Page 64 of One London Eve
He was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts as he stared vacantly about. “I must go see her,” he announced.
Mrs. Thornton flinched. “Surely not right now. She will need her rest. And you must have other pressing obligations to finish.”
“No, not now,” he agreed reluctantly as he began pacing the room, combing his fingers through his hair in his distracted state. “I must go to the police station and will need to speak to Hamper and the rest.”
He stopped and turned to look directly into his mother’s eyes. “But I will go see her this evening when I return.”
She saw his intent, and her heart sank at his haste to secure the future she wished to push away. “I’m sure tomorrow would be soon enough—“
“No,” he said with decision, shaking his head. “I must know if she will accept me. I cannot wait.”
His powerful emotions unnerved her. She stared at him warily as some unfamiliar creature from her steady and self-controlled son. Miss Hale had stolen his ability to see reason.
“Accept you? Of course, she should accept you! Did not she cling to you in front of all that unruly mob? Do you not think that it will become the tittle-tattle of all Milton by tomorrow?”
The mere mention of Miss Hale’s clinging to him sent again a surge of fierce passion through his every nerve ending.
“She did cling to me…but she was frightened,” he stammered, doubt clouding his face. “I cannot be certain she cares for me in that way….”
“Cares for you? Why, she has ensnared you with her southern wiles from the start. She has kept you at arm’s length and thrown out arguments against you only to keep you fascinated with her ways. Now that she has won you, I pray she knows your true worth.”
Mr. Thornton startled at this assessment. “It is not in her nature, Mother, to make designs on men. You do not know her.”
Mrs. Thornton opened her mouth, but pressed her lips closed and shook her head in dismay. She could not open his eyes to the ways of women. Miss Hale had entranced him somehow from the very start. She silently scoffed at his certainty of knowing her.
“Very well, John, but you needn’t doubt her intention to accept you,” she said, hoping with all her might that Miss Hale would make him happy. Mrs. Thornton was certain enough that she didn’t deserve him.
When at last he had done with all that was necessary, Mr. Thornton made his way to the Crampton home.
His entire frame thrummed with the need to feel her body against his again. He would claim her as his own; nothing could now stop what the force of heaven had done yet again to put her in his arms. He allowed the light of happiness to burn within him more brightly, imagining how she would blush and fall into his arms again—where she belonged.
The last glow of light in the western skies dimmed as he strode the paths and byways to the side of town where all his desire lay. The darkness only enhanced his fevered thoughts as all realityfaded from sight and the realm of dreams played on the blank canvas of night.
The heat of the day still lingered. A bead of sweat trickled down his spine as he kept up his desperate pace.
At the crest of one hill, he saw the gas-lit lamps and shapes of the rows and rows of buildings below. In that moment, with all of Milton below and behind him, the swell of triumph filled his breast at the glorious life he envisioned ahead of him.
Nearly breathless as he arrived at the steps of the Crampton house, he stopped to gulp the air and let his heartbeat slow. Then, with all his hopes brimming, he bounded up the steps and rang the bell.
The portly maid answered, giving him a wary look.
“I’ll tell Mr. Hale you’re here,” Dixon said, already turning to go.
“Please,” he halted her. “I would speak to Miss Hale,” he said, tempering his voice to a calmness he could not feel.
An eyebrow rose on the proud servant’s face. She frowned, raising her chin before announcing that she would see if Miss Hale could see him at such an hour.
Margaret was grateful to be alone in her room to ponder all that had happened hours before, having at last left her mother’s room for the evening. She had not dared to tell her parents what had taken place that afternoon, hiding the slight cut and bruise above her temple with her hair.
She sat on her bed, allowing her mind to wander through the images of the day—the potent feelings she had kept at bay for hours now broke through the barriers she had resolutely erected.
The cold rush of fear returned as she recalled how terrifying it had been to be pulled along and roughly held. Her terror hadmagnified when she realized what they intended—to make Mr. Thornton risk his life to save her.
And he had saved her with such ferocious passion—
A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts.
“Mr. Thornton is in the parlor, Miss Margaret,” Dixon announced upon stepping into the room. “He’s asked to speak to you. But at such an hour, I as much as told him you may not be available.”
