Chapter Text
The world was spinning. The world was not spinning. The world was a suffocating haze of fog – or perhaps smoke from the fire that licked at his feet. Indistinguishable shapes became a swarm of faces, an unintelligible yet unbearable cacophony of voices – and still the fire burned, and burned, and burned.
From the blaze emerged a hand, manifesting a chin from what must certainly now be a pile of cinders and char. His mouth hinged open, head tipped back, and in sloshed a drink – a bitter thing that curdled on his tongue and did nothing to quench the burning heat. His attempts at sputtering were no match against the hand’s insistence, and so he swallowed with a choking gasp and was thereby freed.
The inferno continued to grow until it was all that there was. No hands, no chorused concern, no Mill, no Man, no world undecided on spinning or not-spinning. Simply: flames. The scorching heat burning flesh to ash, only to be remade again and again.
Until – one prays for that blessed ‘until’ – it grew no more. Until– the fire began to falter, slowly at first, and then all at once it reduced to embers, still white-hot, in a pile at his feet. And then the world began to spin again.
He rested and drifted in the dizzying haze, too numbed by the overwhelming sense of relief to dare question it. Time marched forward, each moment indistinguishable from the rest, until a hand appeared again. He did not resist when it entreated his mouth to open, and was rewarded by a cool splash of water which he lapped at greedily. Despite his urging, the drink flowed in a gentle trickle that was replenished thrice before the hand moved away again.
“Well, at least his thirst has returned,” remarked Hannah drily as she set the now-empty glass beside the equally empty jug. Margaret glanced up from the pile of soon-to-be bandages in her lap with a tentative smile. “Perhaps we should test his hunger over supper as well,” the girl suggested, twisting in her seat to follow Mrs. Thornton’s path as the matriarch returned to her post by the doorway.
There, crammed beside the jamb was a diminutive table serving as a desk, stacked high with ledgers that balanced precariously beside a lit candle. The light flickered across the deep furrow of the woman’s brow as she trailed her finger across a line of figures, where she remained silent and still for heavy beat. Then, with a shake of her head, she turned back to the girl and offered a solemn nod.
“Aye, Miss Hale. Sensible girl. Best summon Jane now and put forth the request, if you will.” The now-familiar tinkling of a bell was the only needed response.
In the quiet three-quarters of an hour leading up to Jane’s return, Margaret passed the majority with inspection, repair, and preparation of dressings – including reinforced patches to be soaked in carbolic acid, at the doctor’s request. Her fingers ached from tightly clenching the needle, neck stiff from bowing over her work, but she persisted tirelessly, as every moment not spent poring over cotton resulted in the ineludible study of her patient. The manner in which he shifted and groaned. How his eyes seemed to drift across the room without a hint of recognition. It was troubling to see a man known for his discerning gaze reduced to such a state, yet she felt her stare drawn to him again and again.
This was to be expected, she reminded herself, recalling how her mother behaved similarly under the haze of laudanum, but that did little to loosen the coil of tension in her gut.
When their repast arrived with little fanfare – featuring a sumptuous platter of veal for the waking, and a more substantial gruel for John – Miss Hale felt that coil tighten further as Mrs. Thornton did not move from her seat, instead directing Jane to set the bowl at her son’s bedside.
“I do not intend to rush you,” Hannah intoned as she cut her fare into bite-sized pieces with a singular intensity, her eyes still fixed on the ledger placed perilously beside her plate, “but that gruel is best-served with a little heat to it. Once the cold sets in, it unfortunately resolves into a congealed mess.”
Despite the rich array of meat, vegetables, and potatoes set before her, the pangs of hunger that had plagued her for hours all but evaporated as Margaret watched the girl shakily raise the spoon from the bowl and press it to John’s lips. Even though he had awoken, it was as if little changed. With a thick swallow, she re-focused on the plate before her, barely tasting each methodical mouthful.
Moments passed of this stilted silence before it shattered with the clatter of a spoon. Jane staggered backwards as her patient doubled over in a fit. John’s back heaved with wracking coughs. “H-he must have swallowed it incorrectly,” the girl stammered as the other women both rushed to their feet.
