It's a modern take on N & S, but I do want to keep a little of that period feeling—new wallpaper on an old house, so to speak :) And much as Gaskell did, I entrust my story to the kindness of the reader.

East & West

Chapter One: Stern and Iron

"But the future must be met, however stern and iron it be"

The first thing Margaret Hale did when the plane touched down that morning was to turn on her phone and check for new emails. She was expecting something from Edith—the time-difference now that her cousin was on her honeymoon in Hawaii meant that Skype chats or phone calls were hardly to be expected; she wouldn't put it past Edith to forget all about that and call her in the middle of the night—and as the plane found its gate she eagerly started reading.

What was your father thinking, taking you all so far from home? Our place in Hollywood is plenty large enough for you and then some. I'm sure he would have been able to find a job—I know how much pride he has in SoCal, but to take you all across the country…maybe it's just because I'm in paradise now, but I can't imagine winters there. You're going to freeze! XOX Edith

She had to admit it was strange and sudden. Her father had confided in her first, that all the University system's religious studies departments were being combined into one program. He had chosen to leave rather than to support such a decision, or to displace another professor at the center's hub location. And so they themselves had been displaced.

Margaret twisted in her seat, stretching her arms, trying to get the soreness out of her shoulders from sleeping upright all night. "Tell me again about the city, father."

"Milton," Mr. Hale said, his voice habitually taking on an instructing tone, "is the planned community that my old friend Mr. Bell had a hand in developing. From what he'd told me about the city, I imagine in some ways it's much like the University—people live and work and study in the same place. But instead of green lawns and lecture halls we will find businesses and companies conveniently near their employees and customers. It's not the first venture of its kind, but Milton is certainly the largest."

Despite how she tried to approach this change fairly, Margaret was not disposed to like Milton. Even the name was like a discordant sound—she was used to names that evoked nature, plants or the sea. Milton may as well be another world. She turned to her mother, who was fanning at her face with the in-flight magazine. At least her feelings had an ally in her mother. In the seat beside her, Dixon—the world's greatest PA—rummaged in her purse for a bottle of water.

Margaret took the list of potential long-term leases from her father, anticipating his relief at having his daughter taking charge. She wasn't frozen up by strange situations as he was, or as fatigued by the long flight like her mother. It was natural for her to assume some responsibility, and finding an apartment was hardly a monumental task. "We'll take our luggage to the hotel—mother, Dixon, you can rest there while we look through all the places Mr. Bell recommended. We should be back in time for dinner."

Those were the conditions, under which Margaret and her family first glimpsed the city of Milton—bundled together in a taxicab, winding through the airport buildings and traffic, which gave way to a flat, uninteresting highway. There was not a palm tree to be found—clusters of pines occasionally broke up the landscape, and her artist's eye ached for some contrast. They began to see the occasional warehouse and farmhouse, quite visible from the road, which were quickly replaced by rows of small brick houses perpendicular to the main road. The sign that welcomed them into Milton was plain but well-maintained. Margaret could hear her mother muttering about the smog—it was impossible not to notice it. They were properly underneath the cloud of it when the road widened; they were forced to stop for the other people and vehicles crossing the street. She counted two mail trucks and one for groceries.

"There is the library where I am going to work," Mr. Hale said, pointing towards one in the sea of large brick buildings, this one set apart by bright window-boxes. "And this should be the hotel." It didn't take long for them to settle in to their rooms; the house-viewing went quickly and unsatisfactorily. They often didn't even have to say what each was thinking, Margaret knew from just a glance what was on her father's mind. He thought that the houses here supported the impression his wife already had of Milton. Margaret was more disappointed that none of the houses had a garden.

They compared their notes and decided upon the second house, in a neighborhood called Crampton. It was close enough to the center of town that they would be able to walk everywhere they needed to, and near enough to the library that Margaret decided to go there alone when her father went back to sign the lease.

It was with some excitement that she opened the door, half-expecting to encounter the same hideous wallpaper of the Crampton house, but instead the walls were a fresh light color, and the lobby she stood in was cool and quiet compared to the street outside.

There was a counter but it was empty; there was nobody else that she could see in the library. The lobby opened up into a long room, the bookshelves stripes of dark wood against the light paint. There was a chandelier, a beautiful antique, and several chairs at one end of the room. She thought it was the most beautiful thing she'd seen in Milton so far.

This was where her father would spend his days, looking after these books. She knew there would be lectures and tutoring as well, and she looked for the door that would surely lead into the multipurpose room for these occasions. At the far corner of the room she found it, almost hidden between a gap in the line of bookshelves.

She twisted the doorknob and pushed it open, finally finding someone inside that she could talk to. She had been expecting an elderly woman; seated at a desk with his back to her was a young man, so immersed in whatever papers and books he was reading that he hadn't noticed her come in at all. He turned the next page of his book, pushing the drooping sleeve of his shirt back over his elbow.

Margaret took a step forward and the floorboard sang out, in an instant the man looked up and quickly rose from his chair, much more surprised to see her than she was upon seeing him. "What are you doing here?"

She ignored the rudeness entirely—it never occurred to Margaret that she could be trespassing, she had just as much of a right to be here as anyone. "My name is Margaret Hale—my father starts work here tomorrow. I had no idea that the library would be closed. Please, don't stop your work on my account."

