Thank you for your lovely comments so far! I have no idea if this is a good response for this fandom or not, but you've not had a bad word to say yet which is encouraging.

Already, this story is growing. This chapter was intended to cover the content of the next chapter as well, but the Victorians are even wordier than anticipated.

Chapter One

Margaret was thankful for the hushed silence of the house in Crampton when she crept through the front door and closed it behind her, unready to face any further interaction for the time being. A kind of shocked numbness held the waves of humiliation at bay, although her flushed cheeks were not entirely due to her flight home. She paused in the hallway and struggled to gather her breath.

This would be only the beginning. Other incidents were sure to follow.

The worst part was to have a witness to her dressing down. Though Mr Thornton was already well aware of her conduct—indeed, he likely felt it worse than it had been—it still chilled her to think of how he'd been a spectator at such a low moment. And she had not even dared defend herself to the other women, not when it would necessarily involve her telling untruths before him. She had lied quite enough already, and he knew it.

She tiptoed into the kitchen, depositing the empty basket in its usual perch. Dixon would have to go for groceries herself when she returned from her own errands. Margaret had no fear anyone would dare raise the issue of her public indiscretions with their faithful maid.

Not that any reticence would last long. One wagging tongue had already become two, and would easily multiply further, until there might be nobody left in Milton who had not heard whispers about the southern girl and her wayward behaviour. Her future here held a stark promise: that of a social outcast. Worse, it threatened her father's standing in the community, already frail enough.

Margaret felt quite friendless, so soon after Bessy's death. Now she felt even Nicholas Higgins was forbidden to her, lest that fuel the fire any further. Instead, Margaret must confine herself to the house under the guise of extended mourning, and take steps to free herself from the circumstances she found herself in. She could see only one path open to her at this juncture: a move to London to live with her Aunt Shaw, freshly returned from Italy. There, the tittle-tattle of provincial towns would not follow her.

It would pain her father for her to leave him, but it was the only way to shield him from the effect her careless actions would cause.

Indeed, she must write to Aunt Shaw today, begging renewed shelter under her roof. Margaret would claim an intense desire to be away from the place where her mother had died, and return to the house where she had spent many happy years in her youth. Perhaps, there, she might indeed be able to find some measure of that happiness again, no matter how unlikely it seemed at this time.

She moved upstairs to the sitting room, which lay empty. Her father appeared to be out of the house entirely, likely gone to the lyceum hall to resume his lectures. However, a small pile of correspondence waited on the mantel above the fire, addressed to Margaret in a familiar hand.

It was fortuitous Aunt Shaw had already written to her, providing Margaret with a natural opening to plead her case, and she took the letters down. The second also bore her name but not writing she recognised, until she turned the envelope over and found the stamp of Henry Lennox.

Her pulse quickened at this—he may have news of Frederick, who had not yet written to Margaret to confirm he was safely back in Cadiz. She bit her lip and retreated to her own room, where her writing desk awaited. Here she could read and then respond without interference from anyone returning to the house.

Lennox's letter was her priority. She devoured the words hastily with her breath caught in her lungs until she was sure he had not written to tell her Fred was caught. Then, her fears allayed, she read the letter again, confusion replacing her dread.

Whilst I have every sympathy for your brother, in light of current circumstance I believe it improper to associate myself further with your family.

What on earth did he mean?

She turned, then, to Aunt Shaw's letter, hoping she could shed light on Henry's innuendo and half-hinted at decision.

What she found in this letter was worse.

To return to England and in the depths of my grief for my dearest sister, be faced with whispers about your conduct…the accusations about my failure to instill in you a proper regard for morality…the insinuations being made about Edith! I am only glad she still dwells in Corfu, away from the harshest words!

Somehow, word had made it to London about two salient pieces of hearsay: Margaret protecting Mr Thornton during the riot, and being seen out at night with a stranger. Aunt Shaw was effectively disassociating herself from her once foster daughter, and forbidding contact with Edith, at least until Margaret's reputation was repaired.

Yet Margaret had no idea how she would do such a thing.

The world span away from her, her fragile hope shattering as the true hopelessness of her situation settled. She was forced to stay in Milton, facing the slander and ridicule. At some point it would inevitably reach her father, and this would be a terrible blow to him in his fragile state.

It seemed, in her desire to provide comfort to her mother in her final days, Margaret had taken risks that would have a lasting impact on them all. Frederick might yet be captured and tried, and her father faced greater heartbreak while she met an unhappy future as a spinster. No man would have her, not even—

She quelled that thought. He must despise her now. Of all the things she might have done to dissuade his affections, she had surely surpassed any purposeful scheme she could have dreamt of.

