Warnings for this chapter: Depression and PTSD, mention of deadly disease.

Chapter 4

All was quiet, when John crossed the entrance hall of the empty mill house and slowly made his way up the stairs, his right hand loosening his cravat as he was walking.

It was those quiet nights, that John always dreaded most.

During the day, the air was filled with the constant roaring and rattling of the mill, the voices of the workers, and the sounds of the horse-drawn carriages, rolling in and out of the yard. While others might have felt disturbed by the noise, it had a calming effect on John. It made him aware that there was life all around him, that he himself was alive.

But whenever the silence of the night fell upon him, John could sense something very dark creeping up on him. It had always been there, for as long as he could remember, lurking in the back of his mind, waiting for the right moment to attack and pull him down into the abyss.

He shook himself and firmly closed his bedroom door behind him. Not bothering to light a candle he doffed his clothes in the dark and placed them neatly on a chair by the wall. As his hands went through the task of preparing himself for bed, his mind was far away, trying to make sense of everything that had happened in the past few hours.

She hated him - he was quite sure of it, if the things she had spat at him in the carriage had been any indication. He had never been bothered much by other people's opinion of him, he could not afford to, yet for some reason, her words had stung him. Why did he even care?

The way she had spoken to him, with such determination, such self-confidence, as she had more or less accused him of being a ruthless tyrant - and then her eyes - how those bright orbs had born into his in anger; all of it had captivated him. He had noticed that she was strikingly beautiful the first moment he had laid eyes on her, but now, as the events of the evening replayed over and over in his mind, he realized just how much.

Three times he had held her in his arms tonight, and during neither of those times had he had the time and nerve to give it much thought.

As he had carried her back to Marlborough mills, adrenaline had still been coursing through his veins from the confrontation with those two wretches in the alley, and he had tried to make sure they were not seen by anybody. Then, he had been anxious to return her home safely, and finally, the last time, he had been angered by her words to him in the carriage, to a point where he could concentrate on little else.

But now, as he was lying on his bed, alone in the dark, with his eyes closed, he recalled what she had felt like, as her soft curves had pressed up against his body, her hair brushing the side of his face, her arm around his neck.

His breathing quickened at the thought of it and he felt a sudden burst of desire course through him. God no! He let out a frustrated groan and forced his eyes wide open. He could not go there. This was utterly pointless, there was really no need to torture himself. So, she was a pretty woman and yes, there was something about her character that he found quite intriguing (in an infuriating way), but she was not interested in him and likely never would be.

Because her repulsion of him appeared to be just as passionate as his admiration for her. Somehow, he had managed to make a complete hash of her first impression of him, and he doubted that he would be able to iron that out.

But her father had invited him to dinner. He would see her there and maybe, just maybe, they would manage to uphold a civil conversation for a couple of minutes. He supposed it was the best he could hope for.

He turned to his side and buried his face in the pillow. Margaret. That was her christian name. He now recalled her telling him the first time they had met, but he had been so agitated, so caught up in the situation with Stevens, that he had forgotten. It had only come back to him when the Hale's housemaid had called out the name upon discovering the two of them at their doorstep.

"Margaret", John whispered into the pillow, trying out how the word would feel on his lips, and a painful little smile tucked at the corners of his mouth, as he drifted off into sleep.

He was there again, sitting in a dark room, the air heavy and stifling, threatening to choke him with every breath he took. "Fanny! Fanny please", he whispered pleadingly, clutching the tiny body of his five-year-old sister to his chest, stroking her hair. She was so pale, her skin shining with sweat, dark, bluish circles around her eyes.

He felt her quiver painfully and quickly turned her, so that her head was facing the metal bucket he had placed on the ground next to them. Fanny started vomiting again, unable to stop for what seemed like hours.

Seeing her like this scared the hell out of him. He was only seven years her senior, but with their mother sick as well, he knew that the responsibility to care for his family now lay entirely with him.

When Fanny was finally done emptying the contents of her stomach, he gently placed her back on the mattress, next to his mother's gaunt, sleeping form, and dragged himself up shakily. For a moment, he listened to his mother's laboured breathing, to make sure she was still alive. He had to get them to drink.

Stirring the few half-burnt pieces of wood in the tiny stove, he tried to get the fire going just one more time, just enough to heat the water he had put up in the small metal pot before Fanny had woken up. He knew he had to boil the water to clean it, he had heard the people in the street talking about it.

John grimaced, trying to ignore the stench hanging in the air. He had tried to clean the bedsheets as best as he could, but it was to no avail, as both his mother and sister would repeatedly and uncontrollably rid themselves of various types of body waste, too weak to get up.

