Chapter Three

John returned to the mill in a much improved humour to the one he had left it in. If the hands had any reason to whisper about his sudden light mood he did not care; it certainly was not due to the finances, which required as much attention as ever. It was fortunate Margaret wished for a simple wedding, because the cost of paying for something akin to Fanny's twice might cripple him.

Even that couldn't remove the smile from his face. He had a wedding to pay for—his own—and if Margaret had requested one fit for a queen he would have delivered it. He believed her regal enough, even if his own early assumptions about her had proved wrong in many ways, and would do anything she asked of him, if it only it would make her smile in return.

Yet she didn't require it, and he suspected that even if she knew the sway she held over him, she would not abuse it. Had that not been her main concern about this arrangement between them, how perilous it might be for him? He cherished her concern, even if she would be so generous of spirit with any person as he had found her to be. He loved her, and would love her, and would spend the rest of his days with her. That would be enough.

It would give anyone the right to bear such a smile. That, and the privilege he had earned of referring to her as Margaret, a luxury he had refrained from even in his thoughts.

Though he tried to retreat into his usual stoicism for dinner that evening, his mother was too practised an observer of his moods.

"You seem happier than at breakfast," she commented.

"Do I?" he responded, as blandly as he could accomplish.

She cast him a gimlet eye but did not pry further, even as he continued to treat Fanny to a cold shoulder. Fanny, for her part, did not notice, prattling on about lace choices while their mother carried on a share of the conversation for both of them.

He was early to Crampton for his lesson, but Mr Hale welcomed him in regardless. Dixon's regard, on the other hand, appeared to have sunk even lower, and he suspected she was well aware that, if all went his way, Margaret was to be come a permanent resident of Milton.

Margaret was not in the sitting room, and though it made sense she had afforded him some privacy with Mr Hale, he still felt her absence keenly. It seemed now that he would soon be afforded her presence on a continual basis, he craved it immediately, though this was an urge he had long felt regarding her.

It had been some time since his last lesson, and there was some awkward discussion around where they had lapsed, before Mr Thornton realised he must put all thought of learning aside.

"In truth," he began, "I did not come here to discuss Aristotle, invigorating as I usually find him to be. Instead, I came about a personal matter. A request, of sorts."

"Oh?" Mr Hale's bewildered face did not suggest he had any inkling of what John was about to ask him.

"You see, since your family's arrival in Milton, I have gained a particular…fondness for your daughter. While we have not always seen eye to eye, I have come to appreciate her great spirit and the way she cares deeply for people. You have raised a wonderful young woman."

"Ah," Mr Hale now appeared to have gleaned the direction John was steering the conversation. "It is is nice to hear you say so, and although I have a father's partiality, I must say I agree."

Boldened by the encouraging smile Mr Hale now wore, John continued. "In time, that fondness has turned into a very tender affection for her. As such—as such, I have come to ask for your blessing to seek her hand."

Mr Hale sat back in his seat, hands steepled beneath his chin. "This is certainly not a turn I expected this evening to take. Or any evening, if I'm honest with you."

"I understand that I have not been particularly forthcoming with my feelings. Let me make it clear, then: I love your daughter and wish to marry her."

This caused a beatific smile to grace Mr Hale. "Nothing would delight me more, John. You have been a dear friend to me through this trying time and I cannot imagine anyone better to ensure her wellbeing. To hear your offer comes from a place of affection is more than I could ask for: I would rather see her unmarried than married unhappily. So, yes, you have my blessing, and my gratitude."

"But?" For John could hear the hesitation in his friend's voice.

"But John—I am not sure if Margaret will respond how you hope her to."

John chose his next words carefully. "I have good reason to believe my suit will not be unsuccessful."

"Really?" Mr Hale considered this, nodding thoughtfully before breaking into his broadest smile yet. "Then I shall pray you receive the answer you desire."

John basked in the way his friend had been brought to happiness for the first time since the loss of his wife. Mr Hale likely believed that Margaret had indicated she returned John's affections, and he was not inclined to disabuse his friend of the notion, lest it bring them to the crux of the marriage pact instead. Not that John feared Mr Hale would rescind his blessing, but he would not want to cause him any distress, nor would Margaret be pleased about it.

