Work Text:
April 1856
“John? May I ask you something?” Margaret whispered.
“Hmmm,” he replied, the sound coming out as a mixture of a deep rumbling hum and a grunt of satisfaction. She had caught him just on the cusp of sleep. Nevertheless, his hand tightened briefly upon hers, as it always did when she said his name. It was still such a delight.
“You’re not too tired?”
“Hmmm.”
“Do you think my bottom is too big?”
There was a pause as John regained his senses from the fog of slumber, his brow furrowing and eyelashes fluttering open. He was perplexed both at her question and how to answer her. For a moment, he wondered if he’d heard her correctly or if he’d been dreaming.
“Too big for what?” he asked, somewhat nonplussed, his voice husky with sleep.
Margaret hesitated. She’d had the courage to broach the subject when she knew John was almost asleep, hoping for simply a perfunctory assurance that he wasn’t unhappy with her appearance. Of course, she should have known better; John did nothing by halves. “Not too big for anything exactly … more, too big to be considered attractive.”
John was fully awake now. “You don’t think your bottom is … appealing?”
“Do you?” she parried, with a sharpness to her voice caused by her self-inflicted embarrassment.
John shifted onto his side to face her; the crisp new bed sheets rustled as he moved, and the cast iron bed frame squeaked. Despite the semi-darkness of the room he could see her features quite clearly, illuminated by the mellow light of the moon beyond their drawn curtains. Her eyes were open but she was staring at the ceiling.
“I can’t say I’ve given it much thought,” he said.
“Really? You haven’t looked at it? Surely you must have.”
“Have a heart, Margaret. It’s only been four days. Four nights. Suffice to say that I have thus far been concentrating on the front of you,” he said with a smirk, trying to make her laugh.
“Four days … nights … when we have spent a good degree of our time together unclothed,” she replied wryly, and she turned her apprehensive gaze towards him.
John reflected on her choice of word. ‘Unclothed’. Not naked or bare, but ‘unclothed’. He judged it to be a gentlewoman’s word. Getting to know Margaret – to really know her – was like peeling off the layers of gentility that had been fashioned over time during her formative years in London, first as a girl and then as a young woman. Of course, they were still very newly wed, and even though John loved her to his very core, he was happiest when he and Margaret were equals, and not when he still felt undeserving of her, or society expected her to be subservient to him. They were getting there – reaching their mutual level – and times like this, simply lying together holding hands, they were the closest, most natural, that they had become.
“Come on then, I’ll light the lamp. Roll over and let me have a look,” he said, teasing her with his saucy suggestion and drawing an indignant squeal from Margaret. “I promise to take great care in giving the question my full and most diligent observation.” He made as if to help to turn her over, though his hold upon her was in no way firm enough to carry out his proposal. He could easily overpower her if he wished, but it was not in his heart or mind to make her do something – anything – that she did not agree to. In fact, that aspect of John’s character was one of things she loved most about him; that he gave her a measure of control that she had previously never been afforded. But now their skylarking caused Margaret to shriek and giggle and squirm in opposition, playfully batting him off her and tangling them in their newly initialled bedding. For a moment, while John laughed along with her, he wondered at the thickness of the walls in their little Crampton home. Josephine, their soon to be live-in maid, was still at the local boarding house so that the new Mr and Mrs John Thornton enjoyed their first week of married life alone; not to be disturbed by the maid, nor for her to be disturbed by them. But he did wonder if the neighbours might speculate upon what they were up to with the various noises that must emanate from their bedroom. Then again, perhaps not.
Soft thumping from the corner of the room interrupted his train of thought, as Bertie’s wagging tail rhythmically pounded upon the floor signalling his wish to join in with the game. Bertie had always shared a room with either John or Margaret throughout his life, from as early as the night of his birth. Having both his master and mistress in the bedroom at the same time had been something of a novelty to the young dog. Indeed, he hadn’t quite understood why he wasn’t allowed to frolic with them and share in the fun they were having.
“Lie down, Bertie. Good boy,” John said, still amused and slightly breathless from his light-hearted mischief with Margaret. Bertie lay back down upon his blanket, muzzle resting upon his paws.
On John and Margaret’s first night together as man and wife, neither one of them had regarded Bertie to be a problem as the three of them retired for the evening. But the difference in routine caused Bertie to be alert and curious about what was happening upon the bed.
