crystal Palace. The air was cool and dark, and the stars were clear for once. Ice-men from Italy were about selling ices for a halfpenny, but the peelers at last had decided to ignore them. Margaret thought that perhaps Fanny would take a fascination to them, but Fanny only looked at her strangely and said, “Why should I be?”
“Italy is farther away than Spain,” Margaret said.
Fanny looked again at all the Italians with their barrows of ice. “But are there mosques in Italy?” she wanted to know.
Margaret did not know. She also had not known that Fanny’s penchant was specifically for Moslem architecture. She wondered if she listened better, whether Fanny’s babble might resolve into something that made sense, instead of always surprising Margaret so.
“I wonder if there are ladies in Persia and Arabia and Africa who dream of English churches, and have books about them, and imagine them most wonderful,” Mrs Carter said.
“Of course not,” Fanny said promptly. “English churches are not interesting.”
Margaret smiled. “I like the thought of African ladies thinking of Helstone as I do. Sometimes it seems almost as far away to me as it would to them.”
Mr Thornton, who had not yet said anything, gave her a long look. Margaret could not interpret it.
Fanny’s nose scrunched. “Is Helstone at all like a mosque?”
“No.” Margaret laughed. “Nothing like at all.” When she looked at Mr Thornton again, he had deliberately turned away.
Mr Watson bought them all ices, which did delight Fanny, even if the thought of ice-men all the way from Naples did not move her one inch.
Then the sky exploded.
“Now we look up,” Captain Lennox said softly, in the silence after that first loud pop.
Margaret caught her breath. The bright, exploding lights reflected in her eyes as she tilted her head to look at the sky.
The fireworks were exhilarating and terrifying all at once. In the next flare of light, she looked around. Fanny stood by her and Mr Watson, Henry by the Latimers, the Carters and the Lennoxes each together, until at last Margaret found what her eyes sought. Mr Thornton stood off to the side, a little apart.
Seeing his shadow, darker than the night, Margaret thought of the night before: the way he had kissed her, and what she had felt. She felt guilty for feeling those things, but she had pushed them down. They were inside of her, but now they sat tight and low. Those feelings could explode like fireworks, she thought, but not if she kept them pressed down.
And she did not want to stand apart from Mr Thornton. She did not want to be away from him, as she had been today. She felt frustrated and alone, and she wanted to be by him. No matter what she felt physically, or what she had felt when he had kissed her, she longed for that connection to him she had felt before.
Margaret moved away from the rest and found his side. In the shadowy darkness, her hand slipped into his.
He looked down at it in surprise, then back to her face. Gratitude and warmth flooded his own.
“The heavens are on fire,” she said.
His hand tightened on hers. “It is only science.”
She looked toward the sky. “But magic, too.”
“Yes,” was all he said.
Lighting up the Crystal Palace, the sparks seemed to usher in a new age. All the things Mr Thornton had said about the world changing were true. She was changing too.
She was glad that it was with him.
His hand was warm and strong around her cold one. She could feel the heat of him, his nearness a rising discomfort. She tried to push it down.
“There are no clouds,” he said.
“It is not always so clear,” she agreed.
They both looked up to the stars. The sky was so ablaze with light, it chased shadows away. It seemed almost like day.
*
Rating: this chapter PG, overall NC-17 for explicit sex
Length: this is half a chapter. See this note, which explains why you're getting half a chapter.
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. I think she had some advice here that was way better than I made it. But hey.Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9a | Chapter 10? | Chapter 11? | Chapter 12?
Chapter Nine A
The next morning, Margaret again tried to think about what had happened. She was well aware that kisses such as the ones they had shared were not innocent, and Mr Thornton had told her he would not demand consummation of their marriage. It was easy enough to piece together that this was why he had left her last night so abruptly. He had known that his kisses would become more, and he had promised her he would not go there unless she asked.
This must mean he had felt desire. She knew that desire was the motive behind such kisses, and that desire was the natural province of men. And yet, he had cast her from him. He had seemed ashamed.
He could not have sensed her willingness. He had said he wanted her to be willing; if he had known she had been preparing herself for him to take her, it could not have been what made him leave. Instead, Margaret concluded he must have sensed the strange turmoil in her body. Her inward disturbance put him off.
