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Chapter Text

The omnibus trundled steadily along the streets of Milton, its horses plodding resolutely on, despite the slippery cobbles beneath their great hooves. The driver clicked his tongue in encouragement to the horses as the bus neared the last stop in the town. From Milton, the omnibus route meandered farther afield towards the surrounding villages, and then onward to the terminus at Prestwich. The driver glanced up at the heavy black sky that threatened snow, but he was grateful that at least it was dry, having suffered over the last few days from being exposed to persistent driving rain. Apart from the personal discomfort from the torrential downpour, it had taken his considerable experience to navigate his horses and carriage safely along the tracks between the villages which were awash with mud. 

     Only the driver sat outside, and the top level of the omnibus was vacant due to the wintry chill of the day. Even the conductor had decided to spend the whole journey standing at the entrance to the lower deck, instead of sitting beside the driver to rest his feet on the longer distances between stops. He hoped that there would be few more wanting to board, as the enclosed lower carriage was almost at capacity, and he really could do without complaints from gents not wanting to sit atop, when there was precious little he could do about it.

     There were twelve passengers in total, all gentlemen, who were all grateful for the shelter of the lower deck. The occupants swayed with the movement of the bus, occasionally being jostled against one another if the road was particularly uneven, though all those aboard were well used to the motion of their transport and accepted the associated discomfort. 

     John Thornton wiped his coat sleeve on the steamed up window to get a better view as they approached Crampton Terrace. He rubbed his arm against the glass again and peered out towards the neat little row of houses. Over half a year had elapsed since he had stumbled from the Hales’ house onto the street in a state of desperate agitation and distress, and had found himself boarding the omnibus that had coincidentally been passing by at the same time. He had travelled to Prestwich in no small state of shock, then disembarked with his fellow travellers. Finding himself in the countryside, he had walked around the fields in a stupor, not knowing what else to do, while his head and heart had been in a turmoil, seething with tempestuous love for Miss Hale and yet desolate at her sound rejection of him. With despondency, he had then caught the return omnibus in the market square to be transported back to Milton, where he had to take up the reins of his life again after that short and unexpected interlude. 

     Though taking the omnibus trip on the day of his doomed proposal had been by chance, more at the whim of the driver stopping for him than any intention on his own part, John had realised afterwards that he had benefited from the journey – from being completely separated from his usual activities and worries. In fact, he gave so much credit to the excursion that he continued to do it. The warm summer afternoons of his first sojourns were long gone, and yet he continued even now on the bitterest of winter days. Once a week he slipped away from Marlborough Mills and took the ride through the countryside to Prestwich, and enjoyed the opportunity of respite from the enormous pressure he was under at work, not to mention the additional heartbreak that weighed so heavily upon him. He usually allowed time for his outing on Wednesdays, but no matter how he tried to arrange his work to accommodate the time off, it had been impossible this week, and so he had had to wait an extra day before being able to take his trip.

     The memory of Miss Hale’s dismissal of his hand still squeezed and twisted at his heart most powerfully. And yet, his weekly omnibus rides to the rural environs did little to give him relief from his thoughts of Miss Hale – quite the contrary. John allowed his mind to ruminate over all of their interactions together, and without exception, this naturally led on to reliving his disastrous proposal and the occasion of seeing Miss Hale in an embrace with a stranger. Though this regular mental inspection of these events – and frequent they were – didn’t provide him with any answers, he had found that the horror of his crushing disappointment was somewhat easier to bear. Not that it hurt him less, but more that he felt able to endure it. 

     As the omnibus pulled up at Crampton Terrace, John looked towards the Hales’ modest home. He simply couldn’t help himself, as he had once seen Miss Hale at the window. She had been hanging freshly laundered curtains and had smiled and nodded a greeting to someone in the road; John presumed her greeting to be directed at the omnibus conductor. She hadn’t seen John that day, he was sure, though he didn’t think he would have been blessed with a smile of acknowledgement even if she had. But the memory of that chance sighting of her had encouraged him to watch out for her when they stopped in Crampton, and all times since, his hopes had been dashed by her absence.

     And then, quite suddenly, John felt as though his heart had stalled, as who should board the omnibus but Miss Hale. She wore her customary brown coat and hat, and carried a basket, but he could see her black mourning skirt and she had a black woollen shawl drawn around her. She handed her thruppence fare to the conductor and took a couple of steps down the short aisle assessing where there was room for her to sit. There were two spaces left, one next to an older, rotund looking fellow diagonally across from John, and one next to John himself. He knew the very instant that Miss Hale observed him and their eyes met. In that brief second in time, John knew that she was weighing up whether she should sit next to him or not. As an acquaintance, it might be construed rude not to. Then, a gent behind John piped up in a friendly manner, ‘Afternoon Miss. Off to see your gentleman again I see.’ 

    John held his breath in shock. He saw Miss Hale hesitate just for a moment before she nodded a smile at the friendly man and scurried to the other vacant seat to sit next to the portly gentleman diagonally across from John, and she settled her basket on her knee. John cast a glance behind him to look at the owner of the voice who was privy to details about Miss Hale. The man’s attention was now fixed upon a small notebook which he was reading from, oblivious to Mr Thornton’s scrutiny. John assessed him to be a few years older than himself, perhaps towards forty. He was smartly dressed and had sandy coloured hair and a beard – and clearly had no idea what damage his quip had done to John’s equanimity. John turned back around in his seat and rubbed at the window pane again, desperate for some small distraction from the brutal feeling of emptiness that was gradually engulfing him.

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     Margaret could scarcely believe it. Mr Thornton was on her omnibus! What in the world was he doing here? She knew her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment after the friendly man’s observation. Normally she would have exchanged a word or two with the man who regularly was on her bus. In fact several of the occupants were known to her by sight from her weekly trip to Prestwich. She knew where the friendly man went to each week, sometimes carrying flowers, sometimes not, though she had no idea who any of her fellow travellers were or what their business was. On one occasion she had sat next to a garrulous young woman who had insisted on chattering away for almost all of the trip and Margaret had explained where she was going, and why. The friendly man had clearly picked up on this titbit and, most unfortunately, had repeated it in Mr Thornton’s presence. She had been about to sit next to him when in the periphery of her vision she had seen his eyes narrow and his lips tighten almost imperceptibly at the friendly man’s observation, and Margaret, spotting his reaction, had quickly sat in the alternative available seat.

     Margaret fairly boiled inside at the unfairness of the situation. She had been seconds from sitting next to Mr Thornton for at least the next hour, and that time together and chit-chat that would have been possible, might have dispersed the insurmountable wall he had erected between them. Of course, she couldn’t blame him. She had, after all, clung to him during the strike, which had made him believe that she cared for him. Margaret mused at the peculiarity that a strong and reputedly hard man such as Mr Thornton should be better attuned to his feelings than she was, as he had recognised love in his heart before she had seen it in her own. Margaret was bereft that her love for Mr Thornton had emerged into her consciousness when it was too late. How the fates had conspired against her, as it was not only her refusal of him which stood between them. It was cruel indeed that Mr Thornton should also have witnessed her last emotional goodbye to Frederick, preventing Mr Thornton’s love from being rekindled. He had made that quite clear. And now, as she made her weekly visit to Prestwich, the friendly gentleman’s comment had surely snuffed out any hope of a reconciliation with Mr Thornton.

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     They had been bumping along in the omnibus for almost an hour, with the steady clip-clopping of the horses hooves just audible behind the louder monotonous rumble of the wheels against the rutted road. The journey for both Mr Thornton and Miss Hale had been an uncomfortable one. The wooden slatted seats and backrests seemed harder than usual and jabbed into their backs with every movement of the omnibus. There was no relief from looking at the scenery either, as steam from breath and warmth from bodies clouded the windows, so that all that was left to do was to think about the person sitting diagonally across from them. They were only perhaps two or three feet apart, but it may as well have been a mile. 

     Suddenly, the rhythmic tread of the horses skittered and the omnibus violently lurched first to one side, and then to the other. Margaret grabbed the backrest of the seat in front of her, and her basket tumbled to the floor spilling the contents into the aisle. Yelps of alarm were emitted from several of the omnibus occupants and newspapers were abandoned as the passengers attempted to brace themselves. Cries of ‘Steady on!’ and ‘Good Lord!’ were shouted as the omnibus once again swung sharply to the left, and this time irrevocably so, and it crashed to the ground on its side, skidding along for a yard or two to the sound of splintering wood, and shattering glass. The omnibus passengers and conductor were flung wildly about within the carriage before one last terrible cracking sound, followed by a bone shaking jolt, and the omnibus finally came to a stop.

     The omnibus had fallen to the side where Margaret was seated, and fortunately for her, her fall had been somewhat softened by landing upon the portly gentleman. However the bolts fixing the bench in front of her to the floor of the carriage had been wrenched apart by the force of the crash, and it now lay on top of Margaret and the portly gentleman, pinning them in place.

     After a moment of stunned silence, the party aboard the omnibus gradually came to their senses, and after assessing the damage to the bus and to themselves, began to crawl and clamber towards the door, helping one another out of the wreckage. The conductor appeared to have sustained the worst injury, with a laceration to his forehead, and yet even he was able to get out of the carriage with minimal assistance.

     John had found himself thrown against the side of the neighbouring bench behind Miss Hale’s seat, which had prevented him falling any further. He wondered if he had lost consciousness for a moment as he was dazed at first, then became aware of the sounds of shouts for help, grunts of exertion as people moved around him, and in the distance he could hear the dreadful distressed whinnying of the omnibus horses. Belongings littered the route out of the carriage. He saw hats and papers strewn haphazardly about, and Miss Hale’s basket which had children's drawings and rough clothing spilling from it. John shook his head, trying to get some clarity, and he understood the urge to escape and follow the others, but instead of joining the passengers in their quest to extricate themselves from the wreckage, John inched forwards with one thought in his mind.

     ‘Miss Hale! Miss Hale! Are you well?’

     ‘Yes, thank you … I think so,’ she replied tremulously. 

     John’s heart soared with relief. ‘And you, sir?’ he asked the portly gentleman who was squashed against the broken window that was now pressed to the muddied road, and had both Miss Hale and the bench on top of him. 

     ‘I’ll survive,’ said the man. ‘Just get me out of here!’ he wheezed.

     John called for help, and the friendly man came to his aid trying to lift the bench but it was stuck fast, as two of the iron legs had been twisted with the impact, restraining Margaret and the gentleman beneath. Unable to remove the bench, the only way to get the trapped passengers out was to pull them from beneath the broken seating. The portly gentlemen would have to be freed first, followed by Margaret. 

     In her dark cocoon below the bench, Margaret was aware of a hand reaching towards her through a gap in the mangled wood and iron of the seat. Gratefully she grasped it for the comfort it offered. She was frightened and she had a sharp pain in her leg, but she knew she must be calm and keep things in perspective; she would be released soon and she had suffered no serious harm. Beneath her she could feel the efforts to drag the portly gentleman out, and it was proving to be problematic.

     ‘Is everyone else all right? No one is seriously injured?’ she asked the owner of the hand that held hers with such firm authority.

     It was John’s deep velvety Darkshire voice that replied, ‘Everyone seems to be well. Just a few bumps and grazes by the looks of things. Don’t worry, Miss Hale, we’ll have you out of there soon,’ he said, and he managed a secret twitch of a smile as he felt Miss Hale’s hand squeeze his in reply.

     The friendly sandy haired man, who had caused both Margaret and John such consternation due to his unfortunate greeting earlier, was helping to extract the portly gentleman. And, by and by, his ample bulk was dragged free, and Margaret slumped lower down, now against the window in his place. John heard her wince in pain.

     ‘Miss Hale? Are you injured?’ said John, grasping her hand tightly even though it was harder now to reach her with any comfort.

     ‘Mr Thornton, I think my foot is trapped. As my body position moved, my foot stayed where it was. I find I can’t move it.’

     ‘Don’t worry, Miss Hale. I promise we shall get you free. Not much longer,’ he said with calm assurance, however his expression told another story as his gaze held the eyes of the friendly man. 

     ‘Ashfield,’ said the friendly man, extending his hand to John. 

     ‘Thornton,’ replied John with a nod, and reached across with his free hand to shake that of his new acquaintance.

     ‘Oh! Mr Thornton, the mill master. Yes, I’ve heard mention of you. It is my pleasure to meet you, though not like this I dare say,’ Mr Ashfield replied with a quick smile. 

     ‘Indeed,’ replied John a little distractedly, as he returned his attention to Miss Hale. With her new position on the ground, he could now see her face through the cleft between the seat and the back of the bench where there was a small space. Her hat was missing and he thought she looked a little pale, but he supposed the exact same could have been said about himself. 

     ‘Miss Hale, I’m going to let go of your hand for a moment—’

     ‘Must you?’ she interrupted, and she clutched him a little tighter.

     ‘Just for a moment. I need to see if I can free your foot. Then we can get you out,’ he said gently.

     ‘Shall I try to find a saw?’ said Ashfield, causing a gasp of fright from Margaret.

     John chuckled softly. ‘For the bench, Miss Hale. Not for your foot.’

     Margaret gave a little nervous laugh.

     ‘May I look at your foot then, Miss Hale?’ John pressed.

     ‘All right,’ she said with a voice so small that John ached to be able to hold and to comfort her.

     John let go of Margaret’s hand, and lying across the sides of the remaining seats with the floor of the passageway to his back, he looked through the twisted ironwork to see Miss Hale’s foot. Her skirt and petticoats were pushed up almost to her knee and showed that the bar holding her in place was just above the level of her boot. John stifled a gasp of shock as he perceived livid blood stains to Miss Hale’s legs, but within seconds he had steadied his nerves and his heartbeat as he realised that it was in fact her woollen ribbed stockings which were coloured red, and not tinted with blood, though he couldn’t be sure. He clambered up again so that he could look at her while he addressed her.

     ‘The metal from the seat is just above your boot. I wonder, if I removed your boot, you might be able to slide your foot free.’

     Margaret tugged her leg again and felt the bar scraping her skin near the top of her boot. ‘I think you are right, Mr Thornton. Please. Take it off,’ she said.

     John lay down again, his body supported by the remaining rows of benches, and reached through the mangled remnants of the seating to Miss Hale’s foot. There were at least a dozen small buttons fastening Miss Hale’s boot in place, and without a button hook it was tricky to undo them with any speed, but his long nimble fingers at last managed the task and he pulled the boot from her foot. 

     ‘May I check for signs of injury?’ he shouted to her.

     ‘Yes,’ she replied, courageously.

     And so John quickly ran his hand along Miss Hale’s stockinged leg, from the tip of her toe to where the bench metal work impeded her ankle, then above it to her knee. He withdrew his hand and breathed a sigh of relief as he held his clean palm up to Mr Ashfield. ‘No blood,’ he said. Diverting his attention back to Margaret he called to her, ‘Can you wiggle your toes?’ and she dutifully did so. 

     John climbed up again and passed his hand back down to Miss Hale and she accepted his grip eagerly.

     ‘There is no blood, so it looks all right, as far as I can see. Can you try to get free now?’

     Margaret wriggled trying to pull her leg, the broken glass beneath her crunching with each movement. Her foot moved easier now that her boot was removed, but there still wasn’t enough space to get out. She felt panic beginning to rise and with it a few tears began to prick. In the dim light John saw the glistening pools forming in her eyes and he looked up to Ashfield. ‘We need to try something else. We need to get her out.’

     Ashfield nodded. ‘It’s getting a mite cold in here now too,’ he whispered, the clouds of crystallised breath accentuating the truth of his words. His concern for Miss Hale’s health was increasing and he too felt the urgency in needing to free her. There was no knowing how long it might take to get help, and in another hour it would start to get dark, so they needed to rely on their own abilities. ‘If some of us could try to lift the bench, even just by a fraction, it might be enough to get Miss Hale out,’ he suggested, and John agreed that it was worth a try. So Mr Ashfield crawled from the omnibus and secured the help of three of the strongest in their party and the men climbed back aboard to awkwardly position themselves to lift the bench in the confined space.

     Ashfield piped up again. ‘One of us needs to get behind Miss Hale and pull her when the time is right. What say you, Thornton? You might be the man for that job.’

     John cast a puzzled glance at Ashfield. He was as strong as any of them there, most likely stronger, and had presumed he would be adding his muscle to the lifting of the bench. 

     Ashfield spoke in a lowered tone, ‘I was thinking of the lady, Thornton. You are clearly already acquainted and she has obviously put her trust in you,’ he said quietly, nodding to their hands still holding tightly to one another amid the twisted wood and iron. ‘You’re probably the youngest of us too, and more agile,’ he said more loudly for the benefit of the others around, and with a jaunty wink and a slap on the back, John was volunteered.

     ‘Of course,’ said John. 

     In the cramped interior of the carriage, John shrugged out of his coat so that he could move more easily. Armed with a blanket that was provided by the omnibus driver to be placed over the broken glass and splinters of wood, he crawled to get to Margaret. ‘Can you sit up a bit?’ he asked, and Margaret leaned forward, almost as far as a sitting position, and John lay down the rug and squeezed himself into the tight spot behind her so that Margaret was in the V of his legs. He took a deep breath and placed his arms around her body, close to her waist, and in doing so his chin was at her shoulder and his cheek almost pressed to hers. ‘Ready?’ he asked softly.

     ‘Yes’, she said, and clasped her arms over his that circled around her middle. 

     John nodded at Ashfield.

     ‘Right. On my count of three then go. Ready?’ said Ashfield to the men positioned by the bench, ‘Three, two, one, go!’

     The men heaved as hard as they could, though the seating hardly seemed to move at all, and yet it was just enough, as when John pulled Margaret backwards her foot was wrenched free, and though she had to press her eyes tightly shut and clench her teeth not to cry out, Margaret was elated to have been liberated. John was panting with exertion by her ear and his grip upon her remained firm.

     ‘I’m free!’ exclaimed Margaret, and the men all gratefully stopped attempting to lift the bench. 

