The First Day of Spring #2
Mrs. Hannah Thornton entered as if on cue looking as stern and unbending as she always did.
Strangely enough, she didn’t look at all surprised to find me in her home.
“Ah there you are, Margaret. John will join us shortly,” she told me.
She calmly took the seat across from me.
“You may bring in the tea now, Susan,” she instructed the maid all the while reaching for her needles and yarn.
“Ma’am, something is wrong,” the young woman said. She hastily looked back at me, her expression severe, and her hands rubbing together signaling her worry.
“Has the new cook burned the biscuits again?” Mrs. Thornton replied wearily, not even bothering to look up.
Her focus and attention remained on her work.
“It will be the third time this week. I must speak to her if this continues,” she added.
She knitted what looked to be a tiny sock, a sock that a baby would wear.
“You are knitting baby clothes!” I exclaimed, and I slumped back in the chair.
Mrs. Thornton stopped her knitting at my outburst and looked up at me. Her sharp, dark eyes looked me over. I was sure the blood had drained from my face, and she must have noticed it.
Instead of rushing at me as I expected her to do, she slowly set aside her knitting and stood.
She motioned to the maid, who moved to her side.
They were whispering, seemingly unconcerned that I could see and hear them discussing me.
After a few nods, Susan exited the room leaving the two of us alone.
“Were you able to rest after breakfast? The doctor said you should as your time draws nearer.” She spoke carefully, as though she was trying not to startle me or scare me.
“Mrs. Thornton, I do not know how I can be with child!” I think I sounded like one for my voice felt as small and fearful as that of a child.
“How did I get here? I was at home with Father and now I am here in your house.” With each word, I felt myself sink further down into the chair until it had engulfed me within its large, leather lined arms.
She had smiled at my words at first, seemingly amused.
Suddenly the door burst open and her son walked hurriedly inside. Mr. John Thornton walked directly towards me and without saying a word, lifted me from the chair and gathered me in his arms.
I struggled against him. I pushed and pushed, uncaring how hurt he looked until he let go and I was free. “How dare you!” I angrily cried out. “I am a respectable lady, Mr. Thornton. This may be your home but you have no right to touch me like that!”
For a moment he looked pale with shock. His mother took hold of his arm, but he brushed her away and turned his attention back to me.
“I have all the rights a husband has, Mrs. Thornton,” he replied with harsh tones but they were contradicted by the pain I saw in his eyes. Strangely enough I felt as though this had happened before, dozens of times, where I had rejected and hurt him. His manner and tone softened instantly.
I saw his mother touch his arm again and whisper a few words in his ear.
“I have sent for the doctor, John,” she said in a low voice, but I still heard her.
My head hurt, and my eyes, my lips, and my ears all felt so sensitive I was afraid to touch them. I felt the movement in my belly again and placed my hand over the spot where I was sure my baby was kicking.
Two things hit me at once. The first was my acknowledgement that I was with child, my child. The other was seeing the wedding band on my ring finger.
“No, this can’t be!” I softly uttered. “I am married!”
“Yes, you are,” John quickly added. He moved until he was directly in front of me. It was too close! If he leaned forward, he would be rubbing against my belly. “We were married last year.” He spoke as though revealing an unknown event. “Have you forgotten, my love?”
At the endearment, I grew scared again and took a hasty step back, bumping my legs against the chair behind me.
He would not be deterred and pressed forward. “We were married on the first day of spring when all the daffodils were in bloom.”
Doctor Donaldson rubbed his hand across his forehead, and then over his lips. He certainly looked perplexed but he didn’t appear worried. I was worried enough for everyone there.
Earlier, while everyone was discussing me, I had looked at my reflection in the mirror, trying to ascertain if this was really me.
My hair was naturally wavy and dark, arranged the way I always wore my hair, styled into a loose bun.
My complexion was pale, yet a hint of pink had returned to my cheeks.
Yes, I was looking at myself. There was no doubt about that.
I also couldn’t argue that I was here in Mr. Thornton’s home. Minutes earlier I had been brought to his bedroom. His mother had brought me here after I nearly fainted in the living room. I had tried to protest, but my pleas fell on deaf ears.
I refused to sit on his bed. Instead, I sat at the vanity and found several of my things arranged there.
My brushes were placed side by side with an unfamiliar-looking comb.
