Margaret of the North (39 page)

John watched her as he drank his
tea.  She had lapsed back into her pensive mood and seemed oblivious of him. 
As he drained his cup, he reached over and squeezed her hand gently, "I
have to go."  He stood and waited for her to get up to walk him to the
door.

She got up wearily, avoiding his
eyes, almost annoyed that he had broken her sweet reverie and brought her back
to the gloomy present.  He put his arm around her and lifted her face up to
his.  She looked up momentarily and laid her head on his shoulder to hide the
anxiety in her eyes.  He clasped her closer and whispered in her ears, "I
love you.  You are the best thing that ever happened to me and I don't know
what I would do without you."

Margaret suppressed a sob as she
wound her arms around his neck.  John held her for some time before he left for
the mill that morning.

John walked pensively to the
mill, a vague sense of unease slowing his pace.  Something had happened that
Margaret was reluctant to tell him, something that prompted her to think about
going to London so that he and his mother could concentrate on making peace. 
He was himself too wrapped up in remorse about his mother, too worried at her
continuing unhappiness, too unsettled by his own concerns that he was
unprepared to ask what might be troubling his wife.  He needed Margaret and
could not imagine not having her to come home to at the end of the day,
particularly now when he could forget about his agonizing guilt only when he
held her in his arms.  "I know her," he thought.  "She would
tell me when she is ready."

He walked more briskly, conscious
that he was arriving at the mill an hour later than usual when so much was
waiting to be done and orders coming due in two weeks.  As he approached the
mill gate, a purposeful alertness supplanted his unease and he hurried into the
mill before going to his office.

*********

Margaret ascended slowly to her
bedroom after John left.  She felt tired although the day just began.  It was
uncharacteristic of her to want to lie down and rest so early in the morning
but it was what she needed just then.  She would leave Mary to take care and
amuse Elise until her energy was back.  She found Dixon in the bedroom, making
the bed and putting the room in order.  "You are rather late this
morning.  You have usually finished doing all this by the time I return from
breakfast."

Dixon hesitated before answering,
"I wanted to see how you are.  You have not seemed your usual self since
that day in the drawing room with Mrs. Thornton."

"No," Margaret
answered, her voice soft and forlorn.

Dixon, clearly worried, studied her
face for a minute.  Then, she said, "How about if I brush your hair?  You
always envied your mother as a little girl when I did that for her.  You are
now the mistress."

Margaret did not answer, only
nodded, a half-smile on her lips as she wordlessly sat in front of her
dresser.  Dixon picked up the brush and carefully released her hair from its
clips and pins.  She brushed Margaret's hair slowly, soothingly.  She went
about her task in silence but she watched Margaret's face closely and anxiously
waited for the cloud in her eyes to lighten and the tension in her cheeks and
her mouth to slacken.  For nearly an hour, Dixon brushed Margaret's hair,
gently massaged her scalp and, finally rearranged her hair back into a
chignon.  Margaret looked up and smiled, calmly, gratefully at her kind and
familiar reflection on the mirror.  She got up, put her arms around Dixon and
kissed her cheek.

In the evening, John came home
just as Margaret finished nursing Elise who had fallen asleep at her breast. 
He stood waiting, watching her button her blouse.  When she finished, he said,
"I would like to tuck Elise in bed tonight."

Margaret looked at him for a
moment, unsure if she heard him right but he held his arms out waiting for her
to hand Elise to him.  She answered, "Of course.  What a marvelous thing
to do!"

John held Elise upright in his
arms, her warm little body draped peacefully on his chest and her head slack
and drooling on his shoulder.  He found it surprisingly comforting and
gratifying to hold her, so small and fragile in his arms and so completely
trusting.  Margaret gazed with amazement at her husband cradling his child
tenderly in his arms.  Who would have imagined such a picture?  She followed
them into Elise's room and helped John lay Elise in her crib.  This was the
first time he had ever done this and he felt awkward and hesitant.  He rocked
her in her crib for a few minutes and then he stood with Margaret, for a long
while, watching her sleep.

Later, back in their sitting
room, she asked, "Shall I still ring for some tea?  It is almost dinner
time."

"Do," he answered as he
walked into their bedroom.

Margaret was surprised.  She had
expected him to decline tea less than a quarter hour before dinner.  She shrugged
and rang for Dixon who was always ready with the tea-laden tray.  She sat down
on the sofa and picked up a book of poetry with which to while away the
minutes, waiting for both Dixon and her husband.  John rejoined her shortly in
the sitting room, dressed down to his shirt opened at the collar, and with
neither a cravat nor a vest.  She gaped at him, momentarily surprised, then she
asked, curious and amused at the same time, "Are you coming to dinner very
casually tonight?"

He smiled at her but did not answer
as he sat next to her.  Dixon, who arrived with the tea tray just a few seconds
later, threw him a perplexed glance, "Good evening, master."

"Good evening, Dixon. 
Please ask Jane to inform my mother we won't be coming down for dinner
tonight.  I am exhausted and I need my wife here to take care of me.  But do
serve us dinner here.  Bring everything at once.  We won't need anyone to
assist us through dinner."

Dixon turned to Margaret who
seemed pleasantly diverted.  She smiled and nodded to affirm her husband's
instructions.  Dixon retreated towards the door, puzzled and scowling.

Margaret arched an inquiring
eyebrow at him.  John smiled back mischievously, tugged at his shirt and said,
"Cadiz."  He gestured towards the table by the window, "Dinner
in our Paris hotel room."  He leaned over, gathered her in his arms and in
between kisses, murmured, "I intend to make up for all these difficult
weeks with my mother when I have taken you for granted—your patience and
understanding, your caring."

