Margaret of the North (33 page)

"No!"  It was Edith's
turn to be surprised.  She relished this bit of gossip, which she knew Captain
Lennox would find as entertaining as she did and she wanted to know more. 
"Is she a beauty?"

"I think she is very pretty."

Edith's interest was piqued even
more but the arrival of carriages that were to take them back to the Thornton
house forced her to keep her curiosity in check until they were alone in a
carriage.  As the party gathered to board the cabs, Edith addressed her mother,
"Mama, could you possibly exchange places with Margaret and ride back with
Mrs. Thornton?  We have not seen each other for a while and we have much to
catch up on."

Mrs. Shaw, momentarily confused,
did not reply right away but before she could assent, John approached them and
declared, "I would like to escort my wife and child back home.  So, I will
ride with Edith and Margaret."  With a briskness of movement that Edith
could not hope to match, he helped Mrs. Shaw  and his mother into the first
carriage.  Watson and Fanny claimed the second one.

Edith really wanted some time
alone with Margaret so they could talk in confidence and it irritated her that
John maneuvered effortlessly to arrange the return home as he wished.  She sat
a little sullenly across John and Margaret in the cab.  Margaret, seeing her
cousin sulk, turned to John and said brightly, "Edith has some good news
for us about Henry Lennox."

Edith was taken aback for a
moment.  She had intended the news to be relatively private because no formal
announcement had as yet been made.  But she saw that John, who directed his
dark intent eyes at her, was quite eager to hear what she had to say. 
Something in those eyes seemed to compel a truthful answer and Edith thought,
"Why not?" She and the Captain enjoyed sharing stories about others
and, obviously, so did Margaret and Mr. Thornton.  She warmed up to what was
asked of her, a little hesitantly at first but as she proceeded, she infused
her recounting for John's benefit with no less enthusiasm nor drama as she did
with Margaret.

John who, at first, was as
surprised as Margaret had been, grinned widely.  "A happy ending then for
our clever sophisticated lawyer," he remarked, glancing at his wife with a
twinkle in his eye that Edith did not catch.

Margaret added archly, "And
a very pretty lady found the man she would make happy."

Edith was delighted that John
found the news as diverting as Margaret did.  He proceeded to ask questions and
Edith answered them with great relish.  But she could not help ending her news
with the provocative question by which she meant to learn how tempted he was to
propose to Ann Latimer—and, thereby, share with Captain Lennox a juicier
story.  "Do you think she is a beauty?"

"She is very pretty but as
Shakespeare says, "Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye."

Edith thought his tone as
disinterested as Margaret's.  She especially liked his way of saying he was
indifferent to Miss Latimer's looks with a quote from Shakespeare.  It was
certainly a more gentlemanly approach that spoke well of him in Edith's eyes
and was enough to convince her of Mr. Thornton's lack of amorous intentions. 
Her romantic soul would not have desired, could not have conceived him in love
with anyone else but Margaret.

Later, as they were piling into
the dining room, Edith whispered to Margaret, "I like your husband, I
think, even more than I like Henry.  He has a sincerity and gallantry about him
that is more appealing than Henry's cleverness and sophistication."

"But, Edith, my husband is a
tradesman."  Margaret teased.

"He is a well-respected
manufacturer."

"Well, mother, what do you
think?"  John asked Mrs. Thornton after he and Margaret took her around
the new house for a quick look.

John and Margaret had visited the
house a few times.  Sometimes they went together and, twice, Margaret went
alone to make final decisions on colors, wall paper, and trim.  Mrs. Thornton
was seeing it for the first time and, although she went with misgivings, she was
determined to be agreeable.  There was, after all, nothing more that she could
do and she was there merely to look through her suite of rooms and tell them
how she wanted her furniture arranged.