“He’ll have to go in the kitchen if he keeps watching, Margaret,” John had said with consternation, that first night. “It’s off putting to say the least,” he’d said, running an exasperated hand through his hair. Margaret had sniggered, trying with all her might to keep her laughter in check. She was quite sure that John wouldn’t see the funny side. She could read her husband quite well having spent some considerable time with him over the previous few months, and earlier, when she had finally realised her true feelings for him. She knew that when he was anxious or shy he would put up the barrier of his stern gruff exterior.
“He’s a dog, John. He won’t be scrutinising your every move. In times past we might have had our families and town dignitaries standing at the foot of the bed to ensure that all was done properly. Imagine having your mother here,” she’d said, sucking in her lips to stifle her giggle, while John let out a horrified groan and flopped dejectedly onto his back.
Not one to admit defeat too soon, John had got up and crouched next to Bertie and tried explaining that it was playtime for only him and Margaret, which had prompted both raised eyebrows and a stifled snort from Margaret as she repeated, “Playtime?” In the end John had persuaded Bertie to lie down and, as he had no use for it himself, he had covered the dog and his prying eyes with his nightshirt. Intelligent as he was, Bertie soon learnt that he must stay on his bed, and the following nights he had settled quickly, understanding the new routine.
Ignoring Bertie’s interruption, John brought his mind back to the present time. “What’s brought this on?” he asked, more seriously now, brushing Margaret’s cheek affectionately with his fingertips. He was worried that he’d not complimented her enough, and he regretted they had not had the opportunity to go on a wedding trip, when he could have lavished his attention upon her. Instead, he had felt the need to go to Marlborough Mills each day, having only had the day of their marriage off work. It was an important time for his business as Margaret’s investment meant the mill was once again a viable concern, but it was too soon since its resurgence to leave it unattended. He had been sure that Margaret was happy to postpone their honeymoon – she had been firm in her agreement – but now he wondered if it had been a mistake. Perhaps he could have taken the time off if he’d really tried.
Edwin Bailey was overseeing the demolition of Marlborough House to make way for the new printing shed, and the young man was more than capable of managing without John’s support. Even when the fortunes of the mill were on a financial knife edge he had left Williams, his mother and Higgins in charge for several days. He had travelled to and from London on several days, rebuilding his relationship with Margaret after Lennox’s deception had kept them apart. Of course, now that his mother lived at Hayleigh, she was no longer on hand to help, and it was unlikely she would be in the future either. John was glad that she hadn’t been there for the past few days. He knew she would have found it hard to see the home that she had been so proud of raised to the ground. John was in no doubt that she would have been mortified as the demolition gradually exposed the interior of the house to those gawping in the mill yard, giving them a view of the inside of each room, wallpaper and all, as the walls slowly but surely came down. He had to admit that he found it mildly embarrassing himself, and it might have been a blessing to be absent while the destruction took place. He supposed he could have left the mill for a few days to spend them with Margaret. Still, it was too late now. The decision had been made, and the first week of their marriage was more than half over, and if Margaret’s topic of conversation was anything to go by, he had already been remiss in his attentiveness towards her.
“It’s nothing really. I just wondered, that’s all,” Margaret said, as she fiddled with the sheet that was bunched up between them, idly stroking their embroidered entwined initials upon the cotton. “Fanny visited today, and she had quite a dreadful tale to tell. Perhaps you’ve heard the story? About a writer and art historian called Mr Ruskin and his wife Euphemia, a lady previously known as Effie Gray?”
John said he hadn’t, and at first he was taken by surprise at Margaret’s sudden change of subject. He quashed the irritation that flared within him as realisation dawned that Fanny had caused Margaret a measure of distress. The two women had become firm friends since Margaret had moved back to Milton, especially as she had lived with the Watsons up until the wedding. He was sure that Fanny wouldn’t have upset Margaret knowingly, but her taste for gossip had clearly caused some disquiet with his wife.
