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Their return to Milton is the cause of so much fanfare that Margaret is overwhelmed. If Mrs. Thornton’s reception is slightly less than welcoming, then Higgins and the mill workers more than make up for it. The banns are read at the same time as the mill is re-opened. And what with all the arrangements and planning, Margaret hardly has time enough to kiss John as her sweetheart before the wedding binds them together.
It’s not how things would have been done in the South, she catches herself thinking as people gather outside the church to wish her and John their best. But perhaps a quick ceremony is for the best as she’s eager to begin this journey – the mill, the work, and her life with John. If only it were not for all these people making so free with their speech, complimenting her hair, her gown, her stature, even the stubborn curve of her chin that was the source of many the sharp word before.
Worse, Margaret has never known how to accept the compliments that they offer so freely, retreating into awkward smiles and sharp nods. By contrast John is far the better at these social graces, smiling as he accepts the congratulations and accolades heaped upon them both. It looks almost as though he enjoys this, his shoulders loose and his hand resting on hers, warm where her own are always cold.
When they share glances between being greeted, his are always tinged with a sort of wonder that she cannot help but marvel at, at once so far from the man she first knew and so achingly dear to her that she cannot help but tighten her hand on his arm, pulling him to her.
He bends immediately, and she reaches up to turn his face and kiss the corner of his mouth, a fleeting scandal even as they are married now.
“I am so happy,” she says, low and firm and for his ears only. “You have made me so happy.” She watches the startled joy flare in his eyes with something growing so huge in her chest that she cannot express it any more than she could fly.
“Margaret.” He all but chokes on her name, his hand flying up to cover hers on his cheek. It takes him entire minutes to recall himself.
She watches him struggle for words with quiet awe. Taciturn as John may be, he is rarely at a loss for words, and so much better at expressing this thing that they are growing between themselves. To have reduced him to speechlessness is in itself a small marvel, a precious curiosity that she wants to keep and gently explore, hers and theirs alone.
“As am I,” he says finally, his features helplessly smiling with the force of his words, even as she herself is solemn in the face of the same.
She drops her hand from his cheek and turns back to the line of laughing, mildly disapproving guests. Her palm is warm at last.
That night is the first time since childhood that she shares a bed. She has some idea of what to expect, but the enormity of the changes make her feel small and afraid even before John climbs into the other side and presses against her.
“Finally,” he says against her lips, and Margaret clutches handfuls of his nightshirt over his shoulders as he kisses her, shakes against him. The mix of fear and excitement has her near tears. “Margaret? What is it?”
“I do not know,” she answers, strangely vulnerable. It makes no sense to be so overcome. “I know that I am happy yet I cannot help but feel strange.”
He curves his arm around her shoulders and she shifts into his side, rests her face against his chest. He arranges her hair, the slight tug of him pulling the curls into slight order feels soothing, familiar. He presses kisses into her hair and she smiles, her heart finally starting to slow.
“Tell me what I must do,” he says. “If there is anything, you must know if it is within my power –”
It is an impossible question since Margaret herself doesn’t know the answer, but that unsteadiness in John’s voice steadies something in her that cannot bear to hear him unsure, so unlike the John Thornton she has grown to love so very dearly.
“Will you tell me again?” she whispers. “That you love me?”
“Always,” he says, immediately.
“Without care for my reputation or propriety?” She feels him still against her.
“Margaret, I – yes. You must know that I meant it then and I mean it now. I love you.” His voice is stern but his arms tighten around her.
“I feel the same. I cannot imagine how I ever felt otherwise.” She reaches up to kiss him, to seal this feeling between them, and feels him shudder against her, the both of them now overwhelmed by the moment.
The mill continues to struggle. Even with the influx of new capital handed over, the orders are slow to re-emerge. It seems almost as if the buyers wait until after they are finally married to commit to any new orders, as though only once they believe the income of Margaret’s inheritance to be in John’s hands can any real talk of new purchases begin.
John is half sick with it, fear and relief battering at him even though Margaret only sees this in the sternness of his face after the wave of new orders start to come in. He readies himself for the trip to see Nicholas Higgins, a list of once employees who offered to return in one pocket and his own calculations of possible wages and the likelihood of the mill’s survival in the other.
“Perhaps you would care to join me,” he offers, a quiet acknowledgement of the friendship she continues to share with the Higgins family and her own role in the mill now by his side.
She pauses, unsure how to respond. His mother has yet to welcome her intrusion into these conversations other than a sharp statement that while Margaret’s funds might be welcome, her meddling certainly is not. Their marriage is still new and the bruises of their early interactions, while faded, are small ghosts in conversations like these.
“If you think it best,” she offers, relying upon social courtesy to shield both of them from their own past. She sets aside her book and stands, intent upon fetching her wrap.
