The First Day of Spring #3
After he left me alone, I remained where I was for several minutes, just listening to my own breathing and the noise from the mill. At the sound of muffled voices in the hallway, I got off the bed and moved to the door. I opened it a crack and saw the three of them standing there, discussing me.
Dr. Donaldson rubbed his chin, stroking the stubble of gray hairs. “I have seen young mothers become so scared they act in a strange manner. But I admit, I have never seen memory loss as a side effect,” he told the two.
“What can we do, Doctor?” Mrs. Thornton asked him. I saw the concern in her eyes. She gripped her hands tightly in front of her obviously worried. I had never seen that before. Mrs. Thornton had always seemed so unflappable.
With a shake of his head, it seemed the doctor was chasing away any dour thoughts cluttering his thinking. His expression had been grave but now looked to brighten. John was the only one whose face I could not see. He stood with his back facing me.
“I believe, with lots of rest and constant reassurance, that all will be well. It is probably just fear of the impending birth.” He fixed John with a stern stare. “And it’s best under the circumstances not to cause unnecessary worry… of any kind.”
Whatever John said in response was lost.
Dixon chose that moment to return. She walked up the stairs carrying a tray. I could almost smell the broth where I was standing. Her destination was the room I was in. Quickly, so as not to be caught spying, I closed the door and hurried back to the bed.
“Here we are,” she said cheerfully as she entered. The broth did smell appetizing and I could also detect the aroma of newly baked bread. My stomach grumbled accordingly, but I wasn’t ready to eat.
“Dixon?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” she replied as she placed everything on the table by the window. She motioned when everything was arranged and remained standing, hands clasped together, waiting for me to sit and eat.
I did as I was bid, I sat at the pulled chair but instead of eating, I turned to her and motioned with a flick of my wrist that she should sit in the other chair.
She followed my order easily, wordlessly, which struck me as strange.
The Dixon I knew always had something to say, be it pleasant or not.
“Eat, Ma’am, before it turns cold.”
“I will eat, but only after my questions are answered,” I informed her using my authoritative tone of voice.
“Now there is no need to worry yourself, Ma’am. Tis the baby you should be thinking of,” she coaxed, hoping I would comply. “Why Cook made the broth especially for you with bits of ham and carrots.”
“I am sure the broth is delicious.” I watched as she pushed the bowl closer to me, taking care not to spill the contents.
She buttered one piece of bread and perched it on the rim.
Dixon brushed off the crumbs from her fingers and wiped them on the apron she wore before standing.
Her next destination was the bed. Without being ordered, she pulled down the covers and arranged the pillows.
I guess this meant I was to have a nap after eating.
“Is it true?” I asked her, interrupting her work.
“Is what true?”
I steadied my breath, and then let out it in one long exhale. “Is Father dead?”
I saw her hesitate, inwardly sorting out the conflict of whether to say the truth and unsettle me or give a white lie and keep things cheerful.
“Tell me. Hold nothing back,” I pushed her to answer.
“Ma’am, you know he passed fifteen months ago. After the mistress, your gentle mother died, he was never the same.”
She wasn’t lying to me. I knew she wasn’t. But how did this all come to pass? A few hours ago I was in my home. I was helping to prepare the tea. I even heard Father lecture and instruct Mr. Thornton in philosophy inside his study. How did I go from there to here?
“I know you are telling me the truth, but I do not remember any of it. I do not remember Father dying. I do not remember marrying Mr. Thornton. When did I fall in love with him?”
At that she smiled, her lips stretching and her dimples in full display. I couldn’t recall Dixon ever looking this happy before.
“You told me when, Ma’am.” She looked so happy, so ridiculously cheerful I almost couldn’t bear to look at her.
“It was during the spring. The master and Mr. Hale had been in your Father’s study, discussing all those books as they always did on Tuesdays.
When they came out for tea, you two and Mr. Thornton were left alone for several minutes.
I cannot recall now why exactly you asked him, but you did.
You told me you invited him to dinner and he accepted your invitation. ”
“I invited him?” I asked, incredulous at the notion.
