Not a Gentleman (North and South Fanfic)

Chapter Four: The Wolf

"I suppose so, miss." Jane crossed the room and opened an armoire where Margaret's clothes lay, neatly folded, boots besides them. "I will help you dress, shortly," she whispered as she gathered the bundle, then directed Margaret to a dressing room that stood nearly empty, apart from a large copper tub, a table stacked with towels, and a wooden commode.

Margaret returned to her bedroom, dressed in the clothes of the day before, hair styled simply in a low bun, and quickly made the bed, as Jane had left to find Mrs. Thornton. She sat on the bed's edge, ankles crossed, and shook her booted foot nervously as she regarded Mr. Thornton, who slept on. Clearly she needed to apologize to him for her behavior the day before, and to his mother for the huge imposition she had placed upon the family by becoming injured. But more than that, she wanted to be home. Her mother needed her, as did her father. Even Dixon did. The housekeeper could not run the household and take care of Mama both. It was far too much work for one person. Margaret would need to convince Dr. Donaldson that she was fully recovered and that no signs of injury lingered. She winced as she moved her arms to fold her hands in her lap. It seemed even moving her arm was an issue. It stung in one place in particular, likely the location where the doctor had cut her. She had not unwrapped the bandages to check the wound, but it was likely to be an unpleasant sight. She would need to act the stoic when examined.

Margaret looked up, to see piercing, brown eyes examining her. They put her in mind of the dream of the night before. Yes, Mrs. Thornton was the smaller raven, the one who had so much to say as it attempted to drive the wolf away. Of course, that made her son the other raven, the one who had pressed his outsized wings against her. Margaret blushed at the thought. What exactly was her mind suggesting? And what had she missed while she was unconscious?

"Miss Hale," said Mrs. Thornton in familiar dry tones, although much softer in volume than usual, "I see you are already dressed. Are you that eager to leave our dirty, smoky home?"

Of course the woman would take offense to something as innocuous as dressing, Margaret thought with an internal sigh.

"No, Mrs. Thornton," she replied politely. "It's just that I wasn't dressed in the most appropriate manner. Well, to be honest, I am concerned about my mother and father. You see-"

"Walk with me," the older woman commanded, her voice no less authoritative when whispered. "We must not wake my son. It is clear he is exhausted." She did not add, "And it is you who have exhausted him," but she did not need to, Margaret felt. It was written in the woman's forbidding countenance.

The pair descended to the lower level of the house, entering a brightly lit drawing room Margaret had not previously seen. It was less forbidding in its décor than the public rooms of that level, and from its softer furnishings, was clearly the private room of the mistress of the house. Several baskets of sewing and embroidery were neatly arranged on a side table, another by a mohair-upholstered chair closest to the fireplace. Mrs. Thornton took that chair and gestured to its mate.

"My son told me that your mother is more ill than you initially mentioned. Although why you did not simply tell us this is a mystery." Mrs. Thornton clucked disapprovingly at the girl as she remembered her own comment about "low spirits." She would not have had cause for such a petty remark about Mrs. Hale if the woman's own daughter had been more forthcoming from the start.

Margaret bowed her head. "It is not something even my father fully realizes, I am afraid. He does not yet understand..." She could not say the words.

"Is your mother in pain?" Mrs. Thornton had no such trouble getting to the crux of the issue. The woman was dying, that was all there was to it. Denying such a thing would be of no benefit.