He forestalls her by catching her hand loosely. “Margaret,” he says, and she tilts her head to meet his eyes. Her mouth firms reflexively as her chin thrusts forward, defensive already in case he might withdraw the invitation.
But he doesn’t even seem to notice, his eyes contemplative. “Perhaps we should add an extra wheel before any offer to the workers of return. I have a responsibility to ensure that the mill functions as best it can.”
Unspoken is his investment in the workers, his worry for her friends whom he now knows well, his fear that the cost is too much to outweigh the seemingly smaller benefits in the long run. His fingers twitch where they hold her hand, as if he is already in the midst of writing the costs, the means by which to measure the likelihood of long-term profit and the time taken to install it against the need for work to start immediately.
Margaret has always thought John a careful man, unlikely to be swayed by her words or those of any others once his mind is resolved to a thing, yet she finds over and over again that this is no longer true, if indeed it ever was. He remains achingly grateful for her praise.
“I think that would be wise,” she says, and turns her hand so her knuckles can brush the skin of his palm.
She drifts her fingertips slowly over the callused edges of his before locking them together. “You are more kind than I give you credit for. It makes me proud,” she murmurs, “this, your kindness.”
She’s unprepared for the way he surges into her, arms drawing her close so that she feels his reaction pressed against her even as he kisses her, warm and desperate. Her hands clench on his shoulders in response and he gentles himself nearly immediately, kisses turning from hard hunger into a plea, soft nips at her full lower lip urging her to open her mouth for his.
The sound of a door opening and Dixon’s gasp before it slams shut is only enough to pull John’s mouth away from her own.
He does not draw away so much as go to his knees, his face tucked against the curve of her hip, breathing heavily. “Margaret,” he whispers, sounding shaken. “To hear you say –”
He stops, seemingly unable to go on, and Margaret finds she cannot do other than to draw him up to her and kiss him, slow and loving and with everything she still finds hard to voice out loud.
When she eventually draws away, they are both flushed and rumpled. John’s eyes have a look of shocked wonder that is slowly growing familiar to Margaret, who surveys it with possessive pride.
“John,” she says, careful, her hands caressing his face. Then growing more bold, “my husband,” to watch his eyes grow dark and intent upon hers.
Slowly, feeling the tension between them draw them stiff against each other, she traces a finger across his thin lips, her eyes following the movement ‘til it falls into the curve of his smile.
He captures her hand and presses a kiss to the finger in question, eyes holding hers.
“Perhaps we might see Mr. Higgins another day,” he offers, watching her face for her reaction, and Margaret nods hastily, aware of the way her breasts are tight with want, the tingling of his kiss strangely echoed in their tips.
“I believe I will retire to our rooms,” she says, feeling half a fool for performing social graces when it is so obvious what they both intend, but unable to break herself of the habit. Her cheeks flush and she tugs at the hand he still holds, intent somehow upon restoring herself to order but he refuses to relinquish it.
Instead he presses yet another kiss against her fingertips, then her knuckles, and turning her palm, to the fragile skin at her wrist. “May I join you?” His smile is wicked with delight.
Flushed and sure in his regard, Margaret teases, “I believe that would be... most desirable.”
They hastily straighten their clothes before hurrying upstairs to their bedroom. The attempt at subtlety leaves Dixon rolling her eyes from where she’s still waiting to polish the silver in the office.
Once in their rooms, John acts her maid and sets about divesting her of her clothing. She fumbles the buttons of her blouse as he kneels and, without a thought for propriety, reaches under her skirts and petticoats to untie her crinoline, barely letting her step out before he’s unknotting her corset laces around her middle.
His own clothes are more hastily dealt with, trousers, shirt, and underthings tosses aside like refuse. Margaret gasps as John kisses her cheek, her mouth, her neck, their hands hurriedly pushing her knickers off. She clings to him as they fall into bed, John mouthing the curve of her collarbone, and lower so she feels the wet heat of his mouth against her breasts.
“John,” she moans, fingers clenching in his hair to hold him close.
He shudders against her, his hands tightening on the curve of her waist.
His voice is hoarse when he says, “I cannot contain myself when you sound this way,” his hips beginning to push against hers as Margaret adjusts to the feeling of him inside of her. He skims a palm down her side, and she, grown familiar with their rhythms, bends and raises her leg so he can curve a hand behind her knee. The change shifts him, the length of him somehow deeper in her.
“John,” she whispers again, if only to test him, and he slows against her, rigid with the effort of holding back. The truth of it unfurls something heavy and warm in her stomach, wanting and desperate to hold him to her like this forever.
She loosens her grip on his hair and smooths it back, before pulling his face to hers so she can kiss him, slow and reverent. He responds immediately, the movement of his hips mirroring the long, gentle kisses they share, driving her towards completion.
“You are beautiful,” she tells him, breathless and sincere as pleasure overwhelms her. “You make me so proud to be your wife.”
He chokes a low noise of desperation as his hips stutter, taken over by joy.