Chapter Twenty-Two

Margaret had her suspicions that there was something wrong with John for a very long time. After all, eight months of silence was an extraordinary feat for a married couple with no children and none but the servants living in the house with them. Margaret was not even accepted into most society, and could not claim spending time with others as a reason for their prolonged silence. Of course, if she had her way it never would have been like this at all. She bitterly regretted the person she had let herself become, and the silence that she now contributed. But it wasn't how she wanted it. No, the silence started with John, and that was truly where her suspicion began. She never realized that she had refused to let herself believe it until the letter had come. The letter that spoke of her fathers death, and inadvertently breached some sort of gap that she and John were unable to on their own. Well, partially at least.

For that was when she knew beyond any doubt, that a sickness had taken hold of his mind.

What it was, she could not say. Why it happened, she could not guess. There were only two people she could speak to who might have an understanding of such things. The first was John's mother, but the last time they had spoken had been on extremely unpleasant terms, and Mrs. Thornton swore she would never see Margaret again, and likewise would never have to be brought down by the scandal she represented again. She did not believe that stopped her from seeing her son, however. Margaret caught glimpses of her every now and again, coming to or leaving the Mill yard. If she noticed anything unusual in John's behavior, she had never spoke a word of it to Margaret. She could see how, objectively, their marriage might not appear to be in the chaos it was. Margaret seemed to be the only person John would not-could not-speak to, and was to an extent, his normal (if not stoic) stern self in the public eye. She supposed it was how the Mill was still in business. He must have some level of clarity.

The only other person she might speak to on the subject, would be Dr. Donaldson. There were many reasons she had not done this, most of them she was only just discovering as she now fully allowed herself to accept the reality of Johns illness. Margaret was afraid that if she told the doctor what she feared was wrong with him, that he would either brush her off as the mad woman everyone thought her to be, or that he would take John from her. He was not insane. Not completely anyway. But you did not need to be a member of the medical profession to know what horror lay beyond the doors of a mental hospital. The thought of committing him to that state of existence was so overwhelming, she nearly became violently sick at that thought of it. If a person wasn't insane when they were committed (which unfortunately happened quite a bit), they certainly were after they had been there for a few months, or were made insane by what was passed off as "treatment". Margaret trusted Dr. Donaldson, but she could not trust him that far, and was unwilling to take the risk. No, she would help John through this on her own, and damn the consequences. In sickness and in health.

As John poured his sorrow into her, burying his face in her lap, tears soaking the fabric there, Margaret determined to find a way through this. The sight of him, still rocking slightly with his fingers buried in his hair, seemingly trying to pull it out, ignited a fire within her. A fire that wanted to burn away his impurities and win him back no matter the cost.

Margaret did not know it yet, but a fire was coming. The likes of which no one could ever have anticipated.

Margaret lay awake that night for quite some time, her mind far too preoccupied to get any sleep. John was still mysteriously absent after he had left her in the sitting room, and with the news that her father was now gone, Margaret felt terribly alone with only her thoughts. They were filled with dark and depressing thoughts, and she begged God that the haunted feeling of her mind would cease. She did not know how much longer she could stand it. She missed her father terribly. When he left for Oxford two months previous, she never anticipated that he would not return to her. He had been her anchor through everything, and even though they never spoke of her marriage (Margaret never allowed it), she had known how much he understood, how much he had observed. If only she had been more observant of John herself, or perhaps expressed her growing concerns to her father rather than putting everything on herself…they might have worked out this mystery together. But it was too late.

Margaret felt the burning in her eyes again, somewhat surprised that she still had tears left to cry. She'd spent the entire day crying, a mixture of sorrow between her husband and her father. But still they fell, offering proof that she was not the heartless wretch she believed she had become, that perhaps there was still enough of Margaret inside to prevail, come what may. She did notice that John was in the room until she felt the bed dip slightly with his weight. Her wretched crying must have masked any sound he made while entering, and she felt unaccountably guilty for it.

