A/N: I can't thank everyone enough for the follows/favorites and especially the reviews! Seriously, every single one of those notifications in my inbox make my day and pump me up to work on the next chapter! Hope you enjoy this one~ (p.s. I've sent PMs round to those with an account to thank you that way for reviewing!)

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Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters but simply felt inspired to write a different version of Gaskell's amazing and timeless love story.

Chapter 3

Masters and Men

It seemed she had exchanged the fog in London for the smoke in Milton when all she longed for was the clean air of Helstone. Margaret found her fate cruel and did not fathom why it had been so unexpectedly thrust upon her but she kept her doubts to herself and was determined to face what must be faced. Even if this meant that instead of blue skies and sunshine they were lucky to have a fragile ray or two brave the broiling vapors and dare pierce through them to momentarily light up a mere smidgen of one of the cramped rooms. And then the precious brightness it gave, the colors it revived, was inevitably smothered again by the heavy smog outside.

The fact that dark skies and rain could chase away even the loveliest of spring days in that far away hamlet Margaret wished she had remained was conveniently forgotten; after all, being forever removed from it only made it more of a paradise in comparison with the disagreeable weather in Milton and pushed the sunniest memories to the front of her mind and made her quite forgetful of the gray ones the way a parent would neglect to notice the faults and only ever see the merits of their favorite child.

At first the dreary smoke swallowing up the even drearier view of the street had not affected her so. She had been too busy to mind it much seeing the whole house was a maze of furniture that had fit perfectly in the vicarage but was now constantly rearranged and still ended up huddled together awkwardly, impeding on each other's territory and making their owners reinvent how to maneuver around them.

Muscles in her arms and her lower back aching Margaret had infinitely preferred unpacking to the endless shoving around of armchairs and tables. Each time she opened one of the countless boxes it felt like opening a present for they were filled with things that tied her to her old life, companions assisting her in grounding in her new one.

And yet, with every day that passed, with more and more boxes emptied, with other rooms beside her mother's being transformed, and the house nearing that final stage when it could at last be called habitable, she felt increasingly reluctant to find the best spot for the next vase, clock or candelabra. And so she had wandered rather aimlessly through the house with her previous diligence gradually replaced by a wary wish to delay and she found herself a more than willing accomplice in this.

Whether wholly through conscious design or by mere coincidence, every room remained an item or two away from being finished, either a painting still needing to be hung on the wall or an ornament which was still wrapped in paper at the forlorn bottom of a box prevented it. And then there was her own room.

Margaret sat on her knees in the middle of her tiny bedroom, casting around an unhappy look at the chaos that reigned it. She didn't even mind the clutter, or the fact that she had stapled some of the empty boxes next to her bed so her mother would not have to look at them standing in the hall, reminding her of the reality of their move. It was the estrangement she felt that was starting to affect all of her belongings scattered across the room, have them lose their power of enveloping her with memories of her real home.

After another, rare column of light –falling on the tired carpet and making dust dance in the pale beam– was severed from its source by the relentless smoke outside it was like losing a friend that had warmed her in her growing loneliness and Margaret rushed out of her room.

She passed her father's study after peeking around the door frame, seeing him immersed in what had to be the very first book he had taken up to assign a place on the empty bookshelves she didn't wish to disturb him. Instead she followed the low, continuous murmuring to the drawing room –which she really should start to refer to as the sitting room for it was hardly grand enough for receiving guests– where her mother and Dixon were exchanging sad looks and whispered complaints.

Margaret felt once again like an intruder when sentences were abandoned and voices trailed off upon her entering. She felt a strange sense of envy at the affection and trust that was so obvious between the two women, especially as she had hoped her own, weakened bond with her mother due to the long separation might gain strength when they would look to each other for support in this new place. But looking at Dixon seated close to her mother's side, pouring her mistress tea and placing the cup just right after stirring through two sugar lumps made her feel as if sitting down herself and attempt to join them in their daily ritual would not make her a part of it.

Instead she took the cup Dixon offered her in her hands and walked with it to the one, modestly-sized window the room had to offer, back against the two women to dissipate the tense silence that way and hoping they would resume their talk in spite of her presence. She barely tasted the warm liquid on her lips when they eventually did but in such hushed tones to make the exclusion, whether she had brought it upon herself or not, only hurt more.

