Chapter 1

Black and grey. That was the first impression Margaret Hale had of Milton, as the city's dark silhouette loomed on the horizon, covered in thick clouds of smoke, which were rising from hundreds of chimneys.

Even the sky itself was a dark shade of grey that day. The low-hanging clouds promised rain, while the branches of the few, sickly-looking, trees in the open fields were tossed about in the storm, as they passed.

The whole scene gave Margret a sense of foreboding she was unable to shake off, as the train clattered on, now drawing dangerously close to the place she was to call "home" from now on.

Margaret looked down at her hands in her lap, which were clasping a small yellow rose, the only reminder of what she had left behind.

The past few weeks had passed in a blur, all the events playing out so fast that she was unable to grasp them. Had it really been only two months since she had returned from London to her beloved Helstone?

Margaret had stayed in the city for almost ten years with her aunt Shaw and cousin Edith, having left behind the New Forest to receive a proper education and be introduced into society, as by her mother's wishes.

How dearly she had missed Helstone, despite enjoying her time with Edith, who had become a dear friend to her.

Every summer Margaret had returned to her parent's house to spend a few wonderful weeks, wandering through the forest and the wide, open fields.

For days on end, she would sit in the grass, as she tried to capture the beauty of the landscape in her sketching book.

After Edith's wedding to Captain Lennox and the family's immediate departure for Corfu, Margaret had been overjoyed to finally be able to go back home for good.

Her joy had been of short duration. While the first few weeks back home had been pure bliss for her, it had not been long until her father had asked her to join him in his study, and with a pale face and trembling hands had confessed to her his decision to give up his parish and leave the church of England.

"A matter of conscience" he had assured her, which he could not possibly overcome.

Even now, Margaret was not truly able to grasp his reasoning, but she loved her father dearly and for his sake, she was determined to keep her faith that he was doing the right thing.

Margaret had been entrusted with the task of breaking the news to her mother who, as was to be expected, had taken it rather ill. Mrs. Hale had not been able to understand any of it and had been overwhelmed by the speed at which they had been forced to pack all of their belongings and leave the place they had called home for over twenty years.

Margaret's mother had never been very fond of Helstone. Having grown up in London, the small countryside village had left her feeling bereft of the frequent social gatherings she had been used to, but as much as she had complained about the unwanted solitude in the New Forest, the town they were to relocate to now had Helstone appear as one of the most wonderful places on earth to her.

They did not know much of Milton, safe for the fact that it was an industrial city, mainly known for its cotton manufacturing and Margaret had read and heard enough of the manufacturing towns up in the north of the country to expect the worst.

Looking out of the train window, as they entered the outskirts of Milton, she was afraid that her worst fears were coming to pass.

They were passing rows of dirty brick buildings, blackened by factory smoke. It was noisy and the streets were filled with people whose appearance clearly placed them in the working class.

They wore very plain clothes, most of which looked dirty and stitched up. Children were running around barefoot, men wore caps, pulled low over their sweaty, dirty faces, as they went about their daily chores, and women sat on the side of the street, warming their hands at a crackling fire in a small metal stove.

It was a sight Margaret had only ever seen in pictures. She knew places like this existed in London, but had never come near those parts of the city. Now, she was struck by the reality of it all and she could not look away, the sight overwhelming her.

There was an almost inaudible whimper and Margaret tore her eyes from the window to look over at her mother, who was dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief. We'll be on the streets. In this strange place", she so much as whispered through teary eyes. Margaret forced herself to appear calm and collected, as she looked at Mrs. Hale reassuringly. "Mama I told you, we'll stay at a hotel until we find a house. It won't take long."

She was trying to convince herself as much as her mother. Mrs. Hale looked over at Dixon, their loyal housemaid, who had attended to her since her youth and was now also the only servant they had been able to bring along. "Perhaps Dixon and I could stay on the coast while you look", she tried hopefully.

Dixon readily agreed, but Mr. Hale's voice interrupted them with calm determination: "No, Maria, your place is with us. It will not take us long to find a house", he reassured them. "My old college friend, Mr. Bell, has agreed to help. He has already organized a list of pupils, there will be plenty of teaching for me."

Mrs. Hale cast her eyes down for a moment, before muttering: "There will be no people there like us in Milton. How can there be?"

"We will manage, Mother", Margaret spoke, reassuringly, although in her heart she could not help but agree with her mother. It would not do to dwell on it, for there was nothing to be done.

A few minutes later, the train slowed down and drew to a screeching halt in a dusty train station. It was already dark outside, despite it being only shortly after five o clock – probably due to the clouds of smoke hovering above the city, keeping out any possible sunlight.