Just as the water was beginning to bubble in the pot, John was suddenly hit by a fit of nausea. He clutched the nearest wall for support, as his knees threatened to give way under him and swallowed hard, repeatedly fighting the urge to gag. He really was not feeling well, but he could not let it get the better of him, he had to help his mother and sister – they were all he had left in this world.

Wrapping a piece of cloth around his hand to protect himself from the heat, he grabbed the pot and placed it on the ground beside him for the water to cool down enough so he could make them drink it.

He felt dizzy, a thin layer of sweat breaking out all over his skin. It was unbearably hot next to the stove – he had to get out of here for just a moment, to catch some fresh air. He gathered all his strength to pull himself up and blindly staggered out of the tiny room they had rented after his father's death, not a year before.

His intestines felt like they were on fire, knotting together painfully, burning him from the inside. Clutching his abdomen, he dropped to his knees outside the door, unable to hold back any longer, as another fit of extreme nausea hit him.

His entire body convulsed, as he started vomiting uncontrollably. He had not eaten much, safe for a bit of watered oats, which he had forced down some hours before, but the emptiness in his stomach did not stop his body from dry heaving, trying to get rid of whatever was making him so sick.

Bowing over, with his hands flat on the ground, he felt his senses dwindle, until everything went black and John collapsed, unconscious, falling face-first into a pool of his own sick…

John shot up with a strangled cry. His eyes darted about the room in a disoriented manner. His nightshirt was soaked through, clinging to his body as he slowly gathered his bearings.

He crawled out of bed and staggered over to the small table near the window. With a trembling hand, he reached for the flask of brandy, poured himself a glass, and took a sip, closing his eyes, as the liquid burned down his throat. He sank into the chair beside the table and swirled the brandy around in his glass, as he stared off into the night.

This was why he hated sleeping so much. It seemed like, whenever he closed his eyes, he was taken right back to those times he had fought to escape for years. Every time it happened, he was left feeling weak and helpless like a child. Was this what hell felt like? To go through the same unbearable pain over and over again, unable to ever make it stop?

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the backrest of the chair, exhausted, praying for just one small moment of quietness in his mind, that would enable him to get some rest.

Mr. Thornton had kept his word: Early the next morning a Dr. Donaldson called on the Hales to examine Margaret's ankle. Fortunately, it turned out that nothing was broken and with a bit of rest and patience, she had a good chance of healing quickly.

The worst thing for Margaret was that she was unable to move around. Being confined to the house with little more to do than to read or write letters to Edith, she had too much time to contemplate the dreaded dinner with Mr. Thornton, which was drawing closer every day. At least, by the beginning of the following week, she was able to move about the house enough to assist Dixon with a bit of light housework, to keep her mind occupied.

She wished she could have left the house for she dearly missed her walks. She wondered if Bessy was waiting for her. The girl had no idea what had happened and was probably expecting another visit. Margaret was surprised that the thought of visiting Princeton again did not make her more nervous, after all that had happened.

She had convinced herself that it had been her own fault for being there after dark, and promised herself that she would keep a more careful watch on the time, whenever she was to visit there in the future.

The following Thursday arrived, and Margaret passed the day trying to keep her mother occupied by reading out some of Edith's letters to her. Mrs. Hale's health had been dwindling further over the past few weeks and Margaret was getting seriously worried. The climate in Milton was not doing the older woman any good.

As the daylight began to fade outside the dusty windows, Margaret stood in front of her mirror, straightening her plain, brown dress. She made a silent promise to herself to be courteous and do her best to make her father's visitor feel as comfortable as possible. She owed this much to papa.

However, she would not speak any more to Mr. Thornton than was absolutely necessary and hoped that papa would occupy the mill master's attention enough for her to be able to fade into the background.

At half-past seven o clock, the doorbell rang, and a few moments later Mr. Thornton was led into the sitting room by Dixon, bowing his head politely to each of them.

Margaret could not help noticing that he looked very elegant. He was wearing a dark coat above a grey and golden striped waistcoat and a burgundy cravat, which accented his features handsomely. He was very good-looking indeed, she realized once more. She had seen her fair share of young, clean-cut gentlemen during her stay in London. Edith's brother-in-law, Henry Lennox, who had always shown great interest in Margaret and had even proposed to her last summer (to no avail, as she merely cared for him as a friend), was quite good-looking as well.

But there was something about Mr. Thornton's air that she had never witnessed in another man. She could not point her finger at what it was exactly. Maybe it was that he was, in fact, not a true gentleman, but merely a nicely attired manufacturer.

His good looks were of the mysterious and slightly dangerous kind, she felt. (Especially the latter, if one considered his character.) He was the sort of dark and brooding type, interesting to observe from a distance, but not to be neared, if a woman knew what was good for her.

