A MOTHER'S FINAL GIFT

CHAPTER 5: PERSONAL PURGATORY

Please note that this chapter contains examples of bad langauge which some readers may find does not meet their personal tastes and expectations. Please note that this is a thread which only runs in chapters 5-6 to reflect John's mood and inner turmoil.

After retreating to her room, with what felt like a valiant degree of decorum and restraint, Margaret then proceeded to promptly hurl herself down on the bed and give way to the storm of tormented anxiety that rumbled within. Was there no way out? May she yet dissuade her mother from this poorly conceived mission? Or could she at least concoct some means by which to defer his invitation, or at best, prevent her from seeking him out in person? For what seemed like several harassed hours, Margaret sat and gently rocked back and forth, wrung her hands, nibbled her lip, tapped her foot, and dredged her powers of resourceful creativity, all in a futile effort to uncover a remedy.

Unfortunately, none came.

At long last, she resigned herself to the inescapability of the task and slowly rose, with the air of one condemned. There was nothing for it; she would have to make ready and set off for Marlborough Mills. However, she deliberately took her time in fastidiously focusing on and fussing over each detail of her preparation. She might not be able to avoid him, but she could at least impede the encounter for as long as procrastination would permit.

Yet, as she studied her likeness in the mirror, his disappointed features stole into her fretful mind with startling clarity. It was so alarming, that she began to tremble all over. Failing to pacify the pangs of panic that ceaselessly pricked at her, she frantically danced around her fragile state of mind, straining to concentrate on something else, anything else, anybody else! However, it was no use; for she then unexpectedly halted and shuddered as her repressed reminiscence reluctantly dragged her back to that dire day several weeks ago.

How could she have foreseen what would transpire? How could she possibly have predicted his unexpected act? Oh, but Margaret, that look! Yes, that intense stare he had settled upon her when she first entered the study; that single flitting, inspired gaze had foretold all. She might have run then; she may perhaps have fled, but to her regret, she had stayed.

Blinking her way back to the present, she determined to get ready. As she fetched and laid out the items needed, Margaret decided to distract herself by making plans for the rest of the afternoon. What to do? For a start, she may as well write again to Frederick, as she had yet to receive a reply to their appeal for a visit. She could collect some preserves from the market, then assist Dixon with the ironing, or help her mother with her sewing project. Then finally, she would sort through her clothes and take any suitable frocks and trimmings, which were no longer fitting for her, to the poor. Yes, that was a fine timetable to keep her idle hands and fidgeting brain busy. At the idea of this pleasant proposition, she began to hum cheerfully, as she sifted through her day dresses. Now, the pale blue, or the navy blue? With a faint hint of a smile, she vaguely speculated as to what cloth or colour Mr Thornton would like best.

Oh! Stop it, Margaret! What an extraordinary notion; what a silly fancy.

Margaret slumped back down on her bed and let out a shaky exhale of breath. This was getting absurd. For it seemed, that no matter how much she grappled with her sense of judgement, the mill owner would not quit her psyche. Indeed, with sullen exasperation, she confessed that despite her assumptions, his insolence had not dissolved the moment he had so hastily departed the house. On the contrary, he had the nerve to linger, to persist, and to indecently claim her mind as his property, his right.

The sheer conceit of it!

Well, he could forget that scheme, for she would not allow it!

No, despite feeling guilt constantly claw at her conscience over the way she had pitilessly censured and denied him; she would staunchly refuse to bequeath him permission to dictate her subconscious for a moment longer. Indeed, Margaret was convinced that with harnessing an abundance of indifference and hostility, she could seek to exile this invasive, unwanted trespasser from her head and her heart – wait no! just her head. With an insubordinate snort, she sneered thinking of how he might be accustomed to playing the overbearing master of all he surveyed; but with God as her witness, he would not be the master of Margaret Hale!