Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They kept to themselves quite decorously during the carriage ride to the cottage by the sea. They were both still warm and wondering just at the newness of it. Their eyes met and their hands touched, but there was almost a blushing sort of shyness to them. As they got farther away from the bustle of the Bristol station Margaret even managed to tear her attention away from John long enough to marvel at the changing landscape, the smell of the air and the cries of the gulls at the nearness of the sea.

To John if would have made no difference if they had been driving through city streets or into a quarry. As long as he had Margaret Hale - Margaret Thornton - before him, her eyes and her smiles and her slight curls of hair coming loose in the breeze to caress her skin. But finally even he managed to bring his gaze to the window. Even if it wasn't much of a spectacular coastline, just the wildness of it, the emptiness of it away from everything that was city life, the vastness of ocean currents hidden under those waves, it seemed to relax some tightness in him.

When they arrived at the cottage they were met by a Mrs. Darby, who would come every day to cook lunch and tidy up, but she would sleep nights at her own home in the village. For breakfast and supper they would make do with cold meat and bread and cheese.

She helped John and Margaret carry their luggage into the bedroom. The whole cottage consisted of three rooms: a small sitting room, a kitchen, and a bedroom. There was a well and an outhouse a few yards off in either direction. There was not much of a garden, but only the sloping hillside with a path that eventually led down to the sea.

Mrs. Darby had stayed only long enough to greet them and remark briefly on the lay of the land, but then she would be heading home, for it was a good hour's walk to the village. There was also a basket with some fruit and cheese and bottles of ale on the table, complements of the owner.

And then they were alone. Completely alone.

The light was just beginning to change as the sun fell lower in the western sky. Not dusk yet but a warmer glow with longer shadows. John remembered what his wife had looked like in the rising sun and wondered how her skin would glow in the setting of it.

"...Shall we eat first?" And then to bed, he was thinking.

Margaret smiled at him gently. She had spent the whole day smiling at him, and for his part John had never in his life smiled so much.

"Oh please, John," she was saying. "We've spent the whole day between the train car and the carriage. Please let us take the path down to the sea. I long to walk and to see the shore."

And so they left the dark, close cottage and stepped out toward the sea.

John had traveled across the channel for his business, and Margaret herself had been to the eastern seaside just the year before, but still it was as if every gust of breeze and every blade of grass and every bird call was new to them.

Other than a few sheep grazing on the hillsides, there was no one for miles.

It was almost as if this whole part of the earth had been made for them, as if they were Adam and Eve.

When they got to the shore they sat close together in silent awe for some time, just taking in the sound of the waves and the smell of the air and the nearness of each other.

"...Can you imagine, John, what it must feel like to swim as a dolphin, and feel the salt water rushing all around you..? To bask in the sun as a seal, or feel the wind lift you up as a gull?" She looked up so that her bonnet tilted back and her face caught the lowering sunlight. "I could almost wish to be a... a cloud in the sky. There is something so wondrous about the glory of God's creation, away from the things of man. ...But of course His presence reaches everywhere," she finished piously.

John refrained from pointing out that he could imagine nothing more glorious than the woman sitting beside him. Even the wonders of the world around them seemed greater for being reflected in her eyes.

Instead all he did was give her a lopsided grin and a gentle, "Aye."

She looked over at him to see if he was teasing her, but all she saw was a man, her husband, full of warm contentment and a spark of a promise in his eye.

And then with hardly another word, for the sun was truly close to setting, they picked themselves up and followed the path back to the cottage, arm in arm.

Chapter Text

By the time they got to the cottage, although they had hardly spoken a word, the energy had changed between them. From simple, quiet contentment to something like the rolling clouds and heaviness of the air before a lightning storm.

Once they stepped inside John found a lantern with a box of matches beside it on the table. In the glowing light of the lantern, he could see Margaret watching him, her eyes very dark. He could watch her chest rise and fall with every breath.

He put the lantern on the table and stepped closer to her. Instead of drawing near to him, she stepped backward, toward the bedroom.

He stepped closer, and she stepped backward, until her skirts were pressed against the foot of the bed and John was before her with that hunger in his eyes and her breath was deeper and faster and she was lifting her chin to look up at him and he was holding her close about the waist and she was wrapping her own arms around his shoulders and they were kissing each other almost desperately.

Rather than the slow, exploratory disrobing of the night before, this was a quick, mindless fumbling as they each undid the fastenings on the other's clothing.

They broke apart only to laugh briefly at their own hurried incompetence, but as soon as they managed to get down to their shifts they tumbled together onto the bed and then they were kissing and writhing and pressing against each other with wanton sensuality.

In his eagerness to caress every inch of her John found himself turning her around to trail his lips across her shoulders. Her breasts fit naturally into his hands from this angle and he could also easily run his hands along the backs of her thighs and gently squeeze her soft buttocks.

He was out of his mind. He had lost his mind entirely. He could hardly remember his own name.

But she was moaning and gasping at his every touch. And when she leaned back into him with her head lolling to the side so that he could kiss her neck more easily he found his member pressing insistently into the warm crevice between her thighs, and they fit together just so, and when he pulled her even closer and he slipped into her, they both gasped.

He gripped her hips, her heavenly, sensuous hips, and lifted her and pressed close into her in short little thrusts and she was gasping and it felt heavenly but he wanted, he needed more, and she was moaning but then she pitched forward onto her forearms so that she was pressing her own body even more urgently onto him.

John moved forward on top of her, panting into her hair, which had come half undone and caressing her breast and pressing all the more deeply into her, and they were both moaning, and he was so close.

"John... Wait... John."

With a shudder, he forced himself to still. "Margaret, I'm sorry," he started. He could feel her clenching hot and moist and tight around him, and he forced himself not to move while he hung his head in shame. He had become a beast.

"John, I just... I want to be... facing you. I want to see you," she spoke between her own panting breaths.

It took him a moment to register that she only wanted an adjustment, not for him to stop, and then he quickly pulled out and helped her turn over and rearrange their limbs and then he was plunging back into her, holding her close by the shoulders so that her breasts pressed into his chest and she was panting in his ear and trembling underneath him, and then they were both crying out as he spilled his seed deep inside her.

They lay together for a while after that, just holding onto each other and catching their breath.

John reflected that he may have lost all sense of himself, but if this bliss with this woman in his arms was what remained then he would want nothing else.

Chapter Text

They fell into a routine over the next two days, and the routine was that they came together with wild abandon at every opportunity.

They coupled in the morning, whether it was John who woke first to marvel at his wife or Margaret who awoke with John's urgent yearning lying warm and heavy against her hip.

They coupled upon returning from their rambles down to the beach.

Their limbs found each other in the dark, in the moonlight, in the rumpled sheets of their bed.

Sometimes they even came together just after they had washed and dressed for the morning and broken their fast.

They dressed casually, in only a few layers, as if one were staying in one's private apartments, for with so little company they felt as if the whole landscape were their home. Margaret had taken to wearing her hair in a long plait with only a couple of petticoats between her shift and her light summer dress. Mr. Thornton hardly so much as buttoned his shirt.

Even when Mrs. Darby arrived they only greeted her politely but made no effort to change their dress, and she made no obvious notice of their dishabille.

At some point they discovered that they achieved a deeper coupling with Margaret sitting astride of John. The bed thumped and creaked so alarmingly at this that they slid to the floor where John lay like a blissful statue while Margaret rode to her crisis again and again before he finally gripped her hips and thrust upward and joined her.

~~~

On the third night Margaret awoke in the pitch dark to find herself wrapped around John, who was lying on top of her and within her as she pushed her hips up to meet him. She only vaguely remembered feeling him reach for her as she slept, and that igniting a fierce craving within her... or perhaps she had reached for him.

"...John?"

He continued his slow, even, shallow movements.

"John."

"Hm..? What?" He stopped and shook himself slightly, and she realized that he had been asleep.

"John," she gasped. "We are..."

"Margaret, I... My apologies..." He made as if to pull out.

"No, please." She held him close. "It may be my... apologies... You were asleep. I was also sleeping. I believe I may have reached for you."

"I... You..." He was not nearly awake enough to sort this out. "Shall we... continue?"

"Yes," she whispered on a breath out, because even in her dismay and confusion she could feel that the need inside her had not lessened.

And so they went to it harder and faster and she held onto him and moved with him and cried out in time with his groans, but as he fell back into a deep sleep in her arms, Margaret stayed awake. She had a frightening feeling that even after being satisfied the hunger inside of her would only grow stronger.

~~~

The next morning, John awoke to find his wife not in her usual, languorous slumber, but holding her arms close around herself with tears slowly falling down her cheeks.

"Margaret!" he murmured urgently. He moved to hold her but she pulled farther into herself, and so he only reached out to touch her arm gently. "Margaret, please. Tell me what's wrong. Have I hurt you? Whatever is wrong, I swear I shall do my best to find the remedy."

