Introduction
Yep! That's right, I've done it: THAT trope (we all know which one).
But let's be honest: There is probably a reason why the forced-marriage-thing is so overused. It just bears a lot of potential!
Now, there are some really good fics with this trope out there already, and some of the stuff you'll find in this story here, has obviously been done before, in one way or another, but I still wanted to have a shot at my own version.
A few things you should know before reading:
1, This is a slow-burn romance to HEA - with an emphasis on slow, so bear with me and I'll do my best to reward y'all...in due time ;)
2, Now, I don't know how it happened, because it was NOT my initial intention, but this story ended up with a good deal of pain and angst. You know, because pain and angst is just something I have totally never done before, so you totally don't know what you're getting into here *wink*. You have been warned!
3, I've tweaked the timeline in a few places, to suit my personal plans for the plot (just in case you're wondering).
4, Frederick Hale does not exist in this story – Margaret is an only child. (because I was in no good humour to go through ALL the original plot points once again).
There will be some POVs of supporting characters in the beginning of the story, but don't fret, the vast majority of the fic will focus almost exclusively on Margaret/John.
Direct quotes from the book or series will be marked in italics.
Thoughts and inner monologue will be marked: 'in between single quotation marks.'
The characters belong to Elizabeth Gaskell and Sandy Welch.
The story takes place in 1851, the views expressed by some of the characters are a product of their time and do not necessarily reflect the personal views of the author.
The story is finished, it's going through the editing stage right now, but you will not be stuck with an incomplete WIP at any point, I promise.
I'll leave you with the "Prologue" today (much of which may seem familiar) and then post the official first chapter tomorrow. From then on, I'll try to update about once or twice a week, depending on the length of the individual chapters.
Prologue
Slowly, unsteadily, Margaret Hale made her way through the hallway of her family's home, toward the stairs.
Her head was hammering painfully, her body felt weak and strangely numb, as though she was walking in a daze. She looked down at herself and noticed a little stain of blood on the front of her dress. She would need to change, to avoid any questions.
Margaret stopped momentarily, in front of the mirror, at the bottom of the stairs, to inspect her own pale reflection. She raised a trembling hand to her left temple to carefully probe at the small wound. The blood had been cleared away, but if one looked closely enough, it was still visible.
Somewhat absentmindedly, she brushed a strand of hair down, over the mark the stone had left there. She could not let anyone see, least of all her parents. There was no need to worry them unnecessarily.
"Margaret, is that you?", her mother's voice called her weakly from the sitting room.
"Y-yes mother", she managed to choke out, hoping that Mrs Hale would not notice the unsteadiness of her voice. "I'll be in soon. I must wash, the streets are very dusty today." There came no further reply.
Holding on to the banister, Margaret managed to make it up one more flight of stairs to her room, where she closed and locked the door behind herself, and sank down onto the bed weakly. The room was spinning slightly. She hoped it would pass soon, she needed to face her mother later.
All she wanted to do now was rest for a little while, and try to forget this whole horrid affair she had somehow managed to get herself into.
Everything was silent, safe for the quiet crackling of the fireplace.
Hannah Thornton sat in the chair nearest to it, staring into the flames, but not really seeing anything. Her mind was far away, replaying the events of earlier today in her head.
How dare those people break down the mill gates, damage their property and haul stones at her own, beloved son? And all for what? For their wages to be raised – or so they claimed, but Hannah knew better. She had spent her entire life in a town that had fundamentally been built upon an ongoing war between masters and men.
It was an inevitable truth of life that some men would raise themselves up to be masters, while others would always seek to pull them down.
And then, there had been this reckless young woman, Miss Hale. She had been a thorn in Hannah's flesh from the moment she had first encountered her, for the girl incorporated everything the older woman despised.
Her family was not wealthy, and never had been, yet, she gave herself such airs and graces, looking down upon the working men of Milton, and thinking herself above them, due to some distant relation to a family which belonged to the lower gentry of the south.
All of this would have annoyed Hannah in any case, but she would not have cared much, had not her son so obviously formed an attachment to this girl.
They had not spoken openly about it, but Hannah knew John enough to realize that he had lost himself completely in this unhealthy infatuation. The glances he had stolen at Miss Hale during their dinner party, the other night, when he had believed himself unobserved, had been proof enough of that.
But now, Miss Hale had thrown herself in front of him, to save him from this unruly mob, and had taken a blow to the head herself in trying to protect him. To say that Hannah had been taken aback by such behaviour would have been an understatement.