     Mr Ashfield helped John out of the little space behind Miss Hale, and then John himself helped Margaret to crawl to the doorway of the omnibus, her exit further impeded by her clothing which precluded ease of movement. Nevertheless she emerged from the omnibus to a cheer from her fellow passengers and was lifted to the ground by Mr Thornton.

     As John looked at the wreckage, it became apparent that it was nothing short of a miracle that no one had been seriously hurt. As well as smashed windows and broken wooden panels and struts, two of the wheels were considerably damaged, perhaps beyond repair, so there was no way that they would be going home by way of the omnibus that evening. The carriage had slipped in the mire and was perched perilously close to a considerable drop by the hillside, where the recent heavy rainfall had caused a mudslide. John dared not contemplate what might have happened if the driver had not managed to keep the omnibus on the road.

     John rejoined the group where a discussion regarding what they were all to do was in progress. The horses had been loosened from their harness and had got back to their feet, seemingly unharmed, and their previous distress now calmed. The driver advised his passengers that they were only about a ten or fifteen minute walk from the village of Little Heaton, and as it was patently clear that no one would be getting back to Milton this afternoon or evening, Little Heaton sounded like a welcome destination. 

     The omnibus passengers included three gentlemen who resided in Prestwich, and although it might take them an hour to get there, they took their leave to walk directly home before it became dark. The driver, who also had a cottage and stables in Prestwich, decided to stay with his friend the conductor, not least because he was concerned for his welfare, having sustained a head wound. The horses had also had a fright and the driver thought it best to let them rest overnight in Little Heaton before making the longer journey home. So belongings were retrieved, hats donned, and Miss Hale’s boot replaced, though it was not fastened as her ankle was already showing signs of swelling. The omnibus driver, walking briskly beside his horses, led the way, tailed by the conductor who had a handkerchief tied around his head to stem the bleeding from his cut. The majority of the passengers came next in the procession, and a little way further back, slower than the rest, followed the last group of three; Miss Hale walked arm in arm with Mr Thornton on one side, who was also carrying her basket, and Mr Ashfield on the other, both supporting her as she limped towards the village.

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Chapter Text

John was aware that Miss Hale needed more of his support by the time they reached Little Heaton, though he wasn’t surprised that she didn’t complain, and he was impressed by her stoicism. On their walk he would have preferred a little time to think – to come to terms with what had just happened. It had been utterly shocking. Yet Mr Ashfield kept up a steady stream of conversation, and all things considered, John could appreciate the distraction he provided. Following their most unusual encounter on the omnibus, Miss Hale and he were spared from a potentially uncomfortable silence, as now that the emergency was over, they had receded back to society’s required behaviour.

     The trio made straight for the inn, as Mr Ashfield had quite rightly pointed out that it would be getting dark before alternative transportation could be acquired. Little Heaton was a county village, and while a farm wagon might be available, it wouldn’t be possible to travel back to Milton in the darkness and, of course, the wrecked omnibus was blocking the road. Lodgings were therefore required. The problem was that, including the driver and conductor, there were twelve of them needing accommodation. Five of the passengers had expected to catch a connecting omnibus to the towns of Whitefield and Bury, but the crash and ensuing delay meant they were now stranded until the following day. There was a party who had intended to return to Milton on the same day. This comprised four gentlemen, including Mr Thornton and Mr Ashfield, as well as Miss Hale and the conductor. With the driver and his horses adding to the group, the inn’s meagre facilities would be overwhelmed. The hostelry was relatively small, though normally adequate for the size of the local population, and rarely were their rooms to let in great demand. 

     As Miss Hale was injured, it had taken her, Mr Thornton and Mr Ashfield longer than the rest to reach their destination, and on enquiring at the tavern for accommodation, they found that the only three rooms had already been reserved by others from the omnibus. It was easy to spot those who had secured rooms for the night as they were congratulating themselves on their good fortune … though not for long. After a scalding dressing down from Mr Thornton on their lack of gentlemanly qualities, one of the three – the portly gentleman, whose name was Mr Cubbins – agreed to forgo his quarters so that Miss Hale would have a room for the night. Another gentleman, named Mr Braithwaite, reluctantly also gave up his room, conceding that the conductor should have it, seeing as he had sustained the most serious injury. 

     While Mr Ashfield went in search of the inn’s barn and livery stables, which the remainder of them had permission to shelter in overnight, John helped Miss Hale up the rickety stairs to her room.

     ‘Thank you,’ said Margaret with genuine warmth, bringing about a twitch of a smile to Mr Thornton’s lips and a small shake of his head. ‘No, really. I am indebted to you for your assistance,’ she said in earnest as they stood at her door. 

     ‘It will be an hour or two before dinner. I hope you benefit from resting in the meantime. May I call for you when dinner is served?’ John asked.

     ‘I would be most grateful, thank you,’ she replied amiably, taking her basket from him.

     John cleared his throat. He paused. 

     ‘I was wondering. Do you need me to get a message … that is … will someone be expecting you? Will they be worried about where you are? I offer you my service,’ he said solemnly. God knows, had he been expecting a visit from Miss Hale and she hadn’t arrived he would be beside himself with worry. Especially if he had heard about a crash! Then again, in a small village, perhaps Miss Hale’s “gentleman” would guess where she was with so few options for the stranded travellers.

     Margaret’s eyes grew wide. She had forgotten Mr Ashfield’s banter when she had boarded the omnibus.

     In Miss Hale’s silence, John ploughed on. ‘I shouldn’t think there will be a telegraph office, so it won't be possible to contact your father. Or my mother for that matter.’ His brow creased in consternation. ‘They will be worried for certain, but all will be put right when we get home tomorrow,’ he concluded, attempting to lessen Miss Hale’s anxiety regarding their situation.

     Margaret had recovered herself, and the concern for her father’s distress eclipsed her irritation that Mr Thornton was once again so easily persuaded that she had plans for a secret assignation with a gentleman. ‘Oh, yes! Poor Father!’

     ‘If I could do anything to alleviate the situation I would,’ said John. ‘So your … friend … does not need informing?’ he pressed.

     ‘No. Thank you,’ she replied a little frostily, and John nodded his understanding and withdrew. 

     Margaret waited by the door listening to his footsteps die away as he bounded lightly down the stairs. How did Mr Thornton have the ability to vex her so? – it was so frustrating. She wanted to shout her innocence at him or shake him. Or hold him. 

     She removed her hat and coat and both boots, and rolled down her stocking to inspect her swollen ankle. It sported a long bruise where the metal bar from the bench had pressed upon her, and there was a slight graze to the skin, but that was all, and she was relieved that she had escaped with so little damage to her person. She sat upon the bed and tested it for comfort. The mattress was rather hard and lumpy but would do well enough. At least she had a bed, and privacy, and all thanks to Mr Thornton. 

     Margaret lay upon the coverlet and mulled over the afternoon’s events. Mr Thornton had been kind … no, it was more than that. She had depended upon him and he had been a combination of comforter, rescuer and protector. How annoying it was that she took offence so easily to his assumptions that she had a secret lover – so much so that it crowded out his goodness in her eyes. And yet she could understand why he believed it of her. Indeed, with his own two eyes he had seen her in an embrace with Frederick. Margaret knew she was being unfair to him. She just wished he trusted her, and the fact that he didn’t made her situation feel intolerable, as they couldn’t get past this maddening misapprehension which had extinguished his affection for her. There appeared to be nothing she could do to win his favour again. How wretched it was, to have spurned the one man she could love. Loved. And with that thought, of loving Mr Thornton, Margaret drifted off to sleep.

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     The barn adjacent to the livery stable was inadequate to say the least, yet it was all that was available to the stranded omnibus passengers. Only the driver was satisfied to be sleeping by his horses in the stable. Tempers were getting rather frayed, as the reality of sleeping on straw with only a blanket or two for comfort was finally registering, and John was glad to have the seemingly ever buoyant company of Mr Ashfield. That gentleman could find the good in most situations, and now was suggesting to the group that things wouldn’t be so bad after a few pints of ale and a hearty meal. John had to agree; things could be worse. 

     They had all managed to avoid serious injury, and one night of discomfort could easily be borne. He had been able to be of service to Miss Hale and, though he didn’t want her gratitude exactly, he was pleased that their relationship had benefited from thawing somewhat. After all, they had spoken quite civilly to one another. But what to make of this “gentleman friend". A man that she was visiting by herself during her full-mourning period, and apparently had done so with regularity. And why did she not want to send word to him that she was there and unharmed? John was tired of secrets. He had a mind to just ask her. Of course, she was likely to tell him it was none of his business, and his scowl descended again, attracting the notice of Mr Ashfield, though at this time he chose not to ask what troubled Milton’s young mill master.

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     Dinner was a thoroughly peculiar affair. The omnibus passengers were situated in the relatively spacious taproom, though the driver had declined to join them and had chosen to have his meal with the conductor who was resting in his room. Thankfully, the inn’s common room was warm with two fireplaces ablaze; one on the north wall and one on the south. The passengers had been asked to sit at four tables which had been placed in close proximity, as though they were all friends or relatives having an evening celebration together. A little girl with stringy fair hair and solemn eyes helped her mother, the innkeeper’s wife, to bring out dishes and cutlery to set the table. She had never seen such a large group of smartly dressed gentlemen in her life. The unexpected group of men and one woman was not only a novelty to the serving girl, but they were also a veritable curiosity to the regulars in the inn, and proved to be a diversion to the usual chat between locals. In the sleepy little village, the omnibus crash was exciting news as it was, but to have almost all the occupants for their perusal added an extra layer of interest. 

     John was less than pleased with being an object to be observed in great detail as he ate his mutton stew. Mr Ashfield kept the conversation flowing with the fellow gentlemen, while Miss Hale abstained from the exchange, pushing the stew around her dish. John viewed this behaviour to be quite out of character for Miss Hale. He knew her to be confident in expressing her opinions and contributing to debate. He worried that she was perhaps feeling adverse effects from her injury, as he had started to experience aches and pains himself, from when he had been thrown about in the carriage during the crash. John wondered if Miss Hale’s withdrawn demeanour was due to her anxiety about being stranded here with a considerable amount of strangers – and him, of course, whom she didn’t like and with whom there loomed his unsuccessful proposal. Perhaps she thought of that event as an embarrassment, whereas he looked upon it with despair. John’s treacherous mind considered that her low mood might be due to regret that she had missed meeting her “gentleman”, and his black brows drew together in dismay once again. 

     Mr Ashfield looked from Miss Hale to Mr Thornton, unnoticed by the rest of their group for a moment or two. There was something between this pair, he thought. Thornton showed her the utmost respect – reverence, even. Their association was more than an acquaintance, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the problem. He watched Mr Thornton push his chair back and stand when Miss Hale did so, excusing herself for the evening with a few polite words and a demure smile. Thornton offered her his arm and Ashfield noticed that, just for a fraction of a second, she had hesitated before taking it and allowing him to help her up the stairs where they disappeared for no more than a minute or two.

     The conversation became a little more bawdy now that Miss Hale had left, and several tankards of ale had been drunk. Yet on his return to the table, Mr Thornton sat brooding, ostensibly cut off from the rest in the isolation of his thoughts. Discussion ebbed and flowed for some time, but eventually one or two of the men began to yawn and the whole group decided to make their way to the barn, to bed down for the night. 

     John asked the innkeeper’s wife for a tray of tea, and while he waited, he watched the men filing out of the inn, with Ashfield at the rear. He took the tray and quietly ascended the stairs to Miss Hale’s room. ‘Miss Hale?’ he whispered very softly. ‘Are you awake?’

     ‘Yes,’ she replied.

     ‘I brought a tea tray, in case you were in need of refreshment. You ate so little at dinner. I will leave it here, on the floor,’ he said.

     Margaret heard the rattle of crockery as he placed the tray by her door. ‘Thank you,’ she said, but his footsteps had already faded away.

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     On re-entering the taproom, John encountered Mr Ashfield, who sat alone at one of the tables. With a friendly smile he raised a small glass to John, saying, ‘I took the liberty of ordering us a night cap.’ He poured amber liquid into a second small glass and handed it to John. ‘Jim,’ he said, extending his glass, as a toast. 

     ‘John,’ said John, clinking his glass with Ashfield’s. The circumstances of the last seven hours were enough for him to feel on friendly terms with Mr Ashfield – Jim. It was a peculiar thought that since his meteoric rise to the station of mill master, only his mother, Fanny and Mr Hale called him by his Christian name. All his business colleagues called one another by their surnames, and it occurred to John that Mr Hale was possibly his only friend. John was happy to double that number, and sat down opposite Mr Ashfield with his rum.

     ‘May I ask your business?’ asked John.

     ‘I’m an attorney.’

     John frowned slightly. ‘I thought I knew all the lawyers in Milton, with being a magistrate you understand.’

     ‘I’ve only recently arrived in the town. I moved down from Preston you see, to be nearer my wife,’ Ashfield explained.

     ‘I don’t follow? Your wife doesn’t live with you?’

     ‘No,’ said Ashfield, swirling the rum in his glass. And suddenly he felt his eyes fill with tears, which was an oddity as he hadn’t cried about his wife for many months. Perhaps it was speaking about it that brought his emotions freshly to the surface. He brushed the upset away with a quick laugh and pasted on his smile. ‘She is in Prestwich. Milton was the nearest large town where I could bring my practice. So now I can come once a week, or sometimes twice if circumstances allow.’ Ashfield could see the confusion on John Thornton’s face. 

     Jim Ashfield was a lonely man, displaced from his extended family and friends, and even colleagues, set down in a strange town for one reason alone, but it was a reason with a dreadful stigma attached. He had tried to lay the foundation for comradeship with men of a similar standing in Milton, but had failed. He suspected that his naturally genial manner was viewed with suspicion, and so far, he had not been successful in befriending anyone in Milton society. He was sorely in need of a friend, so he took a deep breath and prepared to tell his secret. Thornton’s reaction would tell him if he might be that person. ‘She’s in the new … hospital … in Prestwich.’

     John thought for a moment and his eyebrows raised slightly as understanding dawned, having initially thought Mrs Ashfield must be deceased. ‘The asylum?’ he asked, for clarity.

     Jim Ashfield nodded his reply and took another sip of rum.

     ‘I’m so sorry,’ said John, reaching across the table to touch the man’s sleeve; a small act of compassion, and yet it was so gratefully received that the tears spilled from Jim’s eyes.

     ‘Don’t mind me. It’s the rum that makes me cry. Take no notice. Some men get maudlin, some sleepy and some violent. Me? I cry. I don’t know why I torture myself,’ he said with a self-deprecating chuckle.

      ‘Will she get better? Is there hope?’ John asked.

     ‘There is always hope, isn’t there?’ said Jim with a watery smile, pouring them both another measure. ‘I could never abandon her, you see. I moved heaven and earth to get her transferred to the new Prestwich asylum. I can’t tell you how appalling some of the facilities are in the existing establishments. They are more like prisons than hospitals – no, worse! Moving to Milton meant we were in the catchment district for the Prestwich asylum, and I agreed to be a trustee and sit on the board. That way I have a modicum of control of the management and service provision.’ Ashfield shook his head. ‘But it is hard seeing her the way she is now. Sometimes I think she barely knows me.’

     Whether it be the wish to show his understanding, the alcohol, or simply the foreign and intimate experience of discourse with this fellow man, John explained his own family’s painful history.

     ‘My father … I think he had a sickness of the mind,’ said John. ‘He must have done. He killed himself, you see. Though I don’t have any recollection of any peculiar behaviour beforehand. I remember there were arguments with my mother – about money. He partook in several risky ventures I think, though, again, I was just a boy and didn’t know the full details. But he lost everything, and worse than that, he built up large debts too. And he killed himself. Surely one can’t be of sound mind to do that can they? The shame of debt can’t be worse than that of suicide? I left school and got a job, and with my mother’s help we managed to save enough to pay off all his debts. Yet if he’d lived, I could have helped him and we could have done it together.’

     ‘As you say, he probably couldn’t reason as a sane minded man might. But it wasn’t his fault, just like it isn’t my Ellen’s. They still deserve our love. My Ellen … she’s the love of my life. ’

     John’s troubles suddenly seemed so irrelevant. Those important to him were all well, and his eyes involuntarily went to the stairs which led to the love of his own life.

     Jim noticed John’s reaction and he sniffed as he pulled himself together and nodded to the stairs. ‘There is a connection between you and Miss Hale. Am I right? I have the notion that you have a mutual affection but something is wrong. A falling out, perhaps?’

     John took a sip of his drink. ‘You are wrong, I’m afraid. There is no “mutual affection”. It is one sided.’

     ‘How can you be so sure? It seems to me that she likes you well enough.’

     ‘She doesn’t.’

     ‘What gives you that impression?’

     ‘It’s not an impression. She told me. Plain as day,’ said John tersely, then collected himself. He knew that Ashfield simply didn’t understand. ‘She said she didn’t like me, and never had. So, there you are. And, besides,’ John sighed, ‘I believe her to love another.’

     ‘Oh! Not my little joke from the omnibus? That was only a mere amusement. I meant no harm. I don’t think Miss Hale is visiting a lover every week! In fact, I’m sure she isn’t.’

     John smiled ruefully at Ashfield, embarrassed that that had been exactly what had popped into his mind when he had heard Ashfield’s words on the bus. But he hadn’t simply jumped to the conclusion. No, his train of thought was influenced by his prior knowledge of Miss Hale’s embrace of a young man.

     John was now quite sure that the rum had loosened his tongue, as he felt the need to discuss his situation regarding Miss Hale with a sympathetic ear, and so he laid bare his turmoil.

