A MOTHER'S FINAL GIFT

CHAPTER 10: THREE ACT DRAMA: ACT 2

I have included a picture of one of the potential designs for Margaret's dress in this chapter. It has been difficult to find a dress that meets the time period, Margaret's tastes, and the own vision I have in my head, but this is something like it. I have shared a few other examples of what her dress might look like on my FB page, as wel as other examples of items of clothing throughout the story. 

CHAPTER 10:

THREE ACT DRAMA: ACT 2

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

ACT 2: Cupid's Arrows

Margaret had been hiding in the kitchen when Mr Thornton arrived. She was in a terrible state, relentlessly pacing up and down the flagged floor, like a caged animal. When Dixon answered his knock, Margaret pressed herself against the larder door, listening for any clank, clatter, or clang that would reveal his frame of mind. She could not be certain, but she perceived that his footsteps were different, less confident than normal. That could not be good. He obviously did not want to be here.

Once she heard him ascend to the upper floor, she obstinately concealed herself below for as long as reason would permit, for her stomach was so full of fluttering butterflies, she felt sure she would swoon at the mere sight of him. When she could not rationally delay a fraction longer, Margaret collected the tea things and made her way up to the drawing room, ready to face him. For after all, if she had to suffer this sweet nightmare, then it was only fair he did too.

John started as he heard someone climbing the stairs. Could it be? He leaned forward unwittingly, almost tumbling out of his seat, as he stretched towards the sound. In that instant, he was no longer a fully grown man, regressing back into a giddy schoolboy. In the past, if John had encountered men who behaved like scatter-brained twits around a lass, he had judged them to be sentimental fools. But oh, cruel irony, he had fallen for a girl harder than any man alive. As she joined them, he sprang to his feet and bounced about like a restless pup. She placed the tea tray down on the table, straightened up and apprehensively caught his eye.

John stopped.

He stilled.

In that blink of time, as he beheld her, John felt sure he had died and gone to Heaven. For never in his wildest dreams had he imagined such a vision.

She was wearing the most beautiful gown that glittered in the soft candlelight, sparkling like the robe of a fairy Queen. The dress had a flattering shape, drawing attention to her slight waist and the pleasing curves of her chest and hips. The sleeves were almost translucent, so that he could see her slender shoulders and marvelled at the sight of her fair arms, which were usually covered.

Her hair, her luscious locks, which he had longed to stroke, were worn partly down. He could not believe it. How often he had fought the urge to stride over and unpin her tresses, allowing them to tumble down her back, and thread his fingers amongst them, caressing the silken ringlets. But tonight, her hair was in a novel and flattering style, which was half up, half down. He smiled at the knowledge that it was just as he had imagined: Neither straight, nor was it a mass of corkscrew curls, but it fell in loose waves, that twisted gently at the ends. In the tint of the room, which blushed in the firelight, he could see that her colouring was not solely chestnut, but that there were specks of darker brown and red, which were woven in like a tapestry.

But most of all, John noticed that she was wearing white. Feeling his heart skip a beat, he cursed God for this cruelty. It was one thing knowing that Miss Hale would never be his bride, but another to see her so purely attired, as if she were the bride of Christ himself.