Chapter 11

Margaret was escorted back to Milton by Captain Lennox on the following Saturday, and was shocked to find that her mother's condition had declined dramatically in only a few short days. She knew that it would not be long now and prayed that Frederick had received her letter and would be able to make it to England safely and in time.

As low as her mother's spirits had sunken, Bessy was doing even worse.

Over the next few days, Margaret was commuting between two sickbeds. She tried to make Bessy eat and drink, with the help of her sister Mary, and would hold her hand and read to her, even if she was not sure Bessy heard her. The girl was so weak that she could barely keep her eyes open and her body was shaken with horrendous coughing fits, which reoccurred every few minutes.

And then, one morning, when Margaret arrived at her usual time, carrying her obligatory basked, she was greeted at the door by a pale and distraught Mary who had tears streaming down her face - and she knew.

Margaret had never seen a dead person before. Bessy lay completely still. She looked smaller, her features strangely sunken in. Her face was white, her small hands clasped together as if in prayer, her chest unmoving. Yet, somehow, she looked at peace. Margaret just stood and looked at her for a long time. Even though she had known that the day was near, being faced with the reality of death was something she had been unprepared for – as one always is.

It was the finality of it all that struck her most. Bessy would never open her eyes again, would never talk and laugh again, she would never again be Margaret's friend to confide in – her only true friend in Milton, who had helped her through so many hard times.

The door opened and Nicholas stepped in. When he saw his daughter, lying still on the bed, he slowly stepped closer, tears in his eyes. "Were ye with her?", he asked Margaret. She shook her head. "I'm sure it was peaceful", she whispered. "Look at her face, Nicholas. There is no more pain."

He sank down on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down his face now. "She was not supposed to go before me", he ground out. "Doesn't make sense. It's not the natural way of things. Ye sure she's dead? She's not in a faint? It's happened before?", he tried desperately, but Margaret shook her head. She felt completely calm now. "No, Nicholas. She's dead", she whispered.

This was when he broke down. He gathered his daughter's lifeless body in his arms and wept.

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Bessy was laid to rest two days later, early in the morning. She was buried at the old graveyard, overlooking the city, where Margaret had first met her. Few people attended the funeral. It was only Nicholas, Mary and Margaret, and four other people Margaret recognized as neighbours from Princeton.

As the plain wooden coffin was lowered down into the earth, Mary shook with sobs. Margaret stood silently, holding her by the shoulders. She felt numb inside.

She accompanied Nicholas and Mary home and made sure they ate something. She stayed with them for a while, before walking back to Crampton on her own. She had not felt this lonely since she had first come to Milton and she knew that it would not take long for her mother to follow Bessy. How was Margaret going to survive?

It was almost dark outside, when she left the house again in the late afternoon. She had tried helping Dixon with some housework, but had found that she could not stay inside. She felt restless, unable to clear her head, so she grabbed her coat and bonnet and informed her father that she was going out for another walk.

Her feet carried her through the streets of Milton, but she barely realized where she was going, until she was at the graveyard once again, magically drawn back to the place where they had said goodbye to Bessy earlier in the day.

The grave had been closed now, with nothing but a patch of brown soil remaining. There was a small wooden cross with Bessy's name on it.

Margaret did not know how long she had stood there. The sun had gone down a while ago and the air felt uncommonly cool, considering that it was the end of May. Margaret felt the first drops of rain on her face, but she did not move. A cool breeze hit her skin, stinging as it dried her hot tears, which had mingled with the rain. Margaret shivered. She should get home so as to not catch a cold out here, but she was rooted to the spot.

It was only when she heard a small sound behind her that she was raised from her gloomy thoughts. She spun around and saw a dark figure standing under a nearby tree, watching her, and even though it was already rather dark, she knew instinctively who it was.

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John had never been in the habit of visiting his family's grave very often. He sometimes went months without coming here even once. However, since he had found himself up here in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, after having been rejected by the woman he loved, he had found himself returning on some of his many sleepless nights.

Since the strike, business at the mill had not picked up as it should have. Things were going very slow and he had barely slept a wink these past weeks. He had even gone down to London at Mr. Latimer's suggestion in hopes of securing investors. This had been to no avail and the journey had been nothing but further expense.