     ‘I proposed. Badly. And she turned me down flat, with not so much as a shred of regret. I suppose I’m telling you this out of context, as it was a difficult time for her – and me for that matter. Miss Hale’s mother and friend were gravely ill. And she had even taken a blow to the head the day before. It was at the time of the strike – you may have heard of it, I know you’ve had similar unrest in Preston. Suffice to say that Miss Hale and I had differing views on the strike, but her spirit is one of the things I admire most about her. So, despite all of this upset, I told her how I felt, because … I thought she cared for me, and I was wrong. But not long after that dismal rejection, I saw her saying an emotional farewell to a young man at an out-of-the-way station. Outwood. Do you know it?’

    Ashfield shook his head, holding his tongue so that John could unburden himself.

     ‘It’s a quiet station on the outskirts of Milton, and purely by chance I happened to be there and spotted them together, right after her mother’s death. It was dusk, and the whole situation seemed … furtive.’

     ‘So that’s why she’s in mourning,’ Ashfield mused. ‘Did you ask her about it? About the man?’

     John nodded sadly. ‘Our association by then was understandably strained, but I did ask and she said there was an innocent explanation – but that it was a secret. Another man’s secret.’ John shook his head in dismay at the remembrance. ‘I told her that I didn’t care for her anymore.’

     Jim tapped his fingers idly on the table while he thought about it, then slapped his hand down making John jump. 

     ‘Well, it’s obvious isn’t it?’ he exclaimed with triumph.

     ‘What is?’

     ‘It’s the proverbial “black sheep” isn’t it. Every family has one. Look at me having my darling wife in an asylum. I dare say most families have a person in the present or past who brings a deal of shame to the family name.’

     John had to agree, as he thought about the disgrace his own father brought upon the Thorntons.

     ‘There you are. He’ll have been the Hales’ “black sheep” come to visit Miss Hale’s dying mother. That kind of thing brings all sorts out of the woodwork to pay their respects. The chap must be the owner of some dastardly secret which Miss Hale was not at liberty to divulge.’

     ‘Like what? Mr Hale is my friend. What could be so bad that they couldn’t tell me?’

     ‘Well, as a lawyer, I would immediately think that he must have a criminal record – had been to prison, or perhaps was even wanted by the police. That would be a compelling reason for Miss Hale to conceal the man’s identity, wouldn’t it? Especially with you being a magistrate.’

     John nodded slowly, longing to believe that this was true. ‘Yet this is pure guesswork, Jim. Much as I’d like to believe it, “black sheep” or no, it still doesn’t alter the fact that Miss Hale doesn’t like me, and she doesn’t think that I like her.’

     ‘John, everything you do says how fond you are of her. Your solicitude, your kindness, your selflessness. Miss Hale only needs to look and she will see the affection you have for her. But, perhaps you should be more … explicit. You could always tell her. What do you have to lose other than a further dent to your already wounded pride? Just … think on it John. Don’t let her slip away for want of a little taste of humble pie. No one knows better than me how happiness can be short lived. Don’t squander your chance.’ 

     John felt his own eyes stinging now, and he swallowed down the last of his rum, feeling the burn in his throat, trying to chase the melancholy away. ‘I know she didn’t understand me then. Time and circumstances have changed, so perhaps she does know me a little better now. But how am I to know if her feelings for me have altered?’

     ‘Be open and honest with her. Just be yourself and trust in your feelings. I can understand your hesitancy, having suffered rejection before. But, somehow, I think you’ll know if and when you should ask her again.’

     John looked at the bottle of rum on the table. He was in two minds as to whether he and Ashfield should have another. It was so unprecedented to be able to talk about the hopes and fears that were usually kept hidden in the deep recesses of his heart. But wisdom prevailed. ‘I think it’s time we turned in,’ he said, with a rawness to his voice. ‘It’s been a trying day.’

     ‘Indeed. And being worse for wear tomorrow won’t help your cause with the lovely Miss Hale,’ Ashfield said, with a wink and a laugh at John’s answering glower as they put their empty glasses on the bar, and wished the innkeeper a good night.

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     The barn smelled like animals and musty damp hay. It was freezing and black as pitch, as the innkeeper had not allowed them a lantern for fear that one of the town folk might inadvertently set the barn alight. John found his space, nearest the door – and the draft – next to Ashfield. It was perishingly cold, as one or two of the first men to enter the barn had taken more than their share from the pile of blankets that had been left out for them. Most of the other men appeared to be asleep already, as snores and snorts emanated from various parts of the outbuilding. John stripped to his long underwear and socks, and neatly folded his clothes, after all, he was going to need to wear the same outfit tomorrow. When he reached Milton, the last thing he wanted was the further embarrassment of looking crumpled as though he’d spent the night sleeping rough. He huddled beneath his thin blanket and overcoat and closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would come quickly.

     ‘Just like being back in a dorm, isn’t it,’ whispered Ashfield.

     ‘I didn’t go to boarding school,’ said John, ‘and if it’s like this then I’m glad now that I didn’t,’ he grumbled. His eyes had become accustomed to the dark, and he moved to lie on his back with one arm behind his head as a pillow, staring up to the wooden beams above his head. He tried to empty his mind of all that had happened that day, so that he might get some sleep. But images of Miss Hale and the extraordinary events from the afternoon and evening rolled over and over in his mind, adding more unanswered questions to those that already haunted him. 

     Could there really be a simple explanation to why Miss Hale had been embracing a man? John wondered how things might have turned out if he had had a friend like Jim Ashfield to talk to at the time. The other man’s perspective could have encouraged him to speak with Miss Hale or her father and, at the very least, offer his support to them. But at the time he only had his mother, and it had been impossible to speak with her about Miss Hale.

     Ashfield’s hypothesis thrummed in his head. Could his idea, that the man at Outwood Station was some dishonourable relative or family friend who had visited Mrs Hale on her deathbed, have any substance? Might that be why Miss Hale had been embracing him? John thought about his own conduct after the omnibus crash. He had held Miss Hale’s hand and put his arms around her. He had even touched her leg! Yet there was an innocent explanation for the intimacy between them. 

     John’s mind meandered further back, to the day of the riot when she had put her arms around his neck, the remembrance still so vivid in his memory. Of course, he had misinterpreted her embrace – she had not done it out of affection, but to save him from the mob. Indeed, she had said that she would have done the same for “any man”, and he had been so wounded by those words. Was there a similarity to him putting his arms around her today? He had done it to rescue her, and he would have done the same for any man or woman in the same situation that Miss Hale had been in, so he understood now what she had meant. But just because he helped Miss Hale in the same way that he would have assisted anyone, it didn’t mean that he didn’t love her with every ounce of his might. He concluded that Jim Ashfield was definitely wrong about one thing – Miss Hale wouldn’t see anything of significance in his assistance to her today. She wouldn’t see it as an act of affection, she would see it as a necessity for someone in need. And with a heavy heart, he rolled onto his side, and willed sleep to take him.

... to be continued.

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Chapter Text

The wind moaned plaintively through the gaps in the barn doors bringing with it the winter night’s icy breath. John pulled the thin rough blanket tighter around his shoulders. Apart from the snores and fidgeting from the men billeted in the barn for the night, he had become aware of the sound of Ashfield’s teeth chattering. This was a wretched night to be sure. He hoped Miss Hale was faring better in the tavern.

     ‘John?’ whispered Mr Ashfield. ‘I’m perished. What do you say to us sleeping in the inn?’

     ‘So am I,’ John replied and sighed. ‘But you know as well as I do that there isn't any room.’

     ‘Well, I was thinking we could put some of the benches together in the taproom as makeshift beds. Surely we’ll be as comfortable as we are here, and a darned sight warmer.’

     John needed no further persuasion. So the two men gathered their belongings, and crept out of the barn, careful not to wake any of the others. Swaddled in their coats and blankets, they stumbled along, sneaking in the dark like a pair of naughty schoolboys with Ashfield sniggering when he tripped on some debris on the path and John shushing him, for fear of waking the innkeeper and being banished back to the outbuilding.

     The inn was a good deal warmer than their previous position by the barn door, as the embers in both fireplaces still glowed with heat. They each pulled four benches together which made beds of an adequate size, if rather hard, and lay down again with their threadbare blankets. It was quieter too without the rest of the omnibus passengers sleeping nearby, and it wasn’t long before John heard Ashfield’s breathing deepen and slow as he fell asleep. 

     In the relative discomfort of his new bed, John’s brain was still occupied in mulling over the events of the day, and thoughts of Miss Hale’s bravery and fortitude prevented slumber from coming. It was an unusual occurrence for John to be restless for so long, and he thought back to when he was a lad, and his mother had sworn by warm milk to get him off to sleep. So John decided that a little something to eat and drink would be a distraction from his preoccupation with Miss Hale, and the calming effect of a milky drink might allow tiredness to finally prevail. He slipped from his improvised bed, and as quietly as he could, he donned his trousers and tiptoed behind the taproom’s bar and into the inn kitchen. 

     The kitchen was a cosy affair, and much smaller than he had thought it would be for the size of the building, and having to cater adequately for the customers. But it was warm. John lit a lantern on the scrubbed pine table, and investigated the pantry and facilities. The main feature of the room was a cast iron range which housed several pots and pans. A small rag rug lay before it, which was presently occupied by a scruffy looking hound which merely lifted its head to see who was causing the disturbance then slunk off into the taproom. Above John's head was a rack suspended from the ceiling, which was festooned with various cloths and items of clothing the innkeeper's wife had hung up to dry. A cabinet filled one alcove, and in there John found some tin plates and serving platters, stacks of crockery in various patterns of blue and white, a tray of cutlery, and a variety of tureens, dishes and bowls. In the other recess was a substantial wicker basket filled with logs and kindling, and a lidded terracotta pot of milk. Along the opposing wall was a high backed oak bench and beside it a large rustic pine cupboard, which accommodated a bread crock, a basket of eggs, jars of pickled vegetables and preserves, condiments, and several pots which John assumed to be baking ingredients. 

     The oven needed only gentle coaxing with a couple of logs from the basket for the fire to be substantial enough to set two pans on to heat, one for boiling water and one for warming milk. John made himself quite at home, poking about in the cupboards of this cosy room. He felt relaxed for the first time since Miss Hale had boarded the omnibus, and he pottered about the kitchen, softly whistling the melody of one of Fanny’s piano exercises.

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     Margaret’s stomach grumbled again. She was bitterly regretting not eating her supper, yet she hadn’t been hungry then. Yet now she felt starving. Having had her nap during the late afternoon, and with the wind rattling her window pane, sleep had eluded her. Her thoughts frequently wandered to the gentlemen having to sleep in the barn, and she knew that she was fortunate indeed to have a bedroom. She had one man to thank for that. 

     Margaret swung her legs out of bed and tested her injured ankle by gradually putting her weight upon it. She was relieved to find that it was sturdy enough and she only needed to limp slightly to walk about. She put on her brown coat over her underwear and petticoats, and crept silently down the stairs towards the inn’s kitchen in search of sustenance.

     Margaret could see a chink of light from under the kitchen door. She tilted her head slightly in concentration as she listened, and thought she might have heard the notes of a tune. Nevertheless, she grasped the door handle and slowly opened the door.

     ‘Sorry Jim, I tried to be quiet. Do you want some—’ John stopped mid-sentence as he turned to see, not Jim Ashfield, but Miss Hale standing staring at him from the kitchen doorway. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, for want of anything more coherent to say, and hastily removed the tea towel from over his shoulder where he had flung it while preparing his midnight feast. In his flustered state, he took in Miss Hale’s appearance. He noted that she was wearing the peculiar ensemble of her coat with petticoats showing below and bare feet, though one was plainly bandaged. And her hair was tethered into a somewhat unruly plait, with curls springing loose here and there, and he saw that she had tied a strip of cotton fabric at the bottom to hold the braid together. Her surprising outfit brought John’s thoughts tumbling forwards to his own state of undress and he looked down at himself, in his long sleeved vest unbuttoned at the neck, trousers and socks.

     ‘I’m sorry … I was hungry … and,’ said Margaret, stepping hesitantly further into the room.

     ‘One moment please,’ said John, as he quickly brushed past her, leaving her stranded and dismayed. Then, seconds later he was back, fastening up his quickly retrieved coat. 

     It occurred to John that he should leave Miss Hale to get her supper alone as propriety might dictate, and yet Jim Ashfield’s words, so freshly spoken, that he shouldn’t waste his chance, encouraged him to join her. This moment to talk to Miss Hale – to be with her, was an opportunity not to be squandered, as long as Miss Hale raised no objection to being in his company, of course. 

     ‘Please, come nearer to the range … if you wish,’ he said, drawing the high backed bench up to the rug for her, closer to the heat. ‘I had the same idea you see – for a bite to eat,’ he said, with a tentative smile. 

     Margaret limped forwards and sat in the proffered seat. It was indeed the warmest she had been all evening and she was grateful for it.

     ‘I thought everyone was in the barn,’ said Margaret, as if to justify her late night wandering.

      ‘We were, but Mr Ashfield and I appear to have missed out on the more substantial blankets. The cold brought us to seek shelter here instead. He has managed to sleep but I was restless and decided on some extra supper. I would be honoured if you’d share it with me. It should be ready just about now,’ he said, referring to his pocket watch, retrieved from his trouser pocket.

     ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Again,’ said Margaret, at the precise moment when her stomach rumbled loudly, making her cheeks turn a becoming shade of pink, and him to smirk. 

     ‘Well, I think that settles it. I had nothing elaborate planned – just boiled eggs,’ he said.

     Margaret watched John place two blue and white decorated plates upon the table, each with a soft boiled egg, bread cut into “soldiers”, teaspoons and a salt cellar. She thought back to the last and only previous time they had eaten together. It was at the Thorntons’ annual dinner party, and the difference between that grand affair and this simple meal couldn’t have been more different. And yet, at this moment in time, this comfort food was just what she needed.

     The oak bench was the only seating in the room, so John moved it up to the table and they sat side by side to eat their supper.

     ‘This is very good,’ she smiled at him as she began to eat. ‘I can tell you have done this before,’ she said, as she dipped her bread soldier into the perfectly cooked yolk, and John’s heart swelled at the compliment – if only for his proficiency at boiling eggs!

     ‘My repertoire is severely limited, Miss Hale. Boiled eggs and porridge are about the full sum of my competence in the kitchen.’

     ‘I would think men are generally less accomplished at cooking due to lack of opportunity. Well, Father and … I mean, Father is hopeless in the kitchen. I am impressed you have learnt to cook a little bit, especially when you have so many other responsibilities. Certainly it is a talent that is useful. Imagine … if we were marooned on some desert island, we should do very well for breakfast with your skills at eggs and porridge. Though we would also need a hen,’ she observed, absently waving her teaspoon to emphasise her point.

     John’s little half-smile grew as he perceived her amusement. He couldn’t think of a time when Miss Hale’s conversation was so complimentary or light-hearted. ‘Do you cook at all?' he asked in reply. ‘Perhaps you have some expertise in the kitchen that would help us on our desert island? Something for dinner perhaps?’

     Margaret’s brow furrowed a little. ‘I’m afraid I should be little help. Dixon says I don't have the ability to cut a cake, let alone to bake one. My biscuits are edible I suppose. Oh! I have seen Dixon cook a chicken on many an occasion and it seems to be a simple enough process. You just put it in a roasting pan with a lid and cook it,’ she said with triumph.

     John shook his head slowly and with gravity, ‘Oh no, Miss Hale, that would never do.’

     ‘Why not? Am I wrong? I don’t think that I am,’ she said, turning towards him.

     ‘It’s just that we can’t cook our hen, otherwise we shan’t be able to have eggs for breakfast. Or supper,’ and he gave Margaret his seldom used smile; all bright-white even teeth and twinkly blue eyes.

     Once the meal was finished, John repositioned the bench in front of the range, and Margaret waited there for him to join her, while he turned his attention to the milk he had put on to warm, pouring it into cups and saucers – though had he been alone he would have used one of the large earthenware mugs. Furnished with their drinks, John and Margaret sat in silence for a moment or two, enjoying the extra heat and comfort of the warm milk in their hands. 

     ‘What time do you think we shall get home tomorrow? Father will be worried,’ Margaret said.

     John nodded his head in understanding. He was sure several families would be concerned that their loved ones had not returned. And in his case, his mother didn’t even know where he had gone. He felt foolish now that he had kept his weekly trips from her. He hadn’t wanted to hear her opinion as he knew she wouldn’t understand. But now, it seemed silly that a grown man should have to sneak away, just so that he didn’t have to hear his mother’s sharp words on the subject. ‘I’m not sure. It will depend on how long it takes to remove the damaged omnibus. Does your father know where you were going?’ he asked.

     ‘Of course! I know you don’t think I always act sensibly, but I am not irresponsible enough to travel away without at least telling Father or Dixon where I am going,’ she replied a little indignantly.

     John thought of Ashfield’s advice again – be open and honest with her. Just be yourself. ‘Then you are more sensible than I. I have kept my afternoon trips … private. Of course, now I can see my error of judgement. I didn’t think my mother would understand the benefit of needing … just … time to breathe, I suppose. I walk through the fields if the weather is fit, and along the paths and hedgerows if it isn’t. No one here cares who I am or what I do,’ he said, somewhat wistfully. 

     Margaret looked at Mr Thornton, surprised at his frank admission, ‘I didn’t realise you took trips with such regularity. It’s a wonder that we have never seen each other before,’ she said, thinking of all the missed opportunities there had been to spend time with him, if only on an omnibus journey. Surely if they had seen one another so frequently, they might have come to be on friendly terms again. After all, Margaret thought they were doing very well together tonight.

     ‘And now it seems that I have greater troubles than when I set off,’ John continued.

     ‘How so?’ she asked. 

     John decided to omit the information that he now knew Miss Hale visited a mystery “gentlemen” every week. He didn’t want to break the charm that they were currently under. ‘Because I didn’t tell my mother I was taking the omnibus trip. I suspect she’ll be frantic with worry regarding my whereabouts by now.’

     ‘All will be well when we get back tomorrow,’ said Margaret, mirroring words he had said to her earlier and in doing so, seeking to offer him some solace.

     John twitched a little smile back in return, and Margaret hoped that she was right.