Had the fanciful thought born from the surrounding smoke that they were living in a poky house of a castle among the clouds entertained her enough to guard herself against the gloominess it had instantly cast on her mother, it was hard to still deflect it now she lacked the confidant that she had in her faithful maid. They might not be sharing their lofty abode with a giant but seeing the smoke wouldn't dissolve but seemed a permanent feature in Milton started to make her feel like she was slowly suffocating and more than anything she wanted to climb down that wretched beanstalk!

As if he had heard her prayer a figure suddenly detached himself from the clutches of the gray-white, coiling mass, and stood there for a moment simply looking up, cane in one hand while with the other he tipped his hat at her and even though she could not immediately recall his face the quaint tie and checkered pants soon helped her remember.

Mr. Bell's natural joviality was the long awaited cure they all needed, it turned out to be quite effective against the shock of the transition and the impracticality of living in a house that was not yet a home and like her parents Margaret latched on to the familiar face he soon represented even to her when he told her of the last time he had seen her as a little girl of eight. Where conversation had been uncharacteristically sparse and a little tentative, the addition of their guest soon lifted most of the weight of it making Margaret silently conclude it was a true blessing to have a stranger in the house.

On the other side of Milton, where smoke dared not dominate for fear of her stern disapproval alone, Mrs. Thornton had come almost simultaneously to a similar conclusion, only she considered it far from a blessing. Not in the habit of entertaining a lot at home, she barely tolerated outsiders within her fortress, but it truly tested her patience to have the stranger in it be her own son!

He had risen later than was usual this morning, only just having time for a hasty breakfast he would always eat with her, before heading out to the mill. He had then skipped tea altogether but had come in twice this past hour already, the first time to exchange one ledger for another and the second time mistaking it to be eight when it was in fact not even six.

Mrs. Thornton watched her son go after staring what seemed a full minute at the massive clock on the marble mantelpiece as if he could not believe the numbers the arms pointed at to be what they were. She blamed that man from Oxford for putting the useless notion in his head to study the classics in what free time he could call his own, usually no more than a few hours after the last shift ended and the machines were silenced. He had mentioned he would have an early supper tonight so he could walk to that Hale family in Crampton for his first lesson, though why that should fill him with such impatience or cause him to be so distracted was beyond her.

A deep frown creased her forehead as Mrs. Thornton reverted her attention back to the inventory list of several household items she had been making although in truth the quill in her hand hovered above the paper a moment longer as she listened to the receding footsteps of her son until they finally and completely faded.

Knowing his mother had spied his absentmindedness with her keen insight, John vowed not to return to the house even if it turned out he had forgotten yet another item he needed. He reentered the office with firm, irritated steps, barely acknowledging the handful of clerks that looked up from their books at him in a way identical to when he had left and come back to the place for the second time in a row –in quick succession too– when normally he wouldn't be pried from behind his desk until the task he had set himself was done.

He retreated instantly to the sectioned off booth he could call his own, practically slammed the hefty ledger on the wooden surface littered with documents and sank in the hard, uncomfortable embrace of his chair.

It had been two weeks. And still, still she plagued his thoughts. He did not doubt it was the distraction and not the person to have inspired it that occupied his mind. After all, he was not a man to allow himself to be distracted, and it baffled him that he didn't even understood what it was that made him think of Miss Hale when he least expected it and really had no use for it.

It would happen when he would be tallying numbers or ascertaining the balance between stock and production, and then, unbidden, the image of her would enter his head and drive all else from it. Those moments were short but long enough to have him have to start over again with whatever he had been in the middle of doing and it irked him beyond measure. In fact, it almost made him regret and want to undo his decision to be taught by Mr. Hale but after some consideration he stuck to his resolve to help the man start up his new career as a private tutor and regard it as a rational and justified investment to revisit what he had learned in school and make up for the gap when he had been taken out of it. And he would not let her change his mind.

With a disproportionate doggedness John leaned forward, planting his elbows demonstratively on the wood and focused on the papers on his desk as if they and they alone made up his entire universe.

Feeling she had lived in an equally small world, Margaret took in a deep breath and stepped out into her freedom with a determination that could rival Mr. Thornton's zeal to do the opposite in imprisoning himself in his office.

Having been confined to their house for neigh on a fortnight it was a welcome relief to go for a walk and she had been glad both Mr. Bell's arrival and her father's very first lecture had provided her with an opportunity to do so. The three of them had set out for the lyceum hall where Mr. Bell introduced his friend to a dozen or so of what would be his pupils for as long as he could bind them to him with all the knowledge he had to offer and share.

