The First Day of Spring #4
I did not stay. In my haste to be alone, I walked quickly up the stairs and returned to the bedroom. When Dixon came to help me undress and prepare for bed, I was still thinking of Father, of what he would have said about my marriage.
“Dixon?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” she answered. She undid the buttons on my dress and helped me out of it as well as the many layers of clothing beneath. She handed me my night garment next. I also needed help putting it on.
“Where is Father buried? Is he with Mother?”
Yes, of course he must be.
Her coloring altered at that. Her face grew pale, and then her cheeks turned deep pink. She started fussing with my hair instead of answering.
“Dixon?”
“No he is not, Ma’am,” she finally replied. She held my brushes in her hand, ready to brush out my curls.
“What do you mean? Of course he is with Mother!” What was she saying? That Father was not buried with his beloved wife? What nonsense!
“Ma’am, he is buried in Oxford.” Her voice sounded faint and weak then, as though she was ill. “Do you truly not remember?”
When I shook my head, she sighed deeply, motioning for me to sit.
“Your Father was on holiday visiting Mr. Bell. He was able to meet with so many of his old friends and reminisce about their youth.” Her eyes grew sadder still as she related the rest. “He was in such good spirits. The visit had done him a world of good and he wrote often to tell you all the news. Mr. Bell came here just after your Father passed away. He told you Mr. Hale died peacefully in his sleep and that you were in his thoughts to the very end.”
“Oh!” I uttered.
What else could I say? Father was buried in Oxford. I could not visit him. I had thought to do just that tomorrow, but now my idea felt foolish.
“And what of our house on Crampton Road?” I asked. “I would not have stayed there alone?”
“No, Ma’am. Your aunt came to take you to London to live with her.” She smiled at that memory. I looked at her, perplexed by the sudden change of mood.
“I do not understand why you are smiling, Dixon.”
“Tis just that Mr. Thornton told your Aunt Shaw you two were getting married. You were not going anywhere, not without him of course. Your aunt was not happy at all to hear that!”
“But I could not have married John so soon after. The banns would not have been read yet!” I proclaimed.
“That is true. Mr. Thornton and your aunt were in deep discussion for two hours before he agreed you would live in London until a reasonable amount of time passed and you could be married. The banns were read during your stay in London. You purchased your wedding garments and trousseau there.”
Hearing this, I felt treasured. I had never suspected the depth of John’s feelings for me. But I must have wanted it as well.
“Had I wanted to wait, do you believe he would have waited?” I asked her, confident in my assumption.
Dixon quickly nodded. “Yes. He would have done whatever you wanted, but you did not want to wait.”
I do not know how I managed to sleep that night. I dreamt of John, of Mother, and of Father. I even dreamt of our home in Crampton. In my dreams I was still living there and all this was the real dream.
I awoke the next morning wondering who was living in our Crampton home now. The more I thought of it, the more determined I was to go and see for myself if a new family lived there.
After breakfast, I made preparations to go. Dixon tried to stop me insisting I was not well enough yet to go outdoors. When that plea fell on deaf ears she said it would not be good for the baby and that I needed to stay at home and rest. But I would not be swayed.
I waited until John and Mrs. Thornton were fully occupied at the mill. The morning hours looked to be the heaviest in workload.
Dixon stayed at my side; she refused to let me go alone.
She unwillingly procured a cab and we went to Crampton.
We passed Hamper’s mill on the way. The cab traveled down the narrow streets.
Seeing Fenton’s bakery and smelling freshly baked butter cakes I firmly believed this charade would soon end.
It mattered not that my baby kicked at my sides, exclaiming its frustration at being jostled about.
By the time we arrived at Crampton, my confidence that this ruse would be over evaporated.
The house was still there but now it was a different color.
From out of the front door a stranger in a dark suit with thick side burns emerged.
He was followed by a small girl who insisted on one last kiss before being pulled back inside by a servant.
I looked up at the same time the man did to see a woman in a second floor window waving goodbye.
Dixon touched a shaky hand to my shoulder, ordering the carriage to drive away.
I couldn’t cry. I was too shocked. The truth was staring me in the face.