"John," she looked up at him sorrowfully. "It is not you. It is... I... It is myself. I feel as if I do not... recognize myself. What happened last night..."

He breathed a sigh of relief and tried not to smile. "Margaret, it is... It is no matter. I am pleased to be with you. We are husband and wife. We were both asleep. No one is at fault."

"But John..." She shook her head, still weeping. "Don't you see? Perhaps it is natural for a man to have such urges, but for myself... John, I have never felt anything like this before. And this... craving... John, it is as if, the more we come together, the more I want it. I can hardly think of anything else. Any time you look at me or touch me or if I so much as remember your look or your touch... It is... carnal, John. It is pure, base carnality."

She was watching him with open despair on her face and John was trying earnestly to tamp down the arousal he felt at her every word.

She was distraught. John knew that his duty as her husband was to reassure her, comfort her... not pin her wrists above her head and rake his lips over her breasts and demonstrate what raw carnality meant to him.

She was still talking.

"John, I know that it is prideful, but I have always imagined myself to be a virtuous person, but now I fear I realize that I am... not."

The utter sorrow in her eyes finally cooled his ardor.

"Oh, my Margaret... You are the most virtuous person I have ever met. And you have pledged yourself to me, and me to you. We are one flesh. This is not a sin. It is a blessing. It is a gift from God. 'My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.'"

He took a breath. "I, too, have felt... To be honest, almost a madness. To hold you. To touch you. To be inside you."

Her tears stopped and her eyes grew wide and solemn. Her face was red and her lips were red and her skin was slightly flushed down to her rosy nipples where her breasts rested above the sheets. John had to look away.

"This is... new... for me, too. Not the craving." He glanced at her with a meaningful look. "But the... intensity. The constancy of it. I too can hardly think of anything else. Not that I wish to."

He cleared his throat and continued. "I don't know what it is like in other marriages, nor do I care to. What happens in our bedchambers is between thee and me and God," he said firmly. "I pray that we retain such an attachment to each other long into the years of our marriage... But I do believe that this... intensity... will fade, somewhat, as we become more used to each other. It must," he said with a laugh, "otherwise we'll have to shut down the mill, and all our daily life would cease to function."

"But, Margaret, I beg thee... I understand your fear... But let us enjoy what time we have." He looked earnestly into her eyes as his voice dropped into a softer, rougher dialect, as it always did when he was in deep feeling. "There is a season for all things, and this is our season. This is the very time and place set aside for naught but thee and me. I beg thee not to draw away from me."

And then it was tears of joy that were slipping over her cheeks, and she reached for him, and they came together again, slowly this time, with aching, beautiful slowness.

And it was perfect.

Chapter Text

Margaret awoke on their fourth morning in the cottage with a deep sense of apprehension and an awareness of a pronounced ache in her lower back and her belly. Noting that John, for once, was still asleep, she slowly reached down to the juncture of her thighs and delicately felt for the substance she suspected she would find there. She examined her fingertips in the early morning light, and yes, they were dark with blood.

And her husband was in bed with her, breathing lightly into her shoulder, one arm wrapped around her waist.

Margaret had never considered this circumstance. She began to shudder in dread.

A light sleeper, John began to stir. He placed a kiss on the skin where her nightgown had slipped down over her shoulder.

Margaret swallowed. "John, I..."

Something in her tone brought him more fully awake. He pulled apart from her slightly to better look at her face. "Margaret?" he asked in concern.

"John, I find myself... I'm afraid I might be... That is, I'm afraid I am... indisposed... this morning."

He frowned deeply at this. "Is it something I've done?"

Margaret realized that only yesterday she had awoken him with her tears, and now here she was rigid and nervous in his arms. They had only been married a few days, and he would think his wife fickle and unwieldy and temperamental. She almost did want to weep.

"It is nothing you've done," she breathed out. She met his eyes to plead with him. "It is something... physical. It is a... a temporary... ailment. It is... most inconvenient."

"You are ill?" And there was that immediate, intense, focused concern. As if he would move mountains if he had to, in order to make her well.

From almost weeping, Margaret found herself almost smiling. "No, not ill, exactly. It is a common complaint of... of women. It is something that befalls every woman from time to time." She knew she was blushing furiously.

John blinked a few times and slowly relaxed as comprehension came to him. "You are in your... monthy trial?"

"Yes," she sighed in relief, suddenly grateful for his sister and his mother, that he must know something of this. "Yes. I'm sorry I didn't account for the days, when we were planning the wedding. I might have known to expect it, and we could have planned differently..."

"Margaret," he interrupted her sternly. "Anything that concerns you, concerns me. Inconvenient or not. Whatever I can do to help you bear with it, I shall do."

She smiled at him in gratitude. "I am afraid that there is not much you can do. I typically just keep to my bed during the first day. But you can... That is, I have some flannel napkins in my trunk, if you wouldn't mind retrieving them for me."

He obligingly went over to her trunk and fished out a few pieces of plain, coarse flannel. He handed them to her and then watched her curiously as she tucked them around and underneath her into place and then sat up at the head of the bed, blushing furiously the whole time.

"It... it might also do to have a container of water nearby, to receive the soiled flannels when I have to... change the dressing."

Margaret felt mortified that the Master of Marlborough Mills was fetching cleaning water for her, for this particular reason. But he stood up and put his jacket on over his nightshirt, looking somehow both dignified and ridiculous, then went to the kitchen without complaint. She heard him open a few cabinet doors and then step outside to the well. He returned with a large bowl filled with water.

"Will this do?"

"Yes, thank you. ...John, I am so sorry you have to do this for me. Usually I have a servant to assist with these particulars."

He was frowning at her again. "Margaret, you are my wife. Nothing I can do to assist you would ever be beneath me. Now, where would you like this?"

"You may slide it under the bed, near to me."

He did so and then sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand. "Please tell me what more I may do. I can go into town if necessary. I recall that Fanny sometimes requests the assistance of a physician when she is indisposed."

"Nothing so bad as that, John. It is uncomfortable and... well... it can be rather... draining. It is said that women in this... condition.... do well to stay warm and rested, that otherwise we might be vulnerable to falling ill, but really it is not so delicate. Maid servants regularly do almost all their normal duties through their courses, and they hardly seem to be worse for it."

"And you mentioned the first... day?"

He was still holding onto his composure, but Margaret could detect a note of nervousness in his voice.

"The first day for me usually has the most... uncomfortable... symptoms. The, um," she cleared her throat. "The bleeding usually persists for several days. But I needn't stay in bed for the entirety of it! I should probably go mad if I did."

"Would you like me to bring you something to break your fast?"

"No, thank you. I usually refrain during the first day due to delicate digestion. But I promise I shall eat tomorrow. Please go ahead and eat when you are ready. Do not stay hungry on my account."

At Margaret's insistence, John went about his morning, getting at least somewhat decently dressed and going in and out of the bedroom to check on her. Not accustomed to staying idle, he finally sat down beside her on what had become his side of the bed and started reading the speeches of Cicero aloud. As Fanny had predicted, he had gone to his honeymoon prepared with both accounting ledgers and reading material. He never took a train without also taking along a book.

While Margaret appreciated his care, it felt very strange to have someone so close to her when she was in this condition, on top of the strangeness of having John - her husband - so near to her at all.