He settled down to listen to Margaret. They faced one another now, lying on their sides curled up with their knees touching, and their fingers loosely interlaced. When their bed had simply been his, as a bachelor, it had felt abnormally empty. He'd never noticed the springs creaking so much either, and he’d made a mental note to fetch some oil to improve matters. But now he shared it with Margaret, the bed appeared to have become a lot smaller, and a lot warmer. He had thought that falling asleep with Margaret enfolded in his arms would have been heaven, but in reality they both became too hot after a little while in close proximity, and had settled for holding hands when they went to sleep. He was forever in contact with a part of her, whether it be her hands, arms, feet, or even her hair. He hadn’t been surprised that she wore her hair in a plait, which was thick and glossy like a heavy silken rope that slithered through his hands. He knew that Fanny and his mother braided their hair at bedtime, though his mother also wore a cap to bed. John was pleased that Margaret didn’t do that, at least not yet.
Margaret recounted to him the strange tale that had been at the forefront of her mind. It had come to light that Mr Ruskin’s wife of five years had had their marriage annulled on the grounds that they had never had marital relations and consummated their wedding vows. “They had agreed to abstain for that period of time because he was busy with his studies,” she explained.
“Bloody hell,” John muttered under his breath. “Apologies for my language, Margaret, but that’s absurd. The population of Milton would die out if folk didn’t … have relations … just because they were busy.”
Although that part of the story was shocking enough, what was worse was that it was reported that an additional reason was not, as John had immediately thought, that Mrs Ruskin was an unwilling participant after a five year period of abstinence, but that Mr Ruskin had found aspects of his now former wife to be abhorrent.
“What kind of things?” asked John, both perturbed but also truly interested in the sorry tale.
Margaret's eyes met her husband’s clear blue stare, which still dazzled even in the dim light of the bedroom. She swallowed. It was, of course, her own fault for bringing it up, so she forged on. “It is said that he found her body hair repulsive,” she began, her eyes flickering away from his as she gave the most personal details, “and also her … menses.” Margaret knew she must be bright red; her cheeks felt to be on fire.
“How peculiar,” said John, with genuine surprise.
“You are familiar with … the condition?” Margaret asked tentatively. It wasn’t long before her own monthly was due to start and she took the opportunity to find out if John shared Mr Ruskin’s feelings.
“Of course. I have lived my life with two women, Margaret. And not forgetting, I have over a hundred women in my employ. I’d have to be senseless not to be aware of it. I don’t know the details exactly, and I would welcome your guidance on the subject, but it’s a natural thing is it not? Normal?”
Margaret nodded.
“My rudimentary understanding is that it is necessary for conceiving. Is that so?” he asked.
Margaret nodded again, now able to look at him.
“Well then. It's a good thing, surely?” he said.
Margaret smiled softly at her husband and squeezed his hand. Why had she ever entertained the shred of a thought that he would think otherwise. He was such a conundrum. His natural shyness, which often manifested as a severe and prickly demeanour, had been tested quite often after Bertie’s birth, and John had overcome the hurdles of embarrassment for Bertie … for her. And yet at other times, when she expected him to be bashful, he took it in his stride.
John was still pondering the sordid tale of the Ruskins. “I think, perhaps, a strong case with great detail is required for the law and church to dissolve a marriage. Especially after such a long period of time. The most troubling concern for me is that the criticism is directed at Miss Gray, where it appears that the deficiency is with Mr Ruskin. Surely the faults attributed to her are not faults at all. Perhaps there is more that we don’t know? Maybe it was a marriage arrangement that didn’t turn into love? Nevertheless, it seems to me that the gentlemanly thing would be for Ruskin to take the blame and not expose his wife to such humiliation. I am sorry for the lady. I hope she finds happiness and a more deserving husband.”
Margaret’s heart swelled a little more for this man, her husband, who reasoned carefully and with compassion. “I believe she has. Or at least she has married again; an artist by the name of Millais. I suppose we shall never know whether he is a good husband to her or not.”
They lay in silence for a moment or two, as John pieced together Margaret’s question about her figure and the rift between the Ruskins, then Margaret spoke again. “Did you never wonder what I looked like … unclothed?” she asked him.
“Not really,” he mused, giving her question due thought. “Don’t misunderstand me. I always knew you to be the most beautiful woman I had ever seen,” he quickly added, “but I think I was more preoccupied with you reciprocating my feelings, or rather the fact that you didn’t. Though I will admit to daydreaming about your arms encircled around my neck, as they were that day of the riot. But these are superficial things. Your looks are secondary,” he said leaning forwards and laying a soft kiss upon her lips. “I couldn’t care less whether your bottom is half the size or twice the size,” he said, bringing her fingertips to his lips. Margaret looked at him sceptically.
