A/N: Thanks again to my wonderful reviewers, and for those who read but don't ring in, I hope you keep coming back. I had more time today, so here's a longer chapter to make up for my inability to post over the weekend. I am not ashamed to admit that this was pretty difficult to write. I kept having to stop and have a good little cry so I'd dearly like to know what you think. I don't believe that I've ever been as emotionally invested in a story that I've written as this.

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed–see here it is–
I hold it towards you.

-John Keats

"Mrs. Bell?"

With thoughts a million miles away, the early evening found Margaret kneeling by a patch of wildflowers, choosing the brightest blooms to place on the grave between her parents. It would have been a beautiful late summer afternoon if not for perpetual haze in the air and the dark clouds overshadowing her heart. After the funeral's conclusion, she had been unwilling to return to the house, relieved when Mr. Bell patted her arm and moved on without a word to speak the vicar. It surprised Margaret, pleasantly, how many people had come to pay their respects. It had seemed to her that their coming to Milton had changed little, that her father had left this world without leaving behind any of his gentle influence on these people, that they would go about their lives as though he had never been, never marking his passing. During the service, she had been so lost in her thoughts that she hardly took notice of anything save the wooden casket that held her beloved papa, but afterwards, when she raised her eyes from the open grave, there were many faces looking around with glistening eyes; some familiar, some whom she had never seen. Nicolas was there, once more wearing his one article of mourning -the cap with the bit of black fabric- Mary at his side with the oldest Boucher child, Tom.

Of course, Mr. Thornton had also been there. Her eyes never actually beheld his presence, but she could sense him, feel the heavy weight of his gaze upon her during the service and on the journey up the hill. He did not speak to her, nor did he seek her out, and this only served to increase her sorrow. She longed for the comfortable familiarity of his voice, for him to hold out his hand for her to take, in the old way, and to see the mark of sympathy in his eyes that would prove he cared, just a little, if it was only in memory of his departed friend. Such a small thing to desire, but she felt the comfort from such a simple act might ease the pain, might allow her to believe they could move on from the past and at least be civil friends. It was not to be, for he would never forgive her. She deserved as much, especially now.

So lost was she in these thoughts, tucking bits of trefoil and cornflower between several poppies, that she firmly believed the voice addressing her by an unwelcome name was in her mind. Margaret possessed many facets to her temperament, but never had she been insensible. She refused to jump at voices that were only a product of stressed nerves on her imagination. Especially when it was the deep, heavily accented notes that her heart was actively wishing to hear.

Mr. Thornton stood several paces behind her, watched as she a flowers to the growing bouquet. She hadn't answered him and irritation flared, unseen, in his eyes at the perceived slight but perhaps she was lost in thought and had not heard him.

"Mrs. Bell," he tried again, a hard edge in his voice.

He had gone by the house in Crampton as promised on the night she returned from Oxford, only to be met by Mr. Bell, informing him that his wife was sick and unable to entertain them. The casual term of wife caused Mr. Thornton to feel quite ill himself. There was an overwhelming sensation of being late, far too late, and had missed out on a great opportunity. That was ridiculous, of course. He had been refused. She loved another, someone who was conspicuously absent, leaving her to this strange fate. The feeling continued to persist, however, and he realized that, even now, he could not let her go. Not completely. If all he could be was her friend, he would give her that. Give himself that. In memory of her father and to satisfy that consuming need in his very soul to simply be in her presence. So he had waited, if not patiently, then with an iron determination to give her time, but when he saw her kneeling by the path, alone on such a day as this, he could not waste the opportunity to speak to her. Only there was still no reply, though he could visibly see her stiffen as her hand seemed to freeze in it's motion of reaching for another blossom. It caused him pain that this was how things now stood between them, that he no longer seemed to deserve the courtesy of acknowledgement in her eyes, and he was about to walk away, to quietly accept her rejection, when he finally heard her voice, quiet and hoarse, address him.

She had meant to ask him not to call her Mrs. Bell. Not today, when it was so terribly important that she be a Hale. She had meant to ask after his mother and sister. She had meant to say so many other things than the words that slipped quietly from her trembling lips.

"It was my brother," she said softly, rising but still unwilling to turn and face him. Unwilling to discover that the persistent voice was indeed in her mind, that she was standing on a hillside above Milton with a bunch of flowers in her hand, talking to herself.

"I beg your pardon?" he stepped closer so he could better understand her. Certainly he had misheard. She did not have a brother.

