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Chapter Text

JUST FOR ONE DAY

Chapter One

John Thornton tried his very best not to give way to the longing which ached in his lonely heart.

With every strand of his soul straining in excruciating torture, a suppressed torment that ripped him to shreds, he fought the compulsion to turn his head just a fraction to the right so that he might glimpse in the direction of…

No, he had to, he had to see, he had to know.

Lowering his chin, as if in a state of tranquil reflection, John swivelled round just a few inches to the side, so slightly that he felt safe in the knowledge that nobody would notice, and with his soulful eyes sharpened into unwavering focus, he let them train up and glance at…

John’s heart, which had been beating like a drum beneath his calm and collected veneer, suddenly thudded against his ribs and came to a juddering stop, the sensation of which was nearly enough to make him collapse.

In a matter of seconds, fleeting nothings which surely were too short to gather any real information, John had assessed everything he needed to know about the object of his curiosity and the beneficiary of his most devoted attention, the one person in all the world whom he cared for more than life itself.

Margaret.

John felt his heart begin to weep at the mere sight of her. It was hard to explain why, but a hefty measure of his misery derived from seeing her so sorrowful, this gentle and generous creature who deserved to know only happiness, but yet, due to a cruel hand of fate, she had experienced nothing but heartache since coming to his town, something which left him feeling oddly and irrationally responsible. But what was worse, infinitely worse, was that there was nothing he could do about it.

Not one thing.

For all John yearned to go to her and offer Margaret all the steadfast comfort of a husband, his strong arms providing her with security and solace, he could not, and in truth, this agonizing denial, this bitter barrier and boundary between them, this was what cut him the most, blighting his wretched soul into the void of affliction and anguish.

But no, he had no right to feel such a thing, since this was her day, their day to grieve, not his. She had lost her mother, and by all accounts, a close friend too, not to mention her beloved home only months before, so no, his precious girl had a heavy enough burden weighing down on her sweet heart, and so John refused to let the mass of his own venal despair overshadow her own.

The service was short, pathetically so, most likely because the minister did not know the deceased well, and John could not help but peer around the empty church and feel a pang of guilt for the lack of kindness his townsfolk had shown to the Hale’s, since surely, if they had been back in their esteemed Helstone, then the place would have been filled with friends and family, people who cared for this humble family. But not here, no, not in this apathetic place that was governed by mercenary greed, no, not in Milton. John had not really had the time to come today, he had other matters to attend to, but despite his mother suggesting that he forgo it, letting her make an appearance in his stead to represent the household, John had stubbornly refused and passionately stated in no uncertain terms that he would be attending. In fact, the master had insisted that all three of them would go, because as absurd as it was, deep down, John thought of Margaret as his closest family, regardless of whether she thought of him in that way or not, because in his heart of hearts, she was his wife, since he would take no other than she, so you see, there was nowhere else in the whole world he would rather be than by her side, even if they were separated by an aisle and the abyss of their disharmony.

Towards the end, the minister invited the pitiful few people there to bow down in prayer, and so, in dutiful accord, they did. Stooping on the cold slabs that offended his knees, John’s eyes once again flitted to the side and came to rest upon the woman he adored.

With her head slanted towards the floor, her eyes scrunched closed, and her small hands clasped together before her, John could see that Margaret’s lips were moving fervently in silent meditation. He wondered what she was saying, whether she was reciting a generic passage for such occasions from one of her father’s books or sermons, but knowing her, knowing of her endearingly attentive ways, Margaret was no doubt praying the most saintly of prayers to honour her late mother and commit her soul to her Lord, bidding him to watch over the lady until such a time as her daughter could be reunited with her once more.

Tilting his head, John took this stealthy chance to study Margaret properly, what with there being no chance of her looking back at him and everybody else having their own eyes firmly shut during this hallowed time. It was wrong, he knew it was, but he did not care, since his every sense itched for her constantly, and he almost felt ill if he could not look at her, the image of her adorable face the most breathtakingly beautiful vision he had ever seen. And oh, how he had missed her! The truth was that John had hardly seen Margaret for weeks, not since…

Not since that day.

What with him being devastated by her denunciation of his attentions and affections, along with the difficulties at the mill, not to mention the most unfortunate and rapid deterioration then passing of Mrs Hale, he had hardly stepped foot in that house for what felt like years, and by God, John could hardly describe how much that forced estrangement had wounded his sensitive soul.

Ignoring the throbbing of burning craving which scorched his heart, John peeked at Margaret one last time, determined not to squander this rare opportunity to survey her, especially given how anxious he was for her health and happiness, something which mattered far more to him than his own, a treasured contentment that he would sell his soul to secure. With his penetrating eyes darting to track her static shadow, his breath hitched at the sight of her exquisite figure across the way, her form elongated as she knelt, the outline of her arms, back and legs flowing into a sweeping shape. Her dress was striking, the cut comely, the sheen subtle. John had felt his pulse quicken in every quarter when she had entered the church, because as was the custom, the Hales had arrived last, and when she had walked past him, an unknowing Margaret had brushed against the seated man, her arm scraping along his own, and in doing so, the red blood in John’s veins had spluttered and tingled at this most innocent and brief contact from the woman he worshipped, and it had taken every ounce of his self-control not to cry out at the thrill of it.

She was wearing her mourning garbs, all black from tip to toe, which, of course, was only natural, and John could not help but notice how pale she looked as a result, her soft, porcelain skin a stark distinction to the sombre darkness of her attire, the contrast making her appear ethereal and oh-so melancholy.

John had to bite down on his lip to prevent himself from letting out a guttural groan, the tart taste of blood assaulting the inside of his mouth. God! How it killed him to see her so sad.

Then, all of a sudden, John jolted, because out of nowhere, Margaret ceased her ruminating, and without warning, she abruptly turned to look at him.

It all happened so unexpectedly, that he could hardly understand what happened or even when or why it had occurred, but as John was gazing at her in ardent fascination, Margaret’s head had spun round, and with her eyes large and lovely, she had fixed them upon him, and in doing so, she had known that he had been watching her.

As quick as the snap of a finger and thumb, John’s own head twisted back around to its proper place, and he ducked it down in shame, unable to look up again and face her valid disapproval and displeasure. Cursing himself inwardly, John scolded himself for letting his selfish longings rule the day and further ruin his already unstable relationship with Margaret, the fractured bond between them so fragile that just one erroneous act was enough to sever it forever in her eyes, since to him, no matter what she did, he would always be true to her.

Growling under his breath, John thought of that unspeakable night less than a week ago when he had seen Margaret at Outwood Station as she had lurked under the cloak of midnight obscurity. She had not been alone, she had been with another, and the image of the two of them entangled in an intimate embrace had plagued his dreams every night ever since. But no…no matter what, he would love her unconditionally and unquestioningly, because as far as John was concerned, he had no choice, since he was most assuredly hers, even if she would never be his in return.

As he thought on this, John felt a stirring in his spirit to do something he had not done in a disgracefully long time, not since his own father’s funeral fifteen years before. After a decisive nod, John closed his eyes, propped up his elbows, linked his hands, and bent his head. Then, after taking a deep breath to fortify himself with both courage and conviction, his mind banishing all other cares, John Thornton prayed.

Chapter Text

JUST FOR ONE DAY
Chapter Two

It was a short while later that John slowly trailed out of the church and into the cold light of day. With a slow and solemn pace, he made sure to delay and remain behind at the back of a dreary procession of mourners, all so that he could linger in the margins while he deferred and assessed the scene, the loyal lover keeping an eye on his lady to ensure that she was well…well, as well as she could be.

As he ventured into the squall of the icy winter air, the weather suitably downcast to epitomise the tone of the day, the bitter breeze nipped at the exposed skin of his cheeks, causing John to grumble in affronted irritation, the master unaccustomed to letting any element, whether it be man or nature, get the better of him. However, with a gloomy glower, John could admit that such grit may have once been the mettle of this man bred from hearty Milton stock, but not now, not now that his hard shell of apathy had been cracked asunder by a certain someone whose goodness and grace had proceeded to leak into the fissures of his broken soul and awaken it anew, setting it alight with the warmth of bittersweet love. She was a creature not of this world, one who had managed to do the unthinkable, and with just one look, one word, one touch, she had burrowed beneath his skin, her very existence niggling him like a constant itch, igniting a feverish fire in his veins that all the oceans of all the earth could never hope to extinguish. 

John smiled to himself, a small and secret smile that only those who have ever loved fondly and fiercely can appreciate.

God! She was his treasure and his torment in equivalent value, but he would not change her, not for anything.

As he fiddled with the brim of his hat and twisted it round and round in his hands, at a loss of what to do next, lest he draw attention to his unwarranted postponing, John soon stood tall and straight with his eyes narrowed perceptively as he observed his tutor. Mr Hale staggered in the near distance, the man’s unsteady hand with its knobbly knuckles coming to rest on the mound of soil that marked his dearly departed wife’s grave. With a twinge of empathy strumming at the chords of his conscience, John was about to go to his friend and see what modest assistance he could offer, but before he had taken one step, his undertaking was suspended as another preceded him and went to Mr Hale’s aid. 

With his heart galloping like an Ascot stallion in his masculine breast, John schooled his features into a mask of reserved indifference, his eyes being the only window into his soul as he watched her from afar while she glided across the mucky ground like an angel, his darling girl as strong and selfless as ever.

And oh Lord save him, how he admired her for it.

With his head hung low as if he were inspecting a stray strand of cotton fluff on the cuff of his sleeve, John’s dilated eyes skimmed up to inspect the wholesome sight of a young daughter taking her elderly father by the arm and patting it, a familiar action which he gawked at with an ugly rumble of mean jealousy bloating in his gut, the venom of which made him feel sick to his stomach with shame. Without so much as shedding a single tear for herself, her comportment being one of elegant dignity, the noble woman whispered a few sweet words of confidential consolation to the man, who then progressed to look up and smile at her affectionately, before himself shambling away to God knows where. 

At the sight of this, John frowned, since in normal circumstances, there was nothing wrong with the concept of a young woman performing the role of crutch to her aged father, indeed, such a thing was to be commended. But still, John did not like it, no, no sir, for it bothered him more than he could say to think that Margaret, far from being allowed to be a grief-stricken child in her own right, would no doubt be expected to carry the weight of her family’s worries and be an unwavering pillar of fortitude day and night, the foundations of her courage not permitted to wobble, not one bit, lest the whole Hale household crumble to dust. No, she would be alone, abandoned without a shoulder to cry on, since she had no defender to champion her cause, no partner, nobody who could help her through her grief and guide her into the light of a new dawn of hope which breaks after night is over.

As Margaret’s velvety hands wrung in agitated disquiet, John found himself stiffening and turning rigid, the man fighting the overwhelming urge which surged throughout his body to march across the graveyard and gather Margaret up into his arms without a care in the world for what anybody said or thought. There he would shelter her in the stalwart sheath of his constant love, and John would never let her go, since his arms were surely made and measured to be her home.  

But John merely cast his aspirations to the wind and snarled like a disfigured dog who had been mutilated by the savage lance of Cupid’s arrow.

It was no good! She had said no, so there was nothing he could do.

Rearing his head, John saw that Margaret now stood by herself, oh-so-very alone, and he felt a stab of anguish pierce his heart to see her petite body begin to tremble like the stem of a durable yet delicate flower, but whether it be from the cheerless hostility of the gale or the tempest of her own emotions, he could not be sure. Either way, it provoked a sense of protective vexation in John, making him want to impulsively shed his coat and place it around her shoulders, all the while rubbing his hands thereabouts and muttering soothing promises of happier days to come into her ear, the ardour of his vows burning hot with such an intense passion that the heat of his breath and oath alike would surely warm her through and through.

No, it would not do, he could not behave so wantonly, she would not thank him for it, and so, standing there in the frosty November morn, John may have looked like his stern and unruffled self as he remained rooted to the spot, but beneath the surface of those still waters, his every fibre was howling out in protest at not being permitted the chance, nay the right, to be beside the woman he loved. If he could do it, if she would welcome his service and his suit, John would offer Margaret his hand in an instant, all so that he might lead her away from this sorry place and pledge her his home, his homage, and his heart, a trilogy of loyal affection that he would dedicate to her alone, himself her willing servant, committing his every waking breath to making her feel safe and satisfied, for all the days of her life. 

John was about to do this, to give way to his impulsive and irrational passions, but the master bristled, suddenly aware that he was no longer a solitary statue discreetly positioned on the outskirts of a graveyard, since he now had company, his concerned brooding having acquired an unwelcome witness. 

With his stooped head rearing, John saw that it was Mr Bell who had come to idly loiter beside him, the gentleman infuriatingly prim with his opulent suit from his pretentious Savile Row tailors. In normal circumstances, the master had little time for his landlord, given that he considered him a sly sort of fellow with more cheek and craftiness in his little finger than John had in all of his six feet of build and brawn. Parting the thin line of his lips, he decided to be bold in conversation, something which he did not want to do, but damn it, there were things he just had to know, and after all, Bell was the best person to petition for such familiar information.

Returning his perturbed gaze to the ground, John made a show of putting on his gloves, an uncomfortable new pair that he had purchased lately, his preferred set having gone missing most mysteriously, the garments refusing to turn up, no matter how high and low he hunted like a wolf sniffing out a scent. 

‘How are they? Miss Hale and her father?’ he queried with formal irrelevance, the man doing everything he could to come across as appropriately detached to those of whom he spoke, opposed to what he truly was, and that was utterly devoted. 

On heeding his question, Mr Bell paused, and when he did this, a faint smile creased the corners of his lips. Indeed, John’s assessment of Mr Bell had been correct, or that is, it had been accurate to a certain degree. There was no denying that Mr Bell was a shrewd character, and for his sins, he could admit that he was also a tad sneaky in his impishness. But alas, unfeeling he was not, especially when it came to those of whom he was partial, and Margaret, well, she was a most singular and superior woman, and so his fondness for her knew no match. 

In the interval of uncomfortable hush that passed between them, Mr Bell considered what to say since he had not missed the way that Thornton had mentioned Miss Hale before her father in his appeal to learn of her welfare, nor had he failed to spy the way that the master had spent most of the service staring at the handsome young lady with blatant and somewhat brazen longing.

With his slithers of silver streaking his greying hair, Mr Bell was a man of the world, much more so than his inoffensively oblivious friend, Hale. As a result, it had not escaped the notice of the wily fox that Miss Hale, the shy southern girl with her unpretentious beauty and charming benevolence, had managed, without any effort at all, so it would seem, to catch the curious attention of none other than Milton’s most eligible, yet stubbornly solitary bachelor, the woman affecting the cage of his ribs to rattle, awakening the sleeping heart within. 

Over the past few months since the Hale’s arrival in the town, Mr Bell had spotted the way Margaret and Thornton had been with each other, their relationship gradually intensifying with each excitable encounter. He had witnessed the clumsy exchanges, lingering handshakes, coy glances, and heated spats, all tell-tale signs of a couple firmly in the grips of impassioned love, and, let us be honest, a simmering firestorm of lust too. 

Nevertheless, Mr Bell had thought on this, he had thought on this most carefully indeed, for as much as he appreciated the attributes of his Oxford chum, he could concede that the man was completely useless when it came to understanding women, least of all his dear daughter. Therefore, in a bid to care for her like a surrogate father, an uncle perhaps, the childless dandy had decided to take a marked interest in Margaret’s wellbeing and do what he could to ensure that she was well cared for in this world. She was, after all, not wealthy or connected, and she was overtly independent, all qualities that the lively fellow admired, yet it gave him much cause for concern to realise that these characteristics may well put the unworldly girl in the path of less than desirable people, men to be precise. Consequently, determined that his god-daughter should marry well and find a match that was not only advantageous but also one borne of sincere respect and regard, Mr Bell had been keeping his eye on Margaret and Thornton for some time. As luck would have it, after a lengthy consultation with his own discerning sense of judgement, he had ascertained that their attachment was not merely one of superficial and smitten attraction but was the real stuff of poets, the sort of love that should not be disregarded or denied, even by the pair themselves.  

Then again, there had been that day…that day when he had passed Thornton on the street, his sculpted features like thunder, the man clearly lost in his own world, one which Mr Bell had no wish to trespass upon, not when it cast such a bitter chill about the place. And there had been the way Margaret had flinched and flushed at the mention of the master’s name and the knowledge that he had sent a generous basket of fruit and other delicacies, his handwritten note one of earnest thoughtfulness. It had been then, in that moment, that Mr Bell had pieced the picture together and realised that their romance had come to a head, but regrettably, it would appear that all was not well between them, a speculation which had been confirmed when he witnessed their strained meeting on the street the following day. 

And so, with the future of young love in jeopardy, the old romantic in Mr Bell was resolved to fix it, even if it was the last thing he did before…

Never mind all that nonsense now.

Returning his attention to the present and to his conversational companion, a serious fellow who was deflated in spirit by the awkward unease that afflicts a man who finds himself unexpectedly head over heels in unreciprocated love, Mr Bell, ever the amateur thespian, adopted the minor yet significant, (make of that what you will), role of meddlesome matchmaker.

Inhaling a generous whiff of the frigid northern air, Mr Bell did his utmost to sound gallingly nonchalant. ‘As well as can be expected,’ he said truthfully, although he knew full well that his vague response would irk his tenant, the glower which shadowed the man’s face proving him right and affording him a shameful degree of amusement. Then, feeling a ripple of puckishness tickle his fancy, he added, ‘Don’t worry, Thornton, they have many people to look after them,’ the pointed ambiguity of which was too scrumptious to describe as it bounced off his tongue. 

Mr Bell observed the way his friend knitted his eyebrows, the dear man always so severe looking, which was a shame really, since his features were terribly fetching under the guise of all that sullen scowling…if only the lad would smile every now and again. Well dang it, Mr Bell was determined that before the day was out, he was going to give Thornton cause to grin from cheek to cheek, but the question was…how to play it?

‘If there is anything I can do?’ John solicited, and again, Mr Bell could detect the palpable tone of earnest sincerity ruminate from his core, the poor soul clearly desperate to care for Miss Hale, but sadly, not being her betrothed, he had no such reason or right to do so.

Mr Bell nodded. ‘Everything’s taken care of,’ he puffed matter-of-factly as he leaned on his cane, the disagreeable cramp that was his hush-hush illness upsetting his organs. 

‘Well… not a great turnout, to be sure,’ he sniffed with the gripe of one who has been personally snubbed. ‘The aunt is travelling in Italy, unfortunately,’ he went on, resentful of the way that woman seemed to have all the time in the world for gallivanting, but not a second to spare for her dead sister and grieving niece.

Then, with a rascally glint in his eyes, he slipped in one more outwardly harmless comment, but one which he felt sure would hit the mark and make Thornton sit up and pay attention. ‘I’m surprised Lennox didn’t turn up, though,’ he affixed as a seemingly casual afterthought, his roguish features beaming to detect the way that Thornton’s jaw constricted, his shoulders hardened, and his eyes darkened. Prickling, the master loomed larger than ever in the way that all men do when they are squaring up to an adversary, but in this case, the besotted man’s nemesis was an invisible foe, and his name was Lennox, an alternative and much more appropriate suitor on paper. 

But not feeling satisfied with his teasing, Mr Bell opted to stir the pot of his love-tonic potion a little further and expounded, ‘Henry Lennox. Closely connected to the family. He’s a lawyer. I hear he takes an interest.’

John grimaced, and through the gritted clench of his pearly teeth, he cursed his rival. ‘Yes, I know of him,’ he seethed, recalling the day the London gentleman had humiliated him in public and tried to cut him down to size, the lawyer with his brains and breeding evidently offended that a lowly tradesman like John could ever dare to dream of wooing and wedding a woman as fine as Margaret Hale. John felt the hot coals of anger bubble and blister away inside him. What a rogue Lennox was! It was one thing having that smug scoundrel looking down his nose at him, John had put up with such pig-headed snobbery before, and would doubtless do so again. No, what he could not stand, what really got his blood boiling, was the way that the cad had behaved so possessively towards Margaret, as if he had some sort of grasping claim to her, almost as if she were a prize to be won, an object to be owned. 

Hell! 

Did the devil not know that she was no trophy, but a person in her own right? One who ought to be treasured and not controlled or constrained like some sort of mindless doll to dress up and dictate to. What was worse, John could just see a rake like Lennox slowly squashing Margaret’s self-governing spirit and crushing it over time, conditioning her until she was no more than a dull bauble to be dangled upon the arm of her husband like a pretty ornament who could not think or feel for herself, her sole function to perform her part as a parrot who mimicked her man’s will. John felt ill. No! Not Margaret, not that regal woman who should never have her wings clipped, this rare bird who ought to be set free, and if her husband treated her right, and if she truly loved him as he did her, then this seraph would return to him, for that choice was hers to make of her own free will. 

No, John knew that money could not buy Margaret, nor would prestige or power sway her affections, since nothing could persuade her to give her hand away and gift her heart to a man other than the most profound of love. Yes, Margaret was a person, and a precious one at that, one whom neither man of north nor south could ever hope to be worthy of calling wife. 

But then again…Lennox was not the man John had seen…no…it had not been him she was with that night.

As John was mulling over these most weighty thoughts, Mr Bell was studying him, and he grinned to himself to see the embers of genuine warmth which blazed behind the young man’s eyes at the very thought of Margaret. You see, one may be forgiven for thinking that Mr Bell was behaving most diabolically, without mercy even, but in actual fact, that would be an unwarranted vilification. The truth is that the scholar was no fool, and as a result, he knew exactly what he was doing, and that was reminding Thornton of what he had to lose if he did not get a move on and marry Margaret before some other jammy sod slipped a ring on her finger. At any rate, Mr Bell was about to continue, but then all of a sudden, he felt a sting of contrition nit-pick at his scruples, for far from looking narked by the mention of Lennox, Thornton looked downright miserable. 

Had he gone too far?

Crinkling his weather-beaten temple, the gentleman attempted to remedy his faux pas. ‘But you can be sure I’ll let you know if your help is needed,’ he assured a brooding John, and then, just as he was about to leave, Mr Bell turned back to say one final thing. 

Clearing his throat, he announced with the impression of a true friend offering a comrade some sage and sincere advice, ‘You know, Thornton, you could always go and ask them yourself,’ he suggested. And then, tapping the mill master on the arm, he leant in closer, and with a fraternal murmur, he concluded, ‘I know she’d appreciate that.’ 

And with that, Adam Bell tapped his hat, winked, and was gone. 

Chapter Text

JUST FOR ONE DAY
Chapter Three

It was several hours later that John found himself pacing back and forth in his mill office, unable to settle, unable to work, unable to concentrate, unable….

Unable to think of anything but her.

What to do? What to say? What to –

Damn, dash and darn it! This was no time to dilly-dally like a lily-livered coward!

With swift and decisive action, John snatched up his coat, and after firmly closing his office door, the master strode across the cobbles of his factory yard with more oomph than a steam engine hurtling along its single-minded tracks at full speed. Before he had even had the chance to glance up, John found himself on the busy thoroughfare that was Marlborough Street, and without having to think, his feet swerved a few notches to the side, and just like that, he was off, heading towards Crampton, the epicentre of all his joys and woes from the past few months. 

Walking fast and at a punishing pace that made his legs grumble with a gnawing ache, John kept his head low and minded his own business, his thoughts too harassed to stop and speak to any passers-by who might hassle him, his feet unyielding in their dogged mission to get him to his destination as summarily as possible. 

At times, he seriously thought of turning back, of admitting defeat and giving in to the waves of self-doubt which engulfed him, the overpowering tides of self-loathing overwhelming his confidence and drowning it in a sea of insecure dread. What would he say to her? What could he say? What did he want to say? And Lord help him, what would she have to say in return? 

It was all looking so laughably impossible, his quest a ludicrous one built upon the precarious foundations of foolhardy hope. But just as he was about to give in to his fears and head home, John found himself unconsciously trotting up the steps of his tutor’s house, and again, before he had time to discern what he was about, he had raised a fist to the door and announced his reckless arrival.

The sound of his solid hand beating a hard rat-a-tat-tat against the wood caused John to jolt, and as if waking from a dream, the realisation of what he was doing hit him like a ton of bricks, and oh-help, he suddenly felt dreadfully queasy.

But John was no quitter, no, so there he waited with bated breath, guessing at whom might answer his call, all the while wishing it would be −

A moment later, the door opened, just a smidgen, and peering around the frame, John’s heart sank to see in the dim shade of an unlit passageway, that it was none other than Mr Hale. 

The man stared at his visitor for a few seconds before screwing up his beady eyes, almost as if the effort of contemplating his arrival was too much for his mind to cope with. ‘Oh, John…,’ came a feeble voice that was neither here nor there.

John coughed, trying desperately to swallow the ball of apprehension which had become wedged in his gullet and squished his Adam’s apple. ‘Good evening, sir. I…I have come to offer my condolences once again and see if there is anything that I might do for you…for any of you,’ he explained with a manner of bashful hopefulness. 

Mr Hale blinked rapidly. ‘Oh,’ he mumbled. ‘Oh, I see.’ 

Taking off his spectacles, the parson began to polish them distractedly, the man hardly aware of what he was doing, since he had repeated this monotonous action more than twenty times in the past half hour alone for some unknown reason. ‘That is very kind, my boy, most considerate. It is just…,’ he trailed off, casting a preoccupied glance behind him. 

John’s eyes followed to look behind Mr Hale, but there was nobody and nothing to be seen.

Some time passed while Mr Hale continued to stare behind him, his attention fixated on the shadows.

‘Mr Hale?’ John prompted with mounting concern. 

The tutor revolved to peer at him, his face pale, almost as if he had just seen someone, somebody who should no longer have been there. ‘Hmm, it is just that I am not sure, really, I…I am not sure,’ he pondered feebly. ‘You are best speaking to Margaret, she will know,’ he said at last, absently opening the door and beckoning for his visitor to come on in.

It was just then, that John felt the strangest feeling in his body that he had ever experienced in all of his twenty-nine years, seven months, two weeks, and one day. While his mind was arrested and held back by the chains of terror, afraid of further melancholy and mortification at the mercy of Miss Hale, the rational part of his being, his clever mind, was forced to abdicate command, since through some weird and wonderful means, his heart prevailed, and tugging him towards the one he loved, John found himself dragged across the threshold and into the house which had brought him such gladness and anguish at the hands of a mere slip of a girl.   

Shuffling down the corridor, his senses attuned to any slight hint of her presence, John noted how eerily cold it was, the fires no doubt neglected in the wake of today’s despair. Trudging off towards the stairs, Mr Hale pointed towards the downstairs study, a room which John knew all too well, since it had been the place where he had first met his muse and his passion had been aroused, only for her to smash his hopes to smithereens within those same four walls, her pretty and impertinent lips declaring that she would never love him, for how could she, when she did not even like him?

‘She is in there,’ Mr Hale informed his pupil lamely, and before John could reply, the man had vanished like a ghost. 

Turning back towards the closed door which stood before him in callous obstruction, John felt his thighs tremble with trepidation. 

Heck!

What was he doing?

And why was he doing it?

Furrowing his brow, John could not fathom whether his desire to see Margaret was conceived of noble compassion or self-seeking self-indulgence. Which was it? Was he really here to offer her his altruistic help? Or was the obnoxious truth that he had simply come to satisfy his own selfish longings?

John grunted.

It was too late now. He was here. He was precisely where he was supposed to be. And he was going to see her, and what happened next, well, that was up to Margaret.

After taking a deep breath, John grasped a hold of the handle, and with the muscles of his well-endowed arm flexing, he gave it a purposeful shove. As the door swung ajar, John had to squint, for the room was shrouded in a cloak of depressing gloom, and as his eyes scanned the scene, they began to panic, because there was nobody there. Rearing his head back towards the stairs, John was about to call out to Mr Hale, but before he did, he heard a noise which devastated him more than you or I could ever hope to sympathise with, and that was the sound of someone sobbing. 

With his eyes now alert and wide with anxiety, John looked again, and oh-my, there, on the floor, sat Margaret, the morose darkness of her dress affecting her to blend in with her bleak surroundings. She was crouched on the ground, hovering before a barren hearth, her black skirts fanned out in a circle around her, almost like a haunting halo of grief. There was such little light in the room that John could hardly make her out, the sound of her whimpering the only sign that she was truly cowered before him. There were a few rays of weak winter sunlight which poured through the gaps in the drawn curtains, and casting speckles of sheer light upon her head, the brown and burgundy curls of her hair glinted like a vivid tapestry of interwoven colours, reminding John that beneath her veil of lamentation, Margaret was a woman of striking character. 

Almost lying down with her knees curled beneath her, her head was lowered, and with a handkerchief clasped in one hand and something he could not quite distinguish clutched in the other, something long, black and leather, Margaret was quietly crying her sweet heart out in what she thought was the sanctuary of a lonely room.

Frozen in place, John did not know what to do, his whole being pleading with him to disown his doubts and go to her. However, whether it be a blessing or a blight, he did not have to skulk in the limbo of uncertainty for long, because at that moment, Margaret glanced up, and for the second time that day, she looked right at him, her eyes broad and brimming with the disarray of complex and most likely conflicting emotions, but which ones howled the loudest in her heart, John could not deduce. 

John was about to speak, his throat cracking in its withering dryness, but before he could even spit out one syllable, Margaret had startled at the shock of his sudden appearance, and within a trice, she had leapt to her feet. Spinning around so that her back was to him, John could see that she was embarrassed to be caught in a state of such degrading sorrow, not that he considered it so. With her hands rising to her face to scrub at her cheeks, she sniffed, failing pitifully in a hurried attempt to regain her composure. At last, she whirled round again, and John nearly choked to see the torrent of tears which ran down her face, her beautiful features which were usually so rosy with fiery indignation, now as white as milk.

Allowing his tender gaze to rest upon her, he refused to look away, since John was determined to prove to Margaret that he was here for her, no matter what. Nevertheless, he was confused by the quivering changeability in her eyes, those opaque orbs of blue darting erratically between despondency and dander, her soul at war with itself over how to feel about this most unexpected disturbance. With her arms encircling her middle in a self-soothing embrace, Margaret’s head shook vehemently from side-to-side in displeasure.

John felt himself stagger forwards with an instinctive need to comfort her, an impulsive desire to be near her, but he soon stopped when she stumbled backwards with violent movements, almost as if she had been burnt by his shadow, his very aura of adulation too much for her to bear.

Again, he attempted to try and talk to Margaret, to ask his darling dove what he could do to calm and console her, but before he had the chance to splutter even one remark, John felt a knife slice through his heart, and his ears bled as they heeded what sounded like a fresh rejection from the woman who would never be his own.

‘No!’ came a terse rejection.

John halted, the man absolutely horrified. He could hardly breathe. It was like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Everything was silent while they both stood like a pair of motionless sculptures at either side of the study, simply staring at each other confrontationally, their chests heaving, their minds reeling, their hearts screaming out at the top of their lungs to just be allowed to be together. 

In a state of stalemate, they each waited for the other to make the next move. 

After a while, John finally found his voice, and with a rasping query, all he could manage was a pathetic: ‘Excuse me?’ his bewildered words echoing those he had uttered on that very day when he had been at a loss of how to react to her instantaneous spurn of his declarations of love everlasting.

Margaret let out a shrill gasp at the sound of his delicious voice, and as her eyes fluttered closed, her head fell back and her slender body shivered from tip to toe to find herself once again alone in this historic room with him.

Slanting her neck so that her head slowly came back up, and with her eyes falling upon him once more, John detected a flash of resentment flit across her face, and he was not afraid to admit that it unnerved him, leaving him feeling terribly small.

‘I said no!’ she reiterated, her hands slicing through the air as if to draw an imaginary boundary between them which he was not permitted to cross, not in word, not in deed.

Then all of a sudden, Margaret scoffed noisily, and throwing her hands up into the air, she shot John a look of such naked distress that it struck him like a punch to the gut, the man being left winded and appallingly worried. Unable to stand any of this a moment longer, he lurched forwards, the rumble of fresh words escaping his tongue, but they soon fizzled and faded into oblivion in response to the echo of the harsh retort which resounded from her floret lips, rebuttals which rang in the air like a clanging bell of doom.

‘Don’t you dare!’ she challenged, the girl mustering every ounce of her strength to sound as brave as she could, but alas, valour deserted her, and her words trickled from her mouth as nothing more than a bleating entreaty, her eyes glassy with the dewdrops of water which dripped from the tap of human despair.

John swayed backwards in inebriated alarm. ‘I don’t under−’

But he was unable to finish.

‘Whatever you have come to say to me, Mr Thornton,…I do not want to hear it!’ she advised him irately. 

Pulling herself to her full height, something which was ridiculous given their difference in stature, Margaret marched straight up to John. Only coming to a standstill mere inches away from him, his figure towering over hers as their bodies brushed against one another in stirring closeness, she stared up at the man who loved her more than life itself, and with her bottom lip wobbling in sorrow, the kind that only the most gentle hearted of women can suffer to know, an inconsolable Margaret whispered the seemingly fatal plea:

‘Please…don’t!’

Chapter Text

JUST FOR ONE DAY
Chapter Four

There they stood, facing each other head-on, the expanse of the physical room a gulf which could easily be breached in comparison to the inner void of psychological misunderstanding and mistrust which now separated their split souls. They were two halves of the same vital spirit, a force which strained and screamed in torment to be allowed to unite as one, a connection they craved, finally allowing them to mate with their one and only mate, and at last, be whole.

With their eyes locked on one another in a state of stubborn deadlock, they were like two animals on the verge of battle, neither willing to withdraw and accept shameful defeat, yet neither prepared to suffer a further slur inflicted mercilessly at the hands of their opponent, a beast that was beautiful, yet oh-so brutal, with their words which maimed more violently than any tooth or claw ever could. Both of their hearts were now battered and bruised most pitifully, marred by the scars of vicious wounds wreaked by the only person in the whole world who possessed the power to truly hurt them.

But no more, no more….enough.

At last, John found his voice, and with a feral growl that asphyxiated his gullet, he announced: ‘If my presence offends you so, Miss Hale, then I will go,’ his words oozing with the festering pus of hurt and humiliation, a putrid ulcer of pain which was putrefying his lucidity and rotting his very core, the woman before him his only cure, an angel who refused to relieve his agony and be his antidote, his saving grace.

As John declared his imminent intention to depart, something flickered behind Margaret’s eyes, her composure wavering for just the briefest of fleeting flashes, and momentarily thrown from his stance of self-preserving animosity, John could have sworn it was disappointment he saw lurking there, but no, surely not. It was so swift in its vanishing, that he could hardly capture it, sharp as his senses were, but it had been there, and if it had lasted even a fraction longer, that expression of regret would have exposed Margaret and given her away, telling him that his miserable assumptions about her reaction to his company this day were wrong, oh-so-very wrong.

But you know, those in love are hot-headed, their faculties are not so finely attuned, their thoughts too readily occupied with their own internal rants and rages, irrational creatures that they are. It is a kind of lovesick selfishness which is oddly counterproductive, as by looking inwardly to scrutinise their own strife, they often inconsiderately neglect to think of anything and anyone other than themselves.

 Ironic, really.

Therefore, they sadly often miss what is right before their eyes, staring them right in the face, for their vision is clouded by the fog of emotive foolishness, or in simpler words, sheer stupidity.

Tragic, really. 

Jutting up her chin so that she looked down her nose at him, Margaret sniffed loudly, a glassy film creeping across her eyes like evasive veils that separated her from anyone who might hope to look inside and see the true feelings that she harboured beneath her outer guise of indifference, a shell which was beginning to crack. Margaret did not wish to gaze upon him like this, she was not so spiteful, but being befuddled in the clutches of her current mentality, a mindset which was overshadowed by gloomy emptiness, she felt like she had no other way of asserting her fortitude. You see, for Margaret, the idea of Mr Thornton seeing her so frail, so small in comparison to his own unshakable strength, it was the final straw on this already dispiriting day that had robbed her of so much. 

Well, she would not let him confiscate the only thing Margaret had left, her hope, for that was hers to cling onto and cherish, not his to take away.

‘If that is what you want,’ she replied with a cold and curt retort, her head held high in all its stately dignity, although, if you were to pay attention, you could see that regal crown of hers trembled, for Margaret’s gentle heart was not really committed to this façade of apathy at all.

John glared at her. The kind of glare so rancid in its hostility that it could curdle milk while still in a cow.

How dare she turn all of this around on him! What he wanted? Ba! This had nothing to do with what he wanted, since when had she ever cared a fig for him or his wishes? No, John knew what this was all about. 

It was obvious.

She was obvious. 

It was offensively obscene. 

She wanted to be left alone, all so that she might receive…him.

John could feel his temper rising within and whipping up like a fearsome storm. Yes, that was it. She was waiting for her man, the villain John had seen at the station that night, the fiend who had taken an immoral liberty and lured their innocent Margaret, ─ (yes, “their,” since John was not letting go of her just yet, and so, he still held onto his moral right to love her, just as much as any man), out in the dead of night and embrace her so, so – so damned intimately! John could feel his fists scrunching, the tiny bones in his knuckles groaning as they turned an eerie white.

John could swing for that heinous rogue! Never in his whole life had he hated anybody more than that man, and what was laughably absurd about the whole thing, was that John did not even know his God-dammed name. How dare he?! How dare he subject Margaret to scandal? How dare he subject her to scorn? Did he not know what his irresponsible actions would do to her? Did he not appreciate that he was leaving the woman he had been lucky enough to persuade into his arms, open to debasement by acting so dissolutely? 

And Margaret, what of her?

Oh, God! John felt bilious as the repellent churn of something foul curdled away in him, cooking up his insecure fears afresh. This was it, this was the problem, the very thing which had gone round and round in his head until he was so dizzy he could retch. The question was…how culpable had Margaret been? Had she been forced out that evening? Had she been manipulated or manhandled in some way? Had the man bullied her? Bribed her? Bought her, even? I see you shake your sceptical head, but these were not unreasonable insinuations for the shrewd master to make. John knew that the Hales were in reduced circumstances, so had the man somehow got a scheming hold over Margaret, and as a result, she felt unable to say no? Surely the blackguard must be some sort of vulture, since John, ever the honest and honourable gentleman, could not conceive how somebody who loved Margaret, who truly cared for her welfare, could gamble with her virtue so casually. 

So, the difficulty of this uncertainty came to John again. Had Margaret wanted to be there with him?

And why so late? It had all been most peculiar. John could only think of one reason. If they had gone in the day, then yes, they may have drawn attention to their affiliation, their assignation. However, to go at night, under the concealing cloak of darkness, that was risky, but it would have afforded them a greater degree of privacy. Still, to feel the need, the want, to do such a reckless thing, there could only have been one reason…

NO!

It could not be!

Margaret was not spoiled. She was not corrupted by such earthly things as all that. She was pure. She was wholesome. She was ─ she was…John’s heart sighed…

…She was Margaret.

But then…why?

And why there? Why a train station, of all places? That had been the strangest part of all. Why would a furtive pair choose a public place that had incessant footfall, even at midnight? It meant that anybody could stumble upon and discover them, something which John himself had done, much to his regret. It had been curiously far from Crampton, so why had they felt the need to go to Outwood at all? Had she been saying goodbye to the gentleman? I sense you pause and furrow your brow in confusion at this remark, but gentleman is and was the right term, for even John, consumed by envy as he was, could tell that the man had the bearing of a gentle man, even if his conduct had been far removed from gentility. At any rate, if it was all above board, then why could Margaret not have said her fond farewell at her house? Would she really miss him so much that she felt obliged to go all the way to the station with him? What a risky and somewhat puerile decision, a characteristic that was not in Margaret’s nature at all.

Then again, could it be that she had wanted to run away with him? That would explain the location. John turned ashen, a paler hue than even his beloved cotton. Heaven forbid it. John could see the horror unfold before him, and the very thought nearly made the master let out a guttural moan of distress. He could imagine it now. The devil would have enticed her to come with him by means of sweet promises of a life of unblemished love, (Milton being a squalid perdition that would surely only pollute her happiness), only to use and abuse Margaret, before casting her aside and abandoning her while he moved onto his next unsuspecting victim. And oh, Margaret! His darling girl. What would become of her? She would be alone, misplaced, probably too ashamed to come home, and even though John would hunt high and low for her across every inch of this despicable world, not resting until she was found, it would be no use. After John had brought Margaret back with him, keeping her safe and sound in the shelter of his own arms, her new and protective sanctuary of a home, it would perhaps then all be too late, and she would already be lost, not just to him, but to herself also.

No. 

Margaret was wise. She would not elope like that. She would not leave her father and mother, not Margaret, not this abidingly dutiful woman and devoted daughter who perpetually put the needs of others before her own.

So then, what had it all been about?

John snarled.

There was still one problem.

As much as he wanted to avoid this dilemma, despite all his obsessive rationalising, John could not get away from the one outstanding piece of evidence which proved Margaret’s feelings for the man.

And that had been the way she had looked at him. 

John knew that look all too well since it was how he gazed at her every time she was not sneering at him in return. It was a look of enduring devotion, and no matter how many times he tried to banish it from his mind, he could not negate the fact that whoever that man was, whatever he meant to Margaret, she truly, truly loved him.

So that was that. 

That must have been why Margaret was so troubled to find her undesirable visitor standing before her this afternoon. It was not sorrow but frustration which had riled her this day at the sight of him, her uninvited mill master, the unfavourable contender for her hand and heart. John’s presence must have been a nuisance to Margaret, his attention unsolicited, his affection unwelcome, his aid unwanted, and so, she was asking him to leave. And being Margaret, her decree was far from polite, but punishing.

Well, so be it! 

John would go, he would go now, and he would not be back, not ever again, since he refused to stay where he was not wanted. What was more, as much as he genuinely valued Mr Hale’s friendship, the truth was that John had long since stopped coming to this house for the sake of his lessons. While the pursuit of his scholastic enlightenment may have once been the uneducated master’s driving force, he now found that it meant nothing to him at all, not when the only reason he really came, the only reason he really did anything these days, was to be close to her.

But damn it! – Margaret had never felt so far away as she did this day!

Scoffing, John spun on his heels and made to escape this pitiable spectacle, but before he had even reached the door, he came to a grinding halt, his whole body, immense form that it was, juddering at the sudden cessation, and there he hesitated, his figure stooped in the frame of the doorway like a menacing spectre.

Margaret, who had been doing everything she could to convincingly feign a lack of concern for his demonstrative movements, found her bleary eyes darting up to the side so that she might secretly watch him. 

What was he doing?

Her heart was beating so rapidly in her chest that Margaret could hardly focus, her whole mind a haze. It was so raucous as it thrashed against her bones, so violent in its laborious pace, that it was a wonder Mr Thornton could not hear her faithful heart call out to him. Margaret was not herself today. If truth be told, she had been at a loss of what to do from the moment she had first discerned his attendance not five minutes before.

 Goodness, had it only been five minutes?

The grieving woman had been shocked to see the master standing there, silently watching her while she wept, that much was true, since she had assumed that he would never come here again, not after everything that had passed between them. It had been an unfortunate ugliness, most of which had been of her own making, Margaret was sorry to say. Mr Thornton, he was an upright man, one who did not look kindly upon those who insulted his highly esteemed principles of decency and discretion. Consequently, what must he think of her, first for sullying them, and then for acting like such a silly little fool for crying like a babe?

How he must hate her.

So, why was he here then?

Margaret felt her heartache in sorrow, the little ball of muscle attempting to hide away behind her ribs, too ashamed in its youthful innocence to face him, and as her most vital organ did the impossible and struggled to flee from its immovable stance, much like a soldier deserting his post to avoid the bloodshed that would surely come, she felt her whole being throb in anguish.

She was no fool. She knew why he was here.

There was only one reason why he would be.

And, God save Margaret, it near enough killed her!

Margaret was about to speak, but to say what, she knew not, and how to put it, she knew even less. However, before she got the chance, the woman who was not accustomed to being muzzled, was in fact hushed by the loudest and most impressive sound that had ever struck her ears.

‘NO!’ came a brash boom, one that was so ferocious, Margaret jumped back, several feet, actually, almost tripping over her skirts.

