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For the first time in the two years since Edith’s wedding, Margaret found herself free of all responsibility. Her father had accepted Mr. Bell’s invitation to Oxford and had left just the day prior—along with Dixon who was on holiday to see her sister. Alone, Margaret was free to be idle and unhappy. And that was exactly how she was spending the evening at present.
Of course, idleness was now so unfamiliar to her that she had made a valiant effort to do something useful, at first. She attempted to finish embroidering a small piece of cambric for Edith’s baby, but her mind wandered too much, and she soon found herself picking thread out to undo her sloppy work. She tried to finish the novel that she’d begun a few weeks prior and soon gave up on that as well—the heroine showed too little independence from the influence of others and her hero such disinterest in her that Margaret found the pair insufferable. The only option that remained was to sit and think, though spending time with her own thoughts was one of Margaret’s least favorite occupations.
A cold day had become a cold evening, so Margaret had taken refuge in her favorite chair near the fireplace, her brown shawl wrapped tightly around herself and a blanket on her lap. She’d been there so long she was nearly drifting off to sleep when a knock at the door startled her. It was dark outside—the streetlamps were already lit. Not exactly visiting hours.
Margaret crept as quietly as she could to the window. She managed to make out one of the figures and felt relief. It was Higgins—but she could not tell who he was with. Margaret made her way quickly down the stairs, taking a lamp from the parlor with her to light her way in the dark apartment.
When she opened the door, she was greeted with the sight of Higgins—and to her surprise, a disheveled Mr. Thornton hanging off him. Margaret was, for a moment, too stunned to greet them. It almost looked like Mr. Thornton was falling asleep on Higgins’ shoulder, until Higgins jostled him.
Mr. Thornton opened an eye to survey the situation. He glanced from Higgins to Margaret, which caused him to realize Higgins had chosen to bring him to the Hales’ residence in this state. He promptly straightened and shook his head.
“Margaret, was that you?” he protested, clearly unhappy about the circumstance he now found himself in.
Higgins interrupted and grumbled something about not carrying him all the way across town to Marlborough Mills as he continued to struggle under the weight of Mr. Thornton, who was still leaning heavily on him, though Margaret saw it was not so much because he had to but because he wanted to, due to some sort of misguided sense of jovial comradery brought on by drink.
Margaret ushered them in, glancing up the street to ensure there weren’t any meddlesome neighbors about. She’d never known Mr. Thornton to drink to excess—and she was surprised Higgins was with him. Higgins started working at the mill months ago, and Margaret heard tidbits about Mr. Thornton when Higgins was feeling particularly conversational, but she had not realized they’d formed such a friendly relationship. She was about to inquire as to how all of this came about when she noticed the blood on Mr. Thornton’s face.
“Of course not. I don't even know what you're referring to, actually,” she exclaimed.
“Is that so? Then what do you suppose is that smell?” Mr. Thornton muttered, lifting his fist into the air spiritedly. He then mimed a punch at Higgins, who only sighed in exasperation.
Margaret was thoroughly confused as to how this came to pass. Higgins explained how he’d encountered Mr. Thornton, and they’d decided to have a few pints at an establishment not far from the Hale apartment (Higgins refused to be specific as to how many ‘a few’ was). Nor was he willing to say why Mr. Thornton looked the way he did, just something that insinuated the other chap looked worse. Margaret shook her head.
“It's nothing. I don't smell anything!” she stated, hoping it was sufficient for scolding them both. Higgins looked sufficiently shamed, but Mr. Thornton seemed to find her humorous. He staggered only slightly when Higgins attempted to let him stand on his own. It was quite a sight.
Margaret fell easily into command of the situation. She decided it would be best to take Mr. Thornton to Dixon’s room, which lay nearby through the kitchen, to rest. They would never make it upstairs to the sofa in the parlor or the other bedrooms, so Dixon’s austere bedroom would need to suffice.
While Higgins tried his best to safely deposit Mr. Thornton onto the bed, Margaret busied herself with boiling water. She found clean pieces of cloth, plaster, and some ointment in the supplies in the kitchen and returned to the room. Higgins had lit some lamps before readying himself to leave. He’d managed to get Mr. Thornton out of his coat, and Mr. Thornton looked surprisingly comfortable on the small bed. Higgins apologized and explained he should have been home a long time ago, that Mary and the children were waiting for him, and that Thornton just needed to sleep it off a bit. Upon hearing his name, Mr. Thornton looked up.
“Come, Margaret, there's no one else in the room. I heard it and I smell it. You can confess,” he interjected.
Margaret and Higgins ignored him, and Higgins excused himself. Margaret listened for the door to shut before she set the bowl of water and her other supplies on the bedside table, next to the lamp. There was just enough room for her to sit on the edge of the bed, so she did so, easing herself down so as not to disturb him.
