Once again (because I cannot say it often enough): Thank you to everyone who took the time to review and comment. I truly appreciate all of it!

As you have probably noticed, I'm burning this thing in the slowest way possible, for maximum effect ;) I know this can be frustrating sometimes, especially when there is waiting time in between uploads.

Since the editing progress is coming along nicely, I will try to move this forward as quickly as possible by attempting to update three times a week, instead of two. (I can't promise that I will be able to make it every time, as life is busy, but I'll try my best.)

Without wanting to give too much away, but since some of you have been wondering: There will come a point in this story where we'll stray almost completely from the original plot, and yes, there will be romantic scenes in there, both of the emotional and the physical kind, and the latter will be rather detailed and explicit (hence the rating of the story).

I do like putting the characters through some tough sh**, but I'm not heartless enough to let them go without a proper reward somewhere down the line ;)

Chapter 13

In the early afternoon of the following day, Maria Hale was laid to rest at the graveyard overlooking the city.

Even though it was not usually the custom for women to attend a funeral, Margaret had begged her father to let her come and he had not had the heart to decline her wish.

Margaret wore a plain, black mourning dress and a veil of the same colour, as she took her seat near her father and Mr. Bell in the small church.

It was a rather small funeral party, the Hale's had not been close to many families in Milton. Some of her father's pupils had come. They had not known her mother personally, but seemed to consider it their christian duty to show their regard to their teacher.

Margaret was filled with sadness at the thought that so few people had come. "If we had been in Helstone Chapel, it would have been full of mother's friends", she whispered to Mr. Bell. He nodded at her earnestly. "Yes, but – look."

He turned his head slightly, glancing back over his shoulder, and Margaret followed his gaze to find Nicholas and Mary Higgins sitting in one of the back rows. They were wearing their best clothes, which were still very plain and certainly not new, but she could tell they had done their utmost to look presentable and her heart warmed in her chest at the thought of them coming to pay their respects.

It reminded her that, even though they did not have many friends in Milton, the ones they had were true, which was more than could be said for many of their acquaintances in the south.

The service was brief but respectfully conducted, and as they exited the church to follow the coffin up the hill, their faces were warmed by sunbeams that fell through the leaves of the nearby trees, glistening like countless diamonds. It was a beautiful day, Margaret thought as she silently took her father's arm, leading the small group of mourners along the stony path.

The coffin was lowered into the earth, and Margaret felt as though a part of her was buried with it. She pondered briefly that Milton was quite certainly the very last place on earth her mother would have chosen as her final resting place. She had despised the dusty manufacturing town, and the smoky air had done nothing to improve her health.

But what was done, was done, and Margaret knew that she was long past regretting their move to Milton. As their time here drew close to a full year, the ways of the north had somehow, miraculously become second nature to her, a fact that had become clear to Margaret recently, after her visit to aunt Shaw in London.

It had been the scene of two men standing opposite each other, one of them being Henry Lennox, the other being John Thornton, that she had realized where her loyalties truly lay. That she would choose the hard-working and honest ways of the one over the idle and almost arrogant ones of the other any time. It had been an eye-opener – one that, she feared, had come a bit too late.

It was then, just as she was standing there at her mother's grave, contemplating these thoughts, that she saw him.

He stood a little further away from the rest of them, wearing a black coat and matching hat and tie, observing them from a distance. Why he had not joined them at the grave, Margaret was not sure. She feared that it might have had something to do with her and the events of the past evening and felt a pang of despair at the thought of it. She wished she could have explained everything to him, but knew that she could not.

Fred was not safe yet. She prayed that he had made it to London and would make it out of the country without any further interruption. But there was no way she could expose him to anyone, not even Mr. Thornton, even if she was sure he could be trusted, being a close friend to her father.

While the last prayer was spoken, Margaret found that she could not tear her gaze away from him. And then he lifted his head and for a brief moment, his eyes met hers. His expression was unreadable, but he gave her a slight nod, which she returned with a flutter in her chest.

Before the prayer ended, he turned and walked away. He did not walk back down towards Milton, but instead turned in the other direction and ascended the path upward, until he disappeared from her sight beyond the crest of the hill.

Her eyes followed him curiously until she could no longer see him, and when the last words of the vicar had ended and the people started walking away, she told Mr. Bell and her father that she needed a moment alone and would be with them soon.

She watched as the others made their way back down towards the chapel. Then she turned and followed the path Mr. Thornton had taken. When she reached the top of the hill, she saw him. He stood at the far side of the graveyard, his head lowered, looking down at a small wooden cross, marking a grave. Margaret quickly stepped behind a big oak tree beside the path, out of his sight.