At this stage, the discussion lapsed into polite speculation about the engagement and wedding, though John could not reveal what he had already discussed with Margaret about her wishes. The blessing now made it feel more concrete to John, and he pondered what kind of engagement ring she would prefer, if he could indeed procure one in such a narrow window of opportunity. He had no idea what stones she preferred, as she did not often wear jewellery, and he had never seen her in anything particularly opulent. In his opinion, she had no need of such decoration, but a ring would be a signal of his serious intent: not only to her, but to anyone who might still wish to gossip.

This line of thought led to an awkward enquiry about her month of birth, and Mr Hale's mind was sharp enough that he divined the path John's own was on.

"She has never had much fondness for trinkets," he said. "In fact, I wonder—" He lapsed into silence, before rising from his chair. "If you'll excuse me a moment."

When he returned, he had his hand clasped around something small enough to fit into his palm, and it was only when he held it out shakily towards John that he could see what it was: a small gold band with a pearl set into it.

"This was her mother's," Mr Hale said. "It was meant to go to Margaret—she always liked it as a girl—but I have not yet been able to part with it. However, I now feel that seeing her wearing it would be a balm to my soul."

It was a lovely piece, elegant in its simplicity, and would suit Margaret perfectly. Even the stone was her namesake. Yet John hesitated. "Surely this should be a gift from her father, not her fiance?"

"It may well be the only one you can entice Margaret to wear," Mr Hale warned.

"Very well." John did not take the ring. Not yet. "Then if the time comes to present her with it, we should do so together."

"Yes. I would like that very much."

Margaret did not appear before John left the house, and he tried to contain his disappointment. He had seen her three times in two days, and each meeting had been momentous, changing their lives and setting them on new paths. He should not hope for another glimpse this evening, not without risking another change which would rip his newfound happiness from his grasp. Instead, he returned home with his continued lighter step.

He shouldn't put it past his mother that she would be waiting for his return, the shrewdness from earlier still written on her features. She turned from her perch by the window in the sitting room, her own mood impenetrable to him.

"I can think of only one reason why your mood has lifted so much," she said, her stare demanding no deflection on his part. "It's her, isn't it?"

He would not lie to her; there's had always been a relationship of great honesty, even if neither were particularly demonstrative in their emotions. And though he felt the ice below her question, the sharp edges she held in wait if he confessed, nothing could pierce his buoyant mood. "Yes," he responded simply.

She took a powerful intake of breath, passing through her teeth almost like a hiss, and he waited for her to begin with her scolding.

"So now she has deigned to lower herself to your reach, when she knows she has no choice. What did she do, throw yourself on her mercy and pretend she has found a great love for you?"

John case her a warning glance. "I am under no illusion about her feelings. I asked her because I cannot see her shunned and mistreated."

"She has only herself to blame for that, and it is not your duty to rescue her."

"No, it is not. But I have offered, and she has accepted, and mother, I am happy. Is that not enough?"

Her face softened for a moment. "I can see the joy in you, John, and ordinarily it would give me no small amount of happiness of my own. I want you to be happy, my son, but I do not believe she will make it so. I have seen the disdain she holds for your affections, and how low it brought you—how could I celebrate your wilful submission to that?"

"It isn't like that," he insisted.

"Love blinds you! After all she has put you through—"

"What exactly did she put me through, mother? A rejected proposal after no attempt at a courtship—I had only my own foolishness to blame for that."

"I told you then that I could not like her, and I still stand by it. She had no right refusing you then, but she has less right to accept you now. Her scandal will attach itself to your good name and sully your own standing."

"She is not what you believe her to be. That much I know—she remains as virtuous as she has always presented herself to be. And this is but a storm in a teacup—swiftly dealt with, the rumours will subside."

"You are naive to think a stain like this will be so easily scrubbed from memory. And what of your sister? What if this foolishness costs her own engagement?"

A gasp from the edge of the room drew John's attention to where his sister lurked, no doubt drawn by the raised voices and her love of a great drama. "No!" she protested. "Say it isn't possible!"

"It is," their mother said bitterly, "if Watson has any sense of his own reputation and what associating with us might indicate. Why, he might call the whole thing off, and then no one will have you either. It would certainly not be an appropriate display of fraternal care!"