     ‘But I do hope we get back tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I will sound ungrateful I’m sure, especially as I have my own comfortable room, thanks to you, and food and warmth. But I am already missing silly things.’

     ‘What things?’

     ‘Well, clean clothes. And something to do. I never thought I would miss the flat iron or mending, but even those are preferable to doing nothing, and it has only been half a day! And …’ she drew her hand self consciously down her plait, ‘a hair brush. Ridiculous, I know when you don’t even have a bed for the night, and are much more inconvenienced than I am.’

     John put down his cup and saucer, undid a couple of buttons on his coat and reached to the inside pocket, saying, ‘I can’t help with the first two problems, as I have the same ones myself, but here … you can have this if it will be of assistance to you. It’s not a brush, but … ’ and he proffered his tortoiseshell comb.

     Margaret looked from the comb in Mr Thornton’s hand to his face and then his hair. ‘Can you spare it?’

     That half-smile troubled his lips again and crinkled his eyes. ‘Your need is greater than mine. My fingers will do a good enough job. By the morning I’ll look quite wild without the benefit of a razor,’ he said, rubbing his hand over his roughened, whisker-stubbled chin. ‘So uncombed hair will be the least of my worries,’ and he offered the comb again, which she took from him and placed in her own coat pocket.

     ‘I am indebted to you again,’ she said.

     ‘Nonsense. It’s my pleasure,’ he replied, with a tiny shake of his head. And it was.

     John’s eyes wandered down to her feet which were perched on the warm pipe of the stove. ‘You managed to find some bandaging for your ankle. I think that will do it some good,’ he said.

     ‘Oh yes. I had to tear strips from one of my petticoats but I will be able to mend it, and it was only cotton. Oh! I mean … I didn’t mean … that is to say…’

     John smirked again and let her squirm with embarrassment for a moment. ‘No offence taken. I’m glad it was only cotton, as I will be glad to supply you with Marlborough Mills’ finest product to make your repairs.’

     ‘Then I shall be in your debt again. You are making quite a habit of it, Mr Thornton,’ Margaret smiled becomingly, then hid a small yawn behind her hand. John gently took the cup and saucer from her hands. ‘The warm milk is taking its effect.’

     ‘Indeed. I should go,’ she said softly, and they both rose to their feet, knowing that the next time they met, the magic spell of this little private interlude would be broken. They wished each other a goodnight and when Miss Hale had gone, John stacked their used crockery on the table and left some coins next to it as reimbursement for the supper and dirty dishes; he would apologise to the innkeeper’s wife himself in the morning. He extinguished the lamp and crept back to his temporary bed, and he wrapped himself in the thin blanket to preserve what warmth he retained from the heat of the kitchen. 

     John lay quietly, running over in his mind the unplanned yet intimate rendezvous with Miss Hale and their easy conversation. Staring blankly into the darkness, he imagined he could hear little creaks in the floorboards in the room above his head. He guessed that there might only be a few feet between himself and Miss Hale right at that moment, and it gave him a peculiar comfort to know it. The faint sounds of movement from above stopped and he surmised that she was now safely tucked up in bed. But a moment later, he heard soft irregular footsteps coming towards him and he sat up slightly, straining his eyes to see who it was.

     ‘Shhh,’ whispered Margaret, as she placed a thick woollen blanket over him.

     ‘No, this is yours,’ he whispered, objecting to her gift. ‘I would rather you were warm.’

     ‘I am perfectly warm. I have more than enough. Goodnight,’ she said, then slipped away and he heard her footsteps upon the stairs.

     Mr Ashfield’s amused voice came out of the blackness, ‘You’re right, I think, John. She clearly doesn’t like you at all. Not one little bit.’

     John lay back down, and with a speck of hope in his heart, seemingly corroborated by Ashfield’s teasing observation, he was finally able to give in to sleep.

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Chapter Text

Margaret was awakened by the maid drawing back her curtains with unrestrained vigour, not in a dissimilar way to how Dixon might approach the task. 

     ‘Mornin’ Miss, an’ what a mornin’ it is too! White as white can be for as far as the eye can see. Well, I don’t care what they say, I think it’s pretty, don’t you, Miss? Let me fetch your water,’ she said, disappearing from the bedroom again, while Margaret came to terms with what the exuberant maid had said. White? Margaret carefully tested her foot on the floor, and with only a little pain from it, she limped to the window and drew back the heavy lace curtain, and was utterly dismayed to see a covering of snow across the fields and road, just as the maid had said – as far as the eye could see.

     The maid reentered Margaret’s room, prattling away. ‘Such a lot of traipsin’ to and fro with water this mornin’. Mind you, it’s not every day you see so many men ’alf-dressed, though there was only one worth seein’ o’course. Well, you ’ave to look don’t you? I mean, it does no ’arm,’ she said with a theatrical wink at Margaret. ‘A bit pale an’ pasty for my taste but I suppose his body dun’t get to see t’sunshine. Nevertheless, he’s a sight for sore eyes, as my ol’ gran would say.’

     Margaret pretended not to know exactly to whom the maid was referring, and after thanking her for the warm water, she washed and dressed then sat at the small dressing table to do her hair. Using Mr Thornton’s comb to untangle her curls, she fashioned a plain but neat and tidy bun, while her mind strayed from the task at hand, conjuring up pictures of Mr Thornton in his socks, boiling eggs and warming milk.

     In the large communal taproom the tables were placed together again, and all the men were assembled ready for breakfast when Margaret made her entrance. Every one of them looked a bit rumpled, with some sporting darker whisker shadows than others. In fact, only Mr Ashfield looked his usual self as he had no need for a razor every day due to his beard. Margaret returned greetings of good morning, and replied to enquiries for her health, then took her seat at the table beside Mr Ashfield and Mr Braithwaite, and opposite Mr Thornton. Thankfully, the omnibus party had no audience from customers at the inn at this time of the day, and a substantial meal of eggs, black pudding and sausage was served and brought to the table by the little scrap of a girl who had been helping her mother serve them the day before. Conversation flowed amongst the group, with the main topic being the fall of snow and what that might mean for either their onward travel or return to Milton.

     ‘I think we should have a scouting party,’ said Mr Cubbins, who was one of those wishing to return to Milton. ‘See if the damaged omnibus has been cleared so that transportation can get past,’ he suggested, and two men volunteered to walk back down the road after breakfast to make an assessment of the current situation. The five men who had been planning to catch a connecting omnibus to Whitefield and Bury decided, despite the snow, to walk the thirty minute distance to the town. Even if the omnibus to take them over the border into Lancashire wasn’t running, they could at least get more comfortable lodgings for the night. The driver said he would walk home with his horses and would take the conductor, whose condition was much improved, with him.

     Either walking to Prestwich or back to the crash site was impossible for John as he felt the need to accompany Miss Hale, and with her injury she was limited. 

     Mr Ashfield said he would fulfil the aim of his trip, generalising for the benefit of the group that his visit was to a sick relative, and said, ‘Miss Hale, will you be paying your call this morning? Perhaps I could assist you if we are to walk in the same direction, toward Prestwich?’

     ‘I’m not sure, Mr Ashfield. With the snow fall, and my sore ankle, it may be better to stay here until we know if the omnibus will be able to get back to Milton today. Yes, I think I shall stay here,’ she replied.

     John was pleased with Miss Hale’s decision, as if he had been asked his opinion he would have urged her to stay in the warmth and rest. He was also rather glad that she was not prepared to risk all weathers simply to make her visit. 

     An hour after breakfast the men who had gone to inspect the crash site came back with news that the road was still completely blocked, bringing a wave of despondency upon the omnibus party who, after the majority had spent a night in the barn, wanted nothing more than to be on their way. 

     The whole group, except Miss Hale and Mr Thornton as her companion, prepared to walk to Prestwich and either catch their onward omnibus, identify if passage back to Milton would be available, or find more appropriate lodgings. Mr Ashfield volunteered to report back to Miss Hale and Mr Thornton if transportation had been acquired. And so, there followed a flurry of activity; coats and scarves were donned, and thanks and bills were paid to the innkeeper, then the tavern gradually emptied leaving Miss Hale and Mr Thornton behind.

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     Margaret sat on the bed fiddling with the fringing on her shawl then flung it away in agitation, only to draw it back seconds later to pull it around herself to keep out the chill. She was at a loss as to what to do. She was, more than likely, to be stranded here for the best part of the day, but was completely without occupation. She had withdrawn back to her bedchamber once breakfast was finished as the rest of the omnibus partly bustled about making ready for their respective journeys – all except Mr Thornton, who had volunteered to wait with her at the inn.

     If truth be told, Margaret was feeling embarrassed. She and Mr Thornton had had an innocent yet improper meeting in the kitchen last night. She wondered if he felt the same, or worse – regretted their impromptu supper and conversation. Yet she didn’t feel repentant, far from it. Whether it be due to the aftermath of the danger they had been in, tiredness, or the lateness of the hour, Margaret had been treated to the version of Mr Thornton she liked the best – the one where his hard edges were softened somewhat and his guard was down. She had seen snatches of that side to him at Crampton Terrace, during the period when they still conversed in the company of her father, and shared tea and stories, and smiles. And she had wondered, a time or two, if that was the real Mr Thornton. Yet the one thing she did not want to see was remorse upon his face this morning, and so she had hidden herself away and left him to his own devices. But now, as the hour reached noon, she felt foolish sitting here in the cold, mulling over an event that probably hadn’t even crossed his mind this morning. And with that, Margaret steadied her nerves, patted her hair to make sure she was presentable and limped to the door.

     Margaret’s footfall was so gentle that Mr Thornton had not been alerted to her entrance into the common room, and she stopped for a moment to take in the scene. A few customers were at the bar engaged in a forthright discussion with the innkeeper, who nodded his greeting to her, and she gave him a warm smile and nodded back before her eyes were drawn to a peculiar sight. Mr Thornton was seated by one of the fireplaces in a large battered wing-back chair, seemingly in conversation with the young serving girl who stood before him in tears. The little girl’s arms hung limp by her sides, and she was holding what appeared to be a bundle of rags, while he dabbed at her cheeks with an enormous white handkerchief to stem the flow. At first Margaret thought Mr Thornton had upset the girl, but no, from the soothing deep-timbre of his voice, Margaret perceived that he was comforting her. Or at least trying to. Margaret approached the pair, and catching sight of her in his peripheral vision, Mr Thornton moved to stand but she halted him.

     ‘No need to stand,’ she said gently, drawing the attention of the distressed little girl. Margaret thought she looked perhaps six or seven years old and was very miserable indeed. ‘Whatever has happened?’ she asked, prompting the little girl’s face to screw up again and a fresh batch of tears to pour.

     ‘This is Miss Ada, Miss Hale. Unfortunately her doll appears to have met a most regrettable fate at the hands, or should I say jaws, of the accused,’ he said solemnly with a nod to the scraggly looking hound lying in front of the opposing fireplace. ‘Exhibit A,’ he said, picking up a severely mauled rag doll from the child’s hand to show Miss Hale.

     ‘Oh dear,’ said Margaret with sympathy. ‘May I?’ she asked, extending her hand to take the doll from Mr Thornton to examine it. 

     ‘Can it be mended, do you think?’ Mr Thornton asked hopefully. Margaret looked from Mr Thornton to little Ada and back. She felt that the poor doll was beyond any hope of repair, but didn’t want to cause the little girl any further distress.

     ‘Perhaps we can make a new one? Or at least make a very good start,’ she said, attracting the attention of Ada, whose tear streaked face looked up beseechingly at her. ‘I could sew or knit or crochet one if you had some wool, or material. Old clothes, perhaps,’ she said, immediately regretting her words as what the girl was wearing was exceedingly shabby as it was. ‘And, of course, if your mother doesn’t mind my interference?’

     ‘Oh no, Miss,’ said Ada, ‘me ma won’t mind. I’ll ask,’ she said, and darted away, disappearing into the kitchen.

     Mr Thornton and Margaret watched Ada vanish behind the bar, then Margaret took the vacant seat opposite him, instantly glad that she had come downstairs, and not only for the warmth. But now, it seemed that she had conjured up an occupation for the afternoon which was most welcome, and had rescued Mr Thornton from an awkward encounter, though he had been managing tolerably well.

     Mr Thornton cleared his throat, and began, ‘How is your ankle? I thought perhaps it had been bothering you, with you having to rest it this morning. I had been thinking that I should’ve asked Ashfield if he could find a doctor in Prestwich. I can go this afternoon. Do you think that’s best?’ he asked.

     Margaret felt ashamed at having spent the morning in her room and thereby causing Mr Thornton to worry about her. ‘Thank you, but no. I don’t need a doctor I’m sure. It is swollen and bruised, but no more so. And I think the pain has eased somewhat since yesterday,’ she said, eliciting a relieved nod from Mr Thornton. 

     Ada bounced back into the room carrying a cloth bag, upset over her rag doll diminished at the prospect of a new one, and one made especially for her by the pretty lady. ‘Ma says we can ’ave this wool and shepherd’s hook, an’ she’ll look for some scraps o’ cloth,’ she said enthusiastically, before her expression changed to one of glum resignation. ‘But I ’ave to do my work,’ she said, kicking her worn clog against Mr Thornton’s chair leg.

     ‘I shall manage, don’t worry,’ said Margaret. ‘Besides, I have Mr Thornton to help me.’

     And so, Margaret and Mr Thornton sifted through the remnants of balls of wool, until Margaret was satisfied that she would have enough off-white coloured yarn for the head and limbs of the doll, and some black for her boots and her hair. Ada’s mother could also spare half a yard of striped ticking, which Margaret declared would be perfect for the rag doll's body and dress.

     Margaret sat comfortably by the fireplace, her injured ankle elevated on a stool at Mr Thornton’s insistence, feeling quite content now that she had a purpose, and she began to crochet the doll’s head. She glanced from her work to Mr Thornton who was inspecting the coarse striped ticking, running his hand over it contemplatively, and Margaret wondered what reflection or remembrance might have caused him to be so preoccupied.

     Margaret spoke quietly to him. ‘You look deep in thought. Can a little swatch of fabric have such an effect?’ she teased.

     ‘It takes me back, that’s all. You may remember I once mentioned working as a draper’s assistant. After my father … died. I must have cut hundreds of yards of this material.’ He looked up at Margaret with a faint smile. ‘And I used to bring home scraps for Fanny’s doll too. Mother would help her to fashion little garments.’

     ‘Happy memories,’ Margaret commented, but as John considered her words, his smile faded.

     ‘No. Not happy times. Not really. But, I suppose looking back one can feel … nostalgic.’

     ‘Of course, I’m sorry. How stupid of me,’ said Margaret.

     ‘Nonsense,’ John replied, shaking off his low spirits. ‘May I observe the crochet technique?’ he asked. ‘Mother knits and both Fanny and Mother sew and embroider, but I’ve never seen crochet being worked.’

     ‘Of course,’ replied Margaret, and she watched him move his big chair next to hers so that he could see her fingers working with the hook and the yarn. ‘Nanny at Harley Street used to crochet and she taught me how. I can’t say I've done it very often, but I’ve recently made a very fine soldier doll, even though I say so myself. I made it for my cousin Edith’s little boy, as his papa is in the military. I dare say that the principle will be the same for this little doll.’ And so the two of them sat quietly and contentedly for an hour or so, relaxed in one another’s company while the chatter continued at the bar, and Mr Thornton occasionally fed the fire with logs of wood which crackled before them.

     Margaret was aware that Mr Thornton had been observing her work with diligence, and she glanced at him speculatively, ‘Would you like to try?’ She had finished the ball that would be the head and had completed one black-booted leg. She held out the yarn and hook towards him. 

     John had been keenly attentive, though being in such close proximity to Miss Hale was a distraction. And although he would not have voiced his wishes, he was quite desperate to have a go. He tempered his enthusiasm but accepted Miss Hale’s offer. 

     Margaret leaned closer to Mr Thornton as she showed him how to hold the thread by placing it around the fingers of his left hand and positioned the hook correctly in his right. 

     ‘First we start with a magic ring. This is the fiddliest bit so I can start it off if you like?’

     ‘No, show me. Please,’ he said, and so she did. She wound the yarn around her hand and wove the crochet hook in and out then removed her fingers to reveal a circle that could be pulled tight. Margaret undid the loop so that Mr Thornton could do it himself. She gave him instructions and he followed them. His big hands and long fingers were surprisingly nimble, and Margaret looked up to compliment him and she noticed the pink tip of his tongue between his lips as he concentrated.

     John quickly mastered the double crochet stitch, and so Margaret explained how to increase the length of a row. She found herself fussing with the wool and shepherd’s hook in his hands despite him doing extremely well for a beginner. Yet, she couldn’t help herself. She was quite surprised that he didn't ask her to leave off with her meddling, but he voiced no objections to her help.

     Margaret forced herself to direct her attention to making the doll’s body, but her eyes frequently wandered to Mr Thornton, with his graceful hands and his whiskered jaw, and black eyelashes fanning his cheeks.

     ‘Yarn over,’ he muttered to himself.

     ‘You have a talent for it, Mr Thornton,’ said Margaret warmly, and she received a guileless smile in return.

     ‘I suppose I’m used to handling thread, though not like this. Threading the machines. I like to see how things work. Always have.’

     ‘I didn’t realise you worked on the looms too,’ said Margaret with surprise.

     ‘No, not really. I couldn’t call myself a weaver – my workers are highly skilled and good at their jobs. It takes years to gain their proficiency. But I like to know what each job entails so that I can better understand their needs and issues.’

     Miss Hale and Mr Thornton had caught the attention of the drinkers at the bar, who nudged one another nodding towards the pair engrossed in their work, and sniggered at the sight. But it wasn’t meant with cruelty. They merely jested on the lengths a man might go to to attract his mate.