Being closer, Margaret arrived first to the other side of the bed, and set about comforting those involved however she could. A gentle hand smoothed down John’s spine as the last of the food rattled out of his lungs. “Rumour has it, he is not fond of gruel,” she offered with a soft smile. “Worry not. He’ll be fine.”
Hannah’s scowl from across the room negated any soothing effect on Jane as she scrambled to fetch the spoon and stood dumb where she retrieved it, trembling like a leaf.
“Let us wait for this outburst to pass, and perhaps provide his head with a little more elevation before we attempt again?” Margaret continued blithely, repositioning her palm to now lay reassuringly on John’s shoulder as the coughing stopped and he fought to catch his breath. “It appears he still needs a little more assistance than we hoped.”
The response was a blink and a nod before the servant turned to survey the disarray around her. As a result, Jane was busied with cleaning up the splatters of flung gruel, but Mrs. Thornton bore full witness to her son moving his hand to cover Margaret’s. The room all but ignited as a calloused thumb ran across her knuckles and he returned her encouraging squeeze.
In the haze and delirium of her exhaustion, Hannah was unsure who had initiated such an intimate gesture. There, her anxiety concerning Miss Hale’s true intentions coalesced once more, but cast in a darker light.
Perhaps in lieu of wedding banns, this girl sought to captivate the gentler part of him, and then vanquish it in one fell swoop. An act of vengeance for those rotten union men she was so fond of.
And here she was, given the opportunity to endeavor once more.
Mrs. Thornton’s role as a mother was to protect, to defend her son, and yet she had brought him into proximity of a– a–
Harlot.
Margaret attempted to jerk free but his grasp held fast.
Temptress.
Hannah Thornton’s glower deepened impossibly as the woman strode towards the bed. “H-he–” Margaret started before his mother wrenched John’s hand away, wrapping it firmly in her own.
Whore.
“I shall tend to my son for the coming hours, Miss Hale,” the woman grated, instantly dousing the air with chill. “You have more than earned yourself a break. Perhaps it is due time for you to take a stroll around the courtyard, as we discussed? Or a visit with Fanny before she retires for the evening?”
Margaret composed herself with a shaky breath before acquiescing. “A visit sounds quite agreeable.”
“Jane!” Hannah barked, resulting in another clatter of silverware to the floor. “Escort Miss Hale to the music room after you’ve fixed your mess. And fetch John a new bowl, would you?”
As the girl was ferried from the room, the matron returned to her seat with a grunt and a permanent grimace. This Hale was much too conniving; it would take more than Hannah alone to guard against her. Fueled by the churn of fury within her breast, she considered the affairs necessary to ensure Maraget Hale would be denied all closeness with her son – at all costs.
***
Their expedition to the music room was led by the plinking of keys – not quite composed enough to seem as if it were the practice of a piece, yet still far from the absentminded poking that arose from boredom. Jane, still seemingly wary of the guest within the Thornton home, led Margaret silently through the pristine hallways. Upon their arrival at the stately set of doors from which the piano strains emanated, the maid rapped loudly, and then departed quickly with a brisk adieu once Fanny flung open the entry. “Miss Hale!” she cried, scarcely disguising her surprise as she surreptitiously fluffed her skirts and righted her jacket.
“Good evening, Miss Thornton,” Margaret greeted with a gentle tilt of her head, “I do hope I am not imposing, but your mother suggested you may be amenable to a visit, if you do not mind the intrusion.” Margaret
After a moment of rapid blinking, Fanny stepped back through the threshold and gestured for her guest to follow. “Oh, yes! Of course, if mother requests of it!,” She enthused as she led Margaret into the room, “I’m intent on mastering this delightful new piece from London, and I’ve no mind for a performance at this hour but – oh, you can help turn the pages, if you’ve an ear for it.”
The young woman paused as they reached the pianoforte at the center of the chamber, turning to cast Miss Hale with an appraising look, “You do have the capacity to read music, do you not?”
“I may be a little out of practice, but I am a quick study,” she offered with a smile.
That seemed to be enough for appeasement as Fanny shifted her scrutiny to the cascade of sheet music strewn across the keys and stool. “Very well. Just because you are here helping my brother, does not mean I will go lax on you. We Thortons have exacting standards.” The final phrase was emphasized with a soft whack of the reoriented tablature onto the music rack.