It had been a terrible idea to go there and it had been just his luck that at this enormous exhibition with thousands of visitors he had managed to run into none other than Margaret Hale. And not only her, but her entire family, including that obnoxious Lennox fellow, she had referred to by his first name. John had rarely ever met a less agreeable man and Lennox had made sure John felt all of his arrogance and mockery full force.

Well, it did not matter, John told himself. He was used to it. Used to being looked down upon as something dirty beneath the soles of their feet. He might have managed to drag himself up to his current status, but he was aware that in his heart, he would never be anything but the workhouse kid. It was in his blood, even if most people were unaware of it from the looks of him. Not that Margaret Hale would ever know about any of it. She had made her decision and had made it clear that he would never be good enough for her.

John drew a shaky breath and straightened up as he walked back down towards Milton determinedly, just as the first drops of rain started to fall. He would get through this pain, he had to. And if it meant that he would never eat or sleep again and work himself to death, so be it. It was not like he had anything left to lose.

As he passed another row of headstones, he saw the figure of a young woman standing some feet away, beside the path. He slowed his steps and looked over at her. She seemed oddly familiar.

What was a woman doing out here at this time in the rain? She had to be freezing. Out of instinct, he stopped near her, trying to ensure that she was alright. It was just then that she turned and John felt all of his breath leave his body. It was Margaret Hale.

'Dear Lord, why do you keep punishing me?' For a moment he considered making a quick exit before she realized it was him, but he knew it was too late. He would have to face her now and he was not ready for it.

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For a moment they just stood there in the rain, looking at each other, neither of them daring to move. Margaret felt herself shiver, as her hands came up to her upper arms involuntarily in a futile attempt to warm herself.

Her movement seemed to awaken him from his daze and he stepped closer. "Miss Hale." " ", she whispered, averting her eyes. He could see streaks of wetness on her cheeks. Had she been crying? John felt a pang of concern. He did not know what to say to her, so he did the first thing that came to his mind. He drew out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out to her in silence.

Margaret looked at his outstretched hand for a moment, before she took the handkerchief with trembling fingers and started dabbing at her eyes in an awkward manner. "T-thank you", she breathed, still shivering from the cold and the rain.

He took another step towards her and wordlessly shrugged out of his coat. She stared, open-mouthed, as he pulled his arms from the sleeves, exposing his white cotton shirt and dark vest underneath and before she could form a coherent thought, he had stepped behind her and she felt the heavy garment drop over her, engulfing her small frame.

She was hit by warmth – his warmth – and a smell she had come to associate with him. For a second, his hands lingered on her shoulders and she stiffened, then he pulled them back, leaving her lightheaded.

"Miss Hale, you are shaking. What are you doing out here in the rain?" His voice was soft, full of concern. He was still standing very close, and for a moment Margaret had to fight a strange urge to close the distance between them and lean into him.

What would it feel like to bury her face in his strong chest and seek comfort in his arms? 'What am I thinking?!' Margaret shook off the thought and grabbed the lapels of his coat, pulling it tighter around herself. It was so big that it almost came down to her knees.

"M-my friend – Bessy Higgins", she stammered weakly, unable to stop the tears from choking her voice. "She is dead. She was buried today." He looked down at the fresh patch of brown soil at their feet and then slowly up into her eyes, his expression one of honest sympathy.

"I am very sorry for your loss", he said quietly. "She-she used to work at Marlborough Mills", she told him. "Although I doubt you would have known her. She was too sick to work these past few months. Brown lung." She heard him release a small breath and quickly added: "Her father took her to your mill, because of the wheel. She had worked at Hamper's before."

"She was young?", he asked. "Not yet nineteen." She saw him shake his head to himself, sadly. "God rest her soul, poor girl", he murmured and Margaret felt a wave of gratitude surge through her at his words.

It seemed like the wall he had built around himself after the day of his proposal had crumbled for a moment, and once again his words made her feel like he genuinely cared. Now, after having missed this feeling, the return of it struck her even more. How could she ever have thought him to be heartless?

"What are you doing here at this hour, Mr. Thornton?", she asked, reaching for something – anything – to break the silence. He hesitated for a moment before he replied: "I've just been walking." She watched him as his somewhat detached gaze wandered over the headstones in front of them. "Do you have family buried here?", she inquired, suddenly wondering. He nodded, not looking at her. "Your parents?" Another nod.

Margaret fought against the lump forming in her throat. Standing here, in the rain, she suddenly felt like sharing something with him – something, she had not spoken about with anyone.

