A MOTHER'S FINAL GIFT

CHAPTER 7: ANTICIPATION

CHAPTER 7:
ANTICIPATION

Anticipation.

Without doubt, the single defining word that governed what all the players of this narrative thought, did, said, and felt, for the remainder of that Thursday afternoon, was anticipation.

That is, Margaret and Mr Thornton, both equally dumbfounded by what had just passed between and before them, anticipated seeing each other with a complicated intermingling of agitation and animation. Anxiously, they both speculated as to what further pitfalls befell the precarious condition of their already insecure relationship.

Mrs Hale, on the other hand, was keenly anticipating Margaret's return, itching to hear the results of her errand and whether it had borne the fruit she had both desired and predicted. She hoped, and indeed trusted, that Mr Thornton had agreed to take tea with them this evening, and with this faith secure, she enthusiastically plotted the details of her intricate and impending plan.

Of course, Mr Hale – as always – was blissfully unaware of all that was unfolding around him and continued in his unruffled day none the wiser. His wife secretly thanked the good Lord for her husband's perpetual lack of insight, for at pivotal times such as this, it was best that he did not get under foot, lest he disturb the delicate balance.

When Margaret escaped Mr Thornton's office, she raced down the steps without a backward glance, as fast as her petite legs and abundant skirts would tolerate. She scurried so swiftly, that she obliged more than one befuddled labourer to dodge and swerve in all manner of irregular directions, simply to prevent from colliding into her, for fear that they or she would be scathed in body or property. Gawping after her, they scratched their heads, guessing at what could have made such a pretty little thing scarper so. Surely, she had not been at the mercy of the master's filthy temper, nay, not such a bonnie lass as her. No, it could not be that the bad-old-bulldog had barked or bitten, for as the spinner girls giggled in their gaggles, they had seen the miserable miser smile at her most tenderly in the past – a mythical tale in itself.

As Margaret hastened to depart, she was dulled to her vivacious surroundings, not detecting the robust pursuits of mill life and the rowdy chatter of mill people. She felt sure she had heard a cry, followed by a faint crashing sound coming from behind her, something alike glass smashing, but the noises had been soaked up and coalesced into the hazy hum of the hustle and bustle that teemed in the vicinity.

Once she quitted the property and joined the vigorous thoroughfare of Marlborough Street, again, people had to sidestep hither and thither, like some sort of merry dance, just to evade the scooting Miss Hale. She seemed to mindlessly knit her way through the horde of the pulsating city, with its grimy boulevards, energetic businesses, and swarms of people, all shifting and elbowing their way here, there, and anywhere. Puzzled faces followed the astonishing young lady, pondering what could have possessed her to behave in such a foolhardy way.

When Margaret finally arrived back at Crampton, she bolted the front door and instantly flagged against it with a thud, relieved at being cocooned in the shelter of her little home once more. There she lolled and wilted for some time, unable to budge. Panting, she placed a small, gloved palm upon her breast, trying to calm the erratic rising and falling of her bosom. Clenching at her stomach, she felt a pugnacious queasiness balloon in her belly and squirmed as a numbness crept up her shins and thighs.

Finally, she tiptoed up the stairs, taking care not to tread on any creaky floorboards and alert the household to her reappearance. Once inside the refuge of her room, she fell onto the bed, overwrought by the mayhem that muddled her mind.

Twisting and rolling around in an effort to get comfortable, Margaret reluctantly conceded that she had no choice but to retrace what had just transpired, for at present, it was all in such a hopeless jumble. Maybe, if she could just focus, she would be able to untangle and unpick the disorder that distracted her usually sharp instincts.