The air around them seemed to shudder in fright at the clang of the harsh and heavy rumble of his solitary syllable, but then it vanished, the coarse vibrations of his impassioned northern twang evaporating like the roar of thunder dissipating over the stoic hills of Darkshire.

Then, there was nothing, the echo of their beating hearts all that was left to bear witness to this scene.

Licking her lips in a most unladylike way, since all the moisture thereabouts had deserted her when she had involuntarily sucked in her breath moments before, Margaret’s voice vacillated. ‘Excuse me?’ she asked, her oration terribly quiet, the woman all too aware that she had just echoed the same phrase he himself had used in bewildered dismay on that very day of which she could not bring herself to mention.

But her visitor merely shook his head aggressively, his neck fretting that it would topple off its thick perch. 

‘No!’ he repeated, his dispirited manner now bearing testimony to the exhaustion which dogged the worn-out master, his tenor so low that Margaret worried his throat would grouse in scratchy discontent, and it did, for John could hardly stomach saying that word to her, not when every minuscule fragment of his being had been made with the sole intent of serving her. 

Facing away from Margaret, John screwed up his eyes and cussed under his breath, because he knew that what he was about to do would no doubt defame him in her eyes still further, but the devil take him, it had to be said, it had to be done. Gradually, ever so slowly, he turned, and Margaret was forced to clasp a hand to her abdomen just to stop herself from collapsing at the sight of his marred countenance, that handsome face that was so full of affliction that her heart shattered, since you see, she could never endure to see anybody sad, not a single one of God’s creatures, but oh my, how much worse it was when it was somebody you lo ─

…When it was somebody who mattered to you.

John swallowed. ‘No,’ he issued one more time. ‘It is not what I want,’ he proclaimed gruffly, his head lowered so that his heavy-lidded eyes were hooded, the weight of his emotions weighing them down like shutters of lead.  

Then, much to her surprise, John abruptly grabbed hold of a large wooden chair, and dragging it across the floor with no effort at all, he deposited it squarely in front of the door, a partition which he now closed with one resolute swing of his arm, cutting them off from the outside world, just as he had done on that fateful morning only a few weeks before.

Only this time, he would not walk away from her.

Keeping his eyes securely fixed upon Margaret’s face, just so that he might read and study every changing twitch of her unfairly beautiful visage, John lowered himself so that he was seated, and with his elbows resting on his knees, he leaned forwards. 

Margaret tried to catch her breath. ‘Wh─what are you doing?’ she questioned, a curious chill sneaking up her spine and making her tingle. It was thrilling. 

John huffed. ‘As much as it injures my pride to admit it to one who clearly abhors my presence, but you are wrong, Miss Hale, I do not want to go,…I want to stay.’

Margaret gulped.

John eyed her curiously from beneath the obscurity of his depressed eyes, his appearance oddly savage and soft all at once, almost like a wolf who sat at the feet of his Achilles, a beast that could only be tamed by one master.

Why was he doing this, one may ask?

He had his reasons.

If John was right, then Margaret was waiting for her…her…he could not bring himself to say lover, the word choking him like poison. If Margaret’s friend was expected, then surely he would turn up, and in doing so, by falling into the master’s trap, John would confront him and force the cad to take responsibility for what he had done. Do not misunderstand, because the idea of actively assisting another man in having Margaret for his own was something which John reviled more than mere words can express, but he would rather die than see her unhappy. Therefore, if compelling this man to accept his role as her partner was what she wanted, John would have to settle for being her protector, and if marrying that reprobate brought Margaret sincere joy, then God help him, John would be dragging him down the aisle. Not that it would likely make an honest man out of him, but John would be there, always, to make sure her undeserving husband did right by her, even if it killed him to watch, his own desires and dreams destroyed. 

So, in this excruciating interval, while he waited for his rival to come knocking, John had some work to do, and that involved learning the truth from Margaret once and for all, no matter what unpleasant shape or form it took.

John had thought about this, he had thought about it long and hard.

There were only two outcomes.

One, he had been right all along. 

It may be that as much as John loathed accepting such a verdict, perhaps what he had seen at the station had been exactly what it looked like. It was possible that Margaret really had become embroiled with another man, and, either through coercion or affection, she had behaved wantonly with him.

John vomited in his mouth.

But wait! There was another option.

Two, he had been wrong all along.

John had gone over that disturbing scene time and time again, even though it upset him to do so, his mind begging him to stop and give up for the sake of his already unravelling sanity. Every horrendous time he raked it across the coals, he tried to discern new clues and piece together alternative facts, all in a desperate bid to acquit Margaret of her indiscretion. For all he knew, she had good reason to be there, and the bond the master had witnessed between man and woman that night had been friendly and not libidinous, the entire state of affairs harmless. Yes, the hour had been late, their clothing dark, their demeanour guarded, all quantifiable traits which smacked of guilt. What was more, their startled expressions had told him that they had wished to remain hidden and bemoaned being caught, but in reality, the objective magistrate in John knew that all of these details were circumstantial, and none of them necessarily proved that they were doing anything wrong.

John felt the sapling of hope blossom in his breast.

Lost in the all-consuming uproar of his own muddled thoughts, John hardly noticed the way Margaret was watching him. While John had been busy worrying about his own concerns, he had neglected to discern the clout his declaration had cast over Margaret, of how his determination to remain had both frightened and fascinated her.

‘Then stay,’ she whispered at long last, her invitation piercing the stifled air between them, and John’s head shot up. With the edges of his lips jerking upwards, the master felt a tiny sprout of optimism begin to take root and unfurl in his gut, because somewhere in her words, buried deep, there was a slither of something, call it what you will, and it effected upon him the birth of a silver lining in his disillusioned heart. It was something John had never heard Margaret utter to him before, and it was the sound of gladness thrumming the strings of her sweet southern lilt.

Could it be that she wanted him to stay?

John was about to reply, but he paused as Margaret’s eyelashes were doused in a wave of fresh tears, and as she crumpled her eyes tightly shut as if in distress, the prospect of those lovely lakes of mesmerising blue disappearing from sight was nearly enough to make him cry out in protest.

‘Just…please do not say it,’ Margaret beseeched, her teeth biting down on her bottom lip to stop it from wobbling of its own dissenting accord. She said this with a whimper so weak that it broke his heart since John could not stand to hear his valiant girl, this warrior of a woman, so enervated. ‘I beg you, do not speak of it.’

John was dumbfounded.

‘I do not understand,’ was all he could expel, his throat tightening as his head and heart fought each other, his passion and his perspicacity wrestling one another like competitors in a ring, only one of them being allowed to claim victory over him, autocracy over his next actions, their spoils. They tugged him in two conflicting directions, one side judicious, imploring him to stand back and adhere to the manacles of respectability, the other pleading with him to give way to his itching compulsion and go to her, to comfort her, his only fear being that he might smother Margaret with his overwhelming love. Feeling his body convulse under this indecision, John could sense himself shaking, his sagacity now at war with itself. 

John was puzzled. ‘Do not say what?’ he checked. ‘What may I not talk of?’

Love.

‘What do you forbid me to say?’

That I do love.

‘What can you not bear to hear?’

That I am in love with you.

‘Is it…is it what I feel…about you?’ he queried wretchedly, his words tainted with the bitter aftertaste of hurt and humiliation, a disconcerting flavour that was always on his tongue when around her.

And always will be.

And, much to his horror, Margaret nodded.

Chapter Text

JUST FOR ONE DAY
Chapter Five

It was like a knife to his heart.

No! It was like a hundred knives to his heart.

No, no, no, it was like a thousand knives to his heart, and more.

‘Yes,’ Margaret snivelled, the one word he longed to hear her say to him escaping her lips and causing John’s sturdy knees to buckle, since not once in all of his daydreams had he imagined he would hear her say it with such unbearable sadness. His heart slammed against his chest as it tried to break free and go to her, but he had to restrain it, reminding his faithful friend that she had not said yes to what they yearned for, more than anything. In his mind’s eye, she had always been happy, more than willing to say yes to his request to have and to hold her from that day forth.

‘I cannot bear to hear you affirm what you think of me, about how you must feel about me now,’ she went on lamely as she studied the cuffs of her dress, the lace a gift passed down from her grandmama to her own child, and now, it was Margaret’s. Oh, how the inconsolable girl wished it were not, wishing with all her might that these delicate gossamers of white were still sewn upon her mother’s own gown, not adorning her shroud of cheerless black. But no, her poor mama had requested that she wear it today, and so, ever the respectful daughter, Margaret had obeyed. Still, the sight of those carefully embroidered stitches was enough to unpick her own composure and leave it in tatters, each gliding stroke of the material against her wrist felt like the insensitive stab of a sewing needle to her flesh, pricking her veins.

‘I have been dreading it, and even although I know the moment must surely come, now that it is here, I cannot bring myself to face it, so please…’

John was about to turn, to run away, to pretend like none of this was happening, but then suddenly ─ 

‘…do not tell me how much you hate me.’

Not that it is possible, of course, but John could swear, that just for a moment, his heart completely stopped dead in its tracks.

As those nine words hit him, he could feel his eardrums rupture. It was as if a steamy, sticky, suffocating fluid was seeping into his mind and stinging him, waking him up, and for the first time in God knows how long, John realised what he truly had to lose if he did not cast aside his insecurities and uncertainties, and fight for the woman he loved. 

‘Hate you?!’ he spluttered, not caring a fig for how uncouth he sounded, his body whirling round as he stared at her in wild disbelief. 

Margaret merely shrugged her shoulders. ‘Yes,’ she said again without a qualm, her eyes downcast in some sort of forlorn emotion, but which one, a frantic John could not work out.

Dash it, Margaret! Why was she such a mystery?!

Margaret sighed and folded her hands demurely over her stomach, something she often did, and it drove John mad to see her draw unintentional attention to that small spot. It did not bother John when any other lady did such a thing, he barely noticed, but Margaret, she seemed to do it constantly, unconsciously, and it filled him with a fanatical obsession to think that she was emphasising, boasting about, if you will, the very place, the hidden haven where she would one day nurture a much-wanted babe, and that cherished child, much to his despairing woe, would not be his. 

‘I know why you are here,’ Margaret revealed matter-of-factly, her expression once again admirably self-aggrandising, almost as if she were about to challenge him, and John, ever captivated by her magnificence, could not help but feel a bubble of excitement brew within to see her shift from looking so feeble to so gloriously fierce. 

‘You are here to confront me about what you saw at the station that night,’ she went on, and John could see Margaret wobble slightly, her shoulders quivering, the memory of that night clearly also causing her some unease. Keeping his mouth firmly shut, John could not deny it, since that was indeed a significant part of why he had come here, and as uncomfortable as he was to admit it, he was relieved to see her so unsettled by the mention of the matter, something which gave him hope.

However, John’s musings were short-lived, as his contemplations were interrupted by the sound of Margaret’s next quip, her manner bearing the strident bite of a whiplash as she lashed out at him, the latest wave of grief no doubt drowning her and leaving her feeling all at sea.

‘Well I am sorry to disoblige you, sir, but I find that I cannot hear your words of condemnation at this precise moment,’ Margaret told him frankly, not knowing how much the man who was used to telling others what-was-what luxuriated at being mastered by her, a woman so slight, yet so stately, the disrespectful use of the word, “sir,” slipping from her alluring lips causing his red blood to stir indecently.

Then, peering up at him, his soaring stature so much taller than her own, with her pastel features fluctuating between anger and despondency, Margaret concluded, ‘So, please, Mr Thornton…not today.’

John shuddered from head to toe at the sincerity he heard in her tone, this certainty of Margaret’s that he was here to degrade or disown her. Knocked for six, John’s jaw was nearly on the floor, his eyes wide, his breathing irregular, his pulse beating so rapidly beneath his starched shirt sleeve that he felt sure his wrist would burst through the seams. 

‘You think…you think I am here to condemn you, Miss Hale?’ he asked with blatant incredulity.

No! No, he was here to comfort her. But how could it be that she did not kno  ─

‘I do,’ she replied without a second’s hesitation, and John’s ears closed themselves off since he had longed to hear her say those two words together to him with just as much conviction, this wish, something that his humble heart had harboured in secret for so long, almost since the day they had met, and the southern beauty had turned his world upside down. But Lord save him, their purpose had been very different, so sinfully sweet when Margaret had uttered those coupled words in John’s fantasies, the pair of them standing facing one another, hand-in-hand while they smiled like giddy fools, the lady dressed all in white.

After pronouncing this, Margaret’s legs gave way to her sorrow and she sunk down on a chair behind her. ‘What I mean is…,’ she started, before lifting her head and regarding him with a look he had never seen on her lovely face before. It was one of naked inhibition, and by God, John loved her for it.

‘What I mean, is that I am not putting up with your censure today, Mr Thornton,’ she told him sharply. ‘For weeks now, you have been blowing hot and cold. You have either been angry or aloof, and it is exhausting,’ she rebuked, telling him off in that way that excited him through and through, she being the only woman, nay person, who could get away with it. ‘You seem to be forever cross with me and your coldness is more than I can take,’ she said unhappily, her eyes glistening with the misty film of unshed tears.  

The slight grin which had been entertaining John’s lips at the sound of her spirited comportment soon disappeared. 

Had he…had he hurt her feelings?

NO! It could not be…could it?

Could it be that in his need to protect his own sorry self from further heartache, he had in fact harmed this angel? The very one for whom his chaste heart beat? The one for whom he lived and breathed? John knew that he had kept his distance. He knew that he had seen her less, spoken to her less, smiled at her less. But had Margaret, his precious Margaret, taken that to mean…

No! He had been trying to respect her wishes by staying away. He had tried to hold back and not force his attention and affection upon her. It had been her, after all, who had forbidden him to speak of them. But then again, had he just been behaving like a petulant brat who had been denied his treat, his prize, his heart’s desire?

Hmm, John wouldn’t put it past himself to behave so childishly. 

‘I know that I deserve it, God knows I do,’ she acknowledged sadly, staring down at her hands, the absence of a ring there, a symbolic circle which he yearned to place on her slender finger, a sight which engulfed John with disappointment. John’s eyebrow cockled as one of Margaret’s petite hands slipped to her side and patted her pocket, her fingers caressing the black material that poked out, something long but not overly wide, the infernal wonder of what it was driving him to distraction.

‘I…I was not kind to you, I know that, and you have no idea how much I regret my harsh words,’ Margaret admitted timidly, a tender inflection to her voice, and John observed the way her eyes darted to where her hand now rested in calm stillness, covering that same stealthy hiding place. Nevertheless, John had no time to focus on this anonymous artefact, his mind too engrossed by the fact that the woman who had rejected him was now confessing that she lamented over parts of what she had said to him.

Oh! Oh, heck! Could that mean she had changed her mind about saying no?

No, surely that was a hope too far.

But John was denied the chance to ponder this further, because Margaret was not yet done with her speech.

‘I know that I was terribly wrong to say the things I did to you, unforgivably so, and you must believe me when I tell you that I did not mean them! Not one bit!’ Margaret insisted, her wide eyes shining with entreaty as she stared at her father’s favourite pupil from across the room. ‘And I know too that you saw me at the station a week ago, and that must have looked most inappropriate,’ Margaret acknowledged, her cheeks flushed, all the while John’s fist crumpling to recall the memory of seeing the woman he coveted in the arms of another younger and more handsome man, and one who had clearly meant a great deal to her. 

‘I know how it looked, but I promise you, it is not what you think,’ she told him warily, nibbling her bottom lip, that little stretch of skin in danger of being worn away altogether. ‘He was not…we were not…it was not like that.’

John leaned forwards in his seat expectantly. 

He was about to speak, to solicit Margaret to tell him everything, to explain to him who that man at the station was and what he meant to her, for John had to know, all so that she might put him out of his misery, for by God, the truth could surely not be as sordid as the nightmarish imaginings which hounded his subconscious. 

But where to start?

‘Then tell me!’ he found himself saying before he had a chance to consider his words, his tone a pathetic and pleading one. ‘Tell me what I saw,’ he appealed. 

John watched as Margaret wrinkled her nose, the unexpected passion in his manner confusing in the context of this tense interview. She had known he would be angry with her, perhaps even feeling let down by what he presumed were her moral failings and indiscreet culpabilities, but Margaret had not expected that he would behave as if her actions that night had wounded him personally, not when Mr Thornton did not truly love her.

Or did he?

No, no, of course he did not, she was silly for even fancying such a thing. Mr Thornton had asked for her hand, not because he wanted to, but because he felt he had no choice, a strict sense of duty being the backbone of his honourable character. Even although it wounded her pride to admit it, Margaret could guess that he had been relieved when she had said no, his dissatisfaction that day merely a response to her hurtful slanders. At any rate, in light of her ungrateful rebuff, his conduct towards her every day since then had been markedly distant, therefore, how could he possibly love her? Margaret sighed. How could Mr Thornton be in love with her when he could barely bring himself to look at her? 

But then there had been the fruit.

But no, she should not let herself imagine such senseless things. He would not like it. Mr Thornton would not thank her for it. And Lord knew that Margaret did not want to scare him away. She could not allow herself…she would not allow herself to hope.

 ‘I cannot,’ she waned. 

John’s spirits plummeted.

‘Why not?!’ he bit back irritably, folding his arms in a huff.

Margaret squirmed in her seat like a worm on a hook. It saddened her to hide anything from him, it went against every urge she possessed, but deep down, Margaret knew that she should not tell him the truth, not just for Fred’s sake, but his own. How could she claim to care for this dear man if she were willing to put his principles and his position in jeopardy by entangling him in the unholy mess that was her family’s plight? No! It would not do. As much as she wanted to confide in him, it was better that Mr Thornton knew nothing because Margaret would far rather face the iciness of his derision than discredit his character by forcing a crisis of conscience upon him.

‘Because it is a secret,’ she professed. ‘And it is not mine to tell, it is…it is another man’s.’

In an instant, John was on his feet. 

‘Ha!’ he scoffed noisily, throwing his hands up into the air, so high that Margaret was compelled to peer up, wondering whether he was a puppet being controlled by strings concealed in the rafters. ‘You care a great deal for this other man, do you not?’ he tested scornfully.

‘Yes, I do!’ she retorted hotly, the sound of her candid allegiance towards the crook ripping John’s heart to shreds. 

‘Then why is he not here?’ John demanded to know, cross-examining and challenging her like he would a defendant in the stand.

Margaret looked stunned, and for the first time since the day they had met, she looked lost for words, something which threw him more than she would ever know. 

‘I beg your pardon?’ she breathed, since to Margaret, the question was equally unexpected as it was extraordinary. Once more, she was flummoxed by the ardent fury which he seemed to hurl about the room in a fit of self-righteous rage.

Why did he care so much?

‘Where is he?’ John challenged, his arms open wide as his head moved from side to side to explore his surroundings, the master searching about the room theatrically for an invisible presence, the other man of whom he spoke, the phantom who separated them, apparently nowhere to be seen. ‘Why is he not here? Why is he not by your side when you need him the most? If he cared about you, he would be standing before you now,’ John denounced, his itching feet edging closer and closer towards the seated woman.

Margaret’s head drooped, as if the weight of the world rested upon this young woman who found her strength depleted, her will to fight on its last legs. Nevertheless, she had one thing left to fight for, and that was…

Never mind.

There was no point trying, not when he did not want her in return.

‘He would if he could,’ she said gently, a trace of hurt to her voice, because even although she appreciated that Mr Thornton knew not of what he spoke, the facts of the matter being concealed from him, it still pained Margaret to hear her brother disparaged so, especially when she trusted that Frederick wanted nothing more than to be by his sisters side at such a time of grief, all so that they might share in the sacred solidarity that is distinct to siblings. 

‘I know he wants to be here, with me, but he cannot,’ she explained enigmatically. ‘It is complicated,’ she mumbled, embarrassingly aware of how risible her excuse came across.

Once again, John sneered, his reserves of sympathy fast running out. ‘Forgive me, but I do not see what is complicated about it, Miss Hale!’ he judged. ‘This man for whom you risk everything, he is not even by your side in your hour of need. When you require comfort and consolation, he neglects you, yet still, you mourn him?’ John ridiculed, thinking about how on the day of her mother’s funeral, Margaret was bewailing the loss of some unpardonable rascal who did not deserve her, of whom her dearly departed mama would surely never have approved. 

‘He does not deserve your devotion, believe you me. He has deserted you, Marg ─ Miss Hale,’ John corrected hurriedly. ‘And yet, here I stand, willing to offer you my…’

My everything.

‘To offer you my help, and you turn me away like a stray dog. Tell me, woman, is that all I am to you, an undesirable pest?’ John faltered, his throat clogging. ‘Well, so be it, but I am not going anywhere,’ he repeated, sitting down again as he anchored himself into the chair for the long haul. ‘You may not want me, and that is up to you, but that will not stop me being here for you, Miss Hale,’ he declared stubbornly, folding his arms and settling down in a state of impasse.

Margaret blinked.

‘Do you not have places to be?’ she inquired, suddenly feeling extremely level-headed. ‘The mill? The court?’ she surmised, concerned by the notion that he was being held back from his business, all because he was so reliably thoughtful. Margaret knew that he was not here for her, of course he was not, it was all for her father’s sake, but still, the man sitting before her would never know how much she valued his tenacious consideration. ‘I do not want to trouble you…not on my account, Mr Thornton.’

John’s eyes went wide as he eyed Margaret in sheer amazement, still at a loss to how she did not know precisely how he felt about her.

Fixing his regard upon her, his heart spurting at the sight of her doleful gaze, John sighed wearily. ‘I am exactly where I am meant to be,’ he said firmly, his northern burr steadier than she had ever heard it. 

Margaret was not sure of what to make of this unanticipated explanation, but in that moment, something within her changed course, and so, to begin with, she simply nodded.

‘Very well,’ she blurted out. ‘I shall tell you.’

John stilled. ‘You will?’

‘Yes,’ Margaret repeated, more assuredly this time. ‘I will tell you everything about the man you saw me with that night,’ she affirmed. ‘But not today. Today is not the right day,’ she decided, feeling her maternal instincts agitate within as she thought about the lady she had laid in the ground this very morn. Dear mama. Margaret trusted that her mother would not thank her for betraying her baby boy on the day of her funeral. ‘I will tell you tomorrow,’ she promised, resolved that she would do just that.

‘However, I tell you this,’ Margaret resumed abruptly. ‘That man you saw me with, while I do care for him, something I will never disavow, I do not think of him like that. I never could,’ she said adamantly, a slight blush to her cheeks, and in John’s case, he could not help but believe her. 

‘There is…there is only one man I have ever felt that way about,’ Margaret added bravely, her cheeks now scarlet.

John fell back in his chair, and as he combed his fingers through his hair, he tried to take in what this meant. So, there was another reprobate who had stolen her heart, then? 

Hell’s Bells!

Now there were two of them? Curses! John was just about to question his companion, to demand that she tell him everything now in an impatient strop, but as it turned out, Margaret had one final thing to say to him, her concluding words enough to bring this man of formidable strength crumbling to his knees.

‘I cannot thank you enough for your enduring kindness to my mother and father, and believe me when I say that I do appreciate your humanity towards them. Still, as for me, I know that you are displeased with me, Mr Thornton. I know that I have disappointed you. I know that you despise me, even. You have shown me this every day since…since that day,’ she snivelled, her hand once again plucking at the pocket of her skirt.

It was true. He had been so kind. So attentive. So gentlemanly in every way, and she, well, she had thanked him by denouncing him as no gentleman at all.

For shame!

But as genuinely generous as he was, Margaret knew that none of it had been for her,  because if it had, then surely he would have told her.

But it was all her fault, it was all her own stupid fault. So now, how could she ever hope to be worthy of winning the respect and adoration of a man such as he, a master among men like no other, an incomparable gentleman such as John Thornton? 

Oh, for shame.

Margaret fell back against the high back of her chair and there she slumped, her faint body worn out, but this was nothing compared to the fatigue she felt in her spirit, a piece of her which had once been so avid, now shrivelled into nothingness, perhaps never to be nursed back to health.

Not unless…

No, he would not want such a task, for who would want such a vain and headstrong girl as she?

With her head lolled against the cushions and twisted to the side so that her cheek was exposed to him, Margaret closed her eyes. ‘But not today, I implore you. I cannot endure it,’ she said, the sight of her muted crying the most chilling vision he had ever beheld. ‘So for today, I need you to be my friend…please, Mr Thornton,…just for one day.’

After she had finished her speech, Margaret’s head wilted and fell onto her lap, and there, she buried it in her hands, her heart too heavy to carry her burdens anymore. 

On seeing this, something inside of John snapped.

He could not stand it a moment longer, and before he knew what he was about, the master really was on his knees, because without any conscious thought, he had instinctively risen from his seat and come to kneel by her side in one swift movement. There, John lingered for a while, his arms suspended in the air and flailing about like two useless tree branches in the breeze, since he could not determine where to place them, unsure of which fringe of propriety he should land. 

At last, John decided that he did not care, and bending down, he crouched by her legs, his head near her own as it lay flattened on Margaret’s knees, her mood so jaded that she could not bring herself to glimpse up and take note of his astonishing proximity. And as he did this, John’s eyes fell upon Margaret’s skirts, and at last, he saw what she kept there, obscured by maidenly secrecy, and in that instant, it all made sense.

Oh! Good God! Could it truly be true?

Sighing to himself in sweet contentment, John could hardly bring himself to behave like a grown man, his feelings too much like an elated schoolboy on Christmas day. With a grin so broad, it was a wonder his face could contain it, John bowed even closer and whispered into her ear, his hot, feverish breath trembling.
 
‘Miss Hale, I am sorry, but I cannot give you what you ask,’ he informed her.

Margaret moaned, surprisingly vociferously, her body seized by a fit of emotional spasms. Then, all of a sudden, her head whipped up, so fast that she almost smacked John in the face, a few of her hairpins scraping his nose. Staggering backwards, still on bended knee, John was confronted by the sight of his beloved Margaret looking more than a little worse for wear, her cheeks rosy with the stain of tears, her eyes watery, her nose runny, and her pretty lips pouted into a sulk, making it near enough impossible for him not to lurch forward and kiss her there and then for being so intolerably lovely.

‘Why not?!’ Margaret sobbed in fractious dissent, her dispute adorably rebellious. ‘Am I not good enough, even for that?’ she asked, scrubbing at her face with her palm. ‘Have I not earned it? I have served you tea night after night. I have listened to you talk about cotton for hours on end. I have withstood your critiques of my naive southern ways. And I have borne it well, I think, just as well as any other lady could have. So I say, Mr John Thornton, am I not worthy of your friendship, even just for one day?’ she argued, and John found himself beaming with pride as his darling girl challenged him, for he would have her no other way.

After her impassioned speech, Margaret masked her face in her hands once more, only this time, she did not collapse her head upon her knees, but remained sitting upright. John was so dammed in love with her at this moment that he thought he might go mad. Reaching out a shaky hand, John touched her tenderly, first on her ring finger of all places, the initial encounter of his rough dermis against her own silky skin enough to set his soul on fire, so breath-taking as it was. As he did this, John tried to control himself, lest he give way to his tactless hankerings and scoop Margaret up in his arms there and then, such an act not only being inappropriate, but enough to scare his unworldly sweetheart away for good.

Patience, man, patience. 

Cautiously, ever so gently, John cupped her head in his large hands and lifted it so that she faced him, but darn it, it was no use, for she would still not look at him, her eyes tightly closed, Margaret’s shame too overwhelming to dispel that easily. Placing one unsteady hand on her back and the other at the base of her neck, John’s fingers curled around the unfastened locks of her chestnut ringlets, his whole body twitching in pleasure to know her so intimately.

‘Margaret,’ he began, this single word so tender upon his lips that the angels of Heaven themselves could not have composed such a melody, and all at once, she relaxed in his hold, her whole body calming, almost as if it were under his spell.

John took this as a sign from above.

Rubbing soothing circles on her back, John continued in his modest hopes of wooing her. 'Take care.--If you do not speak--I shall claim you as my own in some strange presumptuous way.--Send me away at once, if I must go;--Margaret!'

Then, as carefully as he could, John turned Margaret towards him and laid her head to rest on the secure rim of his shoulder, her tears at once soaking his jacket and seeping below onto his shirt, his clothes as proud as punch at being permitted to be the ones to dry up her sorrows. However, much to his disbelief, she did not fight him, she did not complain, instead, Margaret just allowed him to care for her. It was too delicious to feel her soft cheek against his, for him to wish to see either deep blushes or loving eyes. He clasped her close. But they both kept their silence. At length, she murmured in a broken voice:

'Oh, Mr Thornton, I am not good enough!' she wailed.

'Not good enough!’ he laughed. ‘Don't mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness.'

‘Margaret, look at me,’ John requested after a period of delectable hush. Taking her head in his hands, his thumbs skimming her jaw, he studied her with such warmth of adulation that his muse could hardly breathe. ‘Margaret, I love you,’ he told her simply. 

Margaret panted, an undignified gust of air shooting out of her mouth and causing him to blink as it hit him squarely in the face like a shot of gunpowder. Nevertheless, while Margaret flushed, John merely chuckled, the man just overjoyed to be close enough to her to be assaulted in such a way.

‘So, you see, dear heart, I cannot give you my friendship for one day alone, because as it turns out, my darling, you have my friendship, my fondness, and my fierce faithfulness this day and every day, for the rest of your life, whether you wish it or not, because it is yours,’ he promised her.

John took Margaret by the shoulders as his penetrating eyes trickled into the caverns of her very soul. She was lost to them, floating in an ocean of blue, awash in the bottomless depths of his passion for her. She gasped as she felt his spirit couple with her spirit, and all the emotions of his heart poured from those eyes, gushing through her every string and strand that God had used to knit Margaret together in her mother’s womb. 

‘You…you love me?’ she asked, her hand extending out to touch him, and then herself, just so he knew exactly to whom she referred.

‘Aye, you heavenly creature not of this world, I do,’ he confirmed, brushing his nose against hers before lightly kissing her tip. ‘With all my heart.’

Margaret whimpered and hid her head against his chest, her face burrowing into a nook she found there that seemed to have been sculpted perfectly to welcome her specific shape and size. ‘Oh, praise be!’ she called out joyfully, near enough giggling as she coiled her fingers around the sleeves of his coat, her nails inadvertently scratching him in a way that was more delightful than any human contact John had ever before experienced. ‘I cannot believe it, it is just as I prayed this morning,’ she confessed.

John let out a groan to learn that while he had watched her from afar this morning, fearing that his own burning love would be forever denied, she too had wished for him, although, perhaps not quite as much, because it was impossible for another person to love somebody, anybody, as much as he treasured Margaret.

‘As did I,’ he professed as he nuzzled his head against her own and kissed Margaret’s temple, his lips landing not far from her scar, the wisps of her hair smelling of cherries. ‘As did I.’

Clasping her tight, John gently rocked Margaret in his arms as her crying gradually calmed and ceased. After a while, as he grazed his mouth against her ear, he quietly asked, ‘Tell me, love, is it truly as I prayed? Will you consent to be mine? Will you be my Margaret? Just as assuredly as I am your John and always will be? Please, I must know, will you marry me, will you be my wife?’

There was a brief spell of delicious silence while John’s heart raced with anxious anticipation. Then, all of a sudden, he felt his heart burst with an eruption of pride and pleasure as John heard a low yet confident reply drift into the air. ‘Yes, please,’ she answered.

With that, he pulled her close and wrapped his arms securely around Margaret, determined that he would never let her go again, both man and woman savouring the steady beat of their steadfast hearts.

‘John,’ she whispered.

‘Margaret?’ he responded.

Margaret opened her eyes and she gazed at his masculine breast, her palm lifting to lie against the firm flesh and bone she found there, a testament to the might of this master, her man, but not just in body, but in character too, the woman confident that he would forever be her temple of strength, her source of solace. It was indecent of her to do such a thing, but Margaret did not care, and nor did he, the two of them united now as one, never to be torn apart again.

‘He was my brother.’

Margaret stilled as John did. She could not see his expression to learn of his reaction, but then, as she listened, he let out a shuddering sigh. At long last, when she heard his heart ease and slow to a steady and satisfied pace, Margaret closed her eyes again, relieved to know that he finally knew the truth, and what was more, he had accepted it, just like that, because he trusted her, he believed in her.
Just like she would always believe in him.

 
It was a short while later that Mr Hale, having felt contrite for forsaking both his daughter and friend, quietly made his way down the stairs towards the study. But as he was about to enter the room, he halted, because there, before him, was the most wonderful picture to behold. It was the sight of two very dear young people held firm in each other’s arms, the couple not marred by misery, but hopeful with happiness. 

Lifting his eyes to the Heavens, Mr Hale’s grave face cracked into a soft smile as he thought about his own dear lady, an angel who was now at rest. Well, well, well, this day he may have lost a wife, but in doing so, he had gained a son, a most loving and loyal man to be sure.

Leaning against the frame, the old gentleman exhaled in liberation, reassured to know that the grief of this ordeal had sewn the seed of something serenely beautiful, for you see, death had not won, but life had prevailed, faith had flourished, and the sprouts of love had blossomed, the roots of which, no tempest could ever shake.

His son was safely back in Spain. His daughter was in love. His friend was now part of the family. 

All was well in the end.

And not just for today.

But for every day, for the rest of their lives.

The End

Chapter Text

A FARCE IN THE FAMILY

The thing that you need to know about Miss Thornton, was that she had tried her hand at a great number of things.

That is, she had attempted to become proficient in the art of many diversions, whether that be sewing, piano playing, dancing, poetry, and even reading, but only as a last resort. However, as ill-luck would have it, she had never become truly gifted in any of these accomplishments, in fact, there was a chance that she had left the endeavour in a more sorry state than when she had started. At any rate, this meant that while one could not fault her for her effort, since it was true that Miss Thornton had tried, (really tried), her hand at a great number of things, she had, much to her degradation, failed miserably to become great at even a single one of them.

Nevertheless, fate is never so cruel as to leave a girl entirely without advantage, and while Miss Thornton may have been excruciatingly dire at every art form known to womankind, there was one skill which fortune had favoured her with, and that, was a talent for gossiping.

Call it what you will, blathering, nattering, chinwagging, tattling, but at the end of the day, nobody had a flair for rumour-mongering like she.

Exactly how, why and when Miss Thornton had developed such a skill for spreading scandal, she could not say. Perhaps it had something to do with the rather unfair disadvantages she had been given in life as a member of the underprivileged sex. Yes, yes, her family were affluent and respected amongst their peers, she was well cared for, and she was pretty enough to win the approval of her friends, as well as catch the eye of a worthwhile suitor, but deep down, the young lady knew that somewhere, inside herself, she was lacking. What this furtive deficiency was had forever remained a mystery to Miss Thornton, since she knew it was not something tangible to the touch, making it unduly hard to chase after and secure.

Nevertheless, while she looked about her, Miss Thornton had been discouraged to discover that she was always surrounded by ladies who were more cheerful and contented than she was, or at least, they were on the surface, but as we know, surfaces are shallow. Consequently, because of this jealousy, a weed of resentment had taken seed in her heart from an early age, and now, at nearly eighteen years, Miss  Thornton found that she could hardly bear to see other’s jovial, and so, opening her mouth, she would let her tongue loose, blobs of acid dripping out and burning anybody who displeased her. Indeed, there was nothing that satisfied her more than to see their embarrassed blushes, their glum mopes, or the way they squirmed in their seats to hear her comments which stung at the very core of their insecurities. She knew it was unkind, and yes, at times Miss Thornton felt contrite, but really, what is a girl to do when she has no other forte to fall back on?

However, there was one person whom Miss Thornton liked to tease more than anybody else, and that, was her brother. He brought it upon himself, he really did, for Mr Thornton was so stern, so humourless, so reserved in every way with his boring books and philosophical principles, that she could hardly stand it, she could hardly stand him!

Miss Thornton and her elder sibling did not get on at the best of times, their relationship fraught with a divergence of character and a discrepancy of values. Still, today, the proverbial straw had broken the camel’s back, and matters had become catastrophically worse.

While getting ready to leave the house and admiring her engagement ring as it sparkled in the bright winter sunlight, Miss Thornton had gabbled on, (and on, and on), about how much she intended to spend at the haberdashers this morning as she accumulated all the essential, (not to mention expensive and extravagant), bits and bobs and odds and ends for her trousseau. She had heard her brother grumble and mutter in the background, a noise which did not ruffle her, given that it was commonplace in their home, what with Mr Thornton being perpetually in a foul mood.

However, everything changed a moment later when Miss Thornton casually mentioned Miss Hale. Why she had done so, nobody would ever know, but after seeing the lady the day before and having been obliged to put up with her superior observations about Mr Thornton’s distaste for speculation, as if she knew the man better than his own sister did, Miss Thornton had been peeved, to say the least. As a result, Miss Thornton felt compelled to speak out in rebellion against the haughty Miss Hale. This morning, her remark had really been nothing of note, terribly short and simple, since all she had said was:

‘I hope I do not run into Miss Hale today! She is always so grave and disapproving! I have never met anybody so dull yet so hoity-toity all at once. She is the strangest creature that ever lived. And what right does she have to look down her nose at me? She is older than I. She is not half as attractive, nor as accomplished, and she has not a shilling to her insignificant name. I doubt very much that she will ever marry, for what man would want her for his wife?!’

See, that was not so very bad at all, was it? A trifling reference with the most innocent of criticisms. But still, not a second after this slur had escaped her mouth, Miss Thornton had jumped out of her skin at the sound of her brother’s roar of displeasure, a booming outburst that rumbled throughout the room and even made the chandelier wobble, the tiny dew-drops of crystal trembling.

‘Enough!’ he had bellowed. ‘Don’t you dare talk about her like that!’ the master thundered, soaring to his feet and fixing his sister with the most sinister of scowls, so sour that it could curdle milk.

Miss Thornton had been muzzled in an instant, her eyes wide with fright and her body quaking as she gawked back at her brother from across the way. To be sure, he had always been an irritable grump, but never – never – had he raised his voice to her like this before. He was like a man possessed, an animal even, as he stalked from the room and slammed his study door shut to afford him some solitude, his own formidable figure shaking with a righteous wrath.

Gulping, Miss Thornton had lifted a hand to her chest and caressed her racing heart to quell its flustered palpitating, and then, holding her head high in a show of dignity, she had snatched up her purse, (not that she would be paying a penny), and marched out of the house, threatening to charge a king’s fortune to Marlborough Mills, just to spite her horrid brother.

And that is why, on this day, she had decided to poke the bear like never before.

It was just over three hours later that Miss Thornton returned home from her shopping excursion. Tucking her bills safely away in her coat pocket, she ensured that not one corner of paper peeked out, because even by her lavish standards, the total amount would be enough to make a prosperous banker faint.

Pausing a little way along the corridor, Miss Thornton leaned forwards and peered around the door frame into the parlour, her hat with its voluptuous feather tipping over, the plume nearly touching the floor. With her eyes narrowed, she surveyed the scene, and on seeing her mother sitting at the far end of the table employed with her embroidery, and her brother closer still, his head bent over a series of tedious looking papers, his eyebrows knitted in unease, she nodded to herself.

Excellent, the stage was set.

Standing tall and elongating her elegant figure, Miss Thornton then proceeded to waltz, (for waltz it was), into the room, her nose thrust so high into the air that she could not help but bump into this and that, the corner of a Chippendale dresser bruising her knee.

But flinch, she did not, she refused to, not when she had work to do.

Throwing down her vast collection of boxes and bundles upon the polished table-top, (and these were only the ones she had deemed worthy enough to carry herself, due to their sheer splendour), she let her eyes flit between her kin, eyeing them carefully, cunningly, craftily plotting her next move. Taking up one of her parcels, Miss Thornton put on a display of unwrapping it, the delicate tissue paper scattering down in tufts of shredded material as she tore impatiently at the packaging like an impetuous child. Taking one of her new items, a pair of gloves the colour of prunes and trimmed with grey rabbit fur, she hummed to herself stridently, her head slanting from side-to-side as she admired her new acquisition.

As she did this, Miss Thornton observed her brother squint to the side as his concentration was thieved, and on spying her mound of gaudy trinkets, he sighed wearily and massaged his brow as he felt his head begin to pang at the thought of his sister’s overindulgence, and worse, its cost to his already diminishing assets.

Miss Thornton grinned like a Cheshire cat, her pearly teeth glinting.

Good, she had his attention.

Clearing her throat, she let out a breathy, “haaaaah,” the decibel gratingly airy.

Sensing that her daughter wished to say something, Mrs Thornton glanced up briefly from her sewing, and after shaking her head to see the quantity of nonsense strewn out over her table, every colour known to man staining it in a billowing ocean of silk and satin, she ventured to ruin the quiet repose that she and her son had thus been enjoying and ask her daughter what was what.

‘Well then, what is it?’ she invited, guessing that the reply would be some sort of self-indulgent commentary about how many people had cooed over her ring and marvelled at the number of diamonds encrusted in the bed of shiny gold.

‘Oh, nothing,’ she answered, and all the air in the room was sucked up as both mother and son took in a liberal breath of relief to think that they would be spared a hedonistic annotation of the young lady’s day out, one which would be filled with more sickly compliments and wasteful expenditure than either of them had the patience to stomach, especially after such a meagre lunch, the gravy in a beef roast the ideal means to soak up her gibberish.

However, their celebration at her reticence was in haste, for it had been no more than a baiting ruse.

‘That is…,’ Miss Thornton continued, her tone suggesting that she had something delicious to herald, but whether that be due to its flavour for shame or sensation, they were yet to find out.

‘I heard a rumour,’ she revealed, barely glancing up from inspecting the case of jewellery that Watson had bought his fiancée to match her eyes.

Mr Thornton and his mother both shared an askew glance of frustration, but they kept their mouths firmly closed, refusing to encourage her. All they could hope for was that her hearsay did not involve or implicate either of them.

Again, they would be proved wrong.

‘You should not listen to tittle-tattle, my dear,’ her mother counselled with a sage warning.

‘Nor spread it,’ her brother muttered tetchily, annoyed by his sibling’s flibbertigibbet drivel.

Miss Thornton pouted, but she soon rallied, for she had another ace up her sleeve. ‘I know,’ she countered crossly. ‘But this is different, this is a very curious matter indeed.’

Looking about, the young lady was not at all impressed that the pair before her failed to act the least bit intrigued, the two of them returning to their dreary tasks as if she had said nothing of import at all.

Huffing, Miss Thornton picked up yet another item from her horde of tasteless purchases, this one being a new nightdress of thin lace and taffeta, but the thought of wearing it for Watson on their wedding night was enough to make her insides churn revoltingly, so she discarded it at once, tossing it far away.

Holding back a swell of bile, the woman sniffed theatrically. ‘Well, I can tell you are dying to know, so I shall tell you,’ she prattled. ‘I hear that somebody might be getting married,’ she declared, her pitch emphasising that one crucial word.

Much to her delight, her incitement worked a treat, because all at once, she spotted the way that both listeners cockled their temples, their minds trying to work out what this peculiar piece of news was supposed to mean. Finally, after she could no longer deny that her curiosity had been provoked, Mrs Thornton asked, ‘And what, pray tell, does that mean?’

Smiling to herself with smug satisfaction, Miss Thornton bobbed up and down on the balls of her feet, as giddy as a child with an audience of adult admirers. ‘I was confused myself,’ she admitted. ‘But as it turns out, a certain someone, somebody we know, has been asked for their hand in marriage, and so, they may or may not be saying yes.’

Tired of her riddle that was going nowhere, Mr Thornton groused, once again stooping over his stack of ominous documents, and with one hand covering the ear nearest her, the other seized up his pen so that he might scribble away and study the alarming state of the mill accounts, the absorption of fixating over this concerning task hopefully allowing him to drown out the sound of his sister’s mindless chattering.

