In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (42 page)

His hand, gently grasping her arm, traveled up to the round curve of her bare shoulders and splayed to feel the silken softness of her skin. Lost in the delirious ecstasy of their deep, frenzied kisses, he allowed his hand to roam more boldly. Slowly and greedily canvassing the contours of the flesh exposed to him from her shoulder to her neck, he at last rested the heel of his palm just where the soft mound of her feminine shape rose above the border of flimsy fabric that covered her alluring form.

A groan, deep and guttural, ripped through him. Every carnal need screamed to be fulfilled, drowning out the cursed drone of propriety.  Sensations roared through his body as she fairly writhed beneath him, arching her back as if to offer what he so desired. The temptation to take whatever she would give called out to him as a siren, testing him beyond all endurance.

He would stop, he promised himself, the notion fleetingly releasing him from the gnawing guilt that continued to surface in this tempest of taunting passion. He would stop when it was paramount to do so. He just wanted to experience a little more of her — to follow this living fantasy a little longer before the magic was shattered and he was alone again in frustrating agony. 

A tremor of helpless desire carried through his veins as he inched the palm of his hand lower.

The carriage jolted, jarring the occupants and forcing Mr. Thornton to steady himself while he grasped wildly to keep Margaret from slipping to the floor.

“Are you hurt?” he asked with a deeply furrowed brow as he helped her sit upright, his nerves reeling from the rush of frenzied fear that she would be injured.

“I am well,” she muttered, gathering up her shawl in a flustered haze.

He nodded vacantly and withdrew to the far side of the seat, unconvinced, despite her assertion, that she was truly unscathed from all that had happened. He turned his face to stare at the murky shapes and shadows that passed by the window as his thoughts descended into a maelstrom of self-condemnation and revulsion.
What had he done? Had he no power of self-control?
He castigated himself for his brutish behavior, disgusted at the notion that he might have caused her harm — if not bodily, then surely he must have frightened her modest sensibilities with his overbearing treatment of her. His stomach clenched tight at the bitter knowledge of his failure to keep her untainted from his blighting lust. He could almost laugh at the irony of it all. She, who all evening had been the very model of grace and refinement all evening to venerate, subject to the base instincts of the man who claimed the honor of being her future husband.

Margaret tugged at her shawl, vainly endeavoring to ward off the sudden shivering solitude that made her feel exposed and abandoned. Her body trembled uncontrollably at the thought of how intimately he had touched her and how wantonly she had responded to his advances, astounded at the tumult of pulsing desire within that yearned for him to return to her side.

She peeked through lowered lashes to see the grim downturn of his mouth, the features of his face a profile of stone. His silence unnerved her, causing the pit of her stomach to tense in foreboding fear that he was revolted by her unmaidenly conduct.

“John, what is it?” she called out anxiously, but met no reply. “I … have done wrong,” she suggested in a faltering voice.

He snapped his head in her direction, his face contorted in pain. “You have done nothing wrong,” he averred in rasped fierceness. “It is I that ...” he began, but could not continue. “You are not yet my wife,” he declared solemnly in lowered tones, shifting his gaze downward.

“I am nearly so,” she countered, wishing to banish the sober lines of self-reproach that she saw etched in his face.

His eyes sparked for a moment before they dropped again in rigid resolution. “I will not compromise you. I could not forgive myself,” he stated with great gravity as he once again turned his gaze to the window.

Shame and confusion surged and tumbled within her so strongly she felt it as something akin to pain. Her chest rose and fell in rapid motion as she labored to keep her breathing even. She admired and loathed his high moral stand with conflicting stabs of fervent emotion. Had all she had felt been wrong? Had he not also felt the force of passion urging them to some rapturous unity? Although she knew it was folly, she could not forestall the chill of feeling shunned and discarded. Tears pricked in her eyes.

The silence that descended upon them was thick with unspoken meaning that swelled with suffocating tension every passing moment as the coach clattered toward her home.

Margaret cautiously raised her eyes in the dark to look at him. Rigid as steel, he sat staring out the window, his lips pressed together in a hardened frown. He was only a foot or two away from her, but the distance between them seemed unfathomable. He had closed himself off from her. She fought to hold back tears as she thought of how pleasantly the evening had begun.

It was both a relief and a dreaded jolt when the carriage stopped and everything was still. Mr. Thornton dutifully assisted her out and escorted her into the familiar hallway of her home.

“Thank you for accompanying me this evening. It was very … meaningful to me,” he uttered in sincerity, although his expression bore no hint of gaiety or light.

“It was a lovely evening,” she heard herself reply, although she could not meet his gaze. His seriousness drained her of the ability to smile.

He closed his eyes and drew a heavy breath to steel
himself from the nausea that threatened to overcome him at the thought of what he had to say. “I think it may be best if we do not see each other often this week,” he stated with wooden finality. “We will both be busy …” he added, endeavoring to lighten his solemn pronouncement, but he abandoned the attempt, leaving his words hanging in the air.

She turned her head away and nodded as if she understood, but her head swam with unanswered questions and protests of love. She remained silent, unmoving.

“I will come and walk on Sunday,” he muttered in soft concession. “Good night.’’ His final words tumbled out awkwardly. He bent stiffly to brush a kiss on her cheek and then quickly departed with a despairing glance.

The tears she had held back spilled down her cheeks as soon as the door pulled shut behind him. A quiet sob of misery sounded from her throat as she thought of the passion that had flowed so blindingly between them, now reduced to bland formalities. Utterly bereft and bewildered at the mask of impenetrable hardness he suddenly wore, she mourned the loss of their warm, buoyant intimacy.

