Welcome back :) Thanks for reading and commenting and most of all, thanks coming back for the next chapter. All of it is very much appreciated.

Now, let's delve right into the mind of one John Thornton, shall we? And we will also meet some other familiar characters in this chapter.

Warnings: Description of symptoms of PTSD.

Have fun and feel free to leave /

Tom

Chapter 2

John Thornton slammed the door to his office shut behind him. For a moment he just stood, frozen, his eyes unfocused, as he tried to calm his breathing.

What on earth had just happened? It all seemed a blur. Stevens – the pipe in his hand – smoking again. In a cotton mill. How could anyone be so stupid? It quite literally bordered on being suicidal – more than that: The man had put hundreds of lives on the line.

John felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up at the mere thought of it, as memories he had fought hard to keep at bay, began flooding him, and then he was there once more: The flames blazing all around him, the heat and smoke choking him, his heart beating loudly in his ears as he ran for his life.

He could hear their screams, the small children crying, the thunderous noise, as part of the ceiling came down upon them, his own scream burning in his throat…and then…blackness. Nothing but deadly, empty blackness.

John drew in a shuddering breath and brought his hand up to wipe over his face, trying to clear away the visions. He forced his legs to move towards his desk and sank into the chair behind it.

He felt an unfamiliar pain and, looking down at his hand, he realized that his knuckles were split open and bleeding. He grimaced and pulled out his handkerchief with his left hand to wrap it around his right in a makeshift bandage. Then he leaned back in his chair, trying to recall everything that had happened.

He had beaten Stevens – hadn't been able to stop, as if his body had been taken over by a strange force. It had almost been like witnessing himself doing it from the outside, not in control of his own movements. For a moment there, he had thought he might kill the man.

John was not a violent man. He despised people who used their fists to solve their problems and he much preferred fending for himself with carefully picked words rather than physical actions. What had come over him just then, he did not know – only that he had seen completely red for anger and fear.

And then, there had been that woman. What had she said her name was? He couldn't recall. What he did remember though were her eyes, staring at him in utter shock and terror. He tried to push the vision away, but found that he was unable to. There had been something about her that he couldn't put his finger on. The image of her face strangely captivated him. He thought she might have been rather pretty, but the memory was hazy – too short had their encounter been and too preoccupied had he been in his fit of uncontrollable rage.

Had he yelled at her? Dear God, he was almost certain he had. What must she think of him? She had looked positively terrified. He felt shame wash over him at the memory.

A sudden bang on the door made him jump, tearing him out of his thoughts immediately. "Enter!", he heard himself bellow, quickly trying to compose his features into a stern look of indifference.

The door swung open and Williams stepped into his office, still slightly pale, his voice very quiet, as if he was ashamed of himself. "Mr. Thornton, I'm terribly sorry for what just happened with that woman, I sincerely beg your pardon." John merely scowled at him. "Did you make sure Stevens was shown out, never to return?" he grumbled. "Of course, Sir. I'll personally ensure he never sets foot inside this mill again."

John absentmindedly reached for the quill with his bandaged hand, pretending to look down at the ledger in front of him intently, while in truth, his mind was not able to decipher anything that was written there. "You may go", he told his overseer with forced calmness. Williams seemed genuinely relieved and turned to go.

"Williams?" "Yes Sir?" The man spun back around, anxiously. "Who was that woman and what did she want?" "Oh, that was Miss Hale, sir, the daughter of the man Mr. Bell spoke to you about, concerning the properties."

John furrowed his brow, thinking. "That parson from the south?", he recalled. "Well, ex-parson to be exact, sir, seeing as he has left the church to become a tutor. His daughter wanted to enquire about the rent of the place in Crampton", Williams went on, obviously still relieved that his master had calmed down somewhat. "I told her you would talk to her father about it, but she insisted she speak to you in person. For one so young, she seemed quite determined. Unusual woman", he muttered unser his breath.

John nodded to himself, not knowing what to make of that information.

"Thank you, Williams. You may go."

A week later Mr. Hale had settled his affairs with the landlord of the house in Crampton. In the end, it had turned out to be the most suitable out of all the options they had looked at.

