CHAPTER 31:

THE BULLDOG WHO SEIZED THE BULL BY THE HORNS

John watched in silence as Margaret turned her back on the astonishing spectacle which had just concluded its second act upon this unassuming stage. With her gown shimmering in the candlelight which quivered blearily, she slowly trailed out of the room and into the wings, the final scene of this drama yet unwritten, the script unknown.

Stunned into stupefied motionless, a sort of paralysis one might say, John was himself still staggered by what was happening around him, and indeed, at what was happening to him and for him. Slewing his lofty frame so that he might regard Mrs Hale one last time, John angled his head so that he could look at her properly.

Glowering into the gloom of the midnight hour, John privately admitted that he was heartily ashamed of himself. With a sinking sense of shame, it struck him that he had never really paid much attention to Mrs Hale before tonight, but then again, why should he have? It was Mr Hale as his tutor and the man of the house who had first brought John to this humble residence on the fringes of Milton, not she. What was more, John was rueful to acknowledge that in days gone by, before he had even heard of these unorthodox Hales who hailed from the south, a sphere which lay well beyond the borders of his restricted circle of cares, then he would never have even offered the likes of Mrs Hale a second or sympathetic thought.

It was not that John was egocentric, far from it, since a less selfish man would be hard to find. It was more that the diligent businessman had perpetually found himself engaged in attending to the demanding affairs of commerce, and the dismal master in him who was incessantly disconnected from his surroundings and detached from his fellow man, would never have thought twice about extending Mrs Hale anything further than the customary and rudimentary civility that was mandatory of their class. John was a practical man, one whose harried time was precious, so he would never have wasted a valuable moment indulging in idle chatter with the likes of a parson's wife, certainly not when the obligations of cotton and court claimed the attention of both his professional sense of industry and his personal interest.

John grimaced. Good grief, how dull he was, how crass, how disrespectful. It was not until now that the dust of the past seven months had settled, that John could finally step back and fully appreciate just how genuinely dissatisfied he was with his life that had been dictated by taciturn rigidity, a regime that had cultivated not legitimate achievement, but in contrast, it had fostered the festering afflictions of solitude and stinginess. Looking back, he could see that it had been a lacklustre existence that contained no real meaning within all those hollow accomplishments ruled by timetables, meetings, agendas, and a whole list of other pointless pursuits. John had been stuck in a monotonous routine of drudgery, the uniformity of his days bringing the insecure man a much-needed source of refuge and reassurance, the child in him forever afraid that if he took his eye off the target, even for a split-second, then he would find his world crashing and crumbling down around him like a ton of bricks, just like his father had. Indeed, over the years, all these deep-seated fears of failure had meant that John could never permit himself a moment of respite from the pressures of constant hard work, thus necessitating that with his head forever bowed over ledgers, toil had unconsciously become his constant companion, self-denial his only friend. His primary and somewhat primordial goal had been to attain success for himself and security for his family, the man never once stopping to take stock of his lonely existence and ask himself what he truly wanted from life, what he truly needed to be happy. That is, not until he had met…

her.

John listened as he heeded the soft pitter-patter of silken slippers shambling about on the other side of the door. His self-loathing frown was then suddenly turned upside down. Could it be that soon he would be able to sit in his study, his dining room, his parlour, his own bedroom, and hear those same two shoes, that same pair of feet, shuffling about his house, their house?

John smiled. God! – he sincerely hoped so.

After John had met Margaret, then her father's student, a man who had historically been unresponsive to the diversions and distractions of the fairer sex, had at once become numb to everyone and everything else but her. Without even knowing what she was doing to him, that incredible woman had managed to overpower John's every sense and ignite a passionate fire within him, one which was conceived of both love and lust united, a blaze that raged relentlessly, ravenously consuming him, setting his soul alight like a beacon of devotion that burnt as brightly and fiercely as the sun.

As John stood there, mentally preparing himself for what must come next, it occurred to him that sometimes man has a habit of outgrowing himself, and because of this distinctively human progression of maturing or degrading through the conditioning of life's seasons, then man may suddenly wake up one day to find that he no longer fits his former and familiar mould. As a result of this ripening, he is then forced to discard his old clothes and adorn a new armour of authenticity, one which suits his new-found sense of self. It was a choice that humanity had to make, whether to evolve or stand still in stagnant intransigence, but John, a fellow born and bred with an enlightened mind, a robust body, and a gallant spirit, wholeheartedly knew which fork in the road he would be taking.

That is why now that John had met Margaret, his old ways no longer became him, and he no longer felt comfortable in his own skin, meaning that he wished to shed the scales of his past associations, and without delay, start afresh, this recreation of a new John resembling a phoenix rising from the ashes. In light of this, John discovered that he desired to discard his solemn garbs of indifference, and in their place, strap on the breastplate of friendship, the sword of courage, the belt of integrity, and the shield of empathy, before stepping intrepidly into his new future with reinvigorated purpose, proving to Margaret that he had honestly changed, and it was all because of her.

But then again, all of these novel revelations may very well have remained supressed inside of John if it had not been for the judicious intervention of…

As he studied Mrs Hale, John remarked how unremarkable she really was. She was short, shrunken, and terribly meek and mundane with her humdrum features that made her look somewhat like a church mouse. There was still that funny little starched cap perched atop her greying hair like some sort of quaint crown made to adorn the heads of immaterial women, the common houses of England packed full of them, all their own varieties of Mrs Maria Hale. But by God! – how John had misjudged her. Far from being ordinary, she was extraordinary. This unpredictable woman who held more wisdom in her wrinkled little finger than John could ever hope to own in his whole being, no matter how many philosophers or poets he poured over the pages of.

She was truly his guardian angel.

With the thin line of his lips twisting upwards, John offered her a faint smile, one which communicated a private tribute of eternal thanks from her to him. In turn, the bedridden woman who rested regally against her pillows, smiled back serenely, her head nodding with just one profound bow. She was acknowledging his apology for his unintentional errors, she was recognising his gratitude for her maternal mediation, and she was accepting his vow to always look after her most precious earthly possession after she had departed this mortal coil, Margaret. In response, John knew that she was gifting her approval for his love for her daughter, and the matriarch was quietly welcoming John into the bosom of the Hale family, a pending pledge that depended on the answer of one other person, the verdict of…

John turned his head towards the door.

'Enough of your dilly-dallying,' Mrs Hale chided kindly. 'You've spent enough time in here with this decrepit old lady, now, away with you, young man!' she shooed good-humouredly. 'You have waited so long for this moment, we all have. Go, go to her.'

John nodded.

It was time.