Fanny gave a dramatic sob, and for the first time, John's temper flared. "I will have no one accuse me of undermining Fanny's welfare, mother, not when I worked so hard for so many years to ensure it. And no, Fanny, you are in no danger. Your fiance is too pleased with his simpering young bride to give any care for how he appears among the other masters. Though if it did cost you, it would be a lesson learnt—for Margaret is only in this position because of you!"

Fanny let out a shriek of indignation, one she had used all too often during their childhood and which had no effect on John anymore. "And how exactly is this my fault?"

"I once asked you to be a friend to her, and instead you have dragged her reputation through the mud for your own entertainment. You may think nothing of it, but our own family has been the source of such scrutiny before—you benefited only from the restoration and did not suffer the shame. You should be thankful Margaret does not know you are the source of her humiliation!"

This oblique reference to their father's passing had Fanny's lower lip trembling, but she did not protest further.

"Margaret, is it, now?" his mother muttered.

"Yes," he retorted. "I will call her Margaret, for she is to be my wife, and the pair of you will need to make your peace with that."

He left them to their sulking, retiring for the night. He did not enjoy leaving them on a sour note, but the conversation was not going to progress beyond the point it had reached. Instead he sought rest. The coming days would bring more toil and more change, of that he had no doubt.

The warm summer air made his nightshirt unappealing, even after sunset, but he donned it anyway after a refreshing wash, and retired to the bed.

His anger had left him on his ascent of the staircase, and he had no doubt his mother's would have softened by morning as well. Her position towards Margaret would be more difficult to reconcile, but then it was unlikely Margaret was expecting a fond welcome from those quarters. They would have to learn to tolerate each other's company, that was all—though John was sure they would find some common ground. Both were principled women and sooner or later, something would unite them. Likely against him, he realised with a smile.

The thought of Margaret—who, truth be told, was never far from his mind—had him reflecting on the day and their discussion. A swift wedding was the ideal solution to her predicament, and he could not deny how eager he was for them to be united. Even if she had accepted his proposal the first time, he had never envisioned a prolonged engagement. He was a steadfast man, but he had little patience. When he requested marriage, it was a marriage he wanted, not a belated courtship.

And yet—lying here, he could admit to himself he was anxious. What if he had misjudged her once more, and they remained simply too different to manage even a cordial relationship? What if familiarity bred contempt on her part, once she lived alongside him, and reverted to her original opinion of him as coarse and crass?

Worse, what if in his eagerness, in his…passion for her, she could not bear to 'endure'?

He blanched at the memory of that word. She had borne the idea with such grace, her practical side overwhelming any maidenly squeamishness she may have felt, and he supposed that she had been raised to expect that was her lot. Perhaps she still thought he mind worked best in terms of trade—he would provide her a home and a renewed reputation, and she would give him marital comfort and heirs in return. She could not be more wrong, and only his own behaviour in the early days of their marriage might enlighten her.

But to think—in less than a month, she might be sleeping beside him. He would need to keep his affections to a minimum, unwanted as they would be—no kisses, no caresses—but she would be close by, always. Then, at some point, there would be children, if they were so blessed, and only if the marital bed did not cause her discomfort, for then he would withdraw. Children could not fail to brighten the household, and even erase the bitterness from his mother's heart.

For now, he would have to endure the solitude of his bed, and the days until Margaret was truly his.


Margaret was pleased that she had not changed her mind one wit overnight, though she hadn't anticipated she would. She had made her decision with a clear head and knew it was the best option for all concerned.

She had burnt her letters from Aunt Shaw and Henry without sending a response; they would not appreciate one, and she could not risk either Dixon or her father reading their contents. Perhaps in a few days she could write to Aunt Shaw and announce her engagement, though she thought a better course of action would be to delay until after the wedding. It meant her only relative in attendance would be her father, but then Aunt Shaw—and Edith—would have insisted on such a hoopla that she was not entirely distraught about their absence.

She found it stifling to remain in the house, though she did so, enticing Dixon into completing all the errands with subtle flattery. She would only venture out into society only once the engagement was properly announced, or if she had the company of Mr Thornton himself. Before then, she expected nothing less than the jeering she had faced a few days ago.

Her father didn't say much, but then he wasn't aware she had already accepted Mr Thornton's hand. The man himself was coming to dinner that evening when they would confirm her acceptance, and Margaret occupied her day with keeping the house spick and span.

