Chapter Text
Margaret suppressed a smile as the train pulled into Outwood Station – how different had her feelings been on the first occasion she had set eyes upon this stop. At the time the sight of the platform and its little plaque, announcing her family’s arrival in the grim northern town which was to become their home had been nothing but harbingers of doom. There would be no-one like them there, her mother had declared. How very right she had been. These Milton folk were made of a different metal entirely, unlike anything she had ever encountered before. It had taken her some months to get used to them, in their rude and unpolished state, but now as she returned again, after many months spent stagnating in London, she arrived with the full conviction that there were no people better than them in the entire country.
Her heart lifted as she thought of the possibility of seeing their faces again. Dear Nicholas and Mary Higgins, and all the little Boucher children. She felt a pang of sorrow at the recollection that her dear friend Bessie would not be among those familiar and well loved faces. She had lost so many dear to her in this place, her poor Mama and her dear old father. But it was not they who occupied her thoughts as she stepped from the carriage and looked timorously down the platform. Instead her head and heart were full of him and her heart beat thick and fast as she grasped within her small, dainty hands the very papers with which she hoped to become the instrument of his salvation, his reinstation to his rightful place – the master of Marlborough Mills.
On the journey up she had made poor Henry repeat the plans to her over and over again. She was determined that this would appear to be nothing more than a well thought out business proposition. Marlborough Mills was, after all, her property, and it would be so much easier not to have to seek another tenant, especially as the present was so reliable and, well, agreeable… However, she knew of these northern men’s pride. It would not do to have this appear as charity. No indeed, it must be purely business. Business was, after all, Mr Thornton’s first language, and anything else… well, she would have to put it from her mind. Had he not made it perfectly clear that any thoughts he had held of that nature were well and truly over? No, that ship had sailed, she had missed her chance, and now she must content herself with comforting him in the only capacity available to her, that of Landlord and investor.
Still, it was with a heaving heart and trembling limbs which she approached the gate of Marlborough Mills. The yard seemed silent and ghostly without the clamour and bustle of business. It was as if the very life and soul had been removed from the place. She looked about her, not a soul was to be seen. She peered upwards in the direction of the house, half hoping, half dreading to see him at the window, but there was no-one to be seen. Even Mrs Thornton had abandoned her post by the curtains, where she had once looked out on her son’s bustling empire with such pride.
‘Shall I go and seek someone to receive us?’ asked Henry at her side.
Margaret started a little and withdrew from her private reverie.
‘No, thank you Henry. I will go and look for Mr Thornton myself. I suppose I may show myself into the offices, as it is my property. You may wait here until I return with him.
Henry looked a little concerned, as if he felt there was something not quite proper about her roaming about the mill by herself, but remained silent. He knew better than to argue with Margaret. He had felt her sudden decision to invest in this failed manufacturer had been more than a little rash, but it seemed she would brook no refusal, and there was money to be made in cotton after all, so he had let it pass. She had been growing steadily to rely on him over these last few months, and he didn’t want to jeopardise this new position of trust, in the hope that it might one day lead to further intimacy.
Leaving Henry in the clerks’ office, Margaret turned and walked into the Mill. She could not help but recall her first visit to the site, all that time ago. On that occasion she had seen Mr Thornton beat a worker for smoking near the looms. The event had repulsed her, and yet she had felt herself drawn to the power of the man. Such displays of emotion, violent or otherwise, were not to be found in the polite society of London. It thrilled her and terrified her in equal measure. Perhaps, had it not been for the violent nature of their first encounter, reinforcing the many prejudices which she now recognised she held about life in a northern industrial town, she might have been inclined to be a little softer towards Mr Thornton, and she would not have found herself in the painful situation which she was now in. But that was then, and this was now; there was nothing she could do about it. Since that point she had come to admire and love Mr Thornton in a way which she would not have imagined would have been possible. Even now, the very ghost of his presence thrilled along her every nerve, and the possibility of meeting him at the next turn made the blood course hot and fast through her veins.
