Thanks to everyone who left feedback on the past chapters :) I truly appreciate all of it!

I'm also glad you enjoyed the information on the real John Thornton.

Now, a lot of stuff will happen in this chapter (and in the following ones), so hold on tight and (hopefully) enjoy.

Warning: This is where the m rating comes into play. There will be some adult content in this chapter (although we'll start off with something mild, compared to what's to come further down the way :P)

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Chapter 7

Margaret took one last look in the mirror, her hands nervously straightening her dress. It had been a long time since she had been to a ball, and this time the only people she would know there were Mr. Bell and the Latimers. She wondered what Milton society was like, and whether it was in any way comparable to London.

The green dress she had chosen was elegant, and she thought it brought out the colour of her eyes nicely. Not that she was aiming to impress anyone there, but Mr. Bell was sure to show her around, and she did not want to give anyone reason to look down upon her, especially not some northern tradesmen and their wives.

Two hours later Margaret entered the Latimer's home, her arm linked with her father's. Mrs. Hale had not been well enough to accompany them. Margaret hat tried to assure Mr. Hale that her mother was going to recover soon, but he appeared quite anxious. She hoped the ball would distract him from his worries for a few hours.

They were greeted warmly by Mrs. Latimer, who was wearing a very elegant bright yellow dress. Ann appeared soon thereafter and immediately started a conversation with Margaret. When Mr. Bell arrived, he greeted her loudly, as if to draw attention to them, and started taking her about the room, introducing her to all the "important people of Milton", as he called them.

There was a man named Slickson, a rather plump fellow with the face of a bulldog. Then there were Watson and Hamper, who were also at least fourty five years of age and whose manners appeared to be anything but polished.

Margaret was introduced to some other mill owners, and she found most of them to be quite disagreeable. None of them had the air of a gentleman about them, they all appeared rather gruff, despite their elegant attire, but Mr. Hale, who seemed to have missed socializing, was soon engrossed in conversation with a few of them.

The women were dressed in the latest fashion and made the usual comments about the decorations and the music – this much was the same as in London.

Margaret had just accepted a glass of wine Mr. Bell had brought her and was observing the dancing couples, when she saw Mr. Thornton enter the room. She should have known that he would attend an event like this, but still, his sudden appearance startled her.

He had been coming to his lessons with her father every Tuesday for these past few weeks, but she had not spoken to him, or even seen much of him while he was there, as the two men had kept to Mr. Hale's study, her father no doubt trying to avoid another regrettable encounter between his daughter and the mill master.

Now, as she caught sight of him, Margaret somehow found it hard to tear her eyes away. With his black tailcoat above an elegant golden vest and tie, he cut a very fine figure. His tall frame, his broad shoulders, and the way he carried himself was a stark contrast to all the other mill owners Margaret hat met this evening. She observed him from the side of the room as he politely shook hands and spoke to some of the men.

She realized that there was more than one woman in the room who was following his every move with her eyes. Mr. Latimer had noticed Thornton and quickly lead Ann over to him conspicuously. Margaret watched Ann politely reach out her hand to greet the master, who took it with a bow of his head and started conversing with both Latimers.

Margaret took a small sip from her wine and placed her glass on a small table beside her. As if on their own accord, her eyes once again strayed over to Mr. Thornton, just as she saw him turn his head, and then his gaze fell on her.

The moment his eyes found hers, something in his face changed. He turned back to Ann and her father and told them something, Margaret could not hear, then he bowed his head to both of them and, to Margaret's shock, turned back around and started towards her with deliberation. Within seconds, he was standing before her, the corners of his lips turned up a tiny bit, almost resembling a small smile. It was a rare occurrence. Quickly Margaret held out her hand, determined to get it right this time.

He looked down at her hand for a second, almost surprised, and then took it. His was warm, the skin rough and calloused, but at the same time it was oddly soft, and her own skin tingled at the touch.

"You see, I am learning Milton ways, Mr. Thornton", she smiled at him, and she thought she saw something like amusement flicker across his features.

