The First Day of Spring #6
At first, I assumed he was working on mill business. It was only after he stood to stretch tired muscles and walked away from his desk that I saw there were no papers but a pile of wood shavings and different sized knives.
The strongest urge to walk over there and see what he was carving for the baby consumed me. I almost couldn’t stand the wait. As much as I wanted to see, I stayed where I was. I feared John would not be welcoming, considering how I had rejected him this morning.
I felt I had to do something. For whatever reason the fates had placed me here, I was here, and by all accounts, I was married to John.
I had hurt him by rejecting him, and, in turn, had hurt myself.
I did not have any answers, but I needed to make things right.
I couldn’t bear to see the hurt in his eyes again.
I certainly did not choose to come here, but I would decide what happened next.
Our cook did not seem all that surprised when I walked into the kitchen bright and early the next morning and told her I was making breakfast for my husband. It made me think that perhaps this had happened before and was a common occurrence.
I did not expand on my reasons but quickly went to work, making fried eggs and ham. I toasted slices of bread in the fire and added cheese. There was a basket of apples and I took two and cut them into quarters. Last, I filled a bowl with porridge and placed everything on a tray.
I was smiling down, happy with myself when I realized there was no room on the tray for the tea pot. I expected John had one in his office.
I made it just outside when one of the mill workers saw me struggling with the tray. It was a young girl, barely out of childhood but hearty and strong. She took hold of the tray and inclined with her head that I should lead the way.
By the time we made it to the mill office, she was red in the face and her arms shook. I was truly surprised the child made it this far for it was quite a journey carrying a tray which probably was a quarter of her weight.
“Thank you…?” I inquired as I did not know her name.
“Sara, Mrs. Thornton,” she answered. She lifted up the tray, not spilling anything, onto the side board and curtsied. “If you will excuse me, I need to return to the machines.”
“Yes, go on.”
She was gone before I could say anything more. I did struggle a bit carrying the tray to John’s office. It was one floor up. I walked slower than I ever did in my life as I carefully kept the tray balanced while taking the steps at a snail’s pace.
John did not acknowledge my presence until I was almost at his desk. He had not looked up when I first entered the room. I expect he thought I was a worker and chose to make me wait. When he did look up, his reaction was loud and angry.
“Margaret!” He quickly seized the tray from me, putting it down with a loud thud on his desk. “That is far too heavy for you to carry!” he grumbled and he fixed me with a hard stare.
He looked angry but there was a sparkle in his eye which gave his true feelings away.
He glanced back and forth several times, from the tray to my dress and the spots of food stains that showed who it was who prepared the food.
I could tell he wanted to smile, but that he held his emotions in check.
“You were not at breakfast, John.” I chanced a look at him and instantly his expression brightened. I could not tell if it was because I addressed him by name, or that I noticed he was not at breakfast. If he was still hurt from my rejection yesterday, it was not showing today.
“I started work early,” he explained. He quickly turned the conversation to be about me. “But you have not eaten.”
“No,” I answered, and I sat in the chair he pulled out for me. “I thought perhaps we could have breakfast together.”
Such a simple statement, but it rendered him speechless. His incredulous expression made me smile. It struck me that I had seen John look that way before. I wanted to ask if he recalled a similar circumstance but his hunger took precedence. Any answer he could have given would have to wait.
If I had not taken the first piece of bread and cheese, I believe I would not have had anything to eat at all.
John ate like a man starved, which he probably was since he was not at dinner last night or at breakfast this morning.
I had doubts he had eaten at all. He certainly was making up for it now.
Rather than chastise him for eating nearly everything, I just enjoyed the sight of him eating.
It was true. I did enjoy it. I enjoyed just being with him even if all I did was watch him eat. When did that happen?
He caught me, with a silly grin on my face as I mused about my feelings.
Suddenly our child started kicking, more than usual, acting as excited as I felt.
As I sat up in the chair, I could actually see my belly move.
It did not hurt, and when I looked to John to tell him so, I saw he was staring.
He wanted so much to touch me there. The longing in his eyes was all consuming. He barely looked like he was breathing.
Without saying a word I took his hand and placed it over where our baby was the most active.
The warmth of his touch burned through my layers of clothing.
I felt him and his touch soothed the child growing inside of me.
Neither of us spoke. We looked at each other, the silent message conveyed through our eyes and our smiles.
I do not recall how long we stayed that way. Perhaps it was several minutes; or maybe it was mere seconds, but in that moment, I felt incredible peace. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world. In that moment I finally understood and accepted that I was Mrs. John Thornton.
I wanted to tell John this but the sweet, cloying floral fragrance suddenly filled the room and stopped me. I recognized the scent. I had smelled it before the day I left Fenton’s bakery, on the first day of spring.
A streak of yellow dashed across my line of sight. I looked to the window and saw it; a single daffodil in a glass vase absorbing the rays of sunlight. The office had been dim before but now there was so much light I felt blinded.
“John, the flower?” I asked him. I tried to point but failed.
I grew dizzy again. My head felt heavy and my movement grew sluggish. I stood but my legs would not support my weight. My husband was there and took me in his arms, supporting me but all I could think of was the flower.
“What is it doing here?” I asked him. My voice sounded lost, as though it was stolen and I heard it only through an echo.
“Margaret, dearest, what flower? There are no flowers!”
I heard him speaking but I could no longer see. It seemed as though the ground opened up ready to swallow me, and still I could smell it. The sweet scent followed me all the way until I surrendered to my fate and let myself be taken.
The moment I awoke I knew I was home, not at Marlborough Mills, but Crampton, my old home. I was lying on the carpet, my face touching the coarse fiber. It left small scratches upon my cheek.
I sat up and rubbed at my eyes, then looked down at my belly. It was not round and protruding but flat. There was no baby.