It was small and dark, with a very narrow staircase, but the landlord had finally agreed to them changing the horrid wallpapers for something nicer and once the rooms were furnished and the fireplaces lit, it seemed a tad more inviting.

They had found a cook and Dixon had her hands full with interviewing possible housemaids, but had been unsuccessful in finding one so far.

With Dixon alone to attend to most household matters, the work piled up quickly, so Margaret volunteered to help out with the chores. At first, Dixon had wanted to hear nothing of it, but Margaret had insisted.

She was glad for any occupation, which would keep her mind away from the fact that she was stuck in this horrid manufacturing town with ist horrid people, like that Mr. Thornton.

She busied herself with washing and ironing the curtains, baking biscuits (which turned out inedible), and doing the laundry. As she was unaccustomed to the work, she was very tired in the evenings, but she considered this to be a blessing, as it enabled her to fall asleep quickly and deeply.

Mr. Hale had started his lectures at the local lyceum hall and within the first few weeks had also managed to secure employment as a private tutor for some families in the area, who wanted to provide their sons with a more refined education than the schools at Milton were able to grant them.

Margaret was happy that her father had found an occupation so quickly. She was more concerned about her mother, who scarcely left the house and seemed rather pale and sad. The air was not becoming Mrs. Hale very well and she spent most of her days in the small sitting room, doing needlework.

Margaret, always having been a restless soul, had not been able to stay indoors for very long. She had taken to walk the streets of Milton, exploring the city, and soon knew her way around Crampton.

She also ventured into other parts of the city, though all the while careful to steer clear of Marlborough Mills, often deliberately choosing to take detours to avoid coming within so much as a mile of the place.

She had discovered a nice little path that led out of Milton and up a hill, to the local graveyard. It was situated beautifully, allowing for some nice views over the city and the elevation enabled her to escape the smoky air from below and catch a glimpse of the sky once in a while.

One day, a little over a month after their arrival in Milton, Margaret was on one of her walks, when she noticed a young girl, walking not far from her. She looked slightly familiar, although at first Margaret was not able to pinpoint where she had seen her before.

Then the girl turned her head, just as Margaret was stepping closer and their eyes met. Immediately Margaret recognized her – it was the young woman she had seen at Marlborough Mills – the one who had stared after her, as she had been dragged out of the factory by Williams. The girl gave her a slight smile and was about to turn and be on her way.

„Excuse me", Margaret called out, quickly walking over to where the other was standing. She did not know what to say to her – she only sensed that this was the first person in this city, who did not seem openly offended by her presence.

"I just recognized you from Marlborough Mills." The girl wrapped her shawl around herself a bit tighter and looked at her before replying: "I recognize you as well. Giving Thornton as good as ye gave. You don't see that every day." Her voice sounded quiet and a bit weak, but it was friendly enough.

As the young woman resumed walking, Margaret automatically fell into step beside her. "I don't want to keep you", she apologized, realizing that the girl might have a certain destination in mind.

"What important appointments might I 'ave? I'm only meeting my father out 'ere. He works at Hamper's mill, 'bout a mile from 'ere", the girl explained as they made their way along the narrow path.

"My name is Margaret Hale", Margaret introduced herself. "I'm Bessy Higgins. You're not from 'round 'ere are ye?" Margaret shook her head. "No. My family and I moved here from the south a couple of weeks ago", she replied.

"The south", Bessy mused, "Must be very different from Milton. D'you miss it?" Margaret gave a rueful smile. "Very. I think it will take me some time to get used to this place. The people are different. Everything is different, really", she continued, looking at her feet.

Bessy did not reply and they walked on for a minute, neither of them saying a word. "Your father works at a cotton mill too?" Bessy nodded. "But you work at Marlborough Mills?" "Yes. It's nearer home. And the work's easy. Ah, here's father now."

Margaret looked down to see a man walking up to them. He was a stout fellow in his mid-forties and wore a cap and shabby jacket. As he spotted the two women, he gave his daughter a friendly smile.

"Father, that's the young woman I told ye about", Bessy explained as he approached them. "The day Thornton beat up Stevens and sent him packing." Bessy's father looked Margaret up and down for a moment while muttering: "'e deserved it. The fool put everyone at risk."