"I'm sorry your mother was unable to join us, please give her my regards.", he said in a low voice, slowly drawing back his hand, lingering just a moment longer than would have been necessary. "I thank you, sir, that is very kind of you", she replied.

His eyes dropped from her face for a brief moment, taking in the rest of her, before darting back up so quickly that she almost thought she had imagined it. She saw him swallow. "Allow me to say, you look very well tonight, Miss Hale", he spoke, his voice slightly husky.

She blushed, but had no time to make a reply before he asked: "Would you do me the honour of dancing the next with me?" She could not take her eyes from his face, as she heard herself answer: "It would be my pleasure."

He held out his hand and she placed hers there, as he led her to the dance floor. Margaret felt a good dozen eyes on her, as they took their positions. Mr. Bell was watching them with a sly grin, twirling his wine glass lightly in his hand.

The orchestra started playing a waltz, and Mr. Thornton stepped closer to her. Margaret held her breath and placed a trembling hand on his upper arm. She felt his other arm come around her body. Her skin warmed through the fabric of her dress where he touched her. His hand took hold of hers almost gently as they slowly started moving to the music, neither of them speaking at first.

She dared not look into his face, so she focused her eyes straight ahead at his chest, noticing once again his elegant attire. He was so close that she could smell the faint trace of his bay rum, which made her feel a bit lightheaded. His movements were controlled and deliberate, as he led her.

"So, Miss Hale, how do the balls in Milton compare to those in London?", he inquired after a while, trying to start a conversation. She finally dared to look up into his face. "Oh, I think they are much the same, really. Everyone tries to appear to their best advantage, and they all gossip about each other." He released a small, amused breath, a sound she had never heard from him before. "You are not so very fond of balls then?"

"I do not mind them, some are more pleasant than others. It depends on the company really." He nodded lightly, seemingly contemplating her reply, before he spoke again: "Do you miss London?" She pondered the question for a moment. "I don't think I do", she said eventually. "I do miss Helstone a great deal." "It must be very different from Milton."

Margaret could not help but chuckle. "I do not think there could be two places further apart. Helstone is – well it's very green. With wide, open fields and woods and flowers, tiny cottages and farms..." Margaret heard herself rattling on about the beauties of the southern countryside. She knew she should stop, for she was surely boring him by getting lost in details. However, as she looked up, after having finished her little speech about yellow roses, she saw him gaze at her attentively and realized that he was in fact listening to her.

It was the second time Margaret felt taken aback by how his conduct was making her feel oddly respected. "I imagine after growing up there, Milton must have come as quite a shock." His voice was a low rumble, but it contained a softness, making him sound almost compassionate. "It did", she admitted. "But Milton has grown on me since."

He seemed surprised at that. "It has indeed?" "Well, I am still getting used to the customs here. Like the handshake", she smiled embarrassedly, trying to will him to understand that her refusal that evening had been unintentional. "In the south, such a thing would be viewed as improper. I'm still learning these things. But it is as my mother said: The people here strive to be successful. They are independent and hard-working. They speak thir opinions more honestly and plainly than they do in the south, and I admire that."

He smirked slightly at that. "I think you will not find it too hard to adapt to the latter." Was he teasing her? She gave a small nervous laugh, not knowing how to respond. "Have you ever been to the south, Mr. Thornton?", she inquired instead and he readily complied. "I passed through there a few times on business trips, but I never took the time to stay and enjoy it, although I have to admit I found the views to be quite pleasing."

"So, you have always lived in Milton?" "Born and bred", he said with a sense of pride. What must it have been like, having grown up in this town, she wondered. These endless rows of brick buildings and sooty streets. There was not much vegetation to speak of, apart from a few trees here and there, which always appeared to be on the brink of death.

She tried to imagine him as a little boy and failed so miserably (picturing a boy with a stern brow and dark frock coat) that she almost burst out laughing, but quickly caught herself. "I can't imagine growing up not being surrounded by nature. When I was a child, I would spend all my days outside, playing in the back garden or walking through the woods", she mused.

