A/N: So….longest chapter ever! It is well worth the wait. I really felt like we needed just a little more insight into poor John's misery. Of course, everything that I've written is based entirely off the book. Although I will admit, there are quite a few songs which inspired this chapter, if you even care to know, lol.

The Scientist-Coldplay

A Rush of Blood to the Head-Coldplay

Playing With Fire (acoustic version)-Emery

The Secret-Emery

The Funeral-Band Of Horses

Drink In My Hand-The Classic Crime

These are really superb songs (and bands). You should listen to them. They're amazing. And inspiring. Anyways, to those who have reviewed and faithfully stayed by my side from the beginning, thank you thank you thank you thank you, a million times thank you! =D

I love you all and please enjoy this whopping 4,823 word-long chapter!

Also, I'm beginning with the last paragraph or so of chapter 4 because it's been so long since I've updated.

Of all the days he could have chosen to finally come and see her father, it would have been this particular day; the day where she had resolved to be a better person to him for all of his kindness to her. The one day she would not be able to bring herself to do it, because of the one day his mother decided to visit. She was still in turmoil over their conversation, and was so lost in thought over the progression of the day that she could hardly focus on anything that was going on around her. If it had been but a day before, she might have found her heart skipping at Mr. Thornton's many attempts to begin a conversation with her. Today however, she had been visited by his mother, and all she could feel was the hurt that Mrs. Thornton's words had inflicted, the betrayal that she was talked about so negatively in the Thornton household, and the guilt for even feeling that way. She tried desperately the entire evening to suppress that feeling, to be grateful to Mr. Thornton for everything that he had done for her, even after she had rejected his proposal to vehemently, but she could not help but feel that way. She wanted nothing more than to earn back her good opinion with him, and it was incredibly hurtful to know that he had so very little faith in her character, that he asked his own mother to counsel her on what was 'proper'. She felt the stinging of bitter tears coming to her eyes and stood up rather suddenly.

"Forgive me father, Mr. Thornton;" she said quietly. "I am rather tired, and I think I shall retire. Goodnight." she swept from the room before either of the gentlemen could utter a response, and rushed up to her room where she fell onto her bed and cried herself to sleep.

Chapter Five

That night Margaret cried herself to sleep. She had never in her entire life felt so helplessly out of control of herself, and it frightened her. She wished, not for the first time, that her mother was still alive.

The following morning Margaret awoke to a throbbing head, and swollen eyes. She lay awake looking at the ceiling for quite some time, and allowed her mind to wander. It went from subject to subject, tactfully avoiding any mention of the Thornton's for a small while, but when it landed there, Margaret found the only member of the family she could think of was Mr. Thornton. Mr. Thornton with his brooding manner, piercing gaze, unyielding honor, steadfast morality…Mr. Thornton who once proclaimed passionate undying love to her, and have it thrown back in his face as though it was a worthless rag. Mr. Thornton gave his mother every attention he could spare away from the Mill before her death, who remained her father's constant companion, who honored her only request of him without complaint.

Begrudgingly she peeled herself out of bed, and shuffled over to the wash basin. She lowered her hands into the bowl, and slowly brought the little puddle of water to her face trying to rub away her feeling of despair, with little success. It would have to do, however; Her godfather Adam Bell would be arriving soon to visit her father, and she knew there was much work that needed to be done before he arrived.

John scowled at his ledger book; he was having a horrible morning. His mother seemed to be going out of her way to bring the Hale's up in almost every conversation so that she could continue to demean them, his financial affairs were growing steadily worse every day, three machines had broken, an exorbitant amount of cotton had been wasted, and he had received an invitation to dine with the Hale family that very evening. It had been nearly a week since his last disastrous attempt at civility with Margaret, and he assumed his invitation was only due to the fact that Adam Bell (who was ironically his landlord) had come to pay his respects to Mr. Hale and ended up staying several more days. Of course, he would accept the invitation; he would not allow his feelings for Margaret to come between the friendship he had with her father. Unfortunately, being in Mr. Hale's company always ended up being some cruel form of bittersweet torture. He loved Margaret-oh yes, he loved her-and being near to her always gave him a kind of peace in his soul he couldn't explain….until his overly cynical mind reminded him that she was as passionately in love with another as John was with her.

Fate had a sick, twisted sense of humor.

