This is AU, just for fun, and the characters should not be examined too closely. It is just to make your inner fan girl squee. I own nothing, and if any of the actors, or Graham Norton, reads this fic, I maintain that I objectify the character of Thornton. The fact that he is played by a nice looking man, sorry but you are, is just icing on the cake. I felt I needed to make that disclaimer after I've seen Mr. Norton read fanfiction on several different occasions. To the actors everlasting horror.
Margaret picked up the leather gloves and held them carefully, her eyes flitting to the door that had not managed to close completely, a traitorously part of her hoping he'd come back. Still angry no doubt, but it would perhaps give her a chance to take back her harsh words. She had never spoken thus to a person in her entire life and she was utterly ashamed. Her current understanding of herself was muddled as it was, and the weight of her mother's illness, and Bessie's deteriorating health had all but stripped her calm and poise from her.
She sought a chair and heavily sat down, the gloves resting in her lap as she absently stroked the soft and worn leather. An inspection of the interior revealed an almost threadbare midnight blue silk liner.
A favorite pair then, she thought as she ran her fingertips across the fabric. A man of his wealth and standing held onto a pair of gloves out of sentiment. She recalled her words to him, her accusations, and her own supposed dislike so blatantly stated.
In truth, she wasn't sure what she thought of him. But to say that he harbored no true feelings, but thought of her as an acquisition of sorts . . . it was uncalled for, she knew, but she had felt such panicked embarrassment that she had used what words she could to distance herself from the man. The naked hurt on his face had pierced her, knowing that she had caused pain, and the indignant anger he displayed was nothing like how Henry had reacted to her refusal.
To liken the experience to her encounter with Henry produced different feelings entirely.
With Henry Lennox, she had felt utter confusion and discomfort at having been proposed to by a close family friend. With Mr. Thornton . . . the confusion was there but also an underlying sense of awareness. As if she had known on some small instinctive level that those small conversations and little looks had meant a little more to him, that he was trying to reach out to her.
Margaret had firmly told herself that she was unused to the man's ways and thus tried to pay it no mind, especially when they had cause to disagree with each other. And to think, in truth, Milton's most eligible man had fallen for her.
And the riot at the mill had been the tipping point. She had reacted upon instinct, had been carried by the adrenaline in the crowd as their faces had turned ugly. She had thought that they wouldn't hurt a woman and thus sought to protect the person next to her, that was all, surely?
Her actions however, had been seen in an entirely different light. As if she had set her cap for him. As if she had actively sought to ensnare him this whole time. She closed her eyes in mortification, the prick of tears behind her eyes present as her breathing hitched. A voice, warm with concern, broke into her thoughts. "Margaret? My dear, you look positively dreadful, whatever is the matter?"
Margaret opened her reddened eyes to see the fatherly visage of Mr. Bell leaning over her. She quickly wiped at her eyes, embarrassed that a few tears had already leaked out, and avoided his gaze. "I am well, only a little ill at ease."
His astute gaze regarded her for a moment before he took a knee next to her chair. "Did I hear Thornton's voice earlier?"
She stared down at the gloves in her lap and nodded.
Mr. Bell pursued his lips, "And I take your current state is the result of your refusal of his suit?"
Margaret's head snapped up, "How could you know of it?"
The man smiled wryly, "I like to observe people, as you well know, and I happen to know Thornton very well. He has a high regard for you. And I also have taken your measure, my dear, thus I do not understand your tears."
Mr. Bell's kind words prompted a steady stream of said tears to roll down her cheeks as she hiccupped and shook her head forlornly. She honestly didn't understand them either.
He reached out place a handkerchief into her hand, "You are not the sort of woman to cry at things, I think. Made of stronger stuff. But that aside, I must ask, why?"
Margaret looked up hesitantly, "Where is my father?"
"Napping in his chair when I left him," Mr. Bell promised as he rose awkwardly to his feet and dragged a chair closer to hers. The sight of her tear-filled eyes was rather a distressing sight and he was rather thankful that her fragile father was not there to deal with his daughter's situation.
She dotted at her eyes and took a steadying breath, "It is true, that Mr. Thornton . . . Came here to declare himself and offer marriage. And I did refuse him."
"That is most surprising to hear, my dear, for I thought you two were rather well-matched," he said kindly.
