I was planning to update on Wednesday, but to hell with it, you can have it a day early, I suppose ;)

! WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER !

There is a slightly graphic description of self-harm and blood in the last segment of this chapter.

This may be triggering to some people.

The scene serves to give an in-debth insight into the mental state of one of the characters, however, it does not do much to advance the plot and therefore it's not necessary to read it. You will have no trouble following the story without it.

I have put another "Trigger Warning" inside the story, right before the segment, so if you wish to avoid it, you can safely read until that point.

Chapter 12

On the next evening, Margaret was sitting with her mother, as she had made her custom these past few weeks. Mrs. Hale was but a shadow of her old self, as she lay against her pillows weakly, her face white as a sheet.

It was then that the doorbell rang, rudely tearing Margaret out of her thoughts. Who could be visiting at this hour? Careful not to rouse her sleeping mother, she rose and descended the stairs.

Outside stood a dark figure, hidden in the shadows of the night. "Is Mr Hale in?", he asked with a voice that sounded distantly familiar. Then he stepped closer and Margaret let out a sob as she threw herself at him.

It was Frederick. He had indeed made it to England. She pulled him inside, quickly closing the door behind them, before once again clinging to him for dear life. It had been years since she had seen her brother – in fact, she had often felt sure she never would again.

"Mother?", he inquired after a while. "She is alive. She is as ill as she could be, but she lives", she whispered. "Margaret? Did I hear the door?" It was Mr Hale, who was coming down from his study. When his gaze fell on Fred, he froze – he stood completely petrified for a minute. Then the tears came as he wrapped his son into his arms in utter disbelief.

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The three of them sat in the sitting room for the greater part of the night, talking. Since it was after midnight and Mrs. Hale had fallen asleep, they had decided to wait until morning to send Fred to her and they had many things to catch up on.

Fred told them about his life in Spain, where he had a very good position and was engaged to a wonderful girl named Dolores whom, he assured Margaret, she would love dearly if she only knew her. It made her incredibly happy that he had built a good life for himself, but at the same time, she felt a dull ache at the fact that their lives would forever be separate.

His being here in England was a huge risk, she knew. He could not stay long and they had to be very careful, for if he was caught, he was sure to be hanged. It was almost daybreak when the three of them finally retired to their bedrooms for a few hours of sleep.

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Mrs. Hale's dying wish had been granted, and as she sat there the next day, holding her son's hand in her own, gazing at him for hours, listening to his voice as he told her of his life, she knew that she could now go in peace.

Both Margaret and Fred spent the greater part of the day in their mother's room, and it was only late in the evening when the older woman had finally fallen asleep, that the two of them sat together by the fireplace and once again talked of their lives.

"Mr. Thornton has sent a basket of fruit over today", Dixon mentioned to them as she was serving tea. "I will bring it up to the mistress's room in the morning." "Thank you, Dixon", Margaret said with a smile. "Who is Mr. Thornton?", Fred asked her. "He is a friend. He sometimes comes over to read with Papa." Fred raised an eyebrow at that. "He is one of those tradesmen papa associates with now?" "He is a manufacturer", she corrected him.

Her brother gave a shrug. "Tradesman, manufacturer, it's all the same. What did father mean by coming all this way and placing you in the company of these people?" "No!" she blurted out sharper than she had intended. He looked at her, baffled.

"Do not speak of him in this way, Fred. He has been very good to us. He may be in trade, but he is refined and very well-read. He is honourable and kind and he possesses all the qualities of a true gentleman." Her brother shot her an inquisitive look. "You know him well, Margaret? If I did not know any better, I would say you appear quite smitten with him." Margaret felt as if her entire face had been set aflame by his words, and she quickly averted her gaze.

"I – well – I mean – he has been a good friend to father", she stammered. "It has been hard for papa to meet new people here, apart from his pupils, and there are not many here who take a genuine interest in our lives, and you know how much Papa loves to socialize, and they have been reading Plato and Aristotle, and…"

"Margaret!", Fred laughed out loud, grabbing her hands in his and giving them an affectionate squeeze. "Dear girl, are you in love with this man? I swear I have never seen you this agitated. You are stammering and your face is red as a beetroot." She looked up at him, mortified. "Stop it, Fred, it's not like that!", she exclaimed in annoyance, pulling her hands from his and jumping up from her chair.

As she started pacing the room frantically, Fred did his best to force his face into an earnest expression, although he was unable to remove the little twinkle from his eyes completely.

"I'm sorry, Margaret. I did not mean to upset you. If you like this man-"

"I don't! Not in the way you are implying!", she interrupted hastily, but he continued:

"-then I am happy for you, no matter whether he is a manufacturer or a gentleman. Who am I to criticize?"

His expression changed and he looked beat down all of a sudden. "I have neglected you and mother all these years", he said quietly. "You don't know how much it pains me not to be able to thank those who have been kind to you. That your life and mine must always be separate unless I run the risk of court-martial."

Margaret sighed and sat down next to him again, gently grasping his hand. "How I wish you could stay, Fred", she whispered. "I cannot bear to watch you leave again." He wrapped her in his arms and held her tight. If it was only for a few moments, before their paths would part again and they were both determined to make the most of it.