This was no dream. I no longer lived here. Father and Mother were both dead. I was Mrs. John Thornton and I lived at Marlborough Mills. I was going to have a baby… John’s baby. I was.
John was furious when he learned of my excursion.
I didn’t blame him. In his place I would have been angry, too.
I had been sitting in the parlor having tea.
It was one of the few rooms on the ground floor that did not face the mill and as such, the outside noises could not be heard.
It was quiet and peaceful there. I liked the room immensely for it was decorated in pink, cream, and brown, my favorite colors.
Tea had just been served when my husband came through the double doors and marched towards me. It didn’t strike me until much later in the day that I should have been wary, but I wasn’t.
John spent a good minute glowering down on me.
I could see he was trying to control his temper.
His lips were so tightly pressed together they appeared as a thin line.
He wore only his black vest over his white cotton shirt, the sleeves folded up and stopping just below his elbows.
Several tiny fluffs of cotton floated around him.
I expected in his haste to return to the house, he had left his coat in his office.
“Why did you go there?’ he demanded, his temper still high. His voice was low and deadly calm.
“Who told you I went?” I asked in return, my voice raised.
“Does it matter?” he questioned. His eyes pierced me with such intensity, I should have been branded blue. “Going there always distresses you!”
“What do you mean?”
“My love, you told me your heart breaks each time you tried going there. Why torture yourself, especially now?
I automatically stiffened at the endearment. It was not lost on John. I saw him reach out with a hand only to pull back when I shifted away from him in my seat.
“I had to see,” I told him. “I had to be certain this wasn’t a dream.”
“What are you saying, Margaret?” He shook his head, his expression incredulous. “I do not understand.”
“No, you do not!” I countered. “All this, it cannot be real!” I emphasized by gesturing wildly with both hands. “Four days ago I was at home, at my home with Father. You were there, too, in his study, learning about Plato.”
“My love, your Father has been dead these past fifteen months.” He looked at me with such pity, I almost yelled at him to stop. “I know you miss him, but this is not helping you.”
“No! It can’t be! I don’t know what’s happening, but something is wrong. Something happened.”
I tried to think again of that day. It began normally enough. I recalled that I had helped Dixon with washing the curtains. I even did the ironing and shopping.
“The doctor said you should not do things that would cause you undue worry. It is not good for you or the baby.” His plea fell on my deaf ears.
At that I felt my child kick at my sides again. It was harder this time. I rubbed at the sore spot, trying to sooth the sudden ache I felt because the baby appeared to be fretting.
“What am I missing?” I asked myself. I ignored my husband who grew more worried at my words and behavior. “What else happened that day?”
When the baby kicked again, I stood and walked about the room. It helped. The movements lessened as though the child was tired and needed to rest.
“I remember I had to purchase a butter cake because Dixon did not have time to bake one.” I faced John while reciting my steps and activity.
“Yes! I went to Fenton’s bakery. Mr. Fenton spoke about his apple and raisin tarts, but I told him I wanted a butter cake.
” I could feel my heart beating faster as the memories returned.
“And I also purchased something else. What was it?”
I saw out of the corner of my eye that John had rung the bell for the maid.
I supposed he wanted tea. As there was only one cup, he had nothing to use.
I expected to see Susan at the doorway, but it was Dixon instead, coming in so quickly she must have been waiting for the summons.
I spared them a brief glance. I was still trying to remember my other purchase.
Dixon moved to my side, her expression cheerful but stern. “Ma’am, let me help you to your room,” she urged, ready to lead me away.
I saw John behind her waiting. He looked like he wanted to hold me, to carry me in his arms. It was strange how I could sense what he wanted merely by looking at him.
“I’m trying to remember… I purchased something else. What was it?” I kept going over and over in my thoughts what it was I bought after leaving Fenton’s. I looked about the room, looking at things on the mantle and tables, hoping something would spark my memory to give up its secrets.
A beam of sunlight came in through an open curtain and shone on the mantle. I saw something twirling catch the light. From where I stood I could not see well enough to tell what it was. When Dixon moved to my side again, I finally remembered.
“It was a daffodil! I purchased a daffodil!” I excitedly told them.
Both John and Dixon looked cautiously back at me. I saw them give each other a look but neither said a word.