Chapter Text
Touch
I.
In the dimly lit sitting room the sound of her husband's breathing and the occasional 'pop' of the fire were the only sounds permeating the heavy night. Watching the steady rise and fall of Mr Thornton's chest, Margaret thought over the latest conflict they had had that morning and how her life had altered (and yet in many respects also remained the same).
She had been a wife for a little over four months now and if not pleased with that fact, was at least resigned to it. She had to be; there was nothing to be done for it now. But at times she was so overwhelmed by all of the tension, the arguments and the cautiously restrained emotion. It seemed that she always had to be on her guard in this house and she resented it. It was wearing. For the first time in many weeks, Margaret allowed herself to acknowledge just how fed up she was of it all. How she hated to feel so…so, on edge around him, how she wished that she didn't feel that way; that they could be on friendlier terms. That she could be calm around him and not feel so out of tune.
Echoes of some of the words hurled between the two sprang to mind unwillingly, all disjointed and out of place. She wasn't even sure who had started it or where it proceeded from, only that it was one of many misunderstandings in their relationship.
'Why do you always feel the need to remind me that I am not the sort of man you would have willingly married? …Do you think I find this marriage easy? …Do you think that I don't see the way you tense up when I am near you? That I didn't hear how you wept on the first night you spent in this house and how much I wanted to give you some sort of comfort?'
'What do you mean? I do not understand what you mean by saying that I am always reminding you of the type of man I would prefer to marry. When have I ever said such a thing?' 'You don't have to say it, for it to be true...'
His voice had taken on a slight edge then and he had cleared his throat savagely before turning his back to her. She hated when he did that; when he would rather stop a conversation short than discuss his real thoughts. How on earth were they ever supposed to get along if they never said what they really felt? Margaret had tried to respond, had actually opened her mouth to do so, but didn't know what to say. She certainly didn't hold her husband in contempt; not anymore. In fact, as she had spent more time in his company and learnt more of the man behind the Mill Master, she had started to find aspects of his personality to admire. He was definitely still too stubborn most of the time and took offence entirely too easily but she had come to realise two surprising things about him. That there was a great kindness hidden behind that dark and stormy brow and that as much as he often pretended otherwise, he really was fond of his sister. When he thought no one was paying him heed, Margaret would often catch his face softening as he looked at Fanny. He looked almost wistful. But just as quickly as it came, the look was gone. She sometimes thought that she saw a similar, yet entirely different look when he glanced at her, but she could never be certain.
Margaret remembered the way he insisted on sulking and ignoring her for the rest of the morning meal, before leaving abruptly for the Mill. He had given her a terse nod of the head before departing. Why did he always have to feel like the injured party? She had been affected as much as he had with this arrangement.
When he had said that she had wept on her wedding night, he had not been exaggerating. Margaret had been anxious and angry during the week leading up to the wedding. She didn't want to marry Mr Thornton. She could not see that her act to shield a human life should be viewed as something shameful, something sinful; something that would lead her to be forced into marriage for the sake of respectability. Margaret had not understood Mr Thornton then; she barely understood him now but she was trying.
She had fought off a pounding head ache during the wedding breakfast and attempted not to flinch when Mr Thornton had taken her arm and threaded it through his own as they wove their way through the gathering of Milton's finest. They were to act the part of a newly married couple for the audience who had been so ready to condemn Margaret as a fallen woman only weeks ago. Finally when most of the guests had left and it came time to part with her parents, Margaret had had to clench her jaw hard and dig her nails into the palms of her hands to prevent the tears of resentment and frustration welling. It had taken nearly an hour for the angry, deep crescent indents on her palms to fade. It was no surprise to anyone in the house (apart from Mrs Thornton, perhaps) that Margaret retired early that evening. Alone.
Margaret had lain awake for many hours as the deluge of embittered thoughts crashed upon her. At the altar, in front of God and half of Milton, she had promised herself that she would make the most of this situation. After all, many people married without affection and lived respectable lives. But not many married without choice, the petulant voice in her head had cried. The emotions that she had suppressed and controlled for weeks had finally burst its banks and she wept bitterly until sleep took her. By morning, she was a little more resigned to her fate and appeared as unperturbed and confident as always. If by chance the new Mrs Thornton's complexion had been a little paler and her tone of voice a little less clear and bell like, no one was ill mannered enough to comment.
Shaking her head slightly to dispel the memories, Margaret continued to stare at the rise and fall of her husband's chest, thinking over the subtle changes in her feelings regarding him. The more insight she had gained into his character, the easier it was to begin to see his virtues and like him.
Margaret could just make out the flicker of his eyes under their lids as he lay in deep sleep, the thick, tangled lashes whispering at the movement. He had fallen asleep while reading the newspaper.
They had sat in strained silence for well over two hours, neither willing to forget the morning's argument. She had only realised that he had drifted off when she heard the broadsheets fall to the floor. He really must have been exhausted. She moved her eyes to his face; he wasn't the most handsome of men but when his face was relaxed, he seemed less imposing and one could appreciate his sharp, strong features better. He looked oddly vulnerable in sleep and she wondered if that was always the case.
Margaret felt it was easier to be with him when he was so defenceless. She didn't feel as though she had to have her guard up ready for the next attack.
Looking at this smooth, angled face Margaret was reminded of the impressive marble statues that she and Edith had seen at some exhibition in London long ago. The marble had felt cool and silky under her fingers, almost like a rose petal turned to stone. Remembering this, Margaret had an urge to run her finger down the bridge of Mr Thornton's nose; to feel whether it was as hard and straight as it looked. To feel whether it would be smooth like the marble or rough like the hands of the factory workers she befriended.
This sudden urge to touch didn't come as a surprise to Margaret. She couldn't say where exactly this compulsion had arisen from or for how long it has been silently brewing in her fingertips, only that it was not an entirely new feeling. She had never acknowledged it before and doing so made her feel uncomfortable, ashamed almost. She didn't know why she should feel this way. He was her husband after all and thus such things should be allowed. But it did not take away from the feeling of embarrassment that flared and flourished in her stomach.
She continued to look over his face, her eyes following the line of dark stubble beginning to show on the jutting jaw line. She felt hot and stifled, like her skin was too small for her body and every bit of warmth clawed at her neck, inching its way to face, staining her ivory cheeks crimson...