Mrs Thornton frowned as she noticed a crooked stitch in the yellow rose she was adorning upon a backdrop of creamy cotton, the very idea of even the slightest mistake in her edging too disgraceful to countenance. ‘And I suppose you are going to tell us who this woman is?’ she pressed, assuming that it was doubtless one of her daughter’s ridiculous friends, the coy girl probably toying with her inane beau and turning him into a wretch of a man as she pretended to delay with her answer and make him sweat while she decided to say yes, something she had intended to do all along.

With a mischievous sneer amusing her lips, Miss Thornton readied to deliver the most thrilling titbit of all, the very thing to change the course of this conversation and give her the attention she so sorely craved. Clicking her teeth, she opened her mouth, allowing her voice to carry far and wide across the expanse of their large parlour.

‘Why, Miss Hale, of course.’

All at once, everything went still and everyone went silent. With her curiosity shrewdly skimming down the table towards her brother under the veil of her eyelashes, Miss Thornton saw his hand halt in mid-air, the pen quivering with inactivity as its holder froze. His expression was hard to read, it was inexpressive in its impassiveness, but behind the mask of unresponsive numbness, Miss Thornton could see the muscles of his strong jaw twitch, and as for his eyes, those fierce slits of transfixing blue, they were awake with horror.

Mrs Thornton dropped her sewing, and as her needle fell, she pricked her finger, a globule of blood oozing and then dripping onto the cold hues of her black dress, a vivid stain of red besmirching her mourning and giving life to her emotions. She had managed to rescue her needlework, the act had been distinctive as she moved it aside and prevented it from being tarnished by this startling drama.

Swallowing, Mrs Thornton tried to regain her composure. ‘Miss Hale?’ she repeated in incredulity, her voice perturbed.

Miss Thornton nodded confidently. ‘Yes! So it would seem. And who would have thought? Just after I had said that no man in his right mind would want her!’ she laughed sarcastically.

Her mother’s eyes swiftly darted to the left to check on her son, but there he remained, unmoving, his mind almost certainly hurtling at a hundred miles an hour as he tried to process the consequences of this most unwelcome news.

‘You had better explain,’ Mrs Thornton advised, determined that the facts of the matter should be verified as swiftly as possible, because, if she were honest, her daughter was not the most reliable of sources, so it could all very well turn out to be no more than utter poppycock.

Sitting down, Miss Thornton clasped her hands and lingered theatrically, as if she were about to begin a ceremonial speech. ‘Well, it goes like this,’ she started. ‘It turns out that in the past few weeks, her father has taken on a new pupil. And, much to everyone’s disbelief, the young gentleman has, quite inexplicably, fallen madly in love with his tutor’s only daughter. Smitten, he has apparently proposed, and in turn, Miss Hale has said that she will think on it. So there, she might be getting engaged, but then again, she might not,’ Miss Thornton concluded, surprising herself with her concise and impressively level-headed explanation.

Even so, the people in the room said nothing, not a peep, all eyes on the only man there, his head still huddled over his papers, his shoulders hunched, his eyes scrunched as the clever brain behind it whirled in chaos, spinning around and around in a devastating hurricane of despair.

Ah, so he had been right!

Damn!

Mr Thornton had been worried of late, very worried. One would be forgiven for presuming that his concerns were limited to the affairs of trade and the gradual decline of his mill’s profitability following the damaging effects of that despicable strike. But, no, one would be mistaken.

The issue that was troubling him more than anything, plaguing him by day and robbing him of his rest by night, was the knowledge that Mr Hale had taken on a new pupil not four weeks previous. This itself was no bad thing, given that the scholar was an excellent teacher, and what was more, he could do with both the company and the financial advantages.

Mr Thornton had scarcely bothered to wonder about Mr Hale receiving another student, it was not his business after all, and besides, he had plenty of cares of his own to occupy his harassed time and focus. Nonetheless, it was a week later, that the Oxford academic had disclosed that he would not be able to invite Mr Thornton for dinner the following Thursday, as per their established routine. The reason was that he was busy that night, his new guest now requesting five lessons a week, although, he did promise to produce a more fair schedule moving forward for the both of them.

Five!

Good Lord! How or why a man should require such excessive instruction was beyond reckoning!

Mr Thornton had been dumbstruck by this puzzling report, and after he had walked home, obsessing over it, his mind analysing every conceivable reason for such extreme attendance upon that obscure Crampton house, he had stopped dead in his tracks, right in the middle of the street, and he had groaned. As a horrifying realisation washed over him, Mr Thornton had quite literarily gagged in distress, the boisterous and most boorish noise affecting any onlookers to jolt and stare at him with both shock and disgust. He had done this because he had reached an unnerving awareness, an unsettling deduction, an upsetting assumption, and the understanding of it had felt like a punch to his gut and groin all at once.

The man was there to see Margaret.

Of course he was, it was obvious, he must be besotted with her, for what mortal man could not be?

Despite having a thousand and one matters to attend to, Mr Thornton had turned on his heel and made his way to his gentleman’s club, hoping that it would be filled with his fellow masters, and if he were in luck, they would not yet be so drunk that they could not be squeezed for some critical information.

With the magistrate in him taking over, Mr Thornton had cross-examined Hamper, Slickson and Watson, requesting to know – no,  ─ demanding to know who this snake in the grass was, this fiend who had wormed his way into the master’s world and was getting close, too close, to the person whom he loved more than life itself.

After an hour of questioning the men to the point of interrogation, Mr Thornton had left in a fit of wretchedness, and retreating into a quiet alley, he had slumped against the wall, closed his eyes, and cursed God for his heartache.

As it turned out, the situation had been far more serious than he had first imagined. For a start, he was definitely not the rogue from the station, so whoever he was, he was a new contender for Margaret’s heart, and if he had managed to win her over so quickly and easily, then by God, he must be exceptional.

The man was twenty-five, younger than he, healthy, good-looking, wealthy, and he was a politician of all things, with not a mention of trade in the family to smear his good name, the jammy beggar. Living in a smart part of town, and with a substantial property nearby in the country with plentiful grounds and gardens (just the sort of home she would adore), it appeared that the scoundrel was no scoundrel at all, but a thoroughly good and generous sort of fellow whom everybody spoke highly of. And what really irked Mr Thornton, what really got under his skin, was that the villain, in his role as a public figure, used his influence to champion the needs of the poor and disadvantaged, doing everything in his power to campaign for their interests, even going so far as to donate large quantities of his own fortune, vast as it was.

Hell!

The man was perfect. He was the perfect gentleman. He was perfectly decent. And what hurt the most, cutting him to pieces, was the knowledge that he was perfect for Margaret.

He was the husband she deserved.

Lost in a sea of misery, drowning in his own hopeless sorrows, Mr Thornton’s legs had given way, and sinking to the ground, he had buried his head in his hands and wailed like a babe. After picking himself up and dusting off the grime of the streets and the grief of his soul, he had made his way home and tried his best not to think about it any more, struggling with every broken beat of his heart to banish her from his mind, not that he could ever hope to do such a thing, because there she lived and always would, his conscience, his darling, his everything and more.

Taking a deep breath, Mr Thornton reared his head, his eyes gradually lifting to meet his sister’s, and the woman had to do everything she could not to shudder at the sight of those soulful orbs screaming out in anguish behind the mist of his splintering indifference.

‘You say…might,’ he checked, his tenor rasping. ‘That is…she might say no?’ he asked, the slither of frail hope in his voice too pitiful to depict.

Miss Thornton nodded firmly. ‘Yes, it would seem she was unsure.’

The courage of optimism flickered in his masculine breast, and even if the light burnt too dimly for the naked eye to see, it was still there, all the same, for hope is hope, no matter how feeble it may be.

Was there a chance for him yet? Was there a chance she could still be his?

Please, God! Do not say that all was lost, because while John could endure losing his mill, devastate him as it might, he knew he would die if he were ever to lose Margaret entirely, being deprived of the wonder of her sunshine for all the days of the rest of his miserable life.

Miss Thornton rearranged herself in her seat so that she might recount another aspect of her tale, her postponement agitating her brother to growl like an angry wolf who was starving, only this time, it was not for food, but for a morsel of possibility.

‘They say that Miss Hale told the gentleman that while she was fond of him…,’ Miss Thornton faltered when she heard her brother groan in protest. Glowering at him, she continued. ‘While she liked him very much, and enjoyed his company, and thought well of him as a friend, she was not sure that she could give herself to him as a wife.’

‘And why is that?’ Mr Thornton urged before he had a chance to think twice of his reckless demonstration of blatant interest.

Miss Thornton simpered and leaned in towards him as if she were just about to tell her brother a most tantalising secret. ‘Because,’ she whispered. ‘She loves another.’

Mr Thornton, who had also been inclined forwards in eager expectation, found himself reeling backwards in his chair in disbelief, nearly falling off it as he thudded against the wood.

‘More!’ he ordered, no longer caring how transparently engrossed he sounded.

Miss Thornton sniggered. ‘I have it on good authority that Miss Hale has already given her heart away,’ she confided, amazed to think that such a sullen creature could even feel a single romantic sentiment. ‘The story has it that she has already been asked by somebody else. He offered to wed her, out of nowhere, taking her by surprise, and declaring most ardently that he was in love with her. However, it appears she said no, but not because she did not care for him, and not because she could not see herself as his wife, but because Miss Hale had been unconvinced of the sincerity of his affections, all because it had been so unexpected.’

Mr Thornton’s mouth was agape as he gawped at his sister.

Swallowing, he insisted hoarsely: ‘More!’ the man hardly able to spit out the word, the appeal coming out as a guttural grunt.

‘Well, I hear that she did not believe in the earnestness of his proposal, all because he had never mentioned any regard for her before, he had never paid her so much as a compliment. However, something had happened, I do not know what, that had prompted him to call upon her, and I think she was indignant, wishing that he would ask her out of genuine love and not out of a sense of duty.’

Mr Thornton could hardly draw breath, his heart beating so fast it would surely exhaust itself and cease to pump, the man dropping dead on the spot from an over-stimulation of anxious excitement. ‘More!’ he whispered softly.

Miss Thornton pursed her lips, baffled by his disproportionate interest, but never mind that, not when she had him writhing in the palm of her hand, and besides, silly she may be, but stupid she was not, and the sister was well aware of how fascinated her brother was with Miss Hale.

‘The only other thing I was told, was that she had since changed her mind and regretted her refusal, her heart now well and truly his and his alone,’ Miss Thornton described, detecting the gleam of exhilaration in his alert eyes. ‘But there is just one problem, you see,’ she said, a curious sadness shrivelling her words.

‘And what is that?’ he asked, almost standing as he raised himself out of his seat in a state of nervous anticipation.

There was a period of unbearable silence while she thought on this, and everybody present held their breath.

‘He no longer loves her,’ came a woeful mutter.

Mr Thornton collapsed back down into his chair. ‘What?!’

‘It is true,’ she contended with uncharacteristic solemnity. ‘He took it all back. He said that his…his…what was it?’ she mused, trawling through her memory. ‘Ah, yes, his foolish passion for her was well and truly over, and that he wanted her no more −’

‘Where are you going?!’ she shrieked, astounded as her brother leapt out of his chair and flew out of the room, his retreating footsteps echoing down the hallway thud after restless thud.

Astonished, both women sprang from their seats and went to stand by the window, and there, they watched as the figure of a man bounded across the mill yard and into the street, his agitated form turning south, before he once again sped away.

There was a moment of understandable intermission while the two ladies recaptured their senses, and then, with a synchronised twisting of their heads, they looked at each other and smirked.

‘Well done!’ Mrs Thornton applauded, patting her daughter on the arm fondly. ‘You were magnificent!’

Miss Thornton chuckled and then reddened. ‘Really?’ she solicited, desperate for approval. ‘Did I really do well, Mamma?’ she had to know.

Linking arms with her daughter, Mrs Thornton led her back to the settee, and there, she picked up her sewing and resumed her stitching of the yellow rose, an intentional illustration, a gift for the young woman her son was no doubt sprinting across town to see.

And about time, too.

‘I could not have done it better myself,’ she praised. 

Now then, you would be forgiven, dear reader, for finding yourself bewildered at this point, and I daresay that is my fault, for you see, I misled you in this little story of mine, because quite intentionally, I left out a scene.

Many pages ago, when Mr Thornton had first quitted the room in response to his sister’s condemnation of the woman he cherished, Miss Thornton had been about to depart herself, full of bitterness for his unreasonable eruption of bizarre emotion. However, she had not got very far before her mother had halted her, and bidding her daughter come sit awhile, Mrs Thornton had disclosed a secret.

Choosing her words carefully, she had delicately related to her child the story of her brother falling in love with Miss Hale, and the events which had led to her rejecting his proposal of marriage, causing the mother to think of her with venomous contempt. With her eyes wide and her jaw nearly on the floor, Miss Thornton had listened in raptured delight as her mother recounted the obliterated destruction of Mr Thornton’s dreams, his desperate longing for marital contentment being denied most cruelly. This had then been followed by a discussion regarding the unexplained incident at Outwood, and then, to add some additional spice to the narrative, Mrs Thornton told her daughter about her own visit to Crampton to confront the young madam who had been brazen enough to snub the most worthy man who had ever lived.

At this juncture, Mrs Thornton had hesitated, and then she explained with pensive unease that after the awkward interview, something had changed. She had seen something in Miss Hale, a deference, a remorse, a genuine disappointment that she was, in fact, herself not named Mrs Thornton, all because of her own senseless misunderstanding of the man who had laid his faithful heart at her feet. The mother had not understood it then, but on returning home, it had hit her! She loved him, truly loved him. And if she loved him, then perhaps, just possibly, there was hope for her son’s happiness yet.

Taking this all in, Miss Thornton could not help but feel guilty. Her poor brother! While she believed that she would never understand him, the woman could at least appreciate that he was a good man. He was honest, honourable, and hard-working, and after years of sacrifice for the sake of his loved ones, her brother had earned the right to be happy, and even more so, to be rewarded with somebody who would love him and share his life by his side.

Speaking in whispers so as not to alert the master in his study, the two women collaborated to bring some much-needed joy to the Thornton family. Colluding, they had both already known about the gentleman who had taken up his lessons with zeal at the Hale’s, and it had not taken either of them long to work out why.

Now, here they had decided to tell a white lie, a fabrication of the truth, for while it was very likely that the man did in fact wish Miss Hale to join him in matrimony, neither of them had any evidence of if and when this question would be proffered.

But one thing was for sure, and that was that Mr Thornton had to stop it from happening.

But how?

What could they conceivably do to help?

After a short discussion, the two ladies had put their scruples aside and their clever heads together, deciding that it was for the best that they would fib to their son and brother, not out of malice, of course, but out of necessity, and hopefully, one day, God would forgive them when he saw the master a merry man, surrounded by his devoted wife and darling children.

It was then that they had hatched a scheme, and that plan in action, you have already witnessed, for it included Miss Thornton going shopping after all, and when she reappeared, she would play the part of a gossip, coolly stirring the feelings of fiery passion in her brother’s heart, motivating him to go to his sweetheart, beg her to be his, and in the end, if it was as they had prayed, Mr Thornton would be engaged by the end of the day.

It was a miracle that he had not seen through their charade, for when and where was Miss Thornton meant to have found out all of this? And in such detail? And who was supposed to have told her? If Mr Thornton had taken the time to really mull it over, he would have realised, the only person who could have divulged his deepest and darkest secrets to his sister, was, in shocking reality, his own mother, and if he had uncovered this betrayal of his privacy, well, Heaven help them both.

Now that their part in this farce was over and done with, both mother and daughter had no choice other than to sit and linger, wondering what would become of their well-intentioned meddling. Nevertheless, thankfully, they did not have long to wait and stew in supposition. Startled by the sound of somebody approaching, they glanced up to see Mr Thornton renter the fold. All at once, they could tell he was different. He was taller, broader, stronger, the frailty that the last few months had inflicted upon him vanquished.

He did not say anything at first, but smiled, a small, confidential, untroubled smile. Then, at last, with his lips curling upwards, and his hands thrust in his pockets like a carefree schoolboy, he cast his eyes to the floor shyly.

Blinking, his eyes brimming with tears, Mr Thornton quietly proclaimed: ‘She is not to marry him after all.’

The two women peeked at each other. ‘Oh?’ they chirped in chorus. ‘And why is that?’

Looking up, he grinned, his face shining with pride and pleasure alike. ‘Because she is marrying me!’ the master announced, his heart full and fit to burst with unadulterated joy to know that he and his beloved Margaret would be man and wife, together, forever.

The End

Chapter Text

HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

Chapter One

It all began one unassuming day on February 14^th, 1851.

There was nothing remarkable about it, the day was proving to be as humdrum as any other that had preceded it that week. However, in spite of the monotony of the morning, John Thornton found himself in a foul mood as he went about his tasks, the foulest that had ever plagued him.

It was not unusual for the master of the house to be out of sorts and afflicted by a dose of ill temper, since such angst was in his nature, intrinsically woven into the very fibres that made up the sum of his being. Nevertheless, he could not deny that on this particular Thursday, he was feeling abnormally irritable.

At first, he sought to blame it on the interim closure of the mill, a temporary and aggravating situation, no doubt, but one which was beginning to get on his nerves. He hated seeing his factory lying empty and the machines sitting still in lethargic boredom. John found that he sorely missed the noise, that constant hubbub of spinners, workers and carts, each toiling away to transform the cotton from buds to strands and ship it off around the country, around the world. It was a clamour that brought him peace, that calmed his soul, and without it, he felt deafened by the silence of inactivity.

But no, that was not it.

He tried instead to account for it by contemplating his recent lack of sleep. John had been unable to rest of late, to find relief at the end of a harassed day by drifting off into an uncomplicated realm of oblivion where there was nobody and nothing to pain him, to pester him, to pressure him. It had been many weeks now since John could say he had enjoyed a night of peaceful and unbroken slumber. Every time his head hit the pillow, he would toss and turn frantically, tormented by a succession of distorted images flitting through his mind of teacups; disobedient bracelets; curled brown hair escaping its clips, rosy lips that pouted when he spoke; a tapered finger brushing his, the sensation of which made him deliriously hot and bothered, as if his skin were on fire. It left him feeling weary when he woke, unable to focus, unable to function, just fixated all day long with wanting to go back to bed, just so he could dedicate himself to dreaming of those entrancing things once more.

But no, that was not it.

He tried to tell himself that it was all down to a bout of mild inebriation. The evening before had been the Thornton’s annual dinner party, during which the master had regrettably drunk rather more than he usually would. It was most unlike him, given that John was not a man prone to gluttony of any kind, but he had felt horribly uncomfortable all evening, his cravat too tight, his palms sweating, his pulse racing, and so, he had perhaps swallowed a mouthful or two more of the flowing and fine wine than he ought. Therefore, it could well be that his displeasure today had been caused by colic of the stomach and a confounding of the mind, knocking his finely-tuned faculties out of kilter.

But no, that was not it.

No, if John were brutally and bluntly honest with himself, he knew the reason for his malady, for his madness, and it was all down to −

‘Will you stop that incessant prattling?!’ John shouted suddenly, his voice rising high into the air and roaring like a lion.

The two women to whom he spoke, and who had been sitting at the other end of the table, jumped in their seats, startled at his unforeseen outburst. One of them frowned, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed her brother with thinly veiled contempt, whilst the other merely covered her mouth with her gloved hand and giggled shrilly.

‘Why, Mr Thornton,’ Miss Hamper squealed, ‘you are such a brute!’ said she, letting out a breathy sigh as she ogled the man who had just reprimanded her with savage uncouthness. He was all muscle, all animal, all master, his colossal form and tempestuous temper enough to make her swoon. How she could drink in those eyes all day, all the while wishing she could thread her fingers through his thick hair and pluck a few to take away for safekeeping beneath her mattress where the snooping maids would not find them.

Fanny Thornton crossed her arms and stomped her foot. ’You can say that again,’ she mumbled, loud enough that her friend heard her quip, but not so loud that her brother could, his wrath so formidable that she dared not poke the bear, especially when he was being so terribly prickly.

John lifted a hand to his temple and massaged it, willing the ache that beset him to go away and never come back another day. He had been sitting at the Thornton’s large dining table for the past hour, trying his darnedest to work through a stack of tedious mill papers, but his cares and concentration had not been on trade, but on pleasure, the most excruciatingly exhilarating pleasure he had ever known. As his eyes scanned the words before him that spoke of dreary bills and complaints about delayed orders, all lacklustre monotonies, his mind had been wandering, thinking of something, or rather, someone, much more pleasing.

With a satisfied smirk entertaining the right corner of his mouth, John had thought of a pair of pretty blue eyes; the flow of an icy dress as it draped over shapely curves; and the swell of plump skin that was pinched and hoisted, as white as unblemished snow. He had been quite happy to be distracted by such teasing images as they floated in and out of his subconscious dreamily, enticing him like a siren’s spell. However, the melodic voice that beckoned him to come hither into her warm embrace, a song that was not composed of a rough northern twang, but a soft southern tone, had been rudely interrupted by the chatter of superficial frivolity.

John had glanced up, as if from a daze, and he had observed his sister and Miss Hamper gawking at him like an exhibit in a zoo, their eyes wide and watchful. He had been furious, nearly soaring to his feet and stampeding off, but he did not move, because he had every right to sit here, and so he would stay, asserting his ground and digging in his heels, tenacity surging through his Thornton veins.

‘I cannot imagine what you are talking about that is causing so much amusement,’ he snarled,  growing tired of their relentless sniggering.

The two women looked at each other and smirked before rising from their seats and stalking towards him, leaving John feeling vulnerable and outnumbered as they drew close and surrounded him like predators circling their helpless prey.

‘Then we shall tell you,’ his sister pledged, not that he was really that keen to find out, of course, but that would not dissuade her.

‘We are looking at Valentine’s cards,’ Miss Hamper told him, waving a collection of overly-trimmed squares of paper in his face and dropping them on his lap. ‘And we were wondering what tall, dark, handsome young man might send one to us,’ she crooned, fanning herself feverishly.

Picking up the discarded items, John sifted through them, and as he did so, his eyes sharpened into tetchy slits of disapproval, not at all impressed with what he saw.

‘What?!’ he sneered. ‘What is this nonsense?’ he asked, scrutinising the mawkish words that were gilded by a crowded frame of fat flowers and equally fat winged babes, a sickening sight of overt sentimentality if he ever saw one.

‘We just told you,’ Fanny sighed impatiently. ‘They are Valentine’s Cards, John, surely even you must have heard of them,’ she mocked, thinking that despite his reclusive and boring ways, her brother could hardly be that oblivious to the fashions of the day. ‘If it is good enough for the likes of the Princess Royal, then I suppose it is good enough for me,’ she told him crossly.

Dragging out the seat that sat next to him and sitting herself down with an abrupt thud, Miss Hamper positioned herself alarmingly near to John, the skirts of her dress billowing about them and covering his thighs like a giant, pink meringue.

‘This is how it is done,’ she started, inclining closer to him as if to spill a secret, and John leaned backwards, desperately trying to escape her, the smell of her excessively applied perfume enough to make him gag. John was a powerful man, one who had no need to be afraid of anyone, but even he could admit that he was troubled by the fanatical twinkle in Miss Hamper’s eye as she let her hand slide along the polished wood of the table and creep ever closer to him.

‘When a man likes a woman, he sends her a card,’ she explained simply, thrusting one of them in his face, her preferred style, in fact, just in case the mill master needed any ideas of how best to woo her. ‘It is sent in secret, for it is not usually signed, and the woman must guess from whom it is from.’

John snorted. ‘And what is the point of that?! What is the point of telling somebody how you feel if they do not even know it is from you? It is ludicrous!’ he proclaimed, returning to his papers and choosing to ignore their childish and girlish gibberish.

Fanny threw her hands up in the air, bored to tears with her stick-in-the-mud sibling, who could no sooner find enjoyment in anything than he could sprout wings and fly. ‘That is not the point, John,’ she snapped. ‘It is about having a bit of harmless fun. It is flirtatious, but within the bounds of propriety. Some courting couples send them, so I am told, but it is the unmarried man and unattached woman who might truly relish such a game,’ she went on.

‘I believe that a man may have many reasons as to why he does not feel able to easily confess his feelings to a woman. Her parents may not approve and their love may be forbidden. He may not be in a position to propose yet. He may be shy. Or he might not even know how she feels about him. It is like testing the water without sending your ship to sea and watching it sink needlessly.’

John whirled round in his seat and was about to respond with a brutal rebuttal, but then he unexpectedly halted and stared at them in a most unnerving way, his mouth agape and his eyes flickering as the cogs turned in his astute mind.

‘John?’ his sister pressed, panicked by his uncanny stillness and manic expression.

‘You say that women like this sort of thing?’ he asked after a while, eyeing the cards sceptically.

The two friends exchanged a quizzical look and then nodded in undisputed agreement.

‘A lady would appreciate receiving one of these? Even a respectable lady?’ he checked.

‘I should think every woman would welcome such marked interest from an eligible beau,’ Miss Hamper answered, fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly. ‘It is extremely romantic.’

John furrowed his brow as he thought, the hairs of his dark eyebrows knitting together. ‘And a man can use it to tell a woman whom he admires how he feels without having to come out and say it publicly? To test how she might feel about him? To ascertain whether or not he may entertain the idea that she too might return his affections before he asks her and potentially makes a fool of himself? In other words…,’ John paused tentatively, his voice wavering with the trembling chords of both doubt and self-doubt.

‘To find out whether he dare hope that she might ever come to love him?’

Again, the two ladies shared a knowing glance and grinned. Then, tilting forwards in unison, they both placed a hand on each of his arms, and gently squeezed in guileful reassurance.

‘Exactly,’ they whispered in chorus.

John swept along the high street like a hurricane, blustering as he went. He had just left his gentleman’s club where he had hoped to gather some useful information from his peers about their response to the strike and to gain whatever titbits of hearsay he could marshal about the rumours that were buzzing through the town about an impending demonstration. John sighed, that was the last thing he needed, a riot at his mill, those hooligans smashing up his property, unsettling the Irish workers, and frightening his sister half to death. Good Lord! The thought of Fanny descending into a fit of hysterics was enough to make him want to give in and offer all his workers their jobs back at double the rate of pay, just to save himself from such an almighty palaver.

However, notwithstanding his best efforts, his fellow masters had been as useless as a lemon lampshade, proffering nothing but jokes and jibes, each sloppy remark delivered amidst a symphony of burbs as they drank and ate themselves under the table. They had all been too preoccupied with their distasteful brandy, cigars and women to heed John’s words of concern and warning, so he had left under a cloud of frustration, none the wiser, his precious time wasted. 

Marching back towards Marlborough Mills, all a disheartened John could think about was how discouraged he was. The mill was closed, he was not producing anything, his workers were being unreasonable, his customers were growing increasingly displeased, and yet, all he could think about was her. He found himself wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking, what she was wearing, and the contemplation of each brought him immeasurable fascination and a sense of comfort and contentment as he prowled the streets of Milton in his restless state of agitation. She was like a soothing tonic for the storm that raged inside him, but then again, she was the storm, the very thing that had whipped his heart up into such a frenzy of foreign feelings.

It was as he was strolling past Fordlow’s, that something caught John’s attention as it dashed past his peripheral vision, dancing impishly across his mind’s eye. Halting, John retraced his steps and came to stand before the window, being sure to take a well-measured step back so that he could inspect his findings properly.

With a shrewd gaze, he spied an assortment of cards displayed handsomely in the window, each one propped up on its own pedestal of white wood, giving an air of wholesomeness to it all. Each card was different, unique with their distinct fonts and flourishes. He let his gaze train over them appreciatively, then finally, he paused as one arrested his interest. There, in the corner, was something rather lovely. It was a small card of modest ivory, adorned with a simple yet sweet arrangement of yellow roses decorating the fringes like a trellis. But best of all, in the middle, were two hands, a pair that held each other in an eternal embrace, never having to part, never having to let go.

John looked about him warily, his combing glare hooded by the brim of his hat. The street was busy, but everybody was minding their own business with their heads bowed low against the winter wind or turned away from him as friends and family talked as they walked. Peering into the shop, he saw too that it was miraculously deserted, the owner being the only other person there. Gulping, John decided to act now and seize the day, so off he went, letting his feelings rule his reason for the first time in his life.

Mrs Thornton was sitting quietly in her parlour and sewing when she heard the heavy front door open and close with an ear-splitting bang. Nodding her head, she knew exactly who it would be, for there was only one person in the house who could affect such a ruckus with their strength.

‘John?!’ she called out in surmise. ‘John? Is that you?’

The mother had begun to wonder about her son, not worry, just wonder, because he ought to have been back by now. He had said himself this morning at breakfast that his day would be laboured with undertakings, yet despite his lack of leisure, he would go to his club to speak with the other masters and try and glean as much insight into the tide of affairs in the town as he could.

Snorting, she had said that there was nothing negligent about spending his time in such a way, but what was wasteful, was squandering it by going to the Hale’s tonight. He had no need to do such a thing, he did not require their company, good opinion or support, so why bother with them at all, especially when he was so busy?

Nonetheless, her son had merely glowered and asserted with a terse reply that he would be going tonight, there was no disputing it, and so that was that. Nevertheless, when he had left, he had assured her that she should expect him back soon from his errand, as he had no intention of staying there a moment longer than necessary with that dissolute bunch of buffoons.

However, as the clock ticked away, the mother had noted that time was hurrying along, and with every chime of the quarter-hour, John had not yet returned. She was not his keeper, he was a grown man who could go where he wanted and do what he pleased, but all the same, his absence was unsettling.

That is why Mrs Thornton had breathed a weighty sigh of relief when she heard his firm footsteps tread along the corridor, heralding his arrival at long last. She was about to ask where he had been and what had kept him so long, but before she had a chance, he had skulked into his study and closed the door behind him, barring her and everybody else from the privacy of his solitude.

Sitting in their parlour with nobody but herself for company, Mrs Thornton had been smothered by the oppressive air of silence that had enveloped her, but every now and again, she could have sworn that she heard a tapping. It was a strange noise, a repetitive, continuous, irritated rhythm, almost like a foot or a pen was drumming with impatience. She then jerked and nearly stabbed herself with her needle when she heard what sounded very much like books being hauled from a shelf, tossed onto a table, and then flung open. She could hardly fathom it. John was usually so careful with his books, so it made no sense that he should treat them with aggression now.

All of this in itself had been odd, but what had really thrown her, was that not twenty minutes later, John had emerged once more from his study, and with a resolute step, he had funnelled back down the passageway and towards the door. In normal circumstances, she would have thought nothing of this, but the mill was closed, and all his papers were in the house, so where-oh-where would he be off to now?

‘John?’ she had shouted with mounting concern. ‘John, what is the matter?’

‘I have to post something,’ was all that he said in frank reply, and with that, he was gone again, as suddenly as he came.

Chapter Text

HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

Chapter Two

It so happened that the 14^th of February coincided with John’s usual night for attending the Hale’s for his weekly lesson, and so off he went, only now, he had a further reason to take him there, a private and personal one that hastened his step, his feet itching with anticipation.

When he arrived, his keen eyes had searched every tabletop in sight to try and ascertain whether his card had arrived. However, much to his dissatisfaction, every surface appeared to either be scattered with nothing more than books and irrelevant papers, or worse, laid bare, tidied as the recently varnished wood gleamed proudly in vacant orderliness. There was a chance, of course, that it was delayed, as he had only sent it this afternoon, but he had paid for a speedy delivery, and as a man who always got what he paid for, he felt sure it should have come by now.

It was not until the lesson had concluded, and the small party had taken to their usual seats dotted around the Hale’s parlour to partake in tea and conversation, that John spied what he was looking for. Sitting across from him, Margaret had collected up a stack of letters which must have arrived by the evening post, and so she commenced sorting through them, giving herself something to do, because just like John, she was not one to sit idle. There could easily have been six or seven missives tucked away in a neat pile within her elegant hands, each one of no interest to him, but then he spotted his card hidden amongst them, awaiting her touch, awaiting her opening, prayerfully awaiting her admiration.

It was hard to miss, his card, that is, because the envelope was a deep shade of red. John had deliberated for some time about which colour to select, given that the alternatives before him had been ridiculously and excessively vast. Wasteful, even. There had been the option to have something cream, and being a serious man with sober tastes, he had at first deemed this an appropriate choice, but then he had hesitated, and his eyes had fallen upon the hale and hearty ruby hue. He knew that red had connotations of vulgarity, being associated with wanton women, and that was most certainly not the image he wanted to promote, not when he was attempting to court an innocent young lady who had presumably never so much as been kissed before.  

Nevertheless, there was something about it which had lured him, and John had realised that far from being inappropriate, red was perfect, because it was the colour of passion, of power, and of the blood that flows through the veins and stirs a man, erupting from his heart, the very epicentre in John which had lain in lonely dormancy for years, but now, it was awakened, roused to life by her. Indeed, there was no better way for Margaret to be introduced to the ardour of his feelings than by the nuances, the sciences, of colour. Besides, the shop bell had rung, announcing the arrival of another customer, so John had felt obliged to make his decision fast so that he could avoid being observed by a prying audience, and so that had been that.

John could feel his brow begin to swelter and sweat as Margaret noticed the curious envelope that differed from the usual nondescript items in her clasp. Cocking her head, she selected it, and then her eyes immediately widened in surprise as she read to whom it was addressed. John sensed his throat constricting like the viper of dread had him squirming in its clutches. Oh, help! She wasn’t going to open it here, now, in front of people, was she? That had not been his intention at all when he had imagined her reading it undisturbed and undetected, savouring every carefully chosen line and trying to understand what they meant, of what they revealed, of how they defined what she had come to mean to him in so few words.

With a giddy glint in her eye, Margaret ripped it open impatiently, taking out the card with one, clean swipe, her wayward bracelet clanging against her wrist. But alas, John was unable to gauge her reaction, since at that precise moment, Mrs Hale entered the room, stepping right in front of him like a blockade. All at once, John and Mr Hale stood and nodded to her in gentlemanly greeting, and the genteel lady smiled back and swept past them regally, reminding him of another woman who was equally, if not more, majestic. John had not had the pleasure of Mrs Hale’s company in some time, what with her being ill, or a lady of low spirits, as his mother would say, so he felt it only correct that he pay her due deference. Nonetheless, as gracious as the mistress of the house was, her timing left a lot to be desired.

As she strolled across the room with a dainty tread, Mrs Hale noticed her daughter sitting quietly in a corner with her head bent low in contemplation as she clutched onto something and focused on it with unwavering concentration.

‘Margaret, my dear, what do you have there?’ her mother enquired as she lifted the corners of her skirts and lowered herself into her seat with seamless grace.

Margaret was startled, having forgotten she was in company, causing her to drop her card on the floor in a fluster. Thinking quickly, she lifted her foot and deftly hid the item beneath the folds of her dress, hoping that by doing so, it would disappear into thin air, almost as if she were a magician, the card her rabbit.

‘Oh!’ she cried breathlessly, her eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a bird. ‘Nothing, Mamma, nothing,’ she fibbed, filching up her correspondence and tucking it under a cushion at her side with impressive sleight of hand.

John grumbled. Nothing, was it?!

Mrs Hale eyed her daughter charily and then narrowed her left eye with the knowing wisdom of motherhood, for her maternal senses were tingling. ‘I see you are blushing, my pet,’ she said, aware of Margaret’s tell-tale signs of embarrassment. Her daughter had always been the same, ever since she was a babe, teetering about on her wobbly legs. Whenever Margaret had been caught getting up to mischief, she had always blinked and blushed, and nothing had changed now that she was nineteen.

‘Do tell,’ her father invited as he assessed the variety of fine cakes that sat before him, their fluffy creams and sponges too mouth-watering to refuse.

Margaret sighed loudly in defeat, and being the dutiful daughter that she was, she rose from her chair at once and went to hand her curious message to her mother. As Mrs Hale examined it, her lips pursed, and Margaret began to nibble at her thumbnail nervously, awaiting her mother’s verdict.

‘What do we have here?’ her mother asked quietly, a distinct tone of disapprobation to her voice.

The daughter shuffled uneasily and folded her arms, but not before a single hand rose to her neck and scratched at a rash that was beginning to itch with a red flush. John observed this, and he himself reddened to think that all he wanted to do at that moment was press his mouth to that patch of skin so that he could cool and calm the hot prickling of her flesh with his moist, virgin lips.

God help him! What was happening to him? Ever since last night, since he had seen her in that dress, and his eyes had been permitted to fall upon her perfect porcelain skin, permitting him insight into those nooks and crannies that had previously been denied his approbation, all John could do was think about touching her. He knew it was wrong, but at the same time, he was not sorry in the least. He had no wish to possess her, to spoil her, but just to hold Margaret close and let his hands travel over her with gentle exploration, because he had never known a woman before, but oh! – how he wanted to know her.

John had never felt this way before, but now, his fingers ached for her. It had happened after they had held hands last night, and his skin was forever scarred by the beauty of her, doomed to eternally shiver for Margaret’s touch in devout worship. Now he had no choice but to accept that every slight move Margaret made both fascinated and frustrated him in turn, and John knew that would never change.  

‘I believe it is called a Valentine’s card, Mamma,’ Margaret confessed. If truth be told, the young lady understood next to nothing about the concept, but she had seen them in a shop window over the past few days, a gaggle of girls always to be found loitering outside and tittering over them. She had laughed to see the mothers shooing their daughters along and the mistresses chasing after their absentee scullery maids, the hoard of women taking up the high street with their copious starched petticoats and making a tremendous bruhaha with their belligerent squawks. Perhaps if they had not made quite such a fuss, then Margaret would not have been minded to notice or care.

To be sure, only this very afternoon, Margaret’s green curiosity had been piqued when she spotted a tall man in a tall hat through the glass standing by the counter purchasing a card, presumably for his sweetheart. Margaret had considered this rather lovely, and she had wondered whether a man would ever buy such a keepsake for her, or whether she was too plain to merit one. However, she had not had the chance to watch him further or ascertain his identity, as Dixon had then appeared, as if from nowhere, with a burden of brown parcels to thrust into Margaret’s arms for her to carry home.

Mr Hale, who was preoccupied with eating an appetising treat of lemon, made a strange sort of noise that may have denoted interest, but it was hard to tell amidst all his munching. ‘I did not know you were courting, Margaret,’ said he, assuming that he had either forgotten the fact, or what was more likely, it had been a secret between ladies, that until now, had remained surreptitiously between his wife and daughter.

Margaret let out a peeved, ‘huh,’ of exasperation. ‘I am not!’ she contended, as if the very idea were an insult. ‘I would have told you.’

‘Then who is it from? It does not say who the sender is,’ her mother questioned, turning the card over again and again as she studied it for clues. She had speculated that it might be from Frederick, as a gesture of sibling fondness from a brother to a sister, but no, she would have recognised his handwriting, particularly given how written correspondence was the only way the poor mother had been able to speak to her son for these many years.

‘I do not know,’ Margaret confessed self-consciously. She so hated to imagine that her parents thought her immodest, that she had been conducting a relationship with a man behind their back.

‘Then what can a fellow mean by it?’ Mr Hale laughed, shaking his head at the twaddle of it all.

But now, it was John’s turn to pipe up. ‘It is a declaration,’ he said, his words sudden and sharp in their abruptness, causing everybody to gawk at him in surprise. ‘It is a chance for a man to tell a woman how he feels in a more private, poetic way.’

‘Well, it seems bizarre to me,’ Mr Hale chimed in, selecting another one of Dixon’s scrumptious delights, this one being drenched in icing, his absolute favourite. Picking up a book, Mr Hale began to flick through the pages, planning his lesson with John for the following week, his attention already waning, but not before he made one final comment. ‘I should think that if a man loved a lady, he would simply say so.’

John felt his pride well and truly wounded. ‘Perhaps it is for those who feel shy, who feel like they do not know how to speak to a woman, men who are afraid to make their feelings known for fear that they will make a hash of it and be rejected,’ John argued in defence of the whole sorry and stupid thing.

He would be lying if he said he had planned as far ahead as proposing to Margaret at this point, but John felt positively sick at the thought of how ill-prepared he would be, come the time. All he could hope was that no writer was at hand to pen his appalling avowals into a penny dreadful, and knowing his luck, his clumsy confessions would be read and reread for hundreds of years to come by people who could find nothing better to read.

‘Men can be bold in many areas of their life, they have to be, but when it comes to affairs of the heart, they may feel untrained, unqualified, leaving them unsure of themselves, at a loss of what to do or say. It can be − I mean, I imagine, that it can be a very helpless feeling.’

‘That is all very well, I dare say,’ Mr Hale mused, ‘but how is a woman supposed to respond and reciprocate if she does not even know from whom the card was sent? It leaves her wholly in the dark.’

‘That is true,’ John admitted, realising his own folly. It was a fair argument. What was the point of sending a woman a love note if she had no notion from whence it came? Surely a man would still need to confess his part in it all and affirm his feelings if he wanted her to know the truth. So at the end of the day, was he not just making more work for himself by not being direct with his declarations in the first place?

‘I see what you are saying, but have you considered that it allows a follower to find out whether a woman is open to the idea of accepting a suitor at all, no matter who the man might be? If she is, if she is ready to contemplate marriage, that gives him hope. And if she can guess the identity of her admirer, that gives him further hope, still, for she will be unwittingly conceding that she considers him a contender for her heart. And if she welcomes this knowledge, if she wants him to continue in his pursuit of her good opinion, then that surely must give him the greatest hope of all,’ John said with animation, his heart pounding to envisage such a glorious outcome. He could just see her, standing before him, all soft and coy, holding her card, and perhaps if he were lucky, reaching out her hand to him, offering it as a token of affection for him to hold dear and cherish always.

Margaret, who had been watching him in silent captivation, raised her eyebrows to John suspiciously. ‘You seem to know a great deal about this subject, Mr Thornton.’

The mill master scowled and blew through his nose like an angry bull. ‘I assure you that I do not,’ he bit back, a black cloud darkening his features. ‘It is my sister who is the expert on the matter. I am merely repeating what she has said of it.’

‘Well, I do not think it right,’ Margaret pronounced, finally offering her ruling to the group before her, and John’s heart sank, so fast and ferociously that one would think she had tied a sack of rocks to it and condemned his hopes to the bottom of the ocean.

Elevating her chin haughtily, she went to retrieve the card from her mother. It was hers, after all, so she had every intention of claiming it back. John worried for a moment that she was about to toss it into the fire, because she strolled towards it with premeditated steps, but no, Margaret merely came to a stop and stared at the hearth, the flickering flames inciting her eyes to dance.

Mrs Hale bobbed her head from side to side in vacillation. ‘I am not so sure. I received one or two of these when I was a girl,’ she disputed. It was true, the young Miss Beresford, a lady who had attracted the attention of many an eligible beau, had indeed accepted more than one card of this nature from interested parties when she had first entered into society. However, Margaret was different. She was a sheltered girl,  she did not know any men, so who on earth would be sending her such a thing?

Sensing Mr Thornton’s discomfiture, Mrs Hale thought it best that they stop talking about this imprudent matter in front of him forthwith. He was a peculiar man. In one sense, he had such a presence. He was so large, so prominent, that he dominated the room, especially when said room was terribly small in its proportions. Yet, at the same time, he was unobtrusive, and reserved, and so, she often forgot that he was even there. Not only that, but Mr Thornton seemed to fit into their lives effortlessly, and he was here so often, not to mention that he was infinitely thoughtful in his friendship, that Mrs Hale often overlooked the fact that he was not family. But still, it would not do to talk of such things before him, for not only was it unsuitable, but Mr Thornton could hardly have any interest in such an immaterial issue as Margaret’s secret suitor. However, right before she was about to deliver a remark that would shift the conversation in an entirely different direction, her husband interrupted, most unhelpfully, as it would turn out.

‘Why do you not think it is right, my dear?’ her father asked, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his aching tummy, that third delicacy being an indulgence too far for his stomach to stomach.

Mrs Hale grumbled. Men! They had a habit of keeping quiet when you needed them to speak and then speaking when you needed them to be quiet.