She paused by a window to gaze out into the yard, remembering that fateful day of the riots when he had run across from the Mill into the house. There was a vulnerability and softness in his look as he turned back to look up at the Irish millhands, cowering in the top window, and for a moment she felt she had glimpsed his inner self, the frightened little boy who lost his father some fourteen years ago. But the hardness in his voice when he spoke of the soldiers had removed and tender feelings she might have allowed to surface. She blushed at the recollection of her actions, the thrill which had run through her very being when she was so close to him. Why had she been so stupid, so very blind?
A noise behind her jarred her from her daydream. Was it him, was he here? The breath caught in her throat, and she froze on the spot, unable to turn around.
‘He’s not here, if you’ve come to gloat,’ came the voice, cold, clipped and laden with sadness. ‘Come to look over your possessions have you, when he’s worked all his life for them?’
Margaret turned slowly to face Mrs Thornton, her heart ached with pity for her. She thought she looked older, tired and worn, though she still kept up the stern exterior and proud deportment. She smiled sadly and said in her softest tone ‘You once accused me of not knowing what kind of man I had rejected, and you were right. But if you think I do not feel keenly the misfortune of this empty place, then you do not know me.’ She stepped forwards, her eyes radiating sadness and pity. Tempted as she was to reveal the true nature of her visit, she resisted. Mrs Thornton was as proud of her son as a mother could possibly be, and Margaret knew that her rejection of him had not placed her highly in his mother’s esteem. She would not find an ally in her, and she felt she would certainly not take kindly to sympathy coming from her, especially after the cruel irony of her inheriting the mills.
‘I don’t know where he is,’ Mrs Thornton began, and Margaret noticed a hint of fear behind her eyes. ‘Not that I’m worried for myself,’ she added hastily. ‘He’ll see me right, he always has.’
Margaret stepped forward and placed her hand on the woman’s folded arms, before turning and walking quietly out of the room. She did not wish to intrude on a mother’s grief, and there was something in her expression which had troubled her exceedingly. When she had announced his absence in such troubled tones, Margaret’s thoughts had immediately flown to his father. Surely Mr Thornton wouldn’t do anything so rash, so utterly stupid? It did not bear thinking about. She made her way hastily to the offices and collected Henry.
‘I regret to say that I have wasted your time Henry,’ she said solemnly. ‘Mr Thornton is not here. It is not known he will be back. I ought to have sent word of my visit. We shall return to London and you shall undertake to write for me, and complete this transaction in the customary manner.’
‘As you wish,’ Henry answered, nodding a low bow and escorting her from the office. He thought she looked a little pale and drawn. Perhaps the memories associated with returning to the town where she had known so much sorrow had been more taxing upon her than she had suspected, he would not trouble her now with questions.
On the journey home Margaret sat grave and quiet, considering all that she had heard. Her heart was heavy and troubled. If only she could have seen him, even if he had ignored her, she would rather that than this uncertainty. At least then she would know that he was well, in short, that he was alive. She could not believe that he would be so foolish though. Mr Thornton was a proud man, but he was not weak. He had built himself up from nothing before; surely he could do it again? He was not his father, he could cope. The failure had not been his fault, in business he was respected and admired, she was sure of it, he could not have conducted his affairs with more integrity and dignity than he did. And yet - to sink so low after a lifetime of hard work. Perhaps that was more than any man could bear, even one so remarkable as Mr Thornton. Oh, it was unbearable, to lose him now, when she was only just beginning to learn what he really was, it was unjust, unjust.
The train pulled into Midland Central station and came to rest at the platform.
‘We have a ten minute break here,’ said Henry, from behind his newspaper. ‘I believe we have to wait for a northern train to pass.’
Her head thick and swimming with worry, Margaret stepped from the carriage onto the platform. She needed air, needed to breathe. She stood on the platform, feeling the breeze gently caress her face, and watched a train arrive at the opposite platform, travelling in the other direction. She reached a hand up to brush a few stray tendrils of hair from her face, and as she did, she spotted a familiar face through the window of the passing carriage. It rolled slowly along the platform edge before coming to a screeching halt almost directly in front of her.