"Outward Milton! Outward Milton! All change to stations north!", a voice bellowed somewhere on the platform. Margaret felt numb inside, as she observed the many dark figures moving about outside the window. For the sake of her parents, she had to be strong now. Trying to force down her nervousness, Margaret asked Dixon to find a porter, and one after the other, they exited the train, the cold air immediately stinging their faces.

Half an hour later, they entered an old, rather shabby-looking hotel, where her father had rented some rooms for their first few days here. They had their luggage brought up and sat down to a tasteless dinner, before retiring to their rooms.

That night, Margaret stood by the window of her hotel room, peering through the stained glass into the dark and deserted street below. The city appeared cold, unapproachable. As if it were nothing but a big, lifeless machine spewing out endless clouds of smoke.

The thought of having to stay here infinitely terrified Margaret in a way she could not put into words – not even silent ones in her own mind. She knew that she should try to get a few hours of sleep. Come morning, papa and she would set out early with the list of suitable properties father's friend, Mr. Bell, had provided, in hopes of finding a house as soon as possible.

They needed to settle things quickly, as they could not keep her mother at the hotel for very long. She was already despairing greatly over the entire situation and with her health being so fragile, it was of absolute necessity to enable her to settle down.

Margaret sat on the side of her bed in silence. She already knew that she would hate Milton, but showing this fact to either of her parents would do no good at all, so she decided to just bear it quietly and hope that once they had settled in, she would grow to…at least not hate it as much as she expected.

Over the next two days, Mr. Hale and Margaret busied themselves with house hunting. They had decided to split up, to save some time and Margaret quickly realized that it would prove difficult to find a place that was both affordable and comfortable.

As by their calculations, they were hardly able to spend more than 30 pounds a year on rent and most of the available properties could by no means compare to what they were used to. The rooms were tiny and dark, scarcely allowing a ray of sunlight to fall in through the stained windows. Everything seemed old and a bit run down, not to mention dusty, which was something Margaret believed they would have to get used to, considering the unclean air of the city. Everything seemed incredibly overpriced.

In the afternoon of the second day, Margaret reached the final house on her list. As she kept getting lost in the gritty, narrow streets, it had taken her longer to arrive at the address than she had hoped.

Crampton, she was told, was one of the better areas of Milton. It was said to be rather quiet and safe, with some grocery shops and a market nearby, where they would have easy access to everything they needed. It was also within walking distance of Outward station, which in Margaret's eyes, added to its appeal. She liked the thought that – even though she was unlikely to leave Milton any time soon – at least in theory, she could easily board a train at any time.

She found the front door of the house unlocked and pushed it open quietly. As she stepped into the hall, she heard voices being carried down from the first floor and carefully started up the stairs.

As she drew closer to the voices, she could make out their words: "He'll certainly find things quite different up here." "But what a business, ey, for a man to uproot his wife and child to come all the way to Milton. Conscience or no conscience that's strange behaviour".

Two men were standing in a room to the left, apparently unaware of her arrival and Margaret realized with a slight shock that they were talking about her father. Her throat tightened as she felt anger flare up inside her.

She took a quick step forward, entering the room. The men turned around at her in surprise. "Excuse me, mam, can I help you?", the shorter one of them asked. He had greying hair and his plain clothes were those of a working man.

"My name is Margaret Hale", was all she said.

Upon hearing her name both men immediately looked quite uncomfortable, having been caught gossiping about the family of the very person who was standing in front of them.

"Who are you?", she inquired. The man with the greying hair replied immediately, apparently determined to appear as polite as possible. "I'm Williams, Mr. Thornton's overseer. He asked me to look out properties for your father."

Margaret let her eyes wander about the room in what she hoped to be a calm manner. "How much is the rent for the year?", she asked after a moment. "These are details Mr. Thornton will discuss with your father, there is no need to concern yourself with money matters, mam."

Margaret looked at Williams incredulously. Who was this man to have the audacity to speak to her in such a way? "I have no idea who your Mr. Thornton is. I thank him for his trouble, but my father and I are sharing the task of securing a property. I have spent two days viewing what Milton has to offer, so I have a fairly good idea of price", she said, sounding more confident than she felt, as her eyes took in the gruesome wallpaper and dark wooden floor and ceiling.

"Mr. Thornton thinks this will do very well for your father", Williams tried – a bit taken aback by the way she had spoken to him. Margaret felt herself grow angrier with every word he said. Who was this ominous Mr. Thornton, who was meddling in their affairs? What right did he have to take their matters into his hands without asking?

"Where is Mr. Thornton?", she inquired. "Excuse me?" She stared him down for a couple of seconds, before purposefully striding back towards the door. "Take me to see this Mr. Thornton. If you won't deal with me, I'll have to deal with him."