But after a while she relaxed and found herself leaning closer to him. She even began to drift off to sleep.

~~~

After Margaret's eyes closed and her breathing slowed, John put his book down just to gaze at his wife.

She had braided her hair into a neater plait and changed her shift and put a shawl about her shoulders. She looked almost demure like this, not quite the voluptuous, wanton goddess who had shared his bed the past few days and nights. ...Shared the bed, and the table, and the floor, with her hair falling all about her shoulders in disheveled curls and her breasts swaying with her every movement... He forced himself to close his eyes and breathe before looking at her again.

Even in this more delicate state, even indisposed and sleeping, she still seemed to glow with beauty and life.

He still couldn't believe the amazing turn his life had taken. He had Margaret Hale - Margaret Thornton - beside him, in his bed, and she would accompany him back to Milton, accompany him if God willed it hopefully throughout his whole life.

He felt his breath hitch in gratitude.

It felt almost more intimate to share these quiet hours with her than it had to join together with her in passion. ...Not that he would have any regrets for lost peace whenever their marital congress might resume.

Yet again, he was intensely grateful to his mother for giving him ample preparation to face the unexpected in his life.

After a while, Margaret stirred and looked over at him. She returned his smile warmly.

"How are you feeling?" he asked gently.

"Well. A little sore... but well. Your warmth beside me is rather comforting." She started to blush.

"My warmth? May I ask how so?"

She blushed an even deeper hue. "There is an... ache... within my... Here." She pressed her hands against her sides and lower back. "The warmth of your body feels soothing." She turned up her head to smile shyly at him. "I might ask Mrs. Darby if she can contrive a hot water bottle, once she arrives. I don't need to keep you here in bed with me all day."

John felt a burning desire to do nothing but stay in bed with her all day. "That won't be necessary," he said in a suddenly rough voice. "I am happy to abide with you... If it does not disturb you."

"...No, it does not disturb me."

"Might I... touch you?"

At her surprised nod, he shifted closer and carefully moved his his hands under the cover and over to the places on her body where she had indicated she felt the ache. This close, he could smell the scent of her hair and feel her own warmth under the thin cotton of her chemise. He felt her body move with every breath.

It felt different to be so close to her, touching her.

He heard her sigh gently and relax into his touch.

For countless minutes John simply sat with her, holding her and trying to focus on his own breathing, his own heart beating.

John reminded himself to just breathe and think of Milton. He would stay exactly like this. He vowed to himself to do exactly what she needed of him.

Now and always.

Chapter Text

John and Margaret arrived back at Milton sore from their travels but nonetheless brimming with the shy excitement of a newly married young couple.

Mrs. Thornton had had some trepidations regarding the honeymoon - the early days could be quite a shocking adjustment for a delicately brought up young lady - but she was pleased to note that, upon their return, John and her new daughter-in-law seemed to be if anything even more in love than they had been at the wedding.

They were constantly gazing after and moving toward each other like two poles of a magnet, and all it took was their eyes to meet for a conspicuous flush to spread all over Margaret's face and neck and for her to drop her eyes in a shy, embarrassed smile.

And as for John... He had always been a serious child. Serious at his play. Serious at his studies. Downright grim from the time of his father's passing, when he had taken on not only the mantle of a man and head of the family but the burden of all of his father's debts and shame. Hannah had always known her son to have a loving, tender heart and to be capable of deep joy under his somber exterior, but even she had never imagined him capable of such... blissful effervescence.

Of course every morning after a quick breakfast of toast and tea he went to work in the mill with the same focused determination as always, but as soon as he returned home... He walked with a spring in his step. He smiled almost continually. When on his own he was liable to drift off into a state of lovesick distraction. And any time Margaret was in the same room with him... She didn't even have to look or speak; at the faintest breath or movement John would be swooping over to her to murmur something in her ear, and then it was more blushing and whispers and Hannah would just roll her eyes and concentrate even more sternly on her correspondence or her needlework.

Their behavior was, indeed, undeniably irritating, the way that Fanny's frivolity was often irritating, but on the other hand Hannah had to admit that she had never seen her son so happy. And so she often had to hide her own slight smiles, even as she shook her head.

And likewise, when John was safely away at the mill rather than continually hovering over, mooning over, and otherwise distracting his young bride, Margaret herself proved to be a sensible and capable young woman, which was not really a surprise. But what was a pleasant surprise was that the girl seemed to genuinely respect Hannah's experience in running the household and managing the family's constellation of social engagements, and at least for now she was happy to learn from the older woman.

~~~

The first time Hannah genuinely wrangled with Margaret was when Margaret insisted on her rambling walks through the worst parts of town, which Hannah insisted were completely inappropriate for a woman of her station. That eventually brought Margaret to a few bitter tears of what Hannah believed were genuine frustration. And then John upon his arrival home had of course intervened on behalf of Margaret, but even he had to concede Hannah's point, and it finally resulted in a compromise of Margaret agreeing to go about her visits with a maidservant accompanying her.

More than that, Hannah found herself asking why Margaret had to do everything independently. Why couldn't she act through the auspices of the church? Margaret had grown thoughtful at this, and Hannah almost regretted her words the moment she said them. Somehow there was something almost more dangerous about the idea of this headstrong, idealistic young woman with her union sympathies organizing a whole charitable operation rather than simply acting on her own. And now she wasn't just an errant preacher's daughter but the wife of one of Milton's leading manufacturers and magistrates and a wealthy heiress in her own right.

Hannah was almost afraid of what she might have unwittingly unleashed.

But for now Margaret was still settling into her new role as Mrs. Margaret Thornton. Any grand, socially revolutionizing schemes she might be plotting would at least take time to grow.

And Hannah suspected that it wouldn't be very long at all before her daughter-in-law had something else growing to distract her, not at the rate she and John were going.

All in all, Hannah found herself to be cautiously pleased by the whole course of John's marriage so far, and she decided that she was rather looking forward to becoming a grandmother.

Chapter Text

Fanny's next pregnancy entailed much more nausea and weakness than the first. Mrs. Thornton repaired to the Watsons' estate in order to assist her daughter. The assistance chiefly took the form of assuming the whole running of the household unto herself and giving the Watsons' increasingly harried cook minute instructions regarding the particulars of her daughter's diet. A variety of plain fares that nonetheless often went uneaten or were regurgitated shortly after Fanny had managed to get them down.

Margaret herself went to the Watson house nearly every day to do what she could to help. This often involved reading romantic novels aloud and gossiping at fashion magazines to try to keep Fanny's spirits up on the frequent days when she felt too weak to leave her bed.

Margaret knew that her sister-in-law had a tendency toward histrionics, but her heart swelled with pity as she witnessed the relentless sickness that had taken hold of Fanny and refused to let her go. This was far beyond any pretense of delicacy the young woman might have assumed.

Margaret found herself admiring her young sister-in-law, who was proving herself to have just as much determination as her mother and brother. No matter how many times she lost whatever meager food she had managed to consume, she would rinse out her mouth and sip on some broth or tea and try again to nibble on another slice of toast or bite of porridge or stewed apples or whatever other meal her mother had ordered.

No matter how exhausted or worried or angry or despairing she was, she rallied herself to attend to whatever distraction Margaret had brought. Even when Margaret offered to simply talk or listen or hold her hand, Fanny would bring the conversation back to novels she had read or exotic places she planned to visit or the decorations for the nursery. She insisted on living her life as normally as she could, even from the confines of her bed.

At times Margaret was painfully reminded of afternoons she had spent by Bessie's side, and when Fanny would drift off to sleep she would pray most fervently for the health of Fanny and her child, but most especially for Fanny.

Mr. Watson, meanwhile, kept himself excessively busy with the running of his mills, taking on much of the work he had previously left to his overseers. When he was home, he alternated between boisterous displays of false cheer in his wife's sick room and relentless pacing in his study.

John called every evening and took on the responsibility of distracting and reassuring Watson. Then he would slip into his sister's room and tell her something amusing or encouraging and kiss her on her forehead before collecting his wife to return to their own home for the night.

Only when he met Margaret's eyes in their carriage did John allow a frightful darkness to cloud his eyes.

"I can't... I can't allow anything to happen to her, Margaret. Not to Fanny. Never to Fanny. I'm her brother. It's my duty to... protect her."

Margaret reached out and laid her hand on his arm. She did not have the words to reassure him. She could only offer him the comfort of her touch, and her prayers.

Prayers that Fanny would survive to nurse her child.

Prayers that the child would survive.

Prayers that they all would have the strength to trust in God, come what may.

Margaret herself was beginning to feel a deep weariness every day. Food had lost much of its appeal, as if Fanny's malady was contagious.

She felt almost as despairing as she had during that sad season when Bessie had died, and her mother had died, and her father had begun to fade away.

But Margaret was no longer Margaret Hale but Mrs. Margaret Thornton now. She was the mistress of Marlborough Mills. Especially with the elder Mrs. Thornton staying at the Watsons' and John distracted by his sister's health, she knew that it fell to her to bear up as best she could, to be as strong as she could for the people she loved.

Chapter Text

It was when Fanny couldn't take anything but sips of water for several days that she called for an artist to attend upon her. She would sit for a portrait.

"But my dearest, you should rest," Watson tried to persuade her.

Her voice was stronger and more strident than it had been in weeks. Margaret could hear her even from the hall, where she had retired to give the couple privacy. "Watson, I insist!"

And so it was decided, and an artist was procured, an almost dangerously disheveled-looking young man with a Bohemian air about him. And Fanny had her maids set her hair and lift her out of her bed and maneuver her into her finest dress and steady her arms so she could sit when he came.

"You must fill out my cheeks," she instructed him, "and the hollows under my eyes. You cannot see me as I was, so you must imagine."

"I see you," he assured her, with his steady, dark eyes. "I see who you are."

And even when Fanny returned to her bed, he would call upon her in her bedchamber to make his sketches.

Watson kept to his factories or his club or his study most of the time now. As if he could not bear to even look at his wife in this state.

John hmphed but kept his peace. He had always allowed Fanny her indulgences, and now, when she was in this condition, he would not be so boorish as to deny her... anything.

The elder Mrs. Thornton bit her lips and sucked in her cheeks, but even she said nothing against the impropriety.