Yet she had no explanation for her discomfort. She knew she liked him; she thought that somehow she might have come to care more deeply. She loved to hear him speak of progress and industry and ingenuity, as he had on the way there on the train. She felt privileged to hear him speak of his family, his sister and his father. When they spoke as equals—together and apart, at the ball and at the Exhibition—she felt a strong connection to him. She had been happy in his company, yesterday.
And yet, when he had kissed her, she had felt positively disturbed. It made her ashamed to think of it. It seemed vulgar to her, that violence, that rawness in her own body.
Her heart had beat too hard and her blood filled her up too much. She had not liked those feelings; they made her feel trapped, as though she were not in control. All the poets, all the pretty passages on love, were about something pleasant. Love could be burning, yes, but it was also supposed to be tender, and enjoyable. Desire was a yearning to be near someone, and all she could think was that if she were with him right now, she would not be at peace. She would not be calm. It felt better now, in the cool morning, to not have him there.
When Margaret went downstairs, she expected to be eating alone, as she had her first few mornings there. Despite her expectation, Mr Thornton was in the breakfast room. No one else was yet awake. When she came in the door, he stood, and pulled out her chair for her. He asked, just as he always had since they had been married, “Did you sleep well?”
“No,” she said.
He nodded at this. He looked tired; there were circles under his eyes. She thought that it served him right. “I am sorry,” he said. “It will not happen again.”
She did not know if he referred to the kissing or the running away. Throwing her head back in vexation, she held his eyes. “I would speak with you. Plainly.”
“Yes,” he said, easily enough. “Not here.”
“No,” she agreed.
“The others will be down soon.”
“It can wait.” She stood. “I will fetch the tea.”
She had always been controlled, so steady. It was for this reason and for this reason alone her hands did not shake as she poured his cup in front of him, as she added the sugar, as she gave him his cup. He watched her hands, the way he always had before. She tried not to be angry at him for confusing her so.
He was right; the others came down soon enough. They were eager to begin early, as today was their last day to see the Great Exhibition. On the morrow, Margaret, Fanny, and Mr Thornton would be leaving. Mr Latimer and Ann were considering staying another several days. Margaret guessed that their decision depended on Mr Watson, who remained undecided as well.
Mr Thornton stayed mostly in one place in the Crystal Palace, speaking of machines. Though he was attentive to her, there was a distance between them. He treated her too carefully, almost as though she were fragile.
Meanwhile, Margaret felt uncomfortable whenever he came near her. She had felt this before—in the train, when she had seen his naked back, the evening at Harley Street when he had made her look up at him. She had felt it yesterday, when had smirked at her as she stood in the Crystal Palace, talking to businessmen. Somehow, then, it had not felt wrong. There had almost been a pleasure in that discomfort—and last night at the ball, and after, she had felt exhilarated, happy. That was how love was supposed to feel, she thought. Now it was almost as though the feeling of being close to him pained her.
The shameful thing was that it seemed purely a physical reaction. In her mind, her heart, she still felt kindly toward him. Recent insights into his character—his love and loyalty to his family, his opinions of the human condition, his yearning towards higher ideals—made her want to seek out further conversations with him, to know his thoughts, to stand at his side as she had at the ball. She liked to be his friend. But her body, when his own was physically present, flinched.
Margaret could see that this hurt him, and she regretted it intensely. Working to subdue her agitation, struggling to repress the inner turmoil she felt in his presence, she tried not to recoil. She tried to show him the politeness he was giving her, and to restore the calm that had been theirs until late last night.
He, in turn, was kind towards her, though most of the day he was too busy to give her his undivided attention. It was their last day in London; he had some investors, and wanted to settle business. But he frequently looked toward her; he asked after her health too many times. He seemed almost skittish, in his way of being almost too solicitous, as though she were dangerous, or might fly into a rage.
It could be that he felt guilty, as though he had behaved wrongly toward her—perhaps he had. She still had no idea how man and wife were truly supposed to behave. Either way, she thought that, like her, he wished for the contentment she thought had been theirs yesterday. Gradually, through the looks they shared and little conversations, Margaret began to feel more steady. It became easier to feel calm.