While Margaret was still pondering these things, her father had greeted Thornton warmly. He bade him sit down and quickly started a conversation, to which her mother listened courteously, sporadically offering short statements of her own, whenever they seemed fitting.

Margaret had deliberately brought her needlework to the sitting room as an excuse to keep herself out of the conversation as much as possible, and she was glad when the bell rang for dinner.

It seemed that the cook had truly outdone herself. As they were feasting on mulligatawny soup with freshly baked bread, roast pork with potatoes, vegetables and gravy, and a delicious sponge cake, Mr. Hale had managed to arrive at the topic he was most interested in at the moment: Cotton manufacturing.

He drilled Thornton with questions, concerning the purchase of raw cotton, the transportation, the different steps of production, and how modern weaving looms were operated. "Fascinating", he stated repeatedly, in answer to Thornton's willing remarks.

Occasionally, when Margaret was sure that the mill master was engrossed in conversation, she dared to steal a quick glance at him. He seemed to be in his element, and there was a sense of pride in him, as he went into great detail about everything concerning his form of trade. His voice was calm and he took his time to explain things, making sure Mr. Hale understood all the details. It was apparent, that he knew what he was talking about.

After dinner, the two men retreated to Mr. Hale's study, while Mrs. Hale and Margaret went back to the sitting room.

"Mr. Thornton seems to be a very eloquent man, do you not think, Margaret?", Mrs. Hale remarked as she picked up her needlework. "Very well-versed in what he is doing." "Indeed" Margaret answered. "He seems good-natured too", her mother stated. Margaret carefully selected her words before replying: "I agree that he appears to be good at what he is doing, Mama, however, I cannot say that I find him very agreeable. He seems a bit too stern for my taste."

Maria Hale contemplated this for a moment. "Well, I suppose he is not as refined as the young gentlemen from London. He is only a tradesman after all", she sighed. "We must not forget that this is Milton. I do not think we will encounter anyone here who bears any similarity to the gentry of the south." Maria Hale looked crestfallen at her own words, the sadness and frustration at their situation taking hold of her once again.

Margaret reached out a soothing hand to cover her mother's. She wished there was anything she could do to lift the older woman's spirits, but this time Mrs. Hale managed to overcome her little episode quickly. She shook her head lightly, forcing a look of determination onto her face. "But he seems an honourable man", she concluded "And apparently your father takes great pleasure in his company."

It was at this moment, that the door opened and the two men entered the sitting room. Mr. Hale bore a look of great contentment. "Just imagine Maria, Mr. Thornton and I have just been talking about my tutoring. It seems that he is rather interested in literature and is considering taking some lessons with me."

Margaret felt as if her stomach had just dropped to the floor. So, she was to endure Thornton's company frequently now.

Forgetting her resolve to not speak to him, she heard herself say: "I did not know a man in your position would have much time for reading." Realizing how her words might have come across, she instantly wanted to bite her tongue, if only for her parent's sake. She knew papa would not appreciate her insulting his new friend. Thornton held her gaze for a moment, before answering in a calm voice: "Not as much as I would like. But literature is one of the few diversions I allow myself." "And what do you read?", she blurted out, more to challenge him, than out of genuine interest.

If he had noticed the tinge of defiance in her voice, he was deliberately ignoring it. "I am interested in a variety of topics, Miss Hale. I enjoy history and geography and, being a businessman, I tend to read about economics. But I am most fond of the ancient, Greek philosophers, although I have to admit that my understanding of how to interpret them could be better."

He paused for a moment, without looking away, his expression unreadable. "I am afraid circumstance has forced me to cut my schooling short. I started working to earn my keep at a young age, before I had the time to finish my studies."

"Well thankfully it is never too late to polish one's knowledge of such things", Mr. Hale smiled reassuringly at the younger man. "I would be very glad to assist you in this matter. I myself take great pleasure in discussing the likes of Aristotle and Plato."

They agreed that Thornton was to come Tuesday evenings to read with Margaret's father and before long their guest rose from his chair, thanking Mr. Hale for the invitation and declaring that it was time for him to take his leave, as he had to start work early the next morning. "Margaret", Mr. Hale said quickly. "Be so kind as to show our guest to the door, I think Dixon is still busy in the kitchen."

Margaret rose and led Mr. Thornton out of the room. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she took his top hat and gloves, which he had placed on the small table next to the door earlier, and handed both to him. She wanted to get back upstairs as quickly as possible, as she disliked being alone with him.

He reached for the door handle, but hesitated for a moment, before slowly turning back to her. "Miss Hale-" He drew a breath, as if willing himself to tell her something important: "I believe you and I met under less than pleasant circumstances. I need to apologize to you for what you witnessed that day-"

He was about to go on, but Margaret instinctively raised her right hand to stop him. She was not ready to hear this. He might have been successful in deceiving her parents about his character, but Margaret would not be manipulated so easily.

