Chapter Text
They were married, on an unusually bright sunny day in September, because they must be. Margaret understood that clearly when Mr Thornton called on her father the evening following the riot. She lay awake long into the night, the memory of what she's done repeating itself, in disjointed pieces. Her arms around his neck. The fierce desperate faces. His determined submission to her own foolish demand. Cold fear. Words pouring out of her over the hushed crowd. The tone of his voice, commanding and pleading. Go…or I will take you...
He considered himself bound to her in honour. Margaret had flushed with shame to think she'd inadvertently forced him to offer for her hand. A man like that didn't take kindly to being coerced into anything he did not wish to do. But for all his harsh northern ways, John Thornton was a gentleman, and she was reluctantly grateful for his offer. Their family could not survive a third scandal of reputation. First Fred and then her father—
No. However much she'd wished to marry for love one day, to join herself to a man her very soul longed for, she knew now she'd let that dream slip away the moment she chided Mr Thornton into placing himself before a mob of dangerous desperate men. Her tongue had always been too quick, however hard she tried to tame it. And he always brought out the worst of it in her somehow. She wondered how long it would take him to regret their marriage.
"What are you thinkin'?"
Margaret abandoned her careful study of the thin gold band on her left hand. She looked at her husband thoughtfully for a moment before answering. "About regret."
"Do you regret today?"
"Not yet," she replied. "We did what we must and I must thank you, sir."
"Again?" He raised his eyebrows. "I believe I've been thanked sufficiently in the last month and a half."
"As is proper—"
"Proper be damned," he grumbled. He slumped a bit in his seat in the carriage, staring out the window. "I'd much rather 'ave the truth."
"The truth about what?"
Mr Thornton turned again to face her, "Are you angry?" Margaret frowned, a ready denial resting on her tongue. But he held up a hand. "The truth, mind you, plain and simple. I've no use for polite or proper. Not 'ere, not now."
She sat back, unexpectedly warmed by this gruff little speech. Of all the things she disapproved of or disliked about this man, she'd always admired his love for the truth, no matter how inconvenient or difficult it was to acquire.
"I am not angry," she said, folding her hands over her fine wedding dress, the lace pressing against her skin. It had come from Marlborough Mills, an unexpected gift from her husband. "Not with you."
He straightened, but did not speak.
"I'm angry with myself. This," she gestured between them, "is my doing, yet I'm powerless to enact any remedy I deem necessary for my own actions." She paused, but still he stayed silent. "I'm angry that you must carry the burden of my impropriety."
"I would like to play the hero, Miss Hale, but nothin' about today was heroic," he interrupted. "Marryin' you isn't so much of a burden as you seem to believe."
"You don't know that," she retorted. "How could you? And yet—" she broke off.
"And yet?"
"Neither of us have any choice."
"I disagree." It was a firm statement, but spoken with calculated gentleness. She'd noticed over the course of their brief engagement that his voice rumbled low when he was making a deliberate effort to be patient, especially when he spoke to her. "We've plenty of choices to make, startin' now. We can choose to be honest in our marriage or not; to make the best of circumstances as they are...or not."
"Do you think we can simply choose to be happy?" She demanded. "And somehow it will be true?"
His brow furrowed and he blew a short breath out through his nose. Margaret fidgeted with a bit of lace, pulling a tiny thread loose. " I believe we might try," he said at last. "It'll be 'ard work, knowin' myself as I am, and you as you are."
"We don't know each other at all."
"That's not fair."
"Nothing about this arrangement has been fair, sir." She wished to take the words back the moment she said them. It wasn't their habit to speak civilly or carefully with each other, and such habits were difficult to change in the six weeks they'd been engaged. The carriage wheels clattered loudly over the street, filling the space between them.
"However we've begun, we've a lifetime to learn each other," he said at last.
She nodded. "I spoke too hastily."
"You spoke honestly, as I asked." He folded his arms. "As for the rest, you know I've a temper, and you've shown you've one as well, for all you're a proper lady."
"You've uncovered one of my greatest faults, sir," she flashed him a wry smile at his sarcastic use of the word 'proper'. She couldn't help it.
"Aye, one," His eyes glinted in response, his own amusement barely visible, but there all the same. "I'm certain you 'ave more."
"Aren't men supposed to shower their new brides in compliments and accolades?"
"London men may perhaps," he replied, his northern burr thickening, his lip curling. "I don't expect you to pretend I'm anythin' more than a man. So I'll not pretend you're anythin' more than a woman."
"I'm not Fanny," Margaret said as they pulled into the yard at Marlborough Mills. It was important for him to know that at least, as they embarked on this marriage. "And I'm certainly not your mother."
His lips twitched, but his overall demeanor remained serious. "Good."
She'd never seen him smile more than the slightest shift of the corners of his mouth when etiquette required it. Perhaps once, at his mother's dinner party before the riot. But she couldn't call that a true smile. Something about the way his eyes snapped when he said 'good' made her want very much to see what kind of smile he kept hidden away. He unfolded himself from the carriage and extended his hand.
"I can't stand parties." She took his hand firmly in her own, his callouses hard and rough against her softer skin, her golden band glinting in a shaft of sudden bright sunshine. "You may as well know that too."
He raised his eyebrows as she gathered her skirts and stepped quickly down. Then he bent so his mouth was close to her ear, "Neither can I."
Margaret nodded, and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. That was something they could agree on for now. Though a small and insignificant thing in the grand scheme of an entire lifetime bound to one another, it gave her courage.