Dr. Donaldson came, as he often did, to examine the patient. Margaret stood by her bedside and saw him listen with his ear to Fanny's belly for minute after minute and then finally rise to reassure his patient that the baby was well. It was natural that in her state of hunger, the baby would sleep to conserve its energy, but there was no reason why Fanny could not bear a healthy child if she could keep trying to eat and drink.

Fanny frowned in disbelief but closed her eyes and did not argue with him.

Dr. Donaldson stood to leave the room without meeting Margaret's eyes.

He didn't need to.

She knew... She knew from the way he had closed his eyes with his ear pressed against Fanny's belly, the way he had paused to gather himself before forcing his demeanor into a more hopeful aspect.

Margaret had seen those looks in a sick room before.

There was no hope for the baby.

And little enough hope for Fanny herself.

And then Margaret closed her own eyes and felt her legs giving out underneath her - cursing herself even as her vision faded - she was not the patient here; Dr. Donaldson needed to tend to Fanny...

But Dr. Donaldson caught her and assisted her out of the room and before she knew it he and one of the maids were shuffling her over to a settee in Fanny's sitting room.

"Go and fetch Mrs. Thornton here. Quietly," the old man insisted.

And then he was peering at Margaret and straight in the eye, and he asked her, "How long has it been since you had your courses?"

"I... I don't know," Margaret answered, rubbing her head. "I believe it was... Perhaps... Some months ago."

Dr. Donaldson let a short breath out of his nose. "And prior to that, had you and your husband been successful in consummating your marriage?"

Margaret was studying the fabric of her dress intently. She could feel a flush scalding her cheeks. "I believe so," she murmured.

Dr. Donaldson hmmed. He opened his mouth to speak again when Mrs. Thornton bustled in, the stiff set of her shoulders not quite concealing her alarm. "What's the matter?" she grated out, her eyes flashing between Margaret and Dr. Donaldson. "Is it Fanny?"

Dr. Donaldson rose and spoke something into her ear. She stared at Margaret and breathed deeply, a small frown between her brows. Margaret knew the older woman well enough to recognize the look as being one of concern moreso than disapproval.

"I should've known," she murmured. "I should've recognized. I've just been so caught up with Fanny..."

"She'll need rest and hearty food and drink, of course," the doctor was saying to Mrs. Thornton. "And she must be kept well away from here. Especially since... Well."

Mrs. Thornton was standing straighter than ever, tears standing in her eyes.

"No," Margaret muttered. "No, please." A little louder. "Please don't send me away. I can help. I want to help."

And then Mrs. Thornton was truly glaring at her, even with the tears now spilling over her cheeks. "None of that now. It's bad enough..." She drew a deep, shaky breath. "It's bad enough, what's going on with Fanny. I won't risk losing... That is, we must take care of our own. And you're ours now, Margaret Thornton. We can discuss how you might help others only after you're well taken care of, yourself."

And then she turned back to Dr. Donaldson and started discussing arrangements. Margaret burned with embarrassment and indignation, but the weariness and the queasiness she had been feeling called to her...

She wanted to rest.

But she wanted to help Fanny.

She wanted to stay where she was needed. Where she could be useful.

And what if the same illness lay claim to her as well..?

Margaret felt as if a maelstrom of shame and sorrow and fear was threatening to overwhelm her.

"...I'll write to Nell Murray," Mrs. Thornton was saying. "She was in attendance at Fanny's birth, back in Colton. She was only a slip of a girl herself then but apprenticed to Mother Ballard. Last I heard, her husband had passed away. With any luck she might be able to come stay with Margaret for some months."

"That would be best. I won't be able to attend to her much myself. And she is a strong girl." Dr. Donaldson had been speaking to Mrs. Thornton, but he approached Margaret again and laid a hand on her shoulder until she looked up at him.

"You're a strong girl," he stated firmly. "You might do very well."

"Fanny is also strong," Margaret answered. "She's stronger than I ever knew."

"That she is," Dr. Donaldson agreed. "Mrs. Watson is immensely strong, and immensely determined. But she is battling an illness that is one of the worse I've ever seen for a woman in her condition. It need not be the same way for you. With good rest, good food, and moderate exercise in fresh air, you could do very well."

"Not much fresh air at the Mill House," Mrs. Thornton muttered speculatively. She seemed to have completely recovered herself and was thinking only of practicalities now. "Perhaps we might find a place not too far..."

"Please," Margaret interjected in alarm, "I must at least speak to John!"

"Of course," Mrs. Thornton answered. "Of course. I'm merely suggesting possibilities."

"And I don't want to..." Margaret glanced in the direction of Fanny's bedroom. "I don't want to be away from Milton. In case anything should... happen."

"We'll discuss it with John," Mrs. Thornton asserted.

Chapter Text

Mrs. Thornton had Margaret loosed from her outer garments and bundled up into bed in one of the Watsons' spare rooms and had Dr. Donaldson examine her while she composed a letter to the midwife in Colton and waited for John to arrive for his usual evening visit.

Margaret wanted to protest. It was too much. She was supposed to be managing her own household, supposed to be a helpmeet for her new family, not another burden for Mrs. Thornton to bear.

But she was very tired, and her head ached. Dr. Donaldson felt her pulse and pressed on her stomach and asked her more uncomfortable questions and finally sent for tea and toast and instructions to rest before he left the room.

Margaret drank her tea dutifully, trying not to stew in frustration about being sent to bed like a child, and at the same time trying not to succumb to the fear of what had befallen her. What her marriage bed had brought. Something she had thought to welcome with a sort of nervous anticipation but which now loomed before her like a terrible storm.

But the bed was so soft.

Margaret could practically hear Fanny twittering about how she had purchased all the finest furnishings as she pushed the tea tray aside, lay her head back into the pillow, and finally drifted off to sleep.

~~~

She awoke with John sitting by the bed, holding her hand, staring at her intently, his face very grave.

"John."

He frowned even more deeply and brushed a sweat-damp strand of hair from her forehead. "Margaret... My mother said you have something to tell me. Are you well?"

He spoke very low and very quietly, with a pained expression, as though he was afraid to get the words out, afraid to hear her answer.

"I'm well," she rasped, knowing she didn't look it. "Dr. Donaldson assures me of it. I am not ill. I am... I am with child."

He paled, and his eyes grew wide. He caught his breath in a gasp. "Margaret!" He moved closer to her and traced his fingertips around her face, over her breasts, down to her belly, in a sort of terrible wonder. His hands were trembling.

Margaret reached for him and pulled him even closer, until he had clambered onto the bed himself with his arms wrapped around her, his head in her lap.

"Is it...? Are you...?"

"It's... It's early yet. But Dr. Donaldson says that my symptoms are normal, that the fatique and nausea might very well pass, and that there is no reason why I should not carry the baby to term and... and do well."

She could feel John grasp her more closely, his voice still low and uncertain. "Do you believe him?"

"I... I have no reason to doubt..." But that was false. She did have reason. "I believe my symptoms are normal, from what I know of these things. And... And your mother is sending for a midwife. To stay with us. Although it seems rather overly cautious, really. At present there is no reason to think that there is any... complication."

John closed his eyes and kissed the top of her still-flat belly. "Please, Margaret," he breathed, looking back up at her. "Please let us do what we can to take care of you."

Margaret heaved a breath and looked deeply into her husband's eyes. "Very well. As long as you don't... Just please don't send me away for fresh air. Don't send me away from Milton unless there is some real, dire need. I couldn't bear to be apart from everyone. No matter what happens. Please."

John sat up then and cradled her face and kissed her, delicately, again and again.

"If I could bind you to my side forever, I would do it," he murmured. "I cannot bear to imagine being parted from you. My Margaret." His voice was shaking.

"My John..." She pulled away to look at him. "We are bound together, you and I. Bound before God. We are pledged to each other for all of this life, and we are bound to meet again in the next."

"Do you swear it?" He asked wonderingly, a soft smile on his lips that did not quite reach his tired eyes. "You're still a parson's daughter."

"I swear it, John. I believe it. With all my heart. Even my father, he had his doubts... But he never doubted that. Never doubt the grace of God, John, or the redemption through our Lord, or the life to come."

He smiled again, softly, and raised her hand to his lips. He was always touching her, epecially in times of trouble. It was as if he could never get his fill of her but always yearned for the reassurance that she was really here, that she was really his.

"A man must look to his own soul, Margaret... I can hardly put words to what has been roiling within mine... But I pray that you keep your faith."

"I pray for you, John. I pray for you... and for Fanny... and for all of us."

He pulled himself out of her arms and stood from the bed. "I must return to the house to be at the mill early in the morning. I'm expecting some new shipments to arrive. But you may stay here and rest as much as you can. I'll send the carriage for you in the morning."

"Would you not stay with me, John? I don't see you so much these days, and I... I miss you."

His eyes grew dark and he simply looked at her for a heartbeat. "You must rest. I'm certain... I wouldn't dare to trouble thee."

Margaret looked down and blushed. "Dr. Donaldson said that I must rest when I am weary and eat when I am hungry, but that other than that I might... resume all my usual activities."

"But surely he didn't mean..?"

Margaret felt her blush deepen. "By the questions he asked, and they way he responded to my answers... I gathered that I am in no particular danger from any of my usual activities." She looked at him suddenly. "But we don't... We don't have to, John. I know that... in these circumstances... It doesn't seem right to..."

John smiled sadly as she stumbled over her words.

"I just miss you, John," she finally whispered. "I just want to feel you holding me."

His face grew solemn as he assured her, "I'll stay with thee."

He didn't have to speak the rest of the words - that he meant to stay with her for this night, and the next night, and every other night to come.