Margaret looked at him quizzically. He could not possibly approve of a master beating other workers to a pulp, could he? Being a worker himself?

The man removed his cap with a slight bow and introduced himself as Nicholas Higgins.

As Higgins and his daughter turned to walk back down into the city, Margaret followed them hesitantly, not entirely sure her company was welcome, but then Bessy gave her a small smile, which reassured her.

"Where do you live?", Margaret asked. "We put up Francis Street in Princeton. Behind Golden Dragon", Higgins answered. "Why do you ask?" "Well, I – I thought that I might come and bring a basked", "A basket?", Bessy chuckled. "What would we want with a basked? We've little enough to put in it."

Margaret felt stupid and a bit ashamed of her presumption, but Higgins winked at her in a friendly manner, letting her know that they meant to offense.

"I don't much like strangers in my house", he explained. "I daresay in the south, where you come from, a young lady such as yourself feels like she can wander into anyone's house whenever she feels like it. But up 'ere we wait to be asked into someone's parlour, before we go chargin' in."

Margaret felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "Excuse me, Mr. Higgins, Bessy, I didn't mean any offense." "Ah, so I reckon you can come if you want", Higgins continued. "But you'll not remember us. I'll bet on that."

He gave her a curt, but not unfriendly nod and the two of them turned and walked away, leaving Margaret standing alone in the cool afternoon breeze, wondering about the people of the north and their ways.

She realized that it would definitely be a while, until she grew accustomed to how things were done here in Milton, but as she slowly made her way home on her own, she decided that she would visit Bessy very soon.

The young woman had seemed friendly and Margaret was longing for someone her age to talk to. The fact that Bessy was from an entirely different social class than Margaret seemed, at this moment, unimportant to her.

In London, she would not have dared speak to a girl like Bessy – not for lack of wanting to, but for fear of it being seen as improper. Aunt Shaw surely would have had her say in the matter – and very decidedly at that.

But this was Milton and she knew little enough people here, who cared for what she did or who she spoke to.

For the first time in weeks, Margaret felt a small, but genuine smile tug at the corners of her lips. Maybe living in Milton would prove to have a few small benefits after all.

A few days later, Margaret made her way to the Princeton district with a basked she had filled with fresh fruit, a piece of ham and some bread and butter.

She was unsure whether her gift would be welcome. Nicholas Higgins had appeared to have some amount of pride and she doubted he would take charity from anyone, but then again, she did not feel comfortable coming with empty hands.

As she entered Princeton, Margaret's first thought was that her aunt Shaw would surely have fainted, had she seen where her niece was venturing to. The obvious poverty of the people there made her avert her eyes, unable to look into their faces. She could not imagine how anyone could live like this. The narrow streets were grimy and the smell almost made Margaret's stomach turn. Children were begging for coin and food on the side of the street, their faces gaunt and dirty. Some women were doing their laundry in the sooty street. Margaret was glad when she finally arrived at the right address.

Higgins was not home, but she found Bessy and another young girl who turned out to be Bessy's sister Mary. They politely thanked her for the basket and soon the three young women sat around the table in the small, dark kitchen chatting and laughing.

Despite her initial shock at their living conditions, Margaret soon felt very comfortable around them and for the first time since arriving in the north, there was also a feeling of happiness. She had not had the pleasure of someone else's company apart from her parents and Dixon in a long time and only now realized how much she had craved social contact.

She noticed that Bessy burst out into fits of coughing repeatedly and took in the young woman's slim figure and pale face, wondering whether she was ill, but Bessy claimed it was nothing but a cold she couldn't seem to get rid of and shook off the topic – Margaret, however, noticed the worried look Mary shot her sister, before quickly averting her eyes and filling a cup with water for Bessy to drink.

The door opened and Nicholas Higgins entered. As his eyes fell upon Margaret, his lips drew into a tight smile. "She were right. She said you'd come", he greeted her. "How was the meeting father?", Bessy quickly asked. Nicholas heavily dropped into a chair, a stern expression on his face. "When the time comes we will be ready", he muttered. Bessy's eyes dropped to the ground, her hands clutching the cup she was still holding firmly. She seemed distraught by something.