     Ada had been impatient to go back to the two guests who were making her doll, and the cheeky comments about Mr Thornton doing women's work finally allowed her back into the bar area, as her mother wanted to take a look at what the customers were gawping at. Ada was annoyed that they were making fun of Mr Thornton as he had been kind to her, so she stole away from her mother and came to stand in front of Miss Hale and Mr Thornton. 

     Margaret smiled kindly at the little girl watching them work. ‘Mr Thornton has promised me a length of the best white cotton from his mill to repair my clothes where I have used the material for bandages,’ Margaret said to Ada. ‘I’m sure there will be some left to make a fine dress for this little doll.’

     ‘A white dress,’ said Ada with wonder. ‘A wedding dress! With a bonnet?’

     ‘If you like,’ Margaret laughed. ‘I could post it to you.’

     ‘Have you got any little girls?’ Ada asked Mr Thornton.

     John’s fingers stilled and he looked at Ada in surprise. ‘No, I’m not married,’ he said simply.

     ‘I think I’d like t’ marry you,’ said Ada. ‘Will you marry me one day?’

     A laugh bubbled up in John’s chest but he quelled it just in time. The child was very young, yet he wouldn’t hurt her feelings. He knew how sharply that could sting. ‘A gentleman doesn’t usually ask a lady her age,’ he said seriously, ‘but on this occasion, I wonder if you might tell me. How old are you, Miss Ada?’

     ‘Six.’

     ‘Hmm, six. A fine age indeed. However, I am over thirty, so by the time you reach a reasonable age to marry, say nineteen or twenty, I shall be about forty-five,’ he sighed. ‘I am sorry Miss Ada, but I’m too old,’ and he reached out to gently touch the girl’s cheek. ‘But I’m so very pleased to have received your offer. I’ve never been asked for my hand before, and I am honoured.’

     Ada’s initial disappointment was superseded by her curiosity as to why a handsome, kind and rich man, who could make dolls, had no wife. ‘Why are y’ not married?’

     John realised the conversation was drifting dangerously astray. ‘I have never been fortunate enough,’ he said carefully.

     Ada’s interest was not satisfied. ‘Have y’ never asked a lady?’

     John cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. He knew he couldn’t lie, not when he had an audience who knew better. ‘Once.’

     ‘But why didn’t she say yes?’

     ‘Let’s just say that my feelings and the lady’s were not the same. So it was quite right that she refused me.’

     Ada turned her attention to Margaret. ‘You aren’t married are y’, Miss Hale? ’cos if y’ were, you’d be Mrs Hale.’

     ‘That’s correct. I’m not,’ said Margaret, who had gone a shade paler.

     ‘Have you ever been asked?’

     ‘Well, yes,’ Margaret managed to croak.

     ‘How many times?’ said Ada eagerly, and she sat down cross-legged on the flagstoned floor in front of Miss Hale, intently waiting for the thrilling details. The shaggy dog padded over and lay next to Ada with his head resting on her lap, and Ada idly stroked him, his misdemeanour with the poor rag doll now forgiven and forgotten.

     ‘Twice,’ said Margaret, with as much composure as she could muster, even though she noted Mr Thornton’s interest in her reply.

     ‘Twice,’ repeated Ada dreamily. ‘What happened?’

     ‘I really don’t think—’

     ‘Oh please,’ begged Ada.

     Margaret swallowed. ‘Well, the first time was my cousin’s husband’s brother.’ She hesitated as she could see Ada trying to work out the complicated relationship. ‘We’ll just call him Henry. Henry’s proposal was simply … what was expected of him I think. He is nice, but I could never have married him. He’s a family friend, that’s all.’

     ‘Is Henry handsome?’

     ‘Quite handsome, I suppose, but there is more to marriage than marrying someone because—’

     ‘What about the second one?’ interrupted Ada, leaning forwards. John also found himself drawn imperceptibly nearer as he was enthralled to hear Miss Hale’s explanation.

     ‘The second time was … was …’

     ‘Yes?’ said Ada, as she and Mr Thornton hung upon her every word.

     ‘It was …’

     ‘Yes?’

     ‘At the wrong time.’

     ‘At the wrong time?’ said Ada, and both she and Mr Thornton sat back, creases on both of their foreheads.

     ‘Now then, this dolly won’t crochet herself. Mr Thornton, will you continue please, while I show Miss Ada the dress I would like her to start sewing,’ said Margaret briskly.

     She put two pieces of cotton ticking on the stool where her foot had been resting and showed Ada how to sew around the edges to make a simple shift dress for the doll. And so Ada’s mind was distracted from the conversation, but Mr Thornton’s buzzed almost audibly with the possible connotations from those four words “at the wrong time”. Not because she didn’t like him. Not because she loved another. Not because it was completely out of the question. Was there hope? Was there a right time? And this other proposal had happened first, and this “Henry” had also been rejected. Her description of him being “nice” and a “family friend” didn’t fit with the farewell he had witnessed between Margaret and the stranger at Outwood station. John’s spirits dipped again. That phantom still existed. John wondered if his proposal had come at the wrong time as she had just fallen in love with the man at Outwood. And yet … she had said there was an explanation – a secret. And Ashfield had his “black sheep” theory. All things considered, the conversation elicited by Ada had been most intriguing, if a little uncomfortable for both adults.

     The afternoon pastime was interrupted by a swirl of icy air as the inn door opened and three omnibus passengers who had gone in search of transportation back to Milton trooped back in, looking cold and downhearted. Ashfield was one of the group, and instead of going to the bar with the others he came to Margaret and John by the fire, noticing the cosy situation in which he found his new friends.

     ‘Miss Hale, John,’ he said, nodding his greeting. ‘I’m afraid there will be no omnibus back to Milton today.’

     ‘Oh no!’ said Margaret.

     ‘There’s no room to be had at Prestwich either. Everywhere is full with travellers who had been destined for Milton but had to alight there while the road is still blocked. So … we are stuck here another night,’ he said, as he unwound the scarf from his neck and unbuttoned his coat. ‘The others got their connecting omnibus though, so there are just the five of us left. I volunteered us for the taproom again, John. So Mr Cubbins, Mr Braithwaite and Miss Hale can have the bedrooms. Does that suit?’

     ‘Of course. What of the road to Milton? Is there any news on when it may be passable again?’ John asked.

     ‘Tomorrow afternoon. The snow looks to be melting already so that shouldn’t be a problem. New wheels have been requisitioned from Wigan which should arrive in the morning, so the omnibus we were on will be on its way for repair come early afternoon. We must be in Prestwich town square at two o’clock to catch the first carriage back to Milton,’ he said, glad to be able to impart at least some good news .

     ‘Tomorrow,’ repeated Margaret, sounding rather deflated. ‘Do you know if word has reached Milton about the crash and that everyone who was on board is well?’

     ‘I believe the omnibus operator has telegraphed Milton with the news, but of course, information will not have gone to individual families.’

     ‘Of course,’ said Margaret, and Mr Ashfield excused himself to ensure an order was placed for meals for their party, and accommodation secured.

     Ada was called away to help her mother in the kitchen, so she rose quickly to do as she was bidden. But as she passed Mr Thornton she stopped and touched the doll’s arm which was currently under construction in his hands, and glanced over to her father behind the bar, laughing with his customers. She loved her father dearly, but he would no more help her make a doll than sprout wings and fly to the moon. Ada thought there was something very special about Mr Thornton. ‘I think you’d be a very good papa,’ she whispered to him.

     John’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. ‘Why, because I can make dolls?’

     ‘No,’ replied Ada, earnestly, ‘because you will. You do.’

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     The evening meal was a similar affair to the previous night, though with only five of them dining they were less of a spectacle for the inn’s usual patrons. The dinner of roast pork with apple sauce was willingly received by the omnibus party, and the abundant fayre went some small way to lifting their spirits. Relaxed in each other’s company and replete after their meal, the group broke up into two huddles with Mr Braithwaite, Mr Ashfield and Mr Cubbins enjoying cigars and downing a few more brandies before they retired for the night. Although it was a relief that no one needed to sleep in the barn tonight, it was still most inconvenient to spend another night away from home, but at least it was their last one. 

     Margaret sat by the fireplace adding finishing touches to Ada’s rag doll, while Mr Thornton sat across from her in companionable silence, and appeared to be reading the newspaper that Mr Braithwaite had brought back from his walk to Prestwich.

     Mr Ashfield came over to where the two of them were seated, saying, ‘As we must be in Prestwich for the omnibus, I will visit my relative again tomorrow. I wondered if you would like to come with me so that you can pay the visit you had intended,’ he asked Miss Hale, noting how she suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘And, John, I think it best if you come along with us too. Miss Hale will benefit from two escorts with her injured ankle, and I dare say you will be company for each other if I am longer with Ellen than you are with your friend, Miss Hale.’

     It finally dawned on John where Miss Hale paid her call. ‘You visit the asylum?’ he said with a wistful kind of surprise.

     ‘Yes,’ said Margaret, a little flustered. ‘But Mr Ashfield, I don’t stay long, only a few minutes. But I don’t have to go.’

     ‘You really may as well,’ Ashfield urged. ‘After all, you have been through so much just to get here. It would be a shame for it to be in vain.’

     ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ replied Margaret, rather unwillingly.

     ‘Good! That's settled then,’ he beamed, quite happy with himself that he had helped to partially remove one impediment that stood between John and Miss Hale. After all, it was his fault that John had been alerted to Miss Hale’s “gentleman” in the first place. But Ashfield’s pleasure was tempered somewhat, as he was concerned about an aspect of the discussion he had had with John the previous evening, and was anxious to have a private conversation with him when everyone had retired.

     By Ada’s bedtime the doll was almost finished, and Margaret promised to have sewn on the hair and features for when Ada got up the next day. She showed her where she would leave the finished doll on the mantelpiece, well away from the naughty dog’s reach. Margaret withdrew shortly after, leaving the men to their talk, grateful again that at least she had a room to retreat to, and she supposed she would sleep better this evening, and would not be attracted to the warmth of the kitchen in the middle of the night. But Mr Ashfield’s enquiry regarding her planned trip to the asylum had disturbed the butterflies in her stomach, and she wondered if Mr Thornton was pleased or not, now that her destination, if not whom she visited, had been revealed. 

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     John and Mr Ashfield, settled down on their makeshift beds in the taproom once everyone else had gone to bed. They had more blankets tonight, and with the heat from the fire they were both considerably more comfortable than the previous night. It was the first time they had been alone together all day, and Jim Ashfield’s opportunity to speak confidentially with John was finally here. He had been troubled all day about something they had discussed the evening before and it weighed heavily upon him that he might lose this man’s friendship before it had barely begun. John, on the other hand, was gripped by a different mental turmoil. There was so much he had learnt today, and yet it raised even more questions. In his distraction he barely registered the unease of his companion.

     ‘I think I should tell you something,’ Ashfield said. ‘I feel it’s only right as it might make you reconsider your association with me.’

     ‘Oh? In what way?’ asked John, surprised at the earnestness of Ashfield’s address. Surely there were no more revelations to be had today. 

     ‘Well, thinking about the business you told me regarding your father and his gambling, and the effect it had on your family...’

     ‘Yes?’

     ‘Well, I probably should tell you that I have invested in a speculation quite recently. I suspect you have an aversion to such measures bearing in mind your past, and, well, I thought it only fair to mention it to you, in case you felt unable to associate with men participating in that kind of venture. The scheme is being orchestrated by another mill proprietor called Mr Watson. Perhaps you know him?’ 

     John gave a brusque laugh, quite relieved that Ashfield’s concern was regarding something so trifling. ‘I’ve heard of that venture. Watson is my brother in law. He’s asked me to participate on more than one occasion. But it’s not for me.’

     ‘Oh yes, I understand that. To be honest I’m not sure why I did it. I suppose I was trying to build acquaintances, though that strategy doesn’t seem to have worked so far. I find Milton gentlemen to be somewhat standoffish.’

     ‘It’s an expensive way to get to know people. I find being involved in a transportation disaster has the same effect but involves very little expenditure,’ John said with a rueful grin.

     ‘Ha yes! It’s a shame I didn’t think of that before!’ said Jim, pleased that John didn’t seem concerned about the speculation.

     ‘I shan’t hold it against you. My opinions are my own and I don’t expect others to live by the rules I impose on myself. If I had had plenty of spare capital, who's to say that I might not have been tempted. But my money’s tied up in machinery, or in wages for my workers.’

     ‘Our situations are different, indeed,’ agreed Ashfield. ‘What am I to spend my money on? I have no family to keep, and never shall. I have no need for a grand house, carriages and the like. I have comfortable apartments above my workplace that do very well. My income is more than I need, so I thought “why not?”. Of course if the scheme succeeds, I shall have even more money that I don’t need.’

     John smiled, ‘Well, should you ever think of putting your excess into cotton manufacturing, I know of a fine mill which would welcome your capital investment. The master is known for his foul temper, but his cotton is first rate,’ he said with a smirk.

     ‘Then I hope I shall succeed,’ said Ashfield, happily.    

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Chapter Text

John sat by the stove, stirring a small pot of soup left by the innkeeper’s wife for his midnight feast. He had paid her for the food he and Miss Hale had consumed the previous night, though he hadn’t divulged the identity of his companion. He supposed that the innkeeper’s wife assumed the nighttime snack had been for himself and Ashfield. Nevertheless, he was touched by her thoughtfulness in reserving the extra supper for him again this evening. 

     John knew, of course, that he was being ridiculous; Miss Hale was not likely to appear again tonight, but he couldn’t help himself. Much like his insistence at trying to catch a glimpse of her when he passed Crampton Terrace on the omnibus, simply because he had seen her on one occasion, he hoped that lightning might strike twice, and she might venture down to the kitchen again.

     John felt certain that this was his last chance to have her to himself, most likely for the rest of his life, and he wanted to treasure every last second of this stolen time. He could only hope that she would come. And so he sat there in the same clothes as the night before – trousers, socks, and buttoned up coat – warming the soup. But as the time ticked by, his optimism dwindled. He checked his watch again and yawned, and decided to wait five more minutes, then he would have his portion of soup and go back to bed in the taproom where Ashfield was gently snoring.

     The words Miss Hale had spoken that afternoon were emblazoned on his memory; his proposal had been “at the wrong time”. Did she mean that there would have been a right time? And if so, was that still the case? Or was he reading too much into her explanation, and that it didn’t relate to him at all. Or, perhaps she had simply been trying to be vague instead of explaining herself to a six year old girl. More questions popped into John’s head as he contemplated the next day; in the morning he would accompany Miss Hale to the asylum to visit her “gentleman”. Who could it possibly be? A patient? A member of staff? The doctor, perhaps? John could make head nor tail of it, but he knew that things were likely to become clear soon. 

     Amongst the mysterious secrets and intrigue whirling in his mind, his own transgressions were also brought to the fore. It preyed upon his conscience that he had broken an unspoken confidence between himself and Miss Hale by telling Ashfield of his unsuccessful proposal attempt, and more than that, he had told him of seeing her out at dusk in an embrace with a stranger. He was mortified at his loose tongue and had decided that if the opportunity arose he would inform her and apologise. 

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     Despite the good meal and relaxing evening, Margaret had found sleep elusive again. She couldn’t help but wonder if Mr Thornton was restless again too. And if he was, what would he think of her if she visited him, a single man on his own, in the kitchen again? After all, last night was by chance. To go again would be intentional. He would perhaps construe that his low opinion of her, from when he had spied her at Outwood Station, was correct. If only she could tell him about Fred – but she dared not. And then there was the other secret, the reason she was here in the first place. It was a burden she carried primarily for Nicholas Higgins. Another secret for another man. Another reason for Mr Thornton to think badly of her.

     She thought back to their conversation with Ada earlier that day about his proposal. Had she been clear enough? Would he realise that a further declaration from him would be welcome? Mr Thornton had been solicitous towards her during this highly unusual time away together, but were his actions just those of an acquaintance, or of one who cared for the other? Whether he did still harbour an affection for her or not, with two secrets now lodged between them, Margaret didn’t know how on earth she could make him understand, without breaking confidences, that her farewell to Fred and her visit to Prestwich asylum were not what he thought. She resolved to discuss Fred with her father when she got home. Now that he was safe in Spain, she felt it likely that her father might allow Mr Thornton to be informed, especially if she told him that Mr Thornton had seen her with Fred at Outwood Station – another secret! And what would Nicholas say if she told Mr Thornton why she was here? He couldn’t have known that his request of a favour would have led to any suggestion of impropriety. She didn’t think that Nicholas would object to Mr Thornton knowing the secret she maintained for him, but she had promised …

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     ‘Hello,’ whispered Margaret from the doorway, and John whipped around to see her there, illuminated by the golden light from the lantern on the kitchen table. The little bit of magic that had existed between them last night was rekindled, and John felt an inner glow from the familiarity that sparked between them during these forbidden encounters.

     ‘I hoped you’d come. Come quickly to the stove to keep warm. Look! We have soup tonight,’ he whispered back. They were unlikely to wake anyone, not even Ashfield, with the door closed, but their softly spoken words seemed to intensify the intimacy of their late night meeting.

     Margaret sat next to Mr Thornton as she had the night before and rested her feet on the warm pipe of the oven. She watched him pour the soup into two earthenware mugs set out especially for their use by the innkeeper's wife, and Margaret took one from him, letting it warm her hands before taking a sip.

     ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said Margaret.

     ‘Nor could I. One would think that being away from home and the mill would give my mind some respite, but I find it’s even busier than usual.’

     They sat cradling their mugs of soup for a moment or two, while John’s words hung heavily in the atmosphere between them.

     John cleared his throat. ‘I must tell you that I owe you a sincere apology. I’m afraid that I have behaved quite ungentlemanly, and have spoken to Mr Ashfield about our previous … association. I had no business in sharing details which might bring you embarrassment and I know that I shouldn’t have. There can be no excuse, but he had shared a very personal and tragic story with me and in the meandering of the conversation, it just … happened. It’s quite peculiar to speak “man-to-man” about one’s feelings. You see, I have never had that experience before. Hearing another man’s perspective brings a certain clarity. I don’t want you to think I go around discussing private matters with all and sundry. I assure you that only my mother, and now Ashfield, know what transpired between us. And – forgive me – I told him how upsetting it had been to see you that evening at Outwood Station—’ he hesitated his rushed speech as Margaret gently touched his coat sleeve, and he saw that she wore a gentle expression. He was forgiven.