"I'm sorry." Her voice cracked horribly as she sat up, and she wiped furiously at her face. "I will…leave so that you might get some-some sleep." She hated how hysterical she sounded, but there was nothing to be done about it. She would not deprive him of the little rest he did get with her blubbering. She tossed the blankets to the side and made to free her legs from beneath them when his hand shot out and gripped her forearm in a way that left no doubt what he was saying. Stay. He wanted her to stay. She turned to face him, but could see nothing but the eternal blackness of the night.

His hand traced up her arm, a slow whisper of a touch, before resting on her face. Twice in one day, less than twelve hours between, he had shown her affection without warning. She was just as unprepared for this as the last time. He did not give her very much time to dwell upon his actions before he pushed her back, gently guiding her to lay back down, and Margaret let him. She tried desperately to stop her tears, but it was no use. They were falling for more reasons than she could focus on at the moment. She conceded that, if nothing else, the shaking (and rather horrible) sobbing had at least ceased. She supposed that John's sudden appearance had something to with that. Even though he could not speak to her, he still managed to giver her strength and determination, just as he always had. If only she could give him the same…

"Thank you, John." She said as he settled himself onto the mattress, throwing the blankets over them both in one fluid movement. She turned to face him, even though she knew there would be nothing but the darkness of night between them, and heard him move similarly. She reached forward blindly to where she thought his hand might be, and took hold of it in her own. Margaret half expected him to retreat right then, but he did not; he clutched her hand in equal fervor, perhaps drawing the same strength from her that she was from him. "Will you go to the funeral?" she asked him suddenly, not even realizing she had spoken the silent thought until a moment later. There was a gentle pressure coming from his fingers that Margaret assumed meant 'yes'. "I do not know when it is. I assume it will be in Oxford." The last statement was somewhat rhetorical, but she felt the gentle pressure from his hand nonetheless. There was a somewhat charged silence between them for a few moments.

"Can I come with you?" The question hung between them, heavy with so many unspoken emotions. There was no pressure from his fingertips. Margaret could guess why. "John, I-" She paused, wondering if this might be going to far. "John, I know that you are sick." It was immediate. His entire body tensed, the pressure against her hand increasing, and she could practically feel the unease coming off him. "Do not be alarmed," She added quickly. "I have had my suspicions for quite some time, but now I…I know for sure." His tension had not abated.

"I understand it now. I understand your behavior. After all, I would say I have had more than enough time to observe it." Margaret had hoped that even a little humor might ease John, but apparently it had not. Humor was never something she had ever been good at anyways. She chose her next words carefully, wanting to make absolutely sure that she was able to tell him this while she could. "I do not understand…why this has happened. But…I know that…that I want to help you to…overcome it. That I…will stand by your side no…no matter what, because I…because…I love you…and I always will. Even if you…cannot love me in return." Margaret closed her eyes, willing her heart to calm itself. He would not be able to respond to her anyway.

She was therefore taken by complete surprise when John let go of her hand and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her towards him. She was frozen for only a minute before she realized what he was doing, and inched her way forward, unsure of what he wanted. He pulled her close to his chest, one hand one the small of her back, another buried underneath her hair on the back of her head, and pushed her head so that she lay against him. There, with her ear pressed against his body, she could hear the steady thrumming on his heartbeat, and she smiled into his shoulder.

"I-I-" He stuttered in attempt to form a reply, but she thought she knew what he was going to say, and shushed him.

"I know," She told him, not moving her head from its comfortable resting place. "You don't have say it." In response he wrapped his arms around her, tightly folding her into an embrace which she gladly returned, before feeling the exhaustion of the day settle in.

It was true, Margaret didn't need him to say it. She already knew he was sorry.

"So…" Margaret began again. "May I come with you?" He did not reply, not that she had anticipated anything else, but the tension in his body had returned.

"You may." It was so quiet, Margaret truly believed she had imagined it. He had spoken to her, no stuttering, no anxiety, just simple easy speech. It was a polar opposite from the way he had attempted to speak not even five minutes before.

