If there is anything that you may offer him in terms of comfort, I would very much like you to do so, Margaret. My poor friend is so downcast lately, I think that we should attempt to cheer him up. I am enclosing a note, which you may send with our gift. In this way, John will know that it has come from me; you will be spared any discomfort from the awkwardness between the two of you. You may send Dixon if you do not wish to see Mr Thornton yourself…"
A wintry chill was still hanging in the air as Margaret Hale made her way through the damp streets of Milton. A basket was swinging merrily in the crook of her arm, belying a bravery she felt not. Her father had been away for some time now, and while in the throes of her own lonely isolation, he had reminded her that another of their intimate acquaintance may be experiencing distress. Her own relationship with Mr Thornton had been dashed upon so many rocks that it was doubtless irreparable, no matter how she regretted the situation. Her heart plummeted upon remembering his words to her, and knowing the depth of his disapprobation of what he thought her actions to be. The words of his mother also rang in her ears, and almost caused her feet to falter on their path.
No, she thought, I must not, will not, be deterred. After all, it must be done, out of duty to her father's wishes if for no other purpose of her own.
An accident of timing had afforded Margaret a window into John Thornton's heavy heart, as she had been passing the door to her father's study when last they had met prior to her father's visit to Oxford. She knew more than he said even to her father; she knew the role of her own actions and words in his sorrows, and felt keenly ashamed of them. Though he much misunderstood her!
Margaret had seen the paleness of his countenance the day her father went to Oxford, and several times since when she had observed him out walking, while she was on her way to visit Mary Higgins. After much inner turmoil, she had resolved to be the one to deliver her father's kind sentiments to Mr Thornton, whether he chose to accept them from her or not. It was right to, in the very least, try. To this purpose, she was walking with her basket filled with biscuits and a book recommended by her father. She also hoped, in no small part, that she may begin to make amends for the terrible hash she had made of their every interaction to this point.
She was admitted through the gates of Marlborough Mills, and directed to the Master's office by the foreman. She felt her hands begin to tremble as she approached the door, but forced a shaky sigh and resolved that she was too far in to turn back now. The overseer told her to knock, but to then enter and wait for the Master if there was no reply, as he may not be within. He also mentioned that Mrs Thornton was away visiting Fanny, and would be thus until late that evening.
With a deep, steadying breath, she knocked, and waited. No reply came from within the small room beyond the door.
She dithered a moment, trying to decide whether to leave the basket outside the door, or proceed as instructed by the foreman. She was so unwilling to do further damage by entering his private space uninvited that she almost lost her nerve.
No! I must do this. At any rate, I am lost no matter whether I proceed or not.
A sense of dread overshadowing her every move, Margaret silently entered through the door. She quietly turned and closed it behind herself, then turned and almost dropped her basket in fright!
Planning to leave the basket with her father's note enclosed on his desk and leave again post-haste, Margaret was not at all prepared for the sight of the man himself!
A moment of breathlessness, of scrambling to apologise filled her head, but swiftly abated when she saw the truth of what she beheld. The tall, intimidating figure of Mr Thornton was slumped over his papers, his dark head resting on his arms. Small snores emanated from his figure, and Margaret could see that he was wearing the same shirt and cravat she had seen him in the previous day. He had clearly worked through the night without rest. Her breath caught in her throat as she wondered what to do; after self-consultation, she resolved to leave the basket next to him and slip away before he awoke.
The room was bitterly cold, and she willed her hands not to shake as she lowered the basket onto the desk. To her absolute horror, her fingers grazed the top of his dark head as she attempted to withdraw her hand. She stifled a gasp; the heat radiating from him left her fingers tingling.
She turned swiftly to leave, for he would be horrified to know that she had seen him in such a vulnerable state. But the strain of his appearance, the visibility of his misery, broke what few pieces of her heart had remained intact. Briefly ignoring all sense of propriety, she turned back and reached out her hand. She tenderly caressed the raven dark hair at the nape of his neck. How she wished to erase the pain he was experiencing!
Then, with her cheeks aflame, she scurried swiftly from the room before her moment of temporary insanity woke him and ruined her escape. She slipped unseen back through the gate and fairly ran back home to Crampton, her heart thudding the whole while.
She had been home barely an hour, attempting to calm her frayed nerves with re-reading her father's letter, when she saw the weary figure of Mr Bell in the street beyond the window.
Then all thoughts of John Thornton, and his heat, fled her mind.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but my admiration for Elizabeth Gaskell and her marvelous characters.