The constant thunder of mill machines used to make Margaret Hale's teeth clench. While it did not sooth her, as her mother-in-law seemed to respond, Margaret had learned to tolerate the sound, for the mill's silence carried far worse implications that had nearly cost the one she loved entirely too much.
John was busy today – John was always busy, it seemed. With Margaret's investment secured and Nicholas's petition put to good use re-hiring workers, Mr. Thornton wasted no time awakening the machinery and setting about filling orders with an almost inhuman fervor. While it would take some time for Marlborough Mills to return to its former efficient grandeur, its proprietor was determined to make that period as short as possible.
As Margaret strode into the noisy courtyard, easily dodging immense black and bay Shire horses and busy workers sweating despite the November chill, many tipped their hats and murmured, "Good day, Miss Hale," as she passed. She knew many of their names, and all of them by sight. She smiled and nodded in return, hugging herself a little in a gesture that could be construed as a woman reacting to the cold in the air. But she was embracing the fact that, very soon, she would no long be known as Miss Hale. Her name would become Margaret Thornton, and it still overwhelmed her, how fervently she wanted to take her man's name, become John Thornton's wife.
The tide of men, women, and children parted around her, politely leaving the way to the master's office clear. It had become a habit ever since their return to the north, and all of John's employees had quickly grasped the pattern. Margaret would head out from her rented home in the mornings – run errands, visit her friends about town and in the working district. She no longer thought it odd that a woman of her birth and circumstance had more friends in the latter category, rather than the former. She helped where she could, but these proud northerners were reluctant to take charity, even from one they respected such as herself. If they took it at all, Margaret knew it was because of Nicholas's encouragement.
Once her tasks were completed for the day, she came to Marlborough in the afternoon, checking on John. If he hadn't eaten, she'd herd him to the kitchen out back. If he had, she'd drag him out of the office for a walk, with or without a destination in mind. Or, if John stubbornly dug in his heels, which he had on a few occasions, Margaret would stay, sipping the tea she managed to scrounge up and doing her best to distract him. He hadn't understood her intentions the first few times, his hot temper and sharp tongue demanding that she leave him to his work in peace. But Margaret had explained her concern for her fiancé's welfare, especially his health, both physical and mental. She'd not leave him shackled to a desk when they were married; why should she allow it simply because they were engaged?
He'd grumbled and frowned, but had eventually conceded. John never told her why he was so adamant to even the mill's keel as swiftly as he could, but Margaret had to guess it was because of his pride. Her John did have a great deal of it, heaven knew. But then, so did she. That clash of pride was the only thing that kept them from overwhelming each other, as they would have done to any other mere mortal.
As Margaret hoisted her skirts and made her way up the sturdy, dusty stairs to her fiancé's office, she glanced over her shoulder. Yes, there were more than a few thread-bare coats, pale fingers curled against the cold under the weak puff of warming breath, haggard coughs from the combination of the season and the fluff. But she also knew that the mill was kept reasonably warm despite the expense it cost John, the kitchen even more so. It wasn't perfect; Margaret wasn't naïve enough to believe it ever would be, not any more. But it was good, and getting better.
She opened the door, striding confidently down the plain corridor to John's office, the marbled glass pane simply marked Thornton. She ran her fingers along the glass just under the letters ever so lightly, as she did every time she came to the office, and smiled. Margaret opened the door without waiting for an invitation, unbuttoning her favorite brown jacket as the warmth from the dying fire weakly slipped through the air, tucking her gloves in her pockets and unwinding her scarf. All the while, her fiancé's sleek, dark head remained bowed over his desk, his quill scratching swiftly at one of three brown ledgers spread over the surface, open and leafed with papers, his jacket draped over the back of the chair despite the chill of the weather. She knew from experience that John kept his factory warmer than his office. He'd told her once it was simply a matter of priority.
"I'll be with you in a moment," he murmured flatly, and Margaret's lips curved. There was that beautiful voice, lilted from the north and roughened by fluff, clever and lovely and silky along her spine. Still smiling, Margaret delicately cleared her throat.
It took a bit, but finally Thornton looked up. For a moment, his mind was still on the papers in front of him as he regarded her, his icy blue eyes temporarily blank from incomprehension. Then he smiled, the tiny curl to his lips softening his entire expression as the charcoal ring around his pupils warmed the irises.