Patting the ring which rested patiently in his breast pocket for its chance to shine, its opportunity to fulfil its preordained purpose, John stood tall and straight, rather like a soldier about to valiantly advance into no man's land. The master had no inkling of a plan, and this was a terrifyingly precarious thought for one who usually stayed well clear of gambling, especially when the stakes were so high. But alas, John could only do his best to be brave and true, and the rest, well, that was up to her, and knowing his Margaret, she would be courageous enough for the both of them.

Bracing himself, John inhaled a deep breath, and after taking a single and purposeful stride, he quitted the room.

As John toppled into the poky corridor, tripping on a bothersome step on the way and growling at it in turn for its gall, he was obliged to blink in partial blindness as he was greeted by the weak light of a few paltry lamps which were doing a half-hearted job of illuminating the landscape. Straining and sharpening his gaze, he perceived that the pathetic spattering of lights glowed with lackadaisical laziness, their oily flames lulled into slumber by the cloak of darkness which tricked them into thinking it was time to call it a day and bid the world goodnight. But John frowned, because as far as he was concerned, it may have been outrageously late, but the night, his night, was only just beginning, meaning that those lamps better look lively, because there was the little matter of proposing that still needed seeing to.

Loitering on a narrow landing which was inadequately floodlit in comparison to Mrs Hale's cosy chamber, John tried to remember where he was and what he was about, never before having been abandoned in this part of the Hale's home before. Grumbling, he realised that he had been left to circumnavigate his own way through the cramped Crampton passageways, and soon found himself wishing he had a map, or better yet, a guide, a pretty one in a powder-blue dress and navy sash. But oh dear, oh no! ─ she was not by his side, even the hazy light told him that much. Surveying his setting in a state of disorientation, his head darting left, right, up, down, and even sideways, John searched for her, for Margaret, but much to his escalating alarm, he could not find her.

With the bile of panic churning about in his belly and making him feel horribly sick, much like a sailor swaying upon the choppy swells of the sea, John began to anxiously fret that Margaret had intentionally escaped him and was deliberately evading his company. With a menacing mope, he thought on how it was conceivable that she had slipped away and disappeared into the obscurity of the dusk, possibly to the safe haven of her own bedroom, choosing for some unspecified reason not to see and speak with him privately at this point in time. John suddenly felt horrendously ill. What if she had no intention of ever talking to him about what had transpired tonight? Squinting to glance at the row of closed doors along the hallway, John sensed his mouth turn dry as he found himself randomly speculating as to which was hers, the knack of betting a vice the precautious master did not boast. Which one? Oh, help! Which one?! Then again, John soon shook himself and tossed away all thoughts of such an unsuitable scheme. No, no, no, he could hardly accost Margaret in her boudoir, no matter how much he wanted an audience with her, for that would be unacceptable in its indiscretion, utterly unforgiv ─

Wait!

John's ears pricked as he heard a faint scuffling sound drifting up from the vicinity below. Leaning his sizeable physique over the banister in such an exaggerated manner that he was sure he looked like some sort of ludicrous lemon, John saw…yes!

Yes, thank goodness! ─ it was her! Praise the Lord!

Even in the darkness, John could discern Margaret unhurriedly walking down the stairs with one lightsome step at a time, and after slapping the railing in hurrah, the lover quickened his own steps so that he might follow her retreating form. With a bold gait, the man was ready to once again be inaugurated as the master of his own destiny, so after placing one motivated foot in front of the other, he was resolved to embark upon the next chapter of his life, one which was not yet determined.

As he headed along the corridor, John tried to ignore the twinge of nervousness which writhed in his gut, the man praying that the segment that was about to play out would be penned as he hoped and turn out a triumph and not a tragedy. He had thought it before and tried not to think on it again, lest it derail his grit, but it was true that just because Margaret cared for him, it did not necessarily equate that she was also willing to marry him, not after everything he had put her through.

Extending his long legs, John was promptly able to chase her shadow as easily as one-two-three, nearly the same number of paces it took for him to catch up with her. But alas, as he narrowed the distance between them and got closer, so close that he could reach out and touch her with one of his lengthy fingers, John hastily halted and held back. There was something…odd about the way Margaret was behaving.

She was gliding, floating even, as if her dainty feet were not even touching the ground. She was humming to herself, the birdsong melody tickling John's ears and thrilling his soul, her graceful body swaying ever so slightly from side to side in a way which darned hypnotised him, her skirts swooshing as she went. It was almost as if she were entirely oblivious to her surroundings, as if she were…sleepwalking.

Yes, if John were to venture a guess, he would say that Margaret was wholly unaware that he was even there. At first, John was a mite unsettled, not to mentioned miffed, the man worried that what had just passed between them was not nearly as momentous to her as it was to him. But then, John paused and reproached himself, actively choosing to subdue the spiralling doubts that threatened to unravel his confidence like a ball of yarn. Taking a sedated breath, John reminded himself that he had sworn this very night that he would put an end to all his adverse assumptions, these unfounded conjectures having ruined things between him and Margaret too many times before. To be sure, he would be a sorry sap indeed if he failed in his oath so shamefully soon after making it.

After a moment in suspended contemplation, John shook himself and dispelled these despairingly insecure imaginings about Margaret not appreciating what had just taken place between them. Following an interval of rational reflection, John grunted in understanding, since on stopping to think and not storming off ahead at full steam on his temper train as he always did, he could well fathom the cause of her dazed reaction. Indeed, Margaret was not unmoved by him and his presence in her house, no, she was simply stunned. Yes, that was it. She was merely overawed by everything that had taken place, and her maidenly mind was most likely processing the reality of what had just unfolded. And, if he knew her, which John believed he did, she was most likely pondering what was to come next, no doubt her sweet heart filled with a mixture of delight and, understandably, a dash of trepidation thrown into the bargain as well.

John nodded to himself and fought every urge that pulsated throughout his powerful body to race towards her and prematurely bundle Margaret up in his arms. Instead, John dug in his heals and pulled back like a rider hauling on the reins of a horse to prevent the brute from thundering off on an unstoppable charge that would no doubt prove calamitous. Yes, he would give Margaret her space for a moment, just a moment mind, she deserved that much consideration from him, especially after the ordeal she had experienced over the past few days. Patience, John, patience. He was so nearly there, but he would not rush or scare her, no, not for anything. If he was going to do this, if he was going to finally ask the woman he loved to marry him, properly this time, actually being able to say the words, then by God, John was going to do it right.