Margaret didn't understand. Did this mean he was making progress? Surely he must! He had not spoken to her with such a clarity in his voice in longer than she cared to think of. It was the way he spoke to everyone else. That was good, was it not? She pulled away from him, determined to look him in the eye, foolishly hoping that they would contain the answers to her questions. She could see his face now. Perhaps her eyes had adjusted completely to the darkness. She could not make out very much detail, like the complexity of his expression, but she could see the outlines, and it was enough for her. She had just opened her mouth to speak when he pushed her heat back down to his chest, forcing her against him once more.

"No-" He said, this time his voice sounded somewhat strangled, somewhat anxious. Her heart pounded beneath her chest, and she could hear Johns own pulse, so much faster than her own. "It is better if I cannot see you." it was an honest statement, one that Margaret appreciated even though it caused her an unusual longing pain that she was not quite familiar with. But she refused to focus on it.

"Why is that?" She asked quietly, doing her very best not to move from where he placed her. Perhaps, if he was able to speak to her, she could better understand his illness, maybe even find out how to overcome it.

"I…" He hesitated. "I feel…afraid around you." His body was so tense, Margaret might have been clutching a brick wall. But she understood what such an admission must have cost him. How difficult it must be for him to admit that not only was he defeated, but he feared it as well. She knew the old John well enough to know just how much he prided himself on being a man without fear. Now that she thought about it, she didn't think she'd ever seen him afraid. He seemed…well, out of sorts when he proposed, but Margaret had always thought that to be nerves. Even on their wedding day he did not appear to be afraid. Margaret had been terrified. And yet she recalled John looking at her with that look, the one of boyish wonder, as she came up the isle toward him. She pondered her next question for a long time before she asked him.

"Are you always afraid of me?" She heard him sigh loudly.

"I don't…really know how to explain it…" He was silent for several minutes, but she knew somehow that he would answer her question. This was a time for listening. "It's almost as though there are…two parts of me." He removed one of his hands from her back, and scratched (she assumed, anyway) somewhere on his face. "There is a part of me, that is me. It is me as I have always been my whole life. And there is another part of me, that is not me, that makes me afraid of certain things." Margaret found herself nodding into his shoulder. "I am confusing you, I'm sorry."

"No," Margaret said quickly. "I believe I understand what you are saying." She paused for a moment before asking her next question. "Why is it that you can talk to me now, but have been unable to before?"

"I do not know." John replied quietly. "If I cannot see your face, it is easier for me to…pretend that you're not here. If you're not really here, then I can't be afraid of you." Margaret nodded again. Truthfully, everything he was saying was so incredibly confusing that she had no choice but to take a few minutes to piece everything together. She supposed that anything he said in regards to his illness would most likely only be completely understood by him, but she did try her very best.

"Well then," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "I shall just have to hide from your sight if ever I need to ask you something." He chuckled slightly, the noise drifting through his torso and into her cheek that still rested upon his chest.

"I cannot tell you the depth of my regret." John said after several more minutes of silence. Margaret opened her mouth, but it seemed he had anticipated her action. "No Margaret." He said solemnly, moving one hand up to the back of her head. "I would sell my very soul if it meant I could take back these months of sorrow for you, and rid myself of this wretched illness so that you might be happy. It's all I ever wanted for you." He trailed off, as though unsure of what to say next, and Margaret took her chance.

"I am happy." She said, though her voice was muffled because her face was hidden in the crook of his shoulder. He scoffed, obviously disbelieving.

"It does not take a genius to know that is an untruth. I have watched you every day these eight months. I know you are not happy." Margaret sighed.

"I will not deny that…that I have been unhappy." She replied, weighing her words, and hoping that she did not hurt him by what she had to say. "I will be honest, these last several months I believe that you regretted out marriage, and simply did not speak to me because you wished not to. It made me feel…a bitterness towards you that I work very hard to suppress, because I know now that you do not mean to ignore me." She paused and took a deep breath. "But I tell you the truth when I say I am happy now. I would rather be here with you, even though it will be hard, than be at my fathers house alone, waiting to be shipped back to London to my Aunt." John tightened his arms around her and buried his face in her hair.