Realising he hadn’t allayed her fears he went on. “If I am not mistaken, your hearing of Miss Gray’s story made you wonder if I found you unattractive in some way?” He grasped her hand tighter, dismayed that she might think his love could be influenced by such inconsequential considerations. “You must know that my feelings for you, and those of Mr Ruskin for his wife couldn’t be less similar. Have I not shown you the depth of my love? Have I not worshipped you? Annulment won’t be an option, should you grow tired of me.” He leaned forward and kissed her smiling lips. “Besides, I’m certainly not the model physical specimen. My worst feature is on view for all to see, and yet you still love me.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Margaret asked.
“You know as well as I do that my nose is too big,” he said, a little sheepishly.
“Nonsense. Your nose is just right. I love your nose,” she said, stroking her finger along his profile.
“My nose is very fond of you too,” he said with a playful smirk. His ego encouraged him to attempt to draw further flattery from her. “I wonder if the reason you believed that I studied your figure was because you were thinking of mine?”
Margaret knew what he was up to, fishing for compliments, but she was happy to play along. She adored this gentle banter that had so soon become a part of their private time together. “I did … do … like your arms.”
“My arms!” he exclaimed with marked dismay, which wasn’t completely for effect.
Margaret giggled at his disappointment. “I saw them at the mill a time or two when Bertie and I visited. I thought they looked … manly,” she explained.
“Manly,” he repeated quietly. “Well if I’d known my arms were attractive to you, I might have hefted more bales of cotton and left my shirt sleeves rolled up a sight more often too. I might even have gone so far as to strip my shirt off altogether and parade around the mill yard half naked if I’d thought it might have helped to win you,” he joked, drawing further giggles from her.
A muffled snuffling from the corner of the room distracted them and John looked over to Bertie who was asleep now in his bed, his paws twitching as he chased ducks along an imaginary towpath in his sleep. John’s tone became more sombre for a moment as his memory took him back to that dark January evening the year before. “You held onto my arm the night that Bertie was born … the night that marked the change of the course of our lives. Do you remember?"
Margaret nodded as she thought back to that terrible episode. It had been John who had been there to help her, and he had continued to be her support ever since.
John grinned wolfishly, lightening the mood again. "Here was I, being as close to a gentleman as I could manage, and you were spying on my ‘manly’ arms,” he teased. “Anything else you wish to admit?”
Margaret deemed her husband to be a strikingly handsome man, indeed she suspected it was only John who didn’t think of himself so. She could feel her innate yearning for him building as they lay there together sharing their thoughts, touches and kisses, and she wondered at her ability to spark a similar feeling in him. She dared herself to encourage him. “Very well, I did think about your body. I wondered if you had the lines that I’d seen on sculptures.”
“Lines?”
Margaret gently pushed John onto his back and slowly, deliberately, pulled the sheet down his torso. “Here,” she said as she trailed a path lightly down his stomach, made lean by both his natural build and toned by his physical work. She ran her fingertips over his lower abdomen, defining Apollo’s belt.
John watched her looking at him, at his body, and he felt himself stir as her skin brushed his. Suddenly all thoughts of teasing had faded to mere shadows.
Margaret looked into his eyes, seeing the craving there. It was a hunger that matched her own and she felt heady with the realisation that her mere touch could inflame him so readily.
John tugged her arm lightly, testing to see if she would be pulled on top of him, and she yielded, moving to straddle his waist. She leaned down and kissed him and her plait hung forwards over her shoulder, coiling on his chest. She sat up again, and John ran his hands up the soft skin of her arms to her shoulders then down her back, making her arch and push against him, and then to her rear. He thought for a moment how he’d like to see her just so, but with her hair loose about her shoulders. He thought it might reach as far as her waist. Perhaps next time. There was no rush, after all, they had the rest of their married lives ahead of them.
John held her bottom to steady her as she shifted upon him, and he realised that it fit exquisitely in his palms. But rational thought was slipping away, and he was being overwhelmed by feelings, by sensations so all consuming that they were too irresistible to deny. He must remember to tell her, after, when she would know it wasn’t simply desire talking. He would tell her that she was perfect. Because to John, she unquestionably was.
~~~ooo000ooo~~~