The sight of their bustling street in Crampton was therefore sure to dampen her spirits again once they had made their steady and inevitable way back to it. Margaret felt her stomach churn as they passed the butcher wearing a bloodstained apron was busying himself with the fleshy carcasses of pigs while his neighbor held the limp forms of plucked chickens –three in each of his big hands– and the coffin maker across from them was readying his macabre ware for sale. But that sensation was nothing to the stony feeling that filled her entire being the moment they had reached their house, signaling that their little excursion had come to an end already.

"Actually, I am afraid I won't have time to come in," Mr. Bell regretfully declined the invitation, both hands leaning on his cane that rested on the pavement, "as a man of habits I always go on a tour of my properties whenever I find myself in Milton and unfortunately I planned one this very afternoon. Though I admit I was hoping your lovely daughter might wish to accompany me, make it a less tedious affair."

"Well, I am sure she would. Margaret?"

"Oh. Y-yes." she hurriedly stammered back after her father had pulled her from the clutches of the apprehension she felt at having to climb those steps. She had heard Mr. Bell's suggestion but guilt at not wanting to enter what was now really their home and would be for the foreseeable future had made her hesitate to voice the answer that had in fact come readily to her lips even though it tumbled clumsily and belatedly passed them now.

Mr. Bell offered her his arm and the friendly wink he sent her way when they turned about to leave Crampton far behind again at once told her he had effortlessly guessed at her reluctance where thankfully her father had not. She doubted he realized she had another motive for delaying to go inside besides not wanting to return to either her mother's despondent state and her father's inability to comfort her or the confines of her chaotic room.

Tonight would also be when her father's first private pupil would come over and he had mentioned Mr. Thornton's name in eager anticipation so often already during the day she longed to escape hearing it one more time before the man himself would arrive. Moreover, she also couldn't help but inwardly ridicule how the ambition he had apparently briefly expressed in his letters regarding their lessons would turn out not to be the earnest dedication her father's hopeful disposition immediately translated it to.

In her mind instead of this so-called ambition he had spoken of a mercenary spirit to obtain not receive enlightenment –in the same businesslike manner with which she imagined he would buy the materials for whatever trade he engaged in– might prove to be a more accurate description. How else would he read Plato but to appropriate those noble thoughts as something to distinguish himself from his competition; to hold it up like a trophy from the hunt? But Margaret supposed she would have to take her father's word for it, after all, although always inclined to see the light instead of the dark in people he was usually right in discerning when someone had that spark indicative of a bright mind or whether the soil was too arid to cultivate or allow anything to grow.

Still, her first meeting with Mr. Thornton had been awkward enough to make her not want to repeat it nor rekindle that silly captivation with the sound of his voice, if only because both had coincided with her first day in Milton and he had perhaps made more of an impression than the town itself. Though what that impression was she could not tell. All she knew was that she much rather have him stay that silent, unreadable man she had spent twenty minutes talking to in their hotel –about what she couldn't even remember– and not move from that particular memory for instinct alone told her he was the type of man she would neither be friends or enemies with and she could not be bothered to find out where exactly he belonged between those two opposing options.

No. She would leave it to her father to make out the character of his pupil and she would obediently accept it as an accurate portrait, if anything that would absolve her of having to employ herself to perform that dull task.

"Ah! We have come to it at last, my dear. Marlborough Mills."

Mr. Bell's rather ominous announcement at once reconnected her with her senses which in turn absorbed her present location with twice the speed and intensity. Margaret stood for a moment stunned and simply gazed in horror at the imposing structure that loomed over them. The building sported a myriad of chimneys that sprang from the roof like turrets which ceaselessly puffed wisps of smoke, while the red bricks covering the massive form barely managed to contain the din of unseen machines, giving her the distinct impression she was not looking at a building but a grinding, gnawing monster with an insatiable appetite.

Inside of that gluttonous monster of a building, behind one of its many glassy eyes, John was rather unsuccessfully rubbing his fingers free of ink. It was a common occurrence whenever he would get so absorbed as he had been in jotting down and striking through number after number but he did not mind in the least this afternoon. After all, it meant he had banned her from his mind though it pleased him less this should be the first thought to enter his head now he took a temporary break from his work, nor should he feel this triumphant when the image of Miss Hale ironically returned the moment he claimed victory over her power over him.

