My dear faithful readers :)

In case you are still here, after I have tortured you with this slow-burn for literally weeks (sorry, not sorry!), this one is for you!

Warnings: Brief mention of suicide!

Chapter 18

That afternoon, after Margaret had somewhat recovered from her shock at the unexpected gift of her father's book collection, she made the decision to not wait any longer to thank Mr. Thornton for his kindness.

She grabbed her bonnet and a basket, and put "The Republic" inside it, along with some apples for the Boucher children, which the Latimer's cook had been kind enough to spare. She knew, none of the family would question where she was going, assuming she had only gone out on one of her regular walks.

She would go to Princeton first, to see if she could find Mary and the children there, and then head over to Marlborough Mills, to see Mr. Thornton, and give him the book.

A little while later, she made her way down Francis Street, letting her eyes wander around the place that was now so familiar to her.

Some men walked past her, their beat down faces marked from years of hardship. A few children skipped around in a circle, singing a song. They were dirty, their clothes patched up in numerous places.

The women had bleak looks on their faces, but some smiled at her, when they saw her walk by and recognized her. Margaret faintly remembered the first time she had glanced at those people in the streets, as she had looked out of the train window, upon their first arrival in Milton.

It seemed a lifetime ago now. Back then, all of this had been a different world to her, almost like another planet.

But Milton had changed her. There was no apprehension now, when she looked at those people. She did not pity them, for she knew that pity was the last thing they wanted. They were much too proud to appreciate such sentiments.

Margaret just saw them for what they were: hard-working people, who were down on their luck, struggling, and trying to make ends meet with what little they had. And she admired them for it.

She was halfway down Francis Street, when a noise to her left made her look up.

It seemed like a group of playing little children had run straight into an old woman, holding a big basket full of laundry, and had thrown her off balance, causing the basket to tumble to the ground, with the freshly washed linen landing in a dirty puddle.

"Can't ye look where ye're going?!" the woman bellowed after the children, as she put her hands to her hips in annoyance. The little ones looked back at her, terrified, and quickly dashed away, to avoid punishment.

The old woman heaved a sigh and started picking up the laundry. Quickly, Margaret stepped closer and bowed down, to help her. Their eyes met, and Margaret recognized her immediately: It was the woman who had called out to Mr. Thornton, that day, when he had hired Nicholas Higgins.

"Thank ye, thank ye."

The woman looked up, and Margaret saw recognition dawn on her face. "Wait a minute. I think I've seen ye 'round 'ere before, haven't I? Aren't you the young lady who was walkin' with John Thornton a few weeks ago?", she asked, as Margaret dropped some garments into her basket.

Margaret nodded, and the woman straightened herself up, panting slightly from the effort. "Not from 'round here are ye?"

"No, but I come here frequently, to visit some friends. Nicholas Higgins and his family", Margaret explained.

"Higgins, eh? Good man." The woman shifted the basket to her other arm and then rested it against her hip, looking Margaret up and down with an air of curiosity. "May I ask yer name, Miss?"

"My name is Margaret Hale", she introduced herself politely.

"And I'm Birdie. At least that's what everyone calls me 'round 'ere.", the other woman stated, holding out her hand, which Margaret took without hesitation. "Nice to meet you, Birdie."

Birdie grabbed her basket tightly, and turned back towards the house. "Ye might as well come in for some bread. It's not much, but it's fresh, I just finished bakin' it half an hour ago."

Not wanting to be rude, Margaret followed the woman into a small, gloomy one-room flat, with a bed in the corner, a little stove, and a table with two chairs. "Sit down", Birdie commanded, picked up a loaf of bread and started cutting it, before handing Margaret a piece. It was still warm.

Birdie slapped a cup of water down in front of her and took a seat opposite from her, her eyes fixing Margaret across the table, as the younger woman awkwardly started nibbling on her bread. She was not sure what she was doing here, but Birdie gave her a friendly smile.

"Don't ye worry my girl. I ain't going to rob you. Everyone 'round here knows, Birdie looks like an old bat, but she's got her heart in the right place. Ye helped me with the linen, and I've got to repay you, 'aven't I?"

She appeared to be genuine and friendly as she sat there, grinning, and Margaret felt herself ease up a bit. "Thank you very much, that is kind of you, even though I don't need anything in return."