~~~

Chapter Text

Margaret slept deeply in John's arms. She felt him rouse himself early in the morning, but she could not quite bring herself to wake. Instead, she fell farther into sleep and stayed abed late. When she did get up, mid-morning, she still felt queasy and tired. She didn't feel any better until after she had called for and eaten a small amount of porridge for breakfast. Then, after the maid helped her to dress, Margaret stopped by Fanny's room to say goodbye.

Just for the time being.

She would go home and rest for a few days, at John's insistence, but she promised herself that she would come back.

Margaret had never even thought of keeping apart from her mother or Bessie, when they were ill. She was sure that she could nourish the life growing within her while continuing to do what she could to care for her family.

Dr. Donaldson himself had said that she could continue her normal activities.

~~~

Margaret found Fanny lying in bed, but not asleep. Papers and pencils and pots of paints were scattered around her amidst her rumpled sheets.

Margaret couldn't help but notice the thinness of her face and the dark shadows around her eyes when she lifted her head to glance at Margaret before turning back to the drawing she was working on. She looked not only ill but more solemn than Margaret had ever seen her.

Margaret silently took her seat at the chair that had been drawn close to Fanny's bed.

"Gerard left me these things to amuse myself with," Fanny explained.

Margaret couldn't help herself raising an eyebrow. She surmised that Gerard must be the young portraitist's given name.

She looked the pages scattered around Fanny's bed. She recognized some flowers and some figures, but most were bright splashes of color and indistinct shapes. Her heart ached for a moment. Of course the colors were bright. This was Fanny.

She seemed to be working on a sketch at the moment, though, concentrating on it rather intently. The lines were shaky and the proporions somewhat peculiar, but Margaret could recognize a young woman walking over a stony ground with a bold sun in the sky on one side, a dark cloud on the other. There was a curious dark smudge around the woman's waist.

"Would you tell me what you're sketching?"

Fanny glanced at her and almost smiled. "It's nothing but a fancy, really. I was just thinking about my family."

"Your family?"

"Yes. My mother, you see, she's like the stone of the earth. She's so strong. She holds me up. She supports me."

Margaret had never imagined illustrating a person as a thing, but she could not dispute the description of the elder Mrs. Thornton.

"And the sun?"

"The sun is John. Distant. Bright. Beloved. I know he cares for me. He's always cared so much for me, even if he doesn't show it much. He's raised me just as much as Mother has. The sun and the earth... They don't need me. But they've given me almost my whole world."

"I believe they do need you, Fanny," Margaret spoke quietly. "I believe that they... That they cherish you as their very happiness and hope."

Fanny smiled softly, and sighed. "Perhaps..."

"Is your husband in the picture?"

"I might add a trellis... But this dark part, here," Fanny explained, pointing to a cloud at the edge of the page, "This is where my father is waiting for me. I know they say he couldn't have gone to heaven, but I'm not so sure about heaven, anyway."

"I..." Margaret was forcefully reminded of Bessie, suddenly, her sureness of heaven and her father's doubts. Then just as suddenly remembered Boucher's face, purple and mishapen, and she thought of the deceased Mr. Thornton and sent a prayer for mercy from her heart. "I pray that we all find our place in God's love. And, Fanny..." Margaret drew in a breath, suddenly dizzy again, and reached for Fanny's hand. "Fanny, I pray that your place is here with us, for a long time yet."

Fanny's lips twitched in another half-smile. "My daughter is already gone." She indicated the dark smudge around the figure's waist. "She stopped moving yesterday. I'm sure she's dead. She's gone on ahead of me."

"Fanny!"

The other young woman started to weep. "I don't want to die, Margaret. There's so much life I haven't lived, yet."

"Fanny, no. Fanny..." And then Margaret found herself weeping. She bowed her head over Fanny's hand, Fanny clinging so tightly.

"Don't let them forget me, Margaret," Fanny whispered. "I won't even leave a child behind."

"Fanny, I promise... I promise no one will forget you. How could we? But, please, Fanny..." Margaret met Fanny's eyes, shining with tears and frightened, but still full of energy and life. She felt ashamed of herself. She had been about to beg Fanny not to die. As if the girl had a choice. "Fanny, you are so strong. You have been so strong, throughout all of this. Please, hold onto that strength a little longer. I... John would like me to... see to some things at the house. I may be away for a few days. Promise me, Fanny," Margaret gripped her hand. "Please, promise me that you'll try to hold on."

"Of course I shall," Fanny sniffed, and looked away. "I'm holding on with everything I have." She looked at Margaret again. "I'm glad that John has you."

Margaret swallowed. "Fanny, I know we haven't been particularly close, that we are still... learning to see each other as sisters... But please send for me if you need me. I won't be far. If you feel that I could be of any help to you at all, please ask John to send for me."

Fanny nodded and released her hand, and Margaret leant forward to kiss her the girl's cheek before standing rather shakily, wiping her eyes.

~~~

Margaret stepped quickly back to the room she had stayed in, where she found the maid already tidying up. She only just made it to the basin before she bent over it and heaved up everything she had eaten that morning.

"Oh, Mrs. Thornton!"

"It's all right... I'm all right. I'm sorry, so sorry for the mess."

"But, are you well, madam? Shall I fetch someone?"

"I'm perfectly well. Please, I'm just... overwrought. It's nothing at all. Please don't tell anyone."

Margaret closed her eyes, still leaning forward over the basin stand. She did not relish the carriage ride back to the Mill House.

But she would be strong.

She would be fine.

Their family was burdened enough.

She was fine.

Chapter Text

~~~

Mrs. Murray arrived by carriage to the Mill House three days later, chiding the porter to mind all of her parcels - her luncheon and her knitting and mending and a collection of strangely shaped pieces of wood.

She bustled up their steps in the early evening, just after the workers had all streamed out of the Mill to return to their homes and John had just sat down to a hurried dinner with his wife before traveling the miles across town to check on his sister.

"Johnboy!" the lady exclaimed, once the couple had stepped out to greet her. "Why, I remember the day you were born! and now what a fine, tall man you've grown into."

Mrs. Murray was herself a sharp-featured, authoritative woman, with some gray in the brown hair gathered under her bonnet but clearly younger than the elder Mrs. Thornton and not long past the prime of life. Margaret did not know what to think about the frankly appreciative look that their guest was giving her husband. John himself looked rather discomfited under her wry scrutiny.

"Dost thou remember thy sister's birth?"

"Aye. I remember the occasion... I beg your pardon, Mrs. Murray, but my recollection of faces..."

"Nothing to worry, young man. It was no time to make proper acquaintance. You were but a shy young lad then, but I still remember your eagerness to fetch for your mother and your tenderness toward the babe." She was smiling at him approvingly for a moment, and then her mind seemed to go back to the memory and she raised her eyebrows in a look of wonder. "My, what a cry she had! Your mother made not a sound during her whole ordeal, and then that baby shrieked for the entire neighborhood to hear. Not you, though. You yourself were quite the quiet little thing. Yours was one of the first births I ever assisted Mother Ballard in."

John's face was beet red, and Margaret's felt her own skin flush down past her neck. The conversation reminded her of the way the country women in Helstone sometimes spoke when she would bring a basket after the birth of a baby. But she had never heard such frank talk about birthing with a man in the room.

And yet there was something rather sweet about imaging John as an earnest young child, assisting his mother, and even as an infant... Margaret's hand strayed to her own belly, over her corset. The movement did not escape Mrs. Murray's notice.

"And you the young Mrs. Thornton!" The woman's warm eyes shone as she regarded Margaret, and before she knew it Mrs. Murray had stepped forward and taken Margaret's hands into her own and was appraising her closely. "You've a good color to you, and a nice round face. We shall get much better acquainted in the weeks to come. But where is Mrs. Watson?"

John cleared his throat. "My sister is at her home a farther way out of town. I was actually about to take a carriage to go to see her this night. I don't know how much my mother told you... But she is in a bad way."

Mrs. Murray nodded wisely. "Aye. Hannah wrote only a few words about her, but I suspected something... I shall go with you."

At Mrs. Murray's assured tone, Margaret felt her shoulders relax. Beside her, John murmured something to the effect of how Mrs. Murray had only just arrived and might take her rest, but the midwife was already picking up her bags. John rushed to help her, and when he glanced up quickly to meet Margaret's eyes, it was with a relief that mirrored her own.

"Can I help?" Margaret heard herself asking. "Mrs. Thornton... The elder, that is... I mean... Due to my condition... She wanted me to... rest. But I would like to go. Truly. If I may be of assistance."

Mrs. Murray's gaze grew sharp as she looked back at Margaret, and she lifted an eyebrow. "I hardly ken thee, young lady... But you seem hale enough, for your condition, and you look eager to come."

"I am. I promise you. I feel well, and I wish to be of help."

Mrs. Murray's face grew solemn. "It may be the place for ye or it may not... But I have seen how it can cause all the more distress, not to be knowing... Perhaps better you should come tonight, and when we know more... It may be after all be best for you to stay away."

"Please." It felt strange to be pleading with this stranger, with this woman who had only just arrived. But Margaret sensed that in all the hushed dread and uncertainty surrounding Fanny, this woman whom Mrs. Thornton trusted and had called upon had now taken on the authority over everything having to do with Fanny's pregnancy, though she hadn't even yet laid eyes on her. "Please. Let me at least see her. Tonight. If I may... If I may be of some use."

"Aye. Come then. It sounds as if we have no time to spare."

John had already called for their footman to load Mrs. Murray's baggage back into the carriage, and he just finished helping to secure her packages when the two ladies stepped down into the yard.