Margaret scoffed lightly, "I was so startled that he was there, he talked of the riot, then . . . His hesitancy . . . I knew what he was going to say, and I panicked."
"You speak of your experience with Henry Lennox?"
Margaret looked at him with an alarmed expression, "You know about that?"
"I know everything, dearest. But go on, what happened then?"
"I told him . . . That I found him offensive and accused him of taking advantage," she said with a wince. Mr. Bell patted her hand sympathetically. "Did you mean it?"
"Not truly," she said miserably, "I fear I was projecting my frustration, and . . . To be truthful, I did not think he would have ever offered for me. What with our personalities, our families, my own circumstances . . . my mind was grasping for reasons. Negative ones, I grant you, but logic stated that one such as he had better prospects and that we had never gotten along well."
"And why," Mr. Bell said carefully, "would he not want a beauty like you? A woman who challenges him," he said with a fond smile.
Margaret shook her head, "No, I know many times I let myself get carried away, but I do not think Mr. Thornton would wish for such a harridan."
Mr. Bell guffawed, "You are a spirited woman, not a shrinking violet. And that is precisely why he has been drawn to you from the start."
"I do not see how, for I manage to insult him in some way whenever I open my mouth to speak to him," she murmured as a fresh tear trailed from the corner of her eye.
It had been so easy to think of him as an overbearing master, but as time went on, she had begun to like him as a person. Little by little, she found the smallest thing to appreciate. His attentiveness to her mother, the friendship with her father, and the forthrightness with his mill and workers that even they seemed to appreciate. She grimaced as she next confessed, "I even told him that I disliked him, and always had."
"Is that true?" Mr. Bell asked gently.
"No," she whispered, "He does not treat me as a gentleman of London does, but he has never . . . Patronized me in the same way that Henry has, or those in Aunt Shaw's circle. I fear I did not know how to react."
"All ladies have their own form of armor, it was unlucky for Thornton that he found out yours consisted of heated barbs," Mr. Bell tried to joke lightly, but it fell flat as he glanced at the miserable look on his god-daughter's face. He wrinkled his nose and decided to play another card, "I had thought you returned some of his sentiment, dear."
Margaret truly looked startled then as she looked at him with reddened eyes. "T-that is to say I do respect him as a person, and appreciate the service he has done my family-"
Mr. Bell chortled again, "No, no. I mean you appreciate him as a woman does a man. Do you mean to say you have never felt a tender regard for him?"
She blinked rapidly, opened her mouth slightly, but no words came out. Her eyes moved to the floor, ceiling, then to the gloves in her lap in slight bemusement. With her face scrunched in thought, it was hard not to think of the small girl he had last seen in Helstone, her nose in a book. He allowed her to form her own conclusions, but an academic such as he, he prided himself in being well versed in research and experimentation, so naturally he knew the course ahead. There was no telling how long it would take, and if they would manage to stop impeding their own progress, but it was a wonderful eventuality in his mind.
He wondered if the boy botched their conversations on a regular basis or if he had more than ample assistance from Margaret . . .
"Mr. Bell?"
He returned his attention to her and smiled once more. "I am sorry, sometimes my thoughts wander."
Margaret gave a wan smile in return but it did not reach her eyes, "I am familiar with the sensation."
For a few moments, she looked reluctant to continue, but with an encouraging nod from him, she took a breath. "I confess that he invokes a certain amount of strong feelings, but I had assumed it to be distaste . . ."
"And now?"
She looked utterly torn, "I find that I do not dislike him as I had professed," she admitted in a small voice.
"That wasn't so hard, now was it?"
Margaret gave him a look of exasperated amusement thru her tears, "And how is it, that you managed to pry from me that which I may never have admitted myself?"
Mr. Bell shrugged and quipped, "I missed my calling as a counselor? Now, what shall we do about your predicament, hmm?
"Nothing," she said sadly, "For I have already driven him out."
Mr. Bell tilted his head towards the door, "Have you now? Then who is that standing there?"
With a gasp, Margaret looked up into the sheepish and apologetic eyes of one John Thornton. The man stood awkwardly in the door frame, with one hand still poised on the door knob. "I forgot my things," he murmured as he stared at the floor.
A shameless ploy for reviews. Continue or trash it?