"I do not deserve you." He said.

"Can I asked you something?" Margaret questioned.

"Anything."

"Why do you still insist on out wedding clothes being draped across the chaise lounge?"

"It reminds me that I was not always like this." He said without hesitation. "That I once was a man who wanted nothing more in the world than to earn your love. A man who married you with hope and fear in equal measure, and that you chose a life with me over the one you had. It gives me something to fight for."

It was these words that Margaret pondered in depth as she drifted off to sleep.

When she woke the next morning, John was already gone. His pillow was cold, but his smell still lingered there, and Margaret buried her face within, mind swimming with the memories of the night before. They were making progress after all.

It wasn't long before John came to collect her so they could depart for Oxford. In fact, Margaret had only just finished dressing when he suddenly appeared in the doorframe. He was silent and somewhat skittish, but Margaret had expected it, and had already thought of several things she might try to help him progress. He held his arm out in silent offering (even if it was trembling somewhat), and Margaret graciously accepted it, trying to avoid looking directly at him. She let the black of her own mourning clothes blend in with that of his, as he guided her down to the carriage that would lead them to the train station.

The carriage ride, the subsequent train ride, and following carriage ride were spent in complete silence. It gave Margaret plenty of time to observe him and how he acted around her, and apply it to the knowledge she gained the night before. He didn't ever do much; he sat there, staring out the window with a posture so rigid he might have been made of stone, all the while twisting his fingers around anxiously in his lap.

The funeral itself was quite different. It seemed as though he was able to forget that she was beside him, and focus on the words that were spoken. Margaret herself, although she missed her father terribly, could not bring herself to be completely distraught over her loss. He had never quite recovered from the death of her mother, and had seemed quite lost without her. Now at least, they could be together. She supposed if had still been at home with him, an unmarried woman when he died, the loss of his company would have dealt a much greater blow. She was not alone now though, and could see the lighter side of the loss of her father: he and her mother were now at peace, left to spend eternity together without the constraints of the world bearing down upon them. Her tears, when they did fall, weren't nearly as overwhelming as they had been on the day she received the news of his death from Mr. Bell.

Mr. Bell himself had invited them to stay that night at his home, and travel back to Milton the following day, but John declined, saying there was a great deal of business to be dealt with. Mr. Bell followed by saying that he had made plans to come to Milton the following week, and would visit them there. He gave Margaret a rather significant look that she did not quite understand, and thought must have some manner of importance behind it.

By the time they arrived home and readied themselves for bed, she had quite forgotten about it.

The next few days Margaret found herself at Crampton, going through all of her father's possessions and deciding which could be auctioned off. It was long, somewhat disheartening work, but she pushed through it, and with Dixons help, managed to have everything packed and labeled in no more than three days. Dixon herself, had plans of spending some time visiting her sister, before deciding whether she would move to Marlborough, or to Harley Street with Margaret's Aunt. She had just crossed into the yard at the Mill when it happened. A noise louder than anything she had ever heard erupted from the Mill itself to her left, followed by an unseen force so powerful, Margaret was thrown from her feet and crashed into the wall behind her.

She stumbled to her feet, not noticing the blood that poured from a gash on her left temple, steadily dripping onto her dress. Fire. Everywhere there was fire, and cotton, and ash raining from the sky above, but she could not hear. She could see people running, screaming, mouths moving frantically, but she could hear nothing. Suddenly she felt herself being jerked around, and came face to face with John. He was unharmed, but his face was pale, his eyes darting frantically around to everything, taking in the chaos that Margaret was unable to process. She saw his mouth move, but couldn't hear what he was saying. There was a slight ringing noise she could hear, very high pitched, but drowning everything else out.

"What?" She called loudly. She couldn't even hear herself speak, but she felt the vibration of it in her throat. John turned her head to the side, frowning deeply as he turned her back to look into her eyes. He was speaking again, more slowly this time, but she still could not hear him. It was starting to come back though, she could hear a great muffled sound, and the ringing had vanished. John had taken hold of her arm and steered her to the door of the house. He turned her to face him again, using his hands to communicate along side his voice, which was now distinguishable in the great muffled noise overpowering her ears.