Although he wasn't much in the habit of following orders, he sat back down as she asked, his eyes skimming the newest page of the book. He could tell she meant to leave, but a series of photographs on the wall distracted her—taken at various stages of the initial formation of the town. "The third picture is of the library itself, under construction," he found himself saying, returning quickly to his book and affecting an air of deep focus. She had interrupted his concentration and he doubted he would soon get it back. He had gotten the strangest feeling when she had first looked at him—like he had a button loose or an untied shoelace.

"That's you, in the picture!" Margaret peered closer, reading the inscription aloud. "Mr. John Thornton in front of the Milton Community Library… you built this place?"

"I own this place."

"Oh." It came out more like a sigh. So this was the man that made their relocation to Milton possible. She thought then that she must be friendly, at least for her father's sake and despite being tired and jet-lagged from the flight. In his turn, he interpreted that oh as a condescending admission—that there was nothing about him to suggest who he was: a businessman, a property-owner, one of the most respected men in Milton. He had been in contact with Mr. Hale of course, but had only heard rumors about his family. There was an aunt who was once a great fashion model and still considered something of a celebrity. The daughter, he had assumed, would be a young girl.

"It is a beautiful library," she continued, hoping to assuage him with the compliment. "I would like to explore a little more, with your permission."

Thornton replied curtly that she could do as she wanted, at the same time both glad and irritated that she hadn't asked him to show her around the building. No one knew this place as well as he did—he reminded himself that it wouldn't be true much longer, once Mr. Hale began his stewardship.

She left him alone and he was able to read in peace for the next several minutes before he heard Margaret's whispering voice again in the nonfiction hall, accompanied now by a second voice. Leaving the sanctuary of the office, he found Margaret with what must have been her father. She had taken him by the arm and was leading the way back to the lobby when they saw him, and Mr. Hale was so kind and courteous that Thornton nearly forgot all of the awkwardness before. This was someone he was genuinely glad to have met.

"I could entrust this place to no one else," Thornton was saying, "especially when you've been so highly recommended by Mr. Bell."

"Does he come up here often?"

"Every now and then, to check on his property," Thornton replied. "He owns the land and buildings that MarlboroughTech runs out of, in addition to several others. Maybe he will visit more often, now that you and your family are here." He didn't sound very happy about the idea.

"Well, he'll know right where to find us. Mr. Thornton, I'll see you tomorrow," he said, shaking Thornton's hand warmly. He looked for Margaret but she was already heading outside.

Thornton returned back to his work, thinking that he could pull some of the records about the city's creation that were archived here if Margaret wanted to learn more about Milton. The structured, planned city meant that sometimes people behaved more like they lived in a small town—rumors and gossip about the newcomers from California would be a popular topic for the next week or two. He didn't care for the stories, but he did have pride in his hometown, and it was that part of him that wanted to know what they would make of Milton.

"And what was he like? Mr. Thornton?"

"Ask Margaret," Mr. Hale said, reaching into the basket at the center of the table and pulling out another roll, "she spent more time with him than I did."

Margaret frowned. They were in the middle of dinner, so there was nowhere to escape, and the questions kept coming. It was putting her off her tea. "He's fine, I guess. Not very talkative…and brusque when he did speak—"

"He's to-the-point, I think is what Margaret was trying to say," her father interrupted, eager to put a positive spin on the description.

"But I think he is just the sort of person you would expect Milton to produce," Margaret finished.

Her mother nodded. Finished with his bread, Mr. Hale's right hand sought hers out, the fingers clasping together. "I think we will be considered by many here to be characteristic of California, someone the west would produce, as you said. When we get to know each other better, I'm sure we won't need these generalizations anymore."

"I thought he was about the same age as Henry Lennox," her father said, not noticing as Margaret tried unsuccessfully not to choke on her drink. "Do you think they're similar at all, Margaret?"

She didn't think there could be a worse topic than her personal opinions of John Thornton, but they had found it in Henry Lennox. Wallowing in those memories was for the bubble bath she had planned for that night—not for the dinner table, and not for her parents. She coughed several times, her eyes watering a little from the burn in her throat. "I couldn't say. I suppose they're very different."

Margaret turned to her mother, desperate for a change in conversation. "You'll see it tomorrow, but that wallpaper in the house is even worse than father said it was. You must prepare yourself."

Later that evening, chin deep in scented bubbles, she allowed herself to think about Henry Lennox. Once Edith got engaged to Henry's brother, they saw each other about as often as their own families. And the week before they left for Milton he showed up, oblivious to the mess of cardboard boxes and dust left behind in the wake of the furniture sales, and told Margaret that he was in love with her. He had asked her to stay behind—her parents didn't know. And when she had told him, gently but firmly, that he was like a brother to her, and nothing more, Henry had sulked so much that even Edith had noticed. In that way, Margaret was glad that they had moved so far away—it wasn't running away, she had nothing to feel guilty about or to run from—but this could be an opportunity for a fresh start. She blew at the bubbles floating across the water. At the very least, it was a silver lining.

A/N:

1. While this story is a modern adaptation, it's meant to take place in an unspecified time in the mid-2000s.

2. It's in the book category so I'm only putting in a little flavor of the miniseries (love them both equally!) …in fact, I've never written a story in this category at all before, so let me know what you thought! Things will start to diverge quite a bit in the upcoming chapters.

3. I'm aiming to update once a week at the very least, so Chapter 2 should be out by next Monday. In addition, all pre-chapter quotes will come from North & South itself.

4. Thank you and much love to my beta, My Misguided Fairytale! She also made the amazing icon for my story, thanks so much!

5. Thank you for reading and please review, I value and treasure each one.