"Margaret," he said quietly, joy subtly tinting his tone, pushing back from his desk hurriedly and moving around the mountain range of wood and paper and leather to her. She reached out to grasp John's tentatively offered hands, having learned several months ago through some rather magnificent misunderstanding that he doubted himself, not the intensity of either of their affection. It had surprised her, that the confident, aggressive, proud John Thornton was unsure of the fidelity of her love simply because he imagined himself unworthy of it. But then, Margaret doubted herself too on occasion, and she knew others thought her haughty and conceited. She also knew that there was nothing she could do, not even if she had a hundred lifetimes, to be worthy of the love of such a man as John Thornton. So knowing, she'd set out on a mission that she would gladly pursue even if it took all the days of her life – reminding, reassuring, and reinforcing her love for John. For she knew even when he had hated her, he loved her. She prayed God would forgive her for how foolishly long it had taken her to realize her mistake, and the incredible gift of his enduring regard.
He leaned down and brushed a kiss against her cheek, pausing before softly pressing his lips to hers. Margaret sank into the kiss like soft silk, slightly squeezing his fingers in hers as the kiss, and the feelings it sparked in her, surged to life, soft against her skin and sparkling in her blood. She'd seen his thin mouth arranged in all manner of expression – straight with concentration, tight with disapproval, tipped up with that small, secret smile, and twisted in a cruel snarl. But never, never had Margaret ever guessed how soft John's lips were, how clever and sweet. Now, she longed for their kisses, longed to feel his lips against her own and his touch against her skin, even if it was still just the innocent holding of hands.
How silly it seemed now, her reluctance to shake his hand. Margaret now reached for it whenever she could, entranced by the feel of his work-roughened palm against hers and his long fingers threaded through her delicate ones. His touch gave her such strength and joy, Margaret couldn't imagine how she'd lived all her years without it. When John finally broke the kiss, leaning back as his long lashes fluttered up, Margaret smiled at him dreamily. She didn't know why kissing John made her bones, her heart, her soul feel soft and strong, but it did. He released one of her hands to carefully, gently, cup her jaw, his thumb stroking over her cheekbone like he believed she was wrought from glass.
Feeling mischievous and well-loved, Margaret turned her head, pressing a kiss to his palm. She felt a shiver run along her fiancé's lean, tall frame, and Margaret couldn't help the smile that stole across her face. Whether he meant it or not, John made her feel like a goddess. She only hoped that when the time came, she could in turn make him feel like a god. Flushing a little at the thought, she couldn't help the slight duck of her head.
"You're a dangerous woman, Margaret Hale," John murmured, his voice wry as he tipped her face back up. This kiss was a little more chaste and friendly, but warm nonetheless; she could feel his smile against her lips. When they finally moved apart, he still kept hold of one of her hands, escorting her to a chair in front of his desk before resuming his seat behind it.
"Only for two more weeks. Then, I will be neither dangerous, nor a Hale any longer." John glanced at her as he sat, his hooded eyes barely shielding the possessive determination that blazed in them. It made her warm inside, the way John looked when he was driven to defend, to protect. To have, especially her. It was shocking for someone who had been alone and independent for as long as she had to be gifted with that sort of loyalty and love.
"Two weeks too bloody long, if you ask me" he growled, sitting and snatching up his quill. But instead of returning to his notes, he ran the feather through his fingers repeatedly, scowling down at the instrument as if it had done him some sort of offense simply by merit of its existence.
"Simply payment for two weeks in Spain. An easy enough bargain, my love." Margaret's face lost its teasing charm, seriousness stealing across her features as she searched out John's eyes. "I must thank you again, John. It… it means a great deal to me, the destination of our honeymoon." He finally looked up from his glare at the quill, his countenance softening into one of quiet strength that calmed Margaret, both her fears and needs. For what could she fear, what more could she need, when she had this man? John set the writing utensil aside and reached out across his busy desk, Margaret quickly taking his offered hand. She slowly stroked her thumb over the hard ridges of his knuckles, swallowing at the tears in her throat. John hated tears – she'd thought he'd nearly swoon with distress the one time he'd come upon her weeping.
"Of course, my dear. It's hardly a trial. And… I know now how much that location must mean to you."
Yes, of course. Her wonderful John had suggested Spain as soon as the topic had arisen, in his gruff, aloof way he had when he was embarrassed by the tenderness of his heart. Margaret hadn't given an inch of a damn that his mother had been in the room at the time; she'd leapt up and gathered him close, kissing him enthusiastically for his stunning generosity.
She was so glad to be able to see Frederick again. Margaret had written him of their father's death, but had begged for no reply; his last brush with danger had been all too firm. This way, she could see him again, show off her beloved husband without putting her beloved brother in danger. It was better this way. John knew how much it meant to her, and it frightened her to think of what he might do for her in this regard, especially considering what he'd done for her in the past.
She'd not endanger them, the two men she loved more than anyone, the only ones left to her in this world that held her heart. This way, she could see her brother, enjoy her honeymoon with her new husband, and neither of them would be in danger. And if she had to travel all the way to the end of the Continent, it was no sacrifice.
