Not a Gentleman (North and South Fanfic)

Chapter Nine: The Carriage

Margaret was not herself. This was obvious to John, upon hearing about the wake. It had gone off successfully, if such a thing could be said about an event that was necessarily so mournful. Upon her arrival back at the mill house, John's mother had remarked immediately on the fact that Margaret had not wept once as they spent the night together sewing and then preparing Bessy's body for the burial. This behavior, and more, had made a positive impact on Hannah Thornton over the course of those long, wakeful hours. John had learned that although Margaret's sewing was only "serviceable," it was far better than Fanny's, and that she now believed that the girl was not haughty at all, but rather, "poised," and "self-assured." Margaret had not shrunk back at the sight of a dead body, had not demurred at the task of washing or clothing it, and had behaved in a manner John's mother never would have expected from her own daughter. His mother's words had elicited an immediate smile from her son, as John knew them to be high praise despite their cold expression.

But Margaret's lack of emotion concerned John, as she had behaved so differently earlier in the day. Surely something was amiss.

At the funeral later in the day, Margaret remained tearless. She stood at the graveside silent, her arm in John's, not even mouthing the standard prayers she should know well as the daughter of a vicar. Her eyes were dimmed by lack of sleep and sadness, and devoid of the normal sparkle they carried. She was not present, John realized, but somewhere else, someplace desolate. Perhaps she thought of her mother's impending death, or perhaps, John thought, she was thinking of her own present and of the bleak place she had been forced to call home.

The manufacturer looked around him, at the rangy clumps of crab grass springing up in this poorly-maintained hillside portion of the cemetery, and then beyond, to the sea of blackened rooftops and chimneys extending in uneven waves towards the horizon. John had no pretensions about his native city. Milton was not a beautiful place, nor was it intended to be. It was born of and begat industry: its sole purpose was to be an engine of commerce, not succor to the soul. But for a person used to beauty, as Margaret was, it must be a difficult place to call home.

A breeze disturbed John's thoughts. Thankfully, the afternoon was a bit cooler than the last, due to a light wind, and the beribboned hoods Margaret and Mary wore kited in the occasional gusts like doves eager to take flight and leave the sooty environs of Milton for a cleaner, purer place. Presumably Bessy had done the same.

Mr. Hale did not join them graveside. He had complained of indigestion that morning, and apart from that it was likely better for him to stay by his wife's side. That left a party of only Higgins, his daughter Mary, John and Margaret, plus the grave diggers supplied by Jenkins, and a pastor of indeterminate lineage. Words were words, though, as far as Higgins was concerned. He claimed he did not mind that the man was not a Methodist, which Bessy might have preferred. She'd be going to heaven no matter what, if such a place existed.

Silence abounded, apart from the pastor's words, and Margaret clutched John's arm more tightly as the casket was lowered slowly into the grave on thick, hempen ropes. She turned away before the ragtag lot of teenage boys employed by Jenkins began to shovel dirt onto the plain, pine box that held her friend's remains. Her face was a mask, a dry, affectless mask.

But Margaret needed to weep.

John knew she must. What's more, he guessed her own home was not a place where she would feel comfortable grieving so openly, given the competing needs of her mother. So instead of walking her home immediately after the service, John took her to the place he'd decided was their own.

And once Margaret sat on the bench below the magnolia he'd planted many years earlier, he was proven correct. She clutched the lapels of his frock coat and buried her face against John's chest, damping his shirt front thoroughly. She sobbed, and sobbed, and he did his best to soothe her. He allowed his arms to encircle her, and he spoke quiet, soothing words of nonsense in an attempt to ease the spasmed breaths that shook her intermittently.