It must be his. Several silver hair combs that I inherited from my mother were also there.
A small, crystal decanter filled with what smelled like lemon verbena was placed near a glass vase containing roses. It was my scent.
“I can’t be his wife,” a frightened voice inside me whispered. But everything I saw pointed to the fact that I was.
“Mrs. Thornton?” I heard Dr. Donaldson say behind me but I didn’t answer him. “Mrs. Thornton?” he asked again, this time with more force. I looked up.
“I’m sorry, were you addressing me?” I asked him in return. My heart told me to listen.
He gave me a forced-looking smile. Behind him, Mrs. Thornton and John were watching.
John. His name felt natural on my lips. It was when I addressed him formally that my tongue wanted to protest and go on strike.
“Yes, I was. I am inquiring if you rested after breakfast this morning.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I don’t know.” I answered him truthfully.
“Hmm…,” he muttered. His gray streaked eyebrows drew together, accentuating his frown. “And what of lunch? Did you have broth with vegetables as I suggested?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” It was true. I didn’t know.
Mrs. Thornton came forward then. “I can answer that, Doctor. My daughter-in-law did not want her lunch.”
“What?” John cried in a thunderous voice. “You should not be missing meals. You must have the broth now!” he ordered.
I straightened up in my seat, ready to defy him.
“You do not tell me what to do, Mr. Thornton!” I replied angrily. “I shall go home now and speak to my father about all this. You will answer to him, sir,” I threatened.
With renewed strength I stood, ready to march out of the room. But his next words stopped me cold.
“Margaret, dearest… your father… Mr. Hale passed away almost a year and a half ago.”
His words cut at my heart. I grew angry with him. I wanted to beat this man, I wanted to hurt him with my fists, to kick him with my legs so he would feel the same pain I now felt in my heart.
“How could you say such a horrible thing?” I cried out in anguish. “That is so cruel of you! And to think my father speaks so highly of you!”
My father was not dead. I was just with him this morning. He asked me to buy a butter cake. He was at home in his study reading, waiting for his tea.
“Margaret… my love…” he said softly now, his voice laced with sadness. “Your father is gone. This is your home.”
He tried to reach for me but I moved out and away from him. I almost made it to the door when it opened and Dixon came in.
“Thank goodness! Dixon!” I cried. Our long-time servant brought a sense of familiarity with her presence. “Tell them! Tell them Father isn’t dead. He is waiting at home for his tea. We must go home, Dixon! I don’t know why we are here!”
Instead of doing what I asked, she just stood there looking at me.
“Ma’am, I cannot. I need to… bring your lunch,” she uttered.
She left before I could reprimand her. When I turned, the others all looked at me with worried eyes: Mrs. Thornton, Dr. Donaldson, and John.
The room felt so crowded. I ran to a window to open it, hoping the fresh air would soothe and slow the fear growing inside of me.
I took a deep breath. The air outside was laced with tiny fluffs of cotton.
The voices of the mill workers were so numerous they overlapped, making it difficult to make out a solitary voice.
The ordinary sights and sounds did nothing to alleviate my fears.
“Margaret, dearest, please come and have a rest,” John said, his voice strangely calm.
“Yes, my dear,” Dr. Donaldson added. “We shall have lunch brought up now,” he said. He motioned to Mrs. Thornton, who quickly nodded and reached for the bell to call Dixon. “There’s no need to worry yourself. A good lunch and rest afterwards will help make things right again.”
I let them lead me to the bed. I sat at the edge listening to my rapidly beating heart. I knew the three were watching me, speaking in hushed words that I couldn’t hear, unlike before.
Someone knocked at the door and I heard a female voice. It was either Susan, or another servant. I didn’t bother to turn around and look. I remembered the Thorntons had several maids. Mrs. Thornton gave her orders to bring my lunch.
She and Doctor Donaldson stayed only a moment before leaving as well. Only John was in the room with me now.
I would not look at him. I knew he looked at me. I could feel his eyes watching my every move. He wasn’t saying anything. After a time he appeared at my side. I kept my gaze cast down. For a second I thought I heard his sigh. He would not sway me. I resolved to harden my heart.
Instead of speaking he leaned down and placed a kiss on my forehead. It was the only part of my face he could reach. Then he turned and quietly went through the door.