Margaret was not sure why this thought stung so much.

She heard the front door close downstairs and hastily stashed the letters in a drawer, any thought of responding to them discarded. It was clear no answer was expected. Margaret left the room and returned to the sitting room, awaiting her father's entrance.


John did not go immediately to the Hales' home, forced instead to return to the mill and complete the day's work. Despite his thoughts being consumed by Miss Hale, he must focus on his business, lest he have nothing at all to offer. He even took lunch in his office, though he did enquire if Fanny was home, ready to tear a strip off her for her loose tongue. Luckily for her, she was out calling on other ladies, though hearing this John's ire only grew. He knew what topic would preoccupy her.

It was right that he did not blindly act, as he had once done before. He could not be led by his passions, even though they guided this decision, because nothing seemed to cause greater conflict between himself and Miss Hale than his own temper. Even if his anger was not initially aimed at her, she had a knack for stoking it and drawing it towards her anyway. No, when he approached he must be calm and logical. Miss Hale had a keen mind and would respond to a solid argument, well made.

To that end, he sent a note to Mr Hale, expressing his wish to resume their lessons when Mr Hale felt ready. John was sure his friend would need company, isolated as he was, and John's avoidance of the house following Miss Hale's indiscretion must only have served to exacerbate that. In truth, John had been a poor friend to his teacher, even though he was sure Mr Hale had more on his mind than Plato, and was also unaware of his daughter's unwitting part in a criminal inquiry.

The note he received in return explained that Mr Hale would be dining with his friend Mr Bell that evening, but he would be available the following night. This suited John well, as it meant Miss Hale would likely be alone tonight. He would not need to speak to her in front of her father, a conversation he had no doubt she would wish to hold in private.

John's thoughts lingered a moment on his landlord. The man was genial enough, if he did personify everything John perceived wrong with the south. A Milton man by birth, and yet he had left it all behind for a life of intellectual pursuits, with precious little in the way of obligations or responsibilities. Even financial matters were delegated to others for the most part. And yes, John envied his wealth a little, but what John had, he had earned through his own toil. Better the workers turn their own resentments to the likes of Mr Bell who gained their wealth through a fortunate birth.

John's preoccupation with the man came from another concern entirely. Mr Bell had a certain charm which John had never been able to cultivate, and had lavished this on Miss Hale at the dinner some weeks ago. While he had been as gallant with all the ladies present, his interest in Miss Hale had appeared to be more than good manners or the politeness of a family friend. Not that John could blame anyone for turning a hopeful eye on Margaret's beauty, and yet he did. He wondered, though, if Mr Bell's interest would be piqued by Margaret's vulnerable position.

He clenched his fist so hard around his pen that it cracked between his fingers.

Hours later, forsaking his own dinner, he approached the house in Crampton. Though the longest days of summer had passed, the sun had not yet relinquished its hold on the sky this evening, and plenty of folk were still to be found on the streets of the town as he walked. Though none would judge him for visiting the Hales, not when his presence here had been a regular occurrence for a while.

John rapped on the door and waited until the round, stern face of the Hale's servant appeared in the gap as it opened. She made an efficient keeper of the threshold. Though the woman was several inches shorter than him, and several rungs below him socially, the sour expression on her face always made him feel like an errant child.

"Mr Hale isn't home," she stated, without opening the door any wider.

"It isn't him I've come to see."

If she ever feared a tongue-lashing for impertinence, the way she raised an eyebrow at him did not suggest it. She opened her mouth to turn him away, but another voice carried down the stairs.

"Dixon? Did I hear the door?" Margaret enquired, and John could not help the way his heart beat faster at the sound of her.

"Yes, Miss Hale," the servant replied. She offered no further information.

"Well? Who is it?"

"Mr Thornton, miss." She did not break eye contact with him, waiting for the dismissal which would allow her to shut the door in his face.

"Oh." There was the briefest of pauses, and John wondered if all his loin girding had been in vain. "Send him up."

Dixon appeared as if she wished to argue but stepped aside instead to let John pass. She disappeared into the kitchen while grumbling under breath as he made his way up the stairs.

He approached the sitting room cautiously, entering to find Miss Hale sat rigidly in her usual armchair, her hands clasped together and face turned towards the window.

"Good evening," she murmured, without looking at him.

She had every reason for being tense around him. They had not spoken since she refused his hand, and the display in the street today likely meant she was afraid he had come to abrade her for her foolish behaviour.