He was miserable, and irritable-oh God was he irritable. No one ever addressed him directly if they could avoid it, for fear of his reaction; good news or bad news, it was certain his response would be…less than courteous. His life seemed to be falling into a rut of misery and longing where he could hear nothing but his own pitiful failing attempts at success in life repeated back to him, and all he could feel were Margaret's arms around his neck, taunting him with her indifference. It seemed as though all his efforts were in vain. The days that he saw her….seeing Margaret was both the most glorious, and the most unbearable experience he had ever endured. He couldn't shake the images from his mind, nor the feelings in his chest when he was near her. He couldn't control his emotions and he hated it. Grumbling, John shook his head to clear his thoughts. He needed to focus on work, on increasing his production, on not losing his business, but he could only think about Margaret, and how long it had been since he'd seen her smiling at him. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that smile gracing her beautiful face, her eyes sparkling with life, her arms around his neck as they had been on that fateful day….

He was ripped back to reality by frantic knocking at his door.

"Oh, for love of-" he grumbled as he got up from his desk. He crossed the room in to large strides and threw the office door open. A frightened young girl stood on the threshold looking determinedly at the ground.

"Mr. Williams sent me to come get you, master-one of the new machines is jammed and he says he cannot get it by himself." John said nothing, but moved past her, and searched for Williams. The small group of workers gathered together next to a loom was quite easy to spot, and he strode towards them quickly.

"What the devil happened here!" He snapped. The group of workers jumped in fright, and one man spun around so quickly he actually stumbled a little. No one made a sound, and quickly stepped aside for John to get through, keeping their heads down and hardly daring to breathe. He could see Williams' legs peeking out from underneath the loom, but could not see his head. Sighing, he removed his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves. It took nearly an hour and a half to clear the blasted obstruction and get the loom running again, and put John in a disposition that continued to grow more sour with each passing minute. Unfortunately his day would only get worse.

Not thirty minutes had passed after the jammed loom incident before he was summoned to the store room. A few of the shingles on the roof had come loose, and a steady stream of water was pouring into the room and splashing water on the cotton that was stored inside. After scrambling with the men to move the cotton to a dry location, fixing the roof, drying the floor, and moving all the cotton back into the store room nearly three hours had passed. He stalked back towards his office, and didn't even make it to the door before a frightened young girl came running up the stairs after him.

"Master! Come quickly sir, some of the men are fighting!"

John said nothing and pushed past the girl, hurrying towards the sounds of raised voices. Sure enough, there was a group of men all involved in the scuffle, Williams desperately trying to separate them, but having no such luck. John threw himself right in the middle without really thinking about it.

One man punched another man so hard, he flew right into John, who was then pushed right in between two other men. Before he understood what was happening, he was on the ground with his head and chest flaming in pain. There was an abrupt absence of sound as John shook his head, trying to clear his vision and stumbled back up to his feet.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he yelled to no one in particular, wiping the blood off the side of his face with the back of his hand. Everyone was staring at him open-mouthed. "Stop acting like imbeciles, and get back to work, before your irresponsibility costs me my business, and you don't have a job to come back to!" He gave them one last withering glare before retreating to his office once.

Once inside, he ripped off his cravat and threw it on his desk before making his way over to the small mirror hanging on the wall. His right cheekbone was already bruising. He sighed and rubbed absently at his chest before jumping slightly in pain. Glancing up at the mirror once more, he noticed his shirt was stained with blood. Pulling the collar down as far as he could, he saw the gash that ran from his left shoulder, over his collarbone, and ending around his heart. He moved his hand up to the cut, lightly poking it to make sure it didn't need stitches.

A soft knocking on his office door startled him so badly, that he accidentally jabbed his finger right into the middle of gash, and making him yelp slightly in pain.

"For the love of God!" He snapped, striding towards the door with anger boiling furiously inside of him. "Will I have no peace from imbeciles, making idiotic requests for things they know very well how to-" he paused his ranting as he unceremoniously threw his office door open with such a force that the windows rattled. "What?" he yelled before actually looking at who he was addressing.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton." Margaret said so quietly he could hardly hear it. "I didn't mean to bother you; my father-my father simply wondered if we could expect you for dinner this evening, but I will tell him how busy you are. Please forgive me for taking you away from your work." Before he could do anything to prevent it, she turned away from him and hurried back down the stair, never once looking him in the face. John was stunned into silence, to appalled by his own actions to call after her. It was several minutes before he was able to move, acutely aware of how bizarre he looked with his mouth hanging open and staring in shock down an empty staircase.

He closed his door softly and with deliberate calmness, before sitting down at his desk, rubbing his face in a weary manner. No wonder she doesn't want you his mind sneered before he could stop it. He sighed before he got up, collecting his jacket on his way out. There was absolutely no way he would be able to focus on anything but his appalling attitude now, and he would much rather do it in the comfort of his own home.