"Ah nonsense. It's not much. Not much we 'ave 'ere, especially for a fine young lady like yourself. But we 'ave to make do with it, right?"

Birdie then went on to ask Margaret about her home, and she told her of Helstone, and how they had come to relocate to the north. She did not go into much detail, trying to avoid speaking of her family, as the loss of her parents was still so fresh and painful in her heart.

Birdie, in turn, told her of her own life. She had lived in Princeton for over thirty years. Her husband had worked at Slickson's, but had passed away over ten years ago, and she had no children.

Now, she was muddling through life with the help of some friends and neighbours, and by taking on the occasional odd job, and doing needlework for a lady on Tenter Street.

Talking with the older woman turned out to be quite delightful. Birdie spoke much, and had some interesting tales to tell. For someone so down on their luck, she appeared to be surprisingly cheerful. She would even joke and laugh, with a little twinkle in her eyes, and Margaret quickly found herself quite at ease with her.

"Now tell me-" Birdie said eventually, looking at Margaret with a hint of curiosity.

"How do ye know John Thornton and how is 'e doing?"

By the look in the woman's eyes, Margaret suddenly suspected that this was the real reason she had invited her in, and was unsure how to respond.

"Well – he – he used to be my father's pupil", she stuttered, feeling a pang of pain somewhere inside her chest at her own use of the past tense, regarding her beloved father. "They used to read together", she explained.

Birdie bowed her head closer to Margaret, obviously very interested.

"Reading", she muttered. "Yeah, that sounds just like John. He was always a reader. I remember when he was a boy, he'd sit for hours ,with his nose stuck in a book. Reminded me a bit of that Boucher boy Higgins took in, ye know? Although John was a bit older when they moved 'ere. Must have been about ten or eleven years old, I think"

Margaret's head jolted up at that. "Mr. Thornton – he – he lived here?", she stuttered in shock. "In Princeton?"

"Aye", the older woman said gravely. "That was after his father had killed 'imself, of course."

"K-killed himself?"

Margaret saw Birdie raise her eyebrows slightly. "Oh, didn't ye know?"

She shook her head, her eyes wide.

"Oh, what a nasty business that was", the older woman mused.

"I think the man was working at a draper's shop. Had quite a good income, I reckon. They weren't rich by any means, but they were doin' alright, living in a nicer part of town and all that. Well, from what I've 'eard the father was a bit of a gambler, and he owed a lot of money to a lot of people. Then, one day, he just slit his wrists because of that."

Birdie shook her head to herself, seemingly in thought. "The boy found him, ye know", she said slowly. "John, I mean. Came home one day to find his father dead, in a pool of blood. They said John did not say a word for at least a fortnight after that, poor child."

Margaret sat, frozen in complete shock. For a long time now, she had longed to know the truth about Mr. Thornton's past, but she had not expected anything like this.

She did not have much time to come to terms with this new piece of information, because Birdie was already speaking again. It almost seemed like she was talking more to herself than to Margaret.

"The family was left with nothin' but debt, which they could not repay, of course, so that's when they came here to Princeton. Lived right down the street from 'ere in one room, the mother with the two children. Johnny was taken out of school then, to work at the mills with his mother and help support the family."

"The mills?", Margaret breathed, unable to grasp what she was hearing.

"Oh yes, 'e was a mill boy, alright. Worked at Hamper's at the time, I believe. Well, Hamper senior, that is, his son owns the mill now. But either way, about the Thornton's - the mother worked there too, and the girl was taken care of by a neighbour during the day..."

"I remember, Johnny was a tiny lad. Ye wouldn't be able to tell now, that he's grown rather tall, but back then, I often worried he would break down under the workload…"

"They had thirteen-hour shifts back then, and afterwards, he'd still find time to read, tryin' to make up for all the schooling he'd missed. I don't think I've ever met another boy quite like 'im. Always had this stern determination about 'im, and that's probably what kept him going, but well – that was not the end of it, of course."

Birdie took a sip of water from her cup, her eyes staring off into the distance, as if she had forgotten that Margaret was even there.

"That was when Milton was hit by the cholera outbreak, back in 1832. Princeton was hit the hardest obviously, with all the rich folk better able to protect themselves than us poor wretches down 'ere. Those were dreadful times", Birdie closed her eyes for a moment with a deep sigh.