     ‘I think it is good to have someone to talk to,’ said Margaret, evenly. ‘A friend. I’m sure Mr Ashfield benefitted from his conversation with you too. I have missed that connection so much since Bessy died. And with being so far away from Edith, it sometimes feels like I have no one to turn to. Father has his own concerns and I try to shield him from further upset. Friendship is a gift.’

     ‘I’m sorry. I wish I had been a better friend to you and Mr Hale, and I am truly sorry for speaking to Ashfield about you,’ John replied, thinking that if circumstances had been different, he would have loved to be the one to lavish upon her that gift of friendship.

     Margaret thought it possible that Mr Ashfield might hear about her farewell to a mystery man from any number of people; she had no idea whether she was being gossiped about or not. In fact, she was more interested in the actuality that Mr Thornton had been upset at seeing her with Fred, rather than simply concerned for the damage to her reputation. His affection for her must have been extinguished after that event, or perhaps because of it.

     ‘I like Mr Ashfield,’ Margaret ventured. ‘I had imagined, due to his visits to the asylum, that he has a tragedy to bear. I gather he attends in an official capacity, but he has mentioned a family member, and sometimes I’ve seen him taking flowers. Nevertheless, he maintains his optimism. I think we can all learn from that.’

     John gave a rueful laugh. ‘That is very true. The man’s cheerful disposition and ability to look on the bright side knows no bounds. He has concocted a story about your acquaintance that evening at Outwood Station being the family “black sheep”,’ he said, then could have kicked himself for bringing up that terrible episode again. He turned to Margaret to start to apologise once more, only to find her staring at him with what could only be described as a flabbergasted expression. 

     ‘Then he is uncommonly astute as well as cheerful,’ said Margaret, stunned.

     That Ashfield had apparently been right was astounding. John was completely nonplussed and searched for something to say, but in his incredulity, all he could manage was, ‘I wish I’d known,’ the words full of hurt and dismay.

     ‘It was – is – a secret. And I had been dreadfully unkind to you. No, I had,’ she said firmly at John’s shake of his head. ‘Why, your refusal to a six year old girl earlier today was a hundred times more fitting than those thoughtless and callous words I spoke to you. My only excuse is that I was terribly worried about my mother and Bessy. They were both so very ill. And after the riot, I had heard Fanny and one of your maids suggesting that I was trying to catch you. But, I hadn’t been, at least not consciously so. So, your proposal was unexpected and I was awfully cruel. Then, when you saw me that night, at Outwood, I knew what it looked like – what you must be thinking – but it was a secret and I couldn’t tell you,’ she implored, reaching to hold his hand. ‘I didn’t know if you would help me, until you did, even though you didn’t care for me anymore. And I am more grateful than you will ever know. If it's any consolation, I have resolved to ask my father if I could tell you what I was sworn to keep private.’

     John looked down at their hands, his large hand gripped staunchly by hers. ‘I lied to you,’ he said sadly, knowing that his own confession would cause her to remove her hand from his, but he couldn’t allow her to go on thinking that he didn’t love her anymore. ‘I was jealous. I’m not proud of it – of what I said and my behaviour towards you. But there it is. I suppose I was trying to pretend that I was unmoved by your affections being engaged elsewhere. But,’ he sighed deeply, ‘it was a lie. I would take it back if I could.’ And yet, instead of causing Miss Hale to remove her hand from his, John’s admission appeared to prompt her to squeeze his hand a little tighter. Emboldened by Miss Hale’s actions, John said, ‘If you are in need of a friend, then I offer myself to you. Whether that be someone to talk to, or to accompany you on your trips out to Prestwich … or anything. Anything at all.’

      Margaret was smiling now at this generous man whom she had once thought to be beneath her, and not only that, but that he was a tyrant. On the day when he had proposed to her, he had suggested that she didn’t know him, and that had been true. But she had learnt about the man that he was, and about his industry and unions and strikes. She had learnt about her own feelings too. She couldn’t think of a single soul who she would rather have as her companion.

     ‘You told me that you enjoy the solitude of your walks here. That being the case, then wouldn’t accompanying me spoil the purpose of your visit?’

     Hope sparked in John’s heart. ‘I could still have my walk while you visit your friend,’ he said expectantly.

     Margaret held Mr Thornton’s hand a little firmer still. She thought it was a testament to his character that he hadn’t asked her who she was visiting, even though he must be curious. So far, she had not needed to tell him that she carried yet another man’s secret, but she was so tired of the burden. She was weighed down with the unfairness of having to bear the responsibility that others, sometimes quite casually, felt she could endure. 

     She wanted – needed – Mr Thornton’s support and felt her eyes swim and chin tremble as he entwined his fingers with hers. She dreaded his reaction to her telling him, once again, that she couldn’t divulge the truth, but tell him she must.

     ‘He isn’t my friend,’ she said, so quietly that John had to strain to hear her. ‘But I assured Nicholas that I wouldn’t tell.’

     ‘Nicholas? Nicholas Higgins?’ he asked gently.

     Margaret nodded, her eyes fixed upon their joined hands. 

     ‘Nicholas Higgins has asked you to keep it secret? About the man at Prestwich asylum?’ John clarified.

     ‘That’s right. But … I was thinking that if you were to guess, just like Mr Ashfield chanced upon the connection between me and the gentleman at Outwood, then I wouldn’t have broken a promise.’

     John’s surprise that Nicholas Higgins played some part in the intrigue was evident. He wasn’t sure he’d be any good at guessing games. However, he would try his best, for both of their sakes. ‘Then let me think about what I know and see if I can piece together a conclusion,’ he said. ‘From what I gathered from the regular omnibus passengers, and yourself, I know that you visit Prestwich regularly. And, from Mr Ashfield’s conversation yesterday evening, it became apparent that the person you visit is in Prestwich asylum.’ John ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair. He didn’t feel any closer to the truth. ‘And Nicholas Higgins has asked you not to say who it is that you visit. So, that means it’s not a family member of yours who resides there, but an associate or family member of Higgins.’ John closed his eyes in concentration, searching for any other information he had gleaned. His eyes snapped open at a remembrance. ‘Children’s drawings! Clothes and children’s drawings fell from your basket during the crash!’

     Margaret’s expression urged him on.

     ‘Higgins looks after another man’s children. Boucher! But he died, didn’t he? That’s why Higgins has his children.’

     Margaret clutched John’s hand even tighter still.

     John frowned. ‘He didn’t die? He’s in the asylum? Tell me, is it Boucher that you visit?’

     Margaret wanted to fling herself into Mr Thornton’s embrace. She was so relieved to be loosened from the unwanted bounds of secrecy. Instead she said, ‘It is. After the riot, no – earlier than that, during the strike, he was so worried about his wife and children starving that he was driven quite mad. Then he was blamed for casting the stone which struck me and, in effect, caused the strike to fail. I understand he was ostracised by his previous friends and colleagues, and his fragile mind couldn’t bear it and he became insensible.’

     ‘But why the secrecy about it? Why say that he was dead when he wasn’t?’ John asked.

     ‘Mrs Boucher was gravely ill at the time, and the shame of her husband’s madness was severely distressing in addition to her illness. So when he was taken by the authorities to the asylum, Mrs Boucher told Higgins to tell everyone, including the children, that he was dead to avoid further shame. Those poor children. Nicholas agreed to do it not knowing she was on her deathbed, but once she was also gone, he couldn’t see a way out of the lie. He came to visit Father and I at Crampton Terrace, and he confided in us. It was agreed that I should be the link between the children and Mr Boucher, by taking drawings they have done and speaking to him about them, to try to bring him some cheer. Though what good it does, I just don’t know.’

     ‘Excuse my insensitivity, but surely it's better for the children to know their father lives. And who is there to know the burden of shame. The children are very young, are they not?’

     Margaret nodded, head bowed in her misery.

     ‘And your father is party to this secret, yet isn’t involved in the visits?’ he asked, maintaining his outward gentle exterior and soothing tone despite his growing annoyance with Mr Hale.

     Margaret nodded again.

    ‘And the man from Outwood? Your father is also involved with this man and his secret?’

     ‘Yes,’ said Margaret in a small voice.

     ‘And what of the clothes that were in your basket? Are they Boucher’s?’

     ‘Oh, no! One time, when I was taking my leave from the asylum, I offered to take a piece of Mr Boucher’s clothing, a shirt, home to mend. Then I was asked if I would take other items to sew as a charitable act. Some people have no visitors at all to help, and the staff are so busy.’

     John now had his face in his free hand. ‘Oh, Margaret,’ he sighed, then gave her such a look of love that Margaret’s breath was taken away. ‘You hold men’s secrets, to your detriment. You take on mending for people you don’t know, yet I'm well aware that you already have to carry out household duties. You even visit a man who injured you. Nay! Tried to kill me, and could have killed you! You are so very good,’ he said, bringing his fingers to touch the delicate softness of her cheek. ‘But I am cross that people take advantage of your kind nature. Would that I could protect you. I will speak to your father about my concerns. Perhaps he has been so preoccupied with his grief that he doesn’t realise the weight of the secrets you have been encumbered with. I will speak to Higgins too—’

     ‘Oh, don’t be angry with Nicholas. He is a good man, and, probably just like me, he did what he thought was best at the time.’

     ‘That’s as maybe, but the time has come to take stock of the situation.’

     ‘I do want to visit Mr Boucher. Perhaps not as frequently, but I couldn’t bear the thought that he was all alone. And the mending isn’t so bad. I could perhaps ask for a little less,’ she conceded. She felt so much better now that Mr Thornton knew almost everything and appeared to take it in his stride.

     ‘And would you accept my company on your trips out to Prestwich? It would seem silly to both go independently, when we know the other is going,’ he said with a lightly teasing tone.

     ‘I would like that. Very much … but—’

     ‘But?’

     ‘Meeting that way would signify an attachment. Would it not?’ Margaret said hesitantly.

     John looked back at their hands again, their fingers still entwined, and he searched for the right words which might make her accept him. He couldn’t get it wrong a second time, and he desperately tried to think of what to say.

     Margaret knew at that moment that he didn't dare ask, and that it was her fault. His countless acts of kindness had demonstrated that he still cared for her, and yet voicing his affection and exposing his soul to her again was difficult for him. She had made his heart too fragile to risk another blow, so she leant towards him, ‘John?’

     John looked up in surprise at her use of his Christian name.

‘I have one more secret, though this one is my own, so I am at liberty to tell you if you would hear it,’ she said, staring into his clear blue eyes, while hers were still sparkly from unshed tears.

     ‘You can tell me anything,’ he replied huskily.

     Margaret swallowed, overcome with a sudden nervousness. ‘Goodness, this is harder to do than I had thought. It’s quite terrifying.’

     John frowned in his lack of understanding, though kept his eyes fixed doggedly on hers. ‘Sometimes it’s better just to say it if you have something difficult to impart,’ he said softly, though trepidation had now settled in his stomach like a leaden weight, while butterflies bounced around in Margaret’s.

     Margaret nodded. ‘You are right, I’m sure,’ she said, then took a breath. ‘It’s just that – I love you.’

     John’s expression transformed into one of incredulity and wonder, and the loose hold he had on her hand became a fervent grip.

     ‘Truly?’ he asked.

     ‘Yes,’ Margaret said, as she cupped his prickly jaw tenderly in her hand.

     ‘Then, is this the “right time”?’

     ‘It is, if you still wish to marry me,’ she said demurely.

     ‘Oh Margaret,’ he breathed, ‘will you— Wait! I … I can’t, not here. We aren’t even properly dressed!’ he said, eliciting a delightful peel of laughter from Margaret.

     ‘You are quite right,’ she agreed. ‘When Edith asks me the details of your proposal, I can’t say we were sitting in an inn kitchen in the middle of the night, on our own, drinking soup. Nor could I tell her that I was wearing my ripped petticoat and brown woollen overcoat, and you had not shaved or combed your hair for two days. And, of course, I am still in full-mourning. But only for two more weeks.’

     Two weeks. Two short words. A brief span of time which suddenly felt like an eternity.

     It occurred to John that he must tell Margaret about the uncertainty regarding the mill. Business was very tight since the strike, and if Watson’s speculation succeeded, he would lose the mill.

     ‘Margaret, I must be honest with you. It would be wrong to engage your heart with mine if you weren’t fully aware of my situation. There has been – and still remains – the spectre of failure hanging over Marlborough Mills since the strike. I have tried to secure investment and prevent the need for closure, with no success to date. But, very recently, a potential investor has become apparent, though there is no firm arrangement in place. So, if the mill … my business … can’t be saved, then I wouldn’t be in a position to provide such a grand home or living that you might expect – at least, not at first.’

     Margaret hadn’t realised that things were so bad for the mill, and her heart bled for this man whom she knew worked so hard and provided jobs for so many. But, ultimately, Margaret loved the man, not his mill. ‘I’m used to living frugally, John. It’s nothing to be ashamed of if you have done your best but to no avail. I thank you for your honesty, but it doesn’t change my feelings. That is … if you decide to offer for my hand when I am able to be asked.’

     ‘I can wait for two weeks,’ said John with an incredible lightness to his heart. ‘I had better not be too firm when I speak to your father about these secrets he has embroiled you in, or he might not give his consent,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘In the meantime, it will have to be our secret.’

     ‘Another secret. Another man’s secret,’ said Margaret, ruefully.

     John frowned, ‘No. No more secrets. You’re right to challenge me on that Margaret. It makes me no better than those I have criticised. Let’s not start our future that way. Who’s likely to ask us if we have plans to marry? I can’t see that there is a need for it to be a secret,’ he said, as he stroked her hand with his thumb. ‘But you will say “yes” won’t you?’ he asked, for a moment not quite certain that he could be this fortunate.

     John watched, transfixed, as Margaret blushed so beautifully. ‘I will,’ she replied.

     ‘Then let me take some payment from you in lieu of your promise,’ he said, his heart bursting with joy as he tenderly pressed his lips to hers to seal their pledge.

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Chapter Text

The following morning, John and Mr Ashfield removed to the barn to get dressed. Sleeping in the taproom when they were alone was one thing, but it was quite another matter when the innkeeper and his family, and the maid, were bustling about the place. Both men preferred some privacy to get washed and smarten themselves up, as much as was possible under the circumstances. Ashfield was not oblivious to John’s unusually cheerful disposition and determined to probe him about the cause of John’s lighthearted whistling as he buttoned up his shirt. No doubt there was a singular good reason.

     ‘Did you sleep well?’ Ashfield asked, adopting an innocent tone and expression.

     Despite answering in an equally bland manner that he had, John’s smirk could not be subdued.

     ‘Well? Did you ask her? Will she have you?’ urged Ashfield, impatiently.

     John gave a rueful chuckle. ‘Well this is a fine turn of events! I told Miss Hale that no one would ask us, and yet the first person I speak to mentions it!’ he said with mock irritation. ‘But, I said there would be no more secrets … so, yes. I believe she will,’ he said, exuding utter happiness for a moment, before arranging his features back to something resembling his more usual expression. ‘Though I can’t ask properly until her full-mourning period is over in a fortnight.’

     ‘Congratulations,’ said Ashfield, vigorously shaking his friend’s hand and slapping him on the shoulder. ‘I knew it all along. When it’s common knowledge we shall celebrate,’ he said, making John wonder what that might entail. Nevertheless, John would be glad to participate in any merrymaking to mark his incredible good fortune, and the realisation of his most fervent wish.

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     When breakfast was served in the common room a little while later, the omnibus passengers took up their customary seats at the dining table, and the conversation that flowed around the party was merrily animated as they all looked forward to finally being able to resume their journey. In a few hours, they would all be collected from Prestwich, and the four gentlemen and one lady would return to Milton. In fact, spirits were so high, that neither Mr Cubbins nor Mr Braithwaite thought the pink tint to Miss Hale’s cheeks, and Mr Thornton’s radiant expression were in any way extraordinary.

    While the two older gentlemen travellers decided to stay in the warmth of the inn, and the proximity of the bar, until it was time to make their way to Prestwich to meet the Milton omnibus, a small group of three donned their coats and hats and prepared to walk to the hospital. Ada stood at the threshold of the inn, her new doll securely under her arm, as she said farewell to Mr Ashfield, Miss Hale and Mr Thornton. Miss Hale promised to send Ada the doll’s white dress and bonnet as soon as she could, and Mr Thornton gave a bow and shook hands with her quite formally, making little Ada feel very important and grown up indeed.

     Mr Ashfield caught Miss Hale’s attention and he touched his finger to his lips and gave her a cheeky wink, making her blush with the knowledge that he had been apprised of the unofficial attachment between herself and Mr Thornton. Margaret had thought it would be very hard not to mention her new situation to anyone, and the fact that Mr Ashfield knew that she and John had come to an understanding gave her the thrill and flutterings of excitement. If she felt this way when a relatively new acquaintance was informed, she wondered how her feeling of elation might be magnified when her family, friends and acquaintances were told that she had been honoured with Mr Thornton’s affection and that she had given him her hand. In retrospect, she considered that some may not be quite so pleased with her choice of husband, nor his choice of wife, but it could not be helped. They had given one another their hearts, and no objections, other than from her father whom she was certain would not deny her, would stand in her way.

     The road towards Prestwich still had small patches of snow here and there, but the ground was firm underfoot and John was satisfied that Miss Hale would not be subjected to further risk on their walk to the asylum. Margaret’s ankle was further improved today, and although she still wore her home-made bandages, she was also confident that a walk would do her injury no harm.