Cautiously, carefully, John took one deftly measured step at a time, meticulously ensuring that his heavy feet and hefty winter boots did not plod across the Hale's wooden floors like the ham-fisted clomps of some clumsy giant. Cursing himself under his breath, he realised that he had never felt like such a boor in all his life. With a shallow snarl, John perceived that his large limbs no longer afforded him a masculine advantage over his given situation as per usual, but rather, they turned him into a lumbering lout of a fellow, one who was about to squash his dreams underfoot like a bug or snap them like a twig if he made so much as one erroneous move. Eventually, after John had tracked her aimless wandering for a minute or two, trying to ignore the awkward fact that he felt somewhat like a predator stalking its prey, he spied Margaret turn into the downstairs parlour, the library, and with distracted movements that were neither here nor there, she walked right in, reaching the end of the road.

Just as he was about to scoot on in behind her like an overeager lapdog scuttling about his mistress's heels, John found that his feet abruptly faltered of their own accord, postponing his advance, nearly causing him to tumble over his own shoes at this unanticipated adjournment in his mission. Leaning against the wall for both bodily and moral support, John bent his head and took a sharp intake of breath, a generous gulp of air, his lungs heaving under the weight of the fears which beset him. His mind felt like a whirlwind which violently tossed him about helplessly between the estranged extremities of jittery animation and tense anxiety, unsure of where to settle and set up camp.

He could do this.

He had to do this.

He wanted to do this.

But still, in the murkier trenches of John's mind, a jeering voice slithered into his subconscious, garrotting itself around his faith in the future and strangling it with pitiless spite. With his clenched fist progressively pushing against the wall and splitting the plaster, John's persecutor tortured and taunted him with malice, much like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, its tormenting tongue spreading the venom of wicked lies.

She'll still say no.

The sadistic hiss of the snake booed in his ears like a deafening drum that sent tremors rippling throughout him, strumming at every string of his being. This provoking sneer of self-doubt tore at the very seams of John's already battered and bruised soul, the viciousness of which made him double over and gag with nauseating angst, the vomit of dread clogging and caking his gullet.

Afterwards, shaking his head to unclutter his harassed mind, John twisted to the right and happened to notice a long mirror hanging at the foot of the stairs. With his curiosity filched, he impulsively went to stand before it, suddenly overwhelmed by an urgent need to confront himself, to challenge his foe head on, and to put an end to his self-destructive self-abasement once and for all. Perhaps then, finally, after thirty years, John Thornton might be able to at last make peace with none other than John Thornton.

At first, when he reached it, John kept his troubled eyes concentrated on the floor, the pair boring piercing holes into the panels with the sheer ferocity of his focus. Next, after a hiatus that was hounded by hesitancy, the master slowly allowed his head to rise and his gaze to span upwards. But as he caught sight of his reflection, John brusquely halted, and he felt his abdomen screw into knots of disgusted dismay. With his features contorting into a glare, John saw that the man before his eyes was staring back at him with thinly veiled contempt, the edges of his lips coiling into a derisive scoff. John regarded himself with naked bitterness as his eyes travelled over his titanic form.

Tall. Broad. Solid. Angular. Harsh. Dour. Ugly.

Nothing.

Nobody.

Snorting in self-loathing, John glowered at himself as he always did, ready to walk away and concede defeat in craven retreat, for let it be known far and wide that John Thornton would never tolerate himself to be conquered and overthrown in any quarter of his life…save for this one wretched war, which was his lifelong and losing battle with his own turbulent insecurities.

But then, unexpectedly, John stopped, stilled, and sighed. With his brawny shoulders sagging, taking away his stance of animosity and aggravation, he tried again. This time, he slanted forwards, so close that his sharp nose touched the cold overlay of the glass, his haggard breath misting the polished surface. With his hands wedged on either side of the frame, John scrutinised his reflection for what felt like an age, his eyebrows knitted together as he studied himself discriminatingly. It was as if the jury of John's amour-propre had adjourned to deliberate over and debate its findings, the defendant now awaiting their judgement. Then, all of a sudden, his mouth settled into a soft smile, one that was small, yet sympathetic.

'What am I going to do with you, boy?'he asked quietly, and, for the first time in his life, his words were not laced with disdain, but with goodwill, even a trace of tolerance.

Refusing to flinch, John looked at himself straight in the eye, and as those cobalt spheres smouldered intensely in the dark, he decided that it was time to break free of the chains of shyness and lack of self-worth which had shackled him from birth. He had to, he had to confront his innermost demons, he had no alternative, not if he wanted to gain even the slightest hope of ever being worthy of ─

John froze as the sound of Margaret humming floated towards him from down the hallway, and his restless heart instantly calmed, placated into peace by that serenely soothing harmony that held the sole power to appease the tempest of his moods and misgivings alike.

He had to do this! ─ for her!

Yes, John had to do this if he wanted the chance to be happy, and in return, the ability to make Margaret happy. If he sought to protect the possibility of winning her hand and wedding her heart, then John needed to first convince himself that he was worthy of her, because without that fundamental trust in himself, he did not stand a chance. It was exactly as Mrs Hale had suspected. John was not so much frightened that Margaret would deny him, it was that he was terrified that his beloved girl would say yes to his all-important question and consent to join him in matrimony. As wonderful as this outcome may seem, he dreaded that after some time had passed, she would come to realise that her husband was nothing special and regret him. Then, regardless of how hard John tried, he could never bring her enough cheer nor contentment to return that spark to their relationship, that sparkle of affection to her lovely eyes, and the flame of her love for him would fizzle out forever, never to be rekindled, no matter how faithfully he fought to fan it.

But no, this had to stop, and it had to stop now! Such doubts were not only fruitless, but they were also slanderous, because despite John's dormant distrust in his base value as a human being, let alone a potential husband, deep in the recesses of his humble heart, he knew that he may not be perfect, but with God as his witness, John trusted that no man would ever love Margaret Hale like he did. Consequently, if John were to think logically, then surely it signified that no man was more qualified than he to at least attempt to make Margaret happy within the blessed accord of marriage. Therefore, John would be a damned fool if he denied himself that sacrosanct chance of knowing such matchless serenity as being wedded to Margaret by backing away and bowing out before he had even tried.

Assessing himself in the mirror with something akin to acceptance, he whispered: 'You are not that boy anymore, Johnny. You are not poor. You are not disgraced. You are not adrift. That is all behind you, you need not be afraid anymore, I will look after you. You are a man now. You are a master. You are a magistrate. Look at what you have achieved off your own back. You are clever. You are capable. You are courageous. You are John bloody Thornton, and you deserve to be happy. You can do this. You deserve her. You are no coward, lad, you are no quitter! For God's sake, man, you love her!'

Then huffing in realisation, he affixed: 'And she loves you too.'

John grinned like a Cheshire Cat.

She loved him too.

Margaret, that beautiful, bewitching, benevolent creature, she loved him.

How? Why? These questions no longer mattered, all that mattered was that she did.