She moved forward, as if pulled on by some invisible force. It could not be possible. He had been so much on her mind these past few hours, she must be imagining it. Yet, as she looked the realisation began to dawn, it was him. He was well, and alive, and here. He gazed distractedly out of the window, at some invisible point in distance, seemingly unaware of her, or anyone else around him. He was dressed scruffily, his shirt open at the collar, divested of his cravat and jacket. He looked somehow different, freed from the trappings of his status as a master, vulnerable, human, and fiercely attractive. She saw the recent months of care and stress etched onto his stern brow, and read the trouble in his deep blue eyes. How she wished to reach out and smooth it away, plant kisses on that brow of rock and cradle him until all his cares melted away. But instead she simply stood and stared, her eyes wide and swimming in disbelief, willing him to look up, however briefly, and see her.
The passenger sharing his compartment rose and exited the carriage, leaving the door swinging wide. Mr Thornton sat, seemingly unaware, before rising wearily and extending a hand to pull the door shut. As he did he raised his eyes and met her gaze. What a look greeted her. An expression of the most heartfelt joy diffused over his face. His eyes drank in her face greedily and threw out flashing rays of love and passion. In one fluid movement he exited the train and was at her side.
‘Where are you going’ he asked, abruptly, his voice cracked with emotion.
‘To London,’ she replied, glancing back at the train. ‘I have been to Milton.’
Their eyes met, and Margaret, abashed by his searching eyes, looked away, unable to think of what to say, or where to look.
He spoke next. ‘You might guess where I have been,’ he said softly, gazing intently into her eyes. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a yellow flower, presenting it to her tenderly.
‘You’ve been to Helstone!’ she said, in a tone of delight and surprise. ‘I thought these were all gone.’
‘I found it in the hedge,’ he said gently. ‘You have to look closely.’
He gazed at her face, his heart heaving with passion, unable to believe that she was really here. These past few months, as he watched his life’s work crumble and fall around him, he had felt crushed, numb and deadened. But the pain he felt at losing his business was nothing in comparison to that which he had felt as he had watched her drive away in the carriage, all the time willing her to turn and look back at him one last time, just to give him hope, even if it was an impossible one. What use was an empire without Margaret to share it? After she left everything he had worked for seemed empty and worthless. He had carried on numbly, out of a sense of duty to his family and his name more than anything, but it was the thought that he had lost Margaret, that he would never see her again, and that she loved another, that crushed his spirit and kept him from sleep at night. It was ironic then, that on the very day his business closed, he heard the most welcome piece of news he had received for some time. It was her brother. There was no other love, she was not unchaste – dear sweet Margaret, who had willingly risked her reputation and dared the censure of others for the sake of her family, how much he loved her. It was at that point that he made the decision to travel to Helstone. Though he might never see her again, at least there he could feel as though he was near to her, and breathe the very air that had nurtured her as a child. And now here she was, standing in front of him, telling him that she was at this very minute returned from Milton! Oh, unhappy coincidence! What a day to choose to go away, on the very day that she, his heart’s one true darling, had decided to return.
‘Why were you in Milton?’ He asked, his eyes searching her face, and all the while drinking in her presence, her exquisite beauty, as if each look might be the last.
‘On business,’ she began, looking somewhat awkward. ‘That is, I have a business proposition. Oh dear, I need Henry to help me explain.’
She started towards the carriage, when he arrested her with a soft touch at her elbow.
‘You don’t need Henry,’ he began, guiding her towards a bench. He was curious. What form of business proposition could take her to Milton? All the details about the tenancy were to be settled with Lennox, her lawyer. He could hardly think of him without pangs of jealousy. And yet, could it be that she had really travelled all that way to speak to him? No, he could not let himself hope, and yet, while he had her he would not share her with another, even if it be for only a few precious moments, he must have her entirely to himself.
‘Oh dear,’ she began. ‘I must get this right. It is a business proposition. I have some fifteen thousand pounds, it is sitting in the bank at present earning me very little interest,’ she faltered, looking up and meeting his intense gaze, before blushing deeply and dropping her eyes. ‘Now,’ she began again, more firmly. He smiled at her formal to-the-point tone. ‘My financial advisors inform me that if I were to give the money to you, you might carry on working Marlborough Mills, and would be able to offer me a much better rate of interest.’
