Chapter 27 #2
Nearly breathless as he arrived at the steps of the Crampton house, he stopped to gulp the air and let his heartbeat slow. Then, with all his hopes brimming, he bounded up the steps and rang the bell.
The portly maid answered, giving him a wary look.
“I’ll tell Mr. Hale you’re here,” Dixon said, already turning to go.
“Please,” he halted her. “I would speak to Miss Hale,” he said, tempering his voice to a calmness he could not feel.
An eyebrow rose on the proud servant’s face. She frowned, raising her chin before announcing that she would see if Miss Hale could see him at such an hour.
Margaret was grateful to be alone in her room to ponder all that had happened hours before, having at last left her mother’s room for the evening. She had not dared to tell her parents what had taken place that afternoon, hiding the slight cut and bruise above her temple with her hair.
She sat on her bed, allowing her mind to wander through the images of the day—the potent feelings she had kept at bay for hours now broke through the barriers she had resolutely erected.
The cold rush of fear returned as she recalled how terrifying it had been to be pulled along and roughly held. Her terror had magnified when she realized what they intended—to make Mr. Thornton risk his life to save her.
And he had saved her with such ferocious passion—
A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts.
“Mr. Thornton is in the parlor, Miss Margaret,” Dixon announced upon stepping into the room. “He’s asked to speak to you. But at such an hour, I as much as told him you may not be available.”
“No…no, I will go,” she murmured despite the sudden humming in her ears, and a pattering heartbeat. “Thank you, Dixon.”
Dixon frowned her disapproval, but dutifully retreated and closed the door.
Margaret gripped the back of her writing chair for support.
How could she face him again—so soon? She felt a rush of shame at the memory of how she had held on to him so tightly—in front of all those people, too!
She had tried to brush away the trail of thoughts that led to the consequences of that public act.
She stood erect, straightening her back, drawing the courage to face him. There was nothing to be ashamed of in what she had done. She had been terribly frightened—surely everyone would comprehend that.
At any rate, she refused to let society dictate her future.
Despite her strengthening will, her legs trembled as she took the stairs down to meet him.
Mr. Thornton could not stay still. He walked from one end of the room to another as he waited for her to arrive. So absorbed was he in his visions of happiness that he didn’t hear Margaret enter the room. He stopped mid-stride to notice her.
She appeared all softness and delicate beauty in the shadowy glow of the lantern that Dixon had lit in the darkening room. He ached to reach out and take her into his arms—to comfort her from any lingering distress.
“Are you well? You were hurt,” he said, deep concern etched into his contracted brow as he crossed the room to see for himself.
“Only a little. I am recovered,” she said with a meager smile, averting her eyes. She quivered within at his approach.
He did not like how easily she dismissed her own care. “You were badly hurt. You should have stayed where you were, as you were told,” he said firmly.
“And am I a child that must do as I am told?” she returned, the spark of resistance flaring up in her, making her square her shoulders. “Is this how you would treat a wife?” she accused him, her chin jutting into the air.
“I have no wish to control my wife as a child. But it will be my duty to take any means to protect her!” he answered in rising vehemence, agog to be arguing with her once again.
He shut his eyes and bowed his head for a moment.
“I did not come to argue,” he began, his voice low and deliberate.
Margaret stilled, her heart battering in her chest.
“I came…,” he hesitated, searching for the words he had practiced on the footpaths to her home. He stepped closer, staring at her down-turned face and the folded hands lying upon her skirts.
“I came to tell you I love you. I have thought of no one but you since we first met.”
She could not look up. Her breathing quickened as his words overwhelmed her with the familiar deep-lying passion he had unleashed upon her so suddenly months before.
Her silence bade him continue. “Surely you must know my feelings have remained the same—nay, they have grown despite all our differences.
I made it plain months ago that I wished you to be my wife.
And now I ask you again—will you marry me?
I hope—I believe you may have some measure of feeling for me—“
“And you must know that I have misgivings in attaching myself to someone who would send the police to beat poor starving people!”
“I was protecting my family and my mill!” he answered, his voice rising again.
“If you had not brought the Irish to take their jobs—“
“I was saving my business from financial ruin!”