Margaret was silent for a while as she thought about this. ‘Love…not that I know anything of it, ‘ she clarified hastily with a nervous dip of her head, ‘should surely be honest. This may be romantic,’ she advocated, holding up the card as if it were a piece of evidence in one of John’s courts, ‘it may be somewhat fun and flirtatious, but it is not right. If a man cares for a woman, he should tell her, openly, and in no uncertain terms about how he feels. For you see, how can one expect openness in marriage, if one cannot be open from the very beginning?’

John was not at all satisfied with this unworldly assessment, especially given the fact that Margaret was entirely right, and what was worse, her judgement served to criticise his own rash actions in this case, and that stung him bitterly.  ‘What if he does not have the words? What if he does not know where to start? Not everybody has your self-assurance, Miss Hale. Perhaps you should teach a class in such things, then there would be no need for a man to send a card at all.’ John knew he was growing increasingly immature and petulant by the minute, but she could do that to him, get under his skin and into his head, driving him to distraction. And what was worse, he liked it!

The young woman whipped round to face him, and standing tall and towering over him as he sat, (a disconcerting occurrence to say the least), Margaret swiftly batted back his claim with a certainty of conviction, her composure and confidence leaving John in awe.

‘If a man is unsure of how best to express himself, he should keep it simple. Not all women admire pretentious declarations that may be ostentatious in their presentation, but are disappointingly hollow in their substance. No, some women prefer straightforwardness and sincerity,’ she rebuked. ‘At any rate, regardless of what you say, she will hear through his tongue-tied speeches and heed the earnestness of his sentiments all the same. Faint heart, Mr Thornton, never won fair maiden,’ she reminded him, and John felt duly humiliated.

‘Agreed,’ said her mother, forgetting her earlier scheme to deviate from the topic, her daughter’s speech galvanizing her. ‘But we must ascertain from whom it is from,’ she insisted, giving her husband a telling look. ‘We cannot have your reputation put in jeopardy by the mystery of it, Margaret.’

John was feeling wretched. He did not know what he wanted to transpire. Half of him wished that they would hurry up and guess he was the sender, no matter how mortifying the initial awareness might be, the three of them judging him as a suitor, appraising his suitability to be Margaret’s man. He had sent the card because he wanted the opportunity to express his growing feelings for Margaret, and so, did it not make sense that there should be some revelation, that she should come to realise who her admirer was? Yes, an impatient and impulsive part of him wanted her to know, but at the same time, the discovery of his affections was the very worst scenario he could contemplate.

For a start, she had made it abundantly clear that she did not approve of the card, yet whether that be the demonstrative sentiments it contained, or the secretive manner in which it was offered, or indeed, both, John was not sure. What was more, her mother had just mentioned something that he had not even considered, much to his shame. It had not occurred to John that the obscurity of it all might damage Margaret’s blameless reputation in some unintentional way. Even now, her parents suspected that there was more to this than their daughter was telling them, that she was disguising the truth about what this all meant. And then what if word of this spread and people believed her to be immodest? John was furious with himself. He, a man who was notorious for his meticulous cognition, had allowed himself to become so blinded by infatuation that he had acted in restless irrationality. To be sure, far from flattering Margaret, he had likely offended her, injured her, even, and for that, he should be strung up with the string of Cupid’s damn arrow. Not only that, but he found it disheartening to realise that none of them had even considered it could be him, confirming once and for all his deepest fear, and that was that John Thornton would never, could never, be good enough for Margaret Hale.

‘Do you really have no idea who could have sent it, Miss Hale?’ he asked unexpectedly, desperate to draw out of her even the slightest degree of hope that signified that she thought of him in the way he thought of her, constantly, fervently. ‘Nobody comes to mind at all?’

‘I do not know,’ Margaret said reluctantly, puzzled by his interest. ‘It could be a lark. Perhaps Edith? Or it could be that the Captain felt it right to send me one as well as his wife as a mark of friendship. Or it could be…Henry,’ she whispered.

Margaret had wondered at first whether it had been Henry when she had first read the card, but she had soon dismissed such a notion, since Mr Lennox, as affable a man as he was, could never be described as romantic. John had been the only one to overhear this last remark, and as his ears twitched, the tips turned scarlet in fury.

‘No, it would not be the Captain, he is not the type. It is a man from Milton, I wager,’ Mrs Hale surmised, leaning closer to inspect the postmark. ‘Could it be young Mr Whitehall from down the street? He seems rather taken with you.’

Margaret laughed fondly, picturing the dear young man along the road from them. Mr Whitehall was as pleasant as they came, a little wet behind the ears, but kind and temperate. However, Margaret felt sure it was not him. He was only a few months older than she, not that such a thing mattered, she supposed, but it did not sit right with her intuition. There had been something almost revering about the card, the indent of the ink suggesting that the writer had used a degree of force to pen their words, implying an intensity of purpose and meaning. This had been written by a passionate man, not an average one. No, it occurred to Margaret that Mr Whitehall possessed neither strength of body nor of will, so it would be unlikely to be him.

‘Oh, no!’ she said dismissively. ‘I should think not.’

It was Mr Hale’s turn to guess. Mr Hale was not usually one to partake in such trivialities, but for some reason, the heat of the fire and the lateness of the hour had made him livelier than usual, affecting an energy in him that his wife and daughter had not seen since their relocation to Milton.

‘And what of that man at the dinner party?’ he proposed. Mr Hale recalled the distinguished chap who had been at the Thornton’s gathering the night before. He had recently acquired a mill in the neighbouring town, and if the father’s memory was not failing him, then he had been sure the gentleman had spent a significant amount of time talking to his daughter. His wife would not know of it, of course, given that she had not attended, but he knew who would possibly remember.

‘John? Mr Hale ventured, bringing his friend into the conversation as a key witness. ‘What was his name, Armitage, no? Do you remember him?'

John growled under his breath. 'Aye, I do...unfortunately,’ he snarled.

How could he forget? The slick git who had monopolised Margaret’s attention for half the evening. John had wanted nothing more than to get her alone and talk to her, to apologise for his harsh remarks at the table and reassure the benevolent young lady that he was not a hard-hearted beast, but a man of feeling, somebody who was capable of compassion, even if his austere mannerisms said otherwise. He had wanted to compliment Margaret on her appearance, on her courage for standing up to him in his own home, to tell her how much he admired everything about her.

Nonetheless, John had been forced to stand back and watch as the annoyingly handsome and ingratiating Mr Armitage had managed to weasel his way to Margaret’s side and steal her away. John would not have minded so much, but it had irritated him beyond belief to see the way she had hung on his every word, her roseate lips parted as she laughed and joked with him, her eyes sparkling as she drank in his intoxicating company. That had hurt more than he could say, because she never looked at John like that, never, and no matter how hard he tried to coax a smile from Margaret, it never seemed to work, and she always ended up being more dissatisfied with him than ever.

And what was worse, was that the rogue was clearly not a man of honour, since he repetitively eyed Margaret with a licentious gaze that raked over her body every time she turned away from him, and it had taken all of John’s self-control not to call the rascal out and punch him squarely in his chiselled jaw. Oh, yes, John remembered him all right, it was forgetting him that was the problem.

'Margaret, what say you?’ her mother called, stirring John and recalling him back to the present. ‘It sounds from what your father was saying that you and this man were talking for some time that night,’ Mrs Hale repeated, more than a little irked that she had not been told about this already because if there was an eligible man keen on her daughter, she ought to know so that she could facilitate the furthering of their acquaintance if she deemed it advantageous to do so.

Margaret looked uneasy as she thought back to the night before and to the man whom they were discussing. She remembered him well. At first, she had liked him, very much so. He had been attentive, interested in what she had to say, sympathetic to her points of view, and there was no denying that he was devastatingly handsome. Nevertheless, there had been something smarmy and false about him, and despite her naivety, Margaret had not felt comfortable in his company. She had been sure that she had seen Mr Thornton lingering close by and watching them, and so she had turned to catch his eye more than once, hoping he would come to her rescue and whisk her away, but he never did. In the end, she had been glad when Fanny Thornton had marched in front of her and both demanded and dominated the man’s attention for the rest of the night, allowing Margaret to make her discreet escape.

Recalling all of this, Margaret shook her head decidedly. ‘I should not think so, Mamma. I mean, why would he send me such a thing? I hardly know him, and I do not think we would suit each other,’ she said honestly.

Then again, she did wonder. The card had yellow roses on it, her favourite, but nobody in Milton knew of this other than Mrs Hamper. The ladies had been talking last night at the party, and when they had been discussing table decorations, Margaret had been asked what her preferred flora was, to which she had said roses, yellow roses, like the ones she had left behind in Helstone. She had only told Mrs Hamper this, there was nobody else privy to their exchange, but then now that she thought about it, Margaret remembered that there had been a group of men standing not far behind them, talking about the strike, and who was to say that Mr Armitage was not one of them?

Still, it did not feel right. The card contained fondness, even she could tell that, as inexperienced as she was. There was not only the roses, but the passionate tone of the envelope, a detail which had not eluded her attention. Then there was the indentation of the writing, as already noted, not forgetting the way in which her name had been embedded into the page, almost as if the author’s hand shook with fervour when he wrote it. But most of all, there was the poem, and something about it told Margaret that the man who had sent the card had not done so in jest, nor as an act of mere friendship, but as a sign of true and loyal affection.

Mr and Mrs Hale looked at each other as they pondered where to go from here. ‘Well, I cannot think of anybody else, can you, Margaret?’ they asked, shrugging their shoulders.

Turning to face the fire once more, Margaret held the card close to her breast and ran her fingers across the delicate lace, her pinkie tracing the bold letters which etched the sheet so earnestly.

'No,’ she said at last, ‘I cannot think of anyone.'

As Mr Hale sat down on his bed and pulled back the covers to slip between their silky comfort, he grinned nostalgically.

‘Do you remember when I sent you a card, my love?’ he asked aloud. ‘Many, many moons ago.’

Mrs Hale was sitting at her dresser brushing her hair, the number of grey strands that had emerged over the past few months too alarming to contemplate.

‘Yes, my love, I do,’ she reminisced, ignoring the sharp pang in her chest when she spoke, a new and ominous phenomenon that was growing increasingly recurrent. ‘I also recall how you did not sign it, and how you left me guessing for weeks.’

Mr Hale chuckled. ‘I was shy,’ he told her. ‘I never thought you’d say yes, my darling girl.’

‘But I did,’ she reminded him tenderly, thinking on their many years of wedded bliss. ‘And I have never regretted it. I hoped it was you, Richard, I truly did, and was relieved to find that it was in the end. It showed you loved me, even if you were scared to tell me.’

Her husband smiled as he patted down the unoccupied side of the bed to welcome his wife as she came to him, unable to believe that she was still every bit as beautiful as the day they had met. ‘You do know who Margaret’s card is from, Maria?’

The wife nodded. ‘Yes, I do. It could not have been more obvious, the poor pet. But she has to realise it for herself. I do feel for her so. Margaret has never been in love before, dear child, so it may take her longer than he’d like for her to understand not only him, but herself, but I daresay she’ll get there in the end.’

‘And you do not mind?’ Mr Hale checked. ‘You do not mind the thought of him for her?’ he questioned, hopeful that her answer was the same as his, because as far as Mr Hale was concerned, he could not think of anyone nobler to give his daughter away to at the altar, trusting that he would protect and provide for her long after the father was gone.

Mrs Hale lay back against her pillows and thought for a good few minutes, not wanting to rush her answer, but then she merely leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek before resting her head on his shoulder in preparation for sleep.

‘No, I do not. I think he shall make her a fine husband. But again, our little girl will need to realise that for herself if she wants to truly become a woman, and in time, his wife.’

Chapter Text

HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

Chapter Three

John could hardly remember anything of his long walk home from the Hale’s that night. In fact, he scarcely remembered anything from the point that Margaret had said that she could not think of anyone who might have sent her anonymous card. From that unutterable and unalterable moment, John’s world had grown dark and depressing, and all he could see was a long and lonely future stretching out ahead of him in which he would die alone and unloved.

The first thing he could recall after her fatal words was him slamming his bedroom door closed, tearing off his jacket and cravat, and flinging them on the floor. Glowering at his surroundings, John discovered that he suddenly detested his room. It had meant nothing to him before. It was simply a peaceful place of welcome privacy where he could lay his head at night, only now, it had taken on a darker representation. From this day forth, it would signify his solitude through the symbolism of his bed, the same bed that would never become a marriage bed, to be shared with a lover and loved one.

Scraping his shaking fingers through his black mane and tugging at the unruly strands, John was in a feverish state, his emotions as scrambled as his morning eggs. He struggled to breathe, his head pounded, his limbs were weak, and his skin blistered with the heat of his passion, a new sensation that was so overpowering that it near enough brought him to his knees. If he had known better, he would have said he was ill, but John was never ill, so there was only one explanation, and that was that he had finally found and fallen for a woman, but not just any woman, she was his perfect woman, and oh! – how it hurt!

John laughed hysterically.

He was livid. He was distraught. He was indignant. He was muddled. He was disappointed. He was thwarted. He was humiliated. He was remorseful. He was conflicted. He was tired.

But most of all, John was madly in love.

He could not remember the last time he had been this angry, only, this time, he was not angry with his workers, or his sister, or his fellow masters, or even the world, but with himself.

What the hell had he been thinking?

Margaret had hated his card.

John could have laughed himself hoarse at the thought of it, so much that his lungs would have burst in demise through sheer exhaustion. He had been insane enough to imagine that Margaret would welcome it, that she would feel flattered by his attentions and would flutter into his arms like a silly, sentimental girl. But she was not like that, was she? And he would not have admired her if she were. No, she was serious, not the kind of woman to be so effortlessly praised or pleased. A woman like her would take more wooing to convince than the average doe-eyed gint of a girl, so why had he treated her as if she were a prize to be won so easily?

John had been too readily engrossed with crazed imaginings of holding her, of feeling her warm body pressed up trustingly against his own, of his hands stroking her hair in familiar fondness, the whole scene so simple, yet so profound, denoting the exclusive bond that they shared.

And now he had ruined everything with his carelessness.

What hurt the most, was that John had only just realised the extent of his feelings for Margaret. They had crept up on him so gradually, so slyly, even, that the inexperienced man had struggled to understand himself all these months since she had arrived in his town and in his life, not to forget settling herself in his heart. John had always known that he liked her. He knew he revered her. He knew he desired her. He knew he felt strangely built up and torn down whenever he was with her. But more than anything, he knew that he needed Margaret more than he had ever needed anything or anyone in his whole life.

However, despite his mounting feelings, John had not fully appreciated just how much he cared for Margaret until tonight, until she had made it clear that she could never think of him in that way. The truth was, John did not only want to court Margaret, no, he damn well wanted to marry her, to make her his, and to offer her his all, but she had good enough as told him tonight that she would never think of him as the one and only man she would one day want to call husband.

If only he had waited. If only he had thought this through and asked her properly, then he would not be in such a sorry mess of his own stupid making. After all, how hard could proposing be? If millions of other men could do it successfully, then why couldn’t he?

Margaret, that insufferable woman with all her wit and wisdom beyond her years, she had been right in everything she said tonight. His attempt at courtship had been clumsy at best and cowardly at worst. It spoke nothing of the honesty and honourability of love, instead, he had reduced it to something secretive and shameful, almost as if his feelings were something guarded and disgraceful, when in reality, all John wanted to do was shout them from the rooftop.

After all, John was at last in love, after years of thinking it would never happen, and yet here he was, so was that not worth celebrating?

Obviously not.

What an unspeakable fool he had been.

Here he was thinking Margaret was raw in the ways of love, that he would need to tread gently, when in fact, he was the amateur, the novice, and she, she was the authority on the matter, most likely leaving her clutching her sides in hysterical amusement at his absurdity as she stomped all over his forlorn heart.

And who the hell was Henry? And why was she on a first-name basis with him? Sulking, John thought about how he would give anything for her to call him by his given name and for him to call her Margaret. It pained him to hear her mother and father address her so, leaving him as the only twit in the room to call her Miss Hale, perpetually being reminded of the wall of formality and lack of true friendship that stood between them.

John clasped his hands behind his head and pushed, all this pent-up energy needing to find some release fast if he did not want to combust.

He had been naive to imagine that he was the only man who cared for Margaret. Ha! It was obvious. Here he was, a man who had never so much as taken a fancy to a lass, all of a sudden head over heels in love. It was irrational. Therefore, did it not make sense that it must have taken an extraordinary woman to turn his head and steal his heart? Of course it did! And did that not also mean that such a woman would be sure to capture the devotion of just about every other man she encountered? Men who were weaker and more susceptible to female charms than a firm bachelor like he?

Aargh!

What an idiot he was!

So not only was there that snake, Armitage, to compete with, but these fellows Whitehall and Henry, whomever they may be. And there would be others, of that he was certain. John often forgot that Margaret had spent most of her life living in London, the city’s superficial insincerity not having rubbed off on her, spoiling her morality. At any rate, there would most definitely be a suitor or two waiting for her back there out of the many thousands on offer, each with his genteel living that did not involve inhaling smoke and cotton every time she left the house. Then there was Helstone. While everyone’s eyes had been on Mr Hale, the centre of the congregation, their minds would probably have been on his charming daughter, wondering when they would make her their bride in her father’s church.

John could not help but snigger at his own stupidity.

For a man who liked facts, there was one fact he could no longer deny, and that was that there was no hope for him when it came to Margaret. She would never love him, she would never even come to acknowledge him as a potential suitor, the man she could give her heart to, and in doing so, entrust her life into his care. No, in her eyes, he would forever be nothing more than her father’s pupil, a dull merchant and merciless mill master.

John suddenly felt besieged by an onslaught of misery. He had never wanted a wife before, he had never even thought about all the joy and fulfilment that could bring. But now that he had to accept that the only woman he would ever wish to take his name, to bear his children, and to share in his life, would never be his, it was like a knife to his heart.

Nodding in grim realisation, John knew what would become of him. He would continue to love Margaret, admiring her from afar, watching as she met and married the man she deserved, and she would never know how much he cared about her, how closely he carried her in the secret recesses of his heart, treasuring her there for the rest of her days.

Well! He had known what love was – a sharp pang, a fierce experience, in the midst of whose flames he was struggling! but, through that furnace he would fight his way out into the serenity of middle age, - all the richer and more human for having known this great passion.

A week later, Margaret found herself practically skipping down the stairs for breakfast like a carefree child. She did not know why, but Thursdays had become her favourite day of the week. She could not fathom the reason for it, no matter how much she thought it over, but this fourth day out of seven always put an extra spring in her step.

Humming to herself, she sauntered into the dining room and sat down at the table. Buttering her toast, she thought on all she had to do today, and how she would need sustenance to see it all through. She planned to visit Nicholas to ask if there was anything she could do to help him and the other families on strike. Margaret understood that they did not always appreciate her charity, her meddling, as they would likely call it, but she was determined to try all the same to do what she could. Her father had always taught her that while a Christian spirit should respect the wishes of others, it should never be daunted in doing the right thing, no matter how much criticism one might receive in place of thanks.

After that, she had then promised Mrs Hamper that she would help with the flowers in the church after their discussion at the dinner party. The lady had somehow got it into her head that Margaret, being a country girl, was at one with nature, so her naturally green fingers would fashion the finest floral presentation St Stephen’s had ever seen. Margaret had not confessed that far from being accomplished in this area, her Aunt Shaw had rather given up on her niece, vowing that no display of hers would ever disgrace her drawing room.

Then, of course, she would need to fetch some items for baking if she wanted to make a cake for Mr Thornton coming tonight, bramble and almond being his favourite. He had been a busy man of late, trying to manage the strike, so he would need to keep his strength up. Margaret would not have anybody say that she did not try to see both sides of the question, because while she commiserated with the workers, she could also sympathise with the masters, particularly if they were men of principle like Mr Thornton, somebody who should not be punished for his commitment to doing what he genuinely believed to be right.

As Margaret bit into her toast, she never even noticed her legs swinging merrily and her toes wiggling beneath the table at the thought of his visit. However, as Margaret eyed the drapes, considering whether they needed to be washed and ironed again, she spied the perturbed look on her father’s face as he read something that had been scribbled on a small sheet of paper, the edges ripped, as if the sender had scrawled and dispatched it in haste. Mr Hale rarely looked troubled over anything, so the sight was both unusual and unsettling for his daughter.

‘Is something amiss, Papa?’ she asked, placing a cube of sugar into her tea and stirring it in. Fred had always said that his sister was already so sweet that she did not need sugar, but that had only encouraged her habit more to hear him say it, and so she thought of him now every time she partook in the ritual.

Mr Hale glanced up and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It is just a note from John,’ he began, and the hairs on Margaret’s arm bristled to attention. ‘He says he will not be able to attend his lesson tonight.’

Margaret, who had been fixing one of her loose hairpins, frowned, and her legs stopped kicking at once. ‘That is most unlike him,’ she disputed. ‘He greatly enjoys his lessons with you, I have heard him say so myself. And Mr Thornton is nothing if not a man of his word,’ she said with a slight raise of her chin, but this time, it was not in self-pride, but in pride for another.

Mrs Hale, who was sitting opposite her husband, nodded in agreement as she sipped her tea with lemon and honey, the added ingredients recommended by the doctor to soothe her aching chest. ‘Quite, quite. It would take a great deal to prevent him from attending,’ she concurred.

‘You are right, my dears,’ Mr Hale confirmed dejectedly. ‘It seems as if there has been some disturbance at his mill, and it will keep him away for a while. I am sorry to say that his property was targeted and severely damaged.’

Margaret dropped her knife onto her plate with a clank, the clatter so hard that it chipped the chinaware, a slender hair-line fracture cutting through the hind leg of a horse who had been painted in blue upon the ceramic. If the mule could speak, it would voice its provocation, aggrieved that it had lasted nearly fifty years without so much as a scratch.

‘Was he hurt?!’ Margaret blurted out.

She then blinked in wonder at her own question.

‘Oh, my!’ Mrs Hale gasped, her cheeks paling and turning whiter than the jug of milk that rested beside her elbow. ‘When was this?’

‘Yesterday,’ her husband verified, reading the short note over again, the missive containing no more than six or seven lines. ‘From what I can gather, the strike broke, and a riot took place at Marlborough Mills when it came to light that he had brought over Irish workers so that he could recommence production. It sounds as if they were terribly violent and inflicted a great deal of damage to his property,’ he recounted solemnly, saddened to imagine such violence amongst good people.

Mrs Hale sucked her lips. ‘Well, I suppose he had every right to −’

‘But was Mr Thornton hurt?!’ Margaret repeated, more loudly this time as she slammed her palms down on the table, and stared at her father with a probing gaze, her eyes wide and distraught as she demanded answers.

Why that had been her first concern, she did not know. Was it likely that he had been hurt? Perhaps not. Mr Thornton was a sensible man, he would not have put himself in harm’s way. He would most probably have barricaded the doors and stayed inside with his mother and sister, even if Margaret would have preferred that he go out and face them like a man. They were human after all, not animals, and they were not unreasonable, just driven mad by starvation, and not just for food, but a hunger for recognition and justice. They would not have wanted to harm him, just talk with him.

A hand flew to Margaret’s mouth. Oh! And to think that she had been planning to go and ask Mrs and Miss Thornton whether they might lend her the water-mattress for her mother to try. Thank goodness a crisis in the kitchen over spilt milk had prevented her, or else, Margaret herself may have become caught up in it all. It was not that she shied away from danger, not for herself, but she hated to think that she would have been an imposition to the Thorntons.

Knowing her and her hasty mouth, Margaret would almost certainly have insisted that Mr Thornton go down and parlay with his stricken workers in the heat of the moment, the concept of right overshadowing her reason. It would only be after he had left that she would have realised the folly of her advice and the danger she had placed him in with her self-righteous guidance. Margaret would have then felt the need to run down after him, and then Lord knows what would have happened. Nevertheless, there was one thing for sure, and that was that Mr Thornton would have protected her heroically, of that, she had no doubt, just as she trusted that she would have protected him in turn.

But Margaret found herself closing her eyes and taking a deep, steadying breath. What if he had been hurt? She could just picture him, lying there on the cold ground, still, lifeless, blood seeping from his brow. He would be alone, with nobody to help him, and as for his workers, what would they do to the man they had come to loathe more than the Devil himself? Save him? Flee? Or worse?

‘I do not believe so,’ came a distant voice that cut through Margaret’s foggy vision and called her home. ‘He mentions nothing of the kind.’

Snapping out of it, Margaret needed to know more. ‘Well, what did he say?’ she pestered, her eyes darting inquisitively to the note.

Her father sighed and resigned himself to his daughter’s hounding, so he reached out a hand and handed it over before she asked him yet another interrogating question that he could not satisfy with an answer.

‘See for yourself,’ he offered.

Snatching the missive from his grasp, Margaret held it firm in her own and began to read it, her eyes studying every line, but then ─

‘Margaret?’ her mother asked, confused by her daughter’s odd behaviour. Margaret had been all in a tizzy not a moment before, as agitated as a child with ants in their stockings, but now, she just sat frightfully still. Her small body was trembling slightly, and her eyes were as wide as the oceans of the seven seas as she stared at the missive.

However, Margaret did not answer. She merely stood up, her chair scraping across the floor, turned on her heels, and marched out of the room, the piece of paper still clutched in her hand.

When they heard the sound of the front door closing, Mr and Mrs Hale looked at each other in astonishment. They knew that Margaret was hot-headed, but this was a new level of impetuousness, even for her.

‘My-my-my, what will happen now, do you think?’ Mr Hale queried as he poured his wife a fresh cup of tea, her strength waning so severely these days that she could barely lift the pot herself.

Mrs Hale deliberated as she sat back in her chair and pretended that her side did not groan. ‘That depends,’ she surmised.

‘On?’

She smiled shrewdly, noticing that Margaret had also taken her card that she had hidden behind an ornament in the dining room. The young lady had concealed it there so that she might look at it in secret whenever she wished, or so she had thought, not realising that her mother was wise to her daughter’s romantic fascination with her first love letter.

‘On what he has to say for himself,’ she guessed. ‘And…whether she is ready to hear it.’

Chapter Text

HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

Chapter Four

‘Ouch!’ John snarled as he shook his index finger in response to the sharp stab of pain that grieved it. His action was so swift that his finger blurred, so it was not until he stilled and held it up for inspection that he spied the accursed problem, the source of his pain. Scowling, John found that he had slit open the skin by means of a deep paper cut, a thin brook of blood trickling down his hand.

Moaning like the rumble of thunder that brewed ominously in the distance, John snatched up the insubordinate heap of papers before him and hurled them to the side, sentencing them to be banished from his sight for their insolence. They would not do. They were not what he wanted. And they could go and hang if all they planned to do by way of help was cut him. He was searching for his insurance certificates to take to the bank, along with his list of mutinous employees to show the Chief Inspector when he arrived any minute now. Letting out a forceful sigh of frustration, John was about ready to toss the whole sorry lot into the fire and be done with it, damming them and his whole pitiful business to the flames of Hell. He had given the mill years of his life, years in which he had denied himself the things he wanted, sacrificing his blood, sweat and tears to make this demanding mistress happy, and what thanks did he get?

None, that’s what.

Trying to control his temper, John knew that if he was angry with anybody, it was himself for allowing his orderliness to slip below the high standard that he demanded of himself. His papers were typically arranged carefully and neatly, so he could always lay his hands on anything he wanted within a trice, but not of late. Ever since the bloody strike had shaken the core of his small world, his mind had been as chaotic as Pandora’s box. It did not help that he had carried most of his essential documents over to the house so that he could look over them from the comfort of his own home, his office was not only unnecessary while production was halted, but also bitterly cold to endure in winter, even for a northerner with skin as thick as a bear’s.

When he had finally sifted through the last sheet and still not found what he was looking for, John’s already wobbly tolerance collapsed, and he picked up the stack and flung them across the room in a fit of rage that he soon regretted. Not only was it childish, but it was atrociously unhelpful, given that his confined working space became like a snow globe, a contained box in which it snowed, only here, it was not frozen water that fell from the sky, but a flurry of white paper. The fragments that assailed him, they were not unique and beautiful like snowflakes, but dull in their regimented similarity, all being exactly the same size, fluttering down and landing on his head and upon his floor, making a God-awful mess. It was a hailstorm that scorned him from above as it rained in mockery, and the thought of this made him more miserable than ever.

Hail.

Hale.

It was always about hale. A Hale. The Hale. But never his Hale.

It was too much.

John, a man who never gave in to his mortal frailties, slumped down into his rickety chair and buried his head in his hands. It was no use. He knew what the problem was. Yes, he was outraged with them, with his workers for what they had done, for how they had the brass neck to challenge him in such a savage way, all the while calling him the beast. How dare they attack his property like this, shattering the hinges of the gate as they tore through it, ripping down the shutters of the warehouse, slashing open idle bales of cotton, and smashing windows like it was a sport?

He hardly dare assess the full extent of the damage, it was just so immense, and he thanked God that the soldiers had come when they did, because if they had delayed but a minute longer, John trembled to think what would have happened. Staying well hidden in the shadows beside an upstairs window that day, he had seen them begin to batter at the doors of the factory and the house with staggering motivation and momentum, baiting for the blood of his Irish, and the master for whom they blamed entirely for their misfortunes.

John’s breath caught in his throat as he inhaled sharply, and he could feel himself shaking from the sheer memory of it, an icy shiver sneaking up his spine like a snake.

Could he admit that he had been scared?

The truth was, John had not been afraid so much for himself, but for others. As a magistrate, let alone a person who read the newspapers every day, he knew of the riots that had swept through the country and wreaked carnage from John o' Groats to Lizard Point in the past few decades, that roar of discontent in the belly of the people not yet laid to rest, and it likely never would, not until fairness in all things could be established, and men could be bled of their bitterness. It had been a dark time for England. Businesses had been devastated, livelihoods ruined, and lives lost. Masters like him had been dragged from their homes, beaten along the streets, and lynched in the town squares, all through the justice and vengeance of mob law.

He ought to have gone down to challenge them, to stand up to the crowd and order that they desist and leave at once, preferably with their tails between their legs, but he had not. Part of him regretted his spinelessness, but at the same time, he knew that if he had stepped so much as one inch outside, then he would have been done for, and John Thornton would be no more.

Nevertheless, let no man say that the Master of Marlborough Mills was a coward, and it was true, he had not been concerned for his own skin, but he did shudder to think what they could have done to his mother and sister. John had spent years protecting them, denying himself every personal want and whim so that they could be safe and know the security of a stable life, and so he could never live with himself if a single hair had been harmed on their heads. He thanked God that nobody else was at the house that morning. Lord! Imagine if somebody had come to call. The Slicksons. The Hampers. The Latimers. The Hal ─

John dragged his fingers from his face, his calloused tips scraping along his cheeks and bumping across the bristles of his unshaven jaw.

He had thanked God every morn and night, from that day to this, that Margaret had not been there.

If she had, she would have wanted to help, to not quake behind a locked door like a weakling. She would have insisted on facing his workers head-on, attempting to pacify them with her goodwill and grace, hoping in her naively sweet way to reconcile both man and master once and for all. Bless her, John would have admired her beyond belief for it, but her wisdom would never have worked its magic spell, no matter how well-intentioned Margaret had been. His hands would have been too riled to heed her advice, and as for him, he would have been overtaken by fear for her welfare, and with his mind so disorientated by terror, John doubted that he could have made a single rational decision, and then where would they all be?

Gazing out at the mill yard, John was struck with a gloomy epiphany that came crashing into his mind, just as weightily as if he had been clobbered on the head with a mallet.

He did not care about it anymore, any of it, not if she were not to be here, by his side, enjoying it with him, reaping the rewards of what he had spent what felt like an age sewing. These cobbles, these walls, this place of cotton and commerce, it had been his world entire for five years, the driving force that got him out of bed every morning and kept him awake every night, but there was one thing that John knew now, and that was that none of it would do to satisfy him again.

Not without her to make it all worthwhile.

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and John jolted back into focus. Standing up, and with his back turned, he grabbed his jacket and cravat and attempted to tidy himself up hurriedly, his fingers fumbling. His office may have been a shambles, but that did not mean its master had to be. He knew who his visitor was without looking, it was the Chief Inspector, the useless lout having sworn he would be here a good half hour before. John could feel his mood sliding towards the dark side, and with a voice that was rough and ready for confrontation, he barked:

‘Come!’

As if on cue, the door whined open under the strain of its rusty hinges, and John waited impatiently for the man to talk. Several seconds passed as he kept his back to the policeman and continued to hunt for his missing papers, yet still, nothing was said, not a peep. John could feel his blood boiling. He relished silence, but not this awkward hush that wasted time, and he could guess what it was all about. The cheeky cad was probably judging the sorry state of his mill office, not to mention the even sorrier state of its master. Well, he would not allow that.

‘Good, you’re here,’ John said brusquely by way of starting them off. ‘You took your time, I’ve been expecting you,’ he added, an intentional note of irascibility to his remark. However, when no discourse was offered in reply, not so much as a terse phrase, John grew increasingly annoyed. God-damn it! Were Milton folk not supposed to be plain speakers who got to the point and were quick about it?

‘Speak up,’ he snapped, his own patience snapping in two like a reed underfoot, ‘we don’t have all day, and as I am sure you know, we have a great deal to discuss.’

‘Yes, we do.’

Chapter Text

HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

Chapter Five

As if he had been pushed, John immediately stumbled forwards, his whole body seized with shock by the unexpected sound that resonated about the room, first echoing around him, and then passing through him like a ghost, a wind that could defy all reason. The voice had been quiet, not loud, and far from being brash, it was mild, but do not mistake it for meek, for it was most assuredly assertive.

Spinning round and nearly losing his balance as he skidded on a wayward piece of paper, he regarded his unanticipated visitor with something akin to sheer disbelief, his features most likely mirroring the astonishment he felt on the inside and rendering him hideously clownish.

‘Miss Hale!’ he breathed, suddenly finding that something so simple as filling his lungs with air had become a task he had forgotten how to perform, and what was worse, John could not recall being instructed on how to do it, given that breathing was natural, or so they said, a fact he very much doubted at present as he felt his chest wheezing like an old man’s.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, rather rudely, as it would turn out, dumbstruck by her presence, given that she was the very last person in all the world whom he had expected to see in his office, not just now, but ever.

John tried hard to remain attentive as he awaited her reply. He stood tall and attempted to appear imposing as he leaned on his desk with nonchalant unflappability, all the while working to elongate his figure, an unfortunate skewed stance being the end result. He had no interest in intimidating her, certainly not, it was more that he wanted to look impressive, something he had never managed to do in this regal woman’s presence before, and he very much doubted that he was succeeding now. John felt his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down uncontrollably and stifling him as his throat tried to inform its master that he was thirsty, that all the water in his body was evaporating from him as he sweated profusely from every orifice he had, ones he had not even realised existed before. Oh, dear. John could not have appeared more unattractive if he tried.

What was worse, was that she was so unduly calm. With her hand clutching the handle, Margaret stepped inside and closed the door, much to his relief, because to say that it was cold outside was an understatement. Nevertheless, John was beginning to fear that the atmosphere in here would grow chillier still, that is, if the frosty expression on her face was anything to go by. Spying his papers strewn all over the floor, Margaret eyed him for a moment in perplexity, then returned her gaze to them, trying to interpret what on earth was going on without being so impolite as to enquire. Being her typically helpful self, Margaret instinctively bent to start picking them up, but John quickly rushed forth to stop her, insisting that he would do it, but this only led to them knocking heads like butting sheep, and they both cried out.

Rubbing at her crown, Margaret stood up again, and taking hold of her skirts, she lifted the hem. It was no more than an inch or two, but John nearly choked to see her ankles, her shapely feet that had been sculpted to perfection, nestled within boots of shiny black. John was ashamed to confess that this pleasing sight excited him in ways that it should not, ways that both confounded and confused him. With her skirts hitched, she tiptoed across the room and towards a vacant space beside the window that was not cluttered with this and that.

Coming to a standstill, she dropped her charge, and there she clasped her hands in front of her, and stared out at the yard. With the winter light streaming in, John thought about how angelic Margaret looked, and it saddened him to think about how he longed to see her standing there every day. She might have visited him to wish him well, to ask how their business was progressing, or to bring their children over to see their doting papa. She was like a queen surveying her kingdom, only, she had no wish for him to be her king.

Margaret, on the other hand, was thinking, thoughts that were unknown to the mill master, try as he might to decipher the enigma that was the inner workings of her mysterious mind. But thinking, she was. As her eyes fell upon the mill yard, Margaret was overcome with a feeling of pity for Mr Thornton. She had really not imagined for a moment that the magnitude of the destruction would be this severe. It was an unhappy sight, and she could predict that it would cost him a great deal to restore it to its full working order and a respectable state. It really was terribly unfair.

She could not claim to know much about Milton, nor its people, nor its ways, but in the short time that she had lived in this town, Margaret had realised that there were two kinds of masters: those who were cruel, and those who had a conscience, and as far as she was concerned, John Thornton was the only one who fell into the latter category. She had listened, she had listened carefully, and she had watched, she had watched attentively, and Margaret had established that Mr Thornton was cut from a very different cloth to his peers, a thicker, stronger, bolder, and more durable cloth, a more fitting robe for the role he had been ordained to perform.

While he was hard, there was no refuting that, he was also fair, and she truly believed that Mr Thornton did his best by his workers. Margaret was sure she was not in a position to criticise the wages he chose to give out, for while it was a pittance that hardly kept a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and clothes on their backs, he would surely have his reasons, and perhaps shillings and pounds did not stretch as far for him as others assumed.

Mr Thornton was no stranger to hardship himself, and for that precise reason, Margaret trusted that he would never degrade somebody to a life of poverty without doing his utmost to ensure they had a steady and secure income, no matter how small it might be. She had even heard reports that he employed more people than he needed in the factory. Townsfolk openly wondered why, mistrusting his savvy, but she could not help but feel that it was no error on his part, not for such a canny man, but an intentional attempt to rescue as many people in this city as possible from the abyss of despair and destitution.

But looking out at the anarchy that his workers had left in their wake, Margaret found herself becoming oddly enraged, and this caused her to check herself, to consider the basis for her unrest. She sympathised with their plight, she really did, but there was never an excuse for violence, and it was not reasonable discontent that she saw demonstrated before her, but antagonism and aggression. With disappointment in her heart, Margaret was certain of one incontrovertible fact that stood out to her clearly amidst this turmoil, and that was no matter what faults Mr Thornton may have, he had not deserved this as his punishment.

Turning around, she let her eyes comb over the man in question, and she felt a pang of concern pick away at her, and even more than that, she felt pricked by guilt. He was a dishevelled, poor boy, and he looked in desperate need of a night of good, sound rest, an undisturbed haven where his mind and body could repair themselves and give him the strength he needed to see this trouble through.

At this point, as her interest became distracted by a loose button on his waistcoat that she had a peculiar urge to rip off and then sew back on while he was still dressed in his present attire, Margaret realised that she had not prepared anything to say to Mr Thornton today. She had been so lost in her sea of turbulent bewilderment during her walk, that she had hardly taken the time to think. Only now that she was here, she was lost for words, a most disturbing phenomenon in its own right. She knew that she had questions, many questions, and she was not at all pleased with him, or that is, she thought she was not, but the extent of her displeasure depended on what he had to say for himself.

Taking a steadying breath, Margaret decided that it was time to make a start and take a stand. ‘I can see that you are busy, Mr Thornton,’ she opened, once more glancing out of the window to underscore her meaning, ‘so I shall speak plainly,’ she promised.

John was not sure what to make of this. He appreciated plain speaking, but Lord knows he was not so sure he welcomed it now, not if it meant she would be brusque and brutal with his already fragile heart.

Removing something that had been stashed in her pocket for safekeeping, Margaret held it up high for him to see, giving him a good chance to look at it. ‘Is this from you?’ she demanded bluntly.

John’s eyes scanned the familiar artefact, his Valentine’s card.

‘Yes,’ he answered straight away since there was no disowning the fact. He attempted to sound poised and unaffected, when, in truth, he was quaking in his boots.

Margaret bristled, and her eyes glistened with the mist of bewilderment, a fog that was starting to dissipate, but before it vanished, allowing her to see clearly once more, she had several more questions to go. She had been flustered by his candour, by his confidence, but she would not let her own wavering composure show.

‘Why?’ she interrogated.

John thrust his hands into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders like a child who had been hauled up before his nanny for bad behaviour. He was not sure what to say, of what would be safest, or what was right, so he decided that honesty was the best policy.

‘Because I have feelings for you.’

The young woman gasped. It was not merely his revelation that astounded her, nor his frankness, but the tremor in his voice when he spoke the words, as if this man of might and muscle were trembling before her, she, this small woman of no significance.

However, her mood soon changed, and far from being awestruck, Margaret was suddenly angry. ‘Do you seek to mock me, sir?’ she challenged, her own voice tight as she sniffled to show that she was miffed, strangely aggrieved by the thought that he would treat her thus.

John’s head snapped up, and he gawked at Margaret in astonishment. ‘Mock you? No!’ he disputed, taking an impulsive step forward to marginally close the gap between them. He had never heard anything so ridiculous in his whole life. ‘It is I who felt you would mock me,’ he claimed, stabbing himself punitively in his breastbone with one finger.

Margaret could not fathom his meaning. ‘What do you mean?’

Blustering, John threw his hands out and brandished them reproachfully towards the item in her hand, that stupid card that she still insisted on holding up for him to see, a blaring reminder of his own foolishness. ‘For a start, you did not approve of that, you made that abundantly clear,’ he nipped.

Lowering her hand that had been hanging suspended in the air for longer than she realised, Margaret studied her card once again. It was like she was seeing it for the first time, every texture, every word, every indent having taken on a fresh meaning since last night. She had found it beautiful before, fascinatingly so, but now it contained things she did not fully understand, secrets that a girl cannot hope to know, since only a woman can.

‘I did not say I disapproved of the sentiments, Mr Thornton,’ she mumbled softly and without any edge of reproach, her thumb stroking the two hands that held each other fast and firm in the centre of the card. John’s heart raced to see her do so, his hand itching in response, as if her touch had transferred onto him. ‘It is merely the way in which they were offered that I did not like. I just cannot understand why you would not tell me.’

It hurt Margaret to think that he had not been honest with her. She had few friends here in Milton, and only now did she appreciate how much she warmly valued Mr Thornton’s friendship. Yes, they bickered, they quarrelled constantly, but their disagreements did not create discord between them, but rather, they were affable discussions and debates, emphasising how comfortable they were with each other, as if they had known each other for eternity. She had believed that he esteemed her opinions as much as she did his, but now, she was not so sure.

While there was no evidence to suggest that age corresponded with an increased inclination towards intelligence of character or cognition, Margaret recognised that he was older than her, wiser in some ways, what with his subtle and shy intelligence, and he had experienced more of the world. Therefore, Margaret had no qualms in trusting Mr Thornton’s right to claim superiority of understanding over her in some regards, even if these were few and far between. Nonetheless, in spite of this, he never made her feel small, or silly, or irrelevant, but that her thoughts mattered as much as his, that her contribution was just as valid as his own, and that he respected her as a true friend.

But why then had he felt the need to conceal the truth from her?

However, unknown to Margaret, John was thinking the same thing. ‘I thought…I didn’t know how to tell you,’ he admitted lamely. ‘I was afraid that you would laugh in my face.’

‘Why should I do such a thing?’ she argued petulantly. Margaret knew that she had a flaw or two to her name, and while she could be prone to both pride and prejudice, she hoped that she was never so cruel as to taunt people.

John let out a strident laugh. ‘Now you are mocking me,’ he accused. ‘Look at me!’ he instructed, his hands slapping his chest,  ‘And look at you.’

Margaret’s eyes dipped and then dragged over her modest figure from toe to tip, trying to work out what he was looking at, what he saw. ‘I do not understand,’ she divulged, utterly at a loss.

Thrown by her innocence, John found that he could no longer stand in chivalry, the fatigue of the past few months wearing him down, so he sat on the corner of his desk. He scarcely knew what to tell her. He had never found himself in this position before. It was difficult to find the words. All he knew was that the most enchanting woman he had ever known was standing before him, demanding clarity for his actions and his ardour, and all he wanted to do was hold Margaret in his arms by way of an answer, and for her to want to stay there.