~~~

They packed into the carriage and rocked back in their seats as the driver made haste. Now that the decision was made, Mrs. Murray was watching Margaret all the more closely as the carriage bumped over the dark streets. Margaret could feel John squeezing her hand, but he was looking out the carriage window, frowning slightly. Margaret knew he was thinking of Fanny.

Mrs. Murray glanced over to him and spoke softly. "John... Mr. Thornton." She waited for him to attend her. "I am going to ask your wife some questions. This is not a conversation I would normally have with the husband in the room. But given the circumstances, I think it's best not to wait for a more private opportunity."

He nodded stiffly. "Please proceed, Mrs. Murray. I shall endeavor not to hear."

Her lips twisted in a half-smile as John gave his attention back to the window, and then she looked back at Margaret. "Mrs. Thornton... Have you ever attended a birth?"

Margaret swallowed. "...No. I was not there when my cousin was in her confinements, and before that, I used to assist my father in his parish; he was a Reverend... But I only ever brought a basket after a birth. I was never there for the... event itself."

Mrs. Murray nodded. "And now, you carry your first child?"

"Yes. Yes, that is... I only just found out... I felt... lightheaded a few days ago, and Dr. Donaldson, he... asked me about my... symptoms... and he said that I am with child. But it hasn't... That is, I haven't felt the... the quickening, yet."

The lady nodded again, still watching Margaret with a kind look. She took a deep breath. "It is well, sometimes, to have attended a birth, even a few births, before having your own. You learn the strength a woman has within her. You learn to be patient and to trust. And for any woman at such a time, it is well to have other womenfolk about her, her neighbors and her sisters."

Margaret could sense that something else was coming.

Mrs. Murray sighed. "But with young Mrs. Watson being as ill as it sounds like she is... I'm afraid it may be the worst place in the world for you, expecting your first. ...Birth can be hard. It can be the very heights of joy and the very depths of pain. It's the way we come into this world and it can sometimes be the way we leave. But the very hardest of it should not be the first birth you see."

Margaret felt tears well up. She blinked them away. Mrs. Murray reached forward and took her hand again.

"You must see her." She glanced at John. "You both must. But then it might be best for you both to keep your distance. For a time."

Chapter Text

Mrs. Murray entered the Watson home like a general taking command. Mrs. Thornton the elder greeted her standing stiff and formal like a first leutenant ready to give report.

"Nell."

"Hannah."

A glimmer of a wry smile in the midwife's countenance, flinty determination in Mrs. Thornton's. And then she cast her eyes over John and Margaret and turned a questioning look at Nell.

"They want to see her," the midwife answered in response to her unspoken question. "And it might be for the best that they see her now."

Servants had brought in Nell's bags and strange packages, and Mrs. Thornton sent them upstairs to deposit them all in the guest suite nearest to Mrs. Watson's rooms.

"I must see her first." Mrs. Murray was speaking softly, looking into Margaret's eyes, and Margaret realized with a start that she was being addressed. She nodded stiffly and felt John squeeze her hand.

And then they were alone in Fanny's front parlor while Mrs. Murray and Mrs. Thornton marched upstairs.

Margaret did not let go of John's hand.

~~~

At least they thought they were alone, but the scent of tobacco and the clink of a glass drew their attention to the dining room.

There they found Watson, bleary-eyed, nursing a pipe and a drink.

"Thornton! Is that you?" He turned and stopped, blinking at Margaret. "And, eh. Mrs. Thornton, please, pardon the..." He vaguely waved his pipe, sending a puff of smoke in her direction.

His distraction reminded her painfully of her father, after her mother had died. Margaret found herself blinking tears from her eyes. "Its no worry, Mr. Watson," she hastened to assure him.

He nodded absently and turned back to John. "Thornton, I thought I heard... We have a guest..?"

John cleared his throat. "Mrs. Nell Murray. From Colton. She's a midwife." He spoke slowly and meaningfully, keeping a steady eye on Watson the way one might watch a nervous horse. "She was there at Fanny's own birth. Our mother trusts her." He said this last with emphasis. "She's here to help."

"Eh... Well... Very well, very well..."

~~~

Meanwhile, in an upstairs room, Mrs. Murray was sitting on Fanny's bed and gripping the young woman's hand. Fanny was sobbing. Mrs. Murray shared a look with Mrs. Thornton, who pressed her lips together and nodded.

Mrs. Murray turned back to Fanny and shushed her gently until she could open her eyes. "Mrs. Watson... Fanny..." She waited until Fanny could look at her steadily. "You've done so well. You've been so strong." She watched to see Fanny calm slightly at her words. "But if you continue as you are, neither you nor the baby will survive. We must twine thy baby from thee, madame. ...Do you understand?"

Fanny took a halting breath, and then another. She looked closely at Mrs. Murray with a mixture of desperation and despair and a faint thread of hope.

She nodded.

Nell turned again to Hannah. "You come hold her hand, please madame. I have some herbs in my bag. I shall prepare them presently."

~~~

Mrs. Murray descended down the stairs with a bag over her shoulder and proceeded directly to the kitchen, where she instructed a maid to put lots of water on to boil. Then she sought out the rest of the family.

Her eyes roved over Watson as she introduced herself and he sputtered out his own introduction.

"Your wife is in good hands, Mr. Watson, and I understand she has received excellent care from Dr. Donaldson. I am merely here to assist. Rest assured that we shall do all we can for her." Mrs. Murray spoke softly, soothingly, while Watson noded and teared up and then mumbled an excuse to go to his study.

Mrs. Murray watched him walk off into the depths of the house, and then she turned to John and Margaret. She took a deep breath. "Mrs. Watson... Fanny..." She trailed off and seemed to reconsider what she was going to say. "Fanny is entering her confinement. It could start tonight, but it is more likely that it will be tomorrow or the next day. It is... it is well that she should eat, if she can, and rest, before it starts. There will be more to do in the days to come, but for tonight, if you could... soothe her..."

She peered at the both of them, but it was Margaret whom her gaze finally rested upon before flickering back to John.

Margaret cleared her throat. "I shall bring her up some broth and bread." She squeezed John's hand and looked briefly into his worried face before making her own way to the kitchen. She could hear Mrs. Murray murmuring something else to John as she left.

~~~

Several minutes later, Margaret herself was bringing the tray up to Fanny's room, as Mrs. Murray had corralled the nighttime maid with further instructions.

Margaret paused just in the doorway as she heard a thready voice inside. At first she could not comprehend it. The voice sounded like Mrs. Thornton's, but she was... singing...

Betide me weal, betide me woe,
That weird shall ne'er be dauntin' me.
And he has kissed her rosy lips
All underneath the Eldon tree.

Now ye must gang wi’ me, she said,
Thomas, ye must gang wi’ me.
And ye must serve me seven years
Thro’ weal and woe, as chance may be.

And then there was a hoarse laugh. Fanny's. "Did father really used to sing that to me?"

Mrs. Thornton sighed. "That and other nonsense, when he was in a merry mood."

Margaret cleared her throat and brought in the tray. Mrs. Thornton glanced up at her sharply from the chair she had drawn close to Fanny's bed.