During her host’s diversion, Margaret quietly surveyed the room. Even here, the sterile and unblemished air of the Thornton home permeated – but it was interspersed with errant flounces and pockets of disarray that denoted Fanny’s influence.
Miss Hale was broken from her reverie with the rustle of Fanny’s skirts and shuffle of paper as the woman arranged herself on the bench. A prim stare was all it took for Margaret to shuffle towards the instrument and assist in restoring it to order. With the sheets righted, all that was left was the flick of the metronome and Miss Thornton’s hands confidently flew across the keys – filling the room with a rich, if stiff, melody.
Margaret’s dutiful page turning lasted only a few minutes before the music slowed to a plinking halt.
“Did you know,” Fanny sniffled, “John bought me this piece from London before his– the accident. I had chided him at the time since it’s Barnett and he should know that Barnett is not fashionable – I told him multiple times how Claribel was the composer du jour but he would not hear of it. I didn’t play it for weeks out of protest, not that I think he noticed, but now–”
“Oh, Miss Thornton.” Margaret sidled up beside her carefully and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder, “You meant nothing by it. That’s what siblings do, they fight, they get into spats, but both parties know in their hearts that they still love each other.”
“No,” The woman wailed, leaning heavily on her guest, making no attempt to wipe at the river of tears on her cheeks. “He was so busy, so stressed with the Mill and yet the one moment he offers me kindness, I throw it in his face. It touched my heart, even if the piece itself is really quite dreadful–”
“Maybe tomorrow you can visit him and tell him that,” Margaret offered, her other hand now searching her pockets for a handkerchief or other means to mop at the deluge on the woman’s face.
Her search was stopped short as Fanny gasped, gripping desperately at Margaret’s hands. “Has he awoken?”
“Yes – he awoke today, he appears to be on the path to recovery–”
Sheet music fluttered to the ground once more as Miss Thornton rose to her feet. “Not one person informed me such – I’ve been sick with worry, although I have done my very best to disguise it. We Thorntons must stay strong, as my mother says–”
After some shushing and soothing, Margaret wrangled the blubbering woman back to her seat. “Strength is shown in many ways, Miss Thornton. I’m certain your brother would be proud of him regardless.”
“And I get to see him tomorrow?” She hiccuped.
“Indeed you shall,” Miss Hale enthused, dabbing gently at the tears still trickling down her cheeks.
“And I shall read to him – the Odyssey! – to aim him in his recovery,” Fanny continued, slowly calming her shuddering breaths.
Margaret paused. Were her Aunt here, she would know not to press. Proper etiquette required only a passing acknowledgement of such a statement, one so clearly steeped in personal history. Yet, there was a thread of intrigue within it that she could not resist – and so, she tugged at it.
“The Odyssey? Is this a tradition in your family?”
Fanny examined her for a moment, and a shiver of fear ran up her spine.
“I forgot you did not have the joy of being raised with a sibling, Miss Hale,” she professed, “I suppose there are more nuances you are unaware of as the result of being the only child in your family, so I will happily explain this one.
“When I was little, I often fell ill -– Doctor Donaldson has been a blessing now to predispose my ailments, but we did not have that luxury in our early days. Often, I would be in bed alone in the sickroom, as both John and mother were preoccupied, but in the evenings, John would return and sit at my bedside late into the night. It was at those times that he would read to me from our fathe- our family’s library, but after a time I would request only my favourite books.
“The Tales of the Alhambra of course–”
“-- and the Odyssey?” Margaret offered with a soft smile.
“Indeed. Although I believe to be more of John’s favourite, looking back. I felt the strongest at those times, when he would read to me. Maybe if I do the same, I shall aid in his recovery.”
After a thick swallow, Margaret finally replied, “That story is lovely beyond compare, Miss Thornton. I am certain he would be pleased to have your company whenever you can spare it.”
With one final sigh, the woman seemed to shake the remainder of her melancholy away and surveyed the mess of a pianoforte before them. “Well – It appears we have once again left my music in disarray. Shall we tidy this and return to our practice?”
“Yes,” Margaret replied, discreetly dabbing at the corner of her eyes before turning to Fanny with a gleaming smile, “Let’s.”