"My mother is dying", she whispered. "Father does not know. He – he knows she is very sick, but we have not yet told him how bad it really is. I think he knows in his heart, but he is not ready to face the truth." It felt as if a huge weight had just been lifted off her mind at having finally voiced these feelings out loud. It was as if a dam had broken and everything came tumbling out at once.

"I don't know how I will be able to cope. I am so afraid of losing her", she confessed in tears. "I have just lost the one friend I had in this place and now I will lose her as well."

She saw Mr. Thornton lift his hand, as if to reach out to her, but he paused, thinking better of it and let it drop back to his side. She searched his face and found nothing but compassion there, as his eyes bore into hers. "I had feared that Mrs. Hale was very ill", he said softly. "I know what it is like to lose a loved one, Miss Hale. Please tell me if there is ever anything I can assist you with."

Margaret gave a choked sob. She could barely believe his words. After everything she had said and done to him, after she had insulted him to his face and pushed him away – here he was, once again, taking care of her, as he had done so many times before. What had she ever done to deserve his benevolence?

Without thinking, she reached out to him, tenderly placing her hand on his upper arm. She felt him flinch under her touch, as his eyes darted to her hand, but she did not pull back. She could feel his warmth underneath the thin layer of his shirt, somewhat wet from the rain, and it almost felt as though she were touching his bare skin.

Margaret's breath hitched, as she felt an unfamiliar feeling surge through her body, settling somewhere low in the pit of her stomach. There was something dark and forbidden in touching a man in this way and she was glad that no one was near to see them, for she knew it would have damaged her reputation infinitely.

His eyes slowly lifted from her hand on his arm and found hers. "Mr. Thornton I – " But she had run out of words.

"Miss Hale, it is late and you are cold. You should get home before you catch your death out here", he said in a low voice and slowly took a step back, causing her hand to drop from his arm. "I cannot walk with you, as you must not be seen with me, unchaperoned. But if you will allow me, I will walk behind you at a safe distance, to make sure you get home safely."

Margaret swallowed hard and nodded, still trying to catch herself and make sense of those peculiar feelings his closeness had evoked in her. "I thank you, Mr. Thornton. That would be very kind of you."

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Margaret slowly made her way along the darkened streets, still wrapped tightly in Mr. Thornton's coat. Every now and then she glanced back over her shoulder to see him walk behind her, occasionally stopping briefly to let the distance between them grow, but never letting her out of his sight.

It gave her an odd sense of comfort that he was there, looking out for her. The rain was pouring now and Margaret was growing increasingly concerned about the fact, that he was walking only in his shirtsleeves. He had been so determined to make sure she would not catch a cold, but what about him? She could not bear the thought of him falling ill because of her.

After what seemed like an eternity, she reached their house at Crampton and walked up the steps to the front door. She turned around to see him standing at a distance, watching her. Quickly looking around to make sure no one was there, she motioned with her hand for him to come to her. He paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder, before quickly walking over, stopping at the bottom of the steps to look up at her.

"Mr. Thornton, please do come in", she implored him. "You must be soaked to the bone. Please, take a moment to get dry and warm, for I could not live with myself if you caught a cold on my account." He hesitated, but she had opened the door and was waiting for him, so he followed her wordlessly.

As she closed the door behind them in the dimly lit hallway, she noticed how close they were standing. He was not wearing a hat and his dark hair was dripping, sticking to his forehead. His shirtsleeves were sheer from the rain and she quickly averted her eyes, swallowing.

"Please, come upstairs into the sitting room. There is a fire and I will call for some tea, you must be freezing." The concern in her voice touched something inside him, throwing his emotions into turmoil. Neither of them spoke as he followed her upstairs.

Mr. Hale was in the sitting room, reading a book when she entered. He looked up, surprised at the sight of them. "Papa, Mr. Thornton is here. I was walking when it started to rain and he made sure I got home safely." She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, as she realized that she was still wearing his coat and quickly took it off, turning and handing it to him.

"Oh John, it is certainly good to see you", Mr. Hale smiled, raising himself from his chair and reaching out his hand to greet the younger man. "You do look a sight, my friend, it must be pouring out there." "I do not wish to cause inconvenience, I will be on my way", Thornton started quickly, but Mr. Hale hushed him. "There is no way I am letting you go out there in this weather. Margaret, take Mr. Thornton's coat to the kitchen to dry. John, please sit here by the fire. I am glad to see you, I have missed our conversations."