"Mr. Thornton", she said with a slight chill in her voice. "You do not owe me an explanation for how you handle your business matters or run your mill. I wholeheartedly disagree with the treatment of your workers, but I believe that my complaints to you would be to no avail, and in order to be civil to one another, we should probably avoid venturing into such topics."

He stared at her dumbfoundedly, looking slightly defeated. His hands nervously toyed with the rim of his top hat for a moment. "Miss Hale I-" He thought better of it. "Good night, Miss Hale", he concluded in a quiet voice, and with a bow of his head, he was gone, leaving Margaret standing at the doorstep for a moment, staring after him in the dark.

As John made his way back to Marlborough Mills, he was once again deep in thought. He did not know whether he should consider the evening a success.

Mr. Hale was a very friendly sort of man and John was actually looking forward to starting lessons with him. It would be a welcome distraction from his regular duties at the mill.

But as for Miss Hale – it had been his hope to get to know the young woman better – for reasons he neither understood nor wished to ponder. Being in her company tonight had been exhilarating, even if she had barely spoken to him. Her physical nearness had been enough to both excite and unnerve him. What had come over him?

John Thornton was not a romantic man. He had neither time nor energy for any such pursuits. As master of Marlborough Mills, he could not afford to be distracted from his work by pointless self-indulgences.

He was familiar with feelings of lust. Having grown up as a mill boy, he had moved in a social sphere, which did not require the courtship rituals of the upper class and during his lonely, younger years, he had sometimes sought comfort in the arms of willing women, if only for one night.

His encounters had been few and far between and the momentary satisfaction they had given him, had never lasted long. Having lost all of his family so early, he had been deprived of any motherly affections and had sometimes longed for physical closeness.

I he was brutally honest with himself, this was something he still yearned for sometimes, even now. But whatever these women had given him had not been enough, it had been but a shadow of something deeper he desired, something he could not put into words.

All he knew was, that these salacious brushes had always left him feeling slightly dirty and dejected, and eventually, he had given up on them altogether.

As he had taken over Marlborough Mills and his social position had thus changed, his only remaining options had been to either destroy a woman's reputation by his actions or to seek the services of a prostitute and he would never sink so low as to consider either.

And now there was Margaret Hale and something had changed. He desired her, but there was something deeper. Despite barely knowing her, his mind had kept wandering to her most frequently over the course of the past week. He had sometimes caught himself wondering what she might be doing. Was she walking those streets on her own again? All alone in this city, which had to be such a stark contrast to the south, where she had grown up.

She had likely left all her friends and family behind. Was she lonely? She had mentioned that she had a friend in Princeton, but how? How was she so quick to make friends who were so far out of her own circles?

He shook his head at his own thoughts, as he turned the corner onto Marlborough Street. When they had spoken about literature, she had addressed him for the first time that evening. She had questioned him, a look of defiance in her eyes, as if she did not believe that he indeed read books.

He wondered what she really thought of him. Clearly, having grown up amongst the gentry of the south, she considered him a nouveau riche tradesman whose social rank was decidedly below her own, and he did not even dare to ponder on what she would think if she knew just where he had come from before he had climbed the social ladder to his current standing. A man like him would never be good enough for a woman like her.

When she had shown him to the door, he had sensed an opportunity to have a word with her alone. He was well aware that their first meeting had tainted their acquaintance and if he ever were to gain any acceptance on her part, he had to address it and try to apologize.

But she had nipped his clumsy attempt at explaining himself in the bud and had made it very clear that she had no interest in ever revisiting this topic.

Now, where did that leave him? All he could do now was to try and make her see that the depths he had fallen to that day were not an accurate depiction of his character.

And John doubted that this task would prove easy.

CHAPTER NOTES:

Okay, so it's time to address the "Was John Thornton a virgin?"-thing. Trudy Brasure has written an interesting blog post on the "West of Milton"-page about this topic, where she makes some very good points, supporting the theory that John might actually have been a virgin.

However, for this story, I have made the conscious decision to change that, mainly because his upbringing (which will be addressed further, as the story progresses) differs from the original version, making it much more likely that he would have had some experience.

For anyone wondering about what exactly was going on with Fanny and Mrs. Thornton in that flashback: This is a reference to the real cholera outbreak, which hit Manchester in May of 1832. There were a total of 1,325 reported cases of cholera in the city and 674 deaths. As both the time and place seemed convenient to be woven into the story, I considered this a wonderful way to make John's life more miserable.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Feel free to leave feedback :)