He took another chair, one positioned where if she turned to face forward she would naturally be looking at him. "Miss Hale," he greeted, and the words sounded grave even to his own ears.

Her shoulders drooped, her body language deflating before him. "It isn't true," she said in a small voice. Not at all like the forthright woman he had learnt to admire.

"Excuse me?" Every time, she caught him by surprise.

She was bolder this time, turning in his direction. "What you believe, it is not true—"

"I saw you with my own two eyes." He did not mean to sound so blunt, and yet there the words lay.

"I am aware, and yet what you believe you witnessed—well, it is not as people are insinuating."

He remained silent, willing her to continue, but instead she sat with her gaze cast down to the floor, her lips sealed.

"Then this man is not your lover?" he pressed.

That bid her raise her head and give a firm shake of it, her eyes meeting his with a pleading intensity. "No," she stated, equally as firmly. "I have no lover. Nor have I ever had one."

It was evident she spoke the truth. A weight lifted from him, one he had not been aware of until he felt the air rushing freely into his lungs at his next breath. His heart unclenched, unfurling from the tight knot it had formed since the evening he saw her on the platform, the ugly threads of envy snapping and loosing their hold on him.

"Then who is he to you?" For that mystery still remained. John had not imagined her familiar embrace, the one which had given rise to his bitterness.

"I—I cannot say. Not yet, at least. The secret is not mine, and to reveal it might do harm."

She seemed so miserable in her words, so reticent and careful, that he did not press further. He had received sufficient answer for now, even if it niggled that she still did not trust him enough with this secret. Had he not proved that he was worthy of her trust? But no matter—she had revealed enough that he felt assured in proceeding with the business which had brought him here.

"I thank you for your honesty, though that is not the reason I have come this evening."

Her eyebrows lifted in a display of curiosity, then something in his face must have given her some insight into his mission, because she dropped her gaze once more with a little hitch of breath. Some of the tension returned, a leftover from the last time they had been in this room together. Neither had thought at the time he would return with the same purpose—not so soon, and yet the moment was upon them.

"I know you do not care for me." Why were the words as hard to find the second time? They stuck in his throat, as if he hadn't rehearsed this for hours when he should have been completing his accounts. "You made that abundantly clear and I had resolved myself to live with the weight of my affections, silently and invisibly. This morning's altercation has made it apparent I must take action. Last time…last time I told you I did not wish to rescue your reputation. Now, as circumstances have changed, I feel I must offer again."

"I see." She would not look at him, instead concentrating on the hands she was wringing together. Delicate skin he which to grasp, to calm them both.

"No, I doubt that you do." He tried to gentle his voice. Could she hear the tremor within it, the nerves taking hold no matter how much resolve he channelled? "Your father is a dear friend of mine. I have no desire to see him brought low by society's punishment of his daughter for her perceived transgressions. I already fear for his health and further strain may be his undoing. A marriage to a man with a solid reputation would repair your own before it can be shattered irreparably—and I have that reputation." He did not mean it as a brag, without the pride his mother would have injected into the conversation.

"I do not wish to be a burden upon anyone," she said quietly.

"You would not be!"

"I fear your offer is only made out of obligation, due to your previous…request…and your compassion for my father. Therefore I would certainly be a burden, a heavy one carried for many years. I never hoped for a loveless marriage and your first offer made it clear that you, too, wished to marry for love. For us to join now would poison the both of us." Still she did not lift her head.

"Then I must correct you," he replied, "before we go any further, because you seem under some misapprehension that a marriage would be loveless on both sides."

Her startled gaze met his for only a moment before it dropped back to the carpet, and his frustration propelled him out of the chair, down onto his knees before her where she could not shy away from him. Her wide eyes regarded him with the faintest glimmer of unshed tears.

"Miss Hale, my prior words still hold true. I love you, and make this offer to you with no expectation that you would return that love. I ask only for your friendship, and your companionship."

"How could that be enough?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Surely it would be a cruelty to you, to—"

"No, no it would not," he insisted. "Let me make my case, plainly. Let me lay out all the reasons I believe this to be the best course, for both of us, before you dismiss me out of hand. Please."

He had not come here to beg, but that was how he found himself, a supplicant at her feet. The last word apparently sealed her permission, because she nodded her assent. Was that a flash of hope he saw in her? No, it must be his own desperation, reflected back at him.

He retreated to the chair, but he had her attention this time. Her gaze did not stray from him as he spoke.

