A/N: Could be read as a stand-alone, or as a companion to Into the Embers. Hope you enjoy!

One Moment in Time

'It was her brother. I am glad. I may never see her again; but it is a comfort--a relief--to know that much. I knew she could not be unmaidenly; and yet I yearned for conviction. Now I am glad!'

John Thornton, 'North and South'

It was strange how the events of a single moment in time could change things so utterly and irreversibly. That morning, for the first time in many years he had not wanted to get out of bed to face the new day that beckoned. Before, he had had his business, the mill to strive for. And then thoughts of her hadput a new spring in his step (perhaps that night, he would see her again at his lesson at Mr. Hale's)… Even after that terrible day when these entirely new, half-formed hopes had been dashed, she was still there – still in Milton, still single – much as he strove to quash it, there was always the tiniest, most persistent fragment of hope that she might have a change of heart. Then she had gone to London, forever – he still had his business; all his efforts had gone into that. And now that was gone too.

It was therefore with great reluctance that John Thornton emerged from the protective cocoon of his sheets to go to his mill – no, not his mill anymore – to supervise the sending off of the last orders that he would ever fulfill at Marlborough Mills. It would not be exaggeration to state that he could hardly have been in a greater state of despair. Surveying his abandoned looms, for the first time, he began to understand what might have passed through his father's mind at a time so similar to this, more than eighteen years ago now…

He stopped himself. No, he thought firmly. I am not my father. I have fulfilled my obligations. I may be penniless, but I am also free of debts and at peace with my conscience in knowing that I acted in accordance with my principles. Unconsciously he stood taller and straighter. But… he could not suppress the thought. Father had Mother, and Fanny and I. If I had Margaret by my side, I would never even contemplate…

He sighed deeply. Margaret by my side. That would never be, and there never had been a time when it might have been. She loves someone else. He had seen the look of absolute tenderness on her face as she had embraced that man – he could not have imagined that; it was burned into his brain forever. His heart had caught in his throat at that look, of such devotion and – and this was the part that hurt the most – such familiarity. How long had she loved that other man?

It took Nicholas Higgins a couple of tries before he was successful in breaking into Thornton's reverie. As they spoke, he could not help reflecting that this friendship was due to Margaret as well – if not for her, he might never have seen other ways of running his business for the ultimate benefit of his employees as well as himself. If not for her, the woman who had questioned him, and further, compelled him to question himself, he might not be where he was today. He would ten thousand times rather be the failed mill owner John Thornton who had loved and lost Margaret Hale and learnt a great deal along the way, than the successful mill owner John Thornton, who had never met Margaret Hale, had never known what love was, had perished holding the same, stubborn ideas about the world and his place in it.

It was then that Higgins uttered a few well-placed words, whose meaning changed everything. He was her brother. The man he had taken for her lover, had been her estranged sibling. The man for whose protection she had been willing to stoop to falsehood, had been her only brother, whose life was in danger. He understood now, and in the beautiful emergence of his first true smile in months, he basked in the confirmation of her uncompromised virtue, and the realization that there was nobody else. Was it selfish to give thanks to God that she had not found any other to give her happiness, while he still loved her? Perhaps it was.

His smile slowly faded as he shook hands with Higgins, and said his goodbyes. Margaret might still dislike him and hold him in disdain, but it was something to know that she had never had any other lover, that his faith in her had proved true. He wished he could go to her, tell her that he knew and apologize for his unjust suspicions – but that was not possible.

Suddenly an idea struck him. He might not be able to see her in person, but… without waiting another moment, he set off for the station. There was something he had to do.

So this was it. This paradise of velvety green carpets of grass, open fields and wildflowers, cosy cottages covered in honeysuckle, rambling woods and a sky that was bluer than he had ever seen before – this had been her home. He could finally understand her feelings of homesickness and pride – how could she have ever gotten used to leaden, smoky Milton after this quaint, picturesque place?

The coat which had been necessary in Milton became a hindrance here as the sun beat down on his back, so he removed it and slung it over his shoulder as he crossed a field, following the directions to the old parsonage that the woman at the inn had given him. He stood some distance from the house, surveying it with a mixture of awe and longing. He had never seen anyplace that emanated such a strong vibe of home. This had been her home; here she had grown into the strong, beautiful woman he had loved – her vitality had sprung from this source.

Suddenly, as he was breathing the air that she had breathed once, long ago, he could see her in his mind's eye, as clearly as if she were before him in truth: a laughing little girl, running around the small garden with her brother, going for walks in the fern-filled forests with her father, adorning her hair with the yellow roses she gleaned from the hedgerow, playing at tea parties with her dolls and (if he knew her as well as he thought), climbing trees and accumulating scrapes and bruises from her adventures. Then before his eyes, Margaret grew up and spent her days lying upon the cushion of grass under the old oak in the corner of the field, reading, or sitting on a mossy old tree-stump, heedless of her dress and intent on capturing with her paintbrush the beauty of the world around her.

And time went on. Now she was radiant in the glow of the golden sunshine and her own happiness; her cheeks glowed and her beautiful eyes sparkled with light, half-love, half-laughter. She danced towards him in her simple, elegant white dress and took his arm, smiling. 'What are you doing here, silly? The church is over there!' And she led him through the fields to the dear little chapel, its dull red bricks warmed by the sun; her father the parson awaited them inside, ready to join them in holy matrimony. There was her mother in the pew, and there were all of her friends, moved by her joy. He took it all in as a blur, his thoughts entirely focused on the slim arm that was slipped through his with the confidence of familiar love as they slowly walked up the aisle together. And like that, unshaven, with his cravat missing, his sleeves rolled up, and his coat slung over his shoulder, John Thornton wed Margaret Hale.

He opened his eyes and sighed, kneeling in one of the pews, trying to hold onto the sense of deep-rooted love and peace that flowed through his veins. Lord, let this feeling last. Let it be enough to sustain me for the rest of my life.

He slowly ambled back to her old house, wanting to take a last look and hating the fact that he had to go; he could have stayed here forever. Suddenly, his eyes caught a gleam of yellow half-hidden in the hedgerow – one of the yellow roses that he had seen her wear in his mind's eye. Reaching through the briars, he plucked it by the stem and brought it up to his nose, inhaling its scent. Sweet and pure. He wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief and reverently placed it in his waistcoat pocket. He would take this and preserve it to remind him always of the day that she had shown him her home and had accepted him as her own; the day, he thought with a wry smile, that he had become Mr. Hale, rather than she had become Mrs. Thornton.

He had walked slowly to the little, sleepy train station, his limbs relaxed and his breathing steady. He felt a faint flicker of annoyance as he drew up to the platform only for his train to leave, but then he gave thanks that he had twenty more minutes in Margaret's world, twenty more minutes to immerse himself in her spirit until the next train came along.

As the train arrived noisily, he boarded it, finding himself an empty compartment. He had an uneventful and peaceful journey back to Milton, barring a ten-minute stop at a Midlands station. He never wondered about what he might have missed when that earlier train had left.

He reached home safely, and as the years passed, he reinstated himself by his hard work and merit to his former position and beyond, and as he glided into the serenity of middle age, he was all the greater and more human for having known what it was to truly love.

'I wanted to see the place where Margaret grew to what she is, even at the worst time of all, when I had no hope of ever calling her mine.'

John Thornton, 'North and South'