"Hundreds of people died. Very ugly to look at, I'll never forget it." She shook herself a bit.

"Long story short, all of the Thorntons contracted it, the mother and both children. Johnny held up a little longer than the other two, taking care of them as best as he could. There was no doctors available 'ere, the hospitals were full, no beds to be had there, and how is a twelve-year-old boy to shoulder all of this, while bein' sick 'imself? He broke down eventually…"

"…I remember, one of me neighbours, Mary Bates, found 'im in the street, unconscious, lying face down in his own sick. She took 'im home then, which was his luck. Mary and I, and a few other women took turns, tryin' to nurse him back to health..."

"He was in terrible shape, we thought we'd lose him, but Johnny was a strong lad, much stronger than he looked. He pulled through eventually, only to wake up and find that both the mother and little Fanny were gone."

There was silence for a minute. Margaret felt completely numb, unable to speak, while Birdie was quietly pondering something.

"There was nowhere for 'im to go but the workhouse", she continued eventually, shuddering.

"Terrible place. Would not wish it on my worst enemy. Plenty o' children who never made it out of there alive. But John survived even that…"

"…He got out after two years, when he was about fourteen, I think. That was when 'e was taken in by an old lady, a Mrs. Taylor I believe 'er name was. She 'ad taken a liking to 'im, it seemed..."

"Well, who wouldn't? A sweet boy, 'e was, despite all the hardship. Very serious, I don't think I've seen 'im smile even once in me life, but who could blame 'im, really?"

"…That Mrs. Taylor let 'im stay in her small back room and he took up work at Harrison's mill, to support himself and the old woman. That is, until the mill fire."

"Mill fire?" Margaret gasped in a broken voice.

"Aye, it was the worst mill fire we ever had here in Milton. Some accidental flame, they said. The whole mill was destroyed in twenty minutes, killin' three hundred workers and many children amongst them..."

"It was a tragedy. Many families 'ere in Princeton lost loved ones that day. And Johnny was right in the middle of it. He was injured there too, and he lost some friends – other lads his age, who had been working at the mill, ye know. But he was one of the lucky ones who got out of there alive…"

"…I daresay it left 'im quite disturbed. As if 'e had not endured enough hardship already. I sometimes wonder-" Birdie said, this time looking directly at Margaret with a grave expression on her face,

"how some people just seem to be down on their luck constantly. I can still remember 'im after that whole ordeal. He'd walk past my house every day with this bleak look in 'is eyes. How one person could go on after all of that, I still don't know until this day…"

"But somehow, John did. He found work as a draper's assistant and started workin' his way up from there. He had always been interested in cotton. I think he had a bit of a fascination with machinery, tryin' to learn everything about it. He once told me about some book he had read on this inventor of weaving looms, I don't remember his name…"

"Richard Arkwright", Margaret heard herself blurt out without thinking.

"That could 'ave been it", Birdie mused, before she continued: "Having worked at the mills 'imself, John knew everythin' first hand, and whenever he was not workin', he was reading. He'd go to the local library and read anything he could find, no matter which topic. He just had this insatiable thirst for knowledge. I really don't know where he took the energy from, or if he even slept at all…"

"…About two years later, he started workin' as an overseer. That's when he moved out of Princeton, back into a nicer part of town, and never looked back. In fact, I had not seen 'im since that time, until the other week, when he was walking with you. I was surprised to see him here, but he seemed anything but thrilled at our encounter."

Birdie shrugged with a sad smile. "I reckon he is just tryin' to forget this place. Can't say I blame 'im. Princeton is hard on everybody, but it treated him even worse than most..."

"He's a gentle soul, I'm sure of it. Even if he's a master now. He's achieved what very few 'ave, and of course, there are plenty o' people out there who are jealous of that, and will try to bring him down. It's always been this way."

Birdie leaned back in her chair, with a tired smile playing around her lips. "Ah, there you see, young lady, all I had wanted, was ask you how John was doin', and now I've related the whole story of his life to you", she stated with a small chuckle. "That's just typical. Old Birdie just can't seem to keep her mouth shut. I hope I have not bored you to death with me tales."

