A/N: I had initially intended this to only be a one-shot, but after some wonderful positive reviews, I decided to extend it a little. This FF will now be a series of pieces, in the theme of 'heat', which will flow in a linear timeline but not necessarily be a continuous chapter by chapter 'story'. Fluff in the air so to speak. I love the original canon and I think it is crucial for the perfect development of the characters, so while I don't want to change any of the book's events, I can't promise not to supplement them a little. I am primarily going to concentrate on after the end of the book though.
This chapter is a direct continuation of the last, as requested by fis, kandern and EyreGirl. Thank you all so much, you cannot possibly know how much you even bothering to read my piece has meant to me! This is very much for you xx
Mr Thornton gradually began to come to his senses when he heard the whistle blow to signify the break for the workers. It took his dazed mind a moment to come to grips with the idea of a whistle in middle of the night, then sat bolt upright as the truth dawned; it was not night. As he sat up, the top of his sleep-ruffled head grazed painfully on some unusual object present on his desk. Rubbing the now tender spot, he glared bleary-eyed down at the offending article.
A basket.
He felt utterly mortified at having fallen asleep at his desk, but the feeling grew to a sense of dread when he realised that he had never seen it before. Somehow, while he slept, it had appeared. Some person had entered his office, and seen him thus indisposed.
He swore crossly and scrubbed at his eyes, his cheeks burning beneath the stubble. He had barely slept for the previous weeks, but last night in particular he had not at all. He had not been able to bear the thought of retiring until he had looked over the books just one more time. Which had become another time, and another, until dawn began to break and he could feel his resolve crumbling. He had risen from his chair and walked around the mill as it began is hustle and bustle for the day, and had very nearly coloured at Nicholas Higgins' knowing and sad glance. How the man managed to see straight through him of late, he would never know. But, by God he was glad of him now.
Williams had already set the wheels in motion for the day, so to speak, and so after conversing briefly with him to discuss the terms of the day's work, Mr Thornton had retreated back to his office to see what else could be done about it. There was no way to soften it now; if something was not done very soon, he would lose all.
He sighed deeply and turned his attention back to the basket on his desk, reaching a curious hand underneath the muslin covering and pulling out a lumpy, paper wrapped package. His mouth twitched into a small smile despite himself; biscuits, the soft scent of them eliciting a dull growl from his stomach. Something about the smell seemed familiar to him, which stirred up a feeling of disquiet. He shot a hand back into the basket, and pulled out the other article within; a stout, albeit careworn, book.
His stomach twisted with growing apprehension; when a small note in a familiar hand fell down from the top of the book, realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning.
Mr. Hale! He thought, so touched that his throat was suddenly obscured by a lump. The thoughtfulness of his respected and valued friend in what he knew to be a difficult season for Mr Thornton was so instinctively fatherly, that he was almost undone by it. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Thornton closed his eyes and groaned quietly. Regardless of how touched he was, he also knew how the basket had come to be on his desk.
Baskets. The whole affair is Margaret through and through. Baskets, and books, and biscuits.
He felt a pit opening up within him, wide and ready to swallow him whole. She had seen him, asleep in a pile of ledgers, and had left without a word. She was, as ever, maddeningly obtuse. What was he to think about this? He read the note from his dear friend, and could not help but give a sad little smile; he had gone to pains to present the gift as being from him, and hinted ever so subtly that Margaret played little part in it. No matter what he said, Thornton knew differently. Margaret would, he knew, not entrust this to anyone else. He also suspected that her infallible sense of right would have compelled her to be the bearer of the gift out of respect to his friendship with her father, regardless of their perceptions of each other at present.
The tumult of his sudden rush of feeling became decidedly too much, and he threw himself to his feet. He would not, could not, remain a moment longer. He threw his coat on to buffer against the wind outside (she had walked on a day such as this, to leave this for him!), and resolved to hunt out Williams to confirm his suspicion.
He had not made it past the door of the newly established dining hall, when Higgins stopped him in his tracks, and delivered the news which drained all the heat of his turmoil from his cheeks in sudden and smarting grief.
He felt as cold as the air he stood in, for his thoughtful, fatherly friend was gone.