The First Day of Spring
M. Liza Marte
“How was it that he haunted her imagination so persistently? What could it be?...What strong feeling had overtaken her at last?” - Chapter XXXV, North and South
“How wonderful such a busy man as John can stay for tea, Margaret, my dear,” my Father mentioned yet again.
It was the second time he had made that announcement today.
For the past few weeks I had been leery of Mr. John Thornton each time he came to our house to have his philosophical discussions with Father.
Of course he was welcomed as Father considered him a good friend, but I was still uncomfortable.
Neither Mr. Thornton nor I could forget he was a witness to my brother’s presence here in Milton.
He may not have said anything to expose him, but he saw.
“Yes, Father,” I forced myself to answer him jovially, a pleasant smile fixed upon my face. I was determined to act as normal as possible so Father would never suspect anything was amiss. “I remember, but Dixon did not have the time to make any cakes.”
It was true. Of late, our servant’s many duties kept her quite busy, leaving me to do the occasional baking or shopping.
“You will have to purchase something at the bakery,” Father added, his expression sporting a slight frown. He was dressed in his favorite black suit today, looking just like he used to at the vicarage.
“Worry not. I planned to purchase a butter cake at Fenton’s,” I told him. His frown disappeared. The smile that touched his lips expanded to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners.
I was glad Father was happy, even if his company was John Thornton. It had been two months now since Mr. Thornton was witness to Fred’s midnight departure and the embrace he misunderstood. But it could not be helped. To expose the truth was to expose my dear brother and that I would not do.
On our last meeting, I marshalled my courage and told him I had a higher opinion of him than he did of me. Yet even with that disclosure, he looked disapprovingly at me.
So be it, I thought bitterly.
He drifted in and out of my thoughts as I walked towards the shops, passing a multitude of mill workers on the crowded streets.
The large groups no longer frightened me like before and the men and women in turn eagerly parted as I walked among them, allowing me to pass.
A few of the men tipped their tattered-looking caps at me. Many of the women wished me a good day.
The same cordial greeting was repeated at Mr. Fenton’s bakery. His cheerful, bright disposition helped chase the dour thoughts of Mr. Thornton away.
“Good day, Miss Hale,” Mr. Fenton exclaimed, his full, ruddy cheeks looking redder than usual today.
A dusting of flour made his white apron even whiter.
Only a smudge of what appeared to be raspberry jam broke the expanse of white color.
“Can I interest you in the tarts? I added raisins to the apples to make them extra special.”
“No, not today, Mr. Fenton, though they do look delightful. A butter cake will do.”
“A very good choice, miss,” he replied. He disappeared in the back room before I could say another word.
As I waited for his return, Mr. Thornton popped into my thoughts once again.
I sighed and felt a wave of guilt wash over me though I couldn’t explain why.
Perhaps it was because I kept thinking of him, while he, I believed, did not spare me a thought.
By the time Mr. Fenton returned with the cake and I paid, I began to feel anxious.
The feeling came suddenly, like an unwanted suitor.
I tried to hush the feeling to silence as I walked outdoors and the bright morning sun greeted me at the shop’s entrance.
A wave of warmth brushed over my cheeks, and I could feel my complexion turning pink at the contact.
In the next second I smelled a sweet, floral fragrance.
It overpowered the scent of freshly baked bread lingering behind me.
“Buy a flower, miss?” An elderly woman suddenly appeared at my side, seeming to materialize out of thin air. I was startled at first, but she looked so ordinary, so very similar to other vendors on the street that my surprise at her appearance quickly vanished.
Inside her basket I counted at least two dozen roses, mostly red, with a few pink blooms. But there was one flower that looked out of place among the roses.
It was a single daffodil, its bright yellow color so vibrant that it overshadowed its companions.
I hadn’t intended to buy any flowers. They always seemed a waste of money for they only lasted a few days before dying but this time I pulled out a shilling, ready to purchase one.
“I would like the daffodil.”