During all this time, Mr Latimer was also all business. Even Mr Watson participated in some business talk with other manufacturers, which disappointed Fanny greatly. But in the afternoon, Mr Thornton came towards Fanny while Margaret was attempting to placate her.
His eyes slid from Margaret’s surprised ones to Fanny’s annoyed ones. “Really, John!” Fanny said. “Are we going to spend all day talking nothing of machines? This is our last day here, and you are determined to make it as dull as possible!”
“I heard that you were interested in marmosets,” he said, in a cool voice.
“Marmosets?” Fanny squeaked.
Mr Thornton tilted his head, making the angle of his tall hat long. His face was inscrutable. “From Mozambique.”
Fanny’s own face turned hard. “I am indeed, but of course I will never see them. You must go on and on and on about nothing but finances! Can you not see that there is more to life than business?”
John’s expression twisted. Margaret could see that Fanny had hurt him. Yet instead of turning away, as he would ordinarily have done, he said quietly, “I will find the gentleman from Mozambique, if you wish it, Fanny. I believe I met another gentleman who can help us find him in here.”
Fanny’s mouth dropped open like a guppy. “You—what?”
“I can leave for a small amount of time.”
“For marmosets?” she squeaked again.
He held his head at that same stiff angle. “Yes.”
Her eyes were as large as sixpence. “What—what is a marmoset?” she asked at last.
Mr Thornton smiled faintly. “It is a monkey, Fanny.”
“Monkeys,” she breathed. “And you are taking me to see them?”
“Yes,” he said again.
“Watson!” Fanny shrieked. “Watson, Mr Watson! Johnny’s taking us to see monkeys! From Mozambique!”
Mr Watson was talking to some businessmen, but he hurriedly broke off to attend to Fanny. While she screeched to him her excitement, Margaret met her husband’s eyes. His expression was utterly unguarded.
She had to look away from the depth of emotion she saw there.
He was thinking of Fanny; she knew that. He was thinking of what Margaret had said, about showing Fanny attention. But that meant that he was thinking of her, also. He was trying to make things right again between them.
“Thornton, old fellow,” Mr Watson chuckled, coming up to Mr Thornton. “We have been asking everybody where the marmosets were, so I could take Miss Thornton to see them. Never thought to ask you! Thought you would not be concerned with trivial matters, you know.”
“Monkeys! Mr Watson!” Fanny did not seem to differentiate which of these two things was more exciting.
“I believe the man is this way,” Mr Thornton said.
“Oh, John.” Fanny waved a hand kerchief at him. “We are going to find monkeys! You may come along if you like!”
Mr Thornton shook her head at her ridiculousness. She swept away before him on Mr Watson’s arm, and John was left looking down at Margaret. He offered her his arm.
She threw back her head in the old way, gathering herself. Taking a deep breath, which filled her with poise, she took his arm. They followed behind Mr Watson and Fanny at a more dignified pace, until John had to tell them all where to go.
It was Lord Washbourne who was acquainted with the gentleman from Mozambique. The gentleman in question was named Fakhir Nasar. He spoke perfect Portugese, which was translated by his merchant friend, and he very kindly showed Fanny both of his marmosets. She held one on her arm, and for the first time in Margaret’s memory, she heard five minutes of silence issue from the general direction of Fanny Thornton. Fanny’s eyes were wide and full.
Once the marmoset had travelled back (for its own protection, Margaret surmised) to Fakhir Nasar’s shoulder, Fakhir Nasar himself was very much surprised when Fanny thrust out her hand, and began to shake his most vigorously.
Women did not do this in Mozambique, the translator told them. Then Fanny tried to apologize. Fakhir Nasar looked rather amused, and told Fanny he was glad that she appreciated the marmosets. When Fanny began to wax eloquent about marmosets, Mr Thornton told her this was quite enough.
“Johnny,” said Fanny, suddenly teary eyed. “Thank you!” She threw her arms around him.
Mr Thornton looked surprised, and then all of the sudden, his arms were about his sister. He held her to him hard and very briefly, and then set her away.
“You are not as boring as you always try to be!” Fanny told him. “Mr Watson, is he not a fine brother?”
Mr Watson laughed. “Ho, Thornton? I always said he was the savviest master in Milton.”