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Two days later Mrs. Hale closed her eyes forever. She was surrounded by her loved ones, both her children sitting by her side, each holding one of her hands and her beloved husband and faithful Dixon standing by the bed. It was peaceful, and yet – it was devastating.

Losing a parent was something so radical, an abrupt end to something one had taken for granted. Margaret could barely cry in those first few days, she just felt numb. Fred on the other hand let his tears fall frequently, while Mr. Hale seemed in a daze, sitting by his wife's side, talking to her for hours, as though she was still alive.

To make matters worse, Dixon came home that evening with dreadful news. When she had been out on the street, shopping for groceries, she had encountered a man she had hoped to never see again. His name was Leonards and he was an acquaintance from Helstone. The son of a respectable man, Leonards had gone astray at a young age, associating with the wrong crowd, getting into gambling and drinking.

Leonards knew the Hales, and he knew about Frederick and the mutiny. As he had met Dixon in the street, he had enquired about the family, had even mentioned Fred by name. He had also told her that he was now permanently residing in Milton, as he was engaged to a young servant in one of the grand houses here.

This news was alarming indeed. It would not do to have someone roaming these streets who knew about the mutiny and was surely constantly in need of money for booze and other flamboyance, and who, they knew, was not honourable in the slightest, and so Margaret, Fred and Mr. Hale were sitting together, discussing their options.

In the end, it was decided that it was best for Fred to leave immediately, before the funeral. "It is so frustrating to not be able to defend myself. I can't send out the town crier, I can't commission a pamphlet, even if anyone would bother to read it", the young man ground out in frustration as he kept pacing the room nervously.

"What about a lawyer?", Margaret interrupted, halting her brother in his tracks. "I know a lawyer who is honourable and clever, I think. I'm sure he would, if we asked. Henry Lennox, father." "Henry Lennox – is that Edith's brother in law?", Fred asked. Mr. Hale sat up straighter in his chair fixing both his children with his earnest gaze. "Do what you like, write to Henry if must but do not keep Frederick in England." He was right of course.

Frederick would take the train to London the following evening. He would seek out Henry Lennox and discuss his options, before taking the ship back to Spain from there.

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On the following evening, after dark, Fred hugged his father and Dixon goodbye and tearfully pressed a last kiss to the cold and white forehead of his mother, whose body was still resting in her bed, waiting to be taken away the following morning for the funeral.

Margaret had decided to accompany Fred to Outward station, as it was but a fifteen-minute walk from Crampton. They walked in silence, arm in arm, neither of them knowing what to say in their grief. Fred purchased a train ticket and they waited together. The train was due to leave Milton at eleven o clock at night. As they stood on the platform, Margaret brushed her shawl back from where it had covered her hair and looked up at her beloved brother with unshed tears in her eyes.

"Only a few minutes more", Fred croaked. "I don't know when I will see you again." She released a shaky breath and threw her arms around him, clinging to him in despair and he returned her embrace with just as much passion. Margaret closed her eyes, trying to memorize everything about this moment, so she could cherish it forever.

When she opened them again, she froze. Still wrapped in Fred's arms, she could see the figure of a man nearby, standing underneath a lamppost, which illuminated him just enough to leave her in no doubt as to his identity. It was none other than Mr. Thornton, and he was looking straight at her, the expression on his face one of shock and utter disbelief.

Margaret stopped breathing, very aware of what the two of them must look like to anyone on the outside. Fred felt her body stiffen and released her to turn around. For a second the two men stared at each other, then Thornton spun around on his heels and disappeared into the dark.

"Who was that?", Fred whispered anxiously. "Mr. Thornton", Margaret breathed in anguish. "What a scowl that man has. A very disagreeable fellow, I'm sure", Fred murmured. She felt a hot tear roll down her cheek. "As with most men something has happened to make him scowl, Fred. Don't judge him harshly."

It was time. Fred quickly bowed down to pick up his bag and walk towards the next train compartment. "I'll write soon", he told her.

"Hale?!" They both spun around. A man was walking towards them, staggering, obviously inebriated. "It is you, isn't it? And look at you! I thought I recognized ya!" As he was drawing closer, they caught a look at his face. It was none other than Leonards. Margaret jumped back, gasping. She felt panic rise in her quickly, almost choking her.

One second later Leonards closed in on them, grabbing Fred by his upper arms. There was a struggle, as Fred tried to shake him off. Margaret heard herself scream in fear and then, one second later, it was over. Fred gave Leonards a powerful shove and the drunk man stumbled backwards, falling down the steps of the nearby underpass which was leading down from the platform. It was that very moment that the train gave a whistle, signalling its departure.

"You must go now, Fred! GO!", Margaret yelled. There was no more time. Quickly he grabbed his bag once again and jumped into the nearest compartment. He held his hand out of the open window to grab hers. "God bless you, Margaret", he whispered painfully, before leaning out further to give her a quick peck on the lips.

And then the train started to move. She watched his face disappear in a cloud of smoke, and she just stood there, broken, tears streaming down her face and her heart still hammering painfully in her chest from the panic caused by the encounter with Leonards.