She did not take my money right away. Instead she studied me, her expression guarded. I felt she was searching my face for answers.
“Wouldn’t the young lady care for a rose?” she asked as she reached in and lifted a red one.
I shook my head. “I prefer the daffodil. Today is the first day of spring.” I extended my hand towards her, the shilling held between my fingers. “Daffodils are the perfect symbol for spring.”
Perhaps she could sense my eagerness, for her face brightened in the next moment. I thought perhaps she would ask for another shilling, because I seemed so eager but she placed the red rose back in the basket and pulled out the daffodil.
“Take care, miss,” she cautioned me, as she placed the bloom in my basket. “Daffodils are special.”
All the way home, her words floated in my thoughts.
They repeated several times over even as I entered through the back door and walked directly into the kitchen.
I placed my purchases on the table, noting with a smile that Dixon had already started the preparation for tea.
Cups and saucers were at the ready on the silver tray, which also contained a crystal bowl of sugar and a container for the milk.
I unwrapped and placed the butter cake on a plate near the tray.
I ignored the other items I purchased and looked for the small flower vase Mother loved to use.
It was small, good to hold just a single bloom.
I could hear Father and Mr. Thornton talking as I passed by the study.
I suppose I could have knocked on the door and announced my arrival, but instead of intruding on their conversation, I took my single daffodil and brought it to the living room where tea would be served.
It was surprising how quickly the single bloom brightened and lifted the drab colors in the room. Everything took on a glow, as though urged by the flower to reveal their true colors. Once more the flower vendor’s cautious words filled my thoughts. Be careful, miss.
“Be careful of what?” I cried out loud. “What could she have meant?”
The sweet fragrance of the daffodil grew in abundance.
At first I thought I was imagining it, but I could smell it everywhere; on my dress, in my hair, and on the curtains as I walked to the window and tried to open the glass pane.
My head grew heavy and I felt dizzy. It became difficult to keep my eyes open.
I needed fresh air. My lungs were filled with the sweet, floral scent.
As I turned, I saw the yellow color of flower expanding.
It looked for a second like a sunburst, sending out sparks in all directions.
Be careful, miss.
I heard the old woman’s voice again as though she stood beside me. It was the last thing I recalled before the room grew black and I felt myself falling.
It was that same overly sweet, floral fragrance that pulled me out of the shadows. Groggily, I awoke. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Then I repeated my actions as I looked around the room. The fear that gripped over my heart was strong.
I recognized the room I was in. It was the Thornton’s sitting room in their house at Marlborough Mills. The question that rattled in my head was: How did I get here?
The windows were closed, but I could hear the mill workers and the hum of the machinery in the building next door. In a way it felt comforting but it still didn’t explain what I was doing in Mr. Thornton’s home.
I stood the moment I heard footsteps approaching. My movements were labored and shaky I gripped at the chair for support before looking down.
What I saw caused me to promptly fall down again. A million thoughts raced in my head, from shock to anger, to fear and sadness. I think I must have laughed, too.
I placed my hand at my belly… my very round, protruding belly… and felt movement beneath my fingers. As though burned by the contact I pulled away, placing the back of my hand against my forehead. The movement in my belly continued and I began to panic.
In the next moment a maid entered. I looked at her with such frightened eyes, that she nearly tripped over her feet in her haste to reach me.
“What happened, Mrs. Thornton? Did you fall? Shall I send for Mr. Thornton?” Every question she posed was tinged with true concern. I was angry that she dare call me Mrs. Thornton, but I did not admonish her for addressing me as the mistress of the house.
“Why am I here?” I asked instead. My voice sounded weak and weightless, as though I was starved for words. I knew I sounded confused. I could hear it myself. “I am with child!” I blurted out, stating the obvious.
This time it was she who reacted. She hastily tucked back a loose, blond curl that slipped free of the cap she wore. Her pale, blue eyes danced from left to right while looking at me, and then she turned towards the door as though expecting someone else to enter.