She felt a slight pang of guilt at observing him like this without his knowledge, but she could not look away. There was something oddly lonely about him, as he stood there all by himself, and with the pain of her own mother's loss so fresh in her heart, Margaret could only begin to imagine what he had gone through, not only losing one parent, but both at a young age.

He only stood there for a few minutes, before he turned and started walking back. Margaret held her breath as he passed her, even though she was sure he would not notice her.

As he was walking by, she saw him lift his right hand and briefly rake it through his hair absentmindedly, in a manner she had never seen from him before. Maybe it was because he felt himself unobserved, but the small gesture almost gave him an air of boyish vulnerability, which tugged at her heartstrings.

Was this what he looked like when he was all on his own? When he was not the hardened mill master, commanding his workers, or the sophisticated businessman, enlightening others on the economics of cotton manufacturing?

As his hand dropped from his hair, she noticed a white bandage wrapped around it and briefly wondered what had happened to him? Had he been hurt at the mill? Maybe one of the machines? She hoped it was nothing serious.

She looked after him until she could no longer see him, and then Margaret stood there, indecisively. She knew that she should not keep her father and Mr. Bell waiting any longer, but she could not bring herself to walk back yet. Feeling drawn to the far side of the graveyard where Mr. Thornton had stood moments before, Margaret gave in to her impulse and made her way over to the gravesite as quickly as her legs would carry her.

As she reached the place, she stood there for a moment, looking down at a bare patch of soil. There were no flowers, nor anything green. A small cross held some withered names and dates, and Margaret had to bend closer and narrow her eyes to be able to read what was written there:

George Thornton

1792 – 1831

Hannah Thornton

1794 – 1832

Fanny Thornton

1827 – 1832

His parents had been dead for about twenty years, she realized in shock.

He had mentioned that he had been young when they had passed, but considering that Mr. Thornton could not be much older than thirty years, that would have made him about ten, maybe eleven when he had lost his family. That was too young for a boy to take care of himself. Had there been any relatives who had taken him in?

Margaret's gaze came to rest on the last name:

Fanny Thornton.

A girl, who had died at only five years old.

Suddenly a memory came back to her. On the day of the riot, as he had lain there only half-conscious, he had called out that name. At the time Margaret had thought that she must have been a lover, but she remembered it all now: "Pease let me go to Fanny. She needs me. Don't – don't take her away. She's all I have left. P-please."

She had been his sister. Dear God, what he must have gone through. She thought of Fred and her love and fear for him. She knew she would not be able to bear it if anything were to happen to him. And to have a younger sibling ripped away from you at such a tender age…she could not even begin to imagine his anguish.

"Margaret?" She spun around and saw Mr. Bell walking toward her. "I have been looking for you, my dear. Are you alright?" Quickly she walked over to him. "I'm sorry Mr Bell, I was so deep in thought, I had forgotten the time. Is father still waiting?"

Bell threw a curious glance at the grave behind her and furrowed his brow. "Were you looking for anything in particular?" "N-no. I – I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Bell. I am here now. Let's make sure my father gets home, he must be exhausted." Bell nodded gravely and they started making their way back down the path towards Milton.

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On the next morning, Margaret sat in Mrs. Hale's old bedroom with an array of old clothes spread out around her. With tender fingers, she put some of them into a box, now and then letting her fingers stroke lovingly over the material. Most of them would be donated to people in need – there were enough of those here in Milton, and what good would it do to keep those old clothes which did not fit her? She would keep one or two pieces she held dear, maybe a shawl or two.

It was harder than she had thought. They were only clothes, but giving them away felt so final to her. Like she was once again letting go of a small part of her mother, that would never return.

She turned as she heard Dixon enter the room.

"Excuse me, Miss. It's a police inspector."

Margaret could only stare at her as her heart almost stopped in her chest. A police inspector…what could he want here? Surely it couldn't have anything to do with Fred, could it?

"I told him to go away but I don't want to disturb the master", Dixon said with a tinge of worry in her voice. "Did he say what he wanted?", Margaret asked to which Dixon shook her head. "No, Miss. I've let him in and showed him to the master's study. But it's you he wants to see."

Margaret felt real fear rise in her, as she made her way down the stairs to her father's study to face the man.

He was young, not much older than herself, she believed. He was a tiny fellow, with his hair combed back out of his forehead, and as she entered, he gave a small and polite bow.

"I beg your pardon, mam, especially at such a time", he said. "My duty obliges me to ask you a few plain questions. A man has died at the infirmary following a fall, we think, after a fight at Outward station between the hours of eleven and twelve at night on Thursday the 26th. At the time the fight didn't appear to be of consequence. The doctors think the man had a bad drinking habit and some internal complaint. There will have to be an inquest."

