Not a Gentleman (North and South Fanfic)

Chapter Ten: The License

"It's Mr. Hale."

Three small words had unraveled the day.

John laid Margaret on the worn settee that took up much of the space in the tiny parlor of her home. He observed her carefully and observed that her face was bloodless, her skin moist and cool. John knelt by her, fanning her with a newspaper he found nearby, supplicating her back to consciousness.

"Dixon! Some water, please," he called, but quickly realized the servant was nowhere nearby. The portly woman was probably waiting on one of the two invalids of the house, and did not hear him. John hesitated, and wondered if he should leave Margaret's side. It would not be good for her to awaken on her own, not after the news she had just received.

John waited, instead, and after glancing over his shoulder to be sure the resident Gorgon was not present, he took the liberty of unhooking the lace collar fastened high around Margaret's neck. His love breathed more easily after that, and the color quickly began to return to her.

Her dark lashes fluttered and blue-green eyes, so soft and grave soon focused on him. But John quickly noticed that the light returned to her eyes by their afternoon pic-nic was now extinguished.

"Papa!" Margaret sat up directly, but John did not allow her to rise from the small couch, cognizant as he was of the likelihood of dizziness. Instead, he took one small hand in his own as he soothed her.

"Tell me he will not die. John, please." Margaret's eyes welled with tears, and John wished that he could own her burden. He joined her on the settee, and took her into his arms, but found that she did not continue to cry. She calmed herself swiftly, as she must have done so often within the walls of this home. Soon her countenance appeared almost placid, apart from the tell-tale trembling of her lower lip.

"We must hear from Dr. Donaldson," she said after a few moments. "But first I must wash my face. Papa must not see me like this. If he is awake." Her hand covered her mouth and she turned away from him as she attempted again to master her emotions.

Dixon entered the room and John stood.

"The doctor says he would like to speak to you, as you're the man of the house, so to speak." Dixon was an irritable sort, but even John could see she was more put out than usual. She'd answered the door in a state of distress, to be sure, but now she seemed downright angry. At what, John had no idea, but Dixon soon elaborated as she began to complain under her breath as she puttered about the room tidying up the small odds and ends of the day's business.

"You'd think that man would have the common decency to wait until his wife were well to get ill. But no. The selfishness, as though I have time to take care of both-"

"Dixon!" Margaret's eyes were wide with disbelief, her expression livid. "How dare you speak of my father in such a way!" She shook in anger as she continued. "You forget yourself. You are not just my mother's companion. You serve this family. This entire family. Should you wish to continue, you will say no more."

"Miss Margaret-"

"No more! You will stay out of my sight. John, let us go upstairs to see my father." Margaret lifted her chin and rustled past the obstreperous servant.

Margaret climbed the stairs quickly, and John fell behind her. She did not sway, or hesitate, he noticed: her anger had fully resolved any lingering faintness she might have felt. At the landing, she hurried into what John realized must be her bedroom. He did not follow, nor even peer inside the room as the circumstances had purged him of any immediate need to know the décor of Margaret's most intimate retreat. His friend—Margaret's father- was ill, and might be dying. John closed his eyes as he said a quick prayer for the man he'd known for such a short time, who'd nonetheless influenced him so greatly. Their lessons had soon become the highlight of each week, and not only for the opportunity to spend time in the company of his daughter. Richard Hale had quickly taken the place of the father he'd lost, the father with whom John had never been able to have a single conversation of substance. Even as a fourteen year old, the young John Thornton had noticed the great mismatch in personalities between himself and his father. In high spirits George Thornton had no time for philosophy. Nay, he had no time for anything but gambling. And in his cups, things were worse. But Mr. Hale had a spirit that complemented John's own. His quiet, contemplative nature drew out John's inquisitive disposition. In truth, John owed Mr. Hales more than that man would ever understand. Education was more than disciplining the mind, as Mr. Hale had claimed. It had done so much more than that. It had freed him.