Mischances #8
“‘Tis too high a price! I know Hamper—know him well. Despite your present experience, you must understand that he is far from a sadist. He does not cause pain to give himself pleasure but rather to bring pressure to bear—to seek his own ends.”
“But what does he want? I have nothing, can do nothing for him.”
“There, you are wrong. I expect his first thought was that he had won himself a handsome young gentlewoman for his bride—a prize, indeed, for nearly every single man of new wealth longs for such a feather for his cap. However, I think he still might have been persuaded to forget the scheme had it not been for me.”
“For you?” She drew a sharp breath. “I have said nothing to anyone of—”
He squeezed her hand. “You did not need to. It was all my own doing. I acted the brash idiot, blustering my demands and thinking I had the right to issue orders, all because of my offended pride. Hamper devoured the whole scene—why, I imagine it was the greatest thrill he had known in years, knowing he had bested me and that I was undone by it.”
She lowered her gaze to their hands, and her thumb brushed lightly over the back of his knuckles. “You are far nobler than I deserve.”
“Noble! What were my actions but those of a jealous fool? I expected to hear you chastise me, and you would have every right. Aye, I did interfere—and I mean to do more, but I shall keep my head about me. I’ll not disgrace you again by making a scene, but I cannot stand by and let you marry Hamper. ”
“But what is to be done?”
He smiled and lifted his hand to caress her cheek once more, thrilling in the way she closed her eyes and seemed to melt into his touch.
“I had already thought of something. In fact, I was working on that notion when you came in and, with your blessing, I shall bring the matter to Hamper. But please do not ask me what it is—not yet.”
She blinked, then lowered her face into his palm with an expression of surrender. “I will trust you, then.”
“Thornton, I never thought I would see the day.” Hamper rose from his desk, his eyes still on the letter in his hand. “Lost your head, you have.”
“My head I can do without,” John clipped. “Are we agreed?”
Hamper folded the letter once more and gave it back. “You truly mean to send this? You will give up the Regimental contract and all that easy income? What, oh great and mighty Thornton, do you think your hands will have to say on that?”
“Marlborough Mills is secure enough without the contract,” John lied. “So long as there is work, my hands will be content.”
Hamper permitted a half-grin. “Don’t worry, Thornton. When you fail, I promise to hire your best workers.”
“I trust you will not find that necessary.” John tucked the letter into his breast pocket. “I will post this at once. About Miss Hale—”
Hamper snorted. “I shall forget I ever knew the lass. But that is just the trick, is it not? For I expect I shall encounter her frequently, if you have any say in the matter.”
John narrowed his eyes, then turned to collect his hat. “Good day, Hamper.”
“Come, now, Miss Margaret, you’re naught but skin and bones,” Dixon clucked. “You must eat something.”
Margaret stood resolutely by the window, her hands clasped quietly and her figure straight and tall. Her inner being, however, was in turmoil. Her heart was hammering in her throat and every nerve tingled with a sick kind of dread and longing.
“Dear me,” Dixon muttered as she came closer, “You look like a ghost, Miss.”
“Do not be concerned for me,” Margaret managed unsteadily. “How is Father?”
Dixon shook her head. “Says he won’t rest till Mr Thornton comes. I told him—”
Margaret stiffened and put out her hand. Her eyes had never left the window, and a familiar shape—a figure that inspired as much comfort as bewilderment—had just passed by. She tilted her head to follow the cut of his shoulders for another step or two, then drew back. “Dixon, we have a caller.”
An instant later, his firm hand echoed upon the door, and Dixon left to receive him.
Had that knock sounded confident or vexed?
Margaret dashed to the looking glass and sighed in frustration when she beheld her own pale countenance.
She swallowed, passed a trembling hand over her skirts, and then braced herself for the door to open.
Her first glimpse of his face told her all. His jaw was relaxed, his brow smooth, and the line of his mouth easy. There was a searching in his eyes, a hopefulness that had marked them once before. This time, she would rather die than to crush him again.
She went forward, her hands extended, and he took both with a light, reverent touch. “All is well,” he reported.
His words broke some kind of reservoir, and her whole body shuddered in relief. She closed her eyes for composure and, when she opened them again, he had drawn nearer. “How did you do it?”
One side of his mouth pulled up. “Hamper and I each had something the other held dear. I offered him what he most desired, and he is content.”
She regarded him carefully, her breath tight in her chest. “And you?”
His expression became at once guarded and vulnerable—hesitant but sanguine together. “That remains to be seen.”
“Can you be in any doubt?” she asked softly. “How could I be anything but grateful? I owe you—”
“No.” He shook his head vehemently. “You owe me nothing. I will not have your gratitude, Margaret, just as you would not accept mine once before. I did what I felt I must. Let there never again be talk between us of debt or obligation.”
She permitted the shadow of a smile. “Then what may I say without giving offence? Shall I speak of scandal? For you must know, I am not untouched by rumour. What is said of me on the street—”
“I care nothing for that. You know I would offer you my protection, but that is not why I came.”
She glanced down at their hands, still joined, and tightened her fingers.
There was something so natural in his touch…
so whole. And for the first time, she discovered that she understood him as she could understand no other.
His was no simple character—the depths of his ways might take her years to fully comprehend and they would never agree on all matters.
But what they did share, that which they held kindred, was more powerful than misapprehension and more foundational than opposing perspectives.
He was waiting; his chest seemed tight with restrained breath, his eyes intense. Boldly he had come, and now boldly she would answer.
“Mr Thornton?”
“Margaret?”
She smiled—fully and easily this time. “John—will you marry me?”
His eyes widened in astonishment. He gasped, nearly laughing, and caught her around the waist. “Good heavens, Woman, you insist on catching me off my guard! Yes, again and again. With my last breath—yes.”
At last she was free to let go, free to laugh, and she did. His arms tightened around her, and there was nothing to do but to rest her hands on his shoulders, then slide them up to cradle his face. As he lowered his head, she touched her brow to his and simply held him.
“Margaret,” he breathed, almost as a mantra. “Love, I can scarcely believe it is true.”
She brushed her thumb over the proud line of his cheek and her smallest fingers tickled the tender flesh below his ear. “How can I convince you that I am perfectly in earnest?”
Those dark eyes seemed to speak, to ask. His head lowered still more, he drew one last breath, and his warm lips caressed hers. She gave herself wholly to his embrace—forgetting for a moment where her self came to an end and his began.
John—her own John—pulled her gently closer until she pressed against his heart.
Every sigh, every pulse they shared, even as his mouth left hers to nuzzle her cheek.
A shiver coursed over her skin. There was so much she would say to him!
So much to be spoken over, to be brought into the light.
But for now, it was enough to describe feeling without words, to breathe the same breath and dwell in the same essence.
A creak from the floorboards drew her back to the present, and she lifted her head to look over John’s shoulder. Her father stood there, his hand to his mouth.
John turned—one hand fell away, but the other remained possessively at her waist. Margaret met her father’s eye, her own arm still wrapped round John as she raised her chin.
Mr Hale blinked and trembled as he looked from one to the other…and then he wept tears of joy.
Nicole Clarkston is a book lover and a happily married mom of three.
Originally from Idaho, she now lives in Oregon with her own romantic hero, several horses, and one very fat dog.
She has loved crafting alternate stories and sequels since she was a child, and she is never found sitting quietly without a book or a writing project.
Nicole Clarkston’s books include No Such Thing as Luck, Northern Rain, Nowhere but North, Rumours and Recklessness, The Courtship of Edward Gardiner, These Dreams, London Holiday, Nefarious, and Rational Creatures (Anthology).