"Are you certain that a strike is inevitable, father?" "There is no way around it", he retorted. "It's only a matter of time. Us workin' men have got to stick together now. We cannot let the bosses starve us to death, cutting our wages even further, while they sit 'round in their mansions, having expensive dinners. The orders for cotton have tripled in the past years, or so I'm told, yet the bosses cut our wages five years ago and they never went back up", he explained to Margaret.

"The worker's union will call out a strike soon. It's the only way." "But father", Bessy started weakly, "A strike is such an ugly business. And who knows how long it will last?" Nicholas clenched his hands. "We must show the masters that they are nothing without us, Bessy. Those machines don't run themselves. We'll teach 'em that they depend on us."

Bessy gave a distressed sigh, putting her hands over her face. "This'll be the end of me. I won't live to see the end of another strike." Margaret was unsure what to make of her words, but if it was possible, Bessy looked even paler than before.

Margaret turned to look at Higgins. After what she had witnessed at Marlborough Mills, she was eager to learn what an actual mill worker had to say. "Are the masters all the same?" "More or less", he replied dryly. "At least when it comes down to the things that really matter. Some mills are better than others. Some pay a bit more, although not much. Thornton's the only mill with a wheel. That's why I got Bessy to work there."

"A wheel?", Margaret enquired confusedly. She was wholly unfamiliar with the process of cotton manufacturing and had no idea what the term meant. "It helps with the cotton fluff", Nicholas explained. "The fluff hovers in the air and the workers breathe it in. It can give them brown lung." Margaret raised her eyebrows questioningly. "The fluff gets stuck in your lungs and it slowly kills you." Nicholas' eyes darted over to Bessy for a brief moment and Margaret felt a terrible suspicion creep up on her.

"Anyway", Nicholas continued "the wheel circulates the air around and helps with the fluff. But few mill owners are willing to install them. Too expensive, they say, and they don't see any profit in it."

Margaret was genuinely shocked. She had known that the working conditions in cotton mills were bad. Long hours, hard work and if the noise she had witnessed herself at Marlborough Mills was any indication, many workers would probably go deaf eventually.

But the realization that the work in the mills could potentially be deadly, that people were quite literally choking on cotton dust, sickened her. No cotton cloth in the world could be worth that price.

She once again found herself wondering what kind of person it took to run one of these mills. What man would watch others starve to death, cut their wages until they were no longer able to sustain their families, have them work twelve-hour shifts – even young children! Watch them get sick and die…and all just for their own profit?

Well, Margaret thought bitterly to herself, she had seen the sort of man it took to be a mill master. Once again, she recalled the figure of Mr. Thornton looming over a crying, bleeding man, his cold eyes staring down at him, as if he were dirt beneath the master's feet. There was no compassion inside such a man.

'What has come over papa to take us here?' she asked herself silently once more. It seemed like God had indeed forsaken this place. Margaret believed that she had seen hell that day, when she had entered the mill. And it was white. It was snow white.

Margaret had been so engrossed in her conversation with Nicholas and his daughters, that the sun had already set when she realized the time. Quickly, she said her goodbyes, promising to visit again soon, and ventured out into the street, which was now mostly quiet and deserted, safe for an occasional figure, rushing past her in the dark. She hoped that her parents were not already worrying about her. If she made haste, she might still make it home in time for dinner – granted she would not lose her way again.

When she had entered Princeton in the afternoon, while being taken aback by the obvious poverty, Margaret had not given much thought to the fact that the area was not considered one of the safest. As she made her way through the dark now, however, Margaret could not help a slight feeling of unease from creeping up inside her. She caught herself throwing glances back over her shoulders at any sound, quickening her steps and avoiding eye contact with any stranger she was passing. Suddenly, she felt a bit naive at having come here all on her own. In London, it would have been completely out of the question for her to even come close to places like St. Giles or the East End, and she now realized that Princeton did not differ at all from these places.