Standing up straight, John felt a wave of valour soar throughout him and strengthen his spirit like never before. Looking at himself in the mirror one last time before he moved away, John suddenly startled. Blinking rapidly, he examined the likeness staring back at him.

Who was that?

Then he smiled. It was him; it was John, he was finally comfortable in his own skin, he was free to be….just John, just he, and what a liberating thought that was.

Swivelling his head towards the library, he nodded resolutely.

It was time. It was finally time to ask her to be his Margaret, just as surely as he was already and always her John.

Heading back towards the study with determined strides that swanked with the manner of a swagger and a strut, John was about to march right on in, but before he got very far, he froze by the door and his breath caught in his throat, all the air escaping his lungs and leaving him winded.

She was standing by the window.

That window.

John almost laughed out loud.

That damned window!

Oh! How much theatre had unfolded before that insignificant little spot in this inconsequential little house? It was the same window he had been positioned beside when he had first been introduced to her, when Mr Hale had presented an unwitting John to his daughter, the once indifferent master ignorant to the fact that he had just encountered the woman who would become his world entire. He had been given no word of warning, no prior notice to prepare him for this fateful transformation in his life as he shifted from loner to lover in a matter of weeks. But the window had known, yes, he felt sure that as batty as it seemed, that wily window had somehow known what fate held in store for these unlucky lovers.

It was the same window John had paced back and forth alongside before blundering into his first devastating proposal. There he had stalked about like a caged tiger, half dreading her arrival, half impatiently longing for it and bidding her to make haste so that he might hold Margaret in his arms once more, the memory of her hands around his neck at the riot playing havoc with his fevered thoughts. Ha! The window had known then too, he bet it had! But the rotter had done nothing to advise or aid him that day. More was the pity, for if it had, John may have been alerted to his idiocies and not made so many disastrous gaffes as he floundered through his painfully short speech.

It had been the window that Margaret had fled to and stood before in all her stately grandeur while he had rapidly rounded the table that separated them, begging her to understand that he loved her so dearly, that her reputation meant nothing to him, and that he had no interest in possessing her, his only wish being to safeguard and serve her. Well, it would appear that on that occasion, the biased window had decided to side with her and had given Margaret sanctuary from the overpowering strength of his passions as John had come offensively close to her, the master unsure of what he would have said or done if she had not moved, and he had then subsequently found himself directly and indiscreetly stood before her.

And now, there she stood again. God! - it was perfect. Here they were once more, the three of them, John, Margaret, and that window. Yes, the scene was set, all the players were here, and all that was left was for John to perform his leading role, for he would only have one more chance to get it right before the curtain fell. John almost snorted. Did they not say that there was never a tale of more woe than that of Juliet and her Romeo?! Balderdash! Clearly Shakespeare had never heard of John and Margaret.

As his eyes flitted about the room, John thought on all that had happened here over the past seven months, and how much he had altered in that short time, for the better, he hoped. Glancing down, he let his fingers drop to trace the table-top by the entryway, the counter that had two nights ago played host to an ill-omened letter, one which had now gone to goodness knows where, and the table was just a harmless table once more, unblemished by its grievous association as an accomplice to angst. If only John had never looked down that night, then both he and Margaret could have avoided a catalogue of mistakes, misunderstandings, and unspeakable misery.

Letting his eyes train up, John observed Margaret lingering in the frame of that significant screen, her back turned to him, her interest preoccupied with something which lay beyond the panes of glass, perhaps in the street. Margaret was looking at something, studying something, but what, he was not sure, and to be honest, it was the last thing on his mind. Let her look, thought he, for John was captivated with looking at her in turn. There was something fascinating about her, there always was, but here, now, there was something stirringly spellbinding about Margaret's ethereal aura.

She was so incredibly lovely.

That dress! Would it ever cease mesmerising him? John had never given a fig about fashion before, not even now that he had the means to indulge in the finer things in life. Indeed, the concept of staying in vogue had altogether lost its appeal for him in recent years with his sister becoming obsessed with furnishing herself with every frock and frill that money could buy, the end results often making her appear like some sort of gaudy figurine, the peroxide colours of her patterns so lurid that the native Martians could doubtlessly see her from the Moon. It probably did not help that his years of frugality had trained John to be economical, making his clothes last for as long as possible, almost until they were worn out to the point of raggery. If it were not for his mother begging him to throw them away, lest he mortify the Thornton name with his missing buttons and threadbare cuffs, giving him the appearance of a pauper opposed to a prosperous merchant, then John often supposed that he would have gone years without buying anything new for himself. No, John did not care for clothes, so long as they were practical and sober, then that suited him just fine, thank you very much.

However, when it came to Margaret…well, that was different. There was something altogether arresting about every little trim or trinket that adorned that celestial angel. Her garments were plain yet pure, and a charmed John found that every nick and stitch of material accentuated the appeal of Margaret's maidenly and modest form to an extent which drove him to distraction. To be sure, her attire was never anything truly noteworthy, but all the same, John knew her wardrobe better than he knew his own, and the wonder of which meant that every time he saw his muse, the infatuated master could not help but furtively glance her way to see what she was wearing and to admire Margaret in her unassuming robes.

But this dress. Good grief, it was glorious. John may not have been an expert on mode, but after spending his youth working in a draper's shop and now as a cotton merchant, the man could certainly appreciate a textile of superior quality when he saw it. The shade of the weave was remarkable in its glossy sheen, stunning his every sense. John's gaze wandered leisurely across the lustre of her skirts and bodice, these fragments of silk and satin painting themselves in flecks of blue across her flattering form, the fabric around her chest bunching and creasing to cup and lift her breasts most pleasingly. John's eyes then glided over Margaret's neck and trailed down her arms so that he might study the strata of translucent sleeves which were stitched with delicate floras and glints of shimmering beads, the opaque organza subtly swathing her milky skin, an unalloyed dermis which glowed in the dusky hue of this winter evening, almost creating a halo of light around her. Again, with an impish grin, his avid eyes fell upon the unadorned navy ribbon that had been tied around Margaret's waist, the same colour as John's cravat, his favourite shade, although his was also splashed with specks and swirls of coppery gold. Nonetheless, the uncanny similarity made John feel as if their clothes were coupled in their conspicuous collusion this night, a thought which gave him a nudge of boldness.

In the end, when he could take it no more and felt unable to patiently await his sovereign sweetheart's invitation for her servant to join her for a private and most personal audience, John decided that it was time for this bulldog to seize the bull by the horns and get on with it.

'Carpe diem,' he whispered, reciting his old school motto.