She was waiting, all the while looking at him with benevolence, her lovely lips parted, her eyes sparkling with the shimmer of unworldliness, and her hair, that luscious nest of russet locks, it had come loose from her pins, most likely during her rush to get here, and it was now falling haphazardly around her shoulders. She looked divine, like Eve before she had been tainted, and God help him, she deserved more than this miserable man for her husband.

Reaching out an open palm to her, John let the sentiments of his heart flow freely. ‘You are beautiful, Miss Hale,’ he confessed without so much as a blink of embarrassment, his own lack of reddened cheeks well and truly made up by the appealing flush that spread across her rosy complexion. ‘Not only that, but you are clever. Sophisticated. Womanly and wonderful in every way. And I am…this,’ he reminded her, once again disparaging himself as he held his hands out wide, showing her what an uninspiring, provincial excuse for a man he was by contrast.

‘I did not tell you because I was a coward. I was fearful that we would lose what little we had, of what we had established over these past months. I was afraid of your rejection, of your disdain if I told you how I felt about you.’

‘But why me? I am not like other women, I am −’

‘Exactly!’ he near enough hissed in whispered veneration, his eyes ablaze with the trepidation of his passion. ‘Miss Hale, I am under no illusion that I could have married long before now. I am a man of means and prominence in this town, and as unflattering as I find it, I know that half the women hereabouts would be glad to be my wife. But I do not want them. I want you, only you.’

Margaret teetered backwards as a dizzy spell came over her, and her back hit the wall with a silent thud. How could it be that he had this peculiar power over her? To leave her feeling undone, and yet so perfectly complete?

‘Why?’ she asked, the word hardly audible in the expanse that separated them, a cavity that either of them would have gratefully travelled and shrunken, if only they had known how the other truly felt.

On this matter at least, John did know how to respond, because he had thought about it, he had thought about it long and hard this past week. ‘Because you are different. You defy me. You inspire me. You make me joyful and wretched all at once. You encourage me to be a better man, and I thank you for it, and I know I need you in my life if I ever hope to be happy. But most of all, Miss Hale, you make me feel, something I thought I had permanently forgotten how to do.’

Then, suddenly realising something, he was quick to ask: ‘Is that…is that why you didn’t consider that the card was from me? Because you didn’t think I would want you out of all the other women in this town?’

John hoped this was the case. While it pained him to think that Margaret, this incomparable woman, felt inferior to him in any way, a laughable notion in itself, he would much rather the root of her confusion about the card be caused by a lack of doubt that society wished them to be together, rather than that destiny did.

Margaret nodded. ‘I never even considered you would think of me…like that.’ The reality was that Margaret had never supposed that any man could think of her in that way. She was nothing special. She was short, ordinary, wilful, and not nearly as accomplished as half the women she knew, nor did she have any desire to be. She liked getting her own way, she liked going and doing what she pleased, when she pleased, and she had always assumed that no gentleman would be willing to tolerate her independent nature, so it confounded her to hear that the most dominant man she knew did not mind her headstrong ways.

‘Well, you’re wrong. You’re the only woman I have ever wanted, will ever want, I promise you that,’ he pledged, as solemnly as if they stood in church, exchanging their vows.

As he said this, John took a bold step closer, not caring that his well-worn boots muddied his papers. When he saw that she did not draw away, he felt encouraged, and so he took another, and then another, until they were standing wonderfully close, as close as they had stood on the night of the dinner party when they had held hands. John tried to think on what to say next, whether he should offer her the chance to come back to the house, to take tea with him and his family, perhaps? Or then again, should he get down on bended knee right here and now and ask Margaret whether she could ever consent to be his? However, his reckless plan was soon halted by Margaret herself, who shyly asked:

‘Do you love me?’

She asked it so modestly, that John could have cried, his heart fit to burst with adoration for her. She looked so little before him today, like a miniature version of Margaret, and there was a softness he saw in her that she had often offered to others, but had never before gifted to him.

Swaying nervously from side to side, Margaret had placed her hands behind her back, and as she nibbled her lip, she looked up at John with eyes that were large and full of wonder, the sort of wonder that derives both from awe, but also a wonder of what is to come. He knew he should answer her question, but all John wanted to do was capture her face in his hands and kiss Margaret until neither of them had any breath left in their bodies. His kiss would contain the truth. It would convey it better than he ever could with blundering speeches. But as right as it felt, as raw and real as it would be, now was not the moment.

‘I do not know,’ he said at last, being brutally honest. He then noticed the way her body wilted, as if deflated by disappointment, so John felt it best to illuminate his meaning, and to do so without delay.

‘I mean, I think so,’ he amended in a rush, and Margaret’s gaze nudged upwards to meet his once more, and their eyes locked on one another, each pair glimmering with hope.

‘I have never been in love before,’ he confessed, ‘so I have nothing to compare it to, no schooling on the subject, but aye, I think I do love thee, dearly, sorely,’ he declared, and he tried not to watch as her chest began to rise and fall erratically, and her heart palpitated, the veins in her neck shuddering as her pulse throbbed.

John then understood that what he had said was true. He had never been in love before, he had never had somebody to love until now, so he had no idea how it was supposed to work, whether there were facts and formulas to follow, or whether it was a matter of spontaneity and creativity, two qualities he was in short supply of. Nevertheless, the point was, that while this uncertainty could be disorientating for a man, it also meant that he had a clean slate upon which to learn, a chance to try and test his own methods of wooing, and to see where they took him.

Raising a terrified hand that begged him to reconsider, John let his finger stretch out before him to touch one of her ringlets that fell beside her ear. When Margaret did not quail, John shuffled nearer, and with a twitching tip, he twisted it around the curl and gently tugged. John could have groaned in uncouth gratification when he heard the breath shudder from her throat, not forgetting the way her eyelids fluttered open and closed, a momentary relapse of regal poise on her part.

With his eyes never once leaving hers, he professed huskily: ‘I think about you constantly. I want to be near you. I miss you when we are parted. I wonder what you are thinking, what you are doing, what you would say to what I am thinking or doing. I value your good opinion more than anyone’s I have ever met. I want it, I need it, I crave it. You are always on my mind, and it is maddening, but I would not wish it to be otherwise, for now that I have met you, now that I know you exist, I would feel incomplete without you, and so, I want more than anything, for you to gladly be mine.’

John had not intended to say so much, to admit so very much, but he had, and when Margaret did not strike him for his impudence or run away in fright, he dared to supplement it with: ‘So, there, that is why I sent it, your card.’

Licking her lips and watching the way his eyes ravenously observed her doing so, Margaret could only manage a feeble, ‘I see.’

‘Do you love me?’ John checked, acutely aware that his feelings alone were not enough, because if they were ever to wed, it was essential that she felt something for him too, something more profound than girlish fancy. Nonetheless, the reply that came was not what he longed for.

‘No!’ she said, far too swiftly and decidedly for his liking.

John took a step back, his face set into a mask of stony detachment, and he huffed through his nose. ‘I see.’

All the same, as he turned to leave, he felt a hand on his arm, and Margaret pulled him back earnestly, or that is, she tried to, her pitiful strength overwhelmingly endearing, enough to make him want to scoop her up into his own sturdy arms to show her how it was done.

‘But I want to!’ she cried out, and she was surprised by her intensity of emotion, a sincerity of feeling that she had not even known lay within her, a piece of her passionate character that had been asleep until this very instant. ‘At least, I think I do. I like you. And I dislike you,’ she stuttered, leaving John none the wiser and even more nettled.

‘It is difficult to explain,’ Margaret conceded, bemused by these unfamiliar wants that burned in her heart and spread throughout her like an all-consuming wildfire. ‘I have never felt about a man the way I feel about you, Mr Thornton. You infuriate me. You intrigue me. You bother me. You embolden me. You are like no other. I do not know who or what I am when I am with you, but I do know that I like it, that I want it, that…that I want you.’

Margaret had said all this while matching his unflinching stare, but as she delivered those last words, she looked away, and John had to stop himself from grabbing her jaw and holding her gaze in place so that he could see that flicker of want in her eyes again. He would never be so vicious, of course, but a heady sensation always came over him when she was near. John was a formidable man, but he did not have it in him to hurt a woman, and while he knew he could never lay a finger on Margaret, there was no denying that she incited this wild and uncontrollable passion inside him, a feral blaze that devoured his every sense and charred his sensibilities.

‘So what happens now?’ he solicited, and her eyes slowly rose to regard him once more. Margaret seemed unsure, her eyebrows tensing and arching as she deliberated.  

‘Would you permit me to call upon you, then?’ John braved, feeling valiant enough to ask for what he wished for, or at least, part of it, the initial part. ‘Not your father or mother, but you? We could sit together. We could take tea, or read, or just talk? And we could get to know each other better, more intimately. You can ask me whatever you like, and I swear that I shall be nothing but honest with you. That way, you can see me clearly, get to know me for who and what I am, and you can decide for yourself if you could ever want me for your husband.’

Margaret smiled, and it took every ounce of self-control John possessed not to press his lips to her own supple ones that curved in approval of him, a blindingly beautiful sight that he had yearned for since they had first met.

‘I would like that,’ she assented, aware that it was the only time Mr Thornton had so much as suggested marriage, although he was likely unaware of his slip of the tongue. For her own sake, Margaret did not feel ready to marry, not specifically Mr Thornton, but anyone. She was young. She was inexperienced. And she did not fully know her own heart.

Still…

John felt a rush of impatient energy gush through him. ‘Then shall I see you as soon as possible? Tonight?’ he requested, cursing both priority and prior obligations from preventing him from taking her home right now and not leaving her side for the rest of the day. He feared that she would change her mind, that once she left and the refreshing breeze of February blew the cobwebs away, Margaret would grasp the folly of her words, regret their meeting here today, and be frantically trying to figure out how to let him down gently.

‘Tonight?’ she repeated in astonishment, her eyes flickering to look over the disarray that lay outside. ‘But the mill…’

‘That can wait,’ he reassured her adamantly, his head jolting to the side as he gestured to his work. ‘But this…,’ he continued, tenderly taking her hands in his and clasping them there, amazed at how soft and slender they were in comparison to his own. Margaret stared at their joined hands for what felt like several minutes, until, at length, he took one of them away and held it against her cheek. Sensing her lean into his touch, John’s heart took flight, and with a thumb skimming her healthy blush, he finished with: ‘this, it cannot wait. I will not let it.’

Margaret could feel her knees knocking beneath her skirts, and she had no choice but to let her hand curl around his arm and cling to him, lest she fall. ‘Then, yes, tonight, if you so wish,’ she consented breathlessly, the pair bound up in each other’s embrace, with one hand here and another there. ‘I shall wait for you.’

The two of them would have stayed like this for as long as time allowed, but alas, they were abruptly brought back to the moment when they both spotted a man walking outside and heading towards John’s office. The portly stranger halted by the gates, and after a brooding bristle of his bushy moustache, he squatted to inspect the damage, a task that would keep him there a good few minutes, at least. Margaret did not know him, but the master did. It was the Chief Inspector. Grumbling to himself, John was not amused. First, he was late, and now he was early.

Running a hand across her flushed face, Margaret made ready to leave and stumbled towards the door in her lightheaded daze, but before she reached it, John had one more thing he had to know: ‘Before you go, Miss Hale, may I ask, how did you know it was me? The card? What gave me away?’

Margaret blinked, the answer having quite escaped her. ‘Oh, it was your handwriting,’ she replied at last, and glimpsing his vague expression, she affixed: ‘The note you sent my father, it was the same hand. You did not even try to disguise it, you silly goose,’ she smirked, and John chortled in understanding. Trust Margaret to discern the comparison, his clever, clever lass.

‘And, Mr Thornton, if I may, I have one last question too to ask of you,’ she announced, her typical self-assurance once more returning to her. ‘The poem, why did you choose it?’

John smiled. Ah, well, that was simple enough. ‘I do not have a way with words, Miss Hale, as you have likely fathomed already. I am a stark speaker, and as much as my heart may sing with poetry for want of you, my lips do not manage to follow suit so easily. They cannot keep up with all the thoughts I have of you, they cannot articulate how eagerly I adore and admire you. I am a humble mill master, you see, nothing more, and do not pretend to be. Therefore, I simply chose my favourite, because it reminded me of you.’

‘I see. I had been wondering why the sender chose it. It is just that…,’ Margaret hesitated, but she was soon bolstered by the way he watched her with steadfast patience, tolerance and tenderness overflowing from his eyes, a window into his soul that she had not until this day realised was brimming with such kindness as she had never known. ‘It is my favourite too,’ she told him, and with that, Margaret opened the door and departed.

Alone again, John was left feeling like a new man, a man who had found hope and happiness after years of emptiness. They were gifts he had no intention of squandering, and as he bent to collect his papers, his thoughtful mind was already planning how best to spend this evening with the woman he loved. Today had marked a shift in their relationship, and a spring of optimism had most definitely taken root, but things were far from settled, and so John must try his darnedest to convince Margaret that he was the man for her. However, no more than a few seconds passed when Margaret unexpectedly popped her head around the door-frame once again, only this time, her message was short and sweet, and it gave him all the courage he needed.

‘Oh, and Mr Thornton,’ she said merrily. ‘You may call me Margaret.’

Later that night, Margaret slipped into her bed, and reaching towards her bedside table, she propped her card up against a vase of yellow roses and let it stand there tall and proud for all her other possessions to see. She had read and re-read his card, her card, a thousand times today, the poem forever etched into her heart.

The young lady blushed to recall the way that she had opened the door this evening, and there he had been, with the very same flowers held out to her, a look of such cheerfulness on his handsome face, and more than that, Mr Thornton had been more calm and content than she had ever seen him, as if by coming here tonight, to her, he had come home. It almost felt indecent having his present of a posy in her bedroom, something he had chosen and touched watching her sleep, but what felt more deliciously shocking still, was the idea that she liked it, she liked thinking that he was near at hand.

Margaret had been nervous about Mr Thornton’s visit, unsure of how it would go, worried that the revelations they had spoken this day would make everything frightfully embarrassing. Nevertheless, she could not have been more wrong. For a start, her parents did not seem at all surprised when she had coyly confessed that Mr Thornton, her father’s tradesman pupil, had asked to come to see her personally and privately, and they had exhibited no qualms about leaving the two of them alone in the parlour, even if the door was always open with a vigilant Dixon strolling past every few minutes.

When Margaret had shown him in, she had assumed he would sit at the other side of the room to her, as per usual, but instead, Mr Thornton took up a seat by her side, and there he remained in loyal attentiveness. She had been anxious that they would have nothing to say to each other, their conversation already exhausted. However, they had sat for hours, talking about everything and nothing, their conversation easy, their companionship effortless. All the past animosity and awkwardness of their early acquaintance had left them, just like the wind had carried it away, and her cheek still burnt fiercely to remember the way he had watched her with such smouldering intensity and interest, never once breaking his gaze, as if she were the most fascinating thing in all the world.

It had saddened her to see him go, but when they had said their goodbyes, he had promised to come again the next night, that is, if she would have him. Margaret had agreed without a second’s hesitation, and as her suitor made ready to leave, there had been a brief moment when she imagined that he might kiss her. He had towered over her, her neck slanted to look at him, and as he watched transfixed as her eyes twinkled in the candlelight, Mr Thornton, John, he had touched her cheek once more, and as if by some magnetic force, their lips had inched closer and closer. Margaret had been afraid, but she had also never felt more alive. But sadly, her first kiss, his first kiss, their first kiss, it had not happened, not tonight, because Dixon had appeared and given them one of her disapproving grunts.

Laughing and feeling duly mortified, they had stepped apart, but all was not lost. Instead, he had lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed it, and in turn, she did the same with his, and she could tell he appreciated the reciprocated gesture. She had then helped him with his coat and hat, and before he walked out the door, John stopped, turned, and whispered in her ear: ‘How do I love thee?’ and from that precise moment, as his breath shuddered against her skin, warm and wonderful in its unshakable love, Margaret knew that she was his, body and soul, and always would be.

How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

The End

Chapter Text

PERFECTLY UNCONSCIOUS

Edith was growing increasingly concerned about her cousin.

Margaret had been returned to them now for a whole year, precisely so, right down to the day. It had been on this exact date in the previous calendar that Margaret had come back to London following the death of her poor mamma and papa. From the moment Margaret had walked through the door, Edith had seen that her childhood companion was in the depths of despair, a miserable sentiment that the perpetually blissful captain’s wife had thankfully never known.

Everyone had commented on how Margaret appeared to be a mere ghost of her former self, as if her shadow had followed her here to London, but her true self had become lost on the way, detached and misplaced, apparently absent, left behind somewhere, but where, nobody knew. It had desperately worried Edith, again, an emotion she was not accustomed to grappling with, but alas, she had told herself that a little time and patience would soon bring her cousin around, not to mention that a reacquaintance with civilisation would do her the world of good and set her on course with some sturdy bearings, as Fred would say in his letters.

The young Mrs Lennox could only begin to imagine the horrors Margaret had seen in the north, forced to live in that far-flung place with its foreign people and feral ways. She had written of it often, detailing the hardships she encountered daily, especially during the early months when she had first been removed there by her dear father who had surely gone mad displacing his family and relocating them to a heathen wilderness where smog suffocated the life out of the people and smothered all things that were pretty. By all accounts, it was a backwater hovel that reeked of garish money, a boondock where the streets were not lined with sumptuousness like they were here in London, but with the stain of poverty, and worse, revolution, even if it were thankfully not French. Edith’s mother had always said that while respectable God-fearing people could live with the existence of the former, they could most certainly not excuse the latter.

However, when Margaret had come back to Harley Street, Edith could not help but feel that something had changed with her, or perhaps, in her. Edith could not claim to be the most intelligent or insightful of people, but if there was anybody she did know, then it was Margaret. If truth be told, as soon as her bereaved relative had entered the drawing room in her shroud of sorrow, Edith had noticed the paleness to her face, the puffiness to her eyes, and the stain of tears upon her cheeks, and as the days and weeks had passed, she bore witness to the quiet depression, nay despair, that Margaret was enduring with the saintly silence that was customary to her character. Margaret had barely eaten, nor slept, nor talked, and worst of all, she hardly ever smiled anymore. The young Miss Hale from Helstone had always been less giddy than her cousin, less easily amused, so she was not prone to fits of giggles and her grins were harder to coax, but this was different, this was a most definite hopelessness, a vanishing of any happiness from her heart, and all Edith could pray, was that it was not an eternal blight.

When she had asked her mother about it, Mrs Shaw had told her daughter to be patient, reminding her that she was privileged in her circumstances. She had a home, a husband, a babe, a place in society, everything a woman could possibly want, whereas Margaret, she could not truly lay claim to any of these comforts, the necessities that give women a position and sense of purpose in life. Indeed, Aunt Shaw said that the past two years had not merely robbed their beloved Margaret of her parents, but of her everything, save her youth and beauty, and so they must be unwearied in their fortitude and wait for her to return to them in spirit.

Edith had understood, and so, she had done just that. Day by day, she had good-naturedly waited, uncomplainingly anticipating the foretold day when Margaret would come walking down the stairs to breakfast with a rosy hue on her cheeks to boast a bud of hope and a bloom of serenity, and only then, would her cousin trust that all would be well again. How she longed to have her friend back, for them to laugh together, chatter together, walk together, and share in each other’s joys and woes. But until Margaret was ready, Edith would let her be, respecting her right to grieve.

Even so, a year had marched on, the seasons had come and gone, and still Margaret was as sombre as ever. She still insisted on wearing black, and she would faithfully stand by the large bay window that looked out onto the street morning, noon and night, this being the only occupation that would please her, no other diversion would do to distract her.

Sometimes her cousin would go to her and softly touch her arm, asking how she faired and what was on her heart, because while Edith was in no way clever, she was undeniably both genuine and gentle. In turn, Margaret would smile weakly and merely say: ‘Oh! How I miss…,’ but then she would trail off, never finishing her sentence, and her eyes, that were both strangely alert and bleak all at once, would return to the glass, offering the world outside her undivided care and attention, and no more would be said.

She would stand there demurely, her hands folded in front of her, and simply stare. She was like a solemn statue, constant in her vigil. Her presence there was now so predictable, so expected, that one would think Margaret had become part of the furniture, unmoving in her unyielding stance. Edith had tried to draw her away, she had tried every entertainment she could think of, but no, Margaret was loyal to her window, and so she had remained, every day, from that day until this…

That is, until today…

Edith had been sitting attending to her embroidery in the drawing room when Margaret had walked in, an act that was in itself not worth mentioning. However, it was the sight of Margaret in a pale yellow gown that had startled her, and as she took in this unexpected vision, Edith jumped, and she stabbed herself in the finger with her needle.

‘Ouch!’ she had cried, bringing her injured digit to her lips and kissing it, much like a child kisses their hurts away.

Observing her cousin from beneath the guise of her long eyelashes, Edith watched the way that Margaret not only entered the room in a splash of springtime colour, but she did not partake in her usual ritual and continue to the window, instead choosing to take a seat opposite herself. This caused Edith to raise her eyebrows, and she seriously wondered whether Margaret was sickening for something. Nonetheless, there was nothing evidently wrong with her as far as Edith’s untrained eye could tell. In effect, she looked surprisingly contented, a healthy glow upon her cheeks as she picked up a book and began to read, something Edith had not seen her do in a long time. In fact, one could almost say that Margaret had developed an aversion to reading, odd, when it had always been her favourite pastime when they sat before the fire on an evening growing up. It seemed as if anything related to Plato vexed her the most these days, and a tremble would come over her at the mere mention of the philosopher’s name, but not today, it would seem.

Clearing her throat with a girlish squeak, Edith dared to enquire as to this unexpected change. ‘You look different today, darling one,’ she began charily. ‘Indeed, you look positively lovely.’

Margaret, who had been quietly humming a pretty tune, beamed. ‘Thank you, dearest,’ she replied, her nose still stuck in the book.

Still eyeing her warily, Edith was not satisfied with how little she knew of her cousin’s sudden alteration, so she decided that she must persist with her subtle inquisition. ‘Is there a reason for it?’ she asked, trying her best to sound nonchalant, but the strident pitch rather gave her away.

Again, Margaret smiled. ‘I just…,’ it was then that Margaret glanced up, her face puzzled as she tried to decide how best to put it. ‘I just felt like it was time for a change,’ she explained vaguely. ‘It was time…time to move on,’ she added, although Edith could not help but note that her cousin’s final remark was tinged with the tone of gloom, opposed to the cheerful optimism of her previous comments thus far.

However, Edith would not let this perturb her. ‘I am glad to hear it,’ she nodded, feeling as if they may have turned a corner, at long, long last. ‘I was worried about you, little one. I was beginning to fear you had left part of yourself behind in Milton,’ she casually affixed, unaware of the sting her words would have on her cousin as she inspected her sewing to see if she had ruined it during her fright.

Margaret shuddered to hear this and instinctively rubbed at her arms to warm herself before reaching over to grab a shawl to drape over her shoulders, despite it being an excessively hot day. She tried to return her interest to the book in her hands, but oh dear, the letters were now all in a jumble as her mind and heart commenced a familiar battle. While one insisted that she think logically and forget all about what she longed for, the other refused to let go, begging her to embrace the ache that devastated her within.

Heeding her cousin’s silence, Edith felt comfortable to continue. ‘Are you pleased to be back in London, then? Back where you belong.’

Wrinkling her nose, Margaret thought on this, unsettled by her cousin’s pointed phrasing. After an interval of reflection, she then shook her head decidedly, a few of her brown curls wriggling loose from their pins and cascading down the side of her face and neck like russet spirals.

‘I cannot say that I am, no,’ she answered self-assuredly, her typical self-possession returned and proving to be in fine fettle. ‘That is, I am happy to be here, with you, Edith. I missed you terribly. I am glad to be able to see you and Aunt Shaw, and of course, your little one,’ she beamed, reaching over to pat her cousin on the arm, to reassure her of her sincere love for her family, what remained of it, that is. ‘However, I find that London society does not suit me, and I do not suit it, I fear. I am not sure I ever did, and I know for certain now that I never will, and do you know what? I do not care!’ she decreed without reservation, her eyes sparkling in defiance.

‘Good gracious!’ Edith gasped, aghast to hear her speak so. ‘The north has turned you quite wild, Margaret!’

Margaret laughed heartily. ‘No, not wild, just….independent. You know me, I have my own mind. I like my own ways. I am fond of my own opinion,’ Margaret clarified, thinking on how she must remember to tell Aunt Shaw that she had no intention of going to the Pipers for dinner this week, nor would she be pestered into purchasing a wardrobe of new clothes, no matter how out of fashion her current garbs were, given that they had plenty of wear left in them to see her through many a London season.

‘Yes, I do know,’ Edith replied, sighing to wearily recall the number of times Margaret had asserted her will when they were children and made it abundantly clear what she wanted, what she liked, and what she expected, and woe betide anything or anyone who dared try and deter her.

She had given up ballet, and piano, and deportment, wishing instead to either read, or heaven help them, to attend charitable talks and partake in charitable endeavours in the most disgusting and disgraceful quarters of this magnificent city that had so much more to offer her than dirty hospitals and squalid workhouses. Nevertheless, once Margaret had made up her mind on a matter, no amount of reasoning could dissuade her. Mrs Shaw had always said that Margaret was a headstrong, mulish sort of creature, and it was down to all that time being spoilt by country air when she was a babe. No, she would much better have been sent to London from day one, and only then would there have been any hope of reforming her into a tame young lady who did as she was told.

Still, Margaret was not finished in defining her newfound self. ‘And Milton, for all its faults, was right for me, in the end. I may not have seen it at first, errantly prejudiced and prideful as I was, but I now know that I was made to be a Milton woman. As someone once said: Here in the north, we value our independence,’ she said tenderly, her thumb skimming the pages of her book absently as she stared off into the distance, a faint and fond smile curling her lips.

Noticing her coy blush, Edith was intrigued. ‘Who said that?’

However, Margaret just blushed a deeper shade of red and coughed. ‘Just…somebody….someone I once knew, but will never see again,’ she explained, the first half of her sentence quick and offhand, the latter slow and distinctly poignant.

‘What other things did you like about it? I still shrink to think of you telling me that men take women by the hand there. I have never heard anything so scandalous!’ Edith exclaimed, a hand flying to her mouth in mortification as she squealed like a senseless schoolgirl.

‘It is really not so bad,’ Margaret chippered. ‘Here, let me show you,’ she offered, suddenly rising and gesturing for her cousin to do the same.

Edith did not need much persuading and gladly bounded to her feet too, eager and excited to experience something so shocking from within the safe confines of her carefree home. Making a silly face, Margaret bowed her head like a gentleman and extended out her hand, and giggling, Edith curtsied and proffered her own. Taking it firmly, Margaret laced their fingers, and with a steady jerk up and down, she shook the two, and then withdrew after an acceptable interval, as one does.

‘Oh my! I cannot think what I would do if a man tried to take my hand like that,’ Edith declared breathlessly, her nerves all in a tizzy at the thought of such unseemly intimacy.

She reminisced about the days when she had been introduced into society and had met many handsome young men before the captain. But while some had been flirtatious rascals who had tried to sneak a kiss or place their hands a little further north or south than was decent, she could scarcely imagine them asking for her hand. It was silly, really, a man holding a woman’s hand was hardly that outlandish, nor was it indelicate, given that dancing required a greater degree of physical contact. Indeed, couples danced for longer, they touched more of each other, and they were compelled to stand significantly closer, yet somehow, all of that seemed ordinary and innocuous compared to this.

Nevertheless, Margaret nodded in agreement. ‘I felt the same the first time it happened to me,’ she admitted honestly. ‘I was offended, and I took no pains in showing it, and I think I offended him in turn, poor man, he was just trying to be civil and reach out to me. But I could not believe he would be so bold, so brazen as to ask for my hand….,’ she went on, her breath catching in her throat to recall it, a ticklish heat radiating from her core and spreading across her skin like a rash.

Taking up a glass of water, Margaret gulped it down in the hopes of cooling herself, but it did not work, her skin still scorched from the intense memory of it. ‘But then I grew rather fond of it,’ she confessed quietly.

Despite speaking softly, her cousin had heard her, Edith’s years of snooping behind closed doors to hear what her parents were discussing her future having allowed her to develop an acute sense of hearing.

‘How so?’ she pestered.

Ducking her head, Margaret was unsure of how to describe it, of how to do the impassioned sentiments that burnt ferociously in her soul justice without sounding foolish or improper. ‘I did not shake many a man’s hand. I did not know many gentlemen, and even less wanted to know me or take notice of me, they did not like my enquiring nature. But for the most part, it came to feel perfectly normal. It was simple, our hands would join for a brief moment, jiggle, then move away. It was harmless. It was inconsequential. But then…’

Edith, who had just fanned out her skirts so that they did not crease when she sat, picked up her needlework, and then peered up to follow Margaret’s distracted train of thought. ‘Then?’ she nudged, feeling both keen to encourage her cousin to talk more after a year of ominous silence, as well as being the sort of woman who adored any sort of tittle-tattle, so long as it did not involve her.

Facing away so that she need not look Edith in the eye, lest she break down into a flood of tears and tell all that she harboured with lonesome longing in her heart, Margaret took one hand and rested it on her belly, hoping to still the butterflies that fluttered there. And while she did this, she took her other hand and laid it on top, gently enfolding it, her eyes closed as she remembered the night when he had…when he had…

‘Sometimes it could be…strange,’ she whispered.

Her cousin cocked her head and puckered her lips. ‘Strange?’ she echoed, thinking about how peculiar a choice of phrase that was.

‘Yes, strange,’ Margaret confirmed, her throat growing tight as her heart raced erratically, and she feared the whole of London would hear the clamour. ‘It was not perfectly normal when he did it. It was perfectly magical. It was as if his skin and mine were cut from the same cloth, taken from the same hide of an ancient mythical being. It was as if our hands had been forged of the same blood and bone, two twins of dissimilar sizes but similar feelings that recognised one another and had been waiting for each other with pining patience, unable to be incited by anyone else other than its mate. As soon as we touched, it was as if sparks were flying through me, and my hand was warm and awake. It felt tragically quick, their meeting, yet it seemed to linger forever, as if no man could part them asunder. It felt safe. It felt sensual. He felt like myself.’

She remembered how they had each lingered for a moment, both silently reluctant to let the other person’s hand go. But, eventually, inevitably, they flexed their fingers and unwillingly released one another. Nonetheless, their disentangling had been delectably unhurried, and as their hands separated, each digit leisurely took its time, sweeping across its partner’s, savouring every single second of heavenly contact that set both their skin and souls on fire. She knew it was the first time their hands had met, even if Margaret was sure that he had been perfectly unconscious of the fact.

‘Oh! This wretched stitch!’ came a sudden cry of frustration, and Margaret whipped her head around to see Edith frowning resentfully at her sewing, clearly not having listened to a word she had said. ‘I must be away and fetch my scissors, and when I get back, you can tell me more about the strange people in Milton and their strange practices,’ she said with a disgruntled strop at having to go, and with that, she stood and walked out of the room.

Left all alone, Margaret both wallowed and basked in the hush that followed. If truth be told, she rather liked being alone. Breathing heavily, she reached into the pocket of her dress with a quiver, as if she were doing something terribly wrong, and there, her fingers tenderly stroked something concealed thereabouts. After a while, she grew bolder, and slowly drawing it out, daylight uncovered a single black glove, one which was evidently not hers, being far too large for her small hands. Clutching it close, Margaret sniffed, and then carefully, she slipped it onto her hand, letting her fingers spread and stretch out within the cosy confines of the sheepskin material inside. It was like melted butter, warm and soft, and lifting the glove to her cheek, she closed her eyes as tears spilt down and splashed upon the leather fabric, one heartbroken drop at a time.

She felt sure she heard the gate outside creak and groan, and her heart stirred, sending all her senses into a frenzy, but as desperate as she was to run to the window and peek outside, she was determined not to, not this time, not today. Margaret had lost count of how many times she had been disappointed by this rouse, only to find that it was the postman or a cat disquieting the gate, and she could take it no longer, that dreadful pang of disillusion. How she yearned to return to the window, to the watching and waiting post her heart tugged her to, but she knew she should not. She had postponed her life for a whole year, lingering beside it devotedly day in and day out, hoping that he…

But he never did. He never had. He never would.

He had never written. He had never visited. And so, just as Margaret had promised herself, a year on from leaving Milton, she would resign herself to the fact that he was not coming for her, that he did not think of her as she did him, that he did not love her, that he never had. So, there. Margaret would love him forever, keeping his memory stowed away safely in her heart, but for her sake, she had to move on, or at least, try. She would never marry. She would never have children. But at least she could give herself a fighting chance of being happy if she laid all hopes of him to rest, left behind in Milton, buried there in a grave of regret and repentance, never to be disturbed again.

It was a few moments later that Margaret was startled to hear the door open, and snatching her hand away and hiding it behind her back, she spun to face Edith. However, it was not her, but Dickson, the butler.

‘If you will pardon me, Miss, there is a man here to see you,’ he announced haughtily, as was his general manner.

Margaret regarded him with a blank expression. ‘A man?’ she repeated, unsure of what this meant. That is, she knew what it meant, a person of the male sex wished to be admitted to call upon her, but who this person was or why they wanted to see her, she did not know. Margaret knew so few people in London, or rather, she had not taken the trouble to get to know many people, so out with their little circle which consisted of the two Lennox brothers and Mr Bell, she could not imagine who it might be. Besides, Dickson would surely say his name if he were aware of it, so the fact that he did not imply that he had considered the man not worth knowing.

‘Yes, Miss, a man,’ he confirmed dryly, his tone as dull as an overcast sky.

‘A gentleman?’ Margaret checked, no further forward in discovering the identity of her mystery caller.

‘I do not think so, Miss,’ the butler disputed confidently, shaking his head and jutting up his chin condescendingly. Margaret often thought Dickson was rather like Dixon, and that they were kindred spirits who shared the same aversion to just about everybody they met. She had naturally assumed for many years that they were related, perhaps brother and sister, but it was not until she had learnt of the different spellings of their names that she realised that this could not be the case. Still, the resemblance in their superiority was uncanny.

‘He is not from hereabouts, judging from his voice, terribly gritty and thick it is. But he is well-dressed and seems respectable enough in his mannerisms, despite having a wolfish look about him,’ appraised the servant, ‘so I showed him up. Should you like to see him, Miss?’ he asked, rather hoping that she would decline, all so that he could tell the man that his sort was not welcome here.

Nonetheless, much to Dickson’s annoyance, Margaret nodded most assuredly indeed, her lips too dry to annunciate her consent. Rolling his eyes and huffing irritably, the butler moved away and opened the door to do her bidding. Through the thin crack, Margaret could see the outline of a man pacing about on the other side. Even though she could not make out much, she could see that his head was hung low as he stalked back and forth like a wild animal in a cage. More than that, she could tell that he was tall, broad and muscular. And if she squinted, she was sure she could make out tufts of black hair, and at one point, Margaret was certain that she could spy the flash of blue eyes boring through the wood as they searched for her.

Returning to the room, the butler opened his arms so far and wide in a regal bearing that Margaret could not get a better look at who was behind him. However, as he began his oration to introduce the visitor, his voice loud and booming, she eventually saw who it was as he walked round the frame.

‘Mr ─ ’

‘Mr Thornton,’ Margaret gasped, cutting the servant off and causing him to grumble petulantly.

Peeved, to say the least, Dickson retreated and closed the door behind him, a tad gruffly, leaving Margaret and Mr Thornton alone together. Quite some time passed without them saying anything, and she was ashamed to see that he still wore his coat and held his hat, the servants clearly not being polite enough to take them from him. As he stood there, Mr Thornton twisted the hat round and round in his hands nervously, his eyes constantly fixed upon her with a fervent focus that was almost unnerving.

Finally, he laid his hand down and stepped forth, his long arms swinging about at his sides with aimless tension, and he was acutely aware of how large and cumbersome he was, a most ungainly sight in front of such a lovely creature as she. Mr Thornton cast his eyes to the floor for a moment in habitual unease, but then he soon looked back at her, because it is impossible to describe how his eyes hungered for her, especially after being denied the chance to gaze upon her, the right to admire her, for so very long. God help him, she was more beautiful than he remembered. He was pleased to observe that she was not still in mourning. He was pleased to see her in her fine yellow dress, all colour and cheer, just what she deserved after so much grief. He hoped with all his heart that she was happy, even if that meant she could be happy without him.

In turn, Margaret looked back at Mr Thornton. He was wearing his usual black suit, but out of his breast pocket, she could see something peeking out shyly. She was not sure what it was, but she could discern that it was small, delicate and yellow, and for a moment, she could swear that it was…no, surely not. She stared at him with dazed fascination, tempted to reach out and pinch him to verify whether or not he was real. She blinked constantly, her eyes tearful with gladness that Mr Thornton should be here at all, whatever his business might be, but also because she could not believe it, even if she believed in him, so she tested her eyes to see if they were tricking her. Margaret had feared she would never see him again, and so she resolved to study him carefully, to ensure that she should never forget even the smallest inch of his face, the slightest contour of his body, all so that she could imprint his image on her mind, for surely, after he left here today, she really would never see him again.

But then again…

With a ragged breath, he moved nearer, and he stretched out a hand towards her, his fingers sliding through the air and coming to a halt tantalisingly close to her wrist. His eyes briefly fell upon a certain bracelet which hung loosely thereabouts, the trinket innocently unaware of the incalculable effect it had over him, and he watched with enthralment as it disobediently skated up and down her arm as she trembled slightly. Perhaps that is why he liked it so much, it reminded him of her, this inanimate bauble personifying her headstrong spirit, the very quality which had made him sit up and pay attention to a woman for the first time in his life. But he soon ignored it, allowing his focus to return to her adorably flushed face, and Mr Thornton could hardly believe that he was in her presence once again, after all these months of punishing separation.

Margaret remained motionless for some time, her eyes watching Mr Thornton’s hand as she continued to hide her gloved one behind her back. She surveyed it with meticulous intrigue. It was large, and thick, the upper side surprisingly hairy, with long, lithe fingers which were crooked in her direction, the tips twitching, as if they itched to touch her, but still held back with restrained deference and self-denial. The whole hand was coarse, marred by the tell-tale signs of incisive scratches and bleached bruises, each the result of years of dutiful and gruelling toil. It bore witness to the dedicated decency, and the dependable sincerity of this exceptional tradesman’s industrious character.

It was mesmerising in its paralleled masculinity and vulnerability. Margaret felt an impulsive aspiration to dip her head and kiss every single one of those wounds, once, twice, thrice, each gash or graze a testament to the honourable person before her whom she loved, symbols that had shaped him into the fine man and master he was today. Oh! How could it be that she had ever recoiled from his touch, from his humble request to hold her hand? For shame! With her mouth, Margaret now impatiently wished to anoint Mr Thornton, John, with her loyal affection, her steadfast love seeping into his skin, the mystical medicine that leaked from her virgin lips healing both his body and heart until they were repaired and restored, leaving him stronger than ever, all those scars fading away into an irrelevant past.  

With servile supplication, his hand halted before her, waiting patiently for Margaret to take it, and he would wait there forever if need be, always her stalwart servant. Mr Thornton was watching Margaret in a strange state of suspended silence. She was captivating, her innate charm too damned conquering for him to resist. But what was more intriguing still, was that while the pair stood scandalously close, their secluded encounter concealed from everyone else in the world, save us, dear reader, Mr Thornton had the strangest feeling that Margaret was equally fascinated with him as he was with her. His eyes gawked as they saw her fluttering gaze fall upon his hands with such tenderness, those darling spheres twinkling like stars. Her sweetness utterly vanquished him, and he let out a husky, croaky groan, something that resembled a rather peculiar mating call, one which was designed to attract just one person, one lifelong mate: Margaret.

Given that he was so much taller than her, Margaret was forced to allow her coy gaze to train upwards, her wandering search stumbling upon his stubbled face. Margaret near enough fell forwards as all the air escaped her lungs. His eyes! They were smouldering as they stared at her, unflinching, unapologetic, otherworldly in their obsessive study of her. It was indecently intimate. Margaret could not breathe. Alas, the passionate yearning she saw there was too hauntingly visceral to frustrate, and she felt her heart impulsively tugging her towards him as if she were a puppet being pulled about by a string.

Finally, at long last, she took a deep breath, and lifting her petite hand into the air, the one without the glove, Margaret lightly and trustingly placed it in his, committing herself to Mr Thornton’s strong grasp, and all at once, she felt perfectly safe. Smiling a very small smile, so slight that one could hardly detect it, he let his hand encase hers, and tightening his grip, he gently squeezed it in reassurance. Oh! The thrill of her soft skin fusing with his own calloused dermis nearly caused him to moan with the pleasure of this innocent yet overwhelmingly profound act. Her hand was so elegant, so small, and he felt passionately protective over it, wishing to ensure that it was never disfigured by hardship.

He knew it was only the second time their hands had met, even if they had known each other for three years, three long, drawn out, yet deliciously painful years, though she was perfectly unconscious of the fact, he was sure of it.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked at last, hardly able to form the words.

Mr Thornton found that he too was panting, his whole body heaving from the mere excitement of being so close to her again. He knew it would overpower him, being in her presence after so long in exile from the sunshine of her existence, but never had he hoped he would be allowed to touch her, nor that she would welcome him so warmly.

Taking a steadying breath, he willed himself to speak, to tell her what he had determined to say ever since he had boarded the southbound train this morning. ‘What I should have done already, what I should have done a year ago today when I watched your carriage drive away.’

Margaret’s chest rose and fell fitfully as she heeded the deep burr of desire and devotion in his voice. ‘And what was that?’

Gripping her hand tighter in an eternal grasp, he closed the gap that had separated them for too long, and he came to stand so close that they nearly melded into one. With his head bent and hers raised, their eyes locked together in a steadfast gaze, and with a breath that quaked with uncontrollable love, Mr Thornton let his heart speak, and so it did, as his fingers caressed hers.

‘Never let you go.’

The End

Chapter Text

After All...

(Before We Were Us)

The train pulled into the station was an ominous screech. At last, they had arrived. Each of the four passengers in the compartment silently grappled with their own feelings. Mr Hale was feeling guilty for having brought his family here at all. Mrs Hale was afraid of what was to become of them. Dixon was dismayed that it should have come to this. And as for Margaret, she did not know what she felt. Not yet, anyway. If anything, she was curious. As she watched all the people milling past with their determined strides that spoke of purpose, she craned her neck to look at the sky. It was not remotely blue as it had been when they had left Helstone, but a thick grey that blocked out the sun with its billowing smoke from the chimneys that she could see towering high above the expanse of the city. She wondered what this meant. Was it an omen, she thought? One sent to forewarn her that things were about to change for the worse? That nothing good grew here in this metropolis built upon the bones of poverty and the backbone of greed? That this place would stifle all her hopes of happiness and suffocate it in its decaying smog? She prayed not. But she was curious all the same because even if this strange netherworld was assaulting every single one of her senses, not to mention her sensibilities, she felt oddly stirred by it all. Even in the few minutes since they had arrived in the town that would become their new home, Milton, she had discerned a oneness with it, and she could feel, deep in her soul, an awakening that refused to be quelled. She did not know what awaited her here, whether it be good or bad or somewhere in between, but she was ready and willing to embrace, come what may. Yes, she was home now, she knew herself to be. So, you see, it did not matter what her family said, because, for Margaret, she was a woman embarking on the next act in the play that was her life, a fresh start in which she was determined to be not a victim of doubt or fear, but a person of courage, conviction, compassion, and above all else, character. 

After all...a girl should always be the heroine of her own story.

The End

Chapter Text

ENCHANTED

Chapter One

At the New Year ball, with the firelight gleam,

Two strangers meet, unsure, it would seem.

A shy smile shared, like a secret about to be told,

In the magic of night, new dreams unfold.