"I have no care for a captive wife," he began, "but nor could I leave you at the mercy of a world which judges you so harshly. I could not bear to know you are unhappy, not when it was within my power to prevent it. Even if you do not believe it possible of me."

She opened her mouth to speak, and John rushed to clarify.

"Our past disagreements have come from poor communication. I believe that no matter how firmly your heart is set against me, we could at least offer each other a friendly alliance. I am not the coarse, unthinking man you judge me as."

"I am aware of that," she cut in. "I did indeed judge you hastily, and the more I have learnt of you, the more my respect has grown."

"I am glad to hear it." She would never know what that gladness felt like, a rush of lightness through his blood. Respect wasn't close to what he wished she felt, but it was a start. Far better than dislike. "It means you are more likely to consider me over any alternatives."

At this, her confusion returned.

"Your father dines with Mr Bell tonight," he soldiered on, doing nothing to ease her bewilderment. He stumbled, trying to make it clear why he was a stronger choice. "There are other men who may still wish to seek your hand, despite your diminished reputation. Some will see you as low-hanging fruit, and treat you as such. Their perception and expectations of you would not be as you deserve, and I could not willingly expose you to their cruelty. Others will expect you to accept their hand because you have no expectation of making a good marriage closer to your own age."

It was clear who he meant by the last, and Margaret's expression told him she thought of the same man. "Mr Bell has always been quite kind to me," she defended him.

"I am sure he has. I believe him to be a good man in all ways, Miss Hale, and one who could keep you in great comfort. But he is not a young man, and there is no love between you. A man of his age seeks a wife only because he wishes for an ornament on his arm, and a nursemaid at his side."

She bristled at this, clearly uncomfortable at the thought of it.

"You may settle for less than love," he said, "but could you settle for less than respect? I have thought long on the type of man who might make you happy, to understand if there are facets of myself I might excavate to become more appealing in your eyes. You do not seek wealth. It is apparent that you need someone who will not dismiss you for your beauty, but cherish your mind and your conviction as well."

Margaret had flushed lightly at his mention of her beauty, but she ought to become used to it. If she did assent to become John's wife, he intended to remind her of his esteem for her attributes as often as possible. He was not known for being loquacious, but he would learn if it would ensure she was always sure of his feelings.

"I would not seek to curtail your freedoms," he continued, "within reason. As my wife, you would need to be seen as standing beside me when it came to matters of business, rather than against me." Her mouth pressed into a firm line of discontent and he hurried to reassure her. "But you would be mistress of Marlborough Mills, and I would be willing to listen to your thoughts on such matters. You have a keen interest, and I would not dismiss that out of hand. Rather, we could find common ground, as you once hoped I would do with my workers. So you see, marriage would not be a prison or a cage for you."

"You have still not told me what benefit this might bring you. I may be inexperienced in matters of love, Mr Thornton, but it strikes me that unreturned affections can only breed misery."

"Not the kind of anguish which would arise were you married to someone else and miserable yourself. Or worse, gone from my life forever. I would rather have the opportunity to do whatever possible to prevent that kind of sorrow, on both our parts. I will not lie and say that marrying you would not bring me some measure of happiness. Of delight, even, though I have not sought to bind you to me out of selfishness, as I hope I have made clear."

Margaret swallowed when he had finished, and held his gaze.

"I am—I am honoured that you would consider making such a proposition. And yet I am not sure I could wilfully subject you to such a uneven relationship." She held up a hand to prevent his interruption. "However, I feel it only fair that I take the time to contemplate your offer in full, before making a decision."

"Yes. Of course." She was correct, it was fair, yet he wanted an answer from her immediately. Either she should dash his hopes for good—let him wash his hands of her once and for all—or give real life to the hope living in his chest. It did not seem fair, but at least she was considering him this time.

And he would not let go of her even if she did not give the answer he wanted once more. He knew he could not, even if he would relent to her decision in public. In private, in his heart and mind, within his soul, he would cling to his earnest adoration of her no matter what pain it caused him. He could do nothing else.

"I will not deliberate long," she vowed, as if sensing his desperation.

He did not speak again, though before he departed he reached out for her, lifting one hand from her lap and to his lips. The kiss he placed there was gentle. He was taking liberties to do even this much. Yet it was all he could offer in lieu of the courtship she deserved, the courtship he had twice failed to deliver.

Then he departed, to wait in agony for the blade to fall a second time.


Opinions vary on Mr Bell. I'm not overly fond of him, but then, I think I'm biased when it comes to Margaret's options.