I looked at my hand next. All my fingers were bare. I wore no wedding band because I was not married.
I do not know how long I sat on the carpet, trying to make sense of what had happened. It felt like I was sitting for over an hour. Once again I was confused, wondering how I had traveled while remaining in the same time and place.
As the clock on the mantle struck three, I made myself stand.
It was time for tea. There was no tea service yet in the room; no tray or cups; but it wouldn’t be long before Dixon brought them in.
I almost pulled at the cord to summon her when I saw the vase I had been looking for on the window sill.
It was out in plain view. How strange that I couldn’t find it before.
The daffodil was not in the vase. I looked around, searching the carpet near where I had fallen, and still I could not see it.
I looked under the chairs and table, but there was nothing.
I did not imagine buying it. Even now, I could smell a faint trace of the floral fragrance, but it was quickly disappearing.
Within seconds, there was nothing left, no evidence it ever existed.
Dixon came bustling in and in her arms she carried a silver tray which held a tea pot, sugar bowl, a creamer, three cups, and saucers.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Margaret,” she exclaimed as she put the tray down and moved its contents to the table. “Thank you for getting the butter cake. I did make some sandwiches, but the master always likes butter cake.”
I did not answer. I sat in the nearest chair and remembered everything.
I remembered in full and precise detail what had happened when I left to buy the butter cake and daffodil.
It was as clear as water and not once did my memory feel muddled.
I especially recalled the last five days at Marlborough Mills, which in reality never happened.
“Are Father and Mr. Thornton still in his study?” I asked feeling and sounding remarkably calm.
“Yes, but they should be coming out for tea soon,” Dixon explained. “I will return in a minute with the cake and sandwiches, miss.”
I saw she had arranged everything else on the table.
All that was left was for me to pour. As though they knew the tea was ready, the men came in the room seconds later and sat at the chairs around the table.
I saw John watching me, and then quickly glancing away when he met my gaze.
He seemed almost nervous, as though he wasn’t accustomed to being observed.
I served Father first and waited as he used my fingers instead of the tongs to get his sugar. John looked longingly at us and I wondered if I would ever do the same for him. I offered the sugar to him next and he hesitated just a moment before taking hold of the silver tongs.
As close as he was, I was able to see several nicks and cuts on his fingers.
I felt myself tremble! I knew how he obtained those injuries!
There was the proof that something had happened.
I wanted desperately to ask how he came about acquiring the cuts so I could confirm the truth.
I chanced a look at Father, but he was busy enjoying his tea.
Dixon chose that moment to return with the butter cake and sandwiches.
“Thank you, Dixon,” Father said, reaching for the first slice of cake.
He served himself, eating his sandwiches heartily. John took a few sandwiches and chewed slowly. He kept his eyes averted but I could tell he was stealing glances. He was strangely silent.
Dixon looked the table over. Seeing that everything was in place, she left us to enjoy our tea.
“John, help yourself to the butter cake. Margaret bought it fresh this morning,” Father explained.
Suddenly, he got to his feet. “Dear me, how forgetful I’ve become!
I forgot that volume of essays in my study.
” He set his plate down on the table and brushed the crumbs from his lap as he stood and smiled at the two of us.
He walked towards the door, not waiting for any kind of response.
“Let me get that book before I forget again. I won’t be a moment,” he told us; and then he walked out.
We were alone. I had no idea how long Father would be away. I expected just a minute or two.
I looked to John’s hands again. The nicks and cuts were still there. I knew these injuries were the result of his carvings. The longer I studied his hands, the more I found myself thinking of those five days we spent together.
I remembered expressions that crossed his face during that time. I had seen misery, despair, anger, eagerness, sadness, and ultimately happiness when I brought him his breakfast. I could not forget how the simple act of making his meal brought him immense joy.
I wanted John to feel that again. I wanted to leave him without any doubt about where my affections lay. With my heart wildly hammering away I blurted out a question.
“Mr. Thornton, if you are not otherwise engaged tonight, would you please join my Father and me for dinner?”
As soon as I said it, I almost choked on my words.
I instantly wanted to take them back but John’s incredulous expression stopped me.
Shock was too mild a description. His jaw dropped ever so slightly and his complexion seemed to turn a shade paler than the color of snow.
But it was his eyes that revealed the biggest alteration.
Nothing prepared me for the stunned expression swimming in that sea of blue. He was not just happy; he was beyond that. He looked grateful, as though I had given him the sun, moon, and stars.
Dixon told me I had invited him for dinner. She did not know what it was that pushed me to ask; only that I did it. I couldn’t confess to her that it was to show him the turn of my affection.
The silence that fell over us was thicker than January’s heaviest snow fall. Father’s lingering absence didn’t enter my thoughts as I pondered my boldness. Ultimately I decided if I was ever to have the future I was shown, I needed to make the first step.
He finally spoke after what felt like a lifetime of silence, his baritone voice lacking confidence, and his manner shy. I think his hands shook a little, too. I know I heard his tea cup rattle.
“Are you certain you want me?”
John certainly looked like a man in torment, uncertain whether he should be happy or sad. I needed to put him out of his misery. I glanced once more at those cuts on his fingers. I hoped it would not be long before he gifted me with a twirling; wood carving of roses.
I mustered my courage, took a deep breath, and let out the air I held in.
“Yes, Mr. Thornton,” I answered. I wanted to call him by his given name, but that would happen soon enough. I could wait.
“I am very sure, I want you.”
M. Liza Marte lives in Santa Clara, just south of San Francisco in northern California. She currently works in an Accounting corporation. She has written 16 books, four of which have been self-published and can be found on .
M. Liza Marte’s other books include: The Whistle Echoes, A Drop of Red, Above the Roars, and More than Words