Shadow in the North

Chapter Thirty-Six - New Beginnings

Mrs Thornton sat at the dining table, her napkins about her, thinking - with some impatience - that it was not more than a few short months ago, that she had sat - in a similar fashion, about the very same occupation - anxiously awaiting her son's return. Her thoughts were still bitter, but the sting of maternal defeat was soothed by the balm of realisation, that her son would keep his mill; that the Thornton's had been saved.

She wove her Turkey-red marking thread in and out of those exquisite linens, and thought - grudgingly - that the girl must truly love him; that such a gesture, must undoubtedly prove her worth. Of course, her son would offer for her - would place himself at her feet - and Miss Darrow! Well! Mrs Thornton had not the hope of doubt; her son would be accepted, and he would return home the triumphant conqueror, proud in his love; desirous of her to share his joy. She would, of course. She could not be the proud, possessive mother, without knowing her son's heart, and she knew the pain he had suffered, in thinking the girl lost to him. She knew his happiness could be found nowhere but in that foreigner, and if she had to give up her place at her son's side - for the sake of his happiness - she would. She would bear her personal grief and jealousy in silence, and hold fast to the knowledge that with her son married, grandchildren would surely follow. The notion struck her; it was pleasant, and her lips gradually pulled from that pinched line of displeasure, and curled into a small, wry smile. My son! thought she, with maternal pride. He will give me grandchildren; he will be fruitful. And the girl! Miss Darrow was no doubt sturdy - despite her slight frame. She would be able to bear many children. Still, she hoped her son would tame his new wife, and perhaps, if Mrs Thornton was very lucky, they would have a long engagement.

'Mother?' said Mr Thornton; his entrance to the room unheard by the matriarch; caught up in her thoughts and occupation, as she was.

'John! I did not hear you come in!' replied Mrs Thornton, alarmed at having missed her son's return; even with her finely-attuned ear.

'What are you doing, Mother?' asked her son, staring down at her embroidery; the Turkey-red thread, stitching new initials into those heirloom linens.

'You have been to Crampton,' said Mrs Thornton, her shoulders tense, holding her breath as she awaited her son's reply.

'Yes, Mother.' She did not look at him, but kept her eyes trained upon her work; fingers still moving, but now with less purpose.

'You offered for Miss Darrow, I presume.'

'I did, Mother.'

'And she accepted you,' sighed Mrs Thornton; her voice resigned.

'Yes; she did.' And here, Mrs Thornton heard the smile in her son's voice, and with a pang of personal mortification, lifted her head to meet her son's impassioned gaze.

'And I am seeing to the linens. They must bear your name, now; yours and Miss Darrow's.'

'Mother!' cried Mr Thornton, stepping hastily to his mother's side, and kneeling before her. He was not insensible to her gesture - to the pleasure she took in those linens; so proudly acquired upon her marriage to his father. He knew the effort it must have cost her - and for her to have unpicked her own dear initials, before he had even returned in triumph! He would thank her for it, taking hope from her eager offering of acceptance, and so placed his hand upon her shoulder, and looked at her with a tender warmth. 'Mother, I am thankful. Isabel will be well pleased.'

'Isabel, is it, now?' asked Mrs Thornton, a brow lifted in vexation. She saw her son's eyes widen with hurt, and regretted her sharp tone, yet she could not help but feel pushed out; the usurper already digging out the ground from beneath her.

'Mother, she is my betrothed. We are to be married and soon! I am to go to the borough court and obtain a special licence so that we may marry as soon as may be.'