     Mr Ashfield chose not to offer his arm to Miss Hale for this particular journey. Instead, Margaret took Mr Thornton’s proffered arm, and after a small disagreement, eventually surrendered her basket for him to carry as well. Mr Ashfield chattered to his companions, as was his way, meanwhile John was struggling to keep his emotions at bay. He had an overwhelming urge to gather Margaret into his arms and twirl around kissing her. She had let him steal a few kisses last night, though he thought it unlikely that she would permit such liberties again. There had been something unearthly about the atmosphere in that humble kitchen … or had it been merely the circumstances, or the joint need to traverse their misunderstandings that had prevailed? He was beginning to wonder how he would contain himself for two whole weeks when all he wanted to do was to run up and down the road and fields shouting to the world that Miss Hale loved him.

     ‘John?’ said Ashfield, drawing John’s attention back to the conversation.

     ‘Pardon me, I was distracted,’ apologised John, gifting Margaret his shy half-smile as she squeezed his arm. He wondered if she had been thinking about him at the exact moment when he had been thinking of her.

     Ashfield continued, ‘I was just saying that as a trustee, I would be pleased to give you a tour of the facilities at the hospital while Miss Hale has her visit, then I could meet up with the two of you in Prestwich when I have spent a little time with Ellen.’ They agreed between them that this was a sound plan, and John was more than delighted to know that he would have Margaret to himself for a little while longer before they must rejoin their normal lives. And though John was not exactly glad that they had all been involved in an omnibus crash, he certainly was grateful for the opportunities that it had made possible. 

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     John’s opinion of the Second Darkshire County Lunatic Asylum, when it first came into view, was that it was far grander than he had thought it would be. It was an imposing building in the modern Victorian style. Built from red brick, and four storeys high, with decorative battlements and leaded windows, it looked more like a stately home than an asylum. A wooded area was visible at the rear and gardens were marked out at the front, though the shrubbery was sparse, not least due to the time of the year.

     A gravel drive led to enormous stone steps and then to a highly polished pair of front doors where Mr Ashfield rang the bell. After their party had been admitted, Miss Hale retrieved her basket from Mr Thornton and an arrangement was made to meet him at the door in twenty minutes, and she was escorted away by a member of staff.

     After calling at the administration office to inform them of Mr Thornton’s visit, Ashfield led John down the elaborate brown and blue mosaic tiled entrance hall and into a cavernous dining room. It had an iron beamed apexed ceiling and was bright and airy with several tables arranged with a dozen chairs around each one. Ashfield was jabbering about the number of patients, the benefits of maintaining social interaction, costs and financing, but John merely stood there gazing around him. He was well acquainted with large weaving sheds and warehouses, but this was completely different. In the distance he could hear occasional shouts and moans, and doors banging, but overall it was eerily quiet in this massive soulless atrium and it gave him chills. He had an almost uncontrollable compulsion to leave. 

     Ashfield touched his arm, regaining his attention. ‘I assure you it’s better than other alternatives,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘There are no vacant rooms to show you the standard accommodation, as we are fully subscribed, but I think, perhaps, that you have seen all you wish to.’ Ashfield recognised in John’s expression how he had once felt when entering an asylum, when Ellen had first been admitted, yet that one had been far worse. He thanked God that he had been able to secure her a better situation and that he had at least come to terms with the surroundings himself. Then, as was his wont, he cheered up his disposition and the conversation. ‘I would suggest a walk in the grounds, which are quite fine when everything is in bloom, but perhaps that should wait for another time, when Miss Hale isn’t injured and the weather isn’t so cold.’

     ‘Of course,’ said John, and Ashfield took him back to the main entrance. Preparations were made to meet up at the omnibus stop and then Ashfield excused himself to make his own social call. 

     John sat on a stiff-backed hall chair with his hat upon his knee and waited for Margaret. Being in this place made him all the more keen to continue his association with Jim Ashfield. He had always thought his own life was a lonely and solitary one, but the despair his friend had carried alone would be unbearable to many, and his unwavering commitment to Ellen Ashfield was, quite simply, a testament to the power of true love.

     Margaret’s light footsteps approached down the sweeping stairs to the hallway, and after a perfunctory farewell to the office staff, they were let out onto the gravel path. John took gulps of fresh but frosty air.

     ‘Did Boucher like the children's drawings?’ he enquired.

     ‘I don’t know,’ replied Margaret with a measure of regret. ‘He was quite agitated today, but I left them with him. Perhaps he will get some pleasure from them later.’

     John nodded, taking the heavy basket from her again. ‘More mending?’ he asked, scowling.

     ‘I’m afraid so. Don’t be cross. It was already prepared for me to take. But I did say that I might not be able to take as much in the future,’ she said with a sheepish smile.

     John smiled back, his irritation quickly dissipated by Miss Hale’s attempt at conciliation. ‘Come on then, let us find a tea room to get some refreshment and keep warm while we wait for Ashfield and the omnibus,’ he said, offering his arm again for her to take, and the two of them made their way to the town.

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     ‘All aboard the Milton omnibus’, shouted the conductor.

     The passengers boarded the omnibus in Prestwich town square as had been agreed. Those who had been waiting for two days to return to Milton were allowed to get on first. This included the group that had been accommodated at the Little Heaton inn, and those who had been temporarily lodged in Prestwich, meaning that the omnibus’ lower deck was almost at capacity. This time Miss Hale chose to sit next to Mr Thornton, their fingers entwined, hidden beneath the basket upon her lap and the folds of her coat. They knew that this would be their last chance of intimacy, however chaste, for some time. Both were contemplative on the journey home and barely registered the discomfort of the seats, the coldness of the carriage or the hubbub of conversations going on around them. And, as with most journeys, the return seemed to take much less time than the outward trip.

     Despite wanting to focus his full attention on Miss Hale’s presence, John’s mind wandered to thoughts of his mother. He hoped she had realised, when he hadn’t come home, along with others from the town, that he had been involved in the omnibus disaster. Still, whether she had known that or not, he was sure that she would be pleased to see him, even though he, a grown man, would be expected to explain himself to her. Meanwhile, Margaret’s thoughts were centred on her father. He knew very well that she had travelled to Prestwich on the omnibus, and she hoped that a message had reached him to inform him that everyone was well. It seemed so strange to be travelling back to her home and normality, and though they had not reached Milton yet, she already felt the unusual events of the last few days drifting away.

     As the omnibus approached Milton, John decided to get off at the first stop at Crampton with Margaret so that she was safely delivered back to Mr Hale. He would be embarrassed to walk through the town looking so wild and unshaven, but it could not be helped; after all, Margaret was his priority now. However, John needn’t have worried about where he should alight, as at the first stop the whole road was blocked with a crowd of townsfolk preventing the onward journey of the omnibus, and the regular clip-clop of the omnibus’ horses hooves gradually slowed to a stop. 

     As cheers greeted their arrival, the passengers exited the omnibus in stunned astonishment. Family members came forward to embrace the loved ones they had been waiting for. Someone had even unearthed a “Welcome Home” banner. John smirked thinking that the only thing missing was a brass band. Margaret was swept away from him, and he saw her in the powerful grip of the Hales’ surly maid, Dixon, while Mr Hale hovered at their side, holding his daughter’s hand. John surveyed the gathering and spotted his mother and Fanny on the periphery. He raised his hand in an acknowledgement that he had seen them, then weaved his way through the crowd, accepting well wishes and greetings from people he had no recollection of ever having met before. He kissed his mother’s cheek and accepted an unexpected but welcome embrace from Fanny.

     ‘What the devil were you doing on that omnibus, John?’ Mrs Thornton began in an agitated loud whisper. ‘Well, I think it’s perfectly clear what you were doing. You, on your own, with Miss Hale, on her own! The scandal! John, how could you? The Lord only knows how she enticed you away, and her in mourning, gallivanting across Darkshire. But she’s got her wish hasn’t she. You’ll have to marry her—’

     Someone coughed, clearing their throat next to the Thorntons. ‘Pardon me. Mrs Thornton is it?’ enquired Mr Cubbins, tipping his hat with gentlemanly poise.

     ‘Yes,’ said John, in something of a daze, having been caught off-guard by his mother’s surprisingly vitriolic welcome. Of course, he had known that she would want to discuss matters with him, but he had thought he would at least get home first! ‘Mother, may I introduce one of my fellow travellers, Mr Cubbins.’

     Hannah gave a sharp nod as her greeting, as she was a little put out that she had been interrupted, and overheard.

     ‘I beg pardon for inadvertently eavesdropping on your conversation, kind lady, but I must set the story right at once. Miss Hale is a regular traveller to Prestwich asylum carrying out charitable visits,’ said Mr Cubbins, looking around him for someone to corroborate his explanation. ‘Here, Mr Ashfield,’ he called out, beckoning to Jim Ashfield who stood alone in the crowd. ‘Miss Hale travels on our omnibus regularly does she not? I saw no improper meeting between Miss Hale and Mr Thornton. Indeed, Miss Hale was sitting beside me on the outward journey when we were involved in the most regrettable accident.’

     Mr Ashfield had joined them and was able to assure Mrs Thornton that Mr Cubbins’ description of events was correct. ‘That’s right. She makes weekly visits to the Second Darkshire County Lunatic Asylum which is situated in Prestwich, and takes on mending and helps to raise the spirits of those most unfortunately needing to be detained for care. I am a trustee of the hospital, and I invited Mr Thornton, as a new acquaintance and leading figure in Milton, to see our facilities. I can assure you, Mrs Thornton, that all was done properly. We ensured that Miss Hale was afforded her privacy and safety in the inn where we took refuge.’

     Mr Cubbins piped up, ‘Yes, indeed! I gave her my room when it was clear that there weren’t enough facilities for everyone.’

     ‘So you see, Mrs Thornton, Miss Hale’s reputation has been protected by us all,’ assured Mr Ashfield, while John remained mute, astounded that these two men would come to his and Miss Hale’s aid.

     Mrs Thornton was somewhat relieved and, having thanked Mr Ashfield and the portly gentleman named Cubbins, she informed her son that she had a carriage waiting for their return home.

     ‘One moment, Mother. I will be there directly. I just want to introduce Mr Ashfield to Mr Hale,’ he said, taking Ashfield by the arm and moving through the throng towards the Hales.

     ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ John said gratefully.

     ‘Did I say anything that wasn’t true?’ smirked Ashfield.

     ‘Well, no,’ agreed John quietly. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. Especially when you know that Miss Hale and I plan to marry anyway.’

     ‘Friends support one another, John. Miss Hale is a kind and compassionate young woman, and I think you are a good man – someone I hope I now call a friend. I think you and Miss Hale should be able to enjoy your engagement and marriage with your heads held high, not hanging them with shame as if forced into matrimony because society perceives some impropriety where there is none. You love each other, and no one knows better than me how the happiness that brings can be fragile.’

     With emotion lodged in his throat, John offered his hand to Jim, ‘Thank you,’ he said as they shook hands. 

     The crowd was gradually dispersing now that the initial excitement had abated, and the two men quickly reached the Hales. John introduced Mr Ashfield before taking his leave. He courteously bowed his head, and with no hint of the burning passion that smouldered within, he promised to pay a call on Mr and Miss Hale soon.

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     Margaret was delighted to be back in the modest house on Crampton Terrace, and revelled in the home comforts which she usually took for granted – to sit with her father; to be fussed over by Dixon; to have her own belongings. It was the little things that made her life her own, and yet she had agreed to leave everything that was familiar, and marry Mr Thornton. Nevertheless, Margaret was content. Yes, things would be different, but she would still be close to her father, and would have her own paraphernalia with her. Surely every woman had to put aside her trepidation in the pursuit of marital union. Of course, there would be more than simply these superficial things. She herself would be given over into his care, to do with as he wished. To obey and to serve him. It was an unsettling thought, but Margaret had the feeling, informed by Mr Thornton’s kind deeds, that he would be sympathetic to the changes in her life that she must succumb to to be his partner. She smoothed her hand over Mr Thornton’s comb which was concealed in her pocket. When he had presented it to her, it had been the only personal item he had, and yet he had given it to her. Though he hadn’t specifically said he loved her, not since his proposal in the summer, he had implied it in the retraction of his jealous words. Having reasoned with herself that her nervousness was more like excitement, her thoughts ran to when she might see him again. They had been apart for no more than an hour, and already it seemed far too long.  

     Mr Hale brought Margaret’s musings back to the present, when he asked how she had paid for her lodgings and whether he was to send remuneration to the inn himself. Margaret was ashamed to realise that it hadn’t crossed her mind, even though she was used to managing their household finances and knew that goods and services always came at a cost. She could only put this down to the fact that she had felt so protected by Mr Thornton during that time, and so she had paid it no mind. Margaret realised that this was another very generous kindness that Mr Thornton had undertaken on her behalf. Mr Hale blustered about offering to pay him back, but Margaret knew in her heart that Mr Thornton, John, wouldn’t take any money from her father, and it pleased her no end to know it.   

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     Having arrived back at Marlborough Mills, John spared himself from his mother’s scrutiny by withdrawing to shave and change prior to finishing the day by picking up the reins of his business at the mill. Though, as he readied himself for work, he was peculiarly pleased to realise that his tortoiseshell comb was still in the possession of Miss Hale. 

     It was after dinner, when John had no excuses left to him, that he sat with his mother in the drawing room. He reached for the newspaper, but he was halted by Hannah. The time had come to address her questions and concerns.

     Hannah Thornton had been somewhat relieved to hear that John had not intentionally met Miss Hale on the omnibus and that, other than herself, no one appeared to have made a connection between Miss Hale and her son. But she couldn’t understand why he was on the omnibus, and she had been further astounded when he revealed that he had been taking similar trips regularly. It also transpired that the journey and resulting disaster had thrown John into an association with several other travellers, and John appeared to believe that he benefited from these connections. However, the main focus of Hannah’s questioning regarded what he was doing on the omnibus in the first place.

     ‘I’m not sure that at the time I could have explained it to you, Mother. I have been so weighed down with upset and worry that I felt the benefit from just getting away for a little while.’

     ‘But gadding around the county doesn’t help save the mill does it?’ asked Hannah, more with a confused tone, than an accusatory one.

     ‘Surely, you know better than anyone how hard I work – what long hours I put in. I have tried all I can to save the mill, and we’ll find out soon enough what our fate will be with the success or failure of Watson’s speculation. But, I’ve not had another man to talk to, and so having some time away with my thoughts was soothing. And although the crash was distressing, I truly believe that meeting Mr Ashfield, a gentleman not too dissimilar in age to me, who has a friendly and approachable manner, has been an asset.’

     Hannah reached to hold her son’s hand. She was being unfair to him. She couldn’t be prouder of all he had achieved, and yet it galled her that they were on the cusp of losing everything and their fall from grace would be a bitter pill indeed. ‘You’ve had me to talk to. And you have the other masters, and Watson is family now,’ she reasoned.

     ‘And I am grateful to you, Mother. But the masters are colleagues … rivals! And they are all so much older than I am. I couldn’t speak to them about the mill, or matters of the heart.’

     ‘The heart? Not Miss Hale!’ Hannah bristled.

     John held his mother’s hand now, firmly between his two and he knelt at her feet. ‘Yes, Miss Hale. I believe her feelings for me have changed. And so for my happiness, and for your own, I would like you to try to like her. Or at the very least, accept her.’

     ‘You think she’ll welcome a proposal from you now?’ Hannah asked, solemnly.

     ‘Yes, Mother.’

     ‘And what if the mill has to close. She’ll be another mouth to feed. Does she know you might be penniless?' needled Hannah, though even she knew she was being particularly harsh, but it was her last chance to save John for herself. ‘What will Miss Hale bring to the Thornton name, other than a pretty face and a liking for giving charity baskets to the poor,’ she said, rolling her eyes scornfully at the thought. Yet John remained unmoved by her unkindness.

     ‘I shan’t be penniless, Mother. And Miss Hale is aware of the precarious nature of the business at present. But, if I have Miss Hale by my side, I shall be content, no matter what happens. You do want me to be happy, don’t you, Mother?’

     ‘Of course,’ she said, her voice strained with subdued tears.

     ‘And I believe that I will be Miss Hale’s happiness, too,’ he said gently, with a wistful kind of expression that Hannah had never seen upon his face before.

     And she knew, at that exact moment, that she had lost him.

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Chapter Text

Two weeks later

     Margaret stood in front of the cheval mirror in her bedroom. It had been a present from Aunt Shaw for her eighteenth birthday and was very fine, and large, made from turned mahogany with cabriole legs – and was utterly incongruous in Margaret’s tiny room. But it was the only piece of furniture that she owned, and she loved it. Margaret didn't consider herself to be a vain person, having lived many years in the shadow of Edith’s unquestionable beauty, and yet, she was rather pleased as she looked at herself this morning, and smoothed her hands over her dove grey woollen skirt. It wasn’t a pretty garment, or particularly fashionable, but it symbolised a shift in Margaret’s situation. She was no longer in full-mourning and that state brought forth opportunities.

     While it was not usual, it wasn’t impossible for a couple to marry during the half-mourning period. Indeed, it would suit Maragret’s taste better to have a quiet wedding than to have to tolerate the pomp and circumstance that Mrs Thornton and Aunt Shaw would be likely to want. She wondered what John thought about their wedding. Of course, they had had no occasion to discuss such things. She considered it possible that he might want to wait until her mourning period was completely over in six months time. Perhaps he would want an elaborate affair as was fashionable, but she somehow doubted it. She had the feeling that he would let her choose. Margaret’s fingers wandered over the mirror’s polished wood, wondering if this beautiful piece of furniture would be more in keeping with the bedrooms at Marlborough House. She put her hands to her cheeks to cool them, and to calm herself. He would come soon to ask her father – to ask her. 

     Although she had been wishing the days away over the last two weeks, in a way Margaret was pleased to have had this brief time to get used to the idea of her upcoming engagement to Mr Thornton. There had been no courtship to become better acquainted, or for those around them to understand that they shared a mutual fondness for one another. And although she certainly didn't harbour any second thoughts regarding her intention to accept him when he formally addressed her, the breathing space between their time at the inn and now had allowed her to think about what being John’s wife would entail. 