Then, looking up at him questioningly, she asked: "Did your parents ever take you on outings into nature as a child?" She saw him drop his gaze with a strange expression on his face, and wondered if she had said something wrong. "Both my parents died when I was quite young", he said in a quiet voice. "And even before that, there was not much time for outings."

It was rather obvious from his look, that this was not a topic he desired to elaborate on. "I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Thornton", Margaret said earnestly. For a moment she thought she felt his hand squeeze hers lightly, but she could have imagined it. "I thank you, Miss Hale. It was a long time ago."

The dance ended and they slowly pulled away from each other. He led her back to the side of the room and hesitantly released her hand. "Thank you for the dance." "It was my pleasure." She realized with surprise that it was the truth.

They both stood there, neither willing to move away, both awkwardly searching for something else to converse on.

"Are there any news concerning the strike?", Margaret blurted out eventually. She saw him furrow his brow surprised and wanted to slap herself. She knew that any conversation of that kind was dangerous territory for them. They would never see eye to eye on these issues. But it was hard to find something else to talk about with him. She knew nothing of him personally, and all he ever talked about was economics and industry, so she found it near impossible to start a conversation revolving around anything else. She was afraid that she had annoyed him, but if she had, he did not show it.

"I'm afraid there is no news as of yet", he replied earnestly and she took that as a sign that he did not mind her question. "But surely the workers will have to come back eventually. The strike has been going for almost four weeks", she mused. "What happens to your orders, if no one is working?" Margaret had not given it much thought until now, having only considered the worker's side of things.

There was a grave look on his face. "We will find ways to meet them." "What happens if you don't?" "We will find ways to meet them", he repeated. He tried to look convincing, but something in his eyes gave him away.

"What about the worker's demands?", she questioned him further. "Is it not possible for you to raise their wages? They cannot live on them, is it not understandable that they try to fight for their rights?" His eyes searched hers for a moment as if trying to gauge whether she was asking and honest question or throwing an accusation at him.

Deciding upon the former, he answered: "I am afraid that is not possible. The Americans are flooding the market. Our only chance to compete is producing at a lower price and faster. But the faster we fill the orders, the longer it takes for us to be paid for them, and a lot of money is caught up in new machinery. The more orders that come in, the more machines and workers we need. There simply is not enough money at hand to raise their wages."

Margaret was silent. She did not know much about economy, but his words made sense to her. Nicholas Higgins had said that the masters would always come up with excuses, but what if those things were true? What if there was simply no way to pay them more?

Then the strike would be to no avail and would do nothing but harm both sides. The workers and their families would starve, and even if they did not now, they would eventually, for if the orders could not be met, the mills would not survive ,and everyone would be out of work permanently. Milton could not do without cotton. The industry was what held this city together and it seemed that, in their anger and despair, the workers were biting the hand that fed them.

Thornton seemed to have caught her troubled look. "Do not worry too much, Miss Hale. It is a young industry; these problems will iron themselves out eventually."

She was about to make a reply, when she heard a voice, coming from behind her: "Well, well, if that is not my favourite tenant of them all – how are you, John?" Mr. Bell had stepped closer to them, a big grin on his face, as he reached out to shake Thornton's hand. "I may congratulate you, as I see you have secured yourself the most glorious woman in the room as a dance partner." Margaret blushed, mortified at those words.

As much as she liked Mr. Bell, she could scarcely cope with his tendency to speak his mind in such a facetious manner. Bell drew Thornton into a conversation and Margaret soon excused herself, to look for her father.

As she was crossing the room, she noticed some people staring at her with great interest and when she passed a group of young women, they bowed their heads together and started whispering. Could they be talking about her? But what had she done to deserve this kind of attention?