“But I mean brother,” Fanny said. She was a very light touch indeed, and Mr Thornton—much like Fakhir Nasar, who looked glad to no long be the centre of Fanny’s attention—seemed overwhelmed by all of this.
“Yes, Thornton,” Watson agreed, and pounded Mr Thornton on the back. “You are a fine fellow! Marlborough Mills is the biggest mill on the west end!”
“Men!” Fanny cried. “All of you are tedious!” She seemed delighted to no end at all this tediousness. “Margaret, are not they all tedious?”
“Only some,” Margaret said, in her honest way, but she was looking at Mr Thornton.
He smiled.
After that, Mr Thornton really did have to go back to business. Margaret went with him. Over in that section Fanny happened to catch sight of the Lennoxes, who had come for their first day to tour the Crystal Palace. They had Aunt Shaw with them, and Henry.
As the Lennoxes were coming to dine that night at Tavistock Square, Margaret supposed it was just as well anyway. Still, she feared that Fanny’s ecstasies might overwhelm not only Signore Nasar and Mr Thornton, but all the Lennoxs. Indeed, Fanny instantly began to speak of marmosets.
It turned out that Captain Lennox was delighted by the idea of marmosets. “Now there is something in which to dabble! I know so many girls who would like a pet monkey.”
“I have one,” Edith said meaningfully. She was convinced that monkeys were dirty, loathsome creatures, though she seemed half eager to be convinced otherwise by someone else’s exhortations.
“Listen to how she speaks to me,” Captain Lennox said.
“I should like a monkey,” Fanny told Watson just as meaningfully. Margaret thought that Fanny had not caught the undercurrent of the conversation. Then again, maybe she had, and was only being sly.
Either way, Mr Watson had not caught the drift at all. “It would be difficult, getting monkeys as pets. They do not come out of Africa, which would be hard enough. Signore Nasar says his comes from the Amazon.”
“The Amazon.” Fanny sighed, her eyes dreamy.
Margaret need not have worried about any severe social faux pas—at least in this company. She rather thought there were probably severe faux pas being made to native Brazilians, but she did not know anything about native Brazilians, and had no way to know, so she only tried to curb some of Fanny’s more fanciful notions.
This was Aunt Shaw’s and the Lennoxes’ first day touring the Exhibition. Despite grousing about having to be around machines all day, Fanny was more than happy to appear knowledgeable about everything there was to see in this exhibit area. Edith and Captain Lennox were interested to hear Fanny’s ever so decided opinions. Her descriptions tended more towards fanciful than anything that was actually around them, but Edith had never been practical. Captain Lennox beamed at everybody. He thought Fanny was, “Refreshing, by God! These Northern girls have spirit!”
“I suppose that is why Margaret went North,” Edith said. “She always did have spirit.” The comment was classic Beresford, even if Edith had never been a Beresford. She had ceased to think of any unpleasant reason Margaret had moved to Milton, preferring to content herself with the happy thought that Margaret in fact belonged there.
“If all the spirit removes to the North,” Captain Lennox said, “whatever shall we have here in the South?”
“Fashion,” Edith said, and everyone laughed.
To save themselves the bother of suspecting that Margaret might be unhappy, Edith and Captain Lennox had firmly agreed upon the idea that the North was pleasant also. While Henry was still ironic about everything, Edith and Maxwell were determined to be delighted by everything, unless their friends told them they should be otherwise. If someone told them they should be concerned, they were, and ardently, and if someone told them they should not be concerned, they were not, which saved them both a great deal of trouble.
Initially, Edith had been predisposed to think that Milton was a filthy, cold, unfeeling and coarse place, but that was because everyone had told her that it was. She had had no reason to think any differently.
But here was Fanny, and Edith was determined to be delighted by her, too. It was very difficult for Edith to maintain a prejudice against anyone, a trait upon which Margaret had looked down in years past. Edith simply could not believe in bad men when they smiled at her, or that any woman could be dishonest if she complimented her on her hair or attire or way of walking. Edith believed anything, and so she believed even Fanny’s air of pretension.