A finger pointed at her, a finger pointed at the house, a fierce determination in his eyes. No.

"No!"

Absolutely not! He expected her to stay in the house while he ran off into the inferno that was Marlborough Mills. He threw his hands in the air in obvious frustration, pushing her towards the house while he himself was moving away from her in the other direction.

"No, I'm going with you!" She hoped that was what actually came out of her mouth. He turned to look at her, incredulous.

"Have you lost your mind!" She heard that.

"You cannot go in there alone!" She cried. "I will go with you."

"No Margaret, you will not! You will stay here, where it is safe, where I know you will be alive, and I can come back to you." He turned away from her again, hurrying in the other direction.

"And what of you!" She cried desperately. "What if you do not come back to me!" She was crying now, tears tracking their way through the grime that had accumulated on her face in the initial explosion. John turned to face her, but stopped suddenly, looking at her as though he had never seen her before.

"Then all the better for you, Margaret." He said calmly, walking back towards her. Anger was boiling inside her. How could he say such a thing? Did he not know, did he not understand what he meant to her? Tears were pouring down her face, and she met him halfway through his stride with an angry and resounding slap! John staggered back a step.

"Do not say such things, John!" She exclaimed, now fully hysterical. "Don't you dare think like that!"

"Margaret," He said, half turning away again.

"No! You have to come back!" She placed her hands on either side of his face. "I cannot lose you, not now!" He stared at her with an intensity she had never seen, fire dancing behind (and even reflected in) his eyes. Before he could leave her there, leave her there to wonder for the rest of her life, she pulled him forward and crashed his lips against her own. It only took him a moment to respond, before he lifted her completely against the ground, kissing her with as much passion as she was him. Margaret couldn't breathe, and never wanted it to end. But as her feet touched the ground once more, she knew it had. Opening her eyes, she stared into the raging ocean storm in his own.

"I love you Margaret." He said, and Margaret felt her own heart shatter with the implication of what he was saying. He let go of her, and walked away once more. Margaret dimly noted that he had placed back inside the house, out of harms way.

"John!" She called. He turned to face her, but kept his pace, now walking in reverse. "Promise me you'll come back to me." He smiled at her, truly smiled at her for the first time since their marriage began, and had a somewhat mischievous look in his eye.

"Of course I will!" He said in a tone so cheerful, it left Margaret shocked. "Especially now that I have that to look forward to!"

And with that, he turned and ran, disappearing completely into the inferno.

A/N: Well well well! This is it, the good stuff I've been talking about for months. This chapter (I'm sure you noticed) if so much lighter! I told you I didn't care to write that much dark. It's not easy. This was much lighter, but obviously still has the overhanging…everything really, that's been happening. Progress!

Speaking of progress, I had a few of you who told me you didn't feel I was moving the plot at all in the last chapter. I'm sorry if I didn't make it clear enough that the entire chapter was based around Mr. Hale's death. It was after all, a very vague reference, only in the last sentence of the chapter, so if it wasn't clear enough I apologize. On the subject of Mr. Hale, someone was kind enough to point out that Mr. Hale said Margaret had only been married 6 months. I did do that on purpose, but I had meant to have Margaret comment on how her father had been gone for two months, and that was him from two months prior, and completely forgot, so my bad. I got caught up in the emotion of last chapter. Also, my grammar has been deplorable lately. I have incredibly severe allergies, and as it's now spring, I am very very sick. I happen to be severely allergic to almost every kind of plant pollen, and if I do make my way outside, I pay dearly for it. That's unfortunately what had happened with last chapter, and part of this (possibly) as well. I've gone back through it several times, but don't hate me too much if it is a continuation of awful.

So, review and tell me what you think! =D

Love you awesome peeps ;)

PS: Also, sorry if you don't care for how quickly this chapter has gone, I sped things up a little to, well, move the plot forward. sometimes it's the only way.