"Margaret!", she suddenly heard a female voice call her in a hushed tone. She turned to see Ann Latimer smiling at her, waving her to join her by the window. "Oh Margaret, what a way to make a first impression on the entire party", Ann whispered with what seemed to be excitement and sheer delight, smiling and moving her hands agitatedly. Margaret looked at her in astonishment. "Ann, whatever do you mean?" The young woman gave a small laugh. "Oh, come Margaret, surely you must know."

Margaret was growing a bit annoyed. "I assure you, I have not the slightest idea what you are referring to, please do enlighten me." "Well, it is you and Mr. Thornton, of course!" Ann whispered, unable to keep the grin off her face. "Pray, tell me, what on earth have you done to him? He looked positively flustered when he was talking to you. I have never seen him look at anyone quite like that. He could not keep his eyes off you."

Margaret felt heat rush to her cheeks in embarrassment, as she immediately tried to dispute this nonsense. "Oh Ann, what are you thinking? It is not like that. He is one of my father's pupils, he was merely courteous." Ann chuckled unbelievingly. "If I am mistaken, my dear, so is everyone else in the room, for I am certainly not the only one who has noticed."

Margaret's stomach clenched, as the looks, other people had shot her, and the whispering started making sense. "But I – it was merely one dance, Ann! There was nothing improper about it", she stammered, horrified.

Ann rushed to reassure her: "Of course not, Margaret. No one was accusing you of impropriety. It is just that a lot of women here have been touting for his attention for years, to no avail. And you are new to Milton, this is your first ball, yet he leaves everyone standing there just to go and talk to you. I have never seen him voluntarily ask anyone to dance and Margaret – " Ann paused for effect "he did look quite taken by you, I could see it all the way across the room."

Margaret needed to get out, she needed to get away from everyone. Her feelings were in utter turmoil. Had she really given this impression – and with Mr. Thornton of all people? It was unbearable as it was stupid.

"I think I need some air", she told Ann. "I fear I have a slight headache. A few minutes outside will help." Ann looked at her with concern. "There is a balcony just across the small salon on the right", she told her. Margaret thanked her and made her way over to the salon. It was dark, as it was unoccupied and no candles had been lit there. The door to the balcony was open, but just as she had reached it and was about to step outside, she heard voices.

Margaret froze as she made out the silhouettes of two men, who were standing on the balcony in the darkness, facing away from her. One of them she recognized immediately: It was Mr. Thornton. The other was one of the mill masters, she thought she remembered his name to be Slickson, but was not sure.

"Have you left word at the barracks?" Slickson asked, his voice low, as if he was scared anyone might eavesdrop on their conversation. "Been done" came Thornton's terse reply. "Men on horseback? Armed?" "All those arrangements have been made."

Margaret held her breath and slowly took a small step closer to the door, keeping to the side and out of view of the two men, in case one of them would turn around and see her. What were they speaking of? Barracks? Armed men? What would they need the military for? And why had they come out here, away from everyone else, talking in these hushed voices, as if afraid anyone might hear?

Margaret's heart beat wildly against her chest. "If they find out about it…." Slickson's voice sounded almost scared. "I take this risk for myself", Thornton cut him short. "You need not join in." Dear God, what was Thornton planning? It sounded like something dangerous, if the fear in Slickson's voice was any indication.

She could not believe it. Had she really misjudged Thornton once again? Just as she had started to think that she had been wrong about him, and he might really be a man of honour…had she finally fallen into his trap?

"I can and will protect myself and anyone that works for me from any kind of violence", Thornton said. His words made no sense to her. However, they seemed to make sense to Slickson who growled at him: "I sincerely hope so!" With that, Slickson spun around and darted back to the door which led into the salon. Margaret jumped back quickly, hiding behind the curtain as he passed her. She was glad that the room was dark.

Thornton remained on the balcony for another minute, until eventually, he turned silently and – passing Margaret unknowingly - made his way back to the hall, his posture one of determination.

When he was out of sight, Margaret leaned her back against the wall and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to calm her heart rate. It was time she found her father and begged him to take her home. She did not think she could stand to be here even a minute longer.