He was already dozing off, his eyes closed tightly against the light of the lamp, and Margaret was able to observe him more closely. The altercation must have been rough indeed, thought Margaret. There was a scratch on his nose—whoever he’d fought with must have been wearing a ring of some kind, but at least his nose did not look broken. She looked at his hand and saw some dried blood there. Higgins had mentioned that he gave as good as he got, but she could not imagine what could have caused him to get physical with someone in such a public way. He commanded rooms with his mere presence—violence seemed entirely unnecessary. She was sure a version of the truth would reach her eventually, since it was not an everyday occurrence; there was no doubt word would spread by the time the good people of Milton had their morning coffee.
Coffee seemed exactly the ticket—Margaret would make some once she cleaned him up a bit. But it would wake him up as soon as she attempted it, and he was now soundly asleep. So she sat still, moving only to remove her shawl and drape it on him as a blanket. The warmth from the fire in the kitchen barely reached the room. She didn’t want him to catch a chill.
She sat like this for some time—ten, maybe twenty minutes, observing his somewhat labored breathing. He looked younger in his sleep, no lines of worry on his face. She realized she’d never seen him look like that. With a sigh, she decided to risk waking him up to clean his wounds. She wet her cloth and wrung it out, then leant over to dab his face.
“You are ridiculous! You didn't notice my new perfume last month but this, you noticed immediately, the first time it happened in two years of marriage. Also, it wasn't me,” Margaret warned him in a whisper, unsure if he would hear her.
“Well, your new perfume was nearly indistinguishable from your old one, but this is positively pungent, alarmingly so. Of course my curiosity was piqued,” he responded sleepily, though his eyes remained closed. Margaret touched the cloth gently to the dried blood on his nose, right at the cut. This caused him to open his eyes and feebly attempt to swat her hand away.
“Now you're being even more ridiculous. You know it's a perfectly natural phenomenon,” Margaret insisted sternly. She used her free hand to grab his, keeping him from swiping her hand away as she tried to clean his face as gently as possible. She tried not to notice that he’d interlaced his fingers with hers almost immediately, and that despite the occasional wince, he seemed rather contented, as though the brief nap had served him well. At least he was no longer annoyed that Higgins had brought him there. She didn’t blame him for not wanting to see her at all, let alone like this. His gaze was soft on her, and Margaret rather wished he would not look at her. He needed to sleep.
She had to let go of his hand to rinse the cloth and wring the water out once more. Now that his face was clean, the cut did not seem quite as bad. Though it did make for the only mark on an otherwise unblemished face. She must have been staring, because Mr. Thornton was looking at her curiously.
“I know no such thing! I've never done something like that before in my life. Neither has my mother, or Fanny. And you're telling me it's natural? Is it a frequent occurrence for Southerners, then, or for you alone?” His tone made it sound like a question more than a statement, but Margaret was not quite sure what to say in response. She replied rather hesitantly.
“John! It's not frequent for me, or for anyone I know. If anyone, it would be you rough Northerners who do this all the time.”
He smiled softly at what she said, but then closed his eyes once more. Margaret took the opportunity to return to the kitchen. She prepared some coffee and considered her options. He could not spend the whole night in Crampton. He seemed mostly alert, and he didn’t seem so unlike himself, anyway. A little less inhibited, to be sure, but himself. She decided the best course of action was to try to sober him up a bit more with coffee, allow him to sleep it off under her supervision for no more than an hour, and then send him on his way, despite—or because of—the late hour.
Though, Margaret thought as she poured out a cup of coffee for him, if he wanted to stay, what could really be the harm in that? It’s not as though she would throw him out into the street against his will. And if he left early enough, he could avoid being seen. There was enough whispering about her habits—she winced at the recollection of what Mr. Thornton himself thought of her—for her to have grown unconcerned with what the people of Milton thought of her. But she would not want anything she did to reflect poorly on Mr. Thornton, so she hoped the coffee was strong enough to set him right.
Mr. Thornton called out for her then.
“I've never witnessed it in all my life. I'm starting to think this was the first time it's happened in history. Should I summon Dr. Donaldson?”
Margaret hurried back to his room, where she found that he’d propped himself up and was inspecting his hand. He shook out his fingers and winced. Margaret sat at the edge of the bed once more and handed him the coffee. He used his uninjured hand.
“John Thornton, if you bring the doctor here over this, I will never forgive you,” Margaret warned. The coffee was hot and—with any luck—strong. Mr. Thornton took one sip of it and grimaced.
“Then you know for a fact this thing is ‘perfectly natural’, as you say, and completely harmless? Do you know this because you've done it many times without ill effects?”
Margaret smiled. It’d been many months since they’d had anything resembling a civil conversation. She would enjoy this while it lasted, even if it was only because he was less guarded towards her in this state. It reminded her of the beginning of their acquaintance, when he was so eager to please her. He drank the coffee obediently, all the while taking furtive glances at her that she pretended not to notice. Margaret took the opportunity to finish bandaging his hand, a task that would keep her eyes firmly away from his. He didn’t protest, even when she rubbed ointment onto the cuts on his knuckles, and soon his hand was appropriately bandaged.