As if not enough bad things had happened as of late, this evening had taken the most dreadful turn, imaginable. Leonards knew it had been Fred. What if he went to the police? What if they issued a warrant and Fred was captured before he was able to leave England? Dear God, he should never have come. It had not been worth the risk.

And then there was Mr Thornton, and he had recognized her. He knew she had been out after dark, embracing a stranger and from his perspective, without knowing she even had a brother, there was little room for imagination as to the nature of their relationship.

After all the things he had forgiven her in the past, Margaret knew for certain, that this marked the definitive end of his regard for her, and she had not imagined that this prospect could hurt so terribly.

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Once more he walked in the dark, only this time he walked so fast, he was almost running. His breathing was laboured from his pace, his heart was racing in his chest and his body felt completely numb.

He raced down the street, past Crampton, crossed the market square, turned left and then right onto the main road and then went further down for another mile until he reached Marlborough Street.

Everything was silent, as it was almost midnight and only the occasional street lantern cast orange spots into the darkness. He unlocked the green wooden gates and strode across the yard towards his office, slamming the door shut behind him.

He shrugged off his coat in the darkness and, with trembling fingers, lit the small oil lamp on his desk and then…he just stood there, breathing heavily.

He felt as though he was in a state of shock. He wanted to scream, but no sound came. His forehead felt sticky with perspiration, his shirt clung to his body.

It could not have been her. It simply was not possible. His mind had been playing tricks on him. But it had been her and he knew it. The woman at the station had been Margaret Hale…Margaret Hale, tightly embraced in the arms of a stranger.

John felt as though everything he had held dear had been ripped from him for good, leaving him with absolutely nothing but the blank darkness inside him. She had a lover. A man who held her, who kissed her, who spoke sweet endearments to her. A man she looked at in a way she would never look at John.

He had known she did not love him, she had made that clear enough. And yet – the other night at the graveyard, the way she had touched his arm, how she had looked at him through her tears and how she had taken care that he got warm and dry later at her father's house, all of it had been a balm for his soul.

He knew that he dared not hope. That it was a mistake, but his heart had not listened. Even though he had known that she would never care for him enough to accept his offer, he had tried to persuade himself into believing that there was some sort of connection between them. A friendship maybe, or some tender feeling – if not love, then at least a fondness. Something that could get him through the night, when it all became too much to bear. A flicker of hope that she was somewhere out there, out of reach, but at least not out of sight.

Now, she was irretrievably gone. Her heart belonged to another and John was destined to remain alone forever.

He did not know how long he had stood there in his stupor. He realized that he did not even feel angry. He felt nothing at all, almost as though he had been drugged, perceiving everything around him through a strange haze that was clouding his mind, and he could not endure it. He needed to feel something. Anything.

Acting on some very bizarre notion, he stepped closer to his desk and reached for the empty glass that was sitting there, next to a flask of brandy he kept there for business acquaintances. He gripped it tightly, drew back his arm and then – with all the strength he had in him – he lunged his hand at the wall, without letting go. There was a loud sound of shattering glass and a jolt of pain, which shot up his arm.

John gasped, momentarily stunned as something warm started trickling down his lower arm, staining his shirtsleeve brightly red. Shards of glass fell to the floor. He grimaced and slowly lifted his shaking hand to look at it. There was a crisscross of gashes running almost all the way across his palm, oozing blood, some splinters of glass sticking out of the wound.

"Blast!", he muttered under his breath.

Gritting his teeth, he used the thumb and forefinger of his left hand to pull out the remaining splinters. It made the bleeding worse. A handkerchief would not do this time. Clutching his hand to his chest (and bleeding all over the front of his shirt in the process), he made his way out of the office and down some steps, through the carding room to the landing with cotton waste.

Feeling slightly dizzy, he picked up some pieces of raw cotton and wadded them into a small ball. His right hand still pressed to his chest, he ran back up into his office, took the flask of brandy and poured a good amount over the makeshift cotton wad, before pressing it to his palm. John almost screamed in pain as the alcohol burned in his wound.

Well, at least he felt something now, he thought bitterly.

Finally, he took out his handkerchief and wrapped it around his injured hand, securing the cotton wad in place as he used his left hand and teeth to tie a knot. He slid to the floor and just sat there, his back against the wall; eyes closed.

"Blast!", he ground out once more. His hand truly did hurt like hell. He probably would have to see Doctor Donaldson in the morning and let him have a look at it. He could not afford to get an infection now, he had work to do at the mill.

In fact, that was what he would do. That was what had always gotten him through everything: work. If it would help him keep his mind off her, he would work day and night without rest – to his death if he must. Anything to stop this unbearable pain inside him.

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NOTES:

Before you say anything - yes, I know, I took it out on John once more *hides behind chair*. But let's be honest, in order for hurt/comfort stuff to work, there needs to be pain first.

We're building up towards something bigger here ;)

We are about halfway through the story at this point, and I want to thank all of you, who have stuck with it so far and have been so supportive. Feedback of any kind is always welcome!