***
It was only due to the strict schedule imparted on her by Dr. Donaldson that Margaret was able to ferry herself back to the room at a reasonable hour. Jane had long retired, but the dark hallways felt more familiar than before as she wound her way through the Thornton household. Miss Hale paused at the doorway, tipping nervously onto her toes, as she deliberated between knocking or simply entering, before deciding to do both in quick succession.
The fiery stare that greeted her indicated that any decision could not have improved the mood. “Kind of you to return with such punctuality,” Mrs. Thornton mused with a pointed glance at the clock, “I hope your visit was agreeable.”
It took nothing at all to shrug off the slight as Margaret crossed the room to gather her supplies. “Indeed, thank you again for the suggestion,” was the polite reply over her shoulder. As she turned to evaluate her charge’s condition, she found him in a deep sleep, his face almost serene save for the perpetual furrow in his brow.
“And how was your evening, ma’am? How is the patient?” she inquired as she turned down the sheets, revealing the leg in question, the red tinge on his bandages visible even in the shadows of evening.
Hannah blanched at the question, slowly rising to join her at the bedside. “He fared well, we got him to eat, but,” she paused, a sudden gravity colouring her tone.
The girl’s fingers froze on the knot she was untying, “But?”
“He’s suffered a few fits. Dr. Donaldson was called and deemed him well, but with a rough path yet ahead of him. From what I understand of it, those poor souls with missing limbs are also prone to bouts of violent pain. The doctor offered a few theories, but he seemed as clueless to the cause as I. The only source of confidence he brought us is that it doesn’t appear to be sign of an ailment. Whatever the case, I will warn you girl, it is not pleasant to witness.”
“Would more laudanum not offer some respite?” Margaret asked, carefully unwinding the bandage to reveal the wound in question. She reached for the candlestick to cast more light, only for the woman to hand it over wordlessly.
“Aye, I had inquired on such a matter but the fits are so quick and unpredictable. All we can offer is support to endure it.”
“Very well.”
Miss Hale turned this news over and over in her head as she tended to the dressings with methodical movements. Not one errant touch or wayward glance. It was not until she turned to place the soiled cloth into the basket beside her that the extent of Hannah's scrutiny was revealed. The woman stood close behind, peering over the girl's shoulder at her handiwork: a swathe of white cotton concealing the gore below. Perfect tension to reduce swelling and accelerate healing, but not to restrict movement or bloodflow. A specially-sewn padding to be soaked in carbolic acid, tucked neatly around his leg’s new broken form.
Neat and sanitary - performed without a single tremor of the hand. Margaret’s lips curled into the ghost of a smile before she inquired crisply, “It is my understanding that you recommend no further tincture until the morrow, then? We shall wait to see if he regains some clarity of thought, yes?”
"Indeed, at the Doctor’s instruction," Mrs. Thornton replied, watching from the corner of her eye as the girl set about restoring the room to its original state. Hannah stepped to her son's beside and righted his sheets, tucking them gently around his dozing form. His face was peaceful, untroubled, but she would not let herself forget the agony he had endured by Margaret Hale’s hand. Even if her intentions were as pure as she claimed, his inner nature would destroy him; as strong and resilient was his exterior, his heart was soft and vulnerable. A mother must remain vigilant, else the girl could crush him – they must be kept separate at all costs.
Her musing was interrupted by the woman in question stepping quietly beside her, her voice so gentle it was almost a whisper, “How many were there?”
“The bouts?”
Hannah sensed rather than saw her nod in response.
“It occurred twice.”
Their closeness betrayed the sigh of dismay that Margaret tried to suppress. “Is there anything I can do to aid him?”
“No,” Mrs. Thornton replied sharply, “You have helped enough. He must simply endure it. Your duty is to monitor for further signs of concern, nothing more.”
It was only through enduring Hannah Thornton’s capricious nature for many days that Margaret did not so much as flinch at the change in tone. “Very well,” she murmured before gracefully withdrawing from the bed and settling in the seat by the fire.
The thick, ugly silence suffocated any further discussion as the matron fussed over her son for a few minutes more. As she set about retiring for the evening, she called from the door, “Jane shall wake you on the morrow at dawn and will assist with the dressings as you see fit.”