"The man at the train station," she lifted her eyes from the flowers to stare at the town laid out before her, quietly exhaling the relieved breath she had been holding. "He is my brother, Frederick."

For the second time that week, it felt as though the world were sliding precariously beneath his feet. "Why did not you... or your father...," he took another step toward her, relieved when the ground did not give way beneath him, came to stand close behind her, so close he could catch the subtle hint of lavender in her hair but still far enough away to maintain a semblance of decorum. It was necessary for she was speaking so quietly that each word threatened to be carried away unheard by the breeze.

The story that met his straining ears was shocking. He was grieved anew for his recently departed friend, the father of this son who had gone so far astray in the world by trying to do what was right. He was grieved for the woman before him who had risked her reputation and compromised her strict moral code to protect someone she loved. He was grieved by her cry that her brother could not be there, that he did not know, that in a few weeks he would learn the news by a post that was not written in her hand and must share in this burden alone, as she was.

And he was shamed. That emotion overwhelmed all else as he remembered his harsh words to her, realizing that he had spoken falsely that day... that fateful day when he had presumptuously asked for her hand and in the torment of her rejection had said that he understood her completely before walking away. If he had ever understood her at all, he would have remembered her own words when she referenced the strike, 'I would have done the same for any man there'.

She had thrown herself between him, risking her life and reputation to do what she believed to be right for a man she hardly knew, for a man she could barely tolerate! Should it surprise him that she would go to such drastic lengths for someone who actually had a claim on her heart?

"So you see," she finally turned, looking up at him with pleading eyes, "it was best not to involve you, being a magistrate. It wasn't that father and I didn't trust you. It was simply out of the question to impose on your kindness by asking you to go against the law you're sworn to uphold."

"Why are you telling me this now?" he inquired gently. "Why now and not after you learned of my involvement when you lied to the Inspector?"

Her fingers, which had been busy smoothing her skirt, tightened on a fold only to began twisting it. She did not reply.

"Margaret!"

Her eyes snapped up to his and she dropped the fabric that threatened to tear beneath the onslaught of her agitation.

"Because father is dead," she dully replied. "I never told him, you see. He never knew that any events transpired at the station beyond the fact that Frederick got on that train. Short of coming to the mill and explaining the situation to you, there was never a moment in our interaction where I could tell you without him hearing and I couldn't bear to face his disappointment. No, that's not true. He could hardly be more disappointed in me than I am in myself. It was the additional worry it would invoke that I could not face. We still had not heard that Frederick was safely out of England. By the time we had... well, you had made it clear that you wished to hear no more on the subject."

He nodded in mute understanding, wondering if she could read the guilt in his eyes even as he scrutinized her countenance with a furrowed brow, taking in her dry but weary eyes and slumped posture. Never had he seen a creature so altered and a terrible fear that this strong woman, the strongest he had ever known besides his own mother, might break under her burden, gripped his heart. Dear God, but he loved her. He would always love her and now she was forever beyond him. The wife of another, bound to a man that he felt was even more unworthy of her youth and vivacious temperament, her stubborn devotion and quick intelligence, than himself.

"Thank you for finally telling me," he sighed. "Would you allow me to accompany you home? It is growing late."

She gestured weakly to the tiny bouquet. "I must put these on papa's grave before we go."

"Of course."

An uncomfortable, heavy silence accompanied them as they made their way across the hill.

"Mrs. Bell, I must congratulate you on your wedding," he began, his own voice betraying him as it cracked on the last word.

"Please don't!" Margaret cried, beginning to tremble as the icy numbness which had begun to crack beneath the relief of confidence was being strained to the breaking point by emotions the presence of the man at her side invoked. A glance at his face told her that he was confused and she took a deep breath before attempting to explain. What could she say? It would be unfair to Mr. Bell's reputation to disclose the true nature of their marriage.

"Please don't call me that," she added weakly. "I am no longer Miss Hale but I am not yet Mrs. Bell. It is strange and unfamiliar to hear. Today, I am no one's wife. I am the daughter of Maria and Richard Hale and I am laying my father to rest."

"May I call you Margaret, then?" he asked, observing her intently from the corner of his eye.

"You already have, just a moment ago," she tenderly placed the carefully selected arrangement in the spot between the grassy mound of her mother's resting place and the bare, freshly turned earth of her father's. "I truly don't mind, especially today when I need a measure of familiarity. Today, I need to simply be Margaret."