She did not quite understand what had happened. Perplexed and distressed by the way he had distanced himself from her, she feared she had acted in a way that displeased him.

Guilt rose up to confuse her startled mind. She had allowed him to touch her as no man had ever done, and had given
herself willingly to his ardent demands. A flush of shame washed over her as she despaired to imagine what he must think of her. He was not yet her husband, and she must retain her virtue.

But how she longed to love him the way her heart bid her! She had never experienced such overwhelming sensations before and could not explain the powerful feelings he had aroused in her. She only knew that when he had kissed her, when he had touched her, she had felt her whole body on fire with the need to be close to him — the need to show him, in return, how much she wanted to love him.

Anger and frustration welled up inside at the enemy of unfeeling time and social strictures, which would keep them apart and dictate how they could love each other until the designated day of ceremony and celebration.

They would be married soon.
The swell of troubled emotion began to ebb as she reasoned that all would be resolved before long. She dabbed at her tears with a handkerchief before turning to go upstairs, resolved to show Dixon only the happy contentment that she had known most of the evening.

*****

Daylight brought no especial cheer, and Margaret attended to her regular routine with lethargic detachment, mustering a smile for her mother’s sake, although she felt quite empty inside.

She was passing the front parlor later that morning when the doorbell sounded. Assuming the task of collecting whatever delivery might be made, Margaret opened the door with cold indifference to find the man who occupied all her thoughts standing on the front stoop.

His blue eyes reflected her surprise for a moment before earnestly searching her face with grave penitence. He wore his traditional black frock and top hat, but held in his hand a single red rose.

Wordlessly, Margaret opened the door to give him entrance, dropping her gaze to avoid his intense study of her. The confusion and shame of his rejection of her the previous evening returned in a flood of discomfiture.

“Margaret, I fear I have caused you sorrow,” he began sincerely. He knew he had; her unsmiling reception of him confirmed it. Mr. Thornton grimaced at the rift he had wrought between them. “I could not sleep….”

Her eyes flew to his at this confession, and he saw her glance at the object in his hand. Remembering the solitary blossom, which he had purchased near his home, he held it out to her as a token of his remorse and his hope for forgiveness.

Her mouth curved into a smile
as she accepted the rose. It was simple, yet exquisite. Layer upon layer of velvet petals of the deepest crimson suggested endless splendor. The essence of the blossom was glorious in its beauty, although it felt fragile in her grasp.

She brought the flower to her nose to smell its fragrance, feeling the heavy weight of sorrow begin to lift.

Mr. Thornton stared at her in rapt wonder as she admired the rose. She was a picture of perfect beauty and transcendent gentleness. He felt his heart would burst if he did not tell her something of what he held inside. He stepped closer.

“Margaret, I want you with me.... I want you with me so much it hurts.” His hushed vehemence pulled the chord of aching longing in
her own breast that tied them together as one.

His fists clenched restlessly at his sides. “I dream of you night and day. To wait for you seems a torture,” he avowed as a rush of ardor swept over him. “My feelings for you are very strong. You cannot know how much I long to be your husband,” he declared in a broken voice, his body veritably trembling at this admission.

All her selfish sullenness vanished at his honest outcry, and her soul rose up to match his passion, her entire being vibrating with the yearning to let him know he did not suffer alone. She did not know exactly what it was she wanted, but she knew she could no longer bear to be apart and wanted to experience the power of love that he had shown her. “And I wish to be your wife.... I wish to be with you, John,” she answered in fervent tones, which faded into a whisper as the boldness of her meaning sent a currant of warmth through her body that flushed her face. 

His eyes flashed fire at her confession. He stood in stunned incredulity only seconds before crushing her against him in a firm embrace.

“Margaret, forgive me. I am weak in your presence,” he murmured, as he pressed kisses on her sweet smelling hair.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered, happy to be caught up in his arms again. “I … behaved improperly…. I thought you were displeased,” she confessed.

He moved to look upon her face, lifting her chin with his curved finger so that her downcast eyes would meet his.

“Displeased?” he echoed in horror. “Margaret, I love you with all my heart and all my soul. That you might love me in return is all I could ever ask for. To feel your arms about me drives me near to madness. Please, do not stop loving me as you have. I could not bear it,” he begged in rasped desperation.

Tears filled her eyes as she looked at him. She nodded her head in silent promise of her undying devotion, but could not speak. She laid her head helplessly on his breast and tightened her grasp in answering affection.

He clasped her to him and held her tight as wave after wave of crashing emotion washed over them.

After some time, he loosened his embrace with agonizing reluctance and allowed a narrow space between them, keeping fast hold of her arms.

“I must go,” he muttered gravely. “I will have much to tend to this week. I still believe it is best I not come … do you understand?” he pleaded, his darkened eyes fairly mesmerizing her with their intensity.

She nodded her accord, giving him a faint smile of reassurance.

He could not resist her beauty. With great deliberation and painstaking self-control, he bent to place the
tenderest of kisses on her lips and stepped back from her.

“I will come for you on Sunday,” he reminded her, before finally turning to leave.

Impelled by a force not her own, she swiftly moved to the window to watch his tall, dark figure disappear from view. Her heart swelled with love for him. The pain of separation that pulled in her chest still ached, but she was happy. She knew now that it was love that hurt them, that strained to be free and would be assuaged when they were finally wed.

*****

The morning mist still lingered in the air early Sunday afternoon, trapped by the billowy mass of gray clouds that hung oppressively over the rooftops of Milton. The damp chill of the coming autumn could be felt in the streets, and the city’s inhabitants clutched at their shawls and fastened buttons on their coats.