Taking a single and dogged step forward, John paused, his extended tree-trunk of a leg shaking, the man wondering whether by some bizarre means, some invisible barrier force, such as a wall or a fence, might unexpectedly manifest and thwart his audacious advance. Nevertheless, when the ground did not swallow him whole for his daring impertinence in encroaching upon the hallowed sanctum where this angel stood in all her majestic grace, John felt a surge of bravery course through him, and he took another step, then another, unwaveringly making his way across the room towards Margaret.

The journey may have felt immeasurable in its consequence, but alas, it was surprisingly short in distance, for before he knew it, he was there, behind her, beside her.

However, when at last he reached Margaret, John came to a grinding halt. It would seem that Margaret, infuriating goddess that she was, had still not perceived his presence. If he did not know better, then John would swear that the intractable madam in her was doing this on purpose and making him work for what he wanted as a form of penance. But no, he knew that such assertions were unfair, for while she could certainly be cross, his caring Margaret could never be that callous. Frowning in frustration, John shuffled uneasily from foot to foot, wondering how the blazes he was supposed to proceed. What should he do? What should he say? Was there an established etiquette for such an unconventional situation? How close was a man in his precarious position allowed to stand to the woman who apparently loved him, but had not yet consented to be his better half?

Hmm. Should he clear his throat? Tap her on the shoulder? Knock something over to cause a ruckus? All of these ploys would surely serve to announce his attendance. Or should he simply wait about like a towering twit until she turned around? Blimey, if he held fire for Margaret to revive herself from this reverie that seemed to have her trapped in a trance, then John might be hanging about until kingdom come. With an exasperated huff, John noted that no book he had ever read had prepared him for this most perplexing event, a severe scholastic oversight, one might add.

But then suddenly, out of nowhere, Margaret stilled, and in a flash, her eyes shot up as she spied him in the glass of the window. With his breath stuck somewhere between his left lung and his larynx, John watched her carefully, his flint-like gaze vigilant to detect any indication of fright, no matter how minor it may be, for he would rather retreat in an instant than cause her even a fraction of uneasiness with his undoubtedly shocking vicinity.

But much to his amazement, she showed no sign of either panic or protest.

John gulped.

He tried to speak, but he had lost the basic ability to form words. Dang it! John then tried to move, but his feet were glued to the rug. Dash it!

Oh heck, hell, and hoodle, what was he supposed to do?!

Then, to his disbelief, John felt his heart smash against his ribs as Margaret let out a spontaneously panting breath. She had not meant to do it, no doubt she had no idea what a seductive sound like that could do to a man like him. But for John, he was lost to her, for Margaret's rasping sigh was like a siren call which hooked his soul and arrested his spirit, and all at once, he found that his sagacity of level-headedness abandoned him. In sensing his self-control shatter into smithereens at the sound of that sensual sigh, John knew that he would abstain from his instinctual cravings and stifle his amorous ache for Margaret no more.

In a haze of hungry yearning, John took a brazen step nearer, throwing off the manacles of restraint, choosing instead to allow his impulses to rule the day. He did not halt until he was a mere inch from her back, his frame soaring over Margaret's petite height, his stature serving to both confine and shelter her.

He could not say what it was, perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, or the dimness of the lamps, or the fatigue in his mind, or simply the awe-inspiring wonder of the woman standing before him, but John felt as if he were drunk on the heady comeliness of her. The perfumed smell of her natural scent, the laboured pant of her breathing, the radiating warmth of her tantalising body, they were all enticements which intoxicated him with an invigorating combination of devotion and desire. John had never been schooled in such things, he was not accustomed to being in such close proximity to a woman, let alone one he worshipped, so he found that now that he was so near to her and knowing that she returned his love, it was as if his self-denial and self-discipline had snapped in two.

Leaning forwards, John lowered his head so that his lips skimmed her earlobe, and he felt his heart roar like a lion in his breast as Margaret began to quiver in what could only be described as excited anticipation. He tried to think, but his mind was befuddled by a strange muddle of love and longing, and yes, John would admit it, the fiery embers of lust too, for the intimacy of this delicious moment was not lost on the virgin bachelor. In that instant, John found that he was no longer a gentleman, but an animal, one who had deposed propriety, and in its place, had elected, or perhaps better described as erected, a state of primordial desire, a primeval impulse which gushed naturally through his red-blooded veins. It was a need which he had repressed for so very long, a need that had lain dormant for many years, simmering under the surface, but now that he had met Margaret, it had erupted within him, and nothing could contain it.

Ducking his forehead, John let his nose brush against Margaret's long, lustrous hair which fell contrarily about her in thick ringlets, the aroma of pears wafting up his nostrils, just like in his dreams. It reminded him that he was starving, but not for food, but for want of her, the knowledge of which made him ravenous, his mouth salivating.

Nevertheless, as much as he wanted her, as much as he needed her, John would not let carnality overtake him and corrupt proceedings, no, for as much as he was just a man and she a woman, the two of them created in flesh, she was also his precious and pure Margaret. Therefore, lust could go and hang itself as far as John was concerned, because no amount of longing in all the world would allow him to misuse her, especially not at a moment like this, one which should be governed by romance alone. But for the life of him, John did not know what to say or do. All articulation and action seemed to have deserted him, leaving him all at sea.

John felt his thighs itch as Margaret's hands jerked to the fore, and she clutched the sill for support, her knuckles turning white as she gripped it for dear life. Again, John was wary as he watched her, ready to step away if he saw even a glimmer of fear or displeasure disquiet her features. But no, there was nothing, and John had to stifle a groan of gratification as Margaret began to breathe heavily, her eyelashes fluttering in euphoria, an irresistibly enamoured exhale leaving that slender throat and escaping those pert and pleasingly impertinent lips, a velvety purse of flesh which he hoped soon to know intimately and to be granted exclusive admission to.

Margaret could feel her palms sweating and her knees shaking, the window ledge the only thing stopping her from falling. It was true, he was right, she was both endeavouring to inspire and challenge John to continue in his ministrations, a sensuous conduct which made her blush, for there was no question that all of this was scandalous and sinful, rather like the knowledge of the forbidden fruit, since these feelings that John created in her surely were too heavenly for people to be allowed to enjoy with unbridled restraint.

Nonetheless, in her virtuous unworldliness, Margaret could not fully understand what was happening here. He was so close, probably too close, but she was not offended, no, she was unequivocally delighted, pleased by his lack of propriety, and that in itself scared her. She could not fathom what he was doing or why he was taking so long, and Margaret could feel her limbs aching impatiently for him to act. John was just standing there, staring at her, and the acquaintance of his indecent attentions made every fibre of Margaret's body prickle in pleasure, burning her alive from within, and she urgently required his touch to soothe her spirit and bring it relief.