Margaret just sat there, at a complete loss for words. She felt drained, as if her entire body had been wrung out like a wet rag. Birdie regarded her with a tinge of concern. "Oh my, Miss, ye have gone white as a sheet. Are ye alright?" She got up and swiftly refilled Margaret's empty cup of water.

"I – I'm fine", Margaret stuttered eventually. "It's just – I did not know any of this."

"Oh." The older woman suddenly looked uncomfortable, as if it was only now dawning on her what she had relayed to Margaret.

"I probably should not have spoken so much about it", she murmured. "I'm not sure John would be too pleased if he knew. It's just that I thought you were acquainted with 'im. The two of you looked to be on quite familiar terms, and I suppose I got a bit carried away, as I often do, once I start talking. It's my fatal flaw, I think."

"Oh – no it's quite alright. I – I would not use any of it against him. I did not mind."

Did she not? Was this not what she had wanted? What she had pondered on for months? She had wanted to know about his past, about who he really was.

But now, that she knew, all she felt was pain. Agonizing pain at the thought of what this wonderful, kind man had had to endure. It was enough to break anyone, she was sure of it. How did he manage to get out of bed in the morning, to get through every day with this burden he was surely carrying?

"You never answered my second question", she heard Birdie say and looked up at the other woman with some effort. "How is John doing now?", Birdie repeated her question from a long time ago.

How was he doing? According to Nicholas Higgins, he was holding up, but Margaret doubted that he was doing very well, considering the trouble with the mill. She realized that she herself, had not seen him in weeks.

"I honestly cannot tell you", she eventually said in a quiet voice. "I have not spoken to him in some time. However, what I can tell you is that he is a good and honourable man, who has been nothing but kind to me and my family. In fact, he may have saved my life a couple of times."

Birdie smiled at that. "I expected nothin' less."

Margaret slowly rose from her chair. "Birdie – thank you – for your hospitality. I think I should go now, for it is getting late."

Birdie accompanied her to the door. "It was my pleasure, Miss Hale. Do feel free to drop by my place any time ye like. Oh and – please, Miss", she then added, looking uncomfortable. "Maybe ye could keep what I have told ye to yourself. I would not want my foolish talk to spread all about town."

Margaret shook her head reassuringly. "I promise you, Birdie, I would never do such a thing." She shook the woman's hand, and then started making her way back up the street, out of Princeton.

She did not go to see Mary and the Boucher children. She did not go to Marlborough Mills, to give the book to Mr. Thornton, for she knew that she would not be able to face him now – in fact, she was not sure she could face him ever again.

Her thoughts were in utter turmoil, and every few minutes she had to wipe a tear from her cheeks or try to calm the shaking of her hands. How was it, that this was getting to her in such a way?

How could she ever bear to see his face again? She knew him well enough to be sure that her pity was the last thing he wanted. But at the same time, she felt that, if she were to encounter him now, she would have to muster every ounce of her willpower to not throw her arms around him and hold him, sobbing. It would not do.

During dinner that evening, Margaret did not speak much and retired back to her room right after she had finished eating, leaving the Latimers and Mrs Eldon to gaze after her worriedly.

"I thought she was starting to feel a bit better", Mrs Latimer murmured to the others.

"But she seems to be in very low spirits today." "These moods come and go", Mrs Eldon told her. "There will be better days and worse days. Just give her some time."

Margaret lay on her bed, in the dim light of a single candle on her bedside table. In her hands she held the note Mr. Thornton had sent her that very morning – a lifetime ago, it seemed to her.

She read his words over and over, until her vision started to blur from tiredness, and the light of the candle slowly faded into darkness.

Eventually, she fell asleep, clutching the small letter to her chest.

TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

NOTES:

Now, there you have it. I can kind of hear John yell in my head: "Are you satisfied?!", just like he did when Margaret was hit by the stone in the series. I doubt he would be very pleased at you knowing all of this.

All jokes aside, I do wonder where that knowledge leaves Margaret now.

So much pain dumped on one child may seem a bit over the top, but the sad truth is that, with death rates so high during that day and age, especially in the slums of the industrial cities, it is actually a sadly accurate depiction of what many children went through at the time, losing all of their family, being condemned to workhouses and exploited for hard labour, often meeting with terrible work accidents in the process.