John opened the front door as quietly as he could. He had determined that he would not ask his mother about the particulars of her visit to Margaret, and was consequently avoiding her. He was quite certain that anything his mother would have to say about Margaret would only annoy him. His entire household seemed to be teeming with the tension of his unspoken emotions. The fact that he was avoiding both his mother and sister probably didn't help much, but he couldn't help it. He shrank from every opportunity from hearing Margaret's very name mentioned. He could escape her somewhat effectively during the course of his day, he could find things to occupy his mind, but he could not escape his dreams. And in his dreams she danced towards him with her arms outstretched and a joyfulness in her countenance that made him loathe her, even while it allured him. But this impression of Margaret's figure was, however alluring, not her. It was as though some evil spirit had gotten possession of her form and ripped out her personality entirely. Yet this image of her was so deeply branded in his mind that he had a difficult time discerning between the two. His complete hatred of the dream-Margaret disfigured his view of the real one-and yet he was too proud to acknowledge his weakness by avoiding the sight of her. He would neither seek an opportunity to be in her company, or avoid it. He would face his pain and fears with his head held high, and no one would ever be aware of the torment inside him. In a somewhat misguided sense of power over his emotions, he lingered over his remaining business, pacing around the study in his home, and reading each individual piece of business correspondence. He put down the letter he was forcing himself to read and scoffed at himself. He, while he blamed her, while he loathed her, while he was jealous of her, while he renounced her, loved her completely in spite of himself. He sighed again before sneaking away to Crampton.

Dixon looked somewhat surprised to see him, but showed him to the study, which was occupied only by Mr. Bell.

"Thornton!" Bell exclaimed upon seeing him. "What a surprise this is, Margaret said you wouldn't be able to join us." John said nothing, but shook the man's hand out of sheer politeness. Inwardly he was cringing at the memory of Margaret's quiet voice in his office. There was an awkward silence during which John could hear the distant noise from the ceiling that meant Margaret was pacing above floors. He cringed again knowing he was probably the cause. "Ah yes," Mr. Bell stated, looking upwards. "Poor Margaret's had a lot on her plate lately. I doubt she even realizes we can hear her, and I for one am not inclined to shed light on it." John sighed and nodded.

"I confess that I myself am not inclined to make her cautious of something that gives her peace." John said, without really thinking about it. Mr. Bell looked quizzically at him, with one eyebrow arched. "Every time I have called since Mrs. Hale's passing it's been this way." he said quickly, feeling the need to explain himself. "I assumed it must give her some sort of relief, as she does it so very much." Mr. Bell nodded at him, and began to inquiring after his mother, and the mill, and eventually, business. They did have several business matters they needed to discuss, but truthfully, John wanted nothing more than to be out of this irritating conversation, and to be upstairs making some attempt to apologize to Margaret. Or even just to hear her voice…or just look at her. Anything to be in her presence, and out of the monotonous business talk, no matter what he tried to convince himself. They talked for quite sometime, until Mr. Bell was silenced by the sudden absence of noise from the above.

"How rude we are being!" Mr. Bell exclaimed. "Come, let us join Richard and Margaret upstairs." John walked behind him, and focused intently on containing his nervousness and excitement, his ears straining to catch anything Margaret might be saying. She had the softest, loveliest voice in the whole world. As it was, he was unable to hear anything until Mr. Bell walked into the room, and Mr. Hale addressed him.

"…Had a letter from Henry; it makes Margaret very hope-John!" Mr. Hale exclaimed. "Oh, I am so glad you were able to come! Margaret said you were frightfully busy, thank you so much for making time to see us!" It did not escape John's notice that Mr. Hale said that Margaret received a letter from a man named Henry. He also distinctly heard the term 'frightfully busy' and he hoped against hope that those weren't Margaret's exact words. He glanced at Margaret, who was sitting in the corner determinedly stitching something, and blushing as furiously as he'd ever seen her. He scowled. This Henry must be the man who was at the station.

He suddenly felt the strong inclination to leave the room that very moment and never set foot in the house again.

"You were so long downstairs." Mr. Hale stated before John was able to put actions to his thoughts. "Were you finally taking Margaret's advice and trying to convert Mr. Thornton?" Mr. Hale chuckled; under normal circumstances, John would have been curious to understand what in the world they were talking about, but now…he really couldn't care less. Mr. Hale must have noticed the frown he wore, for he went on to explain: "We were accusing Mr. Bell this morning of a kind of…medieval bigotry so to speak against his hometown. We-that is to say, Margaret believed it would do him good to associate some with Milton manufactures, hence the invitation you received this morning."

"I beg your pardon!" Mr. Bell cried in mock indignation. "Margaret thought it would do Milton manufacturers good to associate with Oxford men, now isn't that right Margaret?" John tried not to look at her, but as soon as her soft voice sounded, his eyes seemed to seek out her form against his will.