Sensing her silent encouragement, John dipped his head, and he let out a husky howl as Margaret bristled when his wolfish mane of hair tickled that hidden point below the base of her hairline and the summit of her neck. With a panting breath, his mouth came scandalously close to that little hollow where her neck met her right shoulder, his shrewd eyes predicting that his mouth would fit perfectly in that vacant groove, allowing him to leave a moist peck upon that sensual spot which tempted him with such coy allure. But it would not be an act of covetousness like a beast leaving his possessive mark, no, it would be an act of adulation, since John's lips would be anointing Margaret not with licentiousness, but with his unadulterated love.

Snarling, John had to fight every compulsion in his stiffening body to prevent himself from pressing his mouth against her neck and dragging it down that swan-like shaft with unhurried indulgence, his tongue sneaking out to scrape her fragrant skin. But thankfully, his immodest fantasy was interrupted in the nick of time, because as the wind wailed outside like a phantom rattling to be let in, a candle flickered, and John's attention was filched as the dancing light captured the sprinkling of tasteful blue pins that had been positioned in Margaret's hair to hold up that shock of silken locks. With fascination, John's eyes wandered over the blended tints of brown which streaked her strands, and in doing so, he was overcome with a throbbing need to thrust his fingers into that wealth of chocolate-coloured curls and explore that treasure trove of tresses until he had learnt their every nook and cranny like the back of his hand.

As he inspected these pins as if in a daydream, the twisted intertwining of their silver, gold and copper stems riveting him, John's eyes suddenly ceased their studying. His interest was snatched as he saw Margaret staring at him, her own eyes wide, fixed, and determined, as if in her magnificent insolence, this daring woman, his darling girl, was standing her ground and refusing to give way under the potency of his passion. With his heart galloping, his nostrils flaring, his jaw tautening, his skin scorching, his muscles flexing, and his willpower dissolving to dust, John discerned the glint of yearning in her eyes, and he knew there and then that Margaret wanted this as much as he did. In her fearlessness, she was helping him, imploring him to continue. John smiled to himself. Bless her, had he not said that his Margaret would be brave enough for the two of them?

At long last, all John could do, was with a voice trembling with longing, utter the one word which was engraved on his heart, the one word which defined everything he was and everything he wanted all wrapped up in three unassuming syllables, that together, formed the most sacred sound ever conceived. Parting his parched lips, with a throaty tenor that was drenched in the burr of his northern twang, John whispered that one word which was forever on the tip of his tongue and at the forefront of his mind:

'Margaret.'

At that moment, the world seemed to stop spinning, and everything stilled, suspended in a strange sort of silence. It all depended on what happened next, on what she said or did. He was standing so close to her that John could hear Margaret's heartbeat, the erratic ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom of its rhythm the only sign that she had heard him and understood the statement of love it made, along with the question of reciprocation it posed. To John, saying Margaret's name out loud before her had felt like a rewarding release. It had been as if all the tension in his body had been alleviated and expelled, leaving him discharged of all his cares. Whether she would welcome or abhor his ardent familiarity, he could not presume to know, but he was not sorry for saying her name, no, for it was the only name that mattered to him in all this wretched world.

Then it happened.

John's heart skipped a beat as Margaret's head fell right back as if pulled by a string, her eyes flickering closed, a breathy sigh drifting out of her like the ghost of her maidenly naivety taking flight, her soul and body now awakened to the sweet and sensual sentiments of love. Margaret still felt lost in the confines of his attentions, this land of course and crude cravings unfamiliar to her. But despite his comportment that lacked the sort of chivalry that she might have thought characteristic of such a moment, Margaret was not in the least affronted, since her faith in John's honour was built upon a foundation of unshakable trust. Yes, she knew that despite the exterior of covetousness that exuded from both her slight body and his formidable frame, that above all else, John would never use her, since he was too thoughtful, too gentle, too principled for such things. No, Margaret was not afraid, if anything, she wanted more.

John had to take several deep breaths, lest his knees give way, the joints of his legs feeling both firm and weak all at once. Swallowing thickly, John genuinely worried that in their indecision, his knees would wobble, and he would come crashing to the ground, his colossal form taking Margaret down to the floor with him, the pair of them ending up in a crumpled and carnal heap upon the rug.

Biting his lip as his Adam's apple shuddered, John tried to steady himself by reaching out to grab the wooden frame of an adjacent bookcase, the fragments of a few impertinent splinters digging into his palm as he fought to stay upright. With a shelf of philosophical tomes propping him in place, John took up a most unfortunate and ungainly stance which left the master all askew, rather as if his smitten and smutty thoughts had left him sozzled.

Turning his head back towards his companion, John tried to talk, but a hoarse croak was all he could manage. Grumbling, John cursed himself under his breath and coughed as he thumped at his chest with a scrunched fist like a gorilla. In turn, Margaret jumped in fright at his boisterous and somewhat brutish behaviour, the genteel girl not accustomed to such rough and ready manners. On detecting her nervousness, John sighed despairingly. This would not do! John was not entirely sure how these things were supposed to go, but he felt fairly certain that this was not it! Shifting so that he once more stood behind her, her back still turned to him, John tried again to speak, his tone gravelly, his oration gruff, the magnitude of the moment overwhelming him.

"Take care. If you do not speak – I shall claim you as my own in some strange presumptuous way. Send me away at once, if I must go; – Margaret! –"

Margaret let out a sharp gasp and John watched self-consciously as her chest heaved hypnotically. But alas, she did not emit a word, not one. Closing his eyes, John placed the tip of his nose against the ridge of her temple, mere ins from her scar, and muttered with chords rich in reverence: 'If you do not speak and order me to leave, then I only think it fair to warn you that I intend to stubbornly stay by your side forever.'

At first, it seemed that she intended not to respond, a most desolate thought indeed, but then John vaulted as he sensed Margaret make a movement, a very slight one mind, and his head bowed to observe as she slowly but surely loosened the fingers of one of her hands and let them sneak behind her towards him. John wished so desperately to seize that soft hand and hold it in his, but he dared not, no, for this was her moment, her chance to reply, so he would not insult her by interrupting her right to talk and snatching away her voice with his own selfish wants.

At last, after several seconds which seemed to stretch on forever, the tips of Margaret's slender fingers tenderly brushed against John's own, and the master let out a rough moan deep in his throat at the sensation of her voluntary contact, the thrill of her touch sending sparks of adrenaline shooting to the outposts of his body, a flood of pleasure drowning his senses.

But John startled as he heard a faint voice whisper into the darkness: 'If your pledge is genuine, then I best not speak.'

