In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (62 page)

Mr. Hale found a new pupil to engage his enthusiasm — a sandy-haired lad of sixteen by the name of Ralph Thompson, who was heir to his father’s calico-printing factory but seemed much more fascinated with the philosophy and knowledge of sages and prophets than with the machinations of wood, iron, and cotton. The ex-parson was convinced the boy had the mettle of a scholar and would cede his manufacturing birthright to his younger brother, who seemed much more interested in his father’s trade.

Margaret smiled every time her father’s newest pupil arrived for his lessons with a ruddy glow on his fair face and a twinkle of eagerness in his eyes. She was glad that her father had a ready recipient for the treasure trove of knowledge and philosophical musings he had accumulated. She knew well the great desire within him to be useful, to know that in some small way he was connected to the progress of good that would elevate all mankind.

As for
herself, Margaret found satisfying pleasure in making her home a peaceable retreat for her husband and all who resided therein. There was an art to harmoniously inclining the management of a well-established house to the guidelines of a new mistress and it took keen intent, Christian charity, deft diplomacy, and patient planning to establish the model she envisioned. By consulting and engaging her mother-in-law in the handling of many important household matters, she gained the elder woman’s growing trust and respect and avoided not a few simmering arguments originating from the widow’s deep resistance to Southern liberality.

Although largely ignorant of the effort and particulars involved in creating the more casual and colorful atmosphere, John nevertheless noticed that his home was changed to one more like the Hales’ rented rooms, which he had so often admired for its lived-in feel and appearance.

That her husband was pleased with these domestic changes, Margaret knew to be true, for he sometimes told her of his pleasure by making small observations about the new arrangements, which were affirmed by his kisses, when they were alone in the evenings.

As Christmas approached, Margaret asked Fanny to help her select the greenery, fabrics, and ribbons for decorations. However, shopping excursions with her sister-in-law were always eventful, and Margaret lost all certainty of
the wisdom in requesting Fanny’s assistance when Miss Thornton enthused over the displays in every window and was not content with purchasing the more modest supplies traditionally borne home at Christmastide. 

Fanny’s enthusiasm for all things modern and beautiful was catching and Margaret was persuaded to indulge in ordering a spruce tree to be sent to the house. Fanny proclaimed that everyone of the least importance had a Christmas tree these days, but her mother had never capitulated in following this trend because she deemed it a nonsensical extravagance. Margaret felt a nervous qualm at the notion of her mother-in-law’s silent disapproval, but she reasoned that it was the perfect time to usher in new traditions. Besides, she believed the addition would add a freshness and gaiety to the drawing room at a time when she knew her father’s thoughts, and her own, would be drifting to the simple Christmases her family had shared in
Helstone when her mother had been alive.

On the Sunday morning before Christmas, Margaret climbed out of bed and tied on a dark blue muslin dressing gown with cream-colored ribbons and lace. She stopped at her mirror to absently pull at the tangled strands of her long auburn hair.

Although patterns of frost decorated the outside windowpanes, only a faint chill remained inside the master chamber. Fiercely protective of the one day he had to spend his time as he willed, her husband had expressly forbidden any servant to enter their room on Sunday mornings until called for. And so he had lit the fire himself upon first awakening some time ago.

A faint blush tinged her face as she recalled the time spent under warm covers this chilly morn. She, too, waited for Sunday all week long and cherished all the hours of that glorious day when they were never more than a few steps away from one another.

Her mind drifted to the consideration of the secret she held, her heart quickening its tempo at the determination to tell him soon — now perhaps, while she had him all to herself.

As if in answer to her unspoken thoughts, he was suddenly there, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She tensed at first, and then relaxed against him as he held her close. She closed her eyes. A flood of pure love filled her, and a tingling sensation traced up her spine as she marveled at how natural it felt to be in his embrace when they had only been quarreling strangers to one another not long ago.

His crossed wrists pressed gently against the soft flesh of her belly, sending a cascade of warm sensations through her as she thought of the natural consequences of their intimacy. Her insides fluttered in nervous exhilaration.

“John,” she began, endeavoring to steady her tone as her pulse beat in anticipation of sharing her news. “I have something to tell you,” she announced somewhat boldly, turning in his hold to raise her face to his.

She wavered for a moment from her decisive impulse, feeling tremulous as she looked into his eyes. “I … I believe I am with child,” she faltered, her voice fading to a whisper.

She watched his expression change from curious amusement to a stupefied intensity. Their gaze met in shared wonder of what was to come.

“You are not certain?” he stammered, reigning in the sweeping euphoria that rose from the pit of his stomach and prickled his skin.

She dropped her gaze and blushed under his searching stare. “I’m fairly certain….”

He let out a sharp breath of incredulous joy as he gathered her to him. He could not speak, but only held her tight. A swarm of powerful, swirling emotions filled his breast. He blinked back the tears that turned everything into a blurry haze at the thought that she would bear the evidence of their union, that even now she carried within her a child — their child. 

“Are you well?” he asked, loosening his hold to search her face in sudden concern.

“Yes,” she nodded, a smile breaking over her face in her joy at his eager reaction to her condition.

“Margaret!” he breathed, pressing her gently to him once again in desperate elation, remembering in a flash how much his world had c
hanged since the girl from the South had come to love him.

Tears coursed down Margaret’s cheeks as they held each other for some time. 

“Have you spoken to my mother?” he inquired softly with creased brow, pulling back just enough to see her face.

“No. I have told no one. You are the first,” she answered, her eyes gleaming in honest adoration.

For this, she was rewarded with a kiss that lingered gently as they marveled at the deepening ties of their bond.

At Margaret’s suggestion, it was decided that they would keep the secret to themselves for a little while, and then reveal their happy news on Christmas Day.