She, a lady of grace from the south’s New wood,

Her beauty artless, like a quiet stream, pure and good.

Her smile, warm and bright, a charm so sweet,

In her presence, even the stars seem to greet.

He, a mill master from the north, strong and true,

With calloused hands and a heart that’s constant through.

His voice gravelly, deep, like a mountain's roar,

In his gaze, a gentleman, whom hearts adore.

Together they stand, where fate has entwined,

Two souls, so different, yet perfectly aligned.

Their meeting begins with awkward grace,

Words too careful, a hesitant pace.

Her voice, lovely as music, his firm and low,

Two worlds colliding, yet drawing close.

She speaks of art, of poetry’s sway,

He of the mills where the spindles play.

Of philosophy and politics freely they talk,

Though they are like cheese and chalk.

Out in the garden, the winter air crisp,

They walk together, a slow, steady wisp.

No difference now in class or birth,

Just two souls uniting on this vast earth.

Under the stars, they share a slow dance,

An awakening moment, a rare, hallowed chance.

The strains fall away, just the two of them there,

Their hearts court in the frosty air.

But the night must end, so they part with a sigh,

Unconfessed words linger, a glint in the eye.

‘Will I see you again?’ he asks eagerly.

‘Oh, yes, I hope so,’ she replies shyly.

For fate, they feel, has guided this night,

Two paths converged in the soft winter light.

Though they must part, their hearts are steadfast,

That meeting was destined, forever, to last.

It was an evening during that curious lull between Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve, where nobody quite knows where they are, what they are about, or, in some dramatic cases, who they are. During the late hours of this in-between day, the frost of late December had claimed Oxford, settling over the city like a gossamer shroud spun by some ethereal winter spirit. The icy mist enshrouded the cobblestones and winding cloistered paths in a glistening sheen that dazzled those who bothered to stop and look. It was quite a scene, with the venerable colleges, their towering spires reaching the grey sky, and the stone walls of historic buildings appearing more enchanting than ever, draped in the serene embrace of winter’s cold calm.

Along the way, the golden light of lamps flickered like the pulse of some ancient, slumbering beast, forming halos upon the rime-kissed pavement. The lamplight sparkled off the frozen stones, transforming them into scattered shards of silver, while transparent shadows spread out and swayed beneath the domed windows. By the quiver of a faint breeze, these silhouettes expanded and shrank, like the transient silhouettes of unseen revellers, darting and spinning in wild, exuberant arcs, as though the night was breathing with a primal, pagan dance.

Though the university stretched across the city like a vast, sprawling kingdom of knowledge, tonight, all eyes were on the gathering held by the Theology department. At this time, Theology was taught at Regent’s Park College, tucked away on the fringe of Oxford. Designed by the esteemed John Prichard, the building stood with solemn grandeur, its dark walls adorned by the creeping ivy that clung to every crevice. Tall, pointed arches framed the windows, through which the pale winter moon snooped and surveyed the scholars who kept warm indoors, gathered to contemplate the sacred doctrines that had long shaped Oxford’s intellectual life.

Inside one of the grand halls, an immense Christmas tree twinkled with an array of ornaments in rich gold and silver hues, its candles flickering delicately, leafing a gentle, undulating glow upon the walls, as though the very spirits of Christmas, of which Dickens foretold, had taken flight within the room. The atmosphere was ripe with the intoxicating scents of roasted chestnuts, spiced mulled wine, and freshly baked pastries, each fragrance inviting those who entered to pause, inhale the essence of the season, and let the warmth of the evening permeate their cold skin and seep into their souls.

The throng of merry revellers—draped in opulent silks and velvets, their faces flushed with mirth—swirled about elegantly, exuding a grace that seemed effortless. Gentlemen, their voices animated, debated philosophy and politics beneath the polished chandeliers, while the ladies, radiant in gowns like flowers in full bloom, exchanged titbits, their conversation an enthusiastic medley of fashion, gossip, and society's ever-shifting currents. The ambience hummed with infectious joy, as if the collective mood had been spun from threads of celebration and boundless good cheer, enveloping the party in a spell of exuberant delight. Every glance, every laugh, seemed to deepen the charm, as though the night itself was a fleeting dream, suspended in perfect harmony.

Amidst the lively gathering stood Mr Hale, the Oxford scholar turned Church of England minister, who had returned to his alma mater to mark the turning of the year. Yet, despite the festive scene unfolding around him, his spirits were far from light. Recently, he had made a choice—both personal and professional—that would irrevocably alter the course of his life, a decision he had yet to share with his family. Seeking refuge from the weight of his conscience, he had come tonight hoping to relive the carefree days of his student years in Oxford. It was a night brimming with excitement and exuberance, a celebration that urged all to forget their troubles. Yet, amid the laughter and music, the clergyman found himself a silent observer, caught between the life he had known and the uncertain future that awaited him. Still, as he looked about him, Mr Hale felt bolstered. It was indeed a night where everyone felt sure to enjoy themselves.

Or that is, almost.

Despite the palpable gaiety, amidst the merry faces and the jovial clinking of glasses, Mr Hale’s daughter, who was also present, felt an overwhelming sense of discomfort as she stood there that night, surrounded by a horde of chattering strangers. It was surprising, because Miss Hale adored Oxford, not that she had been often. She admired its storied histories and learned dignity, and she had relished coming here as a young girl, to feel awe-inspired by its antiquity, and to listen as the scholars discussed and debated texts. Nevertheless, tonight, she felt frightfully out of place. The esteemed company of Oxford alumni, the elderly gentlemen who filled the hall in their assortment of black suits, appeared more intent on analysing her unmarried state than engaging in any meaningful discourse. To be sure, it was overwhelmingly oppressive. Their eyes lingered upon her, some with admiration, others with subtle, and, perhaps less innocent, intent. And all, it seemed, shared the same peculiar question, which had been asked of her all too many times before: ‘Why is such a young and lovely lady as yourself not yet betrothed?’ Miss Hale could feel their gaze ensnaring her in their net of judgement, an intensity that made the festive atmosphere seem stifling. The topic, so often posed with well-meaning curiosity, was, to her mind, invasive, a reminder that her worth seemed to be measured by her expected role as a wife, rather than her own desires or personal accomplishments. She was destined, so it seemed, to be an appendage of a man, nothing more, and such a fate made her feel rather sick as well as sad.

Nonetheless, Miss Hale, ever the well-mannered daughter, nodded politely at their pestering inquiries. Still, a rebellious disquiet was roused within her like an unbidden tide, rising higher with each passing quip or question. ‘Surely, there must be some young man worthy of your affections,’ one gentleman hectored, his voice booming with an over-confidence that rendered his words clumsy and gauche. Another, less tactful, boldly offered to introduce her to his son—a handsome and eligible bachelor, who would certainly sweep her off her feet, he assured her. A third, who was balding and had none of his original teeth, heroically swore that he would marry her himself, though this was declared after several glasses of port.

Miss Hale forced an awkward smile upon her lips, her composure unbroken, but her heart waned beneath the crushing weight of their expectations. To them, she was little more than a ledger of wealth, position, and security—as though these hollow pursuits were the only things capable of inspiring a woman’s soul. They saw her not as a person, but as a prize to be claimed, an ornament to be admired, her worth measured only in her potential to be owned or used in running a home and bearing children. Their keen eyes were laden with assumptions, as if they could flip through the pages of her life, passing judgment on chapters they were not versed in or those that had not yet been written. Every conversation felt like an imposed script, where she played no role except to be studied and evaluated, like one of their manuscripts. It was as if her thoughts and desires were irrelevant, and her very being existed solely for their valuation—no more than a footnote in their carefully constructed world.

The women, too, were no less insidious in their scrutiny. With furtive glances, they tittered behind their fans, their eyes sharp and unforgiving, as if assessing every detail of her being. She could almost hear their whispered verdicts swirling in the air: too delicate, too slight, too generously formed around the bosom, too lithe around the waist. Too forthright, yet too distant. Too much a country girl, too much a lowly London debutante—never quite fitting in either world. Their calculated laughter rose and fell in time with the amplifying music, a cruel symphony that seemed to echo only in her ears. Each sneering whisper felt like a sting. Miss Hale, her heart sore with the burn of their findings, was tormented by it all—isolated in a sea of faces that saw only her perceived flaws, never the person beneath.

There was no pleasing them—no way to earn their approval, though Miss Hale had no desire for such a hollow reward. She was neither rich nor strikingly beautiful, and to them, these were the only virtues a woman should covet. Their relentless fixation on her unmarried status only served to highlight how little they truly understood her, how little they saw beyond the surface. Their conclusions were shallow, reducing her to a list of petty faults beyond her control, blind to the depth of her character and the remarkable strength that defined her.

And so the night went on and on.

As the orchestra swelled, the violins and cellos stirring the air and intensifying the mood, the guests began to move toward the dance floor. But for Miss Hale, the rising energy only tightened the knot in her stomach. Her pulse quickened as she felt her mother’s gaze sifted through the crowd, a subtle yet insistent summons to the far side of the room. There, beneath the shadow of an enormous exotic plant, a collection of young men loitered—each more pompous and uninspiring than the last. The harsh light cast an unforgiving glare upon them as they stood and stooped in their huddled pack, their stiff collars and too-perfectly tailored coats betraying an air of arrogant indifference. Their faces, lined with bored expectation, floated in a collective grimace of self-importance, as though the very notion of a woman’s attention were their birthright. The thought of being thrust into their company, of having to endure being touched and teased like a doll, made her stomach churn with dread.

Indeed, Miss Hale felt the butterflies flap in nervous flight in her belly. She had no wish to partake in the evening’s social charade, no desire to dance among strangers, to turn and twist in the intricate steps of the waltz beneath the watchful eyes of a curious crowd. The thought filled her with dread. The very idea of becoming a part of the spectacle, of moving in synchrony with the others whilst her mind remained distant, was exhausting. She glanced about anxiously, searching for a retreat, a furtive corner where she might escape from the artificial gaiety that clung to the evening like a fog. At last, her eyes alighted on a shadowed alcove, secluded by rich burgundy velvet curtains that beckoned her with their solitude. Without a word to anyone, she excused herself from the conversation and slipped away, seeking solace beyond the reach of prying eyes and unwelcome questions. With quickening steps, retreating felt like an act of small yet significant insurrection, a deeply personal reclaiming of independence in a farce that demanded her conformity.

As Miss Hale fled, she noticed with unsettling clarity how none of the men seemed to notice—or even care—that she had disappeared. This, in itself, spoke volumes. Miss Hale was far from vain; she did not crave the attention of gentlemen as many others did. Yet, even at the tender age of seventeen, she grasped a deeper truth—she could never give herself to a man unless she was certain he saw her. He had to value and need her above all others. For her, love could not thrive in the fragile realm of indifference. Her presence, her absence, should matter to him as profoundly as the shifting of his own shadow—tangible, undeniable, impossible to ignore. She longed for a love that commanded more than passing attention or attraction; passion alone would starve it. It needed reverence, devotion, something akin to worship. She wanted someone to truly see her, to understand her in a way nobody else could. And let it be known that she intended to love in the same way. She would not expect a man to offer his heart unless she could offer him hers fully, faithfully. She wanted him to be her everything—her hunger, her inspiration, her driving force. Together, they would be one, as essential to each other as breathing. They would know, instinctively, if the other was near, and, to each other, they would be all things dear. She intended for them to take each other’s mortal breath away, to be each other’s eternal breath. It was not about a good match. It was about matching identical souls that could not survive without the other. That was the foundation of true love according to Miss Hale.

At last, she reached her hiding place. Behind the curtain, the silence enveloped her like an old friend and she allowed herself to exhale a deep sigh of relief. The muffled strains of the orchestra now seemed remote, as though they hailed from another world entirely, and the warmth of the hall was a fading memory. Miss Hale pressed her back against the cool, rough stone of the wall, grateful for the sensation of it grounding her, its unembellished, uncomplicated contact steadying her. She drew in a deep breath, permitting the stillness to settle over her. Her mind, which had felt besieged, began to slow, and for the first time that evening, she welcomed a quiet moment of peace.

Yet before she could fully regain her composure, a soft thud cut through the silence—unexpected, startling. Her gaze snapped upward, only to be met by a muddle of motion, a confused mix of colour and the sharp outline of something dark as she stumbled back. There seemed to be a mass of vertical black just before her. When the world steadied itself, Miss Hale found herself face to face with a tall figure—his presence emerging as silently and suddenly as her retreat into the shadows. They had collided—two souls, drawn unknowingly and without design to the same secluded corner, both caught off guard by the other's unforeseen arrival and the unexpected breach of their hidden refuge.

Heavens! She was not alone after all.

Withdrawing slowly, Miss Hale attempted to calm herself. However, it was not long before her nostrils began to tickle, itched by an indistinct smouldering smell. Then, suddenly, she was jolted by a tremendous heat that surged against her back, as though the air had ignited and burst into flame. Her body stiffened in alarm, and with a swift twist, she spun around, her eyes widening in horror as she saw the hem of her dress burning, wisps of smoke curling from the scorched fabric. The crackling sound was like an ominous whisper in her ears, the flames creeping ever closer to her skin. She was frozen with fright. Before she could even think, the man was upon her—his movements a blur of urgency—as he seized her, his hands locking around her arms, pulling her away with such force that nearly caused her to scream.

She stumbled back, her heart hammering in her chest, the heat still lingering in her bones. ‘Oh, dear,’ she faltered, her voice trembling as she looked down at the growing black blister of a mark on her pale pink skirt. Desperately, she began to pat at the fabric, her fingers shivering as they brushed against the charred remnants of the fire.

The man stood mutely, his gaze fixed on the damage with an intensity that bordered on grim obsession. However, lost in her distress, Miss Hale had almost quite forgotten him when she sensed his hand near hers, and there he held a clean white handkerchief in silent offering. Her own hand reached out slowly, and as their fingers brushed, ever so slightly, ever so sweetly, ever so surreally, Miss Hale felt… it was strange. Her breath seemed to vanish and then return anew.

Blushing, she accepted his aid and began to busy herself with mending the damage as best she could. As he watched her, his furrowed deeply, as if the sight of the stain were a personal affront.

‘I... I am deeply sorry for handling you so,’ he said. Miss Hale felt herself quiver at the unanticipated sound of his voice. It was irresistibly deep yet impossibly gentle. He spoke with regret, but she sensed that his words were imbued with more than an apology.

‘You do not need to be sorry,’ she insisted, though she found it oddly difficult to form the words, her throat parched, though she was not thirsty. ‘You were heroic.’ Miss Hale was so cross with herself. She cared nothing for fashion, but the dress was relatively new, she had worn it when she was a bridesmaid for her cousin Edith earlier this year she felt guilty for having spoiled it.

His eyes flickered from the ruined skirt to her face, and there it remained, but his expression remained unyielding, a storm brewing beneath the surface. ‘I—’ he vacillated, his throat tightening as though the confession was a heavy burden. ‘I am not fond of fire,’ he murmured at last, his tone dark and haunted, a shadow crossing his features as if the words themselves carried a painful history.

Intrigued by his comment, Miss Hale looked up abruptly, but in doing so, her foot caught on the hem of her skirt. She lost her balance and stumbled forward, colliding with him once more. The force of the impact sent them both reeling, and his strong hand shot out, catching her upper arm to prevent her from falling. As she teetered against him, her hands instinctively fell against his firm chest, the solid warmth of him pressing into her palms. The brief contact sent a surge of heat through her, a vivid reminder of their proximity.

‘Oh! I beg your pardon,’ Miss Hale exclaimed, her cheeks flushing a vivid red in the dim light. How inelegant she was tonight. She instinctively took a step back, eager to apologise for the intrusion, but she was lost for words. Her mind swarmed, searching for composure, though her ragged pulse, which pounded in her heaving breast, betrayed her agitation.

The irony of the meeting did not elude her. She had been so intent on escaping the throngs of people, to find some peace in the quiet, that this unimagined confrontation with another seemed an intrusion upon her very plans. The shock of the encounter struck her with its satire. It was unsettling, undeniably so, but there was an odd welcome to it—like a gust of fresh air in a room long stifled by tedium. In that brief, breathless moment, the oppressive isolation she had borne that evening seemed to lift, however fleetingly, and her attention was drawn away from the heavy fog of solitude that had held her captive. She was no longer alone. For the first time that evening, the dull grip of disconnection eased and the toll of her loneliness had been rent asunder. She could not explain why, but even in the first seconds of encountering this stranger, she felt strangely comforted by his presence. Nevertheless, he was still a stranger and the situation was still self-conscious.

The man, equally stunned by the collision, straightened with an effortless grace that spoke of an inborn self-control, his movements sharp yet flexible, like a great cat accustomed to being both the swiftest and the most imposing in its domain—unhurried, yet poised to spring at a moment's notice. Tall and broad-shouldered, he possessed dark hair that fell in untamed waves across his brow, framing a face of prominent, angular features that seemed chiselled from the very rock of the earth. His eyes—deep, fathomless pools—were intense yet measured, holding her gaze with an unwavering, almost disconcerting scrutiny, as if he could see straight through her. When he spoke again, his voice was rich and resonant, low and gravelly, with a depth that suggested both a self-effacing authority and a profound restraint—a voice that demanded attention without force and lingered in the air like the reverberations of distant thunder. It was a voice unlike anything Miss Hale had ever encountered before, and the moment the words left his lips, something within her stirred—an unfamiliar tremor, a subtle awakening of emotions she had not known existed, lying dormant in maidenly naivety.

‘It seems we have both sought sanctuary,’ he remarked, his tone serious but fortified with a forthright warmth, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, as though he found some private amusement in the situation. His hands, now visible in the flickering candlelight, were roughened, calloused from toil—fingers bearing the unmistakable marks of hard labour, an incongruity in this world of genteel sophistication. His posture was confident, his presence formidable, yet not overbearing; there was a subtle dignity in his bearing that felt both grounded and expansive. But there was no fuss or affectation about him. No airs, no artifice. His clothes, though of fine quality, were simple and unpretentious—practical rather than ostentatious. The rich red of his velvet waistcoat reminded her of a robin’s bright breast, warm and cheery amidst the chill. He stood in sharp contrast to the opulence that surrounded him.

In that fleeting moment, the tension between them dissolved like mist at dawn, replaced by astonishing ease, as though he had silently gifted her a brief sanctuary from the evening’s heavy air. The buzz of distant voices faded, insignificant and muffled, and despite her best attempts to remain detached, Miss Hale felt the faintest curve of a smile tug at the edge of her mouth—an involuntary response to the bewildering comfort his presence offered. In that instant, she realised that while she had sought to escape the world around her, it was in him that she found an anchor—and for the first time all evening, she had no desire to escape at all.

Chapter Text

ENCHANTED

Chapter Two

Miss Hale was aware that many viewed her as haughty, but the truth of her nature was far more intricate. She was neither rude nor aloof; rather, she found herself shy in the company of others. Their conversations often struck her as shallow, and she had no interest in topics such as fashion and music and had no real insight to offer for either. Furthermore, she often feared her opinions would be dismissed and dissected the instant she opened her mouth, so she chose the safety of silence instead. Yet here, with him, there was an undeniable sense of assurance—an understood treaty of thoughts where her views would be met with respect, not disapproval. She had not meant to speak so freely, but something in the uncomplicated, unassuming easiness that surrounded them seemed to draw her out, as though the exchange between them had offered her an invitation to be momentarily unguarded, to let the walls she had built around herself slip away. It was as if his presence made space for her to breathe, to be seen, without fear of judgment or ridicule.

‘I must confess, I too am seeking refuge,’ she said softly, any customary severity in her voice dissolving.

He watched her for a fraction longer than seemed necessary, his gaze steady and concentrated, and though she could not decipher it, there was a weight in the look. It was a knowing, almost unsettling sureness, as though he saw through her carefully constructed walls, and in his hands, he held the hammer by which to dismantle them, though he intended to do so cautiously, considerately, and most of all, with her permission.

‘And what is it you seek refuge from?’ he asked, his tone was direct yet without pressure. Unlike those she had encountered earlier that night, his question seemed to store a genuine curiosity, as if he truly awaited her response. There was an embedded invitation in his manner, a rare openness that allowed her to speak her mind without the shadow of judgment hanging over her. Miss Hale felt a flush creep up her neck. For someone who had spent her life beholden to others: her parents, her aunt, her cousin, it felt confounding to be asked to speak for herself. It was a question that seemed to peel back layers, compelling her to think, to talk, to be.

‘I am not entirely certain,’ she admitted, the words tumbling out with unexpected honesty. ‘The sight of such... grand displays leaves me rather ill at ease.’

The man continued to regard her with unwavering attention. ‘How so?’ he asked, his voice neutral, betraying no suggestion of an opinion. He did not consider her out of place in the slightest. On the contrary, she seemed radiant—almost regal, like a princess. Indeed, she was by far the most beautiful woman at the gathering. He had noticed her earlier, standing amidst a group of young men, and had been struck by her presence, forced to stop and stare, rooted to the spot by the captivating sight of her. Yet, aware that a woman of her standing would never entertain the idea of being introduced to a man of his station, he had moved on brusquely, a scowl troubling his face. Still, the image of her lingered in his thoughts, prompting him to retreat behind the curtain in an attempt to recover himself—utterly unaware that she, too, was there.

Now, in this secluded moment, they found themselves alone together. How impish fate could be. He knew that he should have walked away—ought to have made his way north to resume his business—but he found himself unable to do so. Perhaps it was the warmth of the room, or perhaps something else entirely, but he felt as though he were under some spell. However, he quickly banished the thought, unwilling to indulge in such distractions. He was not here for that purpose, and besides, he felt woefully ill-equipped to navigate such emotions, having never before found himself admiring a woman so swiftly, nor so intensely.

Miss Hale, on the other hand, was momentarily taken aback. She had not anticipated any further probing on the matter, and the unexpected question left her briefly flustered.

‘I do not find it acceptable that people should party so gaily while there are those on the streets outside, cold, alone, friendless, and without hope.’ Her voice, which often felt shackled by shyness or an unwillingness to talk if she was required to uphold social propriety, now resonated with sincerity, as if his composed presence had loosened the invisible chains that held her words in check. His assurance granted her liberty, allowing her to voice the unease she had long concealed beneath the insincere veneer of civility and the enforced muzzle of womanly reserve.

The man smiled. How unusual it was to find such strength of character and conviction in one such as she, for while she was brilliant, she also had an unworldly charm to her that made him think she had led a sheltered and straightforward life. ‘And there is something else?’ he ventured, his eyebrow crooked shrewdly.

She could not deny it and acknowledged his guess with a reluctant nod.

‘I suppose… also, I dislike being endlessly interrogated about—’ Miss Hale paused, her words catching in her throat as she forced them back, the faintest hesitation revealing her discomfort. Her conversation with Henry earlier this year flashed in her mind. She had brought up the subject of marriage in passing at a family wedding, only for him to misinterpret her words as an open invitation for his attentions. The embarrassed exchange that followed had left her with an indelible sense of wariness. Henry had chastised her harshly, insisting that a woman of her standing should never broach such topics with unmarried men. The memory still pricked, and she quickly reconsidered her phrasing. Instead, she finished with a small, rueful shrug, a gesture that conveyed both resignation and self-reliance. ‘I simply do not like being scrutinised.’

He chuckled. ‘I am not sure anyone does,’ he responded, the edge of his empathy clear in the soft weight of his words.

‘Yes, but it is more than that,’ she found herself saying adamantly, feeling a need to make herself understood. ‘I do not like being judged purely for my age, my sex, my background, and the expectations others have of and for me. I would rather be judged for myself,’ she asserted boldly, her chin jutting up defiantly in a way that he found quite disarming. But then, her gaze dropped to the floor, half-expecting him to respond with either a dismissive smirk or a puzzled look, as if she were being overly sensitive or too outspoken. To her surprise, he did not. Instead, he nodded, his expression thoughtful, as though he understood far more than she had anticipated, more than she had given him credit for.

‘I can hardly fault you for that,’ he permitted, his tone unvarnished. ‘The sham of social performance is a heavy burden to bear. I have no skill for it, nor any patience, so I avoid it whenever I can. It is a circus only fit for monkeys. I am a working man, not a performer. I would rather toil than talk.’ He paused, apprehending that polite convention dictated that he ought to make a formal introduction. ‘My name is Thornton, by the way—an acquaintance of Mr Bell’s from Milton. Perhaps you know him.’

At the mention of Mr Bell, Miss Hale’s curiosity stirred, like a flicker of light breaking through a fog. ‘Mr Thornton?’ she almost gasped in disbelief. ‘Why, yes. Mr Bell speaks very highly of you, though I must confess, I had not pictured you,’ she disclosed, her eyes scanning up and down him hastily.

Again, his brow bent. ‘And who did you picture?’ he asked with intrigue, a faint glint in his blue orbs. There was something disarmingly commanding in his presence, a natural nobleness that did not seek to impress, yet left a lasting impression nonetheless.

Miss Hale hardly knew how to reply. She had often heard Mr Bell speak of his friend with a deep respect, even a certain warmth, yet she had never truly imagined him. However, if she thought about it, in her mind’s eye, he had always been an older man, conceivably severe in appearance, his manner formal and somewhat barbed. The name alone had conjured an image of someone prickly, perhaps even intimidating—an elderly scholar with rigid views. Thornton, she had imagined, would be just as his name suggested—thorny and unapproachable. Yet before her there stood a man who defied all of those assumptions: tall, strikingly handsome, and impressive in presence without being menacing. His features, sharp and angular, were not the hardened lines of age but the strong, bold outlines of youth. His eyes, dark and intense, carried a confidence that was impossible to ignore, yet there was something beneath that assured exterior—a subtle vulnerability in his posture, a flicker of unease that hinted at a man who, despite his apparent strength, was not entirely untouched by the world. Yes, it was this blend of power and fragility that challenged the image she had so firmly held without even realising she had held it at all.

Miss Hale inclined her head as she searched for the right words. ‘I admit that I had imagined you a little differently. I thought you might be a man of more advanced years. He describes you as very serious—almost a sage. I expected grey hair!’ Miss Hale could have bitten her lip. What would her mother or aunt have said to such a tactless comment? However, far from being offended, her playful tease drew a genuine laugh from Mr Thornton, the sound resonating with far more warmth than any of the evening’s superficial exchanges, and it made her chuckle with him in turn.

Mr Thornton’s laugh broke the silence, deep and genuine, a sound that seemed to come from his very core, his eyes alight with good humour. ‘I assure you,’ he said with a trace of droll conviction, ‘a young man can be serious and intellectually driven without the accompaniment of grey hairs.’

Miss Hale opened her mouth slightly to reveal a row of neat white teeth, an unaffected smile dimpling her rosy cheeks. ‘Such men are, I daresay, few and far between.’

‘Ah, but they do exist, I assure you,’ Mr Thornton replied, a tacit challenge in his words. His wit, earnest and unforced, carried an unanticipated ease, and Miss Hale felt the tension in her shoulders abate. There was something about him—a subdued, unshakable confidence—that contrasted with the fawning, calculating nature of the other men who had hovered around her with their intrusive interest. His presence, grounded and unpretentious, was a welcome departure from what she was used to, and for reasons Miss Hale could not quite articulate, she found herself fascinated.

‘I shall have to take your word for it,’ she consented, a touch coquettishly.

‘And what is your name?’ he asked, extending his hand towards her with a casual grace. However, she merely blinked in suspicion, her gaze caught momentarily on the offered gesture, a touch of astonishment colouring her expression.

He soon noticed her apprehension. ‘Where I come from,’ he continued, his tone unruffled, ‘men and women shake hands freely. But if you prefer not to, I shall not take offence.’ He left the choice to her, yet there was an openness in his manner, as though he anticipated no resistance.

For a fleeting instant, a tentative flutter beat in Miss Hale’s chest. His hand looked so large, so strong, compared to hers, and he was a man, after all. Her aunt would surely be shocked by such an encounter of skin between the sexes. However, her aunt was not here. Miss Hale was here, and Miss Hale was bold and brave. Therefore, her indecision was a mere momentary uncertainty that vanished as swiftly as it had arrived. With a sudden clarity, almost recklessly daring, Miss Hale extended her hand toward Mr Thornton’s. The instant their fingers met, a surge of warmth streamed through her every vein like liquid electricity. Her skin hummed at the press of his touch, a sensation that lingered long after their hands had parted, far longer than reason would have predicted. It was a feeling at once exhilarating and unnerving, as though the space between them had been vaporised in those elongated seconds of physical intimacy.

‘I am Miss Hale,’ she replied at last, aware that more than a minute had passed since he had asked her name. ‘My father and Mr Bell were at Oxford together many years ago.’

At this, Mr Thornton’s expression shifted, the slight narrowing of his brow expressing his surprise. ‘Miss Hale?’ he echoed, a strident note of disbelief threading through his words. ‘I had not expected...’

‘Expected me to be me?’ she finished with a wry smile, a glimmer of amusement dancing in her eyes. As she laughed nonchalantly, the whorls of her hair bounced friskily on her creamy shoulders, and he was forced to look away, for he found that he was already gawking in light of this baffling news.

Indeed, she was right, and for a brief, stunned moment, Mr Thornton found himself speechless. He had heard Mr Bell mention his old friend Hale in passing, along with the vague reference to his daughter, but he had assumed her to be little more than a child, a little girl in pigtails. Ha! How wrong he had been. What stood before him now was an entirely different creature: a poised, intelligent young woman with an overpowering grace that belied her youth, and a sharp wit that seemed to glimmer just beneath the surface of her composed demeanour. Her eyes, clear and unflinching, held an unpretentious confidence, and her smile was both self-assured and subtly challenging in a way he had never experienced.

The truth was that Mr Thornton rarely took notice of women—not out of disdain or disregard, far from it. He held a deep respect for them, but he was simply unmoved by their allure. His mind was always consumed by the demands of his work, and he cared little for the vapid attentions of those who fawned over him. In his twenty-seven years, Mr Thornton had never considered marriage, but if he had, he would have yearned for a genuine connection, not some contract of convention or convenience. Yet, this young lady was different. She disarmed him in a way he had not thought possible.

He found his gaze lingering on her, drawn to the delicate grace she exuded. Her pale pink dress, a soft yet striking hue, clung to her figure with understated elegance, highlighting her slender yet shapely physique. The fabric gently draped over her curves and exposed her shoulders, revealing the smoothness of her skin, while her hair—rich and brown—was styled in a pleasing arrangement, with loose tendrils spiralling down in tight ringlets that framed her pretty face. She was beautiful, yes, but there was an authenticity to her that set her apart. She was beautiful without being beautified. It was not the kind of loveliness that relied on excessive adornment or artifice; it was a modest, natural radiance that seemed to shine from within. There was something about her that made him pause, an unsettling awareness that this was no ordinary woman.

‘Well, Miss Hale,’ he said, his voice rough and rasping. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you,’ he confessed, offering her his hand again, which she accepted both gladly and graciously.

‘Indeed,’ she replied genially.

‘Indeed,’ he repeated gauchely, ‘I find myself… enchanted,’ he finished, his fingers, which remained encased around her hand, brushed her fingers with absent-minded tenderness as they continued to hold hands.

To be sure, Mr Thornton found himself unexpectedly taken aback, the stark contrast between his past assumptions and the reality of her presence disarming him in an instant. For a fleeting second, his mind scrambled to adjust to this new image of Miss Hale, and it took him longer than he liked to regain his bearing, his usual self-discipline faltering in the wake of her surprising candour. She was clever. She was compassionate. And she was captivating. But most of all, she was a lady, and he, technically speaking, was not a gentleman.

Miss Hale blushed, and bowing her head, agreed, ‘Yes… enchanted,’ and their eyes stayed faithful to one another for what felt like an age, yet neither of them wished to break the spell between them, content to stay as they were, locked and lost in each other’s eyes.

However, when the music from outside suddenly swelled to an overwhelming crescendo, they both flinched in unison, startled by the abrupt din. It would have been the ideal interval to excuse themselves and rejoin the party, politely going their separate ways, but to their mutual surprise, neither of them wished to leave. A tense pause followed as they both privately deliberated on what to say or do. Then, with quiet confidence, he took the lead.

‘Would you care to take a brief respite from the formalities?’ Mr Thornton suggested, his gaze drifting toward a nearby door. ‘The courtyard, perhaps? The air is crisp, and I imagine the view of the stars is worth a glance.’

Miss Hale nodded willingly, since his invitation was a welcome reprieve, a chance to escape the prying eyes of their fellow guests.

‘After all, I so rarely see the stars in Milton,’ he added, his voice carrying a note of trembling earnestness as he looked at her, his gaze long and lingering, as though mesmerised. In truth, he was reflecting not just on how rarely he saw the stars, but how much more lovely she was than any star could be, and how much more seldom he would see her after this evening. Yet he refused to let such melancholy thoughts intrude. For the moment, he would simply savour her company, as bittersweet as it would be.

Together, they slipped through the back doors of the hall and into the open night, where the moon hung low and bright above the ancient buildings of Oxford. The winter air, biting yet invigorating, snapped the social strain, leaving them both feeling strangely free. The vast, uncharted expanse of the navy sky stretched above them, its inky darkness dotted with stars that shone like distant diamonds.

The courtyard stretched before them, a tranquil expanse of snow and stone, where the hazy glow of lamplight gleamed like pools of gold. The crisp air seemed to usher in a trance of silence, as they walked side by side, their steps the only sound, the soft crunch of their boots upon the frosty ground. For a while, there were no words—only the serene hush of the evening, a silence that felt more comforting than awkward. There was something profoundly peaceful in the simplicity of the moment—no grand gestures, no forced conversation, just the stillness of the night and the humble presence of someone who, in an inexplicable way, felt more like a kindred spirit than a stranger.

As they continued to stroll around the cloisters, they spoke of many things: philosophy, the arts, the developing railways, and their shared love of literature. Miss Hale, still uncertain of his background, assumed Mr Thornton to be a successful businessman—one who had perhaps inherited his wealth. Nevertheless, to her surprise, he admitted with pride that he was a master in the cotton trade, having built his position through sheer perseverance and hard work.

‘I come from humble beginnings,’ he explained. ‘Milton is not a place known for gentility, but I have made my way through labour and no small measure of ambition. I am the youngest master in the city and, I hope, the fairest,’ he added, though there was no false modesty to be found in his words.

Miss Hale, a champion of the independent spirit and integrity of character, admired him for his trials and triumphs. ‘That is something to be proud of, Mr Thornton. To rise by one’s own efforts is no small thing.’ There was an understated respect in her words, a recognition of the grit and determination that had shaped his life.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked after a while, her tone both curious and candid.

‘You mean,’ he said, his timbre dropping an octave to emphasise his mock seriousness, ‘that a man of my station ought not to be in such company, or at such an event?’

She shook her head, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. ‘No, and yes,’ she answered, and he found himself admiring the straightforwardness of her reply.

‘You have every right to be here, I am merely curious about your reason for attending. Milton is a long way from Oxford.’

Mr Thornton seemed to weigh his words before answering. ‘Mr Bell is my landlord, I am his tenant. He owns a cotton mill, and I am its master. He suggested I might benefit from coming here, to meet some of his friends. He claims it is for me to seek investment opportunities, though I daresay I am more of a spectacle for his peers—an exhibit, trotted out for them to review and write a paper on.’

Miss Hale listened to him carefully. She sensed that he was not a man given to idle chatter, that he was unaccustomed to the art of small talk. Yet tonight, with her, he was unreserved, freed as she was from his usual shyness, and eager to fully immerse himself in her company. It was a gift, she deduced, that he gave infrequently, making it all the more meaningful.

‘I am sure that is not true,’ she replied. ‘I never thought of you in that way.’

‘No?’ He glanced at her, an eyebrow raised, as though testing her words. ‘Well, I must confess, I have never had a formal education. I left the schoolroom at a young age, and I have always held Oxford in some esteem. So, when the opportunity arose to see it up close, I welcomed it.’

‘And?’ Margaret asked, intrigued by the unshielded honesty in his words. ‘What do you think?’

He stopped in his tracks, a smile caressing his features as he met her gaze. ‘I find the conversation out here far more stimulating.’

At this, she blushed, and Mr Thornton felt something he had never felt before: his heart skip a beat.

‘So, you do not think it odd or wrong that a tradesman should care for the likes of poetry and politics?’ he asked, a tad confrontationally.

However, she was not fazed by his attempt to rattle her, since shook her head adamantly. ‘Only if you think it odd or wrong for a woman to have opinions and observations of her own.’

He paused and stared at her, his expression most serious. ‘Indeed, I do not,’ he said without hesitation. ‘I think it most wonderful.’

Astonished by his blunt compliment, she continued her walk. ‘I must admit,’ Miss Hale said, her breath clouding in the brisk air, ‘I did not expect to meet anyone like you tonight.’

Mr Thornton’s lips quirked into a faint smile, one so disarming in its tenderness, that Miss Hale hardly knew where to look. ‘And I did not expect to meet someone like you,’ he replied.

‘Then we are one and the same,’ said she, offering him a shy sideways glance, and they both chuckled in chorus.

As they continued their walk beneath the glittering expanse of stars, their conversation ebbed and flowed with easy teasing and light-hearted quips and questions. Hours seemed to slip by unnoticed, their exchange as natural and effortless as breathing, with no need for artifice or restraint. Yet, as the evening wore on, Miss Hale, reluctant to part from such agreeable company, felt the undeniable pull of duty. ‘I suppose we must go inside soon and join the others,’ she sighed, a touch of reluctance in her voice. ‘My parents will be looking for me.’

Mr Thornton glanced back toward the warmth of the gathering, and his features darkened once more, his lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, it was as though the rest of the world had vanished entirely from his thoughts. ‘It seems so.’

With a small, almost imperceptible nod, he looked as if he was about to lead them back inside, but something seemed to shift within him. Without warning, as if caught by an impulse, he turned back, his hand extending toward her again.

‘Miss Hale,’ he said, his voice rumbling and rich, the words carrying an unmistakable invitation, ‘might I have this dance?’

A tizzy of surprise stirred in Miss Hale’s chest, and for a while, she was unsure whether he spoke in earnest or was indulging in some light-hearted jest. Yet, the earnestness in his gaze—steady, unwavering—banished all doubt. Without a second thought, she placed her hand in his trustingly, feeling the warmth of his touch spread up her arm like a gentle current. They moved into the dance, a slow, unhurried waltz beneath the sprawling canopy of stars. The world around them seemed to dissolve, leaving only the quiet rustle of the night air and the steady progression of their feet, which moved in perfect harmony. The dance was an intimate conversation without words, each step measured and evocative, as if the very act of moving together, without music, had become the music itself.

When the dance finally came to a close, an almost sacred stillness settled between them, a soft reverence that lingered in the inches that separated them. Neither spoke, for words seemed unnecessary—what had passed between them was beyond the realm of simple expression. The evening, which had begun with awkwardness and reserve, had transformed into something entirely different—an unexpected association that neither could fully articulate, but both could feel deep within.

Standing close together, their breaths mingling in the cold mist of winter, the understanding between them held firm, though the spell of the dance inevitably began to unravel. They turned, their steps guiding them back toward the hall, the residual magic of the moment wrapped itself around them as an invisible thread, drawing them together even as the world continued its ceaseless whirl.

‘May I have the honour of knowing your name?’ Mr Thornton asked as they stepped back into the fray, his voice deepened, imbued with a sincerity that hinted at something beyond mere courtesy.

‘Margaret,’ she replied, her voice soft, carrying a trace of something more tender than she had intended, as if a part of her had slipped free without her consent, desperate to go with him, to stay with him.

‘John,’ he said, the simplicity of his answer underscored by the way his gaze lingered on her, as though imprinting the fleeting enthrallment of the evening into his memory.

Margaret liked his name. John. Solid. Reliable. As for John, he liked her name. Margaret. Rational. Loyal.

As the bustle of the hall called them back to the reality they had fleetingly escaped, they parted ways, each of them bearing the faint residue of what had passed between them—an impact that neither time nor distance could easily erase. It lingered in the air, like the last notes of a haunting melody, soft and unspoken, yet impossible to forget.

When Margaret returned to her mother, Mrs Hale glanced between her daughter and Mr Thornton, her expression flickering with curiosity. She had no way of knowing, of course, that Margaret had spent more than an hour alone in his company. She had only seen them return together and assumed, with innocent certainty, that they had only just met.

‘Who was that young man?’ she enquired.

Margaret, returning his steadfast gaze, since he could not quite seem to let her go, replied quietly, ‘Oh, just someone,’ then, as her mother was caught up in conversation with another minister’s wife, Margaret thought to herself, ‘someone rather special.’

In the days that followed, the Hale family received news that they would be relocating to Milton, a town famed for its bustling factories and industrial strength. Margaret, much to her parent’s surprise, did not appear stunned or sad. Indeed, their daughter felt a sense of excitement envelop her—a sense of hope that something new, perhaps even more meaningful, awaited her there.

Meanwhile, in Milton, John, upon hearing of the Hales’ impending move, felt a thrill unlike any other. The year was closing, but perhaps the next would hold something more—a future he had not yet imagined, but one that now, with hope, he dared to believe in. By next Christmas, he mused, his life might very well be transformed forever. He pledged to make himself known to the Hales as soon as possible, and, if she was willing, ask to see Margaret again. He set about writing some letters so that he might be the first to welcome them to the town and be of service.

As the new year beckoned, both Margaret and John carried with them the memory of that New Year encounter in Oxford—a meeting that, though brief, had ignited a meeting and melding of hearts that neither would soon forget. The future, unknown and untold, stretched out before them both. But it was not frightening. No. It was brimming with faith.

It was a few weeks later, when the Hales arrived at their new home in the suburb of Crampton, that Margaret found a letter waiting for her just inside the door. Picking it up, she let her fingers run over it. It smelled of soot and smoke. It smelled of happiness.

‘Who is that from, dear?’ her mother asked vaguely, busying herself with setting up home. Mrs Hale had assumed the letter was from a family member or a friend, but if she had looked more carefully at the bold writing, she would have seen that it was an unfamiliar hand, and, if she had spotted the postmark, she would have spied the Milton frank.

As her mother wandered off, busy with her own cares, Margaret held the letter close to her heart and whispered, ‘Oh, this?’ she smiled. ‘It is from the man I am going to marry.’

The End

Chapter Text

Notes: I’ve used some phrases from the BBC mini-series.

What Happens Now?

(Previously published under the name Miss Incognita)

Margaret weaved her way through the crowds of the Great Exhibition, taking in all the sights and sounds. She was lost in a dream world when her attention was caught by the sound of a familiar voice in the distance. Letting herself be drawn towards it, she saw a figure surpassing all those around him, and not because he was the tallest of them all, but because he was the most handsome too.

She stood back and quietly listened from the sidelines while he finished his speech and answered questions. It never failed to surprise her how clever he was. He was an articulate man who knew what he was talking about, and it was not that Margaret had ever assumed that he would be otherwise, it still astonished her to think that he was quite possibly the cleverest man she had ever met.

A man asked him whether there was any hope of bringing an end to strikes, and it was then that he looked up, and with his sharp eyes cutting through the crowd, Mr Thornton spotted her. Then he spoke to her, or rather, about her.

“Miss Hale knows the depths we men in Milton have fallen to. How we only strive to drive our workers into the ground.”

Where Margaret had shied away in the first instance, she now looked back at him with anger. How dare he do this? How dare he play out the private conflict that was going on between them in public and amongst strangers who knew nothing of the facts?

Jutting her chin high as it would go, Margaret regarded him coolly and prepared to retaliate.

“I do not think that,” she refuted, “as Mr Thornton would tell you if he knew me at all.” She had been sure to leave a pause at the end of her sentence to add potency to her point, and then she turned slowly, her enraged gaze lingering.

But he followed her with heavy footsteps full of haste.

“I presumed to know you once before, but was mistaken.”

Margaret wanted to reply with something quick-witted, but her tongue failed her. But it mattered not, for they were interrupted by some unwanted additions, most notably, Henry.

