A short fan fiction. A/U- Events from the book and TV miniseries all in the mix.
What if Thornton's visit to Le Havre and Helstone revealed more than he'd bargained for? Book based with series overtones.
I also want give a big thanks to Asian-Inkwell, my BETA for the prompt responses and thorough scrutiny on this meagre effort of this timeless love story we all adore.
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Chapter One – The Man from Andalucía
Le Havre, France
John Thornton had only ever used his fists against one man in his life, a worker in his mill named Stephens who had lit up a cigarette and endangered the lives of two hundred people. Unfortunately, he did so in the presence of Margaret Hale, and she hated him from that moment on and he has paid dearly for that, with his heart. For that reason, he made two vows to himself. The first was never to use his fists against another human again. Little did he know he would soon have to sit on his own hands to stop himself from breaking that vow in the face of the man that would be sitting across the table from him…the merchant from Andalucía, an unprincipled, dishonest and unscrupulous merchant from Andalucía.
…
"He should be here any moment now," Giles Arnaud had said to Thornton. "He is a pleasant enough fellow and I think you will like him. He is an Englishman, but he has lived in Spain for a few years now."
"I will trade with anyone who is principled and honest. He doesn't have to be English. Let's just hope he keeps to time," Thornton replied reaching for his pocket watch.
Thornton met Arnauld on his trip to Le Havre to seek investment for the mill. He was an agent for a shipping company that exported goods to the Indies and had been in his job for two years. Unfortunately, the deal fell through, and Arnauld was determined to make up for the disappointment by seeking other options.
"Barbour and Company import a finer grade of cotton from the South Americas, and I hear it weaves like silk and takes fabric dye better than the ones from Charleston and Georgia," he said to reassure Thornton. "He did promise to be here, but with the roads in this winter, it is possible he may delay another day or two. I think you will find it worth your while to meet him, for I believe it will revive your fortunes."
"I leave in the morning, I have to get back to Milton as soon as possible," Thornton said. He did not wish to intimate to Arnaud that the abortive trip had cost him so much already, and he did not have the resources to extend his stay.
A well-dressed young gentleman in a fashionable Panama hat with a cloak approached their table at the time. "Here he comes," Arnaud whispered to him. The approaching man stopped in front of them and both Arnauld and Thornton rose.
"Thornton, may I introduce Mr. Frederick Dickenson, manager from Barbour and Company in Cadiz, Andalucía. Dickenson, meet John Thornton, manufacturer and magistrate from …... I beg your pardon….Meel..? comme si il dit…how do you say?…." Arnaud said, struggling to remember the name of Thornton's town.
"Milton, Darkshire," Thornton murmured irritably, and both men shook hands.
"I come from Hampshire myself, from a little hamlet called Helstone, only known to those fortunate to be given a smidgen of paradise on earth," Dickenson said.
"I have heard of Helstone before, from friends of mine, but I have never been there," Thornton said. "I hear it is beautiful. I might just pay a visit there on my way home."
"Imagine that. How extraordinary that I meet someone who has friends from Helstone, but I must confess that I'm very much a Spaniard now," Dickenson said nervously and hoping to change the focus from his childhood hometown. "I daresay it is a relief to…dabble with a fellow Englishman for a change."
"I would not know how to…dabble," Thornton retorted, annoyed at the memory of the same turn of phrase from Henry Lennox at the Exhibition, for that jogged a memory, a decidedly unpleasant memory. He saw it in his mind's eye, vividly, of a face, this very face before him in Outwood Station three months ago, late one night in a tender embrace with Margaret Hale, the sole object of his affection.
The conversation went on for several minutes, with Arnauld trying so hard to convince both sides on the merits of a partnership, and getting frustrated at Thornton's reticence to try to impress Dickenson.
"Do you not wish to save your mill?" Arnauld asked Thornton the moment Dickenson left them to refresh himself. "You look as though you could kill the man. Might I remind you that you need this investment?"
"How well do you know Dickenson?" Thornton asked.
"He lived in Argentina for several years and came to Spain about two years ago. I know he has a very good reputation in business, and he recently got married to Barbour's only child and is set to inherit the company," Arnauld said. "I think he must love his wife for he became a Roman Catholic just to marry her."
"Married, to an heiress… and a convert as well. Interesting," Thornton said; how mercenary, he wanted to say. As far as Thornton was concerned, Dickenson was neither principled, honest, nor a gentleman, English or Spanish, and was the last person on earth he would wish to trade with even to save his livelihood and mill.
Dickenson returned to resume business talks, but Thornton found he could only nod and mutter some barely incomprehensible syllables every now and then, and when he needed to respond, he mechanically repeated the same well rehearsed business phrases that he found himself saying to the several potential investors over the past month, phrases that had failed to yield any success but were the only ones he could say without sounding like a fool.