"I believe I said it would both good to see a little more of the other." She glanced quickly in his direction-not meeting his eyes, of course, but the intention could not be missed. "I did not know that it was my idea, anymore than it was papa's."

"So you see Mr. Thornton, we should actually have been improving each other rather than discussing business and family matters. I am however willing to do my part now." Mr. Bell remarked in an amused tone. John didn't particularly trust whatever plan Mr. Bell had concocted in that sneaky mind of his. He was well known for his ability to make you tell him all your secrets without even realizing you were doing it. He made a gesture for John to sit, which he did in a suspicious manner, and couldn't help narrowing his eyes at him. "I wonder," he continued. "When do you Milton men actually intend to live? It seems your whole lives are spent trying to gather the materials to live."

"By living I suppose you mean enjoyment." John replied tersely.

"Well, yes enjoyment." Mr. Bell replied jovially. "I don't specify of what because I'm sure we have quite different idea's on which aspects of live give us the most pleasure." John knew he was baiting him.

"I would rather have the nature of enjoyment defined."

"Well, enjoyment of leisure, enjoyment of the power and influence which money gives. You are all striving for money, am I right? What do you want it for?"

John was quiet for a moment, unintentionally glancing very swiftly in Margaret's direction. "I really don't know;" he replied. "But money is not what I strive for."

"What then?" It was not Mr. Bell who asked, but Mr. Hale. John wished desperately that he could make change his current mood from deplorable, to at least moderately agreeable.

"It's really a home question." John said slowly, looking at his hand. "I shall have to lay myself open to such a catechist, and I am not sure that I am prepared to do it."

"No!" Mr. Hale exclaimed. "Don't let us be personal in our catechism. You are, neither of you, representative men, you are both too individual for that." Mr. Bell laughed openly.

"I am not sure whether I should take that as a compliment or not!" He replied, still chuckling a little. John scowled slightly at Mr. Bell's joviality; it was really starting to annoy him. "I should like to be the representative of Oxford, with it's beauty, and learning, and history…What do you think Margaret? Should I be flattered by such a comment?"

"I don't know Oxford," Margaret said, her voice a little firmer than it had been during her last speech. "But there is a difference between being the representative of a city, and the representative man of its inhabitants."

"Very true, Margaret." Mr. Bell continued. "I remember now that you were quite against me this morning. Now I remember how passionately your defense of Milton and it's manufacturing was against me." John's head snapped towards her in surprise, but she was looking toward the window opposite him.

"Oh I wish I could show you the beauty of our High Street," Bell continued. "Our Radcliffe Square…I will of course, leave out the colleges as I give Mr. Thornton leave to omit the mills when describing his passions of charm in Milton." This statement annoyed John more than it probably should have. He knew Mr. Bell was baiting for some underhanded purpose of his own, he knew that this was all meant to be light hearted conversation. John really wasn't in the mood for joking at the moment, and felt his pride rising up to come to Milton's defense.

"I don't resume to set Milton up as the model of perfect society, Mr. Bell."

"Not even in architecture?" Mr. Bell replied slyly.

"Of course not! We've all been far too busy to attend to mere outward appearances."

"But they aren't just mere outward appearances, John." Mr. Hale commented gently. "These appearances impress us all-from childhood and up-every day of our life."

"Yes," John replied. "But remember we are not the Greeks, to whom beauty was everything, and also to whom Mr. Bell might speak of a life of leisure and serene enjoyment. Most of which entered through their outward senses. I do not mean to despise them, but we are not such men. We look on life as a time of action and exertion. Our glory and beauty arise solely from our inward strength, which makes us victorious over material resistance, and over even greater difficulties."

"Well I revoke what I said this morning about Milton men not having a reverence for the past!" Mr. Bell exclaimed in a somewhat mocking tone.

"If we do not reverence the past as you do in Oxford it is only because we are looking for something more modern, that could actually apply to our current circumstances. With strikes, for example, it would be difficult to reflect on Utopian society and try to apply it to the current trials. Strikes are troublesome, and extremely costly, which I am only finding out now, when it is too late to seek wisdom on the matter. This last strike, under which I am still recovering from, has been quite respectable."

"A respectable strike?" Mr. Bell scoffed. Something inside John snapped at his words, and he could practically feel his blood boiling. His faced flushed in anger, and he opened his mouth to tell Mr. Bell off.

"Edith tells me that she finds the printed calicoes in Corfu better and cheaper than in London." Margaret said in a clear voice to her father. John shut his mouth, silently fuming at not being able to tell Mr. Bell off.