Mrs. Thornton did not answer
right away.  John and Margaret stood next to each other like mimes in
synchronized suspended motion, holding their breath, waiting for a cue to
execute their next move.  They were anxious, in fact, about what Mrs. Thornton
would say.  Both wanted very much to appease her—John, out of his lifelong
habit of heeding his mother and often going along with her wishes, and
Margaret, because she still hoped her mother-in-law would eventually accept
her.  Mrs. Thornton continued to believe the move unnecessary, and they feared
confirming their suspicion that she was profoundly unhappy.

Mrs. Thornton was not happy.  In
the last six months, she tried to resign herself to the move which she knew was
inevitable.  She countered her frustration at her helplessness to prevent it
with the thought that it was largely John's decision as well as Margaret's, not
hers.  When they asked her to look at the house, she resolved to be fair in her
judgment. 

She now commented drily,
"The neighborhood seems quite wholesome and the house is rather bright and
airy with all these windows and light walls."

To Margaret, the comment was
neutral and, therefore, favorable.  She answered, smiling, "I hope you
found your rooms pleasing."

"They would be away from the
street noises and it's good you had them painted darker than the rest of the
house.  I find the lighter colors a little blinding for my poor old eyes."

The first sign of discontent,
obliquely conveyed, was evident enough.  "We want you to be as comfortable
as possible, mother, so you must tell the movers what to do with your
furniture."

Mrs. Thornton was unaccustomed to
restraining her true feelings and opinions for too long and with a frown, she
blurted, "It will be almost too quiet back there."

"It will be quite restful
and private," Margaret answered as evenly as she could.  "We have a
similar suite of rooms on the floor above yours."

Mrs. Thornton turned to her son,
expecting him to know better than Margaret what she could not explicitly say
but he was then smiling in acquiescence at his wife.  Defeated and feeling
neglected, she turned her back abruptly to them and headed for the stairs. 
"Well, then, I shall go up again so I will know what to tell you to do
with my furniture."  She struggled to sound nonchalant and composed but
she could not mask the dejection in her voice.

"Take all the time you
need," Margaret said lamely as she stared at Mrs. Thornton who walked up
the stairs and disappeared around the landing.  Margaret stood rooted in place
for a long moment before she hooked her arm around John's and said in a subdued
tone, "Let's wait in the garden.  Right now, that is the only place where
we can sit."

They strolled into the garden, an
awkward silence creeping up between them, brought on by their shared sense of
guilt that they had imposed their own opposite wishes on Mrs. Thornton.  Though
she went along with them, she was clearly miserable about leaving the house at
Marlborough Mills, particularly now that the move was imminent.  They sat on a
stone bench under a shady tree, hesitant to talk about a matter of potential
contention.  Margaret, restless with her unease, surveyed the garden
distractedly.  Although she observed a few things she would ordinarily have
remarked upon, she could not force herself to break her silence.  But John
could not stay as restrained.  His mother's doleful countenance weighed on him
heavily.  "It is quiet back here!  My mother has been so used to all those
sounds from the mill.  This will be very different for her."

"Yes.  But as you once told
me, Hannah is quite resilient.  She will survive this well enough and she might
even grow to like the tranquil atmosphere."

"You are right about her
resilience."  He agreed but he could not shake off his trepidation.  After
a long pause, he asked irritably, "Why have you never called her mother?"

The question so startled Margaret
that she could not answer right away.  When she did, she was clearly trying to
steady her voice which had an edge to it that she could not control.  She
caught the reproach in his question and it grated on her.  "Is that what
she would prefer?  I am afraid she does not think of herself in that way where
I am concerned.  Your mother will never totally accept me as her
daughter-in-law.  I have reconciled myself to that fact."

"You might make more of an
effort."

"Tell me how because I do
not truly know what more to do.  You have lived with her all your life and you
must have a trick or two you could share with me."  The edge had now grown
into distress tinged with annoyance and sarcasm.

He did not answer, only looked away. 
He smarted at her sarcasm but he was also sorry that he caused her distress by
what he said.  After a few minutes, he turned to her and was mortified to see
the gloom that clouded her face.  She sat very still, hands clasped tightly on
her lap.  With her head and her eyes cast down, the afternoon sunlight against
which she was silhouetted, deepened the shadows under her eyes and her lower
lip, curled tightly under the upper one. 