Mr Thornton’s breath caught in his throat. His heart swelled and beat against his chest, threatening to burst is confinement with the intensity of his emotions. Could it be? Had she just offered him her entire fortune that he might continue to work Marlborough Mills? She, who had enough money to survive on for the rest of her life, and who would be assured of further income through the re-letting of Marlborough Mills? What reason could she have for this? Could it possibly be? He stared at her intensely, hardly catching the rest of her words and she falteringly continued.
‘So you see, it is just a business proposition, you would be under no obligation…’
Unable to restrain himself any longer, he reached his hand down and grasped hers where it lay on her lap. He must act in some way, his heart would not let him remain silent. He had lost her once already, he could not let her go again without letting her know, in some way, what he still felt, what he had always felt.
‘… it is you who would be doing me the service.’
Margaret’s voice faltered as she felt his hand on hers. Could it possibly be? Could he really still love her after everything she had done, everything she had said, everything he had seen? It was not possible. Yet she could not go on with the pretence, she must let him know how she felt. He might throw her hand away the next second if he would, but no matter. Decorum to the wind, she rode on a tide of emotion, and taking his hand and enclosing it with her other, she lifted it and pressed it fervently to her lips.
The shock which ran through Mr Thornton’s body was palpable. It shot through him, stirring his loins and causing his heart to freeze and then beat wildly and violently against his ribcage. A look of sheer delight diffused across his face and he moved his hand to her cheek, stroking the tendrils of hair which hung there. Slowly, he leant forward, holding his breath for what seemed like an eternity, and planted a soft, tender kiss on her lips. He waited, expecting all the while to be repulsed, for her to stand up and walk away in disgust, but to his delight he felt her respond. The ragged nature of her breath told him that her feelings and passions ran in accordance with his own, was such bliss ever known by man before? He kissed her again, repeatedly, each kiss becoming more passionate, more needy and more intense than the last. The feel of her lips against his, moving, reciprocating in his every desire was overwhelming, every atom of his flesh was aflame with her intense beauty.
The shrill shock of the stationmaster’s whistle returned the outside world to their consciousnesses. Margaret looked into his eyes, reading his deep need within them. Silently she rose and crossed the platform back to her own carriage. Mr Thornton stood up and watched her go. Something under his ribs seemed to snap and he felt his heart flutter and die within him. His knees weakened and he reached out to find something solid to steady him. She was going, without so much as a word or a further look. Of all the recent tragedies he had had to bear, this was the worst. Not a moment ago he seemed to be drinking at the very fount of bliss, and now he found himself cast out into a wasteland. His whole body ached and cried out at her loss, hot tears pricked behind his eyes, and he turned away from her. ‘I have watched her leave me once before, when I thought she would never be mine’ he thought, ‘I cannot do it again. To see her leave when at last I felt I might have hope of her would be too much. I feel that to witness it might be to kill me.’ He lowered his eyes and stood for some moments like a statue, while he heard the whistle and rush of steam as the train pulled away behind him.
Slowly he raised his eyes and made to get back into the carriage, only to be greeted by the sight of her reflection in the window behind him. His heart leapt up within him and he wheeled round to face her.
‘You’re coming home with me?’ he asked, in a tone of rapture and disbelief.
Margaret simply smiled and handed him her carpet bag, before stepping into the carriage. She settled into her seat, and as he stepped in beside her she noted the broad smile which was emblazoned across his face. It was unlike any expression she had ever seen on him before. His usually stern and brooding features at once metamorphosed into a very mask of delight. His eyes sparkled and laughed. He looked almost boyish, and she found she had to suppress a giggle so deep was her joy.
As the train pulled away he leant forward again and kissed her repeatedly. As they broke away from each other, he looked at her as if in disbelief, all the time expecting that she might disappear, that he might find that this was a dream, such as he had had many a night in Milton, when he awoke to find himself alone and sweating in his own bed.
Some time passed before either of them felt they were able to speak.
‘Miss Hale,’ he began, his voice sounding strange and trembling to his ears.
‘Margaret, please,’ she interrupted, blushing slightly, ‘after all that has passed…’ she trailed off, unsure of how to continue.