They stood in companionable silence, each saying goodbye to the man who's tender spirit had meant so much to each of them, before turning away in accord and making their slow, silent way down the path. When she tripped he offered his arm, and she tilted her chin in unconsciously regal consent before threading her arm through the crook. The silence that accompanied them was less oppressive than before though it still weighed on them, making their steps slow and heavy.

"Margaret?"

"Yes, Mr. Thornton?"

"You have given me your confidence, on this sad day when your thoughts might have - understandably - run in any other vein than past misunderstandings," his fingers ran nervously over the chain of his pocket watch. "Would it be an impertinence to make one more inquiry; to request your confidence on one other matter?"

"You would ask me why I chose to marry Mr. Bell while my father lay dead, yet to be buried." It was a statement, not a question, the rumors already reaching her on the blatant disregard of propriety in such things, more than rumors for she had heard plenty from her aunt. How would Mrs. Thornton react? Surely the woman would not come to her home with another lecture prepared. Margaret couldn't bare facing that woman again if, one improper action accounted for, she must face her on another which was far less excusable.

"I would ask why you chose to marry him at all," his tone sounded harsh, even to his own ears. He hadn't meant to be argumentative, but before he could apologize she was speaking.

"He is a good man," she said in a choked voice, surprised, fully expecting him to be disappointed in her for a perceived lack of respect for her dead father, not for the action itself. One she could defend against, the other...

"A good man who has been a bachelor for so long he cannot possibly be expected to act as anything else. You will not be a wife but a devoted little house maid, stirring the fire, making his tea, and listening to his diatribes on pagan lore and the merits of having a delicate constitution! Margaret, how could you consent to waste your life in such a way?"

Her wide, startled eyes filling with tears shamed him. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to reign in his emotion.

What did he mean, waste her life? Did he not understand that all she needed to be content was someone to care for? There was so much more that she wanted, that if she could have just reached out and taken it would have brought her no end of happiness, but she had never been greedy. She would learn to find what happiness she could in her situation, and thank God for it!

"Forgive me," he murmured. "I had no reason to speak as I just did."

"Please, Mr. Thornton," she said earnestly, stepping toward him, "let us forget the past and go forward anew as friends. It's what papa would have wanted."

She held her hand out to him, praying he would take it, needing, more desperately than she would dare admit, the brief contact, but he did not notice the gesture until it was too late, until she dropped her hand at her side and turned away.

"I do not understand why you are so upset," she continued in a careless, casual tone, though her weary posture straightened in haughty defiance of the weight of rejection with threatened to carry her to the ground. 'Please God, not in front of him.' It had been a very long time since he had seen any semblance of passionate emotion blaze in those eyes, but it was there now, reflecting in the sudden bitterness of her tone. "You have informed me, with no possibility of mistaking the sentiment, that any 'foolish passions' on your part were extinguished. Why do you care who I've married, or why?"

He flinched as though she had slapped him. It certainly felt like a positive, physical strike. She did not miss the reaction to her words, or the profound despair that flickered briefly in his eyes, tightened his mouth to a thin line and she shook her head in denial of what she saw.

"You said..."

"I know what I said," he bit out, turning away from her. "If you'll excuse me, it's late and I need to get home. I'm sure you can make your own way and I have wasted enough of your time. Good evening, Miss... Mrs... Good evening."

She stared at his back in confusion as he said these words. Heaven's mercy, was he running away... from her?

"Mr. Thornton," she cried breathlessly, the moment he took the first step away from her.

He turned on his heel and faced her with arms folded across his chest and she was prepared to meet the full force of his proud glare with quiet determination... only there was no glare, no irritation. The quiet despair in his eyes, the longing written plainly on his countenance, remained and it startled her, stole her breath. Of all the things she could have said, and he expected her to say plenty - to rebuke him, laugh at him- the last thing he expected was for her to timidly approach him, lay a hand his arm, and look up at him with grave, tear filled eyes.

"You still care for me?"

He couldn't understand all of what he was seeing in her eyes, in the tears that filled them but did not spill over, but he recognized sadness, and resignation, and... horror?

She took a step back from him... then another.

"I'm sorry," she stammered.

The words must be meant for him, but there was something in the way she said them that sounded like a plea to heaven. He reached out for her, alarmed at the blind panic etched across her face, intending to comfort her in some way, but she back away further, head tilted to the rising moon.

"Forgive me," she whispered brokenly before spinning away from him. "Please God, forgive me!"

It was she who ran.