Neither the father-to-be nor his wife could concentrate on the sermon preached that morning. Margaret’s thoughts were filled with trepidation and excitement at considering all that the coming months would require of her. Her husband’s thoughts, however, were swept away with more ephemeral dreams of the family life he should lead and the more potent contemplation of how he should feel to hold their infant in his arms.

  Margaret was both amused and touched by the barely restrained elation in her husband’s manner that day and in those that followed. She suspected that his mother might guess their secret in observing the frequent smiles, affectionate touches, and tender glances he gave his wife. The look in his eyes as he furtively sought her gaze across the dinner table stilled her breath and caused a certain throbbing in her womb.

He swept her into his arms when they were alone, and she laughed at his impatience to tell the world of his joy. But she also knew well the more sober concerns behind all his light-hearted anticipation. More than once she saw the flash of worry in his eyes and knew the fear that must haunt every expectant new father. For whether rich or poor, of lineage or common — all who had walked the earth for a number of years knew by relation or friendly association some heart-wrenching tale of a mother or child lost in the throes or dangerous consequences of childbirth. 

At night he talked of little else. His tentative questions about her own upbringing and her thoughts on employing a nurse let her know that her husband held no casual interest in the matters of their children. And with a little prodding, she divined that he wanted nothing to do with the traditional customs of the more elite classes, which kept children secluded from their parents and frowned upon the open commingling of boisterous youth and staid adulthood that he so craved.

*****

A dusting of snow covered the mill yard on Christmas morn, amplifying the uncommon silence outside. The world seemed stilled under a blanket of white, while the fire in the drawing room blazed and crackled with sweet-smelling wood.

Adolphus
Watson had been invited to join the family gathering. Never far from the object of his admiration, he wore a permanent smile that only broadened at every glance he made toward Fanny, whose fetching figure and flaxen hair were accentuated in a blue-patterned silk dress with ribboned lace and layers of flounces that rustled with every movement.

With the decorated tree standing sentinel nearby, Hannah Thornton began to read the story of Jesus’ birth, as she had done every year, even those when her young brood had sat next to her in their humble quarters. But
this time she stopped midway and passed the great worn Bible to her daughter-in-law with a nod.

A fleeting look of surprise turned to one of grateful respect as Margaret took the book gingerly into her hands. She read the remaining well-loved passages in the clear, calm voice of conviction as her husband and father looked on admiringly.

Mulled cider was served to all, its spicy aroma filling the room. And with warm hands and hearts, they began the exchange of simple gifts that had adorned the tree. 

Margaret’s pulse pattered as her husband pulled out the gift she had made for him from a fist-sized silk sac. A small heart-shaped pillow of deep claret, with elaborate embroidery of white and yellow roses on winding stems lay in his hand. His words she could not recall. She knew by the look in his eyes, and the manner in which he handled it, that he would treasure it. She could not help smiling broadly when he tucked it into his breast pocket, where he would keep it for many weeks to come.

She adored the pearl-drop earrings her husband had chosen for her. They were truly elegant and well crafted, but she cherished much more the way his face had shone when she had assured his hopeful glance that they were beautiful.

Amused and intrigued by the soft laugh John made at the gift of gloves from his mother, Margaret later learned that he received a new pair every year, but was forever leaving them somewhere and could be trusted to lose them before the next year’s replenishment.

Margaret moved to sit next to her father as she presented him with a papered box containing sugared walnuts, a favorite indulgence that her mother had always given him at Christmas. He patted her hand in thanks and gave her a wavering smile.

He had presented a cheerful manner this day, Margaret thought in loving admiration, although she had seen in his eyes at times that haunting longing to bring back the bygone years, which would never come again. She gave him an embroidered piece, a bookmark stitched with yellow roses like those that had bloomed in such fragrant profusion about the faraway parsonage of her childhood.

He touched the handmade gift with reverent fingers as he recognized the hint of Helstone in the pattern and thanked her for this new addition to his collection of her handiwork.

“Papa,” she began, laying her small hand on his. “I have another gift for you….” Margaret signaled her husband with a nervous glance and watched him take a place nearer his mother.

“In truth, it is a gift for both you and Mother Thornton,” she added, looking earnestly to her mother-in-law a moment before addressing her father again. “Come summer … you shall be a grandfather.”

Mr. Hale stared unblinking in momentary incomprehension, but Hannah jerked her head toward her son for confirmation of this startling news. Standing nearby, John could not suppress the beaming smile that lit his face as he caught his mother’s inquiring gaze and nodded. She reached her hand out and he took it, giving it a squeeze.

“My Margaret … to be a mother …” Mr. Hale sputtered, awakening to the full meaning of his daughter’s words. He cupped her smooth, youthful face with his own wrinkled hand as he looked over the sweet features of the girl he remembered as a darling child. “Children are an heritage of the Lord,” he quoted with reverence. The verse from Scripture tripped easily from his tongue, while tangled emotions filled his mind with images of her childhood.

“Yes, Father,” she choked as tears began to spill silently down her cheeks. She leaned forward to embrace him, and he clasped his daughter to him, his own eyes moistening at this precious display of affection.

Hannah swallowed and averted her gaze from the private scene, keeping a strong rule over her own heart, which swelled nearly to bursting with pride and affection for her son, whom she knew would be a very fine father.

When congratulations were offered to the expecting couple, and both Mr. Watson and Mr. Hale had given John’s hand a hearty shake, Fanny raised her voice to deliver a somewhat petulant proclamation of her own. “I also have something to share. Last evening, Watson asked if I would be his wife … and I have accepted! We are to be married soon!” she declared, looking from face to face with bright eagerness to ensure that all had heard.