The door to the room swung open. “Here now, what is all this?” Mr. Hale exclaimed, his face contorted in alarm. “Your mother is sleeping,” he said, chastising his daughter.
“John?” he said, looking to his favorite student for any explanation.
“Accept my apologies for my intrusion. I will take my leave,” Mr. Thornton said, ducking his head from any scrutiny as he strode hastily from the room.
“Margaret?” her father asked, bewildered by Mr. Thornton’s gruff departure.
“Please, I cannot speak about it now,” she said, turning her face away and rushing past him in a rustle of her skirts.
Behind the closed door of her room, Margaret stood in the darkness. The pain of anguish pulled at the pit of her stomach. Her eyes pricked with tears. What had she done? What was it that made her treat him so cruelly?
He had spoken of love. The fervent depth of his emotion had wound its possessive tendrils about her. And she had resisted—frightened to be owned, to be swallowed up in this unknown power.
She dropped herself onto the bed and sobbed softly into her pillow.
Mr. Thornton fairly staggered down the stairs he had so eagerly climbed only moments before. He halted as he stepped into the street. He knew not where to turn or how to proceed.
The enveloping darkness of the town matched the blackness of his desolation. He followed the light of the gas-lit lamps, his vision blurry from the sting of tears in his eyes.
Had a mere torrent of words between them obliterated his every hope of a happy future? It could not be, and yet he had opened his heart to her, and she had cast off his love as an insult to her character. She refused to give him any approval or honor for his life’s work.
He was not good enough for her. He had known it from the start. And still he had blundered on with the desperate hope of winning her. What a fool he had been to think she would care for him!
He stepped off the street to head up the path of the cemetery hill, dashing his hand across his face to wipe unwonted tears from his eyes.
Clouds moved like phantoms across the sky. The moon crept from obscurity to shine its meager light on his misery.
He wished with all his might he could turn his love into hate. With a rising swell of anger against her, he attempted to hurl his heart to safer shores of disdain or dismissal. But he could not hate her, even in her rejection of him.
How magnificent she had looked in her righteous fury! With her upturned face, so close to his, she had defied him with her glorious confidence and glowing compassion.
No, there would never be any woman like Margaret. And oh!—he knew how passionately she would love if ever there was a man who deserved to receive it from her. Pain tore through his chest to know he was not that man.
How cruel Providence had been to set her in his path not once but twice—only to make him suffer the lesson of unrequited love. For he knew he would never love like this again. He would love her despite the agony it inflicted upon his soul.
He went up and down the streets aimlessly, unaware of his surroundings. He walked; the cadence and exertion of motion allayed the despair he feared would crush him to stay still.
At last, as his feet grew weary, he headed for his home.
As he crossed the dark mill yard, visions from the riot played in his head. The door he now unlatched and swung open was the same door he had thrown open to save her earlier this day.
He climbed the stairs with heavy steps, dreading his mother’s notice. She was there. A single candle burned on the table where she sat sewing. She did not look up as he approached.
“Is it all settled then?” she asked in a pleasant tone that masked the sorrow she was battling.
“I don’t wish to speak of it,” he answered, walking past her to go to his private quarters.
“What? She has refused you?” She could not fathom it.
Her shock halted him. He slumped to lean his frame against the fireplace mantel as the pain of her rejection struck him anew.
“She does not care for me, Mother. I am not good enough,” he said.
Mrs. Thornton stood, nearly dizzy with such jarring news, and tottered over to comfort him.
She laid a hand on his arm, infinitely gentle with her son as her anger exploded against the girl.
“Not good enough? Was all sense knocked out of the girl? She cannot mean to reject you! Not after what she did.”
He recovered himself enough to stand erect again, although his head hung in his sorrow. “She refuses to understand me. I can never do right in her eyes.”
Mrs. Thornton huffed. “And who is she to know you and all you have worked for? Foolish girl! I’d like to see her find a better man than my son! It serves you well she has refused you—“
“Mother, please,” he half-moaned. “I love her still. I will not hear your words against her.”
Mrs. Thornton pressed her lips together, excoriating the girl in her mind for the pain she caused her son.
“Let us not speak of it, please. I will be better in the morning,” he pleaded.
His mother nodded, and he turned to head upstairs to his bedchamber, wishing only to find relief from this torture in unconsciousness.