Her nerves grew as evening approached, though she couldn't pinpoint why, and it was only when the feeling shifted at Mr Thornton's arrival that she realised it had not been nervousness at all, but anticipation. Quite why that was, she couldn't say, but surely this couldn't be a bad thing?

He looked very handsome in his dark suit, something Margaret had privately conceded on prior occasions, but there was a difference this evening and that in itself took her most of the meal to decipher. As Dixon cleared the plates away, Margaret grasped it: he was veiled in a softness this evening, his usual flinty demeanour chipped away to reveal the warm glow of happiness. He cast her so many furtive little glances that even Mr Hale grew exasperated at the lack of subtlety—it was clear which way the evening was headed.

Indeed, her father didn't wait for Mr Thornton to commence an announcement. "I trust I am to be giving my daughter away sooner rather than later, then?"

Mr Thornton failed to stifle the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and Margaret answered in his stead. "Yes, papa, I have agreed to marry Mr Thornton."

"This is wonderful news!" He raised his glass and realised it was nearly empty. "I should ask Dixon for more wine, so I may make a toast."

"No more for me, papa," Margaret replied, and Mr Thornton also declined.

"Still, there is something I must retrieve. Allow me a moment."

Her father left the room, leaving them alone for a brief spell. Margaret was not sure what to say: they had covered many topics during dinner, all too impersonal for a time like this. Instead, she fiddled with the bracelet she had worn for the evening, a movement with certainly seemed to capture Mr Thornton's attention.

He had apparently found something he wished to say. "I would like—that is, if it doesn't make you uncomfortable—if you would call me John."

It was entirely proper given their new status, and she nodded her assent. Then her father returned, something concealed within his hand which he did not show to her when he retook his seat.

"Well, I don't have a proper toast to make, but I would like to express my happiness on this occasion. To see my dearest love matched with one of my dearest friends—it is more than I could hope for."

He raised his glass, and they followed suit. Margaret found she was smiling too, for her father's newfound delight had a positive effect on her own mood. Still, she was curious about the object he had brought back with him, and only when he lifted it to reveal it did her mood change once again.

Her mother's ring.

Her tears brought concern from both her father and Mr Thor—John—though she managed to control the worst of them and assure them she was quite alright, merely overwhelmed. She barely felt John slip the ring onto her finger, though his reassuring squeeze of her hand earned him a thankful smile, and she was much recovered by the time he took his leave.

From that evening, time slipped by quickly. A brief engagement was all very well, but Margaret found there was hardly less planning involved than in an elaborate wedding. An announcement was printed in the Milton newspapers on the first Sunday after the engagement began, and from there a ceremony was arranged for a Wednesday four weeks later, allowing for the banns to be read.

As the planning took up so much of Margaret's time, it meant she did not have opportunity to dwell on how greatly her life would change. Her days had become consumed by invitations, flowers, and fabric. Had there's been a normal engagement, she would have spent even more time calling on the women of Milton or receiving them in Crampton, yet at this stage she remained a pariah and she was spared their company.

Alas, Margaret's once secret wish of marrying in her favourite dress could not be realised, not when appearances were so important at this wedding. She must wear white, and that involved braving the draper's shop, although with Dixon as her shield she did not suffer any rudeness, only a sullen politeness. The staff were not as attentive as they could have been, yet must have realised that as the new Mrs Thornton she might bring a lot of coin their way and it would not do to alienate her.

Dixon's mood was fouler than ever but she would not reveal her thoughts to Margaret, and Margaret was glad of it. She did not need a window into Dixon's mind to discern what darkness pervaded there: Dixon had hoped her mistress would leave Milton at some point and never return. Now, she would never leave. It did not mean Dixon would have to remain here in the north forever—she was staying on with Mr Hale, as the Thornton household had quite enough staff, and Margaret could not leave her father unattended. One day, Dixon would be able to return to her family in the south, even if it meant leaving her last attachment to the Beresford sisters behind.

Margaret's only real moment of distress came when she was informed of Mr and Mrs Boucher's death. Mary Higgins made the trip to Crampton to inform her in person, as her father had his hands full with the newly-orphaned brood of children. It was the children's fate she fretted over, though Mary assured her they had been accepted into the Higgins household, even if there was precious little coin to be found there at the moment.

"Has your father still not secured new employment?" Margaret asked.

"No. None of the masters will 'ave him—I'm afraid we'll all lose him t'bottle if he doesn't find something to relieve his idleness soon."