She had almost made it back to the main street, when suddenly the figure of a man stepped out into the street in front of her. He was followed by another. Margaret dropped her gaze and quickly tried to move past them, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. "Well, wha' a bonny face!", she heard the first man say with a grin in his voice. He seemed rather young, maybe about twenty years of age and looked dirty and dishevelled. Margaret could smell liquor on his breath and felt fear grip her. She tried to pull her arm out of his grasp, but he was holding on tightly.

"What is such a beau'iful lady doing out 'ere in the street all alone, after dark?", he sneered, as the second man drew closer. "Have ye lost yer way, Miss? We can 'elp you find it if ye let us!"

Margaret felt her back hit the brick wall behind her, and all her breath left her body in sheer panic, as they were closing in on her. "P-please", she breathed out inaudibly. She could hear her heart hammering in her ears. She wanted to run, but found her feet to be rooted to the ground, unable to move. One of the men seemed to have noticed the small purse dangling from her left arm. "What's that 'ye have here?" He grabbed the purse, trying to tug it from her arm.

This seemed to wake her out of her stupor "Stop it!", she heard herself cry, tearing her arm from his grasp with all her strength. For a second, she was free and without having time to contemplate her actions, she made a dash for the nearby stone steps, which were leading up to the main street and out of Princeton.

She heard the men move, as they made to follow her, and a second later one of them grabbed her arm, yanking her back. "Where d'ye think yer goin'?" He sounded angry now. "HELP!" Margaret let out a cry, as she lost her balance on the steps and tumbled back down. There was an ugly cracking sound, as an intense burst of pain shot through her right ankle.

Then it all happened so quickly, she was unable to grasp what was going on. A deep, angry voice bellowed something nearby and a moment later Margaret felt her offender's grip loosen. She stumbled to the ground, unable to hold back her tears any longer, as she huddled against the brick wall and covered her face with her arms, shaking violently.

There were sounds of people struggling, suggesting that a fight had broken out. A man cried out, seemingly in pain, something hit the brick near her with a nasty thud. Then she heard footsteps, rapidly moving away from her, as if trying to escape.

For a moment, there was complete silence, safe for Margaret's shaky breaths, as she tried to contain her sobs. She did not dare move or even lift her hands from her face to glance around. This was all a nightmare – a nightmare she could not hope to wake from.

Suddenly she sensed a movement beside her. "Miss?" It was a man's voice, a deep baritone, but it was soft, almost as if he was trying not to frighten her. Margaret forced her eyes open and looked up.

There stood the figure of a man, looking down at her. She could not make out his features in the dark. "Miss, are you hurt?", he asked with what she thought was a hint of worry in his voice. "The men are gone. Please allow me to assist you."

A hand was held out to her and she tentatively raised her own to take it. The hand felt warm, its skin slightly rough and calloused, as if from hard labour. Margaret attempted to get to her feet, when the sharp pain shot through her ankle once more, making her gasp and lose her balance once again. As if on instinct, the man's other hand shot to her lower arm, holding her carefully to prevent her from falling, then carefully lowering her back to the ground.

"I – I think I've sprained my ankle. I don't think I can get up", she managed to choke out painfully. At this, he bent down closer to her, his face now mere inches from hers, and she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

As Margaret lifted her gaze up to his face, her heart stopped. She was staring straight into the piercing eyes of none other than Mr. Thornton.

Notes:

Yay, it's a cliffhanger! You're welcome ;)

But I promise, I won't leave you hanging in there for long. The next update is coming soon.

I did a certain amount of research for this story. (So much, that not all of my findings made it into the fic in the end). I will mention anything I found interesting at the end of the chapters.

Now, the Princeton-district was one of those places we would consider a complete hellhole. There have been many period dramas featuring places like this and (fortunately) none of them come close to the actual reality of what those people were going through. („Ripper Street" is probably one of the more accurate depictions of the living conditions in such a place, but even that one was still sugarcoating things).

There is a book called „The people of the Abyss" by Jack London, a journalist who went undercover in the Whitechapel district in London, back in 1902, to cover the lives of the working class „from the inside". It's a gripping book that I can only recommend.

Another good one is „The Condition of the Working Class in England" by Friedrich Engels (which Richard Armitage once mentioned to have read in preparation for his role as Thornton).