"Does she now?" Her father replied. "Are you sure, Margaret? It seems as though it is probably just one of her exaggerations."

"I am sure she says so Papa." She said quietly. John was still to angry to look anyone in the face. Instead he stared at his hands with such an intensity they could have burst into flames.

"Then I must be sure as well!" Mr. Bell exclaimed happily. John visibly flinched. He hated this man more than anything in that moment. His voice sounded like some horrible, grinding, un-oiled machine driving it's noise mercilessly into his skull and giving him no peace. He considered getting up and leaving once again, but was once more halted before his plans could be acted upon by Mr. Bell speaking again. "Margaret, you are such an honest and truthful person, that it completely covers any blemish on your cousin's character. I am inclined to believe she could never exaggerate."

"You believe Miss Hale is really such a beacon of truthfulness?" John remarked bitterly. The moment he said the words he could have bitten off his own tongue. What was he? What kind of person was he to use her one misdeed against her in such a way. To scorn her publicly in front of her father, all because he was so possessed by his horrible disposition this evening for being detained from her for so long, so irritated by the mention of some name because he thought it belonged to her beloved, angry at his own inability to control his emotions during his conversation with Mr. Bell… Mr. Bell who somehow missed the biting tone of his remark to Margaret, and was now continuing a pleasant conversation with Mr. Hale about Greece as though nothing had happened. He looked over at Margaret, expecting her to get up and leaves as she usually did when she found him annoying, and saw with a horrible stabbing pang of guilt, that she was looking right at him. For the first time in weeks he looked into her beautiful blue eyes, and they were staring back into his own. She was completely still, and her face showed a grieved surprise, like that of a small child being scolded for doing something they thought was completely innocent. Slowly it changed to a pitiful, reproachful sadness that shone brightly from her eyes that pierced him to his soul. She lowered her gaze to her lap, and began furiously sewing the fabric that lay there, not speaking again. He looked at his own hands in shame.

He tried to stay semi-involved in the conversation between the two other men in the room, but it was impossible. Guilt claimed a savage burning path into his chest, and ravaged him with shame of what he had just done. Her expression of betrayal was burning into his soul, and nothing could ever assuage the pain it brought him. When he looked at her next, he could see her entire body was trembling, even her hands, which moved the needle and thread swiftly and precisely through the fabric. Still she did not look up at him.

All of his answers were short and clipped. He couldn't properly focus on the conversations that were progressing well enough to give any detailed answers. John was anxious for any noise from Margaret: a cough, a comment on something her father said, even the noise her dress would make if she would simply look up at him. He could convey every heartfelt apology into a look, and maybe she wouldn't be so distraught. He knew then that she could not love him; if she even felt the smallest regard, he had surely obliterated it with his disgusting comment. Perhaps one day he might earn the privilege of telling her exactly how much he regretted that remark.

John ended the visit earlier than he had intended to, and walked as slowly as possibly home. He even detoured through the park so that he could collect himself completely before facing his mother. The fresh air sobered him back into his resolution of seeing as absolute little of her as possible. Even if it meant he could not spend as much time with her father. He could not do it. He obviously had so little control over himself around her, that he couldn't even keep his snide thoughts about her lover to himself! He was reminded bitterly of the saying 'It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.'

Well, he knew what love was. Love was a sharp, controlling stab directly into your heart, a fierce, violently painful experience, and his was right in the midst of it's flame.

As soon as Mr. Thornton was gone from the room, Margaret rose slowly from her chair and began folding her work. The seams felt unnaturally heavy in her hands, and she had to will her arms to move. She felt exhausted, and wished nothing more than to be in the comforting quiet of her bedroom.

"'I never saw a man so spoiled by success!" Mr. Bell said gravely. "He can't bear a jest of any kind. Everything seems to touch on the soreness of his high dignity! He never used to be this way-he was as simple and noble as the open day; you could not offend him if you tried, because he had no vanity."

"He has no vanity now." Margaret spoke with quiet distinction. She turned from the table to face them. "He was not himself today, something must have happened at the Mill before he came here."

"Whatever can you mean, my dear?" her father asked concerned. Margaret shrugged slightly before bidding them goodnight.

"Richard," Mr. Bell began as soon as they were certain Margaret could not hear. "Did it ever strike you that your daughter and Mr. Thornton share a tenderness for each other?"

"Never!" Mr. Hale exclaimed. "No, surely if there were any affection, it would all be on John's side, although I must say I hope it isn't the case. I'm quite sure Margaret would not have him if he asked."

Nevertheless, as much as Mr. Hale tried, he could not deny that there must be something between them.