"Leave it with me," Margaret assured her. "There must be something we can do."

The solution seemed obvious to her: Nicholas Higgins could be employed at Marlborough Mills. Mary surmised her father had already enquired there, chased away by the overseer, but Margaret believed a sound argument would persuade John to listen to Nicholas' case.

She took a circumspect route to Marlborough Mills, to avoid unpleasant confrontations with those who would still make their distaste publicly known. She slipped across the busy yard without much notice in her plainest bonnet, though her reception by the serving maid was distinctly frosty. John was still in his office, but she'd hoped to speak to him before dinner—and without her enquiry turning into another disagreement.

For now, he was not home, but she was ushered upstairs to see Mrs Thornton, and Margaret had not gathered her wits before she was deposited in the sitting room, her trepidation considerable.

She had not seen her prospective mother-in-law for many weeks, and that was unusual in itself, as she should have been called upon by the Thornton family immediately following the engagement. She had not considered the snub this represented until she faced the black-garbed, imperious figure before her.

"We did not receive notice you were coming, Miss Hale, so we have had no time to prepare." Her tone was censorious—and in truth she had some room to criticise, as Margaret should have notified of a formal visit.

"I am sorry," Margaret replied. "In truth, I have not come to impose on your hospitality, but to see John."

The other woman's nostrils flared at the use of her son's Christian name. "No doubt you have come to decide which papers you wish to impose on these rooms, as more befitting to your taste."

Margaret could only blink her astonishment at this attack. She rallied, seeking a soft and conciliatory tone. "New papers would seem an unnecessary expense, given the house is tastefully decorated at present. I have always admired the current ones."

Her attempt at flattery—genuine as it was—did not seem to appease Mrs Thornton. "I'm sure. What other ways will you try to amend the ways of this home to suit yourself?"

She was ill-prepared for this confrontation, and had not considered that Mrs Thornton might see her as an invading force. "I can assure you that I have no plans to make changes to the running of your house, only learn from you."

Even this did not not soften the steel in Mrs Thornton's glare. "My son may gladly bend to your every whim—"

Margaret laughed sharply at this, her own temper slipping through. "That is not true!"

"No?" Mrs Thornton challenged.

"It is exceptionally rare we are even in agreement."

"So it may appear to you, Miss Hale, but John has already risked his own reputation in order to spare yours. You know as well as I do why that is. Let me make it clear to you: I will not idly stand by if you twist his affections for your own selfishness. You will not drag his standing through further scandal, and you had better endeavour to ensure his happiness at winning your hand lasts beyond the wedding."

"I have not come here to be insulted, madam, and I cannot feel that John would be horrified at the tone you are taking with me. He is aware of the disparity of regard between us, but I am not the grasping shrew you portray and certainly have no desire to inflict the misery you describe on anyone, let alone my husband."

But Mrs Thornton showed no sign of apology, so Margaret retreated from the house, her task quite forgotten. Instead she left the house under a storm cloud, worried that she would be thrust into a perpetual conflict with her mother-in-law, one which she could see no immediate escape from.

She did not see John again until their wedding day.


A/N: This is a mostly transitional chapter, one which actually got away from me, with several 'summary' scenes needing to be fleshed out more than I anticipated. Not much plot has happened, though plenty of conflict has. Next chapter, we move onto the wedding.

I actually quite like Mrs Thornton and can see where she's coming from when it comes to her protectiveness over John, although it does provide a nice amount of conflict. Margaret's moving into the Thornton household is going to be testing experience!

I'm not as detailed a researcher as some other writers for this fandom, though I've done my best for the level of detail I felt I needed. Realistically, John and Margaret would not be getting engaged while she was in mourning for a parent, which would be expected to last a year. Also, although her name does mean pearl, a pearl ring apparently meant 'tears'. I suppose they were happy tears, at least?

Google Ngram Viewer is also an amazingly useful tool whenever I want to use a turn of phrase and go "ah, but is it period appropriate?" The only thing about writing in from the point of view of John and Margaret is that I don't really get to use any real Mancunian/Lancashire dialect (fun fact: I grew up just outside Manchester) because they wouldn't use it. Don't worry, I'll find a way of slipping a ginnel or 'alright, cock' in there (it's a friendly greeting, I swear).