He smiled, for it was the first time she had spoken in what felt like too long. The quality of her timbre was adorably sweet in its pitch, since it was an endearing mixture of timidity and valour, that virtuous blend being the very definition of his lovely Margaret. What was more, he could sense her unquestioning trust in him, and the knowledge of that faith in his decency and his intentions filled John with so much love for Margaret that he felt convinced his soul would burst. Looking down from his great height, John could see her shyly peering up at him, her soulful eyes wide and full of admiration. With his heart sprinting so fast that it would surely stall, John reached out his arm and with cautious tenderness, he slipped it around Margaret's waist and pressed it against her stomach. When she did not flinch, he gently and gradually guided Margaret towards him, pulling her backwards and not stopping until her back rested flush against his solid chest, the two colliding with a faint thud.

They stood like that for some time, watching each other in the window. It was as if they were unable to believe the events unfolding around them for themselves, so required a mirror to reflect it back and attest to the veracity of this extraordinary scene. But John smiled to know that for some mysterious reason, the window had decided to endorse their union tonight, rather than obstruct it, thus clearing it of all its past crimes as far as John was concerned. Closing his eyes and sighing in contentment, he breathed her in and savoured this sacred moment, one which he had patiently waited for all his life.

Bobbing his chin so that the whiskers of his jaw scraped along her smooth cheek, Margaret felt a delightful shiver steal up her spine. She had never felt so alive, nor so safe. His astonishingly strong arm held her with a curious combination of avariciousness and softness. Through the multiple layers of her dress, her corset, and her shift, Margaret could feel the way John's splayed fingers gripped her greedily, perhaps a little too earnestly if truth be told, but she did not mind, since she knew that his tight hold did not derive from possessiveness, but from overprotectiveness, a need to keep her close, for fear that she might slip away and never return. Dear John, how desperately he needed her reassurance. He was being so brave, her sweet boy, so Margaret determined that she too must be brave if she wanted to help him to persist in finishing this crucial conversation.

Lifting her hand gingerly, Margaret placed it on his thick wrist and stroked that exposed part of him, marvelling at the warmth which sprang from that hairy patch of skin which peeked out from beneath his shirt. Her heart fluttered as she felt John stir under her affectionate touch, and she could feel his heart quicken behind her, even beneath his tiers of stiff clothes. In turn, she quivered as she felt him lower his head, so that his chin rested on the crown of her head, and they both thought how delightful it was that she fitted so snugly into that chasm, as if they had been made and measured in order to perfectly come together as one, like a puzzle, just as Mrs Hale had said.

Taking a deep breath, and marvelling at the way his arm moved up and down along with her ribs, Margaret whispered: 'John?'

John's eyes flew open.

She had said his name!

Margaret, she had said it, she had said his name, and by God, it had never sounded so well.

John caressed his stubbled jaw against her cheek once more. 'Yes?' he invited, trying with all his might to sound confident and in control of himself, but alas, the word came out more like a whimper. Then, feeling bolder, he added shyly: 'What is it, my darling?'

Margaret slowly swivelled round in his hold, and without looking at him, she burrowed her head against John's chest and hid it there for safekeeping. John was about to ask her what the matter was, but she suddenly started snivelling and that threw him rather. 'I love you,' Margaret sniffed, her voice so small that he could hardly hear it.

John jolted and almost cried out as he felt his soul sputter and spurt with the joy that overflowed from it. 'I love you too,' he confessed, winding both of his arms around her and hauling Margaret close, wrapping her in the cocoon of his cuddle. 'You have no idea how much.'

But then suddenly, she was gone.

Before John knew what was happening, Margaret had slid out of his hold, propelled herself away from him, and had flown to the other side of the room at a speed which simultaneously amazed and alarmed him. However, panic soon overwhelmed John when Margaret spun round, and he saw a torrent of tears streaming down her face and staining her paling cheeks.

'Margaret?!' he murmured in dismay, horrified at the thought that he had upset her so soon into their reconciliation. 'No!' he disputed, lurching forwards. 'No ─ no ─ no! Please…please do not cry, sweetheart, please!' he beseeched, staggering towards her.

But his approach only seemed to agitate Margaret more and her blubbing grew louder and more erratic in correlation. John halted and regarded her attentively, his eyes blinking with anxiety. 'I beg you, do not be sad, do not cry so, my love. Whatever it is, we can work through it together, just like your mother said,' he insisted, flailing around helplessly for the right thing to say. 'Whatever it is, whatever is amiss, we can resolve it, we can repair it, I can fix it!' John maintained, gesturing towards himself dramatically, trying to show Margaret that he was no idle bystander in all of this, but an active participant, one who was ready and waiting to perform any deed she demanded of him, so long as it allowed John to prove that her love for him was warranted and worth striving to preserve.

Margaret opened her mouth, but all that came out was a spluttering stammer as she choked on her sobs. 'I ─ I,' she faltered, the words stabbing in her throat. Giving up, she shook her head irritably and scrunched up her puffy eyes, frustrated at her own embarrassing inelegance and inability to string a sentence together. Oh! Why was love so nonsensical?!

However, John was quick to respond and step in to offer his assistance. 'Are you offended?' he enquired, fumbling around in the dark to try and discern the cause of her unease. 'Did I…I know I should not have held you like that, I should not have come so shamefully close, or touched you in such an intimate way, it is not the way of a gentleman. I just ─ I wanted ─ I needed ─ Margaret?!' John asked, raking his restless fingers through his hair in fidgety angst, aghast to think that his impatient and self-indulgent actions may have driven his beloved away when she had been so deliciously close, not only in body, but in spirit.

But Margaret merely shook her head.

John nodded and a weight lifted from his shoulders. Thank goodness it was not that. 'Are you angry?' he pressed, knowing all too well how incensed she could get without him even trying to rile her.

Again, Margaret's head shook from side to side, her bottom lip trembling.

'Upset?' he guessed, throwing his arms into the air in vexation.

Still her head moved back and forth horizontally.

John huffed, feeling himself running out of options. 'Overwhelmed, then?' he deduced, for surely that was it, since despite his gladness in finding that his love was returned, he was feeling much the same himself.

Nevertheless, the flustered master was not required to speculate any further, because at that moment, Margaret abruptly veered round and facing him head on, she fearlessly requested to know: 'Is all that my mother said true?'

John was dumbfounded. 'What?!' he muttered uselessly, his features flopping into a bewildered frown.

Margaret swallowed thickly and raised a palm to scrub at her wet face. 'Was all that my mother said earlier the truth?' she tried again, hiccuping amidst her tears, feeling like such a ridiculous fool. 'What she said about you? About how you feel…about me?' Margaret demanded to know, her chin jerking up in defiance lest he make fun of her for asking such a thing, for making herself so vulnerable before him.