‘Margaret,’ he began again, his voice now deep and sonorous with passion. ‘You must forgive me my blunt manners, we Milton men don’t possess the elegance of phrase which you are perhaps used to in London. But I have to ask, “after all that has passed” as you so delicately put it, where do we, I, stand?’ He held her hand in his own trembling grasp and gazed intensely into her eyes.
‘Well, Mr Thornton’
‘John!’ he exclaimed – his turn to interrupt.
‘Well, John,’ she said, with a wry smile. ‘I would have thought I had made it very clear to you where we stand. I don’t know about in Milton, but in London, girls do not make a habit of going home with men unless,’ she paused briefly, ‘unless their intentions are honourable.’
He exhaled audibly and gripped her hand with a fervent passion. ‘Margaret, my own sweet Margaret,’ he panted in her ear, kissing her deeply and passionately.
Margaret felt a hot wave of excitement pass over her body at his touch. She was not aware that is was possible for any many to make her feel this way, let alone a rough Milton manufacturer. She could see she would have to be careful. Honourable though his intentions may well be, if she didn’t watch herself closely, she was fairly certain that their actions would not be!
‘Now, Mr Thornton,’ she said, breaking away from him and struggling to regain her composure.
He shot her a surprised glance at the return of the formal mode of address.
An impish look gathered in her eye and she raised her eyebrow saucily. ‘Much as I am enjoying your ‘rough manners,’’ (a return of the deep crimson blush betrayed her true emotion) ‘I have to inform you that in London, it is the custom for gentlemen to ask a lady before claiming them as ‘their own’. Now, I may have placed the cart somewhat before the horse in agreeing to return with you before I was formally asked, but in circumstances such as ours this unconventionality is acceptable. I certainly wasn’t about to let you get away from me again for the sake of a formality. However, now the urgency of the moment is passed, perhaps you would do me the honour of confirming your intentions? At least,’ she added, catching the look in his eye, ‘those which are fit to be uttered in the presence of a lady!’
Mr Thornton shot her a look of greatest incredulity at this little speech. He had always known that she was a remarkable woman, forward and forthright in all her opinions, but he hadn’t quite expected this. He gave a low chuckle and raised his eyebrows suggestively.
‘Very well Miss Hale, as we are being proper, please forgive me my forwardness, not to mention my rather unconventional appearance,’ he fumbled in his pocket and to Margaret’s slight disappointment, began to re tie his cravat. ‘There,’ he said ‘Will that do?’
She nodded her silent approval.
‘Well then, Miss Hale,’ he began, taking her hands in his and looking her deep in the eye, ‘will you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?’
‘Mr Thornton, I will.’ She answered, kissing him again, and sighing deeply.
As the train rattled onwards towards Milton, she began to think over the days events. Poor Henry had seemed so confused at the station, he had hardly known where to look when he handed her her bag. She would have to write to her Aunt Shaw immediately, else they would think that this Milton man had corrupted her, and might well organise a rescue party in attempt to protect her virtue. She grimaced a little at the thought of her Aunt’s reactions. She had not been overly fond of Milton during the short period she had visited after her father’s death, and she knew she would not approve of her marrying a rough, penniless manufacturer.
‘Is anything the matter, love?’ asked Mr Thornton, noticing the troubled expression crossing her face.
‘Oh, no, it is nothing of consequence John,’ she answered, attempting to keep her voice a little lighter than she really felt. ‘I was only thinking about the task of informing our relatives. I’m fairly certain of how mine will react, and you know your mother was never very fond of me either.’
John smiled. He loved the sound of his name on her lips. The reality of the situation had yet to sink in – Marlborough Mills was safe, and she, she was coming home with him. It was too much. He smiled gently and took her hands as the train began to pull into Outwood station. ‘She will learn to love you when she knows you,’ he said softly. ‘How could she not?’
With that he opened the carriage door and helped her out onto the platform. Margaret sighed deeply and took his arm. Only a few hours earlier she had stood on this very platform, her heart heavy, fearing for his very safety. Now he was here, and he was hers. That was courage enough for anything, even an encounter with Mrs Thornton!