Margaret took Mr. Thornton's coat out of his hands and quickly descended the stairs into the kitchen. She carefully hung the garment close to the big fireplace and instructed Dixon to start making tea. Then she rushed up to her room in a hurry, quickly doffing her bonnet and wet coat and putting on some dry clothes.

She briefly checked her hair in the mirror, before practically flying back down to the sitting room, just as Dixon was putting a tray with tea and biscuits on the small side table. "I will prepare the tea, Dixon."

As Margaret poured a cup for Mr. Thornton, she impulsively reached for the flask of cognac her father kept on the side table and put a dash of it into his cup before handing it to him. As he took a sip, she saw him flinch at the taste and look up at her in surprise. "I'm sorry. I was hoping it would help you to get warm quicker", she confessed uncertainly. He gave her a small smile. "I thank you, that is very considerate."

Mr. Hale inquired about Marlborough Mills and the two men entered into a conversation about strikes and economy. Margaret sat quietly, clasping her cup tightly in her hands, as the clock on the mantlepiece was ticking away, turning seconds into minutes and minutes into an hour.

She listened to their conversation, but her mind did not grasp the words they spoke. Instead, she let the murmur of their voices wash over her, comforting her as both her limbs and eyelids started becoming heavier while she felt the warmth from the fireplace soak into her.

John watched her out of the corner of his eye, as her eyelids started to droop and her chin slowly came to rest on her chest. The cup of tea she was still holding clattered dangerously in her hands and he quickly jumped up and practically darted across the room, to grab it and keep it from spilling its hot contents over her dress.

Margaret's head shot up, as she was startled awake by something warm touching her hand and found herself face to face with Mr. Thornton. She blinked at him in confusion. "Careful there", he murmured in a low voice, slowly taking the cup from her and placing it on the table. The skin of her hands tingled where he had touched it.

"I should go", she heard him say to her father. "Miss Hale is tired and it seems like the rain is easing up a little." "Do come again, John", Mr. Hale begged. "You know how much I enjoy your company and I'm sure a little bit of Plato would help take your mind off things at the mill for a few hours."

Thornton did not reply, instead, he looked over at Margaret, who felt herself blush, for she knew that she was the reason he had stayed away. "Indeed, Mr. Thornton, you are most welcome here anytime", she was quick to tell him, trying to convey through her voice and eyes that she was indeed in earnest about her words. He nodded slowly. "Very well, I shall try to find some time."

As he shook Mr. Hale's hand and turned to leave, Margaret jumped out of her chair. "I will see you to the door. Your coat is still in the kitchen."

She followed him downstairs and he waited in the hallway, as she went to get his coat. She was glad to find it warm and dry from the fire and as he slipped into it, she was strangely aware of his every movement.

"Mr. Thornton-" He turned to look at her. Margaret swallowed. There was so much she wanted to tell him. She wanted to apologize for the things she had said to him that day when he had proposed to her. She wanted to apologize for Henry Lennox's and her aunt's behaviour at the great exhibition, she wanted to tell him that she did consider him a gentleman, that he was likely the most honourable man she had ever met. But the words got stuck in her throat.

"Take care, Mr. Thornton", she eventually whispered. He nodded his head at her with an earnest expression on his face. "Good night, Miss Hale."

After the door had closed behind him, Margaret drew a shuddering breath, bringing her hand up to press against the cool wooden panel of the door. It took her a minute to regain her composure. She could not fathom what had thrown her so off-balance, she only knew that something felt different. As if he had roused something deep within her, that had not been there before. It confused and unsettled her, but at the same time, it felt warm and somehow consoling.

As Margaret lay in her bed that night, sleep would not come to her easily. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw him standing there in front of her, in his wet shirtsleeves, with droplets of water trickling down his face.

And even though she knew that it was wrong - even though she knew that, come morning, she would deeply regret ever having allowed her thoughts to stray into this confusing direction, she could not help but wonder what would have happened, had she dared to close the distance between them.

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NOTES:

I hope you enjoyed that little bit of sweetness between Margaret and John. If I did not know any better, I would suspect that she is finally falling for him. I do advise you to revel in it while you can, for there is still some hardship waiting for these two down the way ;)