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When Margaret exited the coach at Crampton, she caught the glimpse of a man in the dark. He was rushing down the street, out of sight. Mr. Hale had not noticed him, but Margaret was sure that man had just exited their house only moments before. A quiet apprehension crept over her, as she quickly made her way through the front door and after she had made sure her father had closed his study door behind him, flew down into the kitchen, where Dixon was cleaning up.

"Who was that, Dixon?" she asked immediately. The housemaid did not meet her eyes. "Who?" "The man I saw, leaving the house." "What man?" Dixon muttered innocently, but she could not deceive Margaret. "Dixon!" Her tone was enough to crack the older woman. "It was the doctor. Doctor Donaldson." Margaret felt her heart sink. "Mother?" she gasped worriedly.

Dixon breathed a sigh and put down the jug of water she had been holding.

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Margaret found her mother in her bedroom, sitting upright in a chair, her eyes closed, her face ashen. At the sound of the door, Mrs. Hale forced her eyes open and, catching the look on her daughter's face, she immediately knew what had happened.

"Dixon told you, didn't she? She promised she would not." "I made her", Margaret stated in a quiet voice. She sat down next to her mother, taking in her face, knowing that she would not have many more opportunities to do so. They sat in silence for a while, both at loss for words.

"I keep thinking about Helstone", Mrs Hale said eventually. "How I used to complain about it and want to leave. And now I'll never see it again. That's my punishment." Suddenly she burst into tears.

Margaret did not know what to do, so she just took hold of her mother's trembling hand, trying to calm her. "Margaret", the sick woman breathed through her tears: "I can't stop thinking about Frederick. I'll never see him again either. Oh Margaret, It's so hard." She was sobbing now, seemingly unable to calm herself. Dixon rushed into the room and to her side, doing her best to comfort her, but it was to no avail.

They rarely spoke of Frederic these days. It was too painful for all of them. Frederick was Margaret's older brother, but she had not seen him in years. He had been a most gentle and generous soul with a strong sense of righteousness, which matched that of his sister.

Fred had gone to sea when Margaret had still been in London with her aunt. He had sailed under one captain Reid, who had turned out to be a cruel madman. Frederick and the crew had stood up to him and fought him. They eventually put him in a boat and left him there at sea. But Reid made it back to the shore and the whole affair was later considered a mutiny.

Fred and his fellow men were to face court-martial with the certainty of being hanged, so Fred had had no choice but to leave England for good.

He had gone to South America and later to Spain, where he still lived. Even the thought of it broke Margaret's heart. She loved her brother dearly and was afraid she would never see him again. But she was young and there was a future for her, and a faint glimmer of hope, that maybe one day, she would.

This was not the case for her mother now. They both knew Mrs. Hale had mere weeks to live, and there was no way she would ever be able to take her son into her arms again in this life. The thought of this threatened to choke Margaret.

After her mother had cried herself into exhaustion and had fallen asleep, Margaret went up to her bedroom, firmly closed the door behind her and finally let her own tears fall. She sat on the bed, crying for what seemed like hours. All the while, her thoughts were racing wildly. There had to be something she could do.

Surely, if Fred managed to come to Milton, no one would recognize him. Had they still been in Helstone, the matter would have been different, but they had no acquaintances here from that time.

Should she write to him? It was a risk. But she knew it was her mother's dying wish to see him once more. Could she really ignore it? Margaret knew that if she did not at least make an attempt, she would live with the regret for the rest of her life.

She slowly stood and went over to her desk. With shaking hands, she took out a sheet of paper and sat down, dipping her pen into the ink. She took a deep breath and started composing a letter.

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It was shortly after midnight, when a freight train halted on its tracks, out in the open field, a few miles from the station and some fifty or sixty figures emerged from the waggons.

Men and women, some of them rather old, all incredibly haggard, as if they had not had a proper meal in weeks, if not months. They gathered together in small groups which were led them from the train by two men.