John's shoulders sagged, but then his jaw soon tautened in audacious mulishness. 'Every word!' he admitted frankly, unashamed of his feelings, the shaky candlelight revealing the gleam of brazenness which flashed in his eyes. It did not help matters that Margaret was looking more beautiful than ever as she poured out her heart to him in raw emotion, and it was damned unfair that she was not in his arms right now, a setback which John was finding difficult to accept with good grace.

Margaret let out a sigh of relief and placed a steadying hand on her stomach to quell the butterflies that flapped wildly in response to this most welcome news. She knew that he loved her, John had said as much just moments before, let alone several other times this night. But still, Margaret had been unsure of the accuracy of all the other crumbs of hearsay, all vital details which when put together, told a most important and inspiring narrative. It was wonderful to learn that it was all true, every word, just as he said.

However, Margaret was soon distracted from her private celebration as she heard John's baritone voice reverberating with a low and irresistibly dangerous growl, his timbre spiced with the tart inflection of rebelliousness. Margaret closed her eyes and listened, a sharp tingle creeping to every corner of her body. It was a distinctive sound which made Margaret's nerves quiver in a strange yet pleasant way, for she adored it when John argued with her in this flirtatious manner, his rich rumble igniting a fire in her soul. Oh! – how she had missed this! How she had missed him!

'Well?' he barked, and Margaret realised that she must have been too absorbed in her own thoughts to hear him. 'Is all she said also true of you, Margaret?' John questioned critically; his tone steady in its urgency as he stepped closer, bridging the gap between them like he had on the day after the riot, only this time, Margaret did not flee from him. 'About you and I?' he asked raspingly. 'About how you feel about me? Tell me, woman, is it as I hope? Do you love me so?'

John waited in agonising anticipation for her to reply, for Margaret to dispel his fears, confirm his aspirations, and secure his future happiness. As he stared at her with savage longing, his face so close that their noses almost bumped together, John's eyes kept flitting down to her pouted lips, the man forcing himself not to lean just that little bit further forwards and capture her mouth in a kiss.

But thankfully, John was not forced to suffer long in the limbo of unbearable uncertainty, since in her infinite mercy, Margaret tilted her head and smiled at him warmly. 'Every word,' she echoed assertively, determined that he should be in no doubt of her steadfast affection for him. 'Every single word!' she repeated, staring up at him with enchanting courage, an untamed glint of wilfulness twinkling in her eyes.

However, her assured poise soon waned, and Margaret suddenly hid behind her hands as a wave of shame swept over and engulfed her. "Oh, Mr Thornton, I am not good enough!" she wept, her conscience laden with regret for the way she had so cruelly wronged this dear, dear man, a man who her heart now held in such incomparable esteem, his integrity of character unrivalled by anyone of her acquaintance.

At first, John simply stared at her in stunned silence, but then he scoffed noisily, causing Margaret to peek at him from between the narrow gap of her fingers which veiled her eyes, his unreasonably handsome face coming into view. Far from accepting her plea of vilifying discredit, John just shook his head in awe. "Not good enough?!" he repeated in disbelief, a chuckle of irony escaping him. "Don't mock my own deep feelings of unworthiness!"

In seeing Margaret return his glance with shy scepticism from behind her mask of fingers, John boldly moved towards her, his arms stretched out in entreaty. 'Margaret, I am sorry, but I cannot stay quiet any longer!' he blurted out as he gently coaxed her hands away from her face and held them firmly in his own. 'I must tell you all now, for I fear that if I do not, then I might be devoured by this passion that has somehow infiltrated my once rational mind and muddled it into madness.'

Margaret's lips parted in astonishment. 'You feel that strongly? she tested. 'About me?!' she questioned, since you see, despite his previous declarations of passion for her, Margaret could still not believe that any man, let alone one as exceptional as John Thornton, could possibly think of her with such fierce veneration.

John puffed. 'God knows I do!'

Clasping her soft hand in his own calloused one, John laid the contents of his heart bare before her. 'Please, will you promise me that you will let me talk? Will you let me say all that I must?' he implored, his frenzied eyes darting across her face. 'I beg you, Margaret, do not silence me like the time before when you forbade me to speak of such feelings! Will you agree to let me own a man's right to tell the woman he loves of the private verities he harbours in his heart? Secret and sacred truths that are meant for her ears alone?'

Margaret wanted to reply, Lord knows she did, but she could not find her voice, for it had become lodged in the back of her throat, a gasp having dragged it down there. Cupping her face in his hands, John stared down at her with eyes that blazed in fervent zeal, the intensity of which made Margaret feel weak at the knees.

'If you say no, then I give you my solemn word as a gentleman that I shall never again subject you to my suit. I shall go away at once and never darken your door again. My lips shall be sealed, and I will never assault your ears or disturb your maidenly innocence by speaking of such raw and real feelings to you, of you, for you, not if you do not want it. One word Margaret, just one, and I shall be your servant and obey, and never again speak of my love for you so long as I live, if that is truly your wish, no matter how much it may destroy me.'

John paused with bated breath as he awaited her decree, silently praying that she would grant his request. Then, at long last, she nodded, and Margaret simply murmured: 'You may tell me.'

John choked. 'Truly?'

Margaret squeezed his hand, but whether it was to offer him courage or reinforce her own, she was not sure. 'I give you my word, John, I shall not stop you,' she vowed.

John's eyebrows soared, and he found himself reeling backwards in incredulity, for you see, no matter how many times he had fantasised about sharing the contents of his heart with his darling girl, he had never quite believed that she would ever allow it. So now, despite how often he had rehearsed this speech, redrafting his words, reordering her reactions, reshaping the outcome, John now found himself quite unprepared, at a loss of how to continue.

Hunched over in a menacing manner, John began to stride about the room, his fingers running through his black mane once more, his eyes sharpened in contemplation, his mind searching for inspiration. Turning to her and swallowing thickly, John announced: 'Margaret, you must know, surely you must know what I must say…what I wish to ask of you.'

There they stood at opposite ends of Mr Hale's library, watching, waiting, wondering.

In the end, Margaret nodded. 'Yes...I do,' she verified. Then, raising her head high with the imperial dignity and valour that was innate to her nature, she whispered: 'So, Mr Thornton, what are you waiting for?...Ask me!'

End of chapter notes:

The second part of the proposal scene will be out soon. Brace yourselves, because I think it may well be the longest chapter in the history of fiction – ever! Next time you will be able to see a picture of Margaret's engagement ring on Facebook for those of you who wish to. Again, look out for the poll next time, as I will be determining if people want me to continue writing/posting the post engagement – up until the wedding day chapters, or just wrap the story up after the next one.

Also, to see Margaret's dress, hairpins, hairstyle, and John's cravat, please visit Facebook at: TheScribbler_CMB.