"Mrs. Murray thought you might take some broth, Fanny, and perhaps a bit of bread. And then rest, if you're able. She said you'll need your strength."

Fanny's eyes were glistening. She looked even thinner than she had when Margaret had last seen her, but also more alert, almost feverish.

Mrs. Thornton nodded and stood. "I'll be back shortly, Fanny."

"Will you sing to me some more when you return, Mother?" Fanny wheedled.

Mrs. Thornton rolled her eyes as she patted Fanny's hand and stood without answering. Fanny nearly smirked after her as she stepped away and Margaret stepped in to take her place, setting the tray on Fanny's lap.

"Well I never imagined that I might hear your mother sing..."

"Nor I." The smile had fallen from Fanny's face as she pulled the tray closer and contemplated the broth. "She believes it's a sin."

"She... I believe she really does love you, Fanny, in her own way."

Fanny blinked, and her lips almost twitched into a smile. "It would take me on my deathbed to get any music out of her."

Margaret cleared her throat. "The field hands in Hampshire used to sing a song like that. Something about faeries, I think..." She kept talking, trying to soothe and distract Fanny while Fanny frowned and set about sipping a few spoonfuls of broth and sucking on a soaked bit of bread.

And then it was not a few minutes after that but Mrs. Murray arrived with a covered bowl. "Here now, Mrs. Fanny. Here's some tea for you to drink. Just for you. It will help." She looked meaningfully at Margaret, who stood up in her chair and stepped away from the bed. She had a sudden feeling of dread. Mrs. Murray uncovered the bowl and steam rose from it with the scent of weeds and flowers and fresh rain.

Fanny was eyeing the bowl. "Is that...?"

Mrs. Murray nodded. "It may help. These things are never certain. Likely nothing will happen right away. I made it strong, but it's best to drink as much as you can."

Fanny managed three sips before she turned her head away. Mrs. Murray nodded and put a lid on the bowl and set it aside. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, Mrs. Thornton, but I must warn you not to taste this tea at all."

Margaret nodded. "I won't." Her voice came out a whisper.

"Now, if you can, Mrs. Watson, try to get some sleep. You may not get much more after tonight. I come check on you in the few hours, and in the meantime I shall be in the room just next door."

Fanny nodded, and then she looked to Margaret.

"Will you sing to me, Margaret?"

Margaret nodded. "Of course. I shall do my best." She swallowed and tried to recall any hymns that Fanny might like. "I wish... I wish my cousin Edith were here. She was always the musical one, and she has a lovely voice."

Fanny nodded, but her face was falling. For a moment it seemed that she would cry. "I wish..." She laughed a little, and her breath caught so that it was almost a cry. "I wish John were here."

"He is, Fanny. John is here. He's just downstairs. Shall I fetch him?"

Fanny rubbed her face and nodded.

Margaret stepped quickly out of the room and almost hurried straight downstairs, but then paused and thought to check the guest room where they had most recently stayed. Sure enough, there was John, standing at the dresser and untying his cravat with an air of distraction. As soon as he saw Margaret he strode over to her and placed his hands over her shoulders. "Is Fanny...?"

"She's well. Better, I think, in some ways. She's wants to see you."

He took a deep breath and looked at her closely, tracing a finger around her forehead. "And you, Margaret? How are you?"

She sighed. "I am... I am glad to be here, to help where I may. I am glad to... glad to get to know Fanny a little better." She smiled softly. "I even heard your mother singing."

John's eyebrows rose nearly off his head. "Mother? Sing?"

Margaret laughed. "Yes. You know how fond Fanny is of music. I believe she said it was something... something your father used to sing to her..."

John blinked as if a very distant memory was slowly surfacing.

"But she wants to see you now, John. Perhaps... If you know any... I know I've heard you join in on some hymns..."

John smiled at her softly. "Aye. I know one or two. I believe I can rustle something up for Fanny. I'll go to her now. And you must rest, too, wife. God willing we shall sort more out in the morning."

~~~

Chapter Text

The first night was hushed and troubled, but still the family slept. Fanny drifted off into a doze with her mother resting lightly beside her. Mrs. Murray snored in the adjacent room. Watson passed out on the couch in his study. John and Margaret clung to each other in their room down the hall, their legs entwined, hands gripping each other's shifts as if they were each afraid to let go, even in sleep.

~~~

The next morning was not quite business as usual. John sent word to the mill that he would receive the day's correspondence at his sister's house. He managed to answer a few letters before Watson's agitation drove him to escort the older man to the club for the day.

Mrs. Thornton continued her command of the household, doubling down on her supervision of the cook and the maids now that Mrs. Murray was present to assist with Fanny.

Fanny herself was more alert than she had been in the past few days, able to sit up and sip some broth and nibble on some bread. Margaret sat with her, rereading the latest letter from Seniora Barbour, who was marreid to a distant relation on Margaret's mother's side, and who at Margaret's request had consented to describe her daily life in Spain.

The Seniora's English was only very partial, and so Margaret had to keep a Spanish dictionary at hand, translating such terms as mantilla and patio. Fanny's eyes were bright as she interjected - "You remember, Margaret, the courtyard! With arches and potted trees and a fountain in the center."

"Of course," Margaret murmured, sure that what was only a confused muddle in her mind was something that Fanny could picture vividly, in sun-drenched hues of orange and gold. "Perhaps you could sketch it for me, Fanny, your idea of it. I'm sure the picture in your mind is much more vibrant than the one in mine."

"But your hand is so much finer, Margaret..."

"Perhaps... But I can only make a picture of something I've already seen. I have no talent at all for more fanciful work."

"We shall work together, then," Fanny declared. "I'll make a sketch and color it in and you do it over in your hand."

"Splendid."

Meanwhile Mrs. Murray brewed more tea, which Margaret made sure not to taste or smell or even see.

The day went on with almost a festive air - Fanny chatting more hopefully than she had done in weeks while she painted a rough outline of her vision of a Spanish scene, full of stark contrasts, striking yellows and reds, and black ink for the Seniora's mantilla. She had just started to grimace and complain of stomach cramps when Mrs. Thornton stepped into the room, looking grave.

"Mr. Hugh has come with your portrait, Fanny. I told him that you were in your confinement and he should just leave it for you to look at later, but he says that he wants your approval before he is able to finish." Mrs. Thornton's pursed lips made it abundantly clear what she thought of the impropriety of disturbing a woman in her confinement.

"Of course I must see it. He's quite right."

Mrs. Murray had slipped in as well, and she shared a look with Mrs. Thornton. "It will do to distract her and perhaps enervate her," she murmured. "But she must not expend all her strength."

"I shan't," Fanny insisted, looking between her mother and the midwife. "I shan't tire myself out, I promise, and I... I shall eat everything put before me."

"It won't do to push yourself, Madame," Mrs. Murray chided gently, "or anything you eat will come right back up."

"But still I must see my portrait."

Mrs. Murray and Mrs. Thornton exchanged looks again, and finally Mrs. Thornton consented for Fanny to receive the questionable young man in her chambers.

Margaret and Jenny, Fanny's maid, helped Fanny into her dressing gown and pinned the plait of her hair around her head. Tucked back into bed with a shawl around her shoulders, everything was as proper as it could be when Mr. Hugh and his assistant maneuvered the enormous painting into the room. He was looking only at Fanny when he pulled off the cover. He watched her eyes sweep over the whole of the image and then return to each detail - the face, the hands, the gown.

To Margaret, the painting looked rough, unfinished in its detail, whole areas still just smudges - but something about the sweep of the gown, the gleam of the eyes, the flush of the cheeks - something living about it, as if the image in the painting - Fanny assuredly, an almost uncannily vibrant, confident image of Fanny - were about to step down out of the painting and swirl into a dance.

"Yes," Fanny finally declared. "Yes. You've done it."

Mr. Hugh smiled almost mockingly, only the fearsome intensity of his dark eyes giving the lie to his humility. "I'm glad you approve, Madame."

Fanny glanced back at him. "The background is rather dark, but I suppose that puts more of the focus on the subject."

"Indeed, Madame. I plan to fill in the background with more definition of the curtain, the table... But nothing that will distract from the subject herself."

Fanny smiled again. "I believe Mr. Watson will like it. He never notices small details."

As Mr. Hugh's mouth crept further into a sly smile and he began to reply, Margaret hastily cleared her throat. "I believe we must thank you for the gift of the paints, Mr. Hugh. Mrs. Watson has found them to be most diverting.

Fanny beamed. "Yes, we were using them just this morning." She gestured to the table beside her bed. "Have a look."

Mr. Hugh approached her bed, resulting in a sharply indrawn breath from Mrs. Thornton, but he only rifled through the collection of sketches and paintings, hmming to himself.