Gently, she released John's hand, heading towards the battered tea kettle he kept atop the small wood-burning stove, the embers barely glowing. Margaret set about the task of bringing the flames up to muster, preparing the tea to boil, the tin of leaves at the ready. She asked him if he'd eaten already – he had. She queried about the status of the mill and its workers – he assured her all was well. It was a normal enough conversation, and was often the precursor to a more in-depth explanation as to the machinations of such a broad industry.
Initially, John had been resistant to explain his work to her. He had been beholden to no one as to the functioning of his factory since its inception, and had worked for so long as the head of the family, he was unfamiliar to sharing the burden of even something as trivial as information. But Margaret was determined to never be a blind benefactor of her wealth; if she was to profit from her inheritance, she wanted to know how and why. Regardless of anything else, her conscience demanded it.
So she'd managed to eventually coax John into explaining some of the machinations of the factory. It didn't set her mind ablaze, but it soothed her to know that, in her own small way, she lessened the burden that weighed on his sleek, strong shoulders. And she was curious, eager to know what both her friends and her fiancé worked to achieve and struggled to survive.
She managed to convince him to relinquish his quill and accept the cup of tea she offered. Margaret could make a much better cup of tea usually, but made do with the available materials. As he sipped at the cup, alternating between glancing up at her and looking down at his ledgers, Margaret took the opportunity to observe him unwatched. John was tired – he had circles under his eyes, and while he was gaining back some of the weight he'd lost during the temporary closure of Marlborough, he had yet to regain it all, leaving his cheekbones knife sharp above slightly hollow cheeks. What color he'd acquired during the summer was already fading, and she'd learned during their engagement that when he pressed his fingers into his temple as he was doing now, there was a headache brewing in that clever head of his.
Setting her cup of tea on the desk, Margaret stood with a bolstering breath before rounding the edge to where John sat. He followed her movement with keen eyes, his expression slightly questioning, but he was learning to wait until she gave him a reason before he demanded it. Knowing that it was brazen, Margaret slowly seated herself on John's lap. His hands went to her hips to steady her once they'd almost clumsily deposited the tea, but didn't nudge her off the extremely inappropriate situation they now found themselves in.
He tipped his face up to meet her eyes, and Margaret pressed a kiss to his brow, combing her fingers through his dark hair. Remembering how Dixon would occasionally rub her mother's brow when she couldn't sleep during the later stages of her illness, Margaret slowly circled her thumbs over his temples, smoothing a palm over his brow and ear as she traced the pad of her thumb along one dark eyebrow. She could feel the tension in his frame slowly dissipating underneath her, caressing her fingers through his hair as she held him close.
"Have you been sleeping, John?" she whispered in his ear, smiling a little when he comfortably wrapped his arms around her waist as he leaned into her hands.
"Enough," he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion and contentment. Margaret allowed herself a wry smile at his customary answer, focusing on relaxing him as much as possible. She would be furious with him if he worked himself into the ground before the wedding. As for after, Margaret hoped they could establish a routine that wouldn't threaten her husband's health.
His icy blue eyes drifted shut, his breathing slowed. If he wasn't still steadily holding her securely on his legs, she would guess that John had fallen asleep. Margaret worked until her fingers began to cramp, carding through his hair one final time before kissing the crown of his head and slipping back to her feet. She waited, though, until his eyes slowly opened, hazy and unfocused and warm. She took one of his hands in hers, kissing his knuckles in a gesture that would appear odd to anyone else, but had special meaning to them.
"You're cold," she pointed out, trying to minimize the frown of concern that wanted to crease across her face. John did not respond well to disapproving worry. He simply shrugged at her observation, the hard focus already returning to his eyes.
"Not really. I'm fine, Margaret," he reassured her, his attention already back on his books. Deciding that she wanted one last parting shot, Margaret pulled his jacket free from where it hung on the back of his chair, draping it over his shoulders. As she smoothed the fabric along the muscles of his shoulders and back, she leaned forward, until she could breathe her final sentence in his ear.
"Well, soon enough, I'll be the one keeping you warm." With that, she strolled around the desk, retrieving her scarf just long enough to cast a coy glance over her shoulder, struggling against the giggle that wanted to burst free from the thunderstruck expression on John's face. She sauntered out of his office, not even the prospect of tea with Mrs. Thornton enough to dim her jubilant mood.
I actually typed this up some time ago, but after rewatching N&S again, I figured that this was wasting away in my folders, and deserved the chance to be read.
Well, this is fun! North and South was my introduction to Richard Armitage, and he blew my mind. I extremely enjoyed the series, and thought it would be a grand little exercise to toy with some of the details of their HEA. As this is a side project to a side project to a main project, updates will not be the order of the day. But when I get round to it, I'll bang out a chapter now and then. For now, enjoy these two flirting. I think it's freaking adorable.
Hope you like it!
Love, Tango