"Perhaps Dickenson may wish to stay behind for a few drinks and reminisce about England," Thornton suggested as the discussion drifted to a close. "Good idea," Dickenson agreed and Arnauld obliged and left them in the hotel lounge.
Thornton could not believe that Margaret had been tricked into an understanding with a complete rake, a married man, Roman Catholic, who would never divorce his wife. "I gather that congratulations are in order, and that you are lately married," he said. "What did Mrs. Dickenson think of England?"
"Senora Barbour you mean. Spanish women do not take up their husband's names; but no, she hasn't yet been to England," Dickenson replied.
"Ah….so she did not accompany you on your last visit then?" Thornton said.
"My last visit? I don't understand what you mean," he replied
"Let us not beat about the bush. I know who you are," Thornton said without preamble.
"I cannot imagine how," Dickenson replied.
"Does the name 'Hale' mean anything to you?" Thornton said.
Frederick Dickenson's (alias Frederick Hale) heart dropped to the pit of his stomach, but he raised his chin defiantly and replied, "no, it does not." His heart began to beat wildly, and all he could think was that the Navy had finally caught up with him, and this Englishman had been used to lure him out. His running days had come to end, and a chilling image of the hangman's noose flashed across his mind.
"You came to Milton a few weeks ago, and caused some trouble at the train station. That man you fought with later died in the Infirmary," Thornton insisted.
"I was not there… I was not there," Dickenson said vehemently. "…I was….not," and as he said so, he remembered the terrifying scowl of Mr. Thornton, a tradesman, magistrate and student of his father's who was not allowed in to the house whilst he was there, and who went past when Margaret had seen him off at Outwood Station, minutes before he was accosted by Leonards, the good-for-nothing fiance of his mother's housemaid, called Betsy.
Dickenson had to think fast. He was not armed, but with his military training, he perhaps stood a chance to overpower this big man before him and make his escape; but he would then have to abandon his new life with the Barbours, his new wife, Delores, and probably never get to see his child that was expected in the coming spring.
"Did Miss Hale not tell you she was compelled to lie to the investigating police officer….to cover up your crime?" Thornton continued.
"You mistake me for someone else," Dickenson said. "I come from Hampshire, and I left the shores of England almost a decade ago."
"Yes, Helstone, where the Hales lived," Thornton said mustering up all restraint possible from throwing a punch in this man's face.
"Not Helstone…I meant to say Ha-il-stone. It must be my Spanish accent," Dickenson said drawing out his vowels in a bid to conjure up an intonation.
Thornton hoped Dickenson was not yet lovers with her, nevertheless, as a chaste but pragmatic man, he knew that even if the unthinkable had occurred, he would still love her and marry her in a heartbeat. No one could ever spoil Margaret Hale for him, and that was a fact, and the universe knew it.
Oh yes, the second vow that he made on the day he beat Stephens in the mill, was that he would only ever make love to that one woman who had awakened sensations that had lain dormant all his adult life, and he was content to hope that one day that dream will come true. Sitting in front of a man who had probably kissed her and heavens forbid done more to her… with her, he was in danger of breaking the first vow, but more resolute in keeping the second.
"So you insist you were not in Milton, on the night of the twenty-sixth of September?" Thornton said, his voice steadily rising in volume. He could sense the hostility in Dickenson's eyes and realised the futility of getting this man to admit the truth.
Dickenson shook his head but mustered up all the genteel upbringing of an Englishman and stated calmly and clearly, "from one gentleman to the other, I told you I was not there and I do not know anyone by the name 'Hale', and I take offence at your insinuation." Fred did not wish to attract attention from the other guests at the restaurant. As they were in a coastal town frequented by the French Navy, if they were to be apprehended and his identity was questioned, the French might mistake him for an English spy, and he may just as well meet with the same fate on both sides of the Channel.
"I humble myself. My passions got the better of me. My ship sails first thing in the morning, and I have to catch some sleep. Excuse me for taking your time. Good night," Thornton said and rose abruptly and clasped his hands till his knuckles turned white and then walked away without as much as a backwards glance.
Dickenson watched Thornton depart and began to wonder if the man really knew who and what he was. He decided not to panic but check into another hotel in Le Havre that night, but not check out of his current one in case Thornton had alerted the authorities.
In the space of three months, he had had two close brushes with capture, and he was not about to let his guard down in future. He was particularly bothered that Margaret had not told him of an investigation with the police. His Aunt Shaw and Cousin Edith Lennox were not even aware of his whereabouts, and he had been careful in his dealings with Edith's brother-in-law and renowned barrister, Henry Lennox so as not to jeopardize his cover.
Nevertheless, he had an obligation to protect his only sister and his father as well. He sat up in his hotel room all night and wrote a letter to Lennox to inquire about this police matter involving Margaret and waited for the morning. He then crept to the docks in disguise to see Thornton board the ship back to England. He left the region at once and took a circuitous route back to Cadiz.
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