Eight minutes of ragged tears later, John pulled back slightly to avail Margaret of his handkerchief. After the months of stress and torment she'd endured - at least some of which was his doing, he was horrified to realize - he'd thought it best to simply let her cry.
Margaret accepted it gratefully, dabbing absently at her eyes and cheeks before turning her attention to his now very damp shoulder. "Good God, Margaret Hale" she muttered, poking ineffectually at soaked wool with the square of fine cotton.
"Margaret," he interrupted gently, a hand wandering to her cheek in a vain attempt to ward off the remnants of her sadness. "Look at me. You asked me a question earlier and I have yet to provide an answer."
She met his eyes, overcome by what she found in them. "Oh John - Mr. Thornton…I am not good enough!"
"No, love," he admonished her affectionately, unable to stifle a tiny half-smile. "You mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness."
Margaret mirrored his smile, in spite of herself. How charming he was when he wasn't scowling. "But I was horrible to you," she insisted. "You were nothing but kind to me and my family, and I was awful! Contrary, really, merely because…"
"Because… what?" he prompted her, hints of pride and good-natured smugness developing in his expression.
"Because-" Margaret stopped short, her cheeks growing as red and hot as coals. He wasn't going to make this easy.
"Because I am not a gentleman?" John was almost ashamed of the perverse pleasure her confessions brought. Almost.
"Yes! And no - I have known since August at least that you are as worthy as any of them…" Margaret lowered her eyes again, debating silently whether to continue fumbling through her confession. She felt unequal to the task of expressing herself, truly, but there was also the humiliating reality that the feelings she sought to explain were deeply, awfully, deliciously wrong for her to feel, let alone admit.
"I was horrible to you because I- I liked you." Liked him? Oh Margaret… "It frightened me. You frightened me…you were - are - so different. I never knew how insipid mere 'gentlemen' were until I fought with you…" God, why is everything to do with you so…mortifying?
Her meaning was not lost on John, his immediate physical reaction an insistent reminder that conversations like these were best conducted anywhere except a public street-corner, even one as quiet and deserted as this one.
"I must get you home to your father…" he muttered, his voice again as hoarse and trembling as it had been an eternity before in his office. Instead of moving away from her, however, he drew her closer at the waist with one arm, while the fingers of his other hand gently grasped her cheek and jaw.
Struggling against the twin urges to run or throw herself at him, Margaret glanced up into his eyes. What had once been ice, then warm sapphire like a deep summer sky, was now fire. She remembered that fire from August - the day of the proposal. The fluttering inside her suddenly bloomed into a breathless whimper as the tip of his thumb grazed her parted lips, and that was enough to snap apart whatever remained of John Thornton's self control.
It wasn't the languid, dreamy kiss he'd planned for her, but it was in no way wanting. Margaret - who had no experience from which to draw, and in fact had no expectations at all of such things, thanks to the inanity of Edith's reports on the matter - was certainly not disappointed. As she floated off into oblivion, she noted that John Thornton kissed much like he conducted arguments - with passion, vigor, and determination. No wonder he'd acted so spitefully after her rejection - all of this…feeling and nothing to do about it except…stew? Margaret quickly realized that as ready as she was to think about Mr. Thornton in certain ways, she wasn't quite prepared to consider the male alternative to stewing.
"I assume…this means that you still love me?" she whispered meekly when they finally broke for breath, completely unaware of how irresistibly large her eyes had become.
"Now I love, and will love…" he reminded her gently, still holding her face in his warm, expansive hands. "Of course, dearest Margaret…My Margaret…you must know by now that I have no other reason for being."
It was hyperbole, but it made her smile. "Your raison d'être is Marlborough Mills, but I shall be content with second place…" Margaret countered, suddenly conscious that John's attentions had sent her bonnet tumbling down her back.
Thoughts of the mill sobered him, but only slightly. "I cannot guarantee the mill's future," he confessed. "But that matters very little, compared to you. Margaret - I promise that if you agree to marry me, you will always be safe and loved beyond measure, even I am not always the master of Marlborough Mills."
Margaret assumed this was hyperbole, too - she had no way of knowing the real dangers that faced the mill in the aftermath of the strike - but it wouldn't have mattered. "I would marry you if you were a frog living in a well, John Thornton." She smiled up at him, running her fingers over the stubble on his jaw before kissing him once more. "There, now you are a prince."
"I am no Oxford scholar," he challenged her. "But I do remember my fairy tales, and if I recall correctly, it took three nights in the princess' bed to return the prince to his true form."
Margaret laughed - her first heartfelt laughter in a year - and threw her arms around his neck. "Then you will have to wait a few weeks for the banns to be read and our wedding to take place," she declared, with mock hauteur. "Now come, frog!" she added with a giggle, reaffixing her bonnet to the back of her head, and taking his hand. "We have some news for my father."