He looked down at his notebook where he had scribbled down something. "The witness, a grocer's assistant, stated that the fight was precipitated by some drunken impertinence to a young lady who was walking with a man at the station."

He lifted his eyes from his notebook and looked directly at Margaret.

"There is some reason to believe that that young lady might be you, ma'am."

That was it. That was the end. They would find out about Fred. Margaret could not be sure that he was already safely out of the country and it would probably be weeks until she would receive a letter from him, if indeed he had made it back to Spain safely.

She should never have asked him to come, she realized in panic. He would be hanged and she would never be able to forgive herself. She did not know what would happen to herself and her father if it turned out that Leonards had died from the quarrel at the station.

Margaret felt like the walls of the room were closing in on her. She could not faint now! She opened her mouth and said the only thing she could:

"I was not there."

She had never told an outright lie like this, especially not to a police officer. It made her feel like the worst sort of criminal. She knew that if he ever realized that she had spoken untrue, it would be the end of her. And he would realize, she was sure of it. He could probably already see it on her face – Margaret was a terrible liar.

The inspector looked at her for a moment uncertainly, before dropping his gaze back to his notebook. "The witness said the lady was remarkably handsome." He turned a page, "He identified the lady as a Miss Hale from Crampton whose family frequent the shop. You are the only Miss Hale from Crampton."

How was she going to get out of this now? "I don't know", she stammered. "Inspector, as much as I would like to own up to being remarkably handsome, I'm sorry that I have to repeat that there has been some mistake. I was not there."

Her words were followed by a tense silence during which the young man regarded her thoughtfully. She knew he was suspecting her. "I see", he said finally. "Do you have any more questions for me inspector?" "No, Madam", he shook his head and put his notebook into his pocket before he straightened himself up to his full height, which was still shorter than Margaret was herself.

"I have your absolute denial that you were that lady?", he asked once more. "I'm sorry that he – that this man is dead but I was not there."

The inspector made his way to the door and was about to leave, when he turned around to her once more. "It may be, if my witness insisted it was you at Outward Station, in that time and place, that I might have to summon you to an inquest to provide an alibi. I hope you'll forgive me for seeming impertinent. I have to do my duty."

With that, he was gone.

It was a long time before Margaret was able to move. A deadly fear had gripped her. She had lied to a police inspector, which made her a criminal. She knew she had never been so scared in her life. She was scared for Fred, scared for herself and scared for her father who would not be able to take any more heartbreak after he had lost his wife only days ago. She could not tell him about any of this, he would not survive it, she was sure.

The hopelessness of the situation was unbearable, for Margaret knew that she was only a breath away from losing everything she had ever held dear. Now she would have to wait and see what was going to come of this situation.

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John was on his way back to Marlborough Mills from a master's meeting at the gentlemen's club when he heard someone call out his name from behind him. Turning around his gaze fell on a young police officer he was acquainted with through his duty as a town's magistrate.

"Mason, isn't it? How do you do?" "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but with you being a local magistrate, I need to consult you, regarding a case we are having some trouble with." Thornton nodded to signal that he was listening while slowly resuming his walk and Mason fell into step beside him.

"There is a man at the mortuary who has died two days ago. We suspect that he died from an internal injury after a quarrel at Outward station the other night. Am I right in thinking you are acquainted with a Mr. Hale, sir?"

"Yes indeed, what of it?"

"It's just that this man's death is mixed up with Miss Hale, sir."

John stopped dead in his tracks, looking up at the inspector incredulously. "I have a very secure chain of evidence that a gentleman walking out with Miss Hale at the station was the same that fought with the man, Leonards and may well have caused his death. I have spoken to the young lady this morning and she denies she was there at the time."

"Are you sure?", Thornton muttered after a moment, obviously in disbelief. "I mean are you sure that the man she was with is connected to the death? What evening was this? What time?"

"Between eleven and twelve. Thursday 26th"

Mason saw a strange glint appear in the magistrate's eyes, but after a moment it was gone. "Sir?" "Miss Hale denies she was there?" John almost choked on the words. Mason nodded. "Well you can see my problem, sir. I have a witness who is pretty positive he saw Miss Hale, even though I've told him of her denial. There will be a coroner's inquest. Disputed identifications are very awkward. One does not like to doubt the word of a respectable young woman."

John barely heard him. "She denies she was at the station?", he asked once more. "Twice", Mason agreed. "I did tell her I would have to ask her again." The young inspector hesitated, contemplating whether he should dare go any further. "I thought if you are a friend of the family-"

John nodded slowly. "You are quite right, Mason. Don't do anything until you see me again. I will look into it and get back to you."