Instead of thinking that this was foolish, as she might once have done, Margaret was glad of it. She had always admired those who had strong opinions, and stood by them. Her own steadfastness, her scruples, the impossibility of swaying her from her convictions—all of these had been the virtues she prized most highly in herself. But while she still prized these qualities, and held them most dear, she was beginning to find less fault with those who were flighty. In fact, though it had seemed in the past to be highly reprehensible, Margaret began to think being a little bit of a silly person might be a good thing. And perhaps it was not so silly after all, not to be too unforgiving.
Fanny and Edith did not run into any of the friction between ideals Margaret had felt so strongly in Milton. Margaret would still never be turned from her own ideals, but there was something pleasant in seeing people be friendly to each other, without the bias of strong opinion. Mr Watson and Captain Lennox seemed to similarly lack any heat between them.
The whole four of them got on famously. Fanny began to speak of the exhibits that were here from far off places. This inevitably got around to the Alhambra and Mozambique. Here Watson interjected a myriad of notions regarding the Taj Mahal and India, and the two of them went on in their normal way of none of these places being differentiated from the other. Margaret began to worry, but when Edith could get a word in edgewise, her delight matched theirs exactly in her speeches about Corfu.
Indeed, everyone at once—that was Edith, Fanny, and Mr Watson—became suddenly and irrevocably obsessed with Corfu. Greece was all the rage. If Margaret had mentioned to Fanny that she had said she never liked anything Greek, Fanny would have denied it categorically. Margaret could only stand back and marvel, for she had not seen Edith so taken with anyone since Sholto.
Amidst all these raptures over the delights of Corfu, Captain Lennox broke away from the party and sought out Mr Thornton. Before Margaret could prevent him, Captain Lennox said, “I have been trying this business of not dabbling, per your suggestion, Mr Thornton. It is proving excessively difficult. I have been trying, but there is so much to interest me!”
Mr Thornton glanced Margaret’s way. She could tell he was annoyed, but she could also tell that no one else would know it. “You must work toward a goal,” Mr Thornton said at last, turning back to Captain Lennox. “If you keep it in mind, then you will not become distracted.”
“What goal? That is the question.”
Mr Thornton shrugged. “You must decide.”
“How did you decide?”
Mr Thornton answered in his straightforward way, so simply that it made Margaret’s heart ache. “My father died when I was quite young. We became quite poor, and my family owed many debts. Choosing a goal was very easy, because there was no choice. First, I wanted my family to survive. Second, I wanted to pay those debts. Last, I wanted to restore our position. But I think that once one is comfortable where he is, that is the hardest part. That is when one must look up, and find higher things toward which to strive. It is not easy, Captain Lennox. But I believe that if we do not look up that way, we defeat our purpose down here on earth.”
“I try to look up.” Captain Lennox gave a half smile. “I just get distracted by the clouds.”
Mr Thornton said something polite and moved away. Margaret could see that he was not interpreting Captain Lennox correctly, just as he had not correctly interpreted some of the people he had talked to at the Great Exhibition the day before. Captain Lennox played it off as self-deprecation, which Mr Thornton did not appreciate, but Maxwell was truly thinking about what he had said. Captain Lennox did not look chastened, or seem at all subdued, but Margaret knew him well enough to know that he was pensive.
Meanwhile, Aunt Shaw was startled and a little enchanted by the Carters and their quick, jolly talk, and Henry Lennox seemed to get on well with Ann Latimer. Margaret thought that this made sense; it seemed the latter few were the only ones to make any sense in this whole strange conglomerate of people. Edith, meanwhile, was explaining the delights of Turkish coffee, and Fanny wanted to know how many Moslem palaces there were in all the Ottoman Empire.
That evening at Tavistock Square was a similar success, so much so that Margaret began to wonder why she had thought the Lennoxes and Thorntons might clash at all. In the end, neither of them seemed to really care for the differences between them. Even Captain Lennox and Mr Thornton seemed to come to an amicable relationship, when Captain Lennox came up to Mr Thornton after dinner.
“I know that you do not take me seriously,” Captain Lennox said.
Mr Thornton was beginning to look hunted, with all this excessive talk of Corfu, and the Carters and Aunt Shaw going on endlessly about the militia, and Henry having gone to talk industry and banking with the Latimers, as though they were matters that concerned him. “I take seriously those who act seriously,” Mr Thornton said carefully.