Dinner that night was the most
relaxed and intimate they had ever had since their honeymoon, sprinkled with
playfulness, kisses and animated conversation that drifted from the changing
weather, their growing daughter, and their new neighbors to the merits of leisurely
pursuits.  But they studiously avoided any subject related to the mill and the
workers request regarding Mrs. Thornton.

Early in their meal, Margaret
noticed John glancing warily at a deep green dish, unfamiliar to him, that he
had absentmindedly served himself on his plate.  She spooned a little of the
same dish that was on her plate and offered it to him.  "It is good,
really, just spinach, egg and cream made into a custard."

He hesitated for a moment, then
accepted the bite she offered.  "Why, yes.  Quite good actually."

"And healthy for you, as
Dixon used to say.  It's a dish from my childhood when Dixon asked cook to make
it so we would eat our vegetables.  It was a hit and became a staple at our
house.  Later, the same dish was prepared with other vegetables instead of
spinach."  She explained as she fed him more bites from her plate.

"What about you?  Are you
feeding me so you wouldn't have to eat your spinach?" He asked, teasing.

"You can feed me what's on
your plate."  She answered with a sassy smile, opening her mouth for a
bite.

The rest of the meal proceeded in
the same casual fashion and during dessert, he undid the buttons on his sleeves
and rolled up the cuffs.  "The wine warms you up.  We don't have to be in
Cadiz, do we, to live with careless ease?"

"No, nor do we have to spend
the whole day lazing around."

"We should do this more
often.  I rather like it and am heartily sorry once again for all that I have
said about life in the south."

"Small doses of it are all
you need."

"Yes, but on a frequent
enough basis."  He asserted grinning broadly.

She laughed, leaned over and gave
him a peck on the nose.  "What do you think of driving to the countryside
on some weekend and dining alfresco?  In late spring or summer, of
course."

"A picnic!"  He exclaimed. 
"That would be a first for me.  We could take a carriage somewhere far
from Milton for the day.  It sounds like real indulgence."

"Are you uncomfortable
spending your day in that manner?"

He stared at her thoughtfully for
a minute or two before answering.  "I used to be.  But some of my happiest
moments have been with you and me doing what would typically be called
leisurely pursuits."

"Did you never go to a fair
or vacation in the country or by the sea?"

"When my father was alive. 
But that was so long ago.  After he died, I could only remember work and
sacrifice."  He frowned.  "That sounds pretty grim to me now.  I
never questioned it because of what we set ourselves out to do.  The challenge
was energizing and I was young and eager."

"A single-minded quest for a
goal.  You should not feel sorry for it.  It is quite admirable, actually. 
Everyone should be engaged in some useful occupation.  But I also believe that
one needs time away to refresh body and mind in order to continue doing one's
work well."

"Everyone?  I thought only
men have occupations," he asked, facetiously.

"Yes, everyone and yes, I am
thinking particularly of women."  She hesitated, and he waited.  She
settled for saying what she thought was obvious.  "Women do have paid
occupations when poverty forces them to work, as you very well know.  If they
are not in mills or factories, they are mostly in servile positions.  Most of
the rest of us run your households to enable you, men, to do your work as best
you can.  Is that not also an occupation?  Imagine what it takes to run a
household: managing, budgeting, organizing, instructing.  Are those not the
same tasks you do to run the mill?"

"Well, there is some special
knowledge required to run a mill and, some specific skills, of course."

"Managing a house requires a
certain type of knowledge, too, and certain skills.  It is work, though unpaid
and always taken for granted.  Is raising a child to be productive less
valuable than producing yards of cotton just because the mother is not paid for
her effort?"

He smiled, "When you put it
that way, it makes me wonder why I value what I do so much."

"I do not mean to imply that
what you do, what men do is less worthwhile.  Besides, in privileged upper
classes women are, indeed, frequently idle because some hired assistants do all
the work of running a household and even raising children.  As for women of
noble birth, all they need to do is keep the family line going and uphold the
family tradition and standing."

"That is harsh judgment of
that segment of your own sex."

"Maybe, but perhaps society
is also to blame for how girls are often raised.  Still, many women rise above
that helpless attitude they learn to assume and, when there is adversity, you
see them facing it bravely and squarely and succeeding—your mother, for
instance."

"You speak as if you admire
my mother."

"Yes, on account of her
strong will and tenacity and her devotion to you that made you who you are now,
I do admire her very much."

He smiled gently and
capitulated.  "I think it would be ungracious of me to argue against you
on this point since I have been the fortunate beneficiary of two extraordinary
women's affection and goodwill."

She arched her eyebrows at him,
smiling coyly.  "You are generous with your gratitude, probably more than
most.  I am sure that there are men—probably rare—who do what they do quite
well without a woman's support.  And there are women who make demands that
undermine what a man does."

"I said only what is true
for me.  I realize how fortunate I have been having such a mother and now, an
even more remarkable wife—luckier than most men, certainly—and my gratitude is
commensurate to what I have been given."

She gave him her half-smile,
paused for an instant or two, picked up a tart with her hand, took a bite and
ate it slowly.  Then, staring thoughtfully at the tart between her fingers, she
declared, "Someday, I hope women can go to university and work in
professions of their own choosing, even those done traditionally by men and,
perhaps, we can then get what we need or want for ourselves without depending
on a man.  I hope that chance comes soon enough for Elise.  I read about a
woman who became a doctor."