She paused at the threshold, before continuing over her shoulder, “It is not my intention to leave you with him unsupervised but we must make do for the evening – we will ensure a better chaperone schedule anon. Despite your previous misconduct after dark, I am certain you will comport yourself appropriately until then.”
Thus, with the snick of the door, Mrs. Thornton left her in peace.
***
Peace was perhaps a tenuous description. Beside the company of the crackling fire and Margaret’s whorl of thoughts, the quiet current of the evening was interspersed with soft sighs and rustles of sleep from her patient. While occasional, they cast Hannah’s comments in a brighter light: she was alone, at night, with a man.
The realization curled up and under her skin in a way she could not comprehend. It was discomfiting, the way this feeling seemed to cling to her, but she hadn’t the barest desire to examine it. In its place, she conducted a summation of all that had passed within the day – an explanation for the fatigue that seemed now etched into her bones: an early morning, an interview, a tea-time visit, a stay in the study with a brief never-to-be-mentioned interlude, a spat with a matron, an unconventional music lesson and now–
A moment to herself, perhaps. A chance to recover lost sleep. Her gaze drifted lazily to the shaded corner of the room, hiding the warmth and comfort of her bed, but she did not feel herself drawn to it. A restlessness permeated her that had not yet been sated.
Eager to soothe the disquiet, she reached for the book she had clung to since her return to the study – a guise, a reassurance that nothing was amiss. ‘The Odyssey’ embossed in deep gold winked at her from its binding of rich leather, its edges delightfully worn as she opened to a random page. The title had called to her immediately, an almost mirror copy of the dog-eared tome tucked into her father’s library.
At first, she read quietly, but quickly drew inspiration from Fanny’s childhood tale. Perhaps a reading would soothe John too, she mused. The words, familiar, fell rotely from her lips, and at once she was thankful for a task that kept her body busy amongst the eddy of her mind.
“ Now Helen, who was descended of Zeus, thought of the next thing. ”
Here, the feelings she had all but repressed were free to resurface: anguish at her treatment, unease beset by her patient, but above all, an unwavering resolve in her benevolence. While the propriety of her situation was in question, she was sure of the sanctity of her intentions.
No derision, no snide remarks, could pluck that from her.
“ Into the wine of which they were drinking she cast a medicine of heartsease, free of gall, to make one forget all sorrows”
Mrs. Thornton, much like her son, had simply misjudged her. This place, of toil and smoke, did not foster a sense of goodness, of generosity. They could not see her virtue, for they had not borne witness to its kind before.
Any man, she reaffirmed, she would sacrifice for any man as she had done for John Thornton.
Her reading stilled for a moment as she paused to wipe the veil of tears from her eyes, before continuing in a soft flutter:
“ and whoever had drunk it down once it had been mixed in the wine bowl, for the day that he drank it would have no tear roll down his face ”
This flicker of emotion within her at the mere sight of him was best disregarded – at least, she vowed, for now. Her folly the night before was borne of desperation, for a need for comfort, allowing his insensate form to take on any role of her choosing: a friend, a foe – a husband. Now, faced with his return to consciousness, she could see the inanity of her actions. A moment of weakness she had best forget.
If she were to survive House Thornton with her sanity and reputation intact, she would be a caregiver and nothing more. The rest of her -- her heart, her soul -- must await her in Crampton until then.
“not if his mother died and his father died, not if men murdered a brother or a beloved son in his presence.”
On and on she continued, lulled into an almost-trance by the rhythm of the prose, her lids drooping and the pull of sleep growing ever-stronger –until the stillness of the night was punctuated by a loud groan.
The book slipped from her fingers as she looked towards the bed with bleary eyes. Even in the low cast of light from the fire, she could see John’s shadowy form as he writhed amongst the bedding.
Frantically, she stood, tumbling toward the bed in a few panicked steps before Hannah Thornton’s instructions resurfaced and stopped her in place. Margaret wavered, hands clasped together in a bone-white grip as she watched her patient struggle in his bout of pain. A few more breathless moments passed until he relaxed with a shuddering gasp, a mess of linens and limbs, only slightly discernable due to the sheen of sweat that now coated his skin.
