Whilst Isabel and Mr Thornton kept secret their suspicions that they were to have two babes, and whilst Fanny lamented the lack of attention she had received from her Thornton family – for they had quite forgotten her and her imagined aliments, upon Isabel's being found anaemic, and then being almost touched by scarlet fever – Margaret waited patiently for her own joy. More than four months had passed since Isabel's announcement that she was expecting, and in those four months, Margaret had come across four disappointments.
She did not cry at each lost chance, but looked sadly to her husband, and felt a heavy burden for not having been able to provide him with the good news she knew he so longed to hear. And Dr Lyndhurst did long for a child – he quite fancied his own great brood, if only the Crampton house was big enough for such a riot of infants – but what Margaret could not ascertain, was that the pain she saw looking back at her, with each monthly shake of the head, was – firstly – a sympathy for her. Her husband knew it hard on Margaret, to see her dearest friend with child; to have the loud, brash creature that was Fanny Watson, ensure that all of Milton knew she was expecting. Worse, was it made, by a letter from Cadiz, in which Frederick announced that he was married, and his Dolores with child, also, and after not one month of marriage!
Margaret watched her father closely, as he read the letter over, and she saw his kindly smile; a swell of pride within his chest at knowing his son would continue the Hale name. But so too, was there a sadness, which caused that lined face to tremble, for Mr Hale knew his grandchild would forever be to him a stranger, with Frederick cast off in exile, and the journey too great for the older man to make.
'I am very pleased for him,' smiled Mr Hale, but his voice was thick with emotion, and there was a slight quiver at the back of the throat.
'Excellent news,' agreed Dr Lyndhurst, who saw his father's suffering, but knew not how to allay it.
'Yes,' nodded Mr Hale, with an absent-mindedness reminiscent of those early days of grief, following the death of his wife. 'Yes, I am very glad.' He sighed deeply, and inclined his head wistfully, before saying, 'it is a shame I shall not ever hold the child, but still.' Now forcing a genial smile, 'I have the promise of yours, my Margaret, and that does warm me, so.' The poor father could not know the pain his words had caused her, for now Margaret felt that burden double, upon disappointing not just husband, but father.
'Margaret, dearest,' said Dr Lyndhurst, when they retired that evening, 'you do know that although I long for us to have a family, I am not impatient for it? That when the time is right, the babe shall come?'
'Yes,' smiled Margaret, stoically, but his words were but a paltry balm.
'Margaret?' cajoled her husband, upon seeing that stubborn frown, which spoke of some suppressed emotion or anxiety, which she was fearful to voice. 'Speak to me, my love. Let us have no secrets.'
'Well,' said she, as she moved to his embrace, 'it is only that – in Helstone – I knew of two women, who were married for many years, and never fell with child. One of women longed for a child so very much, that she took an orphan in, and raised it as her own.'
'That's a very kind and noble thing to do,' agreed Dr Lyndhurst. But her words made him fear his wife thought their circumstances so very dire, that she might seek some drastic action, which – as yet – he was loath to take.
'Yes, it was kind, and she was happy; the child, too. But the other lady – she wished for a child of her own flesh and blood – the husband, too – and she prayed with my father – fervently – but no babe came. I did not understand at the time – Cousin Edith not then, being married – how it was a woman came to be with child, but the lady who took in the orphan, did tell me that some women simply cannot bear children.' Now she turned sadly to her husband, and looked on him with anxious eyes. 'What if I should be such a woman, and we may never have a child?'
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Shadow in the North
FanfictionWhat if a work of fiction wasn't fiction at all? What if we only thought it was fiction because it was written down, and we were separated from it by the page? Isabel Darrow, troubled by her past and feeling disconnected from the world, likes her do...