The exchange that followed was swift and painful. Her aunt had been indifferent. Henry, rude. He had attempted to undermine Mr Thornton, to make him feel unimportant. He wanted him to feel like he was nothing to them, and Margaret half suspected that Henry also wanted to make Mr Thornton believe that he was and would remain inconsequential to her.

If she had been angry before, then it was nothing compared to now.

Mr Thornton had left as quickly as he came, and once he did, she had been sure to put Henry in his place. She informed him just how progressive Mr Thornton was and, with a stern tone, she hoped she also told him that she would not tolerate any mistreatment of him, not while she was around.

Full of indignation, Margaret marched off, and it was as she was making her way towards the doors to get some fresh air that she saw him, Mr Thornton, standing still, looking lost. She watched him for a while and when he did not move, she went to him.

“Mr Thornton?” she interrupted. “I thought you were going home?”

He sighed and looked uncomfortable to have been found out by her. “I just said that,” he admitted. “I had so wanted to,” his head twisted round to look at where Henry still stood in the distance, “it doesn’t matter now,” he finished as a brooding shadow moved across his face.

Margaret could not claim to understand him, but bolstering her courage, she decided it was time they had a talk.

“Mr Thornton,” she began, “I’ve been giving it some thought and I think we should start again.”

“Start again?”

“Yes, start again. I think we should begin over and make the effort to get to know the real Margaret and the real…John,” she flushed. “That way, we can give each other a chance.”

Mr Thornton did not know what to say but he was intrigued by the look of want on her face and it gave him a hope he had never dared to cling to before.

“Very well, Miss Hale, but I just have one question,” he said, leaning in towards her with a smouldering smile that he could not repress, to find her doing the same: “What happens now?”

The End

Chapter Text

PRE-LOVED

Alone, quite alone, she walked down the wintry streets of her town, her breath forming misty puffs in the chilly Valentine's Day air. Couples strolled hand in hand, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of love songs playing from nearby restaurants and pubs. Everyone seems happy, sickeningly happy, as if all the badness in the world had gone, replaced by giant teddies and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates.

But for her, the day only served as a reminder of her loneliness. She hated this day. The pressure to find someone. The pretence of being head over heels in love. The overt displays of affection. And all those stupid balloons that just sagged into sad saps after a week, reminding everyone that love never really lasted. Good grief! She was getting cynical. Perhaps that was what came from working in a florist shop on the most romantic day of the year. She made a mental note. Next year, she would take the day off and hide under her duvet until the whole charade was over and people started acting normal again.

She continued on her way, quickening her step, but then she passed a pair who were leaning up against a wall and kissing in a way that was surely illegal in public. Screwing up her face and sticking out her tongue in mild disgust, she decided that instead of heading home to put on her fluffy pyjamas, crack open a bottle of wine and tub of ice cream, then settle down to get another February 14^th with Bridget Jones, she would take a little detour.

Before she knew it, she found that her feet were taking her in the familiar direction of the warmth of her favourite bookshop. Its weathered exterior exuded a welcoming charm, promising solace within its walls. With the sigh of one who has had a long and depressing day, she pushed open the creaky door and stepped into the cosy embrace of this little niche of comfort.

The air was thick with the scent of old paper and ink, and the shelves groaned under the weight of countless volumes. Taking her time, she ran her fingers lovingly over the spines, each one a portal to another world, another life. For her, this place was more than just a book-nook; it was a sanctuary, a refuge from the harsh realities of the outside world. Here, she was not alone but surrounded by faithful friends. Elizabeth Bennet. Jo March. Jane Eyre. Anne Shirley. So many special women, ladies with real spunk, who had become very dear to her.

Wandering through to the second-hand section, or pre-loved, as she liked to call it, she suddenly had an idea. Perhaps she could not have the love of a good person today, but she could reconnect with an old flame, a true love, and have herself a romantic date with a man who was perhaps not real, but one who was tall, dark, handsome, not to forget sensitive and a sexy scowler.

Yes, that is what she would do.

Making her way around the aisles, she hunted for her companion, and there, at last, she saw it, her favourite book stood proudly on the shelf, its faded cover bearing the marks of countless readings, the coffee stain on the edge an endearing mark of familiarity. Her heart quickened at the sight, her fingers itching to hold it once more.

But as she reached out to claim it, another hand, a bigger, thicker, stronger hand, beat her to it, and brushed against hers, sending a jolt of electricity through her veins. Startled, she looked up to find herself face to face with a stranger—a man.

Oh! And a rather handsome man, at that.

He appeared stern at first, his lips fixed into a terse line, but perhaps that was all down to his surprise, for his features soon softened into the most irresistibly adorable smile. Her heart fluttered in her chest with a thrilling flurry of butterflies as she looked up at him, since he was much taller than her. His eyes, which were sharp yet soulful in their intense blue hue, met hers, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Their hands lingered for a while, suspended in the space between them, before the man withdrew with an apologetic smile.

‘I'm sorry,’ he said, his voice deep and tender. ‘I didn't mean to startle you.’

She shook her head, a cute, coy smile tugging at the corners of her lips. ‘No, it's fine, honestly,’ she replied, shyly tucking a stray hand of chestnut hair behind her ear, wishing she had bothered to brush her hair before leaving work and wasn’t wearing her giant bobble hat. ‘I was just... lost in thought.’

The man nodded, his gaze lingering on her face in a way that made her breath catch in her throat. ‘It's a great book, isn't it? North and South, it has always held a special place in my heart.’

Her eyes widened like that of startled owls. He didn't exactly strike her as the type to cosy up with romance novels, but who was she to dispute the evidence? A literary kindred spirit had emerged before her. She couldn't help but feel drawn to him, utterly intrigued by her find amongst the dusty old bookshelves.

She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘It is wonderful. It has everything. Change. Inequality. Hope. Loss. Redemption. Growing up. There is something in it for everyone. It is so well written, that Gaskell was a genius, and it has this amazing way of staying relevant to every new generation of reader,’ she went on, wishing she wasn’t prattling on so. She bit her tongue. She always did this when she was nervous.

His face broke out into a broad smile. ‘Aye,’ it is all that,’ he granted, and leaning in closer, he offered her a small wink, ‘And don’t forget, it’s a crackin’ love story, too.’

She blushed, turning a shade reminiscent of a ripe tomato at a summer fair, and erupted into laughter so raucous that she snorted like a gleeful piglet discovering truffles before scrambling to conceal her face in utter mortification. Yet, he remained unfazed, as if her antics were a delightful comedy show he'd stumbled upon. Instead of making a swift exit, he anchored himself firmly, as and leaned against the bookshelf, his arms crossed, his curiosity captured.

They shared a soft chuckle, the air between them lightening with every word exchanged. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, like a playlist of their favourite songs on shuffle. Characters and plots, love and heartache—they navigated the realms of storytelling, finding solace in the resonance of each other's thoughts. With each passing moment, the physical distance melted away until they stood close enough they touched toes, their hot breaths mingling, the two of them lost in the authenticity of their connection.

For the first time in ages, a glimmer of hope sparked within her, though she dared not entertain it too eagerly. The notion that someone like him could be interested in her seemed too good to be true. She was so plain, and he, well, he was so──

But then he said it.

‘Would you like to get a coffee?’ he asked, his voice tentative, as if he were nervous. ‘I mean, if you don't have any plans...’ he added.

‘No,’ she said abruptly, and his smile dropped into a frown. He suddenly felt like such a fool. Of course! A girl as sweet and clever, and pretty as she surely must have a date on Valentine’s Day.

She noticed his disappointment. ‘Oh, no!’ she said, stammering to correct herself. ‘I mean, I have no plans,’ she laughed. ‘I mean… I would love to go out with you.’

She blushed at her choice of words, surprised to find him blushing in return.

Her heart fluttered with an unexpected thrill. She hadn't anticipated such a turn of events, never imagined a chance encounter in a quaint bookshop would lead to anything beyond casual conversation. Yet, the sincerity and warmth in his gaze reassured her in ways she hadn't known she needed.

‘Great,’ he replied, his relief genuine, his eyes reflecting a shared understanding.

They ventured into the evening's cool embrace, the streets pulsating with the promise of endless possibilities. Side by side, they strolled in comfortable silence, their footsteps synchronised with the rhythm of their hearts. As they turned the corner and faded into the gathering dusk, she felt a soothing tranquillity enveloping her like a snug blanket on a wintry night, comforting and familiar.

It was right there, at that moment, in those very seconds, that she knew that she had found something precious—something worth holding onto. She had no idea where this would lead, but she knew one thing, she was not afraid to find out.

And it was only as they were entering a snug café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee beckoning them inside, that she finally realised that she had forgotten to ask him a basic question. As they settled into a corner booth and removed their coats and scarves, she picked up her hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows and asked: ‘By the way, what's your name?’

The man's eyebrows shot up. Yikes! Had he really not asked her name or given his? Oops, maybe he had. It seemed he had become so engrossed in their conversation, so swept up in the chemistry between them, that he had skipped the polite formalities. It was just that they felt as though they had been the very best of friends in another life, dancing through the mist of fact and fiction as two connected souls. It was strange, but he somehow felt like he had always known her, like he knew her inside and out, better than he knew himself. And, he suspected she felt the same way about him. It was almost...almost as if they had pre-loved each other through time. Perhaps he had simply forgotten to hit the rewind button and start at the beginning, the beginning of their story. Anyway, that could soon be fixed.

‘John,’ he replied, his name simple, but sturdy and steadfast. ‘Yours?’

Glancing up, she smiled with the brightness of faith in the future. ‘You’ll never guess…’

Chapter Text

HERE'S TO HER!

Hannah Thornton stood beside the drawing-room window, as stoically still as a sentry.

It had been her practice for many years to pass the time of day in this manner.

She would remain and watch the bustling business that was a cotton mill, with people, carts and bales trundling in and out of its gates. She would watch as the feathery strands of white fluff arrived in sacks, like infant cotton clouds, then would oversee their departure, now finished, fine and ready to be used, made to the impeccable standard that only this mill could guarantee. She would watch as the workers scurried around like grey and brown mice, darting here and there to attend to their work, their steps quickened in fright when they knew she was supervising them from atop and afar.

She had heard the hands refer to her as the black crow, the ominous guardian of Marlborough Mills who presided over them all from her lofty roost, like a menacing presence that they could not shake off. She had to smirk at the comparison, for it reminded her of the Tower of London and its resident ravens. Legend has it, should they all fly away from the fortress grounds, the stronghold will dissolve to dust and the monarch will fall, casting a plague of trials and tribulations upon England for a thousand years. Yes, she deemed the analogy fitting, for as capable as her son was, she could not help but pride herself on the idea that if she were ever to abandon her post or forsake the mill, the machines and mortar would crumble into rubble, like the temple in the story of Samson, and not a stone of this magnificent cotton kingdom would be left standing.

Then again, it mattered little now.

The mill would indeed perish, and all because its king was being deposed.

Well, if it fell, it served them all right for getting rid of him. He had given his everything to this place. His best years. His blood, sweat and tears, not that he let anyone see the latter, and what thanks did he get in return? None, that was what.

It occurred to her that today would be her last watch, her last stand in this battle for… she would not call it survival, because they would survive, she would make sure of it, and he would not allow it to be any other way. He would work heroically to ensure that she was comfortable and content. To be sure, she would not call it survival, but thrival, not that this was a word, but it should be, because they had strived to thrive through many strife-riddled chapters of their joint existence. Nobody deserved success more than him, not after all those ups and downs and bends and twists that had taken them from riches to rags, to rags to riches, and now, it would seem, to rags once again. In this saga of victory and defeat, he had never once allowed himself a moment of peace, of amnesty from his latent insecurity, for his entire journey had been one of deprivation and scrupulous self-denial, and because, all along, he had feared this day would come. He had dreaded that he would lose everything all over again.

And now he had.

Bah! Doom and destiny had conspired to bring her son down, she was sure of it. Providence was wicked, and Mrs Thornton shook her fist at it in furious defiance!

Yes, today was her last day standing here. She had observed as all the men, women and children arrived in the morning, as usual, and much to their credit, they had gone about their tasks with as much energy and enterprise as they typically would, as if nothing was amiss, as if this day was not as ill-fated for them as it was for their employer. Mrs Thornton, who was not one to smile by nature, her features almost having forgotten how, struggled to fight the urge to break her stern expression, and so the slightest crease wrinkled the corner of her lips as she beheld the scene unfolding before her. There was a palpable sense of camaraderie in the air. Despite facing the loss of their livelihoods, and for some, the potential threat to their very lives if they failed to secure work soon, not a single grumble leaked from their lips. They showed up, they laboured diligently, and they remained steadfastly loyal to their master and the mill. Shouldering the weight of this sombre day collectively, they stood as one, akin to a tightly-knit family. Deep within, Mrs Thornton harboured a silent gratitude for their unwavering support. While she might not have required it herself, she understood its significance to him.

At any rate, the hours had passed, and, at length, the machines had slowed and stopped, their spinning subdued, their great roar snuffed.

With the drawn-out paces of threadbare shoes, the workers had trailed out, one by one, dragging their feet, demonstrating to the very last that they did not want to go. It was like a funeral procession, with their eyes cast to the ground, their shoulders drooped in depression, their shuffling unrushed and solemn, a chorus of a solemn hum coming from them.

And yet, there he had stayed to meet them, to face them, at the mill gates, tall and confident, as if nothing was different, as if today did not mark the end of an era. With an outstretched hand that grasped each weathered palm as an equal, he thanked every one of them for their service as he individually handed them a well-packed drawstring pouch with their wages, generously paying them until the end of the month, an extra three weeks, even though he had no obligation to do so, and the cost would come out of his own diminishing pocket. From her perch, Mrs Thornton, the maternal crow, had witnessed the exchange, a sea of grown men holding back their emotions and refusing to break down, even when Higgins, whom she had been greatly mistaken in, having proved himself an assiduous and reliable man, had imparted a piece of paper, a list of names of all the workers who would gladly return to serve under the former Master of Marlborough Mills if his fortunes should ever return.

Then they had left. And everything was silent. Everything was eerily empty.

The yard stood lifeless, a graveyard to industry, a burial ground for dead dreams.

She had lingered there a while longer, as if cemented in place, patiently waiting, mutely praying that she was mistaken, that all would be well, and she would blink and find it had all been a figment of her imagination, just a hideous nightmare. But no, the scene before her did not change. It was very much real, very much their reality.

Suppressing a snivel as a rogue droplet of water escaped her nose, for she was not one to give way to something as self-indulgent as sentiment, Mrs Thornton was about to return to her seat and pick up her sewing, but then a shadow flickered in the corner of her eye, and returning her eagle gaze to the yard, she spotted a figure making their way across it with rapid, determined strides.

John.

At first, she thought nothing of it as she watched him walk towards the outer stairs that led directly to his office. The mill may have closed, but there were doubtless a number of menacing papers that demanded his attention still, each one mocking him for his supposed failure, not that it was his failure, not he, not a man who had worked with ceaseless aptitude and integrity for years without demanding anything in return. But he would see it as a failure, and try as she might, wish as she may, she could not change that.

However, the detail which caused her to squint and mistrust her eyesight, was that he seemed to be dressed in his finest. Indeed, after weeks of appearing worryingly dishevelled with his grey pallor, rolled-up sleeves, dirtied shirt, hair that fell over his brows, unshaven jaw, and a general wearisome expression, each of these unfortunate points had been rectified, and he was, in essence, as handsome and impressive as he had ever been. Nevertheless, if this point alone was not enough to disconcert his mother, there was the additional and decidedly unusual fact that he was carrying with him a bottle of excellent champagne along with two glasses. Mrs Thornton had to think about this. This was an odd sight, indeed. It made little sense. It made no sense. Her son rarely drank, and what was even more peculiar, he detested champagne, he never touched the stuff.

Dwelling to deliberate on his strange behaviour, she sighed heavily. Ah, of course. He would be toasting to her, the mill. They had been through thick and thin together these seven years. She understood. He needed this. He needed to say farewell and good luck. To thank her for everything, to say sorry for having to let her go, and wish her well for a future in which they would no longer be partners, their fates once entwined, now severed by the saw of ruination. It was a miscarriage of justice, and she could not bear it, but accept it, she must, for his sake, if nothing else. Very well, she would leave him to it. She would leave him to his goodbyes and his grief.

In solitude, he gently closed the door, placing the glasses on the table with utmost care before pouring the champagne with meticulous precision, ensuring no drop was wasted. Acknowledging his weariness, his legs began to shake with exhaustion, and he felt sure he would collapse to the floor like a piece of crumpled paper. But he would not give in to his fatigue, not here, not now, not when he had something important to do, to see through. A surge of determination coursed through him as he gripped the table; he yearned to replenish his energy, to immerse himself completely in the impending moment.

Clutching both of the crystal flutes, he raised one to his lips while offering the other out to an invisible presence in silent tribute. After a brief pause, he tilted his head, supped and swallowed, letting the golden, fizzy liquid slip down his neck. He had hardly eaten or slept in weeks, so even a mere sip left him a touch giddy. Still, by God, it was refreshing. It had been a long day, and while it irritated him to admit it, he welcomed the Dutch courage.

And so, with a quiet resolve, he embraced his seclusion, allowing its quiet currents to guide him toward a sense of calm, quietly thankful that after months of feeling constantly harassed by a hassling horde of bankers, suppliers, customers, workers, and the other mill masters, he was at last alone, he was at last at liberty to do what he had impatiently awaited for what felt like an age.

Finally, the day, the hour, the moment had arrived.

Today was an occasion not for sorrow, but for celebration.

A bittersweet smile danced across his face as he softly murmured, ‘Here’s to her!’

Today marked her twenty-first birthday, a day he could not forget amidst all that had occurred, as his sense of security and self-reliance had toppled, and his world came crashing down around him.

Margaret: his beloved Margaret.

He had not forgotten her; how could he?

John had specifically chosen today to officially close the mill. It had been a most resolute decision. It was because he wanted to have something to rejoice in. When he looked back and remembered this day, one that would forever be tainted with regret and marred by humiliation, he did not want to focus on all the anguish and shame, but to feel a swell of joy in his heart to think that while his future lay in tatters, hers was taking flight. And, in an inexplicable way that was entirely irrational, he felt as if this was his gift to her.

He had wanted to give her so much, his all, his everything, but she had refused it (wise woman), and so he told himself that in his failure, he was giving up his achievements and prosperity to bequeath Margaret her happiness. It was all nonsense, of course, he had played no part in her emancipation from a dependant daughter, niece and cousin with no defined home or role of her own, to an independent heiress and woman who could, at last, take control of her own life, a life that had until now been dictated by the wants of others. Yet, he had been prevented from giving her any real present, as both hardship and impropriety prohibited it, so he told himself that he had struck a final deal as a businessman, and had made a contract with fate, offering himself up for her sake. It was a straight-up trade. His future for hers, and he somehow liked the poetry of that, because, after all, had she not accused him of being heartless? Of being able to care for nothing other than buying and selling?

Ha! The truth of her words was deplorably ironic.

But this changed nothing.

His pride for her was immense. She had shown remarkable strength, and now, as a woman of means and maturity, she possessed an unstoppable spirit. He had tormented himself with the idea of going to London to see her, only to dismiss it as folly. Would she refuse to see him? Or worse: would she even remember him after a year? Could her time in Milton have faded into a distant, inconsequential memory, one that she would rather forget?

The notion of her looking upon him with disdain, or harsher still, indifference, weighed heavily on his vulnerable soul. He could not stomach the thought of believing he meant nothing to her while she meant everything to him. And the mere suggestion of seeking her out for financial assistance wounded his pride deeply. He couldn't stoop to that level, especially in her eyes—a worthless, bankrupt manufacturer, once regarded as a tyrant.

Though she would readily aid his workers, she might hesitate when it came to him. He couldn't bear the idea of her viewing him as anything less than the man he once was—a man who, despite his faults, held her in the highest regard, even if just from a distance.

How right she had been not to accept him almost two years ago. Had she already known what he had not? That he was destined for failure? That his self-assurance, his ego, would fall and fracture into smithereens? Perhaps she had. If they had been married now, possibly even with children, he would not have been able to provide for them as he ought. Margaret had never been a vain woman who wanted all that was gold, all that glittered, but even he could see that she would have lamented at their unexpected privation, thinking, for the rest of her days, how much better she could have done if only she had been bold enough to refuse him.

He pondered her whereabouts now, imagining her revelling in her newfound sovereignty with family, friends, and perhaps even a fiancé—though the thought soured his expression momentarily.

No, there was no use scowling over such things. Jealousy had no right to be aggrieved.

No, she was lost to him now.

No, he was nothing to her. He could give her nothing.

No, she deserved better than him.

Should he have gone to her?

No.

Would she have wanted to see him?

Never.

Did they stand a chance of ever being together?

No. Never.

At that moment, the door creaked open, and Williams, the steadfast foreman, cautiously peeked his head around the frame, well aware of the master's fluctuating temperament of late.

‘There’s a visitor for you,’ he announced, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

‘Business or personal?’ John asked crossly, annoyed at being interrupted, especially when there was nothing to be done now to salvage his position.

‘Both, they say,’ Williams answered.

John stopped.

They? He had not said “he.”

As Williams swung the door open wider and stepped further into the room, John's gaze caught the subtle outline of a brown hat behind its concealing structure, and, all at once, an overpowering deluge of hope flooded from his core.

‘She’s right determined, she won’t be dissuaded,’ said Williams with raised brows, and John felt a spark of hope ignite in his heart.

‘She says you cannot refuse to see her,’ the foreman added.

‘How so?’ John pressed, breathless with suspense, shaking from head-to-toe in anticipation.

Here Williams offered a knowing grin, ‘She says it’s her birthday.’

The End

Chapter Text

“NO!”

Chapter One

The soft glow of the late afternoon filtered through the stained-glass windows of Milton's St Mary’s Church, casting ethereal hues across the gathered congregation. The rich reds, blues, and golden tones melded together, creating a fusion of colour that danced upon the faces of those assembled. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation, the air heavy with the scent of lilies and incense.

Margaret Hale occupied a pew, her heart a heavyweight within her chest, burdened by the ache of unreciprocated love. Her once adoring gaze was now fixed upon John Mr Thornton, formerly the sun around which her world revolved, now a distant figure at the church's fore, Ann Latimer by his side. However, mercifully, it was not his wedding day. She thanked God for that. No, he was only at the front as the male guardian for his sister who was to wed Mr Watson, and as for Ann Latimer, she was merely a bridesmaid. Still, it put them in close proximity, and with wedding bells ringing around them, chiming the hymn of romance, who knew what inspiration may stir in their single hearts?

Therefore, Fanny Thornton's wedding day, intended as a joyous celebration of new beginnings, served only as a poignant reminder of Margaret's shattered dreams.

Mr Thornton, a commanding presence at the altar, exuded an air of stoic austerity. His tall, imposing frame stood rigid, his dark hair swept back in a style both severe and refined. His countenance, etched with the lines of responsibility and restraint, betrayed none of the turmoil raging within him. Yet Margaret, with her keen intuition, sensed the tumult lurking beneath his composed exterior—a tempest of conflicting emotions warring beneath the surface.

As the ceremony unfolded, Margaret's emotions surged within her like a tempestuous sea held at bay by a fragile dam of composure. Each word uttered by the minister, each note resonating from the organ, served only to deepen the chasm of her heartache. She watched as Mr Thornton exchanged pleasantries with Ann, his gaze averted, his indifference a dagger to her wounded pride. Though seemingly inconsequential, this gesture spoke volumes—a stark reminder of the chasm that now yawned between them, an insurmountable gorge of misunderstanding and regret.

Margaret paid little attention to proceedings, her cares elsewhere, but then she heard the room around her erupt into a cheerful chuckle and looking up, she saw that everyone was looking towards the altar, but not at the bride and groom, but at Mr Thornton and Miss Latimer, the former blushing and looking away, the latter smiling with radiant glee to be the centre of attention. Tuning her ears, Margaret listened, and she gasped as she heard the minister note with a knowing look that while he was delighted to see Mr Watson and Miss Thornton here in his church today, he was delighted to say that he believed it would not be the only wedding in the family to take place soon.

The minister's jest about another impending Mr Thornton union fell upon Margaret's ears like a heavy burden, as though the weight of the world itself bore down upon her shoulders. Mr Thornton's discomfort was palpable, a mirror to Margaret's own inner turmoil. A surge of indignation and desolation threatened to overwhelm her fragile facade, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions swirling within her breast. It was a torment unbearable, the crushing realisation that the man she loved was slipping inexorably from her grasp.

In a blaze of unbridled emotion, Margaret's pent-up anguish erupted in a defiant cry: ‘No!’

Her voice pierced the tranquillity of the church, echoing through its sacred halls like a clarion call of defiance. The ensuing silence was deafening, each pair of eyes fixed upon her a silent condemnation. Yet amidst the weight of their judgement, Margaret seized a shard of her shattered dignity, a glimmer of resolve amidst the ruins of her shattered dreams.

Glancing up, she could feel a sea of eyes watching her, some angry, some sniggering, some confused, some speculating. She could feel her father next to her, his breath caught in his throat, the shock of the moment threatening to suffocate him. She could see Fanny and Watson, the bride eyeing her with ire, the groom with bewilderment. But none of this mattered to her. All she cared about was the pair of startling blue eyes that stared at her from the altar. Sharp. Severe. Questioning. They bore into her, and for a second, she dared to look up, and in that hairsbreadth of a moment, she could feel the intensity of his harsh displeasure.

With cheeks aflame and heart pounding, Margaret fled the scene, her breaths ragged and laboured. She felt Mr Thornton's gaze bore into her back, a cold, unforgiving reproach to her already wounded soul. Tears blurred her vision as she stumbled into the cool embrace of the evening air, seeking solace in the anonymity of the shadows. Each footfall was a painful reminder of love lost, of dreams dashed upon the rocks of reality.

In the crucible of humiliation, Margaret Hale resolved to steel herself against the pain, to rebuild the fractured remnants of her heart, and to summon the courage to face the uncertain future that lay ahead. The path before her stretched dauntingly, fraught with trials and tribulations beyond reckoning. Yet in the depths of her despair, Margaret found solace in the knowledge that she was not alone, that there were those who loved her, who would stand steadfast by her side through adversity and triumph alike.

As she traversed the desolate thoroughfares of Milton, her steps heavy with grief, Margaret clung to the flickering ember of hope that smouldered within her breast. Even in the darkest depths of her despair, she refused to surrender to the shadows. With each passing heartbeat, she felt her resolve strengthen, her resilience deepen, poised to confront whatever trials lay ahead.

The sky above Milton had begun to darken, with the first stars of the evening tentatively peeking through the twilight haze. The familiar streets seemed to stretch endlessly before her, each corner turned a new challenge to face. Her thoughts drifted back to her earlier years in Helstone, to the simpler days filled with the laughter of her family and the serene beauty of the countryside. But those memories, now tinged with a bittersweet longing, only served to highlight the stark reality of her present turmoil.

She wandered aimlessly, her mind a tumult of conflicting emotions. The distant sounds of the city, once a comforting hum, now felt oppressive and alien. Every shadow seemed to whisper her name, every gust of wind a reminder of her solitude. She passed by the old cotton mill, its imposing structure looming large against the night sky, a symbol of the life she had reluctantly become a part of.

Margaret found herself at the edge of the city, where the noise of the mills and the bustle of the streets gave way to the murmurs of nature and the sleeping graveyard of the old and young… far too many young. She paused by a small grove of trees, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, and allowed herself to collapse onto the cool grass. The ground was firm beneath her, a welcome contrast to the instability of her emotions. She closed her eyes, feeling the earth's steady pulse beneath her, and let the tears come.

Each tear that fell was a testament to her unspoken sorrows, a release of the pent-up anguish that had threatened to consume her. She wept for the loss of her mother, for the fractured relationship with her father, and most of all, for the unfulfilled love she bore for Mr Thornton. The man who had once been her beacon of strength and security now seemed a distant, unapproachable figure.

As the night deepened, the stars grew brighter, their light a silent witness to her grief. Slowly, her sobs subsided, replaced by a deep, abiding weariness. In that stillness, a new resolve began to form. She realised that she could not change the past, nor could she compel another's heart to love her in return. But she could control her own actions, her own responses to the trials she faced.

Margaret stood, brushing the dirt and grass from her dress, and took a deep breath. The night air was cool and clear, carrying with it the faint scent of blossoms. She turned back towards the city, her steps more deliberate, her heart a fraction lighter. She would face the days ahead with the same strength and dignity that had seen her through so many hardships before. Margaret would find a way to mend her broken heart, to rebuild her life from the fragments of her shattered dreams.

But then, all of a sudden, she felt a shadow looming behind her, and an overwhelming yet wonderful presence engulfed her. Before she could turn to see it, to address or challenge it, a voice, deep and resonant, cleaved through the silence: ‘What the hell, Margaret?!’

Chapter Text

“NO!”

Chapter Two

The afternoon air was thick with the choking haze of coal and the relentless thrum of machinery as Margaret Hale made her way through the streets of Milton. The atmosphere was loud and oppressive, but her only consolation was that she was swallowed up by the mass of moving people who cared nothing for her plight, their empty bellies and aching feet their foremost worry. She weaved her way between them, her brown hat and coat painting her into the landscape as an invisible figure in this sea of muted tones.

The midday sun had reached its peak as it sprinkled the sooty brickwork of the buildings with its rays of light, though its brilliance did little to lift her spirits. The once-animated shades of the late summer day seemed dulled by the pall of smoke that rose as one immense grey mist.

Margaret continued on her walk. Her steps, though insistent, were burdened with the furore of recent days. She replayed in her mind the unfortunate scene she had caused at Miss Thornton's—now Mrs Watson’s—wedding, her heart still smarting from the memory of her impulsive outburst. What had driven her to speak so boldly, to challenge the very foundations of decorum in a setting as solemn as the church? Yes, Margaret had never cared a fig for convention, but she did care about respecting others and respecting the sanctity of God’s house. Today, she had offended both. But why had she done it? These questions gnawed at her, each one twisting like a knife, leaving her in a state of confusion and regret.

Seeking solace, she had ventured to this secluded spot, hoping that the tranquil surroundings might offer some respite from the turmoil within her. The gentle rustling of the wind through the grass and the sight of rolling fields peeking up on the horizon as she marched up the hill were a stark contrast to the grime and stuffiness of Milton below. Yet, even here, amidst the peaceful embrace of nature, her thoughts offered her no peace.

Margaret’s eyebrows knitted crossly as she replayed the scene in her mind. The words she had uttered, indicted with emotion and utterly devoid of forethought, still echoed in her ears. Why had she allowed herself to be swept away by such unbridled feelings? What latent force had compelled her to disrupt such a consecrated occasion with sentiments she scarcely comprehended herself?

As she pondered these questions, the serenity of her surroundings seemed to mock her inner chaos. She was so caught up in the tangle of her thoughts that she did not notice the figure approaching with determined strides, his presence only becoming apparent when he was nearly upon her.

It was only when she heard her name spoken—firmly, almost commanding in its tone—that Margaret turned, her breath catching in her throat. She found herself face to face with him! Mr John Thornton.

What was he doing here? He was the brother of the bride. The host. The toast and talk of the town.

Nevertheless, here he was, with her. His tall, broad frame seemed to fill the space between them, and his dark eyes, shadowed beneath a furrowed temple, bore into hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine, though she would not wish it away, not for anything. His expression was stern, the strong lines of his jaw set in a grim earnestness, yet there was something beneath the severity…

‘What the hell, Margaret?’ he called out. The words, though harsh, held a note of desperation that cut through her shock at both his presence and his language.

Startled, she turned sharply to face him, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath catching as she met his gaze. The afternoon sun framed him in a glowing halo of intense light, making him seem at once both formidable and vulnerable. His dark, tousled hair caught the full glare of the day, and his lips, usually set in a stern line, now quivered ever so slightly, betraying the storm of emotions that brewed beneath his composed exterior.

The remnants of her reverie shattered under the weight of his voice, which was deep and resonant, carrying with it an undercurrent of both anger and urgency. The air between them seemed to crackle with implicit tension, trembling with emotions neither could fully articulate.

It was the first time he had spoken her name, her Christian name, and the sound of it on his lips sent a thrill through. Emboldened by the passion of the moment, she responded in kind, with a daring she had not known she possessed.

‘John,’ she breathed, his name slipping from her lips as though it had always belonged there.

At the sound of this short yet deliciously significant syllable, he halted, halted in a stunned silence. The tension between them thickened. Margaret’s pulse hurried through her veins when she realised the gravity of her audacity, the intimacy of such a familiar address, and with a sudden rush of propriety, she corrected herself.

‘Mr Thornton!’ she exclaimed, her voice tinged with the astonishment that swirled within her. His presence on the hilltop was as unexpected as it was disconcerting. She had sought solitude, a respite from the clamour of her thoughts, and yet here he was, bringing with him the very turmoil she had been so desperate to escape. He was the cause. The catalyst. But could he be the cure?

He stood just a few paces from her now, his countenance a complex mixture of sternness and something else—something she still dared not name. For a moment, he merely looked at her, his eyes searching her face as if trying to decode every line, every twitch of brow and cheek. His gaze was unyielding, yet there was a softness to it, a defencelessness that belied the harshness of his words.

Finally, in a voice that was low but laced with an unmistakable intensity, he spoke again, his tone softening as he grappled with the depth of his feelings, and the knowledge that they were once again together, alone, ready to exchange and examine the sentiments of their hearts.

‘I must have an explanation. You cannot leave me in such bewilderment. Why did you make a scene at my sister’s wedding? In front of our families, in front of the whole town! What were you thinking?’ His voice faltered slightly, the anger giving way to a note of pleading. ‘What… what did you mean by it, Margaret?’

The inflamed emotion he possessed, the way he spoke her name as if it were a lifeline, sent a tremor through her. She could feel the weight of his question pressing down on her, demanding an answer, an answer she herself was not even sure she knew. The wind stirred around them, disturbing the autumn leaves and carrying with it the distant hum of the town below, but at that moment, all she could hear was the rapid beating of her own heart, magnified tenfold by the fervent appeal in his eyes.

His words, though direct and stubborn, were marked by something she had not anticipated—hope. In his eyes, she caught a glimpse of helplessness that belied his usual stoic composure, a flicker of something raw and unguarded. For a trice, she was utterly lost, unable to formulate a response. How could she possibly explain what even she scarcely understood herself?

A profound and almost tangible silence enveloped them as Margaret struggled to find her voice. It felt as if the entire world had narrowed to this single moment, to the man standing before her, whose presence dominated the unseen tether that was their abyss and their attachment alike. All that she had buried deep within her heart now threatened to rise, to spill over in an uncontainable torrent of truth.

She stood there, her mind hurtling along through the multitude of feelings she had never risked to voice. She thought of her arrival in Milton, filled with prejudice and misconceptions, only to discover in Mr Thornton a man of unexpected depth and integrity. He was a man who had, despite herself, earned her admiration. Not just as a master, but as a person who carried the burdens of his responsibilities with a quiet dignity she could not help but revere.

And then there was the undisputable attraction—an unspoken pull that had drawn her to him, even as she tried to resist it. She had seen him not merely as a figure of authority but as a son devoted to his mother, a brother fiercely protective of his sister, and a friend whose loyalty was unwavering. In each of these roles, she had found herself admiring him more, and that admiration had softened into something deeper, something she had been reluctant to acknowledge until now.

There was also affection—a fondness she had not fully recognised until this very instant. It was a tenderness born of respect, of shared hardships, of seeing each other in moments of vulnerability and strength and finding, in the end, that despite their differences in gender, age, and background, they were remarkably alike.

But how could she possibly articulate all of this to him? How could she express the complexity of her feelings when she herself had only just begun to understand them? How could she lay bare the emotions that had grown within her, unbidden and unstoppable?

Margaret opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat, trapped by the enormity of it all. She looked into Mr Thornton’s eyes and saw reflected there the same struggle, the same yearning for understanding. The silence between them stretched on, laden with all the things left unsaid, with the emotions they had both kept hidden for so long.

But enough was enough.

She had never been one to shy away from speaking the truth.

Finally, Margaret drew a deep breath, her heart pounding violently in her chest, and prepared to speak the words that would irrevocably change the course of their lives.

‘Mr Thornton, I can bear it no longer. This… this misunderstanding between us, this silent war of unspoken words—it has torn away at me for too long. You are wrong about me, and I… I was wrong about you,’ she confessed.

Her words swept the stillness between them. She saw the flicker of confusion in his eyes, the uncertainty that imitated her own heart. Yet there was no turning back now; she had to make him understand.

‘I thought I knew you,’ she continued, her voice wavering as she met his unflinching regard, ‘thought I understood the man you were. But now I see I was blinded—blinded by my own pride and naivety. And yet, despite everything… I have come to realise that my feelings for you have changed. What I once mistook for disdain was, perhaps, a fear of something greater, something I dared not admit, even to myself.’

She paused, struggling against the sting of tears that pricked at her eyes. The weight of her confession pressed down upon her, yet she felt an overwhelming need to continue, lest she suffocate under the strain of it.

‘I am irresistibly drawn to you in ways I never imagined. I have no choice in this matter,’ she said, reminding him that to truly care for another is not a choice, it is a calling. ‘You are a man of worth—a master who cares for his workers, a son who honours his mother, a brother who would do anything for his sister, and a friend who remains steadfast. But beyond all this, I find that I… I love you.’

There, she had said it.

She had exposed her soul before him.

‘I love you, John Thornton,’ she repeated, her voice firmer now, though still fragmented with shyness. ‘I have tried to deny it, to push it away, but I can no longer pretend. Standing here,’ she said, gesturing to the graves that rested close by, ‘in this place where so many have had their lives cruelly snatched from them—like my dear friend Bessy—I am reminded of how fleeting life can be. I do not want to live in fear or regret. I want to embrace the life I have, and I will not shy away from it any longer.’

Mr Thornton stood motionless, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes searching hers with a perception that left her breathless. The silence stretched on, dense and crushing, and with each passing second, Margaret's heart began to sink, fearing she had overstepped, and revealed too much of herself.

Still, she was not sorry for it. She had been honest with him, and, more importantly, with herself. He could take it or leave it. Like it or lump it. That was his choice. But whether he welcomed it or rebuffed it, she was quite definitely and quite devotedly in love with Mr Thornton.

She raised her chin in defiance to him, but then, slowly, the rigid lines of his face softened, and a light kindled in his eyes—a light she had never seen before. It was as if her words had unlocked something deep within him, something he had kept tightly protected, even from himself.

Before she could fully comprehend the magnitude of what had just passed between them, Mr Thornton stepped forward, closing the distance between them in a single, determined stride. His hand reached out to grasp hers, and for a moment, she was utterly consumed by the fiery fervour of his touch.

Encouraged by her lack of protest, he took another step closer, his gaze never leaving hers, and in that instant, everything fell into place. He understood now—he understood why she had spoken as she did. It had not been a rejection, but a revelation—an admission of what had been growing between them, often unspoken and unacknowledged, but no less undeniable.

‘Margaret,’ he murmured, his voice husky, ‘may I say one thing?’

‘Yes, Mr Thornton,’ she replied, her every effort and energy assigned to keep her voice steady.

‘Don’t you dare call me that!’ he insisted, tugging her nearer so that their chests skimmed, his breath warm and tantalising against her skin.

She could only nod as she waited for his words, her breath hitching in anticipation. But instead of waiting any longer, instead of letting him speak, she closed the infinitesimal space left between them in a heartbeat and did what she had longed to do. Without a second thought, she pressed her lips to his, tasting the surprise and yearning she had glimpsed in his eyes.

The world around them seemed to dissolve, leaving only the two of them in their mutual love, bound by a force greater than either had imagined. Her kiss was filled with all the longing, all the friction, and all the misspoken and mistook desires that had simmered between them from the very first moment they had met. It was a kiss that spoke of promises, of forgiveness, of a future they had scarcely dared to believe was now within their reach.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, their spirits soaring in unison as they stood in stunned silence. His eyes bore into hers, searching, questioning, as if seeking confirmation of what they had just shared.

‘I'll ask you again,’ he murmured, his voice hoarse with excitement, yet a tender smile played on his lips, ‘what the hell do you think you are doing?’

Margaret looked up at him, a faint smile curving her lips despite the tears that threatened to spill. ‘Being in love with you,’ she affirmed. ‘And what, dear heart, are you doing?’

He smiled then, a rare, genuine smile that softened his stern features and made her soul swell with joy as he kissed her once more. ‘Telling you I love you too.’

The words were simple, yet they carried a precious implication—a sense of completion that left Margaret feeling as though she had finally found her place in this fast-changing world. Here, in the arms of the man she had once misunderstood, she had discovered something she had not even known she was searching for. She had found her home.

As she buried her head against his chest and let him hold her tight, Margaret smiled. Sometimes it did a woman good to stand up and say no.

The End

Chapter Text

BENEATH THE SURFACE

The rain falls in torrents, each droplet striking the pavement with a fierce urgency, as though the city itself is at war with the heavens. From my vantage at the window, I watch it all, captivated by the turmoil of the streets below—damp, dull, and filled with a restless energy that mirrors a turbulence inside me.

Milton. Its heartbeat is as fierce as the storm. How many times have I looked down upon this city and felt its weight press into me, foreign and strange? A part of me wants to turn away, to retreat into the safety of my own thoughts, but I find myself unable to do so. I wonder if I am finally beginning to grasp it—or if I am only becoming more ensnared in its labyrinth of soot and sweat, a labyrinth I fear may consume me completely. Yet, strangely, I feel myself drawn deeper into it, tangled in its contradictions, its fierce, untamed core.

It has been days since Mr Thornton and I last exchanged words. Days since the disagreement that left a bitter taste on my tongue and confusion in my chest. His disdain, his arrogance, his fury—all of it echoes through my mind, as if his words were seared there. ‘You are no better than the rest of them, Miss Hale.’ His voice had been frigid, biting, yet beneath it, something else stirred—a flicker of frustration, perhaps even sorrow, that I could not shake. What was it? Contempt? Disillusionment? Perhaps both. And yet, I am left wondering… what was it that I truly felt in that instant? Resentment? Or a sentiment infinitely deeper and more intricate?

The storm outside mirrors my thoughts, swirling in disarray and ambiguity. I try to quiet the voice that has begun to question everything—my first impressions, my own principles. This is the city that has made me so uneasy, so often at odds with what I believe. Yet, the longer I am here, the more I see beyond the grime and the industry, the more I realise that I have been too hasty in my judgments. Too quick to judge him.

Milton is a city built on blood, sweat, and toil, all of which saturate the wisps of cotton that rise in a slow, mocking flurry. It is a place defined by the constant whirring of machines, cold, indifferent machines, and where the workers—those same workers I once pitied—seem to carry the weight of the world upon their shoulders. In them, I once saw only suffering, a kind of grim endurance that I could not fully understand. But now, as the days pass and I begin to walk these streets more freely, I see something else. I see the power in them, the quiet pride that they hold in their work, in the very sweat that stains their brow. They are not broken. They endure. And the city—like them—keeps surging forward, its menacing skyline rising against the darkening sky, resolute, refusing to bow to the storm.

And Mr Thornton? How often have I misunderstood him? I see him now in a new light, no longer the arrogant, unfeeling mill owner who towers above the rest. I see a man struggling, struggling not just with the world around him, but with himself. Perhaps it is foolish to even think it, but I can almost feel his strain—the weight he carries in his chest, the one that compels him to be the man he is. Proud, yes. Stubborn, unquestionably. But is there more? Beneath that hard exterior, beneath the ire that so often surges in his voice, is there a different man—one who is not so unlike me? Is he simply trying to make his way in a world that has no room for gentleness, a world where every misstep is a blow to his pride?