Margaret was pleased with her work. She’d had a lot of practice at being a nurse, but she never expected her patient to be Mr. Thornton. He was touching his nose then, trying to gauge the extent of the damage.
“Fine! If you insist that I'm the first, or only, person to ever do such a thing, then I suppose I have the right to name it, do I not?” she said as she intervened, moving his hand from his face without thinking. He needed to avoid touching his scrapes. She was touching him a great deal, she realized, but he did not seem to mind.
He set the coffee down on the table and reclined his head back. He winced only slightly when he moved his head too quickly. A headache, no doubt. “Well—” he said, and Margaret was surprised that he was smiling at her. If she didn’t know better, she would think he enjoyed her attentions.
“In that case, I believe I shall call it… a 'John',” she encouraged. It would be better for him to sleep, now, so he could leave soon.
Margaret wondered what his mother would say when she found out where he’d been—and Margaret wasn’t even thinking about the fact he’d been on drinking with Higgins and in a fight. She knew his mother would object to this part in the evening. Margaret couldn’t help but laugh softly to herself at the thought—that she was so low in Mrs. Thornton’s opinion to be worse than excessive drinking and brawls.
Mr. Thornton looked at her curiously, and she understood he was wondering what she was laughing at.
“Wait—what do you mean?” he asked.
“Oops—I just did another ‘John’. Pardon me.” She thought she did well avoiding his question. Margaret found herself idly touching his bandaged hand, pulling at the cloth with her fingers to make sure it was on tight. She hardly realized what she was doing, did not notice that he was intently watching her every move, until he slowly turned his bandaged hand over to wrap his fingers around hers.
Margaret did not look up at him, certain that if she did so, it would cause a colossal shift—somehow. No, she much preferred remaining exactly as she was, with his hand gently entwined in hers, deliberately this time.
“Hold on, Margaret, I'm sorry I teased you.” He wanted her to look at him. Margaret Hale was not a coward, that much she had learned in Milton. So she lifted her eyes up to him.
As soon as she did so, he sat up further, leant forward, and kissed her. It was all such a sudden, swift movement, that for a moment, Margaret was stunned. She received the kiss, unsure of what she was supposed to do, or how John Thornton was here in her home, bolder than usual (and how he’d been bold towards her before!), and now he was kissing her. The warmth of his mouth contrasted to the coldness of the room. She tasted liquor, and coffee, and him. This moved her to return the kiss, with increasing eagerness, and he responded in kind, until she realized what she was doing. He was not entirely in his right mind. He’d certainly not sobered up that quickly.
Margaret pulled her head away, but he leant forward to follow her. She pressed her hand to his chest to stop him, and he understood and moved away from her, reclining back onto the bed. Her heart was racing, and she struggled to compose herself.
“Should I say I ‘Made a John’? ‘Did a John’? Or simply, ‘I just Johnned’? I need to work out the terminology, I think. Which do you prefer?” she breathed. She was surprised she was able to form a coherent thought, let alone speak. But she could not let Mr. Thornton continue with something he would regret. No matter how much she enjoyed it.
“None of them, obviously. Margaret, let's call a truce.” He was apologetic in tone and looked at her worriedly.
Margaret shook her head, dazed. “Hmm, I don't think so. Perhaps we should call Dr. Donaldson after all, to submit it into a medical journal with its new name. The name 'John'.”
He had nothing to apologize for. She, on the other hand, was not sure what to make of the entire situation. He was not himself, moreso than she’d thought. As if reading her mind, he contradicted her. “Margaret, if you let this go right now, I promise not to ever tease you again, no matter how often it happens. Please?” Mr. Thornton reassured. He looked rather pleased with himself. This only confused Margaret further.
Perhaps he hadn’t kissed her because of his current state. Perhaps he kissed her because he wanted to. Because he didn’t despise her like she thought he did. That had seemed so unlikely just earlier that evening—when she sat miserable and lonely upstairs. No, this was a much more pleasant—if unexpected—turn of events.
Margaret did not want him to leave, but Mr. Thornton was far more capable now than he was when he’d shown up on her doorstep.
“Fine, fine. But the next time I use a new perfume, I expect immediate compliments from you,” she said as she stood up. Her hand left his then, reluctantly. He looked like he was going to stay to sleep a bit longer. Margaret realized she did not want him to go, not really, and was pleased with his decision. He could stay, if he wanted to, but she certainly could not remain in the same room with him like this.
“Fine. Great. Consider it done. Actually, your perfume you're wearing right now is quite fetching—in fact, I can't smell anything else at all.”
“I'm not wearing perfume right now. You must be noticing another 'John'.”
Margaret let him get resettled before making her way up the stairs. They would continue their conversation in the morning.