She could not fathom what could have possessed the young woman to act in such a way, and the only explanation she had found, so far – against her own better judgment – was that Miss Hale did indeed care for John more than she had let on.
But could it be? Had the girl not laughed in Hannah's face at her mentioning that many a young woman in Milton would have considered her son a desirable match? It was something Hannah could not make sense of, and it made her feel quite uneasy.
So uneasy that, when John had come back from settling his affairs at the mill, declaring that he was to go and call on Miss Hale, to see if she was well, Hannah had practically implored him not to go there.
She was pulled out of her musings by the sound of her son entering the room, and quickly picked up her embroidery, pretending to be busy.
John appeared pale and tired, as he crossed the room and dropped his top hat onto the small table by the window.
"You're still up? I thought you'd be exhausted."
"Why should I be?", she asked in a slightly chilly tone, stabbing the needle into the cloth with a bit too much force.
"Where have you been?" He had been gone for hours.
John lifted his hand, to untie his cravat in an attempt to relieve himself of some of the tension which had been building up inside him.
"Just walking", he answered wearily.
His mother nodded silently. Then, after a moment, she asked: "And where have you been walking?" She feared his answer, but tried not to let her anxiety show.
"I promised you I would not go there, and I did not", he told her softly, knowing full well what she was on about.
"But?"
He sighed, as he sat in a chair beside her, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees.
"But – mother you know I will have to go there tomorrow, and you know what I will have to say."
"Yes", she declared, downcast. "You could hardly do otherwise." He looked at her incredulously. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that you are bound in honour, since she has shown her feelings for all the world to see."
He looked taken aback at her statement, as though he had not considered it before.
"Her feelings-" he breathed.
"She rushed out in front of an angry mob and saved you from danger." Hannah's eyes bore into his. "Or are you telling me I imagined that?"
John looked down at his hands, overwhelmed by her words, but she went on: "You think none of the servants saw it? Do you think it has not become the tittle-tattle of Milton?"
"She did save me", he murmured, without looking up. "But mother – I dare not believe such a woman could care for me."
It would never cease to astonish Hannah how, after all they had been through, after all he had done to raise their family from poverty, her son could still feel so insecure, as though he considered himself unworthy of that woman's love.
"Don't be so foolish", she snapped. "What more proof do you need? That she should act in such a shameless way!"
She softened as she caught the pained look in his eyes, and reached out her hand to stroke his cheek. "I'm sure she will take you from me", she finally confessed. "That is why I did not want you to go to see her today. I wanted one last evening of being the first in your affections", she smiled sadly.
Then, looking down at her embroidery she muttered: "I will have to change the initials on our linen. It will bear her name now. Hers and yours."
John still looked unsure of himself. "I know she does not care for me. But I can't remain silent, I must ask her."
It was then, that Hannah knew for certain, that this was about much more than the young woman's reputation. He loved her, she was sure of it. It was right there, in his eyes. And as painful as it was for her to give up her son to this woman, she knew that it had to be done.
"Don't be afraid, John", she told him sincerely. "She has admitted it to the world. I might even learn to like her for it. Must have taken a great deal to overcome her pride."
As John Thornton made his way up the stairs to his bedroom, his mind was in turmoil. Could his mother have been right? Could Margaret Hale truly care for him? He could scarcely believe she would. He knew she had never been particularly fond of him, and most of their past encounters had ended in a quarrel.
She did not approve of his way of running his enterprise. She had apparently befriended some of the union men, and had been rather receptive to their side of the story. He knew her to be very strong-willed and, having so obviously made up her mind on these matters, he felt certain that she would not change her views any time soon.
John closed his bedroom door, and leaned against it wearily, closing his eyes for a moment. It had been a long day. Half of what had happened seemed so unreal to him, that he was almost inclined to believe he had dreamt it.
Margaret Hale, bursting through the front door, onto the porch, to protect him from the strikers, throwing her arms around his neck, her body so close to his – his breath hitched even now, at the memory.
Then – mere seconds later – her lying there on the ground, unmoving, blood oozing out of the wound on her temple. He bit his lip.
'Please God, let her be alright! I could not forgive myself if she was not!'
He would go there, first thing in the morning, to inquire after her, to make sure that she was taken care of, to tell her – he swallowed hard.
He would tell her that he loved her.
Loved her with all his being, more than he had ever dared imagine that a man could love a woman. There was no way around it. He knew he was putting his heart on the line, risking his very soul, but he could not remain silent any longer.