He reached over to stroke her
hand, "I'm sorry.  That was uncalled for.  I was upset that my mother
seemed so unhappy."

She nodded ever so slightly to
acknowledge his apology but she said nothing, her eyes fixed abstractedly on
the ground.

He inched closer to her, put an
arm around her shoulders, and kissed her temple.  "Forgive me?"

She looked up, lifted the corners
of her mouth for a smile that faded with her sad eyes, and leaned back against
him.

**************

Immediately after dinner,
Margaret pled fatigue and headed directly for the bedroom, leaving John and his
mother on their way to the drawing room for after-dinner drinks and coffee. 
Conversation at dinner had often been strained between Margaret and Mrs.
Thornton although Margaret usually did her share with John of keeping some
intercourse going.  This evening, however, she was unusually withdrawn and
spoke very little.  She had, in fact, been listless since their return from the
new house.

John entered their bedroom nearly
an hour later and found her reading by the fireplace.  She did not raise her
head at his entrance and barely reacted to his remark that he had expected her
to be in bed.  He went into his dressing room to change into a robe and night
shirt.  When he returned, he discreetly selected a book and joined her.  She
sat, rigid, seemingly immersed in her book but her countenance—which usually
registered her reactions to what she was reading—was expressionless,
impassive.  He walked behind her chair, briefly caressing the nape of her neck
as he passed by.  She acknowledged his gesture with an almost imperceptible
nod.

John settled on the chair across
from her, opened his book, and stared at the words on the page he had picked at
random.  Comprehension was nearly impossible.  At dinner, he thought Margaret
was indeed merely tired, as she claimed, but now in the privacy of their
bedroom, she was still uncharacteristically reticent.  He cast her stealthy
glances from time to time, gauging her mood, wondering if he should ask how she
was.  She seemed to have slipped into a silence so introspective that it
excluded everything and everyone around her.  There was, about her, an aura of
remoteness that John had never seen since she came back to him.  He felt
reluctant to violate it.  After some time, she closed her book and fixed her
eyes pensively, but unseeingly, at the gas lamp on the table that separated
them.  John watched her preoccupation from behind his book for a few minutes.

"I am sorry about your
mother."  She muttered after many more moments of silence, her eyes
transfixed by the flickering lamp.

He assumed that she was referring
to the events at the new house that afternoon and he replied, "It was not
your fault and I was callous in my remark to you."

"No.  I do not mean because
of something I did today."  She raised her head and fixed her eyes on him.

He returned her gaze and detected
a wistful melancholy in her eyes that he had not seen since the time she talked
about her brother's plight.  She seemed so far away from him and although her
eyes were on his, they were veiled, focused inward, trying to grasp something
within that was elusive.  Her mood bewildered him.  He said nothing and turned
his attention back to his book, pretending interest in it.  He wished that he
could go to her, hold her and kiss the sadness away from her countenance but
her self-absorption had erected an invisible but palpable barrier between
them.  She seemed neither to need nor want his loving reassurance just then.

Margaret spoke again, her voice
tremulous.  "You know that your mother and I do not get on terribly well. 
Many times, we are like polite strangers living in the same house.  Whenever I
join her in the drawing room, she leaves shortly after.  I know she likes to
spend her afternoons there so I have taken to spending mine in our room so as
not to drive her out of the drawing room.  I have never lived with anyone who
found my presence that uncomfortable."  She could not conceal the hurt in
her voice.

This time, he closed his book and
looked at her intently, "Has it been that unpleasant?"

"She makes more of an effort
when you are around but she drops most pretense when we are alone.  I doubt
that she will ever learn to like me."  Her voice did not have the
annoyance nor sarcasm of that afternoon, only sadness verging on anguish as she
added, "How am I supposed to warm up to her?"