"The use of color in these is exquisite, Mrs. Watson. The contrasts are... striking... yet the color palette is most harmonious. If circumstances were different I could hire you as my assistant." He grinned at her then, and Fanny smiled impishly in reply.

"Thank you, Mr. Hugh, for your diligence in seeking Mrs. Watson's approval." Mrs. Thornton approached with a decisive air and clenched fists, as if she had to restrain herself from physically removing the young man from her daughter's bedchamber. "I believe that your work on the portrait is satisfactory, and so you may complete it at your studio with no further direction."

And then the portrait and the young portraitist had been ushered from the room, and Fanny collapsed back in her bed with a smile. A minute later she beckoned for the basin and heaved up part of her last meal.

She groaned in pain as cramps started to seize her, but as Mrs. Murray leaned over her, she smiled again.

"He got it right, my portrait... He got it just right."

~~~

The following night, Margaret and Mrs. Murray and Mrs. Thornton took turns sitting with Fanny and helping her to sip broth and eat a few bits of stewed apples and walking with Fanny to and from the chamber pot and taking a turn with her around the room. They rested when she rested. They soothed her when she groaned. Margaret noticed how Mrs. Murray was not shy to touch - she held Fanny close, rubbing her back and even pressing on her flanks when pains started to come in waves.

"This is how it goes, Mrs. Margaret," Mrs. Murray assured her. "This is just how it goes. No hurry. Walk when you can. Rest when you can. The body knows. It's an ancient knowledge... Just like a cat birthing kittens... when all goes well." She breathed the last part, as if she couldn't bring herself to tell only a half-truth.

~~~

The morning found Margaret dozing on Fanny's bed with Fanny herself briefly asleep when Dr. Donaldson arrived. Margaret heard Mrs. Thornton introduce him to Mrs. Murray in hushed tones before she went downstairs to see to the meals.

Dr. Donaldson, normally so formal and reserved, had a hint of humor in his voice. "Mrs. Murray, I believe we last met at the Bailey birth. It's good to see you looking well."

"And you as well, sir." She led him into the sitting room to confer.

"I understand you've inherited Mother Ballard's broom and cauldron."

"And her book of spells," was Mrs. Murray's tart reply. "I assume you still have your own hooks and knives and other devil's implements."

Dr. Donaldson's voice became low and grave. "I pray they won't be needed."

Mrs. Murray sighed. "The babe is in a good position. I believe it should go well, as long as she is able to keep up her strength."

Fanny awoke with a moan, and Margaret rose with her, rubbing gentle circles over her distended belly and then kneading her thigh as she had seen Mrs. Murray do. At the noise, Dr. Donaldson and Mrs. Murray stepped back into the room.

"Well, young lady, I see your trial has begun. May I examine you?"

Fanny nodded, and Dr. Donaldson delicately pulled her shift up over her stomach, making sure not to disturb the blankets. He leant over the bed and pressed firmly on her belly, feeling the shape of what lay inside. Margaret noticed that he did not bother to listen, this time, to the babe. "Yes, Mrs. Murray, I agree - head down." He breathed a sigh and looked the midwife in the eye. "Call me if I am needed."

Mrs. Murray gave a short nod. "I pray you won't be," she murmured.

~~~

Chapter Text

The next day, as Fanny's pains began to take hold of her more frequently and more fiercely, Mrs. Murray beckoned Margaret to the side and murmured to her, "Now, Mrs. Margaret, I believe it is time for you to take your leave."

Margaret took in a breath to protest, but Mrs. Murray's look was firm, kind, and unwavering.

"Mrs. Watson has a great deal of strength still in her, and she's doing very well, but when she delivers the babe... It would not be good for that to be the first birth you see. Not in your condition, madame."

Margaret blinked back tears and nodded. She moved back to Fanny's settee, where Fanny was standing up and holding onto the edge, wearing only her shift, with Mrs. Thornton standing ramrod-straight beside her, rubbing her back. Fanny was catching her breath after the last intense surge. "Fanny... Fanny, I... I must leave you." Margaret wondered for a moment if it wouldn't be kinder to offer some excuse, but her mind tripped over any attempts at deceit. "But Mrs. Murray is here, and your mother is here, and they will look after you."

Fanny shook her head. "You're leaving? Now?"

Margaret glanced at Mrs. Thornton, who frowned but did not alter her pace of rubbing Fanny's back.

"I'll return as soon as I can," Margaret promised.

Fanny grimaced and groaned as another surge came upon her. She gasped for her mother, who shushed her while rubbing firmer circles on her back.

Fanny was moaning and rocking back and forth, but then after a minute the surge seemed to drain away, and Fanny looked right back at Margaret as if there had been no interruption. "When all this is over, you must return, and we shall work together on the painting for the Seniora."

"Yes, of course." And before she could think twice about it Margaret opened her arms and Fanny fell into them, squeezing her tightly. "I look forward to seeing you soon, Fanny, and I shall pray for your health and your... recovery. I am very glad that we are now sisters."

And then Fanny had let go with a sob and Mrs. Murray was there with another concoction and Margaret was leaving the room with one more promise. "I shall be back as soon as I can."

~~~

Margaret felt nothing but numb despair during the carriage ride back to her own home. She could hardly bear to look at John, who seemed lost in his own worries.

As they rumbled away over the cobblestones, Margaret heard herself whispering, "Perhaps we shouldn't have left."

John cleared his throat and seemed to come back to himself. "Watson's cousin is staying with them now and will attend to him. Mother and Mrs. Murray are there. And Fanny..." He swallowed. "She must face what she must face. None can take her cup from her." He blinked tears from his eyes and gazed squarely at Margaret. "And you... My... My Margaret..." He settled himself closer to her and drew her near. "My Margaret... We must attend to your safety."

His hands in her hair, his lips on her forehead, peppering kisses over her skin, he spoke more urgently. "Margaret, I swear to you... I will do everything I can to keep you safe."

"John..."

And then he was kissing her lips, almost desperately, and Margaret was kissing him back just as fiercely.

When they finally broke apart, Margaret took hold of his hands. She spent a minute simply breathing, trying to think of how to say what she wanted to say. "John, some... dangers... are simply a woman's lot. If she is to be a wife and mother." Margaret glanced up to see him watching her closely. "And I shall bear those dangers bravely for you, John. Surely risk of loss is the price of love."

John was frowning, his clear blue eyes swimming with sorrow, but as he listened to her final words he almost smiled. "Must you always speak in metaphors of trade, Mrs. Thornton?"

Margaret breathed her own almost-laugh, and they were in each other's arms again when they felt the carriage stop.

They were home.

~~~

Late in the evening, a porter arrived with the message that Mrs. Watson had been delivered of an infant that had not survived, that the delivery was not complicated, and Mrs. Watson herself was now recovering.

John received the message gravely and then, once he and Margaret were alone again, sank down into the nearest chair, murmuring his thanks to God.

Fanny still lived.

For now.

~~~

Dr. Donaldson offered to bleed Mrs. Watson to aid in her recovery, but Mrs. Murray accepted only some medicines to ease the girl's pain and help her rest.

Fanny indeed already looked very pale when Margaret sat with her, but she was sleeping deeply, and Mrs. Thornton reported that she had been able to take bread and broth and even stewed plums with no further nausea.

When she awoke to see Margaret at her bedside she wept and wept and wept, so much so that Mrs. Murray fetched the laudanum to send her back to sleep.

The second time she woke, Fanny sniffed and wiped her eyes and enquired about Margaret's sketches for the painting.

~~~

John perhaps should have been devoting more attention to the mill, now that the family crisis seemed to have passed, but when he wasn't checking in on his sister or his wife, he called upon Dr. Donaldson and Mrs. Murray, and even sent an enquiry to his bookseller in London.

"I require certain information," he told them.

He spoke with straightforward determination, in the tone of a mill master who abided no obstinance.

"I wish to know all the options that are available for a husband and wife who wish to delay or prevent pregnancy and childbearing."

Curiously, Dr. Donaldson and Mrs. Murray each hesitated for a moment, giving John a searching look, before taking a deep breath and telling him everything they knew.

A couple of weeks later, John received a small, unmarked package by post. It contained a few handbills and a copy of Every Woman's Book: What is Love? by R. Carlile.

After a few attempts that nearly resulted in John throwing the book down in outrage (it was perhaps interesting from a certain philosophical standpoint - but some of the man's arguments were quite absurd, and to think that he intended the volume to be read directly by women!), John managed to read it through to the end, and found that the practical suggestions did correspond to what Dr. Donaldson had alluded to and Mrs. Murray had said outright.

The sponge. The sheath. Withdrawal. Emission in alternative... cavities...

Large families were not inevitable.

Pregnancy itself was not inevitable following marriage and even intercourse.

There were steps that could be taken.

Something could be done.

~~~