Captain Lennox laughed. “That is certainly not me! But Mr Thornton, with the trouble with the Russian Empire brewing, one day, I must become serious. And I wanted to say that even if it seems as though I am making fun, I admire you. I think that you are right. We all must strive to work toward something. In Crimea, I hope it will be peace.”
Mr Thornton blinked. “Thank you, Captain Lennox.”
“Now, about this dabbling.” Captain Lennox grinned. “Do you know what Ottoman rugs are made of? Do you think I can get Turks to invest in this cotton business? Or can I get you to invest in Ottoman rugs? They fly, they say, and I hear you have an interest in all things higher up . . . .”
Then Edith mentioned the special fireworks display outside the grounds of the Crystal Palace that evening, set to begin at nine o’clock. The display was said to be Brock’s, and everyone said Brock’s were the finest quality. She took a survey, which saved Mr Thornton losing his temper with her husband, Margaret thought, and found that most of the company had never seen fireworks before. Edith declared them all such a merry party, they all must go.
So it was that the dinner-party turned into an evening out. They all piled into carriages, and went back to the Crystal Palace. The air was cool and dark, and the stars were clear for once. Ice-men from Italy were about selling ices for a halfpenny, but the peelers at last had decided to ignore them. Margaret thought that perhaps Fanny would take a fascination to them, but Fanny only looked at her strangely and said, “Why should I be?”
“Italy is farther away than Spain,” Margaret said.
Fanny looked again at all the Italians with their barrows of ice. “But are there mosques in Italy?” she wanted to know.
Margaret did not know. She also had not known that Fanny’s penchant was specifically for Moslem architecture. She wondered if she listened better, whether Fanny’s babble might resolve into something that made sense, instead of always surprising Margaret so.
“I wonder if there are ladies in Persia and Arabia and Africa who dream of English churches, and have books about them, and imagine them most wonderful,” Mrs Carter said.
“Of course not,” Fanny said promptly. “English churches are not interesting.”
Margaret smiled. “I like the thought of African ladies thinking of Helstone as I do. Sometimes it seems almost as far away to me as it would to them.”
Mr Thornton, who had not yet said anything, gave her a long look. Margaret could not interpret it.
Fanny’s nose scrunched. “Is Helstone at all like a mosque?”
“No.” Margaret laughed. “Nothing like at all.” When she looked at Mr Thornton again, he had deliberately turned away.
Mr Watson bought them all ices, which did delight Fanny, even if the thought of ice-men all the way from Naples did not move her one inch.
Then the sky exploded.
“Now we look up,” Captain Lennox said softly, in the silence after that first loud pop.
Margaret caught her breath. The bright, exploding lights reflected in her eyes as she tilted her head to look at the sky.
The fireworks were exhilarating and terrifying all at once. In the next flare of light, she looked around. Fanny stood by her and Mr Watson, Henry by the Latimers, the Carters and the Lennoxes each together, until at last Margaret found what her eyes sought. Mr Thornton stood off to the side, a little apart.
Seeing his shadow, darker than the night, Margaret thought of the night before: the way he had kissed her, and what she had felt. She felt guilty for feeling those things, but she had pushed them down. They were inside of her, but now they sat tight and low. Those feelings could explode like fireworks, she thought, but not if she kept them pressed down.
And she did not want to stand apart from Mr Thornton. She did not want to be away from him, as she had been today. She felt frustrated and alone, and she wanted to be by him. No matter what she felt physically, or what she had felt when he had kissed her, she longed for that connection to him she had felt before.
Margaret moved away from the rest and found his side. In the shadowy darkness, her hand slipped into his.
He looked down at it in surprise, then back to her face. Gratitude and warmth flooded his own.
“The heavens are on fire,” she said.
His hand tightened on hers. “It is only science.”
She looked toward the sky. “But magic, too.”
“Yes,” was all he said.
Lighting up the Crystal Palace, the sparks seemed to usher in a new age. All the things Mr Thornton had said about the world changing were true. She was changing too.
She was glad that it was with him.
His hand was warm and strong around her cold one. She could feel the heat of him, his nearness a rising discomfort. She tried to push it down.
“There are no clouds,” he said.
“It is not always so clear,” she agreed.
They both looked up to the stars. The sky was so ablaze with light, it chased shadows away. It seemed almost like day.
*
no subject