John Thornton stood close by, watching them intently, counting them silently while making notes on a sheet of paper he was holding. He had left the ball shortly after Margaret and her father, ignoring Mr. Latimer's protests that it was much too early to deprive them of his company. Having rushed back to Marlborough Mills to change back into one of his regular black frock coats, Williams and he had made their way here to execute the next step in the scheme he had come up with.

"That's the lot for tonight, Mr Thornton. I can't risk bringing in any more before daylight", the man in charge of the transport told him. John nodded, signed the lists and passed them on to the man.

A few yards away, a mad huddled against an abandoned train waggon in the dark, hidden out of sight as he observed the group of people who marched away from the tracks. The man was John Boucher, and as he sat there, one of the haggard men turned to the one who was leading them and asked in an Irish accent: "Are you taking us to the factory in the morning, sir?"

It was all Boucher needed to hear. Shocked and disbelieving, he silently crept away into the night.

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It was after two in the morning, when John finally fell onto his bed in exhaustion. The Irish workers had been taken care of. They would get a meal and be able to sleep for a few hours, before Williams brought them to the mill in the morning. John prayed that it would be a while until the strikers realized what he had done.

They would not take his actions kindly, he knew, but there was no other way. The union seemed to have no intention of ending the strike anytime soon, and if he did not get production up and running again now, the consequences would be disastrous. The Irish were no skilled mill workers and they were weak from hunger and hardship, but they would have to do for now, it was better than nothing.

John sighed and tried to focus on something pleasant in order to calm down enough to allow him a few hours of sleep. However, the first thought that came to him, did anything but ease his mind.

It was a vision of Margaret Hale, as she had stood there before him tonight, in that tantalizing green dress, her eyes glowing so vibrantly, the beautiful dark curls of her hair crested with fine pearls.

She had greeted him warmly, smiled at him, as if she somehow, miraculously, had actually been pleased to see him there. The touch of her hand had been soft like a feather, while at the same time burning like a raging fire, that crept up his arm into his chest and then quickly moved lower inside his body.

It had taken every ounce of his self-control, to not pull her flush against him and passionately crash his lips down onto hers, right then and there, in the middle of the ball room. He had stood there, like a besotted fool, as he had heard himself ask her to dance, and when she had agreed, his heart had almost jumped out of his chest.

She had told him of her childhood home with such fondness that all he had been able to do was listen in awe. It had seemed to him, that this was the first time, he had ever seen her completely at ease around him and had silently prayed that this moment would last forever.

Even now, as he lay in his bed, he could feel every sensation of holding her, as he had moved them about the dance floor in wonder. Her one hand on his arm, her other held tightly in his, so soft and warm against his skin, as they had moved in perfect unison.

The entire scene once again replayed in his mind. He imagined what it would have been like, if he had moved the hand on her back just a little higher to touch her skin, bent his head a little lower and let his breath whisper against her lips, before slowly closing the distance between them.

John's breathing had become laboured, as he felt a familiar throbbing heat between his legs. He knew he should not be thinking of her in this way, but he could not help it. He turned around to lay on his stomach and his body acted on a primal need, he could not resist, as he started grinding his hips into the mattress in a slow rhythm.

His breathing quickened and his hands fisted his pillow tightly, the pressure steadily building inside him. He imagined the delicate curves of her body against his own, as he touched her and did the most sinful things to her. The stillness of the night was broken by the rustling of bed sheets and heavy panting, occasionally punctured by a breathless gasp, as he sped up his rhythm.

And then his mind shut off completely and John surrendered to the waves of pleasure crashing in on him, drowning him. He groaned into his pillow helplessly, as his body relieved itself in blissful agony.

When his breathing started to calm and the trembling stopped, he lay there, eyes tightly shut, as shame washed over him. What had he been reduced to? Some lewd animal, unable to control himself. Slowly he dragged himself out of bed to doff his now slightly wet night garments and clean himself up. He doubted that sleep would come to him tonight.