I couldn’t imagine why I would have done so.
In the weeks since he had seen Fred and me at the station, Mr. Thornton barely spoke to me.
He looked at me with such disapproval, I felt guilty.
Even after I learned he had dissuaded the constable from seeking further into the matter, I still could not approach him.
“Why would I invite him? Why did I do that?” I asked aloud.
For the next two days, I barely left the bedroom except to join the others at dinner.
John and Mrs. Thornton were all politeness, always inquiring after my health and appetite but hearing the same kind inquiries grew tiresome.
It was strange how I now addressed him as John.
My head was quick to remind me he was my husband, but I continued to fight against it.
His brilliant, blue eyes followed my every movement. No matter which way I turned I saw the hint of blue flash within my line of sight, reminding me he was near and attuned to my presence.
Dr. Donaldson had said I was just scared and unprepared for motherhood.
It was a common reaction for a new mother he declared.
As I result I became easily flustered. He reasoned that I would eventually come to terms with the way things were.
For now, I was to be made comfortable, else my fragile condition would grow worse, and we could not chance that so near my time.
When I came down to dinner on the third night, John held the chair out for me, just as he had the previous two nights. This time however, his fingers lightly brushed against the nape of my neck, and he lingered by my side. His mother cleared her throat and he took his seat.
“Are you feeling better tonight, Margaret, dear?” Mrs. Thornton asked just as the first course of soup was served. “You look well. You do not look as pale.”
“I am quite well, Ma’am,” I answered. She gave me a look after the very formal address. I had no idea if I had started calling her Mother after the wedding. Perhaps I had and she expected I would resume.
“Hmm,” she spoke softly, her voice low. Her expression revealed her worry. Three days had passed but nothing had really changed. I still remembered nothing.
I saw John open his mouth to speak, but he quickly closed it.
His eyes were cast down and for the first time I could not see how blue they were.
Dinner continued in almost complete silence.
The only sounds were of the utensils being used.
Voices from the outside drifted in, filling in the long gaps of quiet, but those inside were still.
By the time the excruciatingly long meal was over, I needed to run back to the safe haven of the bedroom. I excused myself and tried to leave without looking at John’s fallen expression before rushing out the door. I failed. I suppose I was being a coward, but I couldn’t stop myself.
I almost made it to the top of the stairs when I heard his voice.
It was strange how easily I could distinguish John’s voice from anyone else’s.
It drifted from out of the open doors of the dining room and called to me, drawing me back so that I turned and descended the stairs.
Outside the open doors, I stood, listening to their private conversation.
Mrs. Thornton spoke here and there, but it was John who did most of the talking.
“Mother, she hates me!” he cried in anguish. A wave of guilt struck me and I almost rushed in to tell him that was not true. I didn’t hate him. I didn’t know what I felt.
“She does not hate you,” his mother said in my defense. “She is going through a difficult time.”
“Why is it that she does not remember being married? I do not understand! My wife can barely stand being in the same room with me.”
“I’m sorry. I have no answers,” she told him.
There was a moment of silence that followed.
I moved a little, trying to get close enough to see them but not be seen.
I peered through an opening between the door jam and wall.
I saw Mrs. Thornton soothing her son, rubbing at his arm, showering him with motherly love, but John could not be placated.
“I must do something! I can’t stand by and let her drift further away from me. We already sleep in separate rooms. But what can I do?”
“Give her more time,” his mother advised. “Margaret has gone through a great deal of tragedy, and it was not so long ago. She must miss her parents terribly and wish they were here now that she is to have a child.”
Could that be it, I thought? What Mrs. Thornton was saying made sense. I did not realize she was astute enough to see this or acknowledge it.
“Yes, that is true,” John admitted, holding back tears I saw forming in his eyes. A big part of me wanted to wipe them away. “Mr. Hale had been gone only four months before we married. Her aunt in London was aghast we married before the year of mourning ended, but neither of us wanted to wait.”
We did not wait? What would Father have thought? I know John would have wanted whatever made me happy, but not waiting seemed improper. Could I have been that in love with him?