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John walked back to the mill, stupefied.

How had things gone from terrible to even worse? Now it seemed that not only did Margaret Hale have a secret lover, but that the man had also committed a criminal offence and she was protecting him. What had the young woman gotten herself into?

'Why Margaret?', he thought to himself painfully. 'Why did you have to choose a man who would cause you such grief?' She had to be terrified, he was sure. What if there was an inquest and she was summoned to provide an alibi?

With Mrs. Hale just barely cold in her grave, the family certainly had enough to deal with. Mr. Hale was John's friend and he knew that the man was already suffering enough without this additional burden on his mind.

But what was there to be done? If there was an inquest, she would surely be questioned. And if it became public that she had been out after dark with a man, unchaperoned and – even worse – had witnessed that man commit a crime and lied about it – it would be the definitive end of her respectability. She would be a fallen woman, and as much as she had hurt him, John could not let that happen. He would never be able to forgive himself.

Why did she hold such power over him? Why did he care so much?

'Because I love her.'

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Heaven forbid, he knew he still did, and he had a feeling that he would for a long time, quite possibly forever. And knowing that nothing was ever to come of it was the worst pain imaginable, gnawing at his very soul every second of every day.

'It is pointless. Hopeless!' he told himself. 'But, God help me, I cannot let her down.'

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It was almost dark out when the young inspector returned to Crampton that day.

Margaret received him with a white face and empty eyes. She had spent the past hours sitting in her room in complete numbness, waiting for him to return and seal her fate, and that of all her loved ones. She knew he would be back. There would be no escaping this. She had lied and she was sure he had seen right through her.

Oh God, if only she could have been sure that Fred was safe. It would have been a small consolation, even if Margaret herself would have to face the consequences of her actions. What would happen to her? Her reputation would be destroyed, surely. She would be ostracised from society, doomed to a life of loneliness and disdain. Maybe she would even face a court trial for participating in a crime or worse – if they found out she had assisted a supposed mutineer...

Margaret felt dizzy as the officer turned around to face her.

"You have come very late", she forced herself to speak.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, mam", he apologized politely. "I have had other people to see before now, otherwise I would have been here sooner."

He paused for a moment, weighing his words before he spoke again. "There is after all to be no inquest in the Leonards case."

She stood and stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. It was not possible. It could not be. "So, there is to be no further investigation?", she asked uncertainly.

The young man looked down at his shoes for a moment, shrugging. Then he pulled a sheet of paper out of his breast pocket and held it out to her. "Here. I have Mr .Thornton's note."

Her eyes shot up at this. "Mr. Thornton?"

"Yes. He is a magistrate in the case. He is also an acquaintance of mine. I told him of the difficulties."

With trembling fingers Margaret unfolded the piece of paper, her eyes having trouble focussing on the handwritten note at first:

There will be no inquest. Not enough medical evidence.

Take no further steps, I take full responsibility.

J. Thornton

She lowered the note slowly and held it out to him once more. "Thank you."

He took it and put it back into his pocket with a strange look on his face. "Mr Thornton he – understood that I was not there? At the station?", she asked shakily.

"Yes. Of course. I'm sorry to have seemed to have doubted your word, ma'am. The witness was so positive, but now he knows he was mistaken. He hopes he has not caused offence."

With that, he bid her goodbye and a moment later Margaret heard the front door close behind him.

Slowly she left the study and went upstairs to her room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. How was this possible? How could Mr. Thornton, of all people, pledge her innocence? He had seen her at Outward station himself. He knew she had been there.

'He lied', she realized. 'He is a magistrate and he lied to cover for me.'

He had risked a great deal for her, that much was certain. He had taken full responsibility for this affair, and if it were ever to come out that she had in fact been there and he had known about it, he would not only lose his post as magistrate of the crown but could possibly be faced with an inquest of his own.

Her back still against the door, Margaret slowly slid down until she sat on the floor and buried her face in her hands as it became clear to her that once again Mr. Thornton had saved her. And not only her, but Fred and her father as well.

It felt as though her body was too small for the tidal wave of feelings that erupted inside her chest at this moment, and it all came bursting out of her in powerful sobs as she sat there, trembling like a leaf.

She cried and cried for what seemed like hours, unable to calm herself or put her feelings into any coherent thought. She had not known that gratitude could hurt so much. That this emotion could overpower her so completely, it robbed her of her senses. She was completely lost in a whirlwind of relief, disbelief and a deep, unfamiliar feeling she could not put into words.

At this moment Margaret did not know herself anymore.