Gingerly, Margaret approached the bedside and set about righting the sheets, listening as his breathing slowly steadied once more. She gently coaxed his wounded leg back onto its elevated platform and darted away to her corner of the room without a backwards glance.
There, she succumbed to the exhaustion she had spent all evening resisting, leaving all but her chemise in a pile on the floor beside her bed as she fell into the sweet embrace of sleep.
***
It could have been moments. It could have been hours. All Margaret knew was that the sky still unfurled itself beyond the window in a swathe of black velvet, lit only by stars and the crescent of the moon. The groans that had originally roused her began again. Her hands fisted tightly into her sheets as the sounds of thrashing grew to a crescendo beyond the fabric walls. But she only waited.
And waited still, as the bout extended from seconds to minutes.
Unnerved, she slipped silently from her bed, donning her dressing gown as the ruckus continued, tiptoeing just far enough to see what was occurring on the other end of the room – only to find it cast in darkness, the faint glow of the hearth not penetrating it.
As her patient’s desperate moans persisted, she envisioned a gory scene of his wound reopening.
A slash of crimson hidden by the dim of night.
His cries weakening as his body drained of blood.
Frantically, she grabbed for her candle – her fingers failing once, twice, to catch a flame on the taper before she was suffused in a halo of light. Blinking in the sudden brightness, she moved forwards on unsteady legs. The thrum of her pulse in her ears blotted out any other sound.
As Margaret approached, she saw John curled in on himself, chest heaving and gasping. Sweat plastered his hair to his head. A track of tears glistened on his cheeks. But, miraculously, and despite his disarray, his wound remained bound in a shroud of pristine white.
She counted the moments with her breath – one, two, twelve, twenty. Onwards as his fit continued, surely to the point of intervention? How much more suffering could she witness without offering support? A sudden and particularly shuddering groan solidified her benevolence.
“Mr. Thornton?” She whispered, leaning over his form.
She could barely hear him gasp above the pounding of her heart, “help-”.
His quiet plea elicited a wave of memories of similar cries heard at previous bedsides, washing away all fear and trepidation. She had aided others before, and would not be ashamed of her compassion for any patient, let alone the man before her.
Emboldened, she set her candle to the side and folded one of his large hands around hers. “When it hurts,” she urged, “squeeze. Think of channeling your pain into me.” Almost immediately, his grip constricted.
That sorted, she focused on the only other tool available in her arsenal: her words. “It’s alright,” she murmured softly, tenderly, like a mother to a wailing child, “You are safe. The pain is not real.”
Margaret gently brushed away the hair plastered to his sweat-soaked forehead, thankful to not feel a feverish heat behind it. Carefully, she fixed on righting this appearance, a distraction from the crushing grasp on her fingers, all the while continuing her reassuring mantra:
“It’s alright. You are safe. It’s not real.”
A daub at the wetness gathering at his eyes. A wipe of his tear-stained cheeks. Pointedly ignoring how he seemed to lean into her touch.
“It’s alright. You are safe. It’s not real.”
Slowly, graciously, the bout seemed to wean after a few more minutes of agony. His hunched posture loosened with a shuddering sigh. The sudden silence hung in the air for but a moment before he croaked, “Am I dead?”
Margaret laughed delicately, partially in surprise, partially in relief. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Mmm.” He mused, stroking his thumb across the back of her still-clasped hand before she carefully drew herself away. Her focus shifted to the excuse of straightening the sheets once more, coaxing him into a more comfortable position, sensing how his movements seemed to drag against the ache of his still-tense muscles. When she finally glanced back at his face, she found him staring at her intently in the halo of flickering candlelight.
What she could not find were the words to speak.
“Not real?” His voice was a rasping burr.
Margaret put on her best calming smile. “No, it’s not real. You are perfectly safe, Mr. Thornton.”
With an affirmative grunt, he then closed his eyes and settled into the wave of weariness that overcame him. “Thank you,” he murmured quietly, before he was pulled into the veil of slumber..
She watched for a moment as his body grew lax, unsure still of the heavy thud of her heartbeat, the coil of nervousness in her stomach. Margaret shook herself as if to cast the feelings away, but they accompanied her all the way back to her bed, settling deeply into her skin as she rested, begging for the sleep that would not come.