With this, she swiftly made down the stairs. Williams followed her, seemingly defeated, and showed her to a coach outside the front door. He offered her his hand to help her up and then took a seat opposite from her.

During the sort travel, no words were exchanged. Williams seemed slightly uncomfortable, while Margaret was in no mood to further converse with the man. She peered out of the window into the sooty, crowded streets.

Over the past two days, her first impression of Milton had been confirmed. The city was everything she had feared, a polar opposite to the beautiful Helstone, which she already missed so much, it gave her physical pain whenever she thought of it.

Ten minutes later, the coach stopped and Margaret quickly got off, followed by Williams. She found herself standing in front of a huge brick building. Green gates opened into a dirty yard, where countless workers were handling huge wrapped bales of what appeared to be raw cotton.

Margaret peered up at the golden letters above her: "Marlborough Cotton Mill".

She turned to Williams, who had just come up beside her: "Does Mr. Thornton live here?" she asked, slightly puzzled. "Aye. But he'll be at work."

They walked past the workers, as he led her up some steps into a nearby room. It was some sort of office, with dark wooden panels and large dirty windows leading out into the mill yard. "Wait here, while I go get Mr. Thornton" With that Williams turned and was gone.

Margaret was left standing there, feeling slightly lost and overwhelmed by all that had passed within the last half hour. She let her gaze wander over the large wooden desk in the middle of the room. A big accounting book lay open on its surface, next to some writing materials.

The walls of the room were occupied with bookshelves. Everything seemed very neat and perfectly organized. Margaret found a chair and sat down. She listened to the noise of the workers in the yard. Someone was yelling commands, a horse-drawn carriage was passing by. Somewhere she could hear the distant rattling of machinery.

Margaret tried to keep her nerves calm. She was not sure what she would say to this Mr. Thornton. She guessed that he must be some acquaintance of Mr. Bells', who had been entrusted in assisting her father in seeking out a house for them, but she had never heard his name mentioned before.

If this was his office, the man was likely the owner of this cotton mill, she mused, a feeling of apprehension rising within her. Margaret had been raised amongst the gentry of London. She knew that her aunt Shaw regarded tradesmen to be of lower rank and did not approve of any association with them.

As the clock on the wall was ticking away (it had been almost fifteen minutes since Williams had left) she wondered at the sort of man this Mr. Thornton would be. Would he be as crude and unrefined as she imagined? What should she say to him?

Margaret sighed, as she once again glanced over at the clock. She certainly didn't have all day, she needed to get back to the hotel, to talk to her father and make sure her mother was well – as well as could be expected at least – and she was growing increasingly annoyed with the whole situation. Eventually, she got up from her chair and left the office. If Mr. Thornton was anywhere near, she would go and find him herself.

Margaret had no idea where she should start looking, so she instinctively neared the big brick building, where the loud noise was coming from. Nobody seemed to take notice of her, so she walked through the open front door and found herself in a dark hallway.

Almost immediately she felt something catch in her throat and had to cough. She realized that the air was filled with very fine white dust – cotton dust. Margaret grimaced and waved her hand in front of her face in a futile attempt to clear the air, as some workers were passing her by.

She wondered how anyone could stand to work in this air for any lengthy amount of time.

At the end of the hallway, she saw a large wooden door. This was where the noise was coming from. Before she could stop herself, Margaret quickly made her way over, grabbed the handle, and pulled the door open.

Immediately she was hit by a wall of almost unbearable noise and she had to fight the urge to cover her ears with her hands. For a long moment, she just stood there – stunned.

The enormous hall in front of her was filled with what had to be almost a hundred automated weaving looms. The machines were working of their own accord at an incredible speed, producing metre after metre of clean white cotton cloth. Looking up, she noticed metal wheels turning and leather straps moving.

Between the looms, workers were walking back and forth, observing the machines, straightening the cloth, turning levers. All the while, white flakes of cotton were swirling about the room as if she had entered a snowstorm.

Without thinking, Margaret stepped into the room and slowly started walking along the rows of machines, completely absorbed by what she saw. She had read about these kinds of factories but had never witnessed them first hand and the whole scene seemed out of this world.

How was it possible for machines to work in such perfect unison, moving back and forth all on their own, without the physical power of people but rather through modern technology? Margaret could not help but be truly impressed by the process.

She kept walking, her gaze wandering when she noticed a movement to her right and turned her head.

On a flight of iron steps leading up to a landing on the upper floor of the hall, there stood the tall figure of a man. Dressed in an elegant black coat and tie, he seemed oddly out of place amongst the factory workers in their plain, shabby clothes. He was tall, with wide shoulders and pitch-black hair and his face immediately struck her as rather handsome. He had a strong jawline and a prominent nose, which suited his features. He appeared very stern, as he looked down at workers below him.