I wish I could say that I had no compassion for him. That I could stand in this room, distant and untouched by the thought of him, and tell myself I am done with all of it—the arguments, the pride, the misunderstanding. But I cannot. I cannot quite relinquish the glimmer of something within me—a spark of desire that stirs when I think of him, even now, with his eyes narrowed in fury and his words sharp as blades. It is there, and I cannot deny it. It is not just admiration or respect for his strength, for his durable resolve. It is something more—something that I am not yet ready to name, but it swells within me like the storm outside. It is a restlessness, a yearning that I cannot yet understand, a longing to see beneath that tempestuous exterior and know what lies within.

My fingers trace the edge of the windowpane, the cool glass a sharp contrast to the warmth of the room behind me. It’s strange, really, how much I have changed in such a short time. How easily I have allowed myself to be drawn into this city’s rhythm, its noise, its very heartbeat. And how much of that rhythm has found its way into my own chest. I was raised to value tenderness, kindness, patience—the qualities that would win hearts, the ones I believed in so fervently. But here, in Milton, those qualities seem to falter. Here, strength of will seems to hold more weight than softness of heart. How many times have I seen that in Mr Thornton? How many times has he displayed a determination so firm, so immovable, that I felt both frustrated by it and… captivated by it?

I cannot help but ask myself what lies beneath his pride, his harshness. Am I so different from him? Have I not, too, been a creature of pride, of obstinacy? My pride in my upbringing, my father’s ideals, my refusal to accept Milton and all it represents. But now, as I stand here, I wonder if I have been mistaken. Have I been too rigid in my understanding of the world, of people, of him?

The thunder rumbles in the distance, a deep growl that shakes the ground beneath me. The storm is intensifying, stubborn as I am. I know nothing of Mr Thornton’s struggles, nothing of the battles he fights in silence. Perhaps I never will. Perhaps I have already decided that I am not meant to understand him, not meant to be part of his world. But even as that thought takes root, I cannot help but think of the way his voice softened, just for a moment, when he spoke of his parents, one alive, one dead, of the family he has worked so tirelessly to provide for. In that brief instant, I saw something different in him. When his voice cracked, I saw between the cracks, and there, in his core, lay something I had not seen before, something I had not credited in him. Something human.

And I wonder: if I could see him as he truly is, beneath all the layers he wraps himself in, beneath the fury, beneath the pride—would I still feel the same? Or would I be changed, as I am being changed by this city, by its harshness, its demands, its refusal to allow for weakness? What would I see beneath his resolve, behind that gaze that holds me so steadily, so intensely—what is it that lies just beneath the surface?

The rain continues to batter the streets, its sound a steady rhythm in the background. I watch the people below, rushing to and fro, their movements so much like the restless energy inside me—torn between opposing forces, driven forward, yet uncertain of the direction. My heart beats in time with the city’s pulse, caught between two worlds: the one I left behind, and the one I seem to be slipping into, despite my best efforts to resist.

The question remains, swirling in my thoughts. What would I see if I looked closer, if I dared to peel back the layers? Would it be a man worth knowing? Or a man forever beyond my reach?

I cannot contemplate it. And yet, I notice I say cannot often. But perhaps it is that I will not, or that my will does not want to give in and give way to a better understanding of him.

And with that thought, I step away from the window, my mind still filled with his image—his pride, his fury, and perhaps, just beneath it all, something that might be a little softer than I care to admit. The storm rages on outside, as it rages within me. And I am left to wonder how long I can resist the pull of both.

Perhaps one day, I will know. But for now, I am left only with the questions—questions that feel heavier than the rain itself.

The End

Chapter Text

FLOUR, FOES AND FLIRTATION

(From Parodies and Other Such Poppycock)

Chapter One

In a town built on steam and steel, only one can rise… to the occasion.

Milton had never been known for its confections. Coal, yes. Cotton, certainly. But cakes? Unlikely. That changed one unseasonably warm Saturday in late spring, when the Milton Gazette printed a bold announcement:

‘READY, SET, DOUGH! MILTON’S BAKING BATTLE BEGINS’

Margaret Hale’s eyes sparkled with delight as she spotted the announcement printed boldly on the front page. Her teacup froze mid-sip, and she stared at the words as though they were an invitation to the ball of the season rather than a baking competition.

She read the notice carefully. In a heartening display of community spirit, Milton, of all places, was set to host its first-ever charity baking competition, with proceeds aiding those injured in recent mill accidents and supporting worthy townsfolk too old, ill or infirm to work. The event promises flour-dusted fun for a noble cause, and all were welcome to enter.

‘Oh, how wonderful!’ she exclaimed, her voice rising a bit too enthusiastically for the parlour. ‘Baking for a good cause. I must take part! I shall make Mother’s scones,’ she declared with sudden inspiration. ‘The ones with the blackberry glaze that always make people lick their lips in satisfaction!’

Dixon, dusting the sideboard with the grim resolve of someone who had once discovered dough rising in a drawer, sighed like a woman who had trusted yeast once—and vowed never again

 ‘Flour all over my floors. Again!’ she groused, eyes rolling so hard it was a miracle they did not complete a full revolution. ‘I will be cleaning up your mess for a week, young miss. Mark my words.’

‘Dixon,’ came the indignant reply, ‘I was six years old,’ she reminded her, and besides, Fred shared some of the blame, though he was not here to accept his just admonishment.

‘Mark my words,’ Dixon repeated, this time like someone who had marked them—possibly in a notebook labelled Disasters Caused by That Child—and had receipts to prove it.

But Margaret’s enthusiasm was untouchable—like a puppy in a room full of cats. She practically radiated joy, her smile bright enough to reach even the dimmest corners of the room—yes, even the ones where Dixon had long ago given up trying to scrub congealed buttercream from the ceiling, the kitchen still bearing the pale scars of Margaret’s efforts. Dixon bit her tongue, not out of patience, but out of experience. This level of cheer could not last forever. Then again, neither did the soufflé.

Meanwhile, John Thornton was in exactly the opposite mood at Marlborough Mills. His eyes skimmed the same notice in the newspaper, and a grunt escaped his throat—the kind reserved for unpaid invoices and poorly stacked books. ‘A baking competition?’ he muttered, as if the words themselves had insulted his mother.

He folded the paper with all the ceremony of a man closing a disappointing quarterly report, then tossed it aside like it had personally wasted his time. To him, baking was as useful as a soggy ledger and about as thrilling as a shareholders’ meeting with weak tea. He had a mill to run, for heaven’s sake. Baking was there to raise profit margins, not pastries. Flour was only good for making money, not… cake.

But fate, as ever, had other plans—though in this case, it went by the name of Mr Bell. And as both John and Margaret had come to learn, Mr Bell and fate were often one and the same.

Over a languid lunch at the club, John Thornton sat stiffly, his thoughts drifting to the ledgers awaiting him at the mill. The bread basket sat untouched between them, its contents far too warm and rustic for a man who would rather be balancing columns than breaking bread. He eyed the sourdough with mild irritation, as though it might demand small talk or sentimentality—both of which he considered unnecessary indulgences. This was meant to be a concisely consumed meal, not a meandering.

Mr Bell, entirely too at ease, stirred his tea with aggravating slowness, a glint of mischief dancing behind his nonchalant expression. ‘I hear Margaret’s entering the bake-off,’ he said, as if commenting on a change in the wind.

John’s hand paused near his water glass. He did not look up immediately, but something in him went oddly still, like a dog catching the scent of a rival, and a rival he rather liked the scent of.

Bell took a slow, luxurious sip of his tea, clearly enjoying himself. ‘She is extremely confident of her chances—or so dear old Dixon tells me,’ he relayed, too casually. Then, peering over the rim of his cup with all the subtlety of a fox at a henhouse, he added, ‘I say, would it not be something if you were to best her?’

John choked on absolutely nothing. Just air. Treacherous, uncooperative air.

‘Me!’ he coughed, causing the other members of the club to turn and stare at him.

Mr Bell merely nodded, as if no further explanation was needed.

John narrowed his eyes into suspicious slits. ‘But I cannot bake.’

‘Why ever not?’

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. His voice dropped, defensive and absurd in equal measure. ‘Well—because I’m a man.’

Bell clicked his tongue in theatrical disapproval. ‘Are you honestly suggesting a man cannot bake as well as a woman?’

‘I’m suggesting I cannot bake as well as that woman,’ John said flatly. ‘I cannot bake at all.’

Mr Bell leaned back, smiling like a cat who was toying with a particularly entertaining mouse. ‘Well, then. Now’s your chance to try.’

John folded his arms. ‘I have better things to do.’

Mr Bell shrugged, utterly unbothered. ‘Ah, yes, of course—ledgers and inventory. A noble life,’ he added, dry as dust. ‘I only thought you might enjoy the challenge. Miss Hale has made something of a habit of besting you since her arrival in Milton.’
He watched with open amusement as John’s jaw tightened at the remark. Across the table, John’s scowl deepened, his brow furrowing into a tight, thundercloud of frustration. Mr Bell’s words had hit him hard, their emotional blow akin to a rogue flour sack falling on his head.
‘I thought this might be your chance to prove that a Milton master can match a southern rose.’

That nettled John more than he cared to admit. There was something about Margaret Hale—her calm certainty, her maddening grace—that made losing to her feel like a challenge to his very nature. She made him question things he had once considered settled, made him feel… unbalanced.
And worst of all, Mr Bell was right. She had bested him, again and again—not cruelly, but effortlessly, almost accidentally. She had proved that she was too good for him, in every way, and this was his chance to show her up and show himself her equal.

‘That is true,’ John conceded with a measured nod. ‘It would indeed serve well to demonstrate that we Milton folk possess our fair share of competence, and can hold our own against any southerner.’ He spoke thoughtfully, cloaking his keen competitiveness in a mantle of local pride—an earnest tribute to both his town and northern heritage.

‘And it would,’ he said slowly, ‘be a personal victory to best her at least once.’ The words slipped from his lips like a gauntlet thrown, though rather awkwardly, more akin to a stale scone lobbed across a crowded dining chamber. John inwardly cringed at the image but could not deny the truth behind it. Mr Bell’s grin deepened into that knowing curl, the unmistakable mark of mischief well enjoyed, especially when he was its architect.

He was convinced it was high time Thornton and Margaret set aside their petty quarrels and acknowledged the truth of their feelings. To stir their simmering emotions into a provoking heat, one with a little rise and not too many burnt edges, was precisely the recipe needed. Mr Bell clearly fancied himself some sort of romantic chef, and he could only hope this scheme would not leave either young person with a half-baked heart.

‘And besides all that,’ Mr Bell added as an afterthought, ‘there is the matter of it being rather pioneering on your part.’

‘What do you mean?’ came the curious reply.

‘I mean this: you would be the first—and indeed the only—master to take part. You would distinguish yourself by your innovation, your readiness to stand among the people. Is that not your desire? To be regarded not as above them, but akin to them? A man who dragged himself from the mire to make himself a master.’

John mulled this over. Much to his annoyance, Mr Bell did have a point. To be sure, despite John’s protestations and a hurried tally of every prudent excuse his mind could summon, he found himself already halfway ensnared in the tantalising prospect of an improbable triumph. Leaning back in his chair, a slow, inconvenient smile tugged at the corner of his lips. This was not just any competition. This was Margaret. Sweet, generous, and maddeningly lovely, yes—but also fiercely stubborn. And fiercely competitive.

He winced. He knew that he did not stand a chance. But then again, maybe that was part of the charm. Margaret would admire him for trying, even if his trying resulted in a pitiful and public failure.

‘Very well,’ John consented. ‘But I tell you this: She is baking for charity,’ he declared, as if that simple fact might steady the wildly beating of his pride. ‘I shall bake for glory.’

Indeed, if the Milton Gazette had got hold of this story, its front-page headline would have read:
‘The Great Bake-Off Battle: Flour, Foes, and Flirtation.’

Margaret, by contrast, was completely unaware of the plan brewing in John’s mind. Her thoughts were far away, tangled in the rich sweetness of blackberry glaze and the comforting warmth of golden, flaky scones. She was determined to make her mother’s famous recipe. However, Margaret was not baking for glory or competition—her purpose ran far deeper. Her mother’s health was fading, and with it, the light in her eyes dimmed. Milton, with its cold streets and unfamiliar faces, felt like a weight pressing down on her mother’s spirit. Margaret longed to bring a fragment of home to her—a semblance of the past when life was kinder and simpler. She wanted to offer more than just a pastry; she wanted to offer comfort, a reminder that even in a place that felt savage and foreign, love could still be felt, remembered, and even tasted.

But she could not help wondering about him. About Mr Thornton, John, as she dared to call him in the sanctuary of her private thoughts. According to Mr Bell, John had scoffed at the very notion of a baking contest. This did not surprise her. It did not quite fit the man she thought she knew: all stern lines and solemn duty, not spatulas and spotted dick. Could his supposed disinterest be concealing something else? A competitive streak, perhaps. Or pride. Or—though she hardly dared name it—a desire to prove something. To someone.

She shook her head, smiling faintly at the absurdity of it all. Perhaps it was only her imagination, tingling like a whisk in a mixing bowl.

Still, as she rolled out her shortbread, her thoughts drifted back to him. To that stubborn, particular man with the furrowed brow and fiercely set jaw. Maybe his reluctance was not reluctance at all, but resistance—the kind that masks something far more determined, and far more personal, than mere indifference.

At any rate, what had begun as a charity event, a community-spirited gesture for a good cause, was fast becoming something else entirely. Not just a chance for local glory, but a game—a sparring match dusted in flour and sugar. A rivalry neither Margaret nor John had asked for, but both seemed secretly delighted to have.

And so, the competition began—not just between these two, but between their egos, their pride, and a mysterious chemistry neither of them fully understood. Margaret wanted to prove that charity mattered more than all the prizes in the world. John wanted to show her that when it came to anything, he could surpass her, or at the very least, just about match her—and that, deep down, he would win her over in the process.

And while both armed themselves with rolling pins and good intentions, neither of them realised—until it was far too late—that the real victory would not be measured in trophies or trifles.

It would be falling for each other.

Utterly, unexpectedly, and with the kind of messy, glorious inevitability no recipe could predict.

In the weeks leading up to the event, enthusiasm swirled through Milton like flour in a frenzied whisk—particularly in the market square and, much to everyone’s delight, the mill yards.

Margaret, usually the embodiment of calm and control, was now often seen busily leafing through recipe books, her brows crumpled and her dress sprinkled with ginger and pearl barley. She muttered feverishly to herself about ratios, structure, and ‘the precise relationship between sweetness and texture,’ as if she were preparing for a culinary lecture at the Lyceum.

John, meanwhile, had been spotted in the kitchen of Marlborough House—a wildly unnatural habitat for him—looming over bowls of ingredients with the grim focus of a man negotiating a hostile takeover. He measured sugar and cracked eggs with the exactness of a mill owner weighing cotton bales and glared at his failed sponge cakes as though they had affronted his family. He refused to ask for help. Naturally, his first attempt at pastry turned out so tough it could have been repurposed as building material.

He had heard men joke about ‘woman’s work’ before—said with a smirk, a shrug, or the kind of condescension usually reserved for embroidery and lace. But John was now realising, after several sunken cakes, three curdled custards, and one near-exploding oven that he later swore hissed at him, that ‘woman’s work’ required the tactical cunning of a general and the patience of a saint. Frankly, he was starting to suspect that most women were quietly running entire empires out of their kitchens—and doing it while wearing aprons with ruffles.

To the casual observer, it looked less like a community baking event and more like a full-scale battle for culinary dominance—fought with ladles, ego, and an alarming uptick in minor kitchen fires.
almost right, it needs to flow better and change unburnt: And perhaps, just perhaps, it was for something that could not be measured in cups or teaspoons—a prize no ribbon could ever match, for reasons best left unstirred, and the kind of glory only caramelised sugar and broken friendships could forge.

Chapter Text

FLOUR, FOES AND FLIRTATION

(From Parodies and Other Such Poppycock)

Chapter Two

At last, the highly anticipated day arrived.

The community hall—ordinarily reserved for grave council assemblies and the rare, thinly attended discourse on the perils of consumption—had undergone a most striking metamorphosis. It now pulsated with life, suffused with the distinctive aromas of cinnamon, cloves, and a corporeal undercurrent of anxious anticipation, as well as the faint, unmistakable hint of something ever-so-slightly burnt.

Bunting drooped from the lofty beams in a riot of colour, at once festive and slightly menacing, as though the fabric conspired to judge and intimidate the competitors. Below their watchful eye, hefty tables lined the perimeter like staunch sentries, groaning under the collective weight of the town’s hopes and confections. Every available surface was occupied: intricately piped fruit tarts glistened like polished jewels; towering trifles gleamed with sticky confidence; and loaves were lined up like soldiers, each one a proud ambassador of its maker’s pride, and—more often than not—last-minute panic.

Meringues towered as cathedrals, precarious and proud, threatening collapse with the drama of opera singers. Others trembled like nervous debutantes at their first ball, while jelly moulds wobbled in perfect, angst-ridden solidarity. There were scones stacked like the bricks of the pyramids, iced buns aligned like dominoes in a sugar-driven arms race, and one frankly overambitious lemon roulade attempting a structural cantilever that defied the laws of physics and dignity.

And believe it or not, that was only the half of it.

There were biscuits fashioned in shapes ranging from Her Majesty’s own profile to esteemed national landmarks, most delightfully a somewhat askew Westminster Abbey, adorned with tiny icing pigeons. Cupcakes were arrayed in mosaics of such intricate design that one contestant required a protractor and the aid of two attendants merely to bear them within.

Eccles cakes rested upon delicate doilies, as though precious artefacts displayed within a respected museum. Bread rolls were braided, knotted, and twisted into forms one might liken to edible art. At the centre of the room stood an immense croquembouche, as if a confection plotting a gentle coup, its golden caramel threads gleaming with an almost ominous splendour beneath the faithful light that streamed through the tall windows.

And then there was the lone crumpet that deserves a mention—singular, unlabelled, and suspiciously steaming—which no one dared claim responsibility for.

Indeed, it was quite a spectacle. The room bustled with eager anticipation. From every quarter of Milton, contestants had gathered: mill hands with smudges of flour still clinging stubbornly to their frayed cuffs; genteel ladies of society armed with treasured family recipes—acquired, naturally, through their devoted servants—and smiles as sweet as they were sharp; young lads daring one another to introduce the devilish novelty of spice to their shortbread; and one elderly gentleman who, rather enigmatically, had entered no fewer than twelve varieties of preserves, refusing to disclose the nature of even one.

To be sure, polite smiles passed between the participants, yet beneath their civility lurked furtive glances, barbed compliments deftly concealed beneath honeyed words, and one or two overly zealous invitations to ‘sample’—offers that betrayed intentions far more shrewd than mere generosity.

At last, as the clock struck midday, the grand baking contest had officially commenced. And not a single tart, nor even the most delicate fondant, would escape unscathed. After all, in this oven of rivalries, even a cherry on top could be a carefully laid trap.

But one question remained. Who was to judge this whole affair?

The town was unanimous in its decision: there was but one individual endowed with the keen discernment and sharp rigour necessary for the task.

Mrs Thornton, roped in as chief judge (naturally), swept into the room like a magistrate at the Old Bailey. She carried a clipboard in one hand and the authority of a thousand shrewd glances in the other. Her eyebrow was already raised, and her tolerance for nonsense had clearly been left at home. Her mere presence caused one unfortunate contestant to drop an entire tray of éclairs. Unsurprisingly, and most justly, he was disqualified on the spot.

Across the hall, Margaret, adjusting her apron and brushing a speck of jam from her cheek, tidied her doilies and straightened her sign to ensure it was presented as pleasingly as possible. Her scones—golden, proud, and smelling indecently good—were set down with the care of a mother sending her child off to school. Her eyes twinkled as she glanced at the person situated a yard or so to her right.

‘I do hope you have not overcooked your sponge, Mr Thornton,’ she called, her voice light, but just loud enough to carry.

John looked up from his careful arrangement of what had turned out to be, despite even his own expectations, a rather impressive-looking cake, his lips curling into a smile that hovered somewhere between a smirk and a challenge.

‘You shall find my efforts perfectly under control, Miss Hale,’ he replied smoothly, though a streak of jam on his collar slightly undercut the effect. There was a glint in his eyes—part rivalry, part admiration, and perhaps an undertone that had nothing to do with baking at all.

As flour flew and ovens roared to life, the tension in the room rose like over-yeasted dough. Spectators whispered behind their hands, bets were slyly exchanged, and Mr Bell could be seen in the corner eating something that may or may not have been meant for judging.

For all the talk of charity and community spirit, it had become increasingly clear to those watching that this was no longer about shortbread or sponge cake. This was about ego. About flirtation masquerading as envy. About who could win—and who could be won over.

Recipes were traded like secrets; glances lingered longer than the frosting.
Each perfectly piped rosette was a challenge, each bite a message—some sweet, others left a decidedly bitter aftertaste.
The bake-off, it seemed, was little more than a tantalising prelude to something far more deliciously complicated.

Amongst this mist of flour and contention, Mrs Thornton circled the room like a hawk in mourning black.

‘Presentation is no substitute for flavour,’ she declared sharply, drawing from her pocket a polished set of fork, spoon, and knife. ‘And soggy bottoms will not be tolerated.’

There was a collective shiver. The battle had truly begun.

She passed Mr Slickson, who had been persuaded to enter upon discovering that his younger—and decidedly more handsome—acquaintance, Mr Thornton, was also competing. Mrs Thornton regarded his offering with a thinly veiled scepticism. It was plain that Mr Slickson had approached the art of baking with the same cautious fervour one might reserve for defusing a barrel full of gunpowder. His sponge was as rigid as a cat’s disdainful glare, his temper far shorter still, and he came perilously close to causing a minor explosion when, in a moment of grievous confusion, he mistook baking powder for quicklime. Fortunately, no harm befell any present, though several onlookers wondered if their nostrils would ever fully recover from the ordeal.

Mrs Thornton made a brief note on her clipboard, muttering, ‘One might say he is better at stirring trouble than batter.’

Nearby, Mrs Hamper’s entry attracted a wholly different kind of scrutiny. Her ‘lemon drizzle’ was, in truth, a drizzle of something far less palatable—a curious concoction that bore the unmistakable flavour of scorched hopes and an overzealous hand with lemon zest. Mrs Hamper preserved an air of composed refinement, yet a subtle tremor betrayed her resolve as she insisted it was ‘an acquired taste.’ Titters spread among the onlookers, some daring to wonder whether taste buds so offended might ever be reconciled.

Mrs Thornton scribbled something, then sighed. ‘Acquired, perhaps—best left unacquired, if you ask me.’

Miss Latimer’s offering was perhaps the most tragic of all. Her attempt at a delicate Victoria sponge had somehow transformed into a dense, mournful brick of cakey despair. Whispers circulated that the cake might serve better as a doorstop than a dessert, and several gentlemen discreetly pocketed a slice for experimental construction purposes.

Mrs Thornton peered over her spectacles and said with a curt sniff, ‘More suitable for repairing potholes than pleasing palates.’

And so the judging proceeded, until, eventually, Mrs Thornton made her way to Margaret’s table. Neither lady anticipated the encounter with any particular eagerness. Here stood the trained eye of a seasoned adjudicator—and the protective pride of a mother who longed to wield her authority as deftly as a pastry brush. However, in the face of Mrs Thornton’s loathing of her, Margaret remained poised, radiant and dusted lightly with flour, the very embodiment of serene diligence. She stood by her table with unshakable faith, as though each scone were a carefully wrought poem, shaped by hands both tender and assured. Mrs Thornton leaned in closer, her gaze narrowing as she commenced her meticulous inspection.

Here, her eyes widened in genuine surprise. The scones were a perfect golden hue, their crumb remarkably light and fluffy, as though they might dissolve upon the tongue. Beside them, the jam—a recipe evidently handed down from mother to daughter—shimmered with a rich, jewel-like colour that promised a sweetness both robust and refined. The entire presentation was nothing short of ravishing; even Margaret’s apron, embroidered with the most delicate roses, bespoke a modest elegance and careful devotion.
Mrs Thornton allowed herself a faint, almost imperceptible smile—the merest upturn of the lips that revealed her judgment. This was baking as it ought to be: exacting, tender, and imbued with genuine heart. She made a few notes, begrudgingly expressing her admiration for Miss Hale’s commendable entry.

Then, with wary steps, Mrs Thornton moved on to her son’s table, prepared to find at best a competent offering, at worst, a hastily assembled disaster. But what she saw gave her pause. John’s cake, neatly presented and surprisingly well executed, bore the marks not only of talent but of earnest effort. The sponge was light where it should be, the icing smooth, and the subtle decoration revealed a steady hand.

Mrs Thornton blinked, a fleeting glimmer of astonishment disturbing the composure of her features. She looked up at him, momentarily entertaining the notion that he might, in fact, be the true artisan behind the bake, only to chide herself at once for harbouring such a doubt. Her son, whom she had always known as capable, determined, and blessed with a natural talent for excelling at whatever task he set his mind to, had indeed proven himself here. Yet she suspected, with a hint of amusement, that this was no simple pursuit of culinary glory, but a deliberate challenge meant to impress a particular young lady.

Though she did not wholly approve of her son’s growing fondness for his tutor’s daughter, the woman within her could not help but admire the subtle boldness of his romantic efforts. For all his customary reserve, John’s baking declared his affections with a clarity and conviction words could never attain—a silent declaration that took her by surprise, yet one she found herself unable to entirely condemn.
She might almost have smiled. Though, naturally, she would never allow such a betrayal of feeling to cross her face in public.

Nonetheless, despite the efforts of these two young rivals, it was Nicholas Higgins who truly stole the attention with his notorious Strike Biscuits—dense, unsweetened slabs of baked rebelliousness that looked less like food and more like miniature paving stones.

‘Made from yesterday’s porridge and a good dose of righteous indignation,’ he announced proudly, ‘just like the union.’

Fashioned by hand and baked in what he grandly termed a ‘makeshift collective oven’ (which might have been little more than a fire pit and some misplaced optimism), these biscuits were as unbending as a magistrate at a public inquiry. Butter, jam, or any set of human teeth were utterly powerless against them. Their texture was that of unbreakable political resolve; their flavour, a bleak reminder of hard-fought compromise—stout, severe, and with not a hint of sweetness to soften the blow.

One poor gentleman claimed to have chipped a tooth, while another confessed to having used his biscuit as a doorstop to keep the hall door ajar. Throughout it all, Higgins beamed like a man who had just won a battle, declaring it a victory for the working man and a triumphant return to ‘proper sustenance with backbone.’

Mrs Thornton, to the bewilderment of all present, found herself unexpectedly intrigued. She nibbled at a biscuit with the dogged persistence of a steam engine churning through rugged terrain, each bite a tentative exploration. A long, expectant silence settled over the gathering, during which a curious crowd drew near. At last, she gave a solemn nod. The assembly braced for a damning pronouncement, certain she would cast judgement with her usual severity. But lo! To the surprise of all—herself perhaps most of all—Mrs Thornton offered not condemnation but rare approval, her verdict as remarkably agreeable as the biscuits had proved unexpectedly delightful.

‘Surprisingly robust,’ she declared, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a lace-edged handkerchief. It seemed Mrs Thornton harboured a secret fondness for austerity in baking, eschewing frills, icings, and fanciful glazes in favour of forthright flavour and honest texture. And in their own stubborn fashion, these biscuits were simplicity perfected: crisp at the edges, slightly yielding at the centre, and possessed of a warmth that seemed to linger longer than mere ingredients should allow.

And so the day wore on, with all the pomp and peculiarities one might expect from such an event. Ribbons were awarded with great ceremony, a brass band wheezed cheerily in the distance, and various spinsters exchanged arch glances over teacups.

Midway through the proceedings, calamity befell the gathering: Bessy Higgins’ peppermint cakes vanished—tin and all—as if spirited away by some mischievous sprite. A faint trail of mint-scented crumbs lingered briefly in the air, but led only to bafflement and suspicion. Whispers spread like wildfire, accusing fingers were raised, and the vicar’s dog eyed the crowd with suspiciously guilty eyes.

‘Sabotage,’ muttered Higgins darkly, his tone low and accusatory as he cast a narrowed eye in Mr Slickson’s direction. ‘Typical. They can’t best us by honest effort—only through sly, slippery treachery.’

Mr Slickson puffed up in indignation, spluttering protestations with all the bluster of a man more accustomed to parlour quarrels with his overbearing wife than real confrontation. He huffed, he bluffed, and he blathered; and for a tense twinkling of an aggrieved eye, it seemed the two might actually come to blows—silverware clinked nervously and teacups trembled in sympathetic alarm.

However, Mrs Thornton, ever the arbiter of composure, refused to engage in idle conjecture and instructed the two ‘gentlemen’ to behave at once, or else leave her sight.

The two of them straightened their coats and retreated to their respective battle camps, and Mrs Thornton allowed herself a discreet smile as Mr Slickson’s precarious tower of truffles toppled spectacularly. ‘If your cakes cannot stand on their own merits,’ she pronounced coldly, ‘then they deserve to fall.’ She then dismissed his walnut tart for lacking sufficient depth of character, adding, with a glance as sharp as a boning knife, ‘Much like its creator—handsomely dressed, but hollow at the centre.’

And with that, an indignant Mr Slickson was unceremoniously ousted from the competition, though, in truth, not a soul appeared remotely put out by his departure.

And so the competition marched onward: pastries puffed, tempers frayed, and the atmosphere bristled with a curious synthesis of rivalry and camaraderie. At one particularly fraught moment, John accused Margaret of nefariously tampering with his custard. Margaret, undeterred, sampled the custard with a delicate lick and declared it ‘quite adequate, if perhaps a mite overcompensated.’ Needless to say, John’s dignity was not restored for no fewer than ten minutes.

Yet, despite the occasional flour skirmishes, singed fingers, and one brief but spirited duel of clashing spoons, laughter nestled between the layers like the sweetest jam in a Victoria sponge. And somewhere amid Higgins’ bricklike biscuits and Margaret’s feather-light scones, even Mrs Thornton’s stern exterior softened—if only by a crumb.

Chapter Text

FLOUR, FOES AND FLIRTATION

(From Parodies and Other Such Poppycock)

Chapter Three

However, the next round proved more troublesome still.
John’s génoise, obstinate as a mule, refused to rise, collapsing into a dismal puddle like a deflated soufflé after a loud knock at the door. Margaret’s lemon glaze, for all her careful coaxing, refused to set, clinging to the cake with the cloying persistence of a low morning fog.
The room swirled with icing sugar and indignation—bakers flung accusations like flour in a fit of pique.
‘You pilfered my almond essence, you scoundrel!’ one voice cried.
‘Your essence lacks essence!’ came the shrill reply.

Yet amid the chaos and confectionery, an unexpected shift occurred.
John had been watching Margaret from across the crowded hall, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to encourage the glaze into submission, her nature decidedly gentle, even when it came to baking. There was frustration in her eyes, yes—but behind it, that familiar fire, that unconquerable resolve which had always set her apart. His own ruined génoise sagged on the tray, irredeemable and claggy. He looked at it, then at her, and for once, did not mind walking away from the work he had toiled over.

He wiped his hands on a flour-streaked cloth, dusted his sleeves, and crossed the room with steady purpose.
‘Here,’ he said, without flourish, offering her what remained of his leftover glaze.

Margaret blinked, visibly startled. ‘You are… helping me?’
He gave her a crooked grin—half challenge, half confession. ‘I am not letting a glaze defeat you. Not Margaret Hale, who any man or master will not defeat,’ he teased. ‘Besides, you are baking for better reasons than just beating me.’

Their fingers brushed as she accepted it—a brief contact, but one that sent a strange jolt through them both. The noise of the hall seemed to hush for a breath, and nearby, a slightly over-proofed bun gave a soft sigh and collapsed in what could only be described as resigned approval.

‘Then,’ she said, a gentle smile rising like a well-timed sponge, ‘why do we not work together?’
He met her gaze, his expression softening with genuine warmth. ‘I would like that,’ he admitted, his voice low and sure. ‘That sis much better than winning.’
‘And at least now you have a chance,’ she added, her eyes alight with mischief, ‘of winning, that is.’

At this, he laughed—a full, unguarded sound that drew glances from nearby tables. For once, he welcomed her teasing. Rather than take offence, he saw in her willingness to jest a change both unexpected and rather wonderful.

They set to work at once, and he glanced at her nervously. ‘Do you think me quite mad for entering?’

‘On the contrary,’ she replied with not a hint of hesitation. ‘I think it rather marvellous.’

He quirked his brow at this.
‘You are the only master to do so,’ she said in response.

‘There is Slickson,’ he said dryly.

‘Slickson does not count,’ she said crisply. ‘He is no master. Indeed, I do not even think he is master of himself. And he will never be half the man you are.’

He looked at her then, truly looked, and whatever pride or distance had once lingered between them seemed to dissolve like frost beneath the morning sun. What remained was warm, steady, and undeniably real.

‘Do you truly mean that?’ he asked, his voice husky.

She set down her spoon and turned to face him fully. ‘I do,’ she said, her tone clear and unflinching. ‘And I would be glad—indeed, honoured—to win this competition with you.’

They locked eyes for a moment, but then, with a gallant flourish, he gestured to their unfinished cakes and confectionery. ‘Well, then,’ he said, with a whisper of flirtation, ‘we had better get baking,’ he said, and with that, their culinary union began.

Side by side, they fell into a harmonious rhythm. Their hands moved in concert, brushes and spatulas exchanged without need for words. Between them drifted a fine misting of flour, catching the lamplight like early snow. The rivalry that had once stood between them—tense, unsparing—had tempered, yielding to something altogether warmer, like sugar dissolving slowly in warmed milk.

After some time, John found the courage to speak—not merely his mind, but his heart. He watched as Margaret worked deftly, her hands swift and nimble, her confidence unshakable, her joy of the simplest pleasures, profound. He could never match her confidence, her composure, her sheer loveliness.
‘I have found all this… difficult,’ he said, his gaze resting on the now-glossy finish of the cake before them.

‘Oh?’ Margaret murmured, carefully placing cherries here and there, one eyebrow raised in unobtrusive invitation.

‘I have no featherlight touch,’ he confessed. ‘My hands—’ he held them up, scarred and roughened from years of manual labour—they are made for heavier, harsher tasks. Baking requires a skill I was never taught.’

‘And what is that?’ she asked, licking her finger, and he was forced to look away.
‘Oh, many things,’ he self-proclaimed. ‘Delicacy. Subtlety. Tenderness,’ he replied, his brow furrowed with a candour that lent him a rare and raw defencelessness.

Margaret paused, truly listening—for he deserved nothing less than her full attention and kindness. As she regarded him, her heart softened at the naturalness with which he spoke: stripped bare of all pride, his vulnerabilities laid open, not to invite judgment or disdain, but offered with a brave sincerity. He was neither master nor man of lofty bearing here, but simply himself—unadorned, sincere, and beautifully human.

She found herself longing to touch him. But, of course, she could not. Instead, she offered her hand—not as a lover might, but in the guise of a handshake. It was not intimate, not exactly, but it carried the suggestion of peace, of friendship extended where once there had been distance. For her, it was as near as decorum would permit.

He accepted at once, and their palms met—warm, steady, held with a firmness that lingered just on the edge of familiarity. Her thumb moved almost of its own accord, tracing the worn ridges of his skin with a softness that bordered on caress.

‘Even the roughest touch,’ she murmured, ‘can be made tender—if there is a will.’

It was a gesture steeped in understanding, and in the beginnings of a trust, a truce that neither had thought to find. Breathless, John wisely said nothing, but did not let go too quickly.
And as they stood together, hands dusted with flour and hearts newly unburdened, it became suddenly clear to both that what they were crafting was no longer just a cake, nor merely a victory, but the beginning of a partnership, far sweeter than either had expected.

Though John and Margaret had forged a peace treaty baked in a pie, the contest itself still raged on. The final round of the inaugural Milton Baking Competition had reached its climax when, quite suddenly, pandemonium erupted from the very rafters above.

At first, it was but a gentle flutter, a faint whoosh drifting above the trestle tables, scarcely perceptible amid the warm, heady scent of freshly baked pastries and the occasional discreet cough of one caught indulging in an added cream bun.

Then came the squawk—sharp, insistent, like a defiant schoolmaster interrupting a particularly delicate recitation. A shadow flitted through the air, quick as a thief in the night. A puff of flour billowed upward—and, in an instant, bedlam ensued. A rogue pigeon, plump, brazen, and clearly emboldened by a diet of city crumbs and reckless ambition, dove straight into the fruitcake section.

‘My glacé cherries!’ shrieked Mrs Hamper as the bird stole them, her pince-nez teetering perilously on the tip of her nose as she recoiled with all the grace of a startled kitten caught in a rainstorm. One hand flew to her chest, the other hovered uselessly in mid-air, as though she might physically summon the cherries back by sheer indignation.

Miss Latimer was scarcely faring better. Her cheeks flushed a furious crimson as she brandished a baking tray like a medieval shield, swinging it with the kind of wild desperation usually reserved for swatting a hornet during afternoon tea with the vicar. Naturally, she missed spectacularly, only managing to narrowly avoid decapitating her own fragile chiffon-cake, which wobbled in protest. Given the cake’s airy and delicate disposition, it was less a near miss and more an attempted act of confectionary manslaughter.

The pigeon, completely unimpressed by the theatrics developing below it, landed with a soft thud in the centre of the room. Someone screamed. A stack of mille-feuilles collapsed like a sugary landslide. And a pink sponge met its end against the parquet flooring.

The bird surveyed the scene with the bored indifference of a connoisseur at an art gallery, then locked eyes with Mrs Thornton, its beady gaze unwavering.

Silence.

The room stilled.

Mrs Thornton’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

‘I assume,’ she said, her voice as cool and precise as a paring knife poised above an overripe pear, ‘this creature is not an official entrant.’ The words escaped her in something perilously close to a hiss.

The pigeon strutted defiantly across the judging table, trailing crumbs and menace, and cooed with brazen self-assurance, as if to declare that not only was it an entrant, it was also judging the rest.

‘Either,’ Mrs Thornton added sharply, her tone now icy enough to chill fondant, ‘as a contestant—or in a pie.’

Higgins, ever the man of the people, stepped forward with the earnestness of a dockworker called upon to settle a quarrel. ‘Shall I see this troublesome visitor on its way, ma’am?’

‘You may,’ Mrs Thornton replied, her tone glacial, but she did offer Higgins a grateful nod of her head. ‘But do not harm it,’ she instructed as an afterthought. ‘I believe it has more flair than some of the pastries I have seen today.’

It took two volunteers, a broom, a pair of oversized oven mittens, and the promise of leftover shortbread to finally remove the pigeon, though not before it made a point of pecking a tiny hole in what remained of Mr Slickson’s abandoned jelly, as if to mark its territory.

When the flour had finally settled and the last traces of pigeon feathers were swept away, Mrs Thornton took a final, methodical survey of the entries. She sniffed a tart with the exacting expertise of a sommelier assessing the bouquet of a fine wine. She sliced a sponge with such care, you would have thought it were a fragile piece of china. She then paused, staring down at the custard that had dared to wobble just a little too much, as if considering whether it might rebel entirely.

With the solemnity of a magistrate delivering sentence, Mrs Thornton raised her spoon and brought it down smartly against the rim of a plate. The resulting clang sliced cleanly through the room, silencing all. She waited, just long enough to command attention, but not a moment more. She was more than ready to go home.

‘Victory goes,’ she began, pausing to add a mite of drama, ‘to Mary Higgins.’

A collective gasp rippled through the hall, punctuated by the faint thud of Mr Slickson’s pride being struck stone-dead. All eyes swung toward the back of the room, where a small, unassuming figure stood. Mary Higgins—the shyest of the lot, who had spent the entire competition blending into the woodwork like a misplaced crumb—was, quite suddenly, the epicentre of everyone’s attention.

Mrs Thornton regarded her with a warmth uncommon for the widow. ‘Simple, honest, thrifty, and unexpectedly accomplished,’ she declared. ‘Proof that modesty and skill can, indeed, win the day.’

And with that, the day came to an end. Slowly, the crowd dispersed, still crackling with gossip, laughter, and the lingering shock of a pigeon who dared to take on Mrs Thornton. Empty teacups clinked, chairs scraped back, and someone retrieved a half-eaten scone from under a table and fed it to his dog. But one thing was clear: in Milton, though the competition had drawn to a close, its spirit remained. The rivalries—warm as fresh bread and twice as enduring—would rise again, proving that in this town, nothing baked ever stayed cooled for long.

After the contest, John and Margaret slipped away to a quiet spot beneath a tree, picking over the ruins of their bakes. Amid the ruins of overbeaten batter and sunken middles, something gentler emerged—unlooked for, but not unwelcome.

She laughed softly at the speckling of icing sugar upon his collar; he regarded her uneven cake with a smile, as though it were the finest spectacle he had beheld all day. They exchanged morsels and playful repartee, and somewhere between the shared bites and moments of unobtrusive ease, an understanding took root between them.

It was not love. Not yet. But it was rising—and this time, neither of them overmixed it.

The next day, the local paper arrived bearing the headline:
The Milton Gazette

The inaugural year of Milton’s charity baking competition proved an occasion of considerable refinement and genteel diversion, ostensibly devoted to the noble and delicate art of pastry. Yet it was marked by an occurrence most unexpected—one which set tongues wagging and spirits aflutter among all assembled, whether competitor or spectator.

There were many notable entries, but perhaps none so admired as Miss Margaret Hale, who graced the proceedings with her scones, each crowned with a blackberry glaze both rich and irresistible.

Mr John Thornton, a gentleman better known for his sobriety than culinary bravado, entered the contest with solemn earnestness, declaring his intention to ‘bake for glory’ with the ardour of a knight errant embarking upon a noble quest.

Mr Nicholas Higgins was likewise among the competitors, presenting robust biscuits that delighted the palate of the esteemed judge—a commendation of no small distinction.

Nonetheless, the true victor, and the unanimous toast of the evening, was none other than Miss Mary Higgins. A modest lady, oft overlooked as quietly as a morsel beneath the teapot, she presented a cake of such simple honesty and impeccable skill that it commanded both admiration and the coveted first prize.

Hers was a victory not achieved by flourish or fanfare, but by steady hand and discerning sense—qualities deserving applause equal to the grandest showpieces.

We look forward with great anticipation to next year’s event, to be held at Marlborough Mills, where Mr Thornton and Miss Hale shall preside as judges.

Mrs Thornton’s Judicious Remarks:

• Miss Margaret Hale’s Scones: Crafted with evident care and a deft hand, these scones possess a crumb both tender and resilient, balancing refinement with a touch of hearty spirit. The blackberry glaze, while delightfully rich, was applied with such liberal enthusiasm as to threaten to overwhelm the modest virtues of the scone itself. A timely reminder that moderation is as prized in the kitchen as it is in society.
• Mr John Thornton’s Genoise: A confection of admirable ambition but inconsistent execution, this sponge bore the marks of its maker’s industrious zeal yet lacked the finesse of a practised hand. Some sections were commendably light, others obstinately dense, resulting in a texture as stern as the gentleman himself. He would do well to remember that patience and precision, rather than sheer willpower, are the true secret ingredients.
• Mr Nicholas Higgins’ ‘Strike Biscuits’: These formidable biscuits are as unyielding as the working man’s spirit. Tough to the bite and austere in flavour, they serve less as delicate indulgences and more as statements of principle—steadfast, hard-won, and best accompanied by a robust cup of tea and a well-worn book. Not to all tastes, certainly, but their earnestness is beyond dispute.
• Miss Bessy Higgins’ Peppermint Cakes: An intriguing enigma of mint and sugar, these cakes vanished with such suddenness as to provoke suspicions of mischief or sorcery at work. Their abrupt disappearance, leaving only a faint scent behind, has been dubbed ‘The Great Mint Mystery,’ and will no doubt inspire much speculation and increased vigilance next year.
• Miss Mary Higgins’ Cake: A humble confection that belies its modest appearance. The cake’s texture is tender, its flavour judiciously balanced—an exquisite example of restraint and skill. It stands as the tasteful victory of the evening, deserving not only the prize but the highest commendation. A fitting reminder that, in baking as in life, the greatest successes are often the simplest.

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The End