     The fortnight had dragged on interminably, punctuated only three times by visits from Mr Thornton; two for his weekly lessons and one to return a bill of exchange which Mr Hale had had delivered to Marlborough House the day after the travellers returned to Milton. Mr Hale had sent a fee which he considered generous enough, but within his means to afford, in order to repay Mr Thornton for Margaret’s keep while at the Little Heaton inn. Margaret witnessed Mr Thornton – for on this occasion he was wholly Mr Thornton – brook no argument as he returned the money token, and Mr Hale had gratefully submitted to the mill master’s will. Mr Thornton had also taken this opportunity to ask to speak to Mr Hale in his study, and the two men had withdrawn leaving Margaret to wonder what on earth was being said. For a heart-stopping moment, she wondered if he was going to tell her father of their attachment. All she could do was wait in the drawing room for what seemed to be the most protracted length of time, until she heard the study door open and their voices and footsteps grow louder as they passed her hiding place. Margaret had cautiously come into the hallway to join her father in saying goodbye to Mr Thornton, but just as he was about to leave, there came a knock upon the front door. Mr Hale’s two o’clock student had arrived, so Mr Thornton was left with Margaret to make his farewell.

     ‘May I have the basket of mending for the asylum, Miss Hale?’ Mr Thornton enquired, with a very respectable and civil tone.

     ‘You haven’t taken up sewing as well as crochet have you, Mr Thornton?’ Margaret asked with a teasing twinkle to her eye, bringing back treasured memories of the afternoon they had spent together at the inn making Ada’s doll.

     John smirked. ‘No, but I have asked about amongst my employees and a few have come forward to take on the mending for a few extra coins in their pay. Just as a one off, mind. As you have already agreed, there will be less in the future.’

     Margaret retrieved the basket of clothes in need of patching and asked for her thanks to be passed on to those who had offered to do the work, and of course to Mr Thornton himself for footing the bill. ‘Thank you, most sincerely,’ she said and extended her hand for him to shake. ‘Good day, Mr Thornton.’

     ‘Good day, Miss Hale,’ he replied, taking her proffered hand, for all the world looking as proper as could be, but only Margaret was aware of the brush of his thumb across the top of her hand, and heard the whispered, ‘Only twelve days now, my Margaret’. 

     Later that afternoon it became apparent that John’s interview with her father had not been about their clandestine agreement, but Mr Thornton raising his concern for Miss Hale’s wellbeing and the extra work and responsibility of keeping Boucher and the relative at Outwood Station secret, and doing the asylum’s mending. He had chosen to limit his criticisms to the most pressing concerns, and omitted Margaret’s household duties. In fact John was oblivious to some of the responsibilities Margaret had been required to shoulder on behalf of her father. Nevertheless, John had somewhat taken Mr Hale to task, though he had toned down his usual demeanour when issuing a dressing down, and his talk with Mr Hale had brought about an outcome that he could not have envisaged. Mr Hale had slumped into his chair as if with the weight of the world pressed down upon him. Then the heartbreaking tale of Frederick’s exile, the mutiny and his brief return to see Maria Hale spilled forth from his lips.

     John was understandably taken aback at the revelations Mr Hale shared with him, but it also helped him to understand Margaret and her actions a little more, and to respect her too. It was agreed that John would speak to Nicholas Higgins regarding what the best long term solution would be regarding the secrecy of Mr Boucher’s illness and the need for honesty with the children. The conclusion of the interview had left both men notably lighter in spirit with one being relieved of the burden of his secrets, and the other grateful for the service he carried out on behalf of his love.

     During the lessons John had attended in the previous two weeks, he had seemed to be his usual self – reserved yet attentive to Miss Hale’s father. Margaret had barely been able to discern any additional affection for her, and a nervousness crept into her consciousness that he had changed his mind. Margaret hadn’t been able to be quite so cool in his company. She had been flustered serving tea, serving tea, which she had done without mishap many times before. Yet these last few times she had felt herself tremble as she poured Mr Thornton’s tea, one time even spilling it into the saucer. The only reference to their time away was when he had given her the material he had promised for her damaged petticoat, bringing back the remembrance of those secret nighttime interludes which had culminated in Mr Thornton’s almost-proposal. 

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     Margaret was pleased that her father acknowledged the change in her dress from black to grey, despite it bringing a glistening sheen to his eyes as it accentuated the fact that Maria Hale had been gone from their lives for six months. But, apart from the change in colour Margaret was permitted to wear, everything else in the Hale household continued as normal.

That morning, while Margaret was helping Dixon, Mr Hale had sought her out in the kitchen. ‘Look at this, Margaret. How peculiar. Mr Thornton has sent his calling card requesting to visit this afternoon. As if we stand on such ceremony! Why, he could have mentioned it at his last lesson but three days ago!’ 

     Then Margaret watched worry momentarily chase the amusement from her father’s face, as he wondered if Mr Thornton had found him wanting in another matter and was coming to tell him off again. Yet he couldn’t think what that could be as they had had a most frank discussion regarding Fred and Mr Boucher, so there surely was no other matter to be held against him.

     ‘Will you send an acceptance?’ asked Margaret with a strangely casual air.

     ‘Indeed, I have,’ said Mr Hale, who retreated then to his study to mull over Mr Thornton’s card.

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     In the afternoon, Margaret picked up the tiny white dress and matching bonnet that she had promised Ada. It was almost finished and Margaret had hoped to deliver it herself on her next trip to the County Asylum, but her father had been unusually firm that the weather must be dryer before she could go again. He would not risk her being involved in another accident due to a mudslide. So, Margaret decided to ask Mr Thornton if he thought she should put it in the post, or wait for the better weather, which was unpredictable at best.  

     Margaret brought her mind back to the task at hand and had begun to hem the dress when she heard the doorbell jangling in the distance. She glanced up at the clock – two o’clock precisely. Her father was still ensconced in his study, possibly asleep, thought Margaret. All she could do was wait, so she diverted her attention back to her stitches, and ignored the thumping of her heart against her chest. She heard Dixon’s footsteps plodding along the hall and then muffled voices. Once quite deep and rumbly. A man’s voice. Margaret shut her eyes. Was this it?

     But instead of Dixon showing Mr Thornton into the room, Margaret could hear some kind of an altercation occurring. She set aside the sewing and entered the hallway to find out what had caused the commotion, at the same time that her father emerged from his study to greet their visitor. Margaret was relieved to see that it was Mr Thornton paying them a call as arranged, but he was engaged in a disagreement with Dixon. 

     ‘Good afternoon, Mr Thornton. What’s to do, Dixon?’

     Dixon threw a smug glance at Mr Thornton. ‘You and Mr Hale have a visitor, Miss Margaret, but he won’t give me the flowers to put in water,’ accused the maid.

     ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hale. That is because I wanted to give them to you myself,’ Mr Thornton interjected, a little testily, but then his eyes lingered just a moment longer upon Margaret and her half-mourning clothes.  

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ said Margaret, bustling forwards to take possession of the flowers, and in doing so, successfully diffusing the argument. ‘Thank you Dixon, I will see to Mr Thornton’s gift,’ said Margaret.

     ‘Well at least it’s not fruit again,’ muttered Dixon, as she trudged off towards the kitchen.

     ‘John! What a surprise! I hope nothing is wrong? I was perplexed to receive your card this morning. Very official!’ blustered Mr Hale, with a slightly forced laugh.

     ‘No, Richard. I assure you nothing is wrong. Quite the opposite. But I would like to request a private interview with you. If you would permit me?’ said John levelly, and Margaret wondered if he had practised what he would say to her father as he seemed so composed.

     ‘Private? Well, of course!’ exclaimed Richard Hale expansively, beckoning his friend towards his study. ‘Will you have some tea? Margaret, dear, will you see to it?’ he asked. 

     Margaret nodded and took her cue to withdraw silently, not daring to look at either man, and her father’s study door clicked closed. Such a slight sound but signifying a meeting of life-changing magnitude. She hurried to the kitchen, first to set the tea tray and then to arrange the flowers into her mama’s best vase. Mr Thornton’s bouquet was roses of a delicate pink with touches of peach to the tips of the petals and, unbeknownst to Margaret, they were the colour of her blush. 

     Margaret had no idea how long John’s discussion with her father might take, so she decided to wait in the drawing room with her roses on display and the tea going cold; she’d dared not take it to the study knowing what conversation was in progress. But no sooner had she decided to get some hot water to revive the tea pot when she heard her father calling for her.

      ‘Margaret! Margaret dear?’

     ‘Yes, Father?’ she replied.

     Mr Hale burst into the drawing room and grasped his daughter’s hands. ‘Mr Thornton … he … he wishes to speak to you. Do you understand my meaning? Oh, I am quite overcome,’ he said and half-collapsed onto the settee.

     ‘Yes, Father. I understand,’ she said, patting his hand.

     ‘Did you have an inkling? I suppose you must have done. But, oh, this is a surprise. And yet, Mr Bell mentioned something about suspecting a tendresse between the two of you and I dismissed it. But, Margaret, dear, while I was happy to give John my blessing to propose to you – how could I not? – you must not accept him merely because he asks.’

     Margaret was starting to worry at the delay her father was causing, albeit to give her his few words of fatherly advice. Nevertheless, she didn’t want Mr Thornton to think she wasn’t coming. ‘Of course, Father. But I must go to him. Could you please pour your own tea?’ she asked as she backed towards the door. ‘Excuse me,’ she said with a curtsey, then turned quickly to hasten to the study, where the door was ajar, and she steeled herself for a second or two before going in.

     On entering the room Margaret’s eyes immediately found Mr Thornton’s clear blue gaze as he stood in anticipation by the fire. ‘He gave his permission, Margaret,’ John said, his smile gradually building, and he held his hands out to her.

     Margaret took the few steps to reach him and clasped his outstretched hands in hers. ‘Then you must propose properly. After all, I have waited an additional two weeks for it,’ she teased, a blooming pink adorning her cheeks. John thought she had never looked lovelier.

     ‘Indeed,’ he said seriously, and he led her to the fireside chair and encouraged her to sit, then he knelt before her in supplication. ‘Miss Hale – Margaret, you would make me the happiest man that ever lived if you would do me the greatest honour, and agree to be my wife – my Mrs Thornton. I promise to always look after you – no, more than that – to treasure you, no matter what the future may hold. And you will be my missing half, my partner, my friend. I have been thinking of the vows we’ll make. Do you know them, Margaret? I will do my utmost to offer you comfort, and keep you as best I can.’

     ‘And I must also obey and serve you,’ she said shyly.

     ‘Aye,’ he said, solemnly. ‘Those are the words that must be said before the minister, congregation and God. Margaret – I am not so green as to think that we shall never share a cross word or two. But I think that between us we’ll be able to iron out the wrinkles that crop up. And I promise to always listen, and weigh up your opinions with my own. You see, I don’t want you as a mere decoration upon my arm. I want all of you, Margaret. Body and soul. I have no wish to subdue you – to put out the light that holds me so fixed in its beam.’

     Margaret pretended to consider it. ‘And do you love me?’ she asked, a smile twitching at her lips.

     ‘More than any man has ever loved a woman,’ he replied.

     ‘And how long will you love me for?’ she whispered.

     ‘Until there is no breath left in my body, and beyond. I will love you for ever more,’ he pledged, and could wait no longer as he drew her face to his to kiss her, repeatedly, with lips so reverant that Margaret was quite lost in the bliss of his tenderness.

     After a moment or two of delicious silence, Margaret pulled back a little from John and made his joy complete, saying, ‘You know, I will.’

     🚃🚃🚃

     A few days later, Watson’s speculation triumphed quite spectacularly. Most of the mill masters of Milton had invested to varying degrees, and looked disdainfully on those who hadn’t. They were rather pleased to have the upper hand over John Thornton – he who was too superior to take part in speculations. It was well known that the young master’s cash flow was severely hampered since the strike, what with his investments in fancy new looms, fluff wheels and a canteen. Over a few brandies and cigars, the elder masters wondered how long it would be before Marlborough Mills closed its doors for good. They even considered the opportunities that might fall in their paths – cut price machinery and skilled workers from Marlborough Mills would be an asset. 

     John had received a calling card with his morning post in a hand he wasn’t familiar with. It was a request from Mr James Ashfield to pay a call the following afternoon. John replied immediately, inviting Jim to tea, as it was already arranged that Miss Hale was to come for refreshments with him and his mother. He felt sure that Miss Hale would like to renew her acquaintance with Mr Ashfield, and John also wanted to introduce his new friend properly to his mother. 

     The next day, Jim Ashfield arrived at tea time, as requested, and was suitably surprised and delighted regarding the news of the engagement. After a very pleasant hour with John, Miss Hale and Mrs Thornton, Jim begged a moment in private with John before he left. The two men removed to the study while Mrs Thornton and Miss Hale concluded their visit. 

     John was most anxious to know if Jim still wanted to invest in his mill, though he hadn’t mentioned it. His friendship with Ashfield didn’t depend on his investment, and John was at pains to assure Jim that it was of no consequence to their ongoing association.

     Jim Ashfield got straight to the point. ‘Did you hear about the speculation, John? That it succeeded?’

     ‘I did. I’m pleased for you,’ John said, stoically. ‘I mean it … look, I know I invited you to invest in my mill, but I shan’t hold you to it. There must be other businesses that you could put your capital in. Don’t feel pressured to choose mine. My friendship doesn’t need to be bought,’ he said bravely.

     ‘I’m no dolt, you know, John. I may not be in the cotton trade, but I have grown up with it in Preston and I am well acquainted with business law. I’d heard about you and your mill, and your sometimes unconventional dealing with your workers before we met. Since then I’ve learnt, first hand, that you’re a good man, and a reliable one,’ Jim paused, enjoying the anticipation before he could surprise his friend. ‘Of course, I want to endow some of my windfall on the Prestwich asylum, and a few other charitable institutions that I hold dear.’

     ‘Of course,’ said John, keeping up his composed facade, even as he felt his hope for providing living for his own family and his workers dwindle away. All that he had worked so hard for was over, and he fleetingly wondered how he would break the news to Margaret. He knew she would be supportive, but it would be a blow to their beginning.

     ‘That leaves me with fifteen thousand pounds spare. Do you have a use for it?’ Jim said, with a jaunty wink.

     The power appeared to have left John’s legs, as he sat down quite suddenly in his desk chair. ‘Fifteen thousand pounds?’ he whispered, somewhat breathlessly.

     ‘Give or take a pound or two, the surplus comes to that. Do you accept me then as a silent investor? I shan’t make a nuisance of myself trying to dabble where I’m not needed,’ Ashfield said, extending his hand to shake on their agreement.

     John let out a bark of laughter and grasped his friend’s hand in both of his. ‘Yes! Thank you! I will repay you, of course, but I can’t thank you enough.’

     ‘No, John. It is I who must thank you.’

 🚃🚃🚃

     John and Margaret were married six weeks later. It was a quiet affair as society dictated during her half-mourning period, but the couple wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. They simply needed to be wed to one another.

     Indeed, it had taken all Hannah Thornton’s powers of persuasion to prevent John from making Margaret his bride as soon as the banns could be read, and the unseemly haste of a three week engagement was lengthened to six weeks. Hannah explained to her son that a longer period of time was required to make sure that Miss Hale was afforded the wedding that she deserved, would be proud of and think back on fondly, even if it must be modest due to her mourning. 

     Despite the extra time for preparations, due to the need for a relatively restrained occasion, there were no elaborate arrangements of flowers at the church and no white wedding dress. In fact Edith Lennox and Fanny Watson vied for the accolade of the finest gown. All close family, bar the bride’s brother, were there to witness the ceremony, as were a good number of workers from Marlborough Mills wearing their Sunday clothes. Mr Ashfield was also in attendance, having agreed to be John’s best man – much to Fanny’s irritation, as she thought her Watson should have been given the privilege. But the sun shone and church bells pealed, and John thought Margaret looked perfect in her simple lavender dress as her father walked her up the aisle to his side and placed her hand into his. 

          Hannah excelled herself in arranging an elaborate wedding breakfast for both families at Marlborough House. The small party of guests included Mr Hale, Margaret’s godfather Mr Bell, the Watsons, Margaret’s Aunt Shaw, the Captain and Mrs Lennox and Mr Ashfield. The joining families managed to enjoy one another’s company for the afternoon, and toasts to the health and happiness of the bride and groom were plentiful.

     During the meal, Mr Bell had diverted the conversation, urging Margaret to encourage her father to come away with him for a few weeks' holiday in Oxford. However, Margaret would not be drawn into their argument and Mr Hale won the day. After the festivities and excitement of the nuptials, Mr Hale had decided to forgo the trip and the extra exertion which might cause him harm. He would rest in the comfort of his own home, close to his Maria and Margaret. John quietly considered Mr Hale’s reasoning and had to wholeheartedly agree. No matter if Margaret was flesh and blood or memories marked by a headstone in the Milton graveyard, John could never see himself wanting to be away from her for so much as a single day, especially not for something as trivial as a holiday.

🚃🚃🚃

     While the celebrations took place at Marlborough House, the Milton to Prestwich omnibus trundled its way along the bumpy rutted road, carrying a host of travellers about their business. Amongst the travellers sat the Little Heaton innkeeper’s wife with her daughter, Ada, on their way home from watching Miss Hale and Mr Thornton’s wedding ceremony. Ada’s face still glowed with happiness at the excitement of the day, and upon her lap was her bride doll and a new groom doll, which Miss Hale had sent a week after the white dress and bonnet had arrived. The man doll wore a black suit and cravat, and had black hair and embroidered blue eyes. 

     Of course, there is no need to guess what names Ada chose for her dolls – they were John and Margaret – Mr and Mrs Thornton.

🚃🚃🚃 The End 🚃🚃🚃