From the first moment, he appeared to be a man of great consequence.

Was this the mysterious Mr. Thornton? Margaret swallowed hard. If he was, she was not sure how to face such a daunting figure.

She was rooted to the spot and gazed up at him silently, feeling a very strange sort of attraction to him, mingled with apprehension. Would he hear her out if she inquired about the place in Crampton? Would he even take her seriously? She briefly wondered what his voice would sound like, should he open his mouth to answer her questions.

Before she could follow that trail of thought further, something in him changed. In a matter of a second, his expression became one of passionate anger and before she knew what was happening, a loud voice bellowed over the noise of the machines:

"STEVENS!"

Margaret jumped at his harsh tone. She noticed one of the workers near her spin around to where the voice had come from.

"PUT THAT PIPE OUT!", the man Margaret presumed to be Thornton yelled furiously. The worker in question was clutching a wooden pipe in his hand. She saw fear cloud his face as he immediately made for the nearest exit at an incredible speed. The dark man was just as quick, sprinting down the few steps to the lower floor to race after him. "I SAW YOU!"

Margaret watched horrified, as he chased Stevens through the hall, until both of them were out of her sight. Margaret knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't help herself: instinctively she followed them. As she rounded the corner, she heard them before she saw them – there was a repeated punching sound, followed by painful gasps and moans.

Terrified, she leaped forward and saw Stevens being held by his collar, blood dripping from his nose, his eyes wide with shock and pain. That very second Thornton landed another blow to the man's face.

"Look at me!", he ground out, his voice almost sounding like he was drawing some sick kind of pleasure from the act he was committing. Margaret screamed.

Stevens had fallen to the floor, but now Thornton was kicking him in the stomach and ribs repeatedly. "Stop! PLEASE STOP!" Margaret cried, seriously frightened.

Thornton spun around, panting heavily. Up close he seemed even more threatening. Her gaze fixed on his eyes. They were of a deep icy blue colour – cold eyes, terrifying. She could feel the rage practically radiating off of him.

"Who are you?! What are you doing in here?!", he growled at her. "My name is Margaret Hale!", she heard herself cry out automatically.

That very moment another voice came from behind her: "Miss Hale!" It was Williams. He was running towards them, his face ashen, and immediately started apologizing. "I'm sorry, sir, Mr. Thornton, I told her to stay in the office!" He touched a shaking hand to the rim of his cap, appearing almost as terrified as Margaret.

"Get her out of here!", Thornton grunted, his eyes piercing, before turning back to Stevens who was still lying on the ground, moaning painfully. "Alright, crawl away on your belly and don't come back!", he snarled in a thick northern accent.

"Please Sir, I have little ones", Stevens cried, obviously panicked. This was answered with another forceful kick by the master, which made him roll over on his back, crying and holding his stomach.

"Stop!", Margaret exclaimed once again, shaking all over. She had never witnessed such violence and it knocked the breath right out of her.

"You know the rules!", Thornton yelled at the worker. "My children'll starve, Sir!", Stevens begged. "Better they starve than burn to death! Get out before I call the police!" With that Thornton turned to Williams once more in a fit of rage.

"GET THAT WOMAN OUT OF HERE!"

Margaret jumped back, scared out of her wits. For a moment she was afraid he would come for Williams and start beating him as well. The overseer seemed desperate now. He grabbed Margaret by her upper arm and pleaded: "Miss please! Please Miss!" while dragging her away from the scene.

Before they were out, Margaret noticed a small group of children standing nearby, between the weaving looms, watching them. Behind them stood a young woman with a pale face and loose blond hair. Her gaze met Margaret's for a brief moment, before the latter was dragged out and the door shut behind her.

Margaret stumbled out into the mill yard, her entire body trembling with shock. Her hands were icy cold, she felt numb. The cotton dust still itched in her throat.

With shaking fingers, she took out her handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth and nose, as she left the cotton mill as fast as she could and bolted down the street as if her life depended on it.

She had no idea where she was and she did not care. All that she knew was that she had to get as far away as possible from this horrifying place, never to look back. The image of Stevens, writhing on the floor with blood and tears streaming down his face was burned into her mind vividly.

How was it possible to commit such cruelty towards another being? What sort of monster was this Mr. Thornton? Margaret was certain that his cold, piercing eyes and his evil sneer, with which he had looked down upon his victim, would haunt her nightmares for years to come.

As she turned the corner onto another street, slowly gathering her bearings and wondering where exactly she was and how she was going to get back to the hotel, she sent a silent but sincere prayer up to the heavens:

'Please, dear God, if there is only one thing, I may beg of you in this life: Don't ever let my path cross that of Mr. Thornton again.'