He shoved back his chair and got to his feet slightly piqued by his own sharp discernment into his psyche, as if his conscience was suddenly bent on betraying just how little control he exerted over himself when normally he was convinced the opposite to be true. And all this uncomfortable wisdom the result of a woman he did not know but felt impatient to see again, if only to reconcile her mysteriously regal demeanor with which she had received him with the haughty dismissal afterwards for that glaring contradiction had puzzled him exceedingly whenever his thoughts had touched upon those impressions until he chided himself to steer clear away from them and not return in that direction ever again.

Giving up his fruitless efforts to win the battle against the ink stains on his hands –but still determined to win that other in his mind which remained engaged with the mere prospect of perhaps seeing Miss Hale tonight– John walked over to the window and buttoned the end of his loose-fitting sleeves around his wrists.

He had hardly finished with it when he instantly recognized the particular ambling sort of gait that distinguished his landlord's leisurely, almost dandy style of walking from the active, busy tread of his workers crowding the courtyard. The convivial lifting of that ridiculous cane in greeting as Mr. Bell's keen eyes found him like a hawk would a rabbit at once made him remember the visit he had written to him about.

John felt his mood take a dive but then the plunging sensation mingled with an inexplicable soaring that almost made him waver on the spot and it seemed he was destined to stumble yet again as he saw the young woman clinging on to Mr. Bell's arm.

Glad for the support, Margaret increased her hold on her companion now the sight her eyes still needed more time to truly take in almost had her keel over backwards. Her godfather assured her the mill would not devour them as he again proved how apt he was in guessing at her inner trepidation and led her bravely onwards. He had barely warned her in a confidential undertone how his annual round of inspection consisted of the same tour by the same overseer with what he could swear was the exact same explanation for every room when the man himself, a Mr. Williams, welcomed them with a curt nod and preceded them inside without so much as a backwards glance.

She tried her very best to reward Mr. Bell's kind nudge in the right direction to acquaint herself with the town she was now to live in but it was extremely hard to like it when the interior of what gave it its heartbeat was filled with deafening noises and strands of cotton danced in the air like dandelion fluff.

Hardly able to breathe, Margaret pressed a handkerchief against her mouth though it was a futile attempt to filter the air her lungs strainedly sucked in. Soon giving up on pretending to admire the rattling machinery and marvel at the ingenuity of it all her attention was caught by the workers operating the looms who in their seeming numbness barely registered the visitors in their midst.

Slowing her pace as her eyes strayed from one expressionless face to another, she eventually lagged behind Mr. Bell and Mr. Williams, the latter answering an inquiry made by the former so neither were aware they stepped over the threshold into the adjoining room without her.

Instead of hurrying to catch up Margaret now stood completely still, the detachment she thought she could discern in the continuous performance of one repetitive task after the other freezing her limbs into place. She had never seen more spiritless creatures in her life and for a moment she wondered whether the workers simply forgot they were entities separate from the machines they operated for long hours on end and therefore would not grind to a halt with them at the end of the day. Or would they? It was hard enough to imagine this place could be both silent and motionless, perhaps workers would shut down too when the looms were drained of their power, would stand unmoving on their spots like statues with heads hung until at the first light of day all sprang to life again.

Margaret shook her head to get rid off that eerie vision. She gathered her skirts in one hand while the other still covered her mouth and made to quickly move on when the strangely alien sound of a child sobbing and coughing arrested her in her movements. Instead of continuing on in her flight she strained her ears and set off in the opposite direction, hoping she would find the source of misery before the mechanical wailing drowned it altogether.

Drawn to the same sounds of distress, John stalked out of his office, driven not by sympathy but irritation. He had already been fighting a losing battle against his dwindling concentration since it had been more occupied with calculating how long it would take Williams to complete the tour and thus how much time he had left to make up his mind whether to seek out his landlord and his companion or not, and now he had no choice but to make himself clearer understood to the woman and her sick child when he had hoped he had sufficiently done so earlier today.

It gave him no pleasure to single out one of his employees like this but he remembered but all too well that other sick child and the accident that took place in this very room not even a year ago. John doubted the guilt would ever go away even though he had not directly been responsible. The fact remained that the industry still relied on the small forms and nimble hands of children to collect the cotton strands on the floor before it would clog the looms, damage them irreparably in the process as well as posing a danger to the hands operating them. Sadly, it was far from safe, as he had learned the hard way that day when it had gone so tragically wrong.

He wasn't heartless but he had to be hard in order to prevent that from happening again. It was why he had managed to tame his torn conscious a long time ago and taken council with his more pragmatic side that urged him to accept the world to be imperfect still and hope it wouldn't be for the next generation or the one after. But that didn't mean he would let an ignorant mother increase the risk needlessly now.

Jaw taut and body tense John bore down on the huddled forms of mother and child, careful not to tower over them though he could hardly help his tall frame, but he did not refrain from having the anger he felt from seeping into his tone.

The booming voice that suddenly rumbled through the clamor of machines struck Margaret like thunder, stopping her in her tracks when she was but a few paces away from the pathetic pair she had instinctively wanted to reach to comfort and shield from their hostile environment. She blinked in disbelief at the man appearing out of nowhere for he could not be who she already knew he was.

"I told you to leave."

Mr. Thornton's rebuke made her involuntarily shudder before Margaret could stop it, the barely repressed vehemence in which it had been uttered alone would have made that impossible.

"But I thought seeing shift's almost done-"

"It wasn't nearly done when I asked you to take the child home." The woman was mercilessly cut short by Mr. Thornton, who lowered his voice to a dangerous growl that instinctively made Margaret recover her courage and step forward at his next vicious words, "Now you've not only risked her health but her place too. And your own."

"But, master.."

"Leave. And if you disobey me in this again you'll find me less forgiving."

John instantly regretted his wording when the woman practically cowered at the threat and clutched her child even closer but he would not undo his decision, not when this was the only way to make her realize he couldn't tolerate defiance in this regard, for both their sakes as well as his own.

His eyes narrowed as he turned around to follow the two scurry out of the carding room but instantly widened when they landed instead on a figure rapidly closing the gap between herself and him with her gliding way of moving.

The seething expression on Miss Hale's face had him swallow hard and almost take a step back despite the anger he still felt pumping through his veins which bid him to hold his ground. John inwardly reproached himself for even momentarily being intimidated in his own territory, in the one place authority came as natural to him as breathing, when the horn like whistle signaling the end of the last shift rented the air.

The wrath Margaret had been on the verge of unleashing on that horrid man for mistreating that poor woman and her weakened child nearly fled her when the shrill pitch that came out of nowhere invaded her ears. The clanking and humming of machines slowed down and was replaced by the sound of hundreds of footsteps trudging in the same direction.

A sea of men and women streamed passed her, the strong current in which they moved threatening to take her with them and the only safe haven seemed to be Mr. Thornton as he stood there, fists clenched and the lines in his face hardened; a rock that effortlessly broke the waves of people around them.

She hated the sense of panic that for a single moment must have shown on her own face for she couldn't otherwise account for the sudden but complete change in his stance. Eyes, no longer glinting like steel, softened and instead seemed to fill with a confused mix of regret, a strangely humble plea to be allowed to assist and the smoldering remnants of his anger.

Wordlessly he was at her side in an instant. Too overwhelmed to stop him Margaret felt her cheeks burn in protest now her voice was stuck in her throat as he gruffly took her arm and guided her through the mass, all the way until the mill spilled them out onto the crowded courtyard. Not until the throng of people had thinned out and he had tracked down the guardian who had lost her did Mr. Thornton let go of her wrist.

The embarrassment of having his protection forced on her caused Margaret to refuse to thank him and instead she rushed passed a surprised and worried Mr. Bell who had obviously been close to charging right back into the emptying mill with the guilt-ridden overseer in tow.

Mr. Williams did indeed feel guilty, not for the wandering young woman he wished his master's landlord had not brought along in the first place but for having failed the man he respected and looked up to, "Sorry, sir, she was gone before I knew it."

"Quite all right, Williams. No harm done in the end. And I very much doubt it was your fault for losing her when Miss Hale's willful enough to have separated herself on her own accord." John assured the man, causing the man's apologetic look to morph into one of complete agreement.

"I trust your tour was fruitful in spite of your misguided notion a cotton mill would be a suitable place for a lady?" he then asked scornfully of Mr. Bell who had called after the lady in question to no avail and now turned back to him.

"Well, yes, but I hardly think it fair to-"

John didn't let him finish and instead hurled a curt reply carelessly in his direction as he already made to head back inside the mill, "I'm glad to hear it. Good day."

He forced himself to tear his eyes away from the slender figure storming out of the gate, the ribbon of the bonnet in her hands trailing behind her like a kite and the daisy-blue dress swaying